It was because he wanted there to be conspirators. It was much better to imagine men in some smoky room somewhere, made mad and cynical by privilege and power, plotting over the brandy. You had to cling to this sort of image, because if you didn’t then you might have to face the fact that bad things happened because ordinary people, the kind who brushed the dog and told their children bedtime stories, were capable of then going out and doing horrible things to other ordinary people. It was so much easier to blame it on Them. It was bleakly depressing to think that They were Us. If it was Them, then nothing was anyone’s fault. If it was Us, what did that make Me? After all, I’m one of Us. I must be. I’ve certainly never thought of myself as one of Them. No one ever thinks of themselves as one of Them. We’re always one of Us. It’s Them that do the bad things.
“Now, this is a soldier’s song, see? You don’t look like soldiers but by the gods I’ll see you sounds like ‘em! You’ll pick it up as we goes along! Right turn! March! 'All the little angels rise up, rise up, all the little angels rise up high!’ Sing it, you sons of mothers!”
The marchers picked up the response from those who knew it.
“How do they rise up, rise up, rise up, how do they rise up, rise up high? They rise headsup,headsup,heads up–” sang out Dickens as they turned the corner.
Vimes listened as the refrain died away.
“That’s a nice song,” said young Sam, and Vimes realized that he was hearing it for the first time.
“It’s an old soldier’s song,” he said.
“Really, Sarge? But it’s about angels.”
Yes, thought Vimes, and it’s amazing what bits those angels cause to rise up as the song progresses. It’s a realsoldiers’ song: sentimental, with dirty bits.
“As I recall, they used to sing it after battles,” he said. “I’ve seen old men cry when they sing it,” he added.
“Why? It sounds cheerful.”
They were remembering who they were not singing it with, thought Vimes. You’ll learn. I knowyou will.
“I’ll tell you,” said Vimes. “A monarch’s an absolute ruler, right? The head honcho–”
“Unless he’s a queen,” said Carrot.
Vimes glared at him, and then nodded.
“OK, or the head honchette–”
“No, that’d only apply if she was a young woman. Queens tend to be older. She’d have to be a…a honcharina? No, that’s for the very young princesses. No. Um. A honchess, I think.”
Vimes paused. There’s something in the air in this city, he thought. If the Creator had said, “Let there be light” in Ankh-Morpork, he’d have got no further because of all the people saying, “What color?”
Besides, Lord Vetinari represented stability. It was a cold and clinical kind of stability, but part of his genius was the discovery that stability was what people wanted more than anything else.
He’d said it to Vimes once, in this very room, standing at this very window: “They think they want good government and justice for all, Vimes, yet what is it they really crave, deep in their hearts? Only that things go on as normal and tomorrow is pretty much like today.”
