Chapter Seven plus One - In which we learn something of the motives of an angry young man with a loaded crossbow, and can only hope that there will be a happy ending.
The Patrician was working in the throne room when Art burst in with a crossbow. He looked up from his desk at the foot of the throne, and raised an eyebrow.
'Stand up,' said Art.
'In a moment.' The Patrician carried on with the paper he was writing, then conscientiously cleaned his pen. Finally he stood.
Art jabbed the air with the crossbow. 'Do you know why I'm here?'
'Presumably to threaten or kill me.'
'I'm here because you've been oppressing my people.'
'Your people?'
'The still ones.' Art gestured to his costume. 'Those of us who practise a forbidden art. Mimes.'
'I see...'
Art was angry now. 'The Scorpion Pit! Learn the words! Did you think it was a joke?'
The Patrician said nothing.
'Do you know how long it takes to put together an act? To relearn how to move, to examine everything you know about performing? Do you even have any idea how hard it is to stay still?'
The Patrician held up a finger for silence, and got it. 'Yes,' he said. 'I know exactly how hard it is and how valuable a skill it can be, and like other dangerous skills I do not wish to put it in the hands of the population.'
'What?'
'You used your skills to make money, to entertain people, but as you so aptly demonstrated a few days ago, they can also be used to cause harm, and I have no intention of allowing this to be demonstrated in public. People with the ability to stand still can draw attention to themselves, as you choose to do, but equally they can seem to disappear.' The Patrician picked up the cane that was resting against the desk and began to lean on it. 'When a man walks into the palace dressed as a statue with the intention of murder I have to assume that he has grasped this concept effectively.'
'What concept?'
'That miming can be put to deadly use.'
'But-'
'Do you intend to pull that trigger? If so it will become apparent that I am correct.'
'You'll still be dead though.'
'Provided you manage to kill me.'
Art looked at the cane, which the Patrician seemed to be leaning all his weight on. 'You're old. You couldn't dodge a crossbow bolt.'
'Of course I couldn't.'
'Then I'm going to fire now.'
'I see.' The Patrician waited.
Art took a deep breath-
-and someone grabbed the bow. Then punched him.
Vimes looked down at the mime. 'You know,' he said, 'yours isn't the only way to stand still. Try it at night in the rain.'
He nodded at the Patrician, who gave a thin smile.
'Excellent work, Commander.'
'Thankyou, sir.'
'I expect it would be unwise to enquire whether you considered letting him shoot me.'
'If I thought you needed shooting I'd do it myself, sir.'
---
After he came round Max staggered into the corridor, and he was heading for the throne room with the general intention of warning someone when he heard voices. He immediately stood tall and still, and tried not to look as he saw figures approaching. First came Captain Carrot - carrying an unconscious Art over his shoulder – who neither paused nor looked at him. Then came Commander Vimes, who stopped just in front of Max and began fishing in a pocket, dragging out a book of matches.
For an agonising moment Max thought Vimes would attempt to strike the match on him, but the Commander leaned past him, struck it on the wall and lit his cigar with it. He then continued down the corridor after Carrot, but not before he'd thrown a dollar in the general direction of Max's feet.
---
And wandering towards Peach Pie street, satisfied that the watch would probably cope without him for the time being, was a small dog. If he was muttering, it definitely wasn't because he was congratulating himself on saving the day. It was because he was debating whether he felt well enough to beg at the door of the Guild of Butchers.
On the whole, he reflected, he did.