Feet of Clay (Discworld, #19; City Watch, #3)

by Terry Pratchett

“In fact, my lord, we were indeed thinking of offering the crown to you—” Nobby’s eyes bulged. And then his cheek bulged. It is not a good idea to spray finest brandy across the room, especially when your lighted cigar is in the way. The flame hit the far wall, where it left a perfect chrysanthemum of scorched woodwork, while in accordance with a fundamental rule of physics Nobby’s chair screamed back on its castors and thudded into the door. “King?” Nobby coughed, and then they had to slap him on the back until he got his breath again. “King?” he wheezed. “And have Mr. Vimes cut me head off?” “All the brandy you can drink, my lord,” said a wheedling voice. “’S no good if you ain’t got a throat for it to go down!” “What’re you talking about?” “Mr. Vimes’d go spare! He’d go spare!” “Good heavens, man—” “My lord,” someone corrected. “My lord, I mean—when you’re king you can tell that wretched Sir Samuel what to do. You’ll be, as you would call it, ‘the boss.’ You could—” “Tell ole Stoneface what to do?” said Nobby. “That’s right!” “I’d be a king and tell ole Stoneface what to do?” said Nobby. “Yes!” Nobby stared into the smoky gloom. “He’d go spare!” “Listen, you silly little man—” “My lord—” “You silly little lord, you’d be able to have him executed if you wished!” “I couldn’t do that!” “Why not?” “He’d go spare!” “The man calls himself an officer of the law, and whose law does he listen to, eh? Where does his law come from?” “I don’t know!” groaned Nobby. “He says it comes...