There was a general shifting of position and a group clearing of throats.

“What about mercenaries?” said Boggis.

“The problem with mercenaries,” said the Patrician, “is that they need to be paid to start fighting. And, unless you are very lucky, you end up paying them even more to stop—”

Selachii thumped the table.

“Very well, then, by jingo!” he snarled. “Alone!”

“We could certainly do with one,” said Lord Vetinari. “We need the money. I was about to say that we cannot afford mercenaries.”

“How can this be?” said Lord Downey. “Don't we pay our taxes?”

“Ah, I thought we might come to that,” said Lord Vetinari. He raised his hand and, on cue again, his clerk placed a piece of paper in it.

“Let me see now… ah yes. Guild of Assassins… Gross earnings in the last year: AM$13,207,048. Taxes paid in the last year: forty-seven dollars, twenty-two pence and what on examination turned out to be a Hershebian half-dong, worth one-eighth of a penny.”

“That's all perfectly legal! The Guild of Accountants—”

“Ah yes. Guild of Accountants: gross earnings AM$7,999,011. Taxes paid: nil. But, ah yes, I see they applied for a rebate of AM$200,000.”

“And what we received, I may say, included a Hershebian half-dong,” said Mr Frostrip of the Guild of Accountants.

“What goes around comes around” said Vetinari calmly.

He tossed the paper aside. “Taxation, gentlemen, is very much like dairy farming The task is to extract the maximum amount of milk with the minimum of moo. And I am afraid to say that these days all I get is moo.”

“Are you telling us that Ankh-Morpork is bankrupt?” said Downey.

“Of course. While, at the same time, full of rich people. I trust they have been spending their good fortune on swords.”

“And you have allowed this wholesale tax avoidance?” said Lord Selachii.

“Oh, the taxes haven't been avoided,” said Lord Vetinari. “Or even evaded. They just haven't been paid.”

“That is a disgusting state of affairs!”

The Patrician raised his eyebrows. “Commander Vimes?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Would you be so good as to assemble a squad of your most experienced men, liaise with the tax gatherers and obtain the accumulated back taxes, please? My clerk here will give you a list of the prime defaulters.”

“Right, sir. And if they resist, sir?” said Vimes, smiling nastily.

“Oh, how can they resist, commander? This is the will of our civic leaders.” He took the paper his clerk proffered. “Let me see, now. Top of the list—”

Lord Selachii coughed hurriedly. “Far too late for that sort of nonsense now,” he said.

“Water under the bridge,” said Lord Downey.

“Dead and buried,” said Mr Slant.

“I paid mine,” said Vimes.

“So let me recap, then,” said Vetinari. “I don't think anyone wants to see two grown nations scrapping over a piece of rock. We don't want to fight, but—”

“By jingo, if we do, we'll show those—” Lord Selachii began.

“We have no ships. We have no men. We have no money, too,” said Lord Vetinari. “Of course, we have the art of diplomacy. It is amazing what you can do with the right words.”

“Unfortunately, the right words are more readily listened to if you also have a sharp stick,” said Lord Downey.

Lord Selachii slapped the table. “We don't have to talk to these people! My lords… gentlemen… it's up to us to show them we won't be pushed around! We must re-form the regiments!”

“Oh, private armies?” said Vimes. “Under the command of someone whose fitness for it lies in the fact that he can afford to pay for a thousand funny hats?”

Someone leaned forward, halfway along the table. Up to that moment Vimes had thought he was asleep, and when Lord Rust spoke it was, indeed, in a sort of yawn.

“Whose fitness, Mister Vimes, lies in a thousand years of breeding for leadership,” he said.

The “Mister” twisted in Vimes's chest. He knew he was a mister, would always be a mister, was probably a blueprint for mistership, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't be Sir Samuel to someone who pronounced years as “hyahs”.

“Ah, good breeding,” he said. “No, sorry, don't have any of that, if that's what you need to get your own men killed by sheer—”

“Gentlemen, please,” said the Patrician. He shook his head. “Let's have no fighting, please. This is, after all, a council of war. As for re-forming the regiments, well, this is of course your ancient right. The supplying of armed men in times of need is one of the duties of a gentleman. History is on your side. The precedents are clear enough, I can't go against them. I have to say I cannot afford to.”

“You're going to let them play soldiers?” said Vimes.

“Oh, Commander Vimes,” said Mr Burleigh, smiling. “As a military man yourself, you must—”

Sometimes people can attract attention by shouting. They might opt for thumping a table, or even take a swing at someone else. But Vimes achieved the effect by freezing, by simply doing nothing. The chill radiated off him. Lines in his face locked like a statue.

“I am not a military man.”

And then Burleigh made the mistake of trying to grin disarmingly.

“Well, commander, the helmet and armour and everything… It's really all the same in the end, isn't it?”

“No. It's not.”

“Gentlemen…” Lord Vetinari put his hands flat on the table, a sign that the meeting had ended. “I can only repeat that tomorrow I shall be discussing the matter with Prince Khufurah—”

“I've heard good reports of him,” said Lord Rust. “Strict but fair. One can only admire what he's doing in some of those backward regions. A most—”

“No, sir. You are thinking of Prince Cadram,” said Lord Vetinari “Khufurah is the younger brother. He is arriving here as his brother's special envoy.”

“Him? That one? The man's a wastrel! A cheat! A liar! They say he takes bri—”

“Thank you for your diplomatic input, Lord Rust,” said the Patrician. “We must deal with facts as they are. There is always a way. Our nations have many interests in common. And of course it says a lot for the seriousness with which Cadram is treating this matter that he is sending his own brother to deal with it. It's a nod towards the international community.”

“A Klatchian bigwig is coming here?” said Vimes. “No one told me!”

“Strange as it may seem, Sir Samuel, I am occasionally capable of governing this city for minutes at a time without seeking your advice and guidance.”

“I meant there's a lot of anti-Klatchian feeling around—”

“A really greasy piece of work–” Lord Rust whispered to Mr Boggis, in that special aristocratic whisper that carries to the rafters. “It's an insult to send him here!”

“I am sure that you will see to it that the streets are safe to walk, Vimes,” said the Patrician sharply. “I know you pride yourself on that sort of thing. Officially he's here because the wizards have invited him to their big award ceremony. An honorary doctorate, that sort of thing. And one of their lunches afterwards. I do like negotiating with people after the faculty of Unseen University have entertained them to lunch. They tend not to move about much and they'll agree to practically anything if they think there's a chance of a stomach powder and a small glass of water. And now, gentlemen… if you will excuse me…”

The lords and leaders departed in ones and twos, talking quietly as they walked out into the hall.

The Patrician shuffled his papers into order, running a thin finger along each edge of the pile, and then looked up.

“You appear to be casting a shadow, commander.”

“You're not really going to allow them to re-form the regiments, are you?” said Vimes.

“There is absolutely no law against it, Vimes. And it will keep them occupied. Every official gentleman is entitled, in fact I believe used to be required, to raise men when the city required it. And, of course, any citizen has the right to bear arms. Bear that in mind, please.”