DISCLAIMER: This is just silly fan-fiction. It popped into my head over lunch after tweeting about how we need Pratchett’s insight (and anger at injustice) more than ever right now and has been dumped on this page as literary diarrhoea. Vimes, Lord Downey et al. are not my characters. Go buy Terry’s books, you will love them. I particularly recommend Jingo right now or The Truth.
“I just think we should get on with it.” Said a reedy voice from the other side of the table.
An awkward silence descended over the council chamber. That special kind of silence that only happens when someone puts their hand up during “any other business” or when an elderly relative tells a joke about trolls during Hogswatch dinner.
“We need to show some Ankh-Morpork spirit!” The voice continued, oblivious to the change of atmosphere in the room.
It was Lord Gino.
During his first day on the job, Vimes had found himself going through the Patrician’s… through his desk. In one of the drawers he had found a large, nondescript notebook. On its cover were the words: ‘Prominent citizens’.
Leafing through it, Vimes had found detailed profiles on every public figure in Ankh-Morpork. There before him, in Vetinari’s crisp hand, was every piece of background, every dark secret, every lever that the former Patrician had used to preserve the uneasy balance of power in the city.
At first, he had felt a certain amount of triumph. “Ha!” He’d thought. “I knew there was no way he could keep all that knowledge in his head!” It was only later, when his inner suspicious bastard had successfully reasserted control, that Vimes realised the truth. Vetinari hadn’t written the notebook for himself, but for his successor.
It was then that Vimes had noticed that his own page was missing. Even at the end, Vetinari had been pulling the strings.
In the first few months of his own patricianship, Vimes had found the notebook invaluable. It had helped him get a feel for many of the figures who made up the new Citizen’s Council and dodge more than a few political arrows aimed in his direction.
One person Vimes had never bothered to look up though was Lord Gino. He hadn’t needed to. Vimes was still, at heart, a policeman and he knew Gino’s type.
In his years on the streets Vimes had learned that whenever a group of ‘concerned citizens’ gathered, there would always be a Lord Gino. Whenever non-guild begging was on the increase, whenever new cart parking regulations were implemented, whenever a few new faces of the wrong colour or species arrived in a neighbourhood… there would be a Lord Gino, ruddy faced and short of stature, demanding that ‘something should be done’ about it.
Indeed, in a way this was how the real Lord Gino had got himself a seat at the council table. For years he had been nothing more than one of Lord Rust’s hangers-on. Then came the war with Klatch. At best the whole conflict could be described as a draw. At worst it was an Ankh-Morpork military disaster dodged by the narrowest of margins. Yet one thing Vimes had discovered in the aftermath was that how a war was fought actually matters far less than the stories you tell about it later.
Lord Gino was living proof of this. Vimes had first encountered him at one of Sybil’s dinner parties. After being cornered by the man and bombarded with stories about his time in the army, Vimes had become convinced that if Lord Gino had really killed as many people as he claimed then it must have been through talking them to death. After the guests had left he’d done some digging and learned that the reality was even worse. Lord Gino had been Commander of the Catering Corps during the invasion of Klatch, a job he’d proven fatally inept at. It was true that Gino had killed a lot of men, Vimes had discovered. The trouble was that they were all on his own side.
But this was always true of the Ginos of this world, Vimes mused. It wasn’t about reality or consequences, but stories. They were men — and they were always men — who thrived on glorious inaction. Either deliberately or through sheer stupidity they offered people simple solutions to complex questions. Whether it was in community meetings, on the battlefield or in the council chamber, they would always be there at the front demanding loudly that something needed to be done, while dodging any responsibility for doing the something.
Vimes was still trying to decide whether Lord Gino was genuinely stupid or just faking it to make it when a gentle cough from Lord Downey pulled him back into the room. Everyone was looking at him and suddenly Vimes remembered that it was now his responsibility to deal with the Lord Ginos of this world, no-one else’s.
“And would you care to tell us all, Lord Gino,” Vimes said, trying to muster up his best Vetinari impression, “what it is that we should be getting on with?”
There were a flurry of low chuckles round the table, but barely had the words left his mouth before Vimes realised he’d made a mistake. He’d wanted to make the man realise how silly he sounded, make him understand that things weren’t as simple as they seem. But as the new Patrician looked deep into Lord Gino’s eyes he saw that there wasn’t a glimmer of understanding there, just the banging of drums and a braying crowd.
“Why we need to get on and implement the will of the people, Mr Vimes!” Lord Gino proclaimed with a flourish and a smile, “Something needs to be done!”
And for the first time since he’d reluctantly accepted the title of Patrician, Vimes realised he had no idea what to do next.