Mahnmut

This is specially dedicated to a friend, he-knows-who.


Commander Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, talking to Sergeant Fred Colon...


'Listen, Fred, if there is to be a new ruler, it won't be me.'

'Who'll it be, sir?' Colon's voice still held that slow, deliberate tone.

'How should I know? It could be . . .'

The gap opened ahead of him and he could feel his thoughts being sucked into it. 'You're talking about Captain Carrot, aren't you, Fred?'

'Could be, sir. I mean none of the guilds'd let some other guild bloke be ruler now, and everyone likes Captain Carrot, and, well . . . rumour's got about that he's the Hair to the Throne, sir.'

'Heir. And there's no proof of that, Sergeant.'

'Not for me to say, sir. Dunno about that. Dunno what is proof,' said Colon, with just a hint of defiance. 'But he's got that mythical sword of his, and the birthmark shaped like a crown, and . . . well, everyone knows he's king. It's his Krizma.'

Charisma, thought Vimes. Oh, yes. Carrot has charisma. He makes something happen in people's heads. He can talk a charging leopard into giving up and handing over its teeth and doing good work in the community, and that would really upset the old ladies.

Vimes distrusted charisma. 'No more kings, Fred.'

'Right you are, sir.'   ...

Vimes was left to himself.

No more kings. Vimes had difficulty in articulating why this should be so, why the concept revolted in his very bones. After all, a good many of the city patricians had been as bad as any king. But they were . . . sort of... bad on equal terms. What set Vimes's teeth on edge was the idea that kings were a different kind of human being. A higher lifeform. Somehow magical. But, huh, there was some magic, at that. Ankh-Morpork still seemed to be littered with Royal this and Royal that, little old men who got paid a few pence a week to do a few meaningless chores, like the Master of the King's Keys or the Keeper of the Crown Jewels, even though there were no keys and certainly no jewels.

Royalty was like dandelions. No matter how many heads you chopped off, the roots were still there underground, waiting to spring up again.

It seemed to be a chronic disease. It was as if even the most intelligent person had this little blank spot in their heads where someone had written: 'Kings. What a good idea.' Whoever had created humanity had left in a major design flaw.

It was its tendency to bend at the knees.


From "Feet of Clay" by Terry Pratchett

Alright then, since we're on the Pratchett wave, here's another quote.


"The flat top of the truncated pyramid was in fact quite large, with plenty of room for statues, priests, slabs, gutters, knife-chipping production lines and all the other things the Tezumen needed for the bulk disposal of religion. In front of Rincewind several priests were busily chanting a long list of complaints about swamps, mosquitoes, lack of metal ore, volcanoes, the weather, the way obsidian never kept it's edge, the trouble with having a god like Quezovercoatl, the way wheels never worked properly however often you laid them flat and pushed them, and so on.

"The prayers of most religions generally praise and thank the gods involved, either out of general piety or in the hope that he or she will take the hint and start acting responsibly. The Tezumen, having taken a long hard look around their world and decided bluntly that things were just about as bad as they were ever going to get, had perfected the art of the plain-chant winge.

"Godless people might get up to anything, they might turn against the fine old traditions of thrift and non-self-sacrifice that had made the kingdom what it was today, they might start wondering why, if they didn't have a god, they needed all these priests, anything!"

(Eric, by Terry Pratchett)

"Some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules, of Hector and Lysander and such great names as these. In fact, throughout the history of the Multiverse people have said nice things about every cauliflower-eared sword-swinger, at least in their vicinity, on the basis that it was a lot safer that way. It's funny how the people have always respected the kind of commander who comes up with strategies like "I want fifty thousand of you chappies to rush at the enemy", whereas the more thoughtful commanders who say things like "Why don't we build a damn great wooden horse and then nip in at the back gate while they're all round the thing waiting for us to come out" are considered only one step above common oiks and not the kind of person you'd lend money to.

This is because most of the first type of commanders are brave men, whereas cowards make far better strategists."

from Eric, by Terry Pratchett.