On Jingo (1997), The Fifth Elephant (1999) & Night Watch (2002)
“That’s how it goes. Meetings in rooms. A little diplomacy, a little give and take, a promise here, an understanding there. That’s how real revolutions happen.” (Night Watch)
The City Watch books of the Discworld have many common themes. They are crime novels, mashing up a variety of conventions from police procedurals to puzzle mysteries.[1] They are incisive portraits of a city undergoing revolutionary change, one social reform at a time. They are books about social class, poverty, tyranny, aristocracy, and the relevance of these concepts to policing crime and to understanding why crime happens at a societal level. And all of it comes to us filtered through the cynical, angry, rebellious, highly critical voice of Samuel Vimes: once a drunken, miserable Captain of the Watch beaten into irrelevancy by a new political regime;[2] now the much-promoted Commander of the Watch, raised to an unprecedented degree in high society and in his profession… by that same, slightly-weathered political regime.
The central tragedy of Vimes — or to put it less dramatically, the central discomfort — is that he is a Noir Anti-Hero whose community and author conspire to enrich his life by increasing his happiness. There’s a reason that Sam Spade, Philip Marlowe and even James Bond[3] are never allowed the comfort of domesticity; this would render their specific form of professional hyper-masculinity null and void. Noir Anti-Heroes don’t get to sink into squashy armchairs, choose healthy relationships and enjoy ever-increasing job satisfaction.[4]
By the end of Night Watch, Vimes has been levered out of the gutter and placed in a position of city-wide power, buoyed by a solid support network, a loving wife and a baby son to read stories to at night; his original framework as a Noir Anti-hero has all but disappeared.[5] The irony is that Noir, with all its associated discomforts, is Vimes’ comfort zone. His belief in his own crime-solving abilities is at its height when under pressure, miserable, and stripped of resources, as if doing the job alongside loyal, capable troops with improved efficiency and a reasonable darts board budget is somehow cheating.
After resisting upward mobility for three novels, Jingo transforms Vimes into a grudging military commander, a scrappy resistance leader, and finally the Duke of Ankh. He can no longer fight the tide.
First denial; now acceptance. But with acceptance, always: discomfort.
Vimes is now, in Ankh-Morpork parlance, a nob. His class guilt, noir bones and general suspicion of anyone born in a nicer street than him ensures that he cannot entirely forgive himself for this transition.
JINGO
Jingo is a story designed to shove Commander Sir Samuel Vimes further out of his grimy comfort zone than ever before.[6] His knighthood and re-structured position as commander of the City Watch was, in Feet of Clay, designed to resolve the conflict between his commitment to his job, and his status as the husband of Lady Sybil Ramkin. In Jingo, we see this compromise fraying at the seams even before war breaks out between Ankh-Morpork and Klatch.
It is not the lack of acceptance from his fellow nobs that creates tension; if anything, Vimes enjoys his outsider status among the city leaders, with new and exciting opportunities to make snide remarks from the back of the room. It is Vimes himself who cannot fully accept what it means to be Sir Samuel, and will always avoid Sir Samuel’s responsibilities if there is a pick-pocket to be nabbed, or a bloodstain to be sniffed.
With war on the horizon, the Patrician requires Sir Samuel to step into the delicate role of diplomat, but Vimes falls at the first hurdle in entirely predictable fashion. Charged with leading a parade in honour of a visiting Klatchian prince, while suffering from sleep deprivation (caused by an inability to delegate), he falls into the habit of walking like a Watchman on patrol, including the pursuit of a criminal and the surprise discovery of a corpse, all with the parade chaotically trailing behind him.
Captain Carrot, Vimes’ most diligent follower and usually the only subordinate willing to challenge his authority,[7] often says earnestly that “personal is not the same as important.” Carrot can distinguish between the good of the city and his own personal wishes, but Vimes often takes a longer and more agonised path to (eventually) reach the same conclusion, sabotaging himself every step of the way. His status of Always Fighting the Class War means not only that he will regularly stand up for the small-scale injustices affecting the powerless, but also that he will over-correct by refusing to take large-scale injustices (such as impending war) seriously until he sees its effect on the individual; or, indeed, if he can reframe the issue in his head as Proper Copper Work. The very idea of becoming the person whose job it is to see the big picture outrages his sensibilities, and causes a great deal of inner turmoil. Over the course of Jingo, however, Vimes does finally learn the point of aristocracy… or at least, finds one aspect of a nobleman’s traditional duties that he can get behind.
Here’s a clue: it’s not diplomacy.
“This isn’t a war. This is a crime.”
Assembling a personal cohort of fighting men from recently unemployed Watchmen to “go to war” (or at least, get close enough to the war to find someone to arrest for this nonsense) allows Vimes to reconcile his dual identities of “copper” and “nob” while still thumbing his nose at authority.
A little military experience, at least, coupled with the helpful journals of the inspiring General Tacticus,[8] leads Vimes towards the conclusion that the only thing worse than having to give the orders yourself is when people who are not him give bad orders. It is not ultimately the Klatchians who pose the greatest threat to Ankh-Morpork, but Lord Rust, the highest-ranked aristocrat in Ankh-Morpork after the Patrician, and head of its armies. Lord Rust is everything Vimes hates about the aristocracy: privilege and power has been baked into him, several generations deep. This is a man who sees war as a continuation of diplomacy, with the potential mass deaths of soldiers largely irrelevant to the generals who happily line them up like toys on parade.
"You, sir, are no gentleman," said Rust.
"I knew there was something about me that I liked."
Between them, Vimes and Vetinari end the war by breaking all manner of traditions associated with the glorification of war: Vimes by arresting the leaders of both armies for breach of the peace; Vetinari by unconditionally surrendering on behalf of Ankh-Morpork. Then, as soon as the war is over, Vimes is shoved back into the role as Commander of the Watch, and expected to uphold the law as defined by Lord Rust and people like him… even when their orders are to arrest Lord Vetinari as a traitor.
The five minutes or so before a convenient geological phenomenon shifts Vetinari back to being in charge of the city are rather uncomfortable for Vimes, but not quite as uncomfortable as his grudging acceptance that becoming an aristocrat with too much power is not actually nearly as bad as having to follow some other orders of some other aristocrat with too much power.
A restored and far-too-smug Patrician is now ready to bestow upon Vimes the ultimate reward (and punishment) for being the only other man in the city willing to stop and think in the face of injustice: the title and highly-weighted rank of Duke of Ankh.[9] Next time someone boots the Patrician out of power, the default replacement will not be Lord Rust, or any of the other selfish and thoughtless members of Ankh-Morpork aristocracy. It will be, quite ironically, the descendant of the regicide Old Stoneface.[10] For Vetinari, this ducal title is the final triumph in his ongoing plot to position Vimes as high as he possibly can, presumably to prevent further rebellious impulses from his anti-authoritarian corner.
To which Sam Vimes replies: hold my tankard.
THE FIFTH ELEPHANT
In the next City Watch novel, the Duke of Ankh (or, at least, the man wearing that hat) has settled into his role as a city leader. Vimes finally appears moderately comfortable with — or at least tolerant of — big picture policing and delegation.
We later learn through Sybil’s eyes that this is a facade — Vimes still regularly returns home covered in mud and blood, launches himself at rooftop chases and other casually dangerous situations, and generally defaults to the persona of street copper.
With tensions at an all-time high amongst the dwarves, the Patrician sends the new Duke and Duchess of Ankh on a diplomatic tour of Uberwald… with unassuming clerk Inigo Skimmer along for the ride, to discreetly train Vimes in the job of ambassador.
Away from the city and his usual options for dodging the more embarrassing aspects of being a Duke, Vimes rankles at his loss of personal agency. Comfort, snobbery and name-dropping are all enacted on his behalf, before he and Sybil arrive in each location, so he can do little but grumble about it.
Whenever Skimmer attempts to explain the importance of certain behaviour and rituals for an aristocrat abroad, Vimes counters with sarcasm and pretend bafflement:
“But, you see, your Grace, you’re not here as an individual, but as Ankh-Morpork. When people look at you, they see the city.”
“They do? Should I stop washing?”
“That is very droll, sir, but you see, sir, you and the city are one. If you are insulted, Ankh-Morpork is insulted. If you befriend, Ankh-Morpork befriends.”
“Really? What happens when I go to the lavatory?”
Vimes is not stupid here, merely embarrassed. He cannot help but push back – however childishly – against any hint that he should be perceived as grander than anyone else. But representing the city, speaking up for those among its citizens who do not have a voice, is what Vimes has always done. He also has a strong grasp on the value of code-switching, and has made it a point of pride to learn more about how to communicate with trolls, dwarves and certain categories of human,[11] when it is needed to keep the peace back home. We the reader — and, presumably, the Patrician — can see that the transition should not be this difficult, given Vimes’ experiences in Jingo where he came to relish the challenge of operating outside his usual city resources.
There is no one, however, better at getting in his own way than Sam Vimes.
Vimes is so discomfited by the idea of getting better at duking, he fights it every step of the way. As we have seen before, he only starts to appreciate and internalise the rules of this new game once he spots a direct correlation between Acting Like A Duke and Proper Copper Work.
Progress is slow, but Vimes is able to finally reach at least a love-hate relationship with the concept of representing Ankh-Morpork. As with crime investigation, he finds diplomacy easier when performed at street level, such as throwing his social weight around to negotiate basic courtesies for his people. Protecting Detritus and Cheery from disrespect for being a troll and a gender non-conforming dwarf in Uberwald is a cause for which Vimes is willing to duke, though he would never think of doing so for personal benefit.
“… if he uses that word again in the presence of myself or any of my staff, there will be, as we diplomats say, repercussions. Wrap that up in diplomacy and give it to him, will you?”
The more overlap there is between international diplomacy and crime-solving, the more comfortable Vimes becomes in his new role. The political mystery surrounding the theft of the Scone of Stone inspires him to forge diplomatic alliances, where the possibility of civil war between dwarven factions had previously left him disinterested.
He even starts having fun with it. When Vimes meets Angua’s mother the Baroness, he pulls one of his regular copper’s tricks of acting stupider than he is, and is greatly satisfied with the results:
And this was diplomacy too, he thought. When you let your mouth chatter away while you watched people’s eyes. It’s just like being a copper.
In Jingo, Vimes finds helpful parallels between the expected roles of a nobleman in wartime, and a police captain keeping the peace; The Fifth Elephant leads him to grudgingly accept and even relish the role of diplomat once he is able to do so on his own terms.
At the conclusion of the investigation, Vimes is faced with one final challenge. The Low King will not tell the Ambassador of Ankh-Morpork the names of the individual dwarves who committed the crimes; as Vimes is not there as the Commander of the Watch, it is officially none of his business.
Angua reminds Vimes that “personal is not the same as important.”[12] The Duke of Ankh must swallow his personal pride and and (with the help of his good Duchess) use the goodwill he has earned to negotiate a better price of fat for his city instead of assuaging his curiosity about a murderer.
On a roll for resolving moral quandaries about his ducal status, Vimes then arranges a touch of indulgent comfort for his pregnant wife (and, by extension, for himself) so they can unwind from the otherwise stressful and obligation-heavy trip on the way home. Lady Sybil, a far better diplomat than her struggling husband thanks to her genuine interest in people and culture beyond their function as witnesses and clues, certainly deserves a little pampering. It is a positive character development that Vimes — having only recently learned of her pregnancy — is willing to provide luxury for her even if it means duking for personal gain.[13] This is the first hint that becoming a father is the one thing that may finally allow Vimes to accept his shiny new life…
NIGHT WATCH
The sixth City Watch novel exists on the threshold of Vimes becoming a father,[14] providing him with a lengthy time travel interlude[15] in order to explore his fantasy of returning to the bad old days when everything was simple and he knew exactly who he was.
Ironically, Vimes spends most of the novel pretending to be someone else, but that’s neither here nor there.
At the opening of Night Watch, Vimes has grown to tolerate his role as the Duke of Ankh, at least as much as he is able. He has even found ways to enjoy his status, such as the petty but satisfying methods he employs to deal with a constant flow of junior assassins. This is a Vimes who understands why a Duke needs a fancier uniform than a captain of the Watch; indeed, the dress uniform put out for him by Willikins the butler[16] is an example of the battles he has decided can still be fought, vs the hills he is no longer prepared to die on.
He got rid of most of the plumes and the stupid tights, and ended up with a dress uniform that at least looked as though its owner was male. But the helmet had gold decoration, and the bespoke armourers had made a new, gleaming breastplate with useless gold ornamentation on it. Sam Vimes felt like a class traitor every time he wore it. He hated being thought of as one of those people who wore stupid ornamental armour. It was gilt by association.
Vimes has genuinely changed his attitude; the regrets he still has about his elevation are largely nostalgic rather than actively self-sabotaging. He laments having become a manager rather than a copper, but still takes pride in how his training and philosophy of dealing with crime has spread from city to city, creating a legacy of Sammies.
Night Watch is an outlier: as a Discworld novel, as a City Watch novel, and as a Vimes novel. It is a marvellous example of all three precisely because it is so distinct. This adventure feels like a reward for Vimes’ many years of service, allowing him respite from his usual grab-bag of feelings about social class and privilege and politics. Thrown back in time, Vimes must re-examine his past through fresh eyes, while pursuing a refreshingly straight-forward (and irredeemably nasty) villain.
The adventure allows him to come to terms with everything he has gained from Guards! Guards onwards – all the people he cares about, and the city he has put so much work into. He also gets the chance to prove to himself that he can still do his job – whatever his job needs him to be – without all those extra resources waiting for him in the future. Without the Duke of Ankh’s wealth and status, without the love, helpful advice and unlimited funds of his wife, or the dubious benefit of the Patrician’s personal patronage… most of all, without the devoted inner circle of his Watch – Carrot, Angua, Cheery, Detritus[17] – trained by him and entirely trustworthy.
Left with only his wits, experience and a newfound clarity, Vimes still manages to pull off the most bizarre piece of undercover diplomacy of his career: literally (if briefly) filling the boots of his greatest hero and mentor, John Keel, to take part in the worst battle of his life for the second time around.
Vimes returns to the present with a deeper understanding of and appreciation for the substantial and lasting changes that he and his team have made to the Watch, and the city as a whole: in changing the definition and standards of what it means to be a copper in Ankh-Morpork. He knew already that his life had been improved in the categories of wealth, status, domestic happiness and so on, but this time travel adventure is a vital reminder (AKA kick in the pants) that the New Improved City Watch has done more for justice in Ankh-Morpork and beyond than any single action of one copper could possibly achieve.[18]
However conflicted he might be about being Sybil’s husband, the Commander of the City Watch and the Duke of Ankh, Sam Vimes emerges from Night Watch as a man finally ready to let himself enjoy the comforts of the life he has built for himself.
Right?
RIGHT?
Tansy Rayner Roberts is a Doctor of Classics, a Doctor Who podcaster, and an author of many science fiction and fantasy books, as well as the essay collection Pratchett’s Women. You can find her at tansyrr.com.
Notes
[1] Even Agatha Christie, the great experimenter, might have balked at writing a mystery around the premise of Jingo: If war is a crime, who can we arrest?
[2] Very few people can claim to be an entire regime all on their own, but the Patrician is one of them.
[3] Bond may not count as “true” Noir, but drinks many of its tropes for breakfast.
[4] See “Upwardly Mobile and Hating it.”
[5] A rare example of domestic redemption in noir is the Spenser series by Robert B Parker, who wrote his books, like the Discworld, over a number of decades. Spenser is a gun-toting, rough private detective who is capable of great violence but still embraces intellect, self-care and poetry. His long term relationship with an educated psychologist and all-around classy lady, and his care for a chosen son who is a dancer, not a fighter, creates some discomfort but never requires him to quit his professional fisticuffs. Another example is Lindsey Davis’ Falco series set in Ancient Rome: our Noir Anti-Hero falls in love in book 1, establishes an ad-hoc domestic arrangement by book 3, and spends the next 17 books acquiring children and pets while still solving ratbag street crimes and dodging assassins. Falco sometimes chases (and resists) upwardly mobile status, but cannot actually achieve middle class comfort until he retires from his grimy job AND his role as mystery novel protagonist.
[6] Jingo is also a book designed to make the reader uncomfortable, especially readers who are white and living in Britain, or one of its colonies.
[7] To observers, Carrot’s unofficial status as Not King of Ankh-Morpork might contradict the idea of him being Vimes’ subordinate, but I think we all know that agreeing to be king is the only way that Carrot could ensure Vimes never again listens to anything he has to say.
[8] Tacticus is to Vimes what Queen Ynci was to Magrat in Lords & Ladies (1992).
[9] Conveniently giving Vimes a rank higher than that of Rust; who is, apparently, far too aristocratic to suffer any other punishment for his terrible behaviour… but would also probably rather be beheaded than live to see this particular promotion.
[10] When Vimes resists, he is immediately bribed with something he did not even know he was longing for — the restoration of the reputation of his king-killing ancestor, including a statue and the restored coat of arms. On the surface these are all things that would make Sybil happy; Vimes, to his extreme discomfort, turns out to want them too.
[11] Not lords, obviously. But he’s learned a lot about assassins, clowns and Klatchians in recent years.
[12] She does, of course, cite her sources.
[13] His satisfaction in thwarting the Patrician’s order to return home quickly is a side benefit.
[14] Night Watch opens during Sybil’s off-page labour and concludes with Vimes rescuing her from said labour with a conveniently experimental doctor.
[15] Busman’s holiday!
[16] Not to mention Vimes allowing the butler to perform this act of service for him in the first place.
[17] He does, of course, have Sgt Colon and Nobby, but their contribution is, as always, at best chaotic neutral.
[18] Plus the bonus revelation, as hinted at all along, that Vimes and Vetinari are, though they might reject the notion, usually on the same team.