#discworld analysis

Just something I thought was really interesting, when Terry describes Sybils size its almost always to emphasize her power and pressence not just a joke about her being fat. I've seen a few people talk about fatphobia in Terry books and while thats a bigger discussion I think his descriptions of Lady Sybil are a great example of how a character just being "fat" is not an insult to them in any way.

Even shorn of her layers of protective clothing, Lady Sybil Ramkin was still toweringly big. Vimes knew that the barbarian hublander folk had legends about great chain-mailed, armor-bra’d, carthorse-riding maidens who swooped down on battlefields and carried off dead warriors on their cropper to a glorious roistering afterlife, while singing in a pleasing mezzo-soprano. Lady Ramkin could have been one of them. She could have led them. She could have carried off a battalion. When she spoke, every word was like a hearty slap on the back and clanged with the aristocratic self-assurance of the totally well-bred. The vowel sounds alone would have cut teak.

Lady Ramkin drawing herself up haughtily was not a sight to forget, although you could try. It was like watching continental drift in reverse as various sub-continents and islands pulled themselves together to form one massive, angry protowoman.

A furious vision in padded leather, gauntlets, tiara and thirty yards of damp pink tulle leaned down toward him and screamed: “Come on, you bloody idiot!”

“Where’s he off to?” boomed Lady Ramkin, emerging from the mists dragging the horses behind her. They didn’t want to come, their hooves were scraping up sparks, but they were fighting a losing battle.

It had been dragged into the center of the plaza, and Lady Sybil Ramkin had been chained to it. She appeared to be wearing a nightie and huge rubber boots. By the look of her she had been in a fight, and Vimes felt a momentary pang of sympathy for whoever else had been involved.

In fact all of them just paint the picture of a woman who could command armies with her voice and wouldn't bother launching ships with her face since her hands would do just fine.

This will probably start out weird to people who aren’t familiar with this series, but it’s important to explain how the setting looks because it’s important to the plot of the books as well as meta-textual analysis.  So, bear with me.

So, there’s a giant sea turtle, named A’Tuin, swimming through space.  The turtle has four smaller but still huge elephants standing on its back.  On top of those sits the Disc, which is quite literally a flat disc of land.  The sun and moon revolve around the entire ensemble.

Here’s a map of the actual land masses themselves:

Directions are measured in clockwise and counterclockwise directions (“turnwise” and “widdershins,” respectively).  At the center, or “Hub,” of the world is the mountain Cori Celesti, where the major Gods live (but honestly don’t do much).  It is also completely possible, and somewhat common, for ships to sail off the edge, or “Rim,” of the world.

The whole turtle thing is a reference to the common myth that the world sits on the back of a turtle (or tortoise, depending on the translation).  This is actually a very common aspect of narrative mythology, present in Indian, Chinese, and among indigenous people in North America, making this structure of world-elephant-turtle something of an archetypical creation story.

(An 1876 Drawing of the “Hindoo” earth)

The idea of myths and stories is central to the identity of the Discworld series.  Almost everything present in the books is either a reference to a culture’s own stories, or something in the real world (which is then usually gently poked fun at).  The Discworld then exists as an extension of myths, legends, and stories from the real world, justified in-story by the presence of an element called Narrativium, which is the physical manifestation of the power of stories themselves.

So one of the Gr8 Frivolous Mysteries of Homestuck, in my experience, has been “How are Dragons Connected to Mind?”, and I think I might have an answer. I’m actually kind of surprised I’ve never seen it suggested before as I’m hardly the first, or even the hundred and first, HS fan to read the Discworld books.

Anyway, I just finished reading Guards! Guards!(I don’t have much to do out here so I brought a load of books, and I figured I’d get the Vimes stories out of the way), and here is what Terry Pratchett, through the dramatis personae of Tubal de Malachite, had to say about Dragons:

Yette draggons are notte liken unicornes, I willen. They dwelleth in some Realm defined bye thee Fancie of the Wille and, thus, it myte bee thate whomsoever calleth upon them, and giveth them theyre patheway upon thys worlde, calleth theyre Owne dragon of the Mind...

and then there’s a bit about how they may yet be a force for good, given a Summoner of decency, though given that Noble Dragons in that book are an allegory for tyrants and unbound passions, one can draw their own conclusions on the possibility of this.

Like Vimes does :] His response to reading this:

A realm of fancy, Vimes thought. That’s where they went, then. Into our imaginations. And when we call them back we shape them, like squeezing dough into pastry shapes. Only you don’t get gingerbread men, you get what you are. Your own darkness given shape...

And of course, in the book, they lie sleeping in a pocket of L-Space, Library-Space, the distorted and fantastical reality brought into being by the mere existence and agglomeration of Books; quite Literally, a Space of Imagination :] :]

So this isn’t Homestuck itself saying this, obviously, it’s Discworld. But, Homestuck’s a pretty referential work and Jack Noir and his band of miscreant civil servants(one fat, one small, one supernaturally competent) bear certain similarities to the original crew of the Night’s Watch as we meet them(and, being the Guardians of Derse, are themselves a sort of Night’s Watch, in a sense). But but, I don’t know if Hussie ever read the Discworld books and I’ve never seen any obvious evidence from his work that he did so I don’t think you can say, definitively, that he took this idea of Dragons and the Mind from Pratchett and ran with it as an incredibly subtle, plot-insignificant nod to a series of fantasy-satire-but-no-seriously-sincere-fantasy books.

I think this exchange gets overlooked a lot because it happens right before the big climax, but I think it shows the basic principle of the book boiled down to its most essential core. The importants of humanity and view people as people.

"Think logically, will you?" he said. "You're a philosopher, aren't you? Look at the crowd!" Urn looked at the crowd. "Well?" "They don't like it,." Simony turned. "Look, Brutha's going to die anyway. But this way it'll mean something. People don't understand, really understand, about the shape of the universe and all that stuff, but they'll remember what Vorbis did to a man. Right? We can make Brutha's death a symbol for people, don't you see?" Urn stared at the distant figure of Brutha. It was naked, except for a loin-cloth. "A symbol?" he said. His throat was dry. "It has to be." He remembered Didactylos saying the world was a funny place. And, he thought distantly, it really was. Here people were about to roast someone to death, but they'd left his loin-cloth on, out of respectability. You had to laugh. Otherwise you'd go mad. "You know," he said, turning to Simony. "Now I know Vorbis is evil. He burned my city. Well, the Tsorteans do it sometimes, and we burn theirs. It's just war. It's all part of history. And he lies and cheats and claws power for himself, and lots of people do that, too. But do you know what's special? Do you know what it is?" "Of course," said Simony. "It's what he's doing to-” "It's what he's done to you." "What?" "He turns other people into copies of himself." Simony's grip was like a vice. "You're saying I'm like him?" "Once you said you'd cut him down," said Urn. "Now you're thinking like him . . . "So we rush them, then?" said Simony. "I'm sure of-maybe four hundred on our side. So I give the signal and a few hundred of us attack thousands of them? And he dies anyway and we die too? What difference does that make?" Urn's face was gray with horror now. "You mean you don't know?" he said. Some of the crowd looked round curiously at him. "You don't know?" he said.

This is such a profoundly important part of the message of small gods, it's what makes Vorbis that monster that he is and what makes Brutha the man that he is.

The thing that Simony cannot understand, and that Vorbis never did is summed up best by granny Weatherwax in Carpe Jugulum

'There's no greys, only white that's got grubby. I'm surprised you don't know that. And sin, young man, iswhen you treat people as things. Including yourself. That's what sin is.' 'It's a lot more complicated than that-' 'No. It ain't. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they're getting worried that they won't like the truth. People as things, that's where it starts.'

Simony just sees Brutha as a martyr, a tool to strenghten his rebellion and rally around, he's not seeing the person bound on the burning turtle, just how he can use its ashes.

Vorbis always thought like this, in fact he never saw people at all, his mind was never open to a single other person, he was the very embodiment of sin as viewed by granny, he never saw a single person as a person, only ever as a thing.

"So," said Vorbis. "The desert. And at the end of the desert?" JUDGEMENT. "Yes, yes, of course." Vorbis tried to concentrate. He couldn't. He could feel certainty draining away. And he'd always been certain. He hesitated, like a man opening a door to a familiar room and finding nothing there but a bottomless pit. The memories were still there. He could feel them. They had the right shape. It was just that he couldn't remember what they were. There had been a voice . . . . Surely, there had been a voice? But all he could remember was the sound of his own thoughts, bouncing off the inside of his own head. Now he had to cross the desert. What could there be to fear? The desert was what you believed. Vorbis looked inside himself. And went on looking. He sagged to his knees. I CAN SEE THAT YOU ARE BUSY, said Death. "Don't leave me! It's so empty!" Death looked around at the endless desert. He snapped his fingers and a large white horse trotted up. I SEE A HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE, he said, swinging himself into the saddle. "Where? Where?" HERE. WITH YOU. "I can't see them!" Death gathered up the reins. NEVERTHELESS, he said. His horse trotted forward a few steps. "I don't understand!" screamed Vorbis. Death paused. YOU HAVE PERHAPS HEARD THE PHRASE, he said, THAT HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE? "Yes. Yes, of course." Death nodded. IN TIME, he said, YOU WILL LEARN THAT IT IS WRONG.

The fact that the desert is empty for him because, even when he was alive he never saw the people infront of him so how could he now? He never listend, never learned, never took in the perspective of anyone else, just had his own thoughts echoing inside him.

I love how everyone who interacts with Vetinari is always either scared or on guard and usually for good reason, he is almost always in complete control of the conversation and knows it, except around Carrot.

I think this really reflects how Carrots "simpleness" makes him so powerful, Vetinari is the master of complex plots and being 8 steps ahead of everyone else, but Carrot is simple in the way a sharp sword is, and being 8 steps ahead of him just gives him room to charge. This scene in Men at Arms os one of the best examples of this, Vetinari is literally tense the moment Carrot enters the room and clearly has no idea what game Carrot is playing which might be a first for him.

Minor spoilers for men at arms ahead

Carrot entered, marched to the desk, saluted and stood at ease.

Lord Vetinari tensed, very slightly.

'Oh, yes,' he said. 'Corporal Carrot. I was expecting . . . something like this. I'm sure you've come to ask me for . . . something?'

Carrot unfolded a piece of grubby paper, and cleared his throat.

'Well, sir . . . we could do with a new dartboard. You know. For when we're off duty?'

The Patrician blinked. It was not often that he blinked.

'I beg your pardon?'

'A new dartboard, sir. It helps the men relax after their shift, sir.'

Vetinari recovered a little.

'Anotherone? But you had one only last year!'

'It's the Librarian, sir. Nobby lets him play and he just leans a bit and hammers the darts in with his fist. It ruins the board. Anyway, Detritus threw one through it. Through the wall behind it, too.'

'Very well. And?'

'Well . . . Acting-Constable Detritus needs to be let off having to pay for five holes in his breastplate.'

'Granted. Tell him not to do it again.'

'Yes, sir. Well, I think that's about it. Except for a new kettle.'

The Patrician's hand moved in front of his lips. He was trying not to smile. ,

'Dear me. Another kettle as well? What happened to the old one?'

'Oh, we still use it, sir, we still use it. But we're going to need another because of the new arrangements.'

'I'm sorry? What new arrangements?'

Carrot unfolded a second, and rather larger, piece of paper.

'The Watch to be brought up to an establishment strength of fifty-six; the old Watch Houses at the River

Gate, the Deosil Gate and the Hubwards Gate to be reopened and manned on a twenty-four hour

basis—'

The Patrician's smile remained, but his face seemed to pull away from it, leaving it stranded and all alone in the world.

'—a department for, well, we haven't got a name for it yet, but for looking at clues and things like dead bodies, e.g., how long they've been dead, and to start with we'll need an alchemist and possibly a ghoul provided they promise not to take anything home and eat it; a special unit using dogs, which could be very useful, and Lance-Constable Angua can deal with that since she can, um, be her own handler a lot of the time; a request here from Corporal Nobbs that Watchmen be allowed all the weapons they can carry, although I'd be obliged if you said no to that; a—'

Lord Vetinari waved a hand.

'All right, all right,' he said. 'I can see how this is going. And supposing I say no?'

There was another of those long, long pauses, wherein may be seen the possibilities of several different futures.

'Do you know, sir, I never even considered that you'd say no?'

'You didn't?'

'No, sir.'

'I'm intrigued. Why not?'

'It's all for the good of the city, sir. Do you know where the word "policeman" comes from? It means

"man of the city", sir. From the old word polis.'

'Yes. I do know.'

The Patrician looked at Carrot. He seemed to be shuffling futures in his head. Then:

'Yes. I accede to all the requests, except the one involving Corporal Nobbs. And you, I think, should be promoted to Captain.'

'Ye-es. I agree, sir. That would be a good thing for Ankh-Morpork. But I will not command the Watch,

if that's what you mean.'

'Why not?'

'Because I could command the Watch. Because . . . people should do things because an officer tells

them. They shouldn't do it just because Corporal Carrot says so. Just because Corporal Carrot is . . .

good at being obeyed.' Carrot's face was carefully blank.

An interesting point.'

'But there used to be a rank, in the old days. Commander of the Watch. I suggest Samuel Vimes.'

The Patrician leaned back. 'Oh, yes,' he said. 'Commander of the Watch. Of course, that became a rather unpopular job, after all that business with Lorenzo the Kind. It was a Vimes who held the post in those days. I've never liked to ask him if he was an ancestor.'

'He was, sir. I looked it up.'

'Would he accept?'

'Is the High Priest an Offlian? Does a dragon explode in the woods?'

The Patrician steepled his ringers and looked at Carrot over the top of them. It was a mannerism that had unnerved many.

'But, you see, captain, the trouble with Sam Vimes is that he upsets a lot of important people. And I think that a Commander of the Watch would have to move in very exalted circles, attend Guild functions. . .'

They exchanged glances. The Patrician got the best of the bargain, since Carrot's face was bigger. Both of them were trying not to grin.

'An excellent choice, in fact,' said the Patrician.

'I'd taken the liberty, sir, of drafting a letter to the cap— to Mr Vimes on your behalf. Just to save you

trouble, sir. Perhaps you'd care to have a look?'

'You think of everything, don't you?'

'I hope so, sir.'

(I know its long but i didn't want to leave anything out)

I love this whole exchange, Vetinari being totally on the back foot and realising that he kind of just has to go along with things because Carrot is absolutely right about everything. I always love seeing manipulators end up running into something they just cannot control, but in this case it's alright because they are both working for the same thing, the good of the city.

Right after this we get to see Carrot basically threaten Vetinari to his face, how many other characters could get away with something like this?

'I think you've learned a lot from Cap— Commander Vimes, captain.'

'Sir. My father always said I was a quick learner, sir.'

'Perhaps the city does need a king, though. Have you considered that?'

'Like a fish needs a . . . er . . . a thing that doesn't work underwater, sir.'

'Yet a king can appeal to the emotions of his subjects, captain. In . . . very much the same way as you did recently, I understand.'

'Yes, sir. But what will he do next day? You can't treat people like puppet dolls. No, sir. Mr Vimes always said a man has got to know his limitations. If there was a king, then the best thing he could do would be to get on with a decent day's work—'

'Indeed.'

'But if there was some pressing need . . . then perhaps he'd think again.' Carrot brightened up. 'It's a bit like being a guard, really. When you need us, you really need us. And when you don't . . . well, best if we just walk around the streets and shout All's Well. Providing all is well, of course.'

Vetinari knows that if it came to a battle for control of the city, Carrot would win, and both of them know this, so it's very good that niether of them want that. But it serves as a good reminder to him that if he ever starts to grow a bit to comfortable and let the interest of the city slip, he has someone who can keep him in check.

Finally we see at the end of Jingo that Carrot is involved in some major decisions by Vetinari and is implied to be the person who suggested making Vimes a Duke.

'All right,' he said, 'but, look I thought only a king could make someone a duke. It's not like all these knights and barons, that's just, well, political, but something like a duke needs a–'

He looked at Vetinari. And then at Carrot. Vetinari had said that he'd been reminded...

'I'm sure, if ever there is a king in Ankh–Morpork again, he will choose to ratify my decision,' said Vetinari smoothly. 'And if there never is a king, well, I see no practical problems.'

'I'm bought and sold, aren't I?' said Vimes, shaking his head. 'Bought and sold.'

Honestly I really like how Terry parodied the classic trope of "man has to dress up as a woman leading to hilarious antics" with Nobby in Jingo.

It starts off pretty par for the course with Nobby dressing up as a dancing girl and people being terrified he might actually live up to the name but of course Terry doesn't just leave it there.

I really like how Nobby is so quickly accepted by the women of Klatch and how after he realises they are treating him kindly (something that almost never happens to him) he really starts seeing them as people and starts to identify with their struggles. Him seeing things from their perpective and finding a sense of community with them is not something I expected.

'Excuse me, are you the lady who is with the clowns?'

Corporal Nobbs, who had been trudging along gloomily, looked up. He was being addressed by a pleasant–faced young woman. A woman actually talking to him by choice was a novelty. Smiling while doing so was unheard of.

'Er yeah. Right. That's me.' He swallowed…'Beti.'

'My name is Bana. Would you like to come and talk with us?'

Nobby looked past her. There were a number of women of varying ages sitting around a large well. One of them waved at him shyly.

He blinked. This was uncharted territory. He looked down at his clothes, which were already the worse for wear. His clothes always looked the worse for wear five minutes after he'd put them on.

'Oh, don't worry,' said the girl. 'We know how it is. But you looked so alone.

And perhaps you can help us...

They were among the group now._ There were women of every legitimate shape and size, and so far none of them had said 'Yuk,' an experience hithertounchronicled in Nobby's personal history. In a detached, light–headed way, Corporal Nobbs felt that he was entering Paradise, and it was only an unfortunate detail that he'd come to via the wrong door.

'We are trying to comfort Netal,' said the girl. 'Her betrothed won't marry her tomorrow.'

'The swine,' said Nobby.

'I'll tell you this, girls,' he said. 'I wish I'd settled for the tendollar version. Don't you just sometimes want to sit down and cry?'

'You look even sadder than Netal,' said Bana. 'Isn't there some way we can cheer you up?'

Nobby stared at her for a moment, and then started to sob.

Another interesting thing is after becoming comfrotable with her new friends and identity, Beti is actually just called Beti and reffered to as she/her. I think this is where it stops being an act and becomes Nobby actually discovering something about himself and realising

Nobby realized that a change had come over the group. Now he was surrounded by women who were in the presence of a man. A known man, he corrected himself.

Several of them were blushing. They hadn't blushed before.

'Why not?' said Beti nastily.

'You'll offend people,' said Colon uncertainly.

'Yeah, and they laughed even though they don't have the same kind of doorbells here,' said Nobby. 'Here, you don't have to go–'

But the group around the well was dispersing. Water jugs were being picked

up and carried away. A kind of preoccupied busyness came over the women.

Bana nodded at Beti. 'Er... thank you. It's been very... interesting. But we must go. It was so kind of you to talk to us.'

'Er, no, don't go...'

A faint suggestion of perfume hung in the air.

Beti glared at Colon. 'Sometimes I really want to give you a right ding alongside the lughole,' she growled. 'My first bloody chance in years and you––

She still does this after they've left the city:

'Here, look, those palm trees down there look really small.'

'Nobby, you're scared of heights,' said Colon. 'I know you're scared of heights.'

'That's sexual stereotyping!'

'No, it's not!'

'Yes, it is! You'll be expecting me to break my ankle a lot and scream all the time next! It's my job to prove to you that a woman can be as good as a man!'

'Practically identical in your case, Nobby. You've caught too much sun, that's what it is. You are not female, Nobby!'

Beti sniffed. 'That's just the sort of sexist remark I'd expect from you.'

'Well, you're not!'

'It's the principle of the thing.'

And It's just great how Nobby starts the book by looking for how to get a girlfriend as a sort of vague life goal and ends up being pen pals with one of the girls from Klatch, a girl friend who he likes to talk too I always love when media breaks down the gender divide and lets characters peak through to the other side and realise that (shocking I know) men, women and all those outside the spectrum are just people like you. It really just enforces the message of the whole book.

This scene from Men at Arms has to be one of my favourite moments in the entire series, It's not only where we get to see exactly why Carrot has such an deep and unshakable admiration for Vimes, but also one of the few moments where I think he was genuinley angry.

'Will you look at this? No wonder he never has any money!' 'What d'you mean?'

'He spends it on women! You wouldn't think it, would you? Look at this entry. Four in one week!'

Carrot looked over her shoulder. On the bed, Vimes snorted.

There, on the page, in Vimes' curly handwriting, were the words:

Mrs Gafkin, Mincing St: $5

Mrs Scurrick, Treacle St: $4

Mrs Maroon, Wixon's Alley: $4

Annabel Curry, Lobfneaks: $2

Annabel Curry couldn't have been much good, for only two dollars,' said Angua.

She was aware of a sudden drop in temperature.

'I shouldn't think so,' said Carrot, slowly. 'She's only nine years old.' .

One of his hands gripped her wrist tightly and the other prised the book out of her fingers.

'Hey, let go!'

'Sergeant!' shouted Carrot, over his shoulder, 'can you come up here a moment?'

Angua tried to pull away. Carrot's arm was as immovable as an iron bar.

There was the creak of Colon's foot on the stair, and the door swung open.

He was holding a very small cup in a pair of tongs.

'Nobby got the coff—' he began, and stopped.

'Sergeant,' said Carrot, staring into Angua's face, 'Lance-Constable Angua wants to know about Mrs

Gaskin.'

'Old Leggy Gaskin's widow? She lives in Mincing Street.'

'And Mrs Scurrick?'

'In Treacle Street? Takes in laundry now.' Sergeant Colon looked from one to the other, trying to get a handle on the situation.

'Mrs Maroon?'

'That's Sergeant Maroon's widow, she sells coal in—'

'How about Annabel Curry?'

'She still goes to the Spiteful Sisters of Seven-Handed Sek Charity School, doesn't she?' Colon smiled

nervously at Angua, still not sure of what was happening. 'She's the daughter of Corporal Curry, but of course he was before your time—'

Angua looked up at Carrot's face. His expression was unreadable.

'They're the widows of coppers?' she said.

He nodded. 'And one orphan.'

'It's a tough old life,' said Colon. 'No pensions for widows, see.'

He looked from one to the other.

'Is there something wrong?' he said.

Carrot relaxed his grip, turned, slipped the book into the box, and shut the lid.

'No,' he said.

'Look, I'm sorr—' Angua began. Carrot ignored her and nodded at the sergeant.

'Give him the coffee.'

'But . . . fourteen dollars . . . that's nearly half his pay!'

Carrot picked up Vimes' limp arm and tried to prise his fist open, but even though Vimes was out cold the fingers were locked.

'I mean, half his pay!'

I also love this moment for Angua, where she finally gets to see just what being a "good copper" means, and just how much Vimes cares about his officers. And I think it also gives her a greater respect for Carrot since she thought he was just being naive for admiring Vimes as much as he does when Vimes had earned every bit of it.

Since it's the glorious 25th of may and people are posting about Night Watch, I wanted to point out a part in Thud! that really shows how much the events of Night Watch shaped Vimes.

'May I be there when you question him?' said the grag. 'Why?' 'Well, for one thing, it may prevent rumours that he was mistreated.' 'Or start them?' said Vimes. Who watches the watchmen? he asked himself. Me! Bashfullsson gave him a cool look. 'It could calm the situation, sir.' 'I don't habitually beat up prisoners, if that's what you're suggesting,' said Vimes. 'And I am sure you would not wish to do so tonight.' Vimes opened his mouth to shout the grag out of the building, and stopped. Because the cheeky little sod had got it right slap bang on the money. Vimes had been on the edge since leaving the house. He'd felt a tingling across his skin and a tightness in his gut and a sharp, nasty little headache. Someone was going to pay for all this [?] this [?] this thisness, and it didn't need to be a screwed-up bit-player like Helmclever. And he was not certain, not certain at all, what he'd do if the prisoner gave him any lip or tried to be smart. Beating people up in little rooms… he knew where that led. And if you did it for a good reason, you'd do it for a bad one. You couldn't say 'we're the good guys' and do bad-guy things. Sometimes the watching watchman inside every copper's head could use an extra pair of eyes. Justice has to be seen to be done, so he'd see it done up good and proper.

This is so well done because we the readers are fully primed to be on Vimes side here, he was just attacked in his home by Grags and they attempted to kill his wife and child and now one is accusing him of police brutality. He is on a razors edge right now and the oblong demonic entity from before time began in his head is certainly not helping him stay calm.

But he (twice technically) has seen what happens when coppers aren't held accountable, when they feel like they can do whatever they want in the name of justice. Findthee Swing followed that mentality, and he knows how tempting it is. Vimes cannot let the personal become the important, he cannot let his desire for justice become a desire for revenge and let every dwarf he sees become an acomplice to wrong he's trying to right.

And this is shown perfectly by the next line:

'Gentlemen,' he said, keeping his eye on the grag but talking to the room at large, 'I know all of you, you all know me. You're all respected dwarfs with a stake in this city. I want you to vouch for Mr Bashfullsson, because I've never met him before in my life. Come on, Setha, I've known you for years, what do you say?' 'They killed my son,' said Ironcrust. A knife dropped into Vimes's head. It slipped down his windpipe, sliced his heart, cut through his stomach and disappeared. Where the rage had been, there was a chill. 'I'm sorry, commander,' said Bashfullsson quietly. 'It's true. I don't think Gunder Ironcrust was interested in the politics, you understand. He just took a job at the mine because he wanted to feel like a real dwarf and work with a shovel for a few days.' 'They left him to the mud,' said Ironcrust, in a voice that was eerily without emotion. 'Any help you need, we will give. Any help. But when you find them, kill them all.' Vimes could think of nothing more to say than 'I will catch them.' He didn't say: Kill them? No. Not if they surrender, not if they don't come at me armed. I know where that leads.

And here all the "righteous fury" dies in 4 words, Vimes thought he might lose his son that night, it was the most angry and terrified he ever felt in his life, and to hear from one of the people he was internally blaming for that, that they had actually lost their son it just shatters all the delusions.