'Of course it's bloody genuine!' snapped Soll, the bonds of .kinship stretching to snapping point. 'It's really there! It's really itself! You can't make it any more genuine! It's as genuine as it can get!'
Dibbler took his cigar out of his mouth.
'No, it isn't,' he said. 'You'll see.'
Ginger turned up around lunchtime, looking so pale that even Dibbler didn't shout at her. She kept glaring at Gaspode, who tried to stay out of her way.
Dibbler was preoccupied, anyway. He was in his office, explaining The Plot.
It was basically quite simple, running on the familiar lines of Boy Meets Girl, Girl Meets Another Boy, Boy Loses Girl, except that on this occasion there was a civil war in the middle of it . . .
The origins of the Ankh-Morpork Civil War (8.32 p.m., Grune 3, 432 -10.45 a. m., Grune 4, 432) have always been a subject of heated debate among historians. There are two main theories: 1. The common people, having been heavily taxed by a particularly stupid and unpleasant king, decided that enough was enough and that it was time to do away with the outmoded concept of monarchy and replace it with, as it turned out, a series of despotic overlords who still taxed heavily but at least had the decency not to pretend the gods had given them the right to do it, which made everyone feel a bit better OR 2. One of the players in a game of Cripple Mr Onion in a tavern had accused another of palming more than the usual number of aces, and knives had been drawn, and then someone had hit someone with a "bench, and then someone else had stabbed someone, and arrows started to fly, and someone had swung on the chandelier, and a carelesslyhurled axe had hit someone in the street, and then the Watch had been called in, and someone had set fire to the place, and someone had hit a lot of people with a table, and then everyone lost their tempers and commenced to start fighting.
Anyway, it all caused a civil war, which is something every mature civilization needs to have had . . . [20]
'The way I see it,' said Dibbler, 'there's this high-born girl living all by herself in this big house, right, and her young man goes off to fight for the rebels, you see, and she meets this other guy, and there's the chemistry between them-'
'They blow up?' said Victor.
'He means they fall in love,' said Ginger coldly.
'That sort of thing,' nodded Dibbler. 'Eyes meeting across a crowded room. And she's all alone in the world except for the servants and, let's see, yeah, perhaps her pet dog-'
'This'll be Laddie?' said Ginger.
'Right. And of course she's going to do everything she can to preserve the family mine, so she's kind of flirting with 'em both, the men, not the dog, and then one of them gets killed in the war and the other one throws her over but it's all OK because she's tough at heart.' He sat back. 'What d'you think?' he said.
The people sitting around the room looked uneasily at one another.
There was a fidgety silence.
'It sounds great, Uncle,' said Soll, who wasn't looking for any more problems today.
'Technically very challenging,' said Gaffer.
There was a chorus of relieved assent from the rest of the team.
'I don't know,' said Victor slowly.
Everyone else's eyes turned on him in the same way that spectators at the lion pit watch the first condemned criminal to be pushed out through the iron gate. He went on: 'I mean, is that all? It doesn't sound, well, very complicated for such a long click. People sort of falling in love while a civil war is going on in the background . . . I don't see how you can make much of a picture out of that.'
There was another troubled silence. A couple of people near Victor moved away. Dibbler was staring at him.
Victor could hear, coming from under his chair, an almost inaudible little voice.
' . . . oh, of course, there's always a part for Laddie . . . woes he got that I haven't got, that's wot I'd like to . . . '
Dibbler was still staring fixedly at Victor.
Then he said, 'You're right. You're right. Victor's right. Why didn't anyone else spot it?'
'That's just what I was thinking, Uncle,' said Soll hurriedly. 'We need to flesh it out a bit.'
Dibbler waved his cigar vaguely. 'We can think up some more stuff as we go, no problem. Like . . . like . . . how about a chariot race? People always like a chariot race. It's gripping. Will he fall out, will the wheels come off? Yeah. A chariot race.'
'I've, er, been reading a bit about the Civil War,' said Soll cautiously, 'and I don't think there's any mention of-'
'Of there not being chariot races, am I right?' said Dibbler, in soapy tones containing the razor blade of menace. Soll sagged.