“Yes,” said Burleigh. He looked wretched. “However, the thing about weapons manufacture… the important thing…”

“I believe you are about to say that the important thing about the business of weaponry is that it is a business,” said the Patrician.

Burleigh looked as though he'd been let off the hook on to a bigger hook.

“Er… yes.”

“That, in fact, the weapons are for selling.”

“Er… exactly.”

“To anyone who wishes to buy them.”

“Er… yes.”

“Regardless of the use to which they are going to be put?”

The armaments manufacturer looked affronted.

“Pardon me? Of course. They're weapons.”

“And I suspect that in recent years a very lucrative market has been Klatch?”

“Well, yes… the Seriph needs them to pacify the outlying regions…”

The Patrician held up his hand. Drumknott, his clerk, gave him a piece of paper.

“The ‘Great Leveller’ Cart-Mounted Ten-Bank 500-pound Crossbow?” he said. “And, let me see… the ‘Meteor’ Automated Throwing Star Hurler, Decapitates at Twenty Paces, Money Back If Not Completely Decapitated?”

“Have you ever heard of the D'regs

The Patrician seemed to be staring at a large drawing of the “Dervish” Mk III Razor-Wire Bolas. There was a painful silence. Burleigh tried to fill it up, always a bad mistake.

“Besides, we provide much-needed jobs in Ankh-Morpork,” he murmured.

“Exporting these weapons to other countries,” said Lord Vetinari. He handed the paper back and fixed Burleigh with a friendly smile.

“I'm very pleased to see that the industry has done so well,” he said. “I will bear this particularly in mind.”

He placed his hands together carefully. “The situation is grave, gentlemen.”

“Whose?” said Mr Burleigh.

“I'm sorry?”

“What? Oh… I was thinking about something else, my lord…”