Managed opposition¶

The Guild of Agitators (Legitimate) held its monthly meeting in a rented room above the Mended Drum. Seventeen people attended, which was up from last month’s fourteen. They were quite pleased about this.

“Right,” said Mossy Lawn, consulting his agenda. “First order of business: the protest march regarding bread prices. We’ve received approval for Saturday, three o’clock to four-thirty, route pre-agreed with the Watch.”

“Did they approve our chant?” asked a young man named Trevor.

Mossy checked his papers. “They’ve requested we change ‘Down with tyranny’ to ‘Reconsider the current approach to grain taxation.’ Bit of a mouthful, but they were quite firm about the sedition guidelines.”

“That doesn’t really fit the rhythm,” someone complained.

“We could do ‘Grain tax bad, makes us sad’?” Trevor suggested.

There was a general murmur of approval. Revolution, they felt, should rhyme when possible.

What none of them realised, of course, was that the Guild of Agitators (Legitimate) had been Lord Vetinari’s idea. Well, technically it had been Commander Vimes’s idea after the riot five years ago, but Vetinari had enthusiastically approved it.

“Let them have their Guild,” he’d said. “Give them forms to fill out, procedures to follow, a proper licensing system. Make rebellion official.”

“Sir,” Vimes had said carefully, “I’m not sure that’s what I meant.”

“Of course it is, Commander. You wanted to control the agitators. What better way than to give them what they think they want? Let them protest. Give them designated zones, approved chants, scheduled demonstration times. Channel all that energy into proper bureaucratic channels.”

And by all the gods, it had worked.

The real agitators, the dangerous ones, still operated outside the system. But they were isolated now, extremists. The ‘legitimate’ protesters could point to them and say, “We’re not like them. We work within the system. We have permits.”

Vetinari had even funded a small stipend for the Guild. Three hundred euros annually, for administrative costs. Just enough to pay for the room, the paperwork, and the increasing conviction that they were part of something official and therefore important.

“Are we having an impact?” Trevor asked, during Any Other Business.

Mossy consulted his records. “Well, we’ve filed sixteen formal objections this year, attended three council consultations, and participated in two approved demonstration actions. That’s quite good engagement with the democratic process.”

“Yes, but has anything actually changed?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Change takes time,” Mossy said firmly. “We’re building awareness. Laying groundwork. These things don’t happen overnight.”

What he didn’t say, because he didn’t quite let himself think it, was that in five years of Guild activity, bread prices had risen eleven percent, taxation had increased, and the only tangible achievement was getting the protest route extended by forty metres.

But they had meetings. They had paperwork. They had legitimate status. And once a month, they got to feel like revolutionaries for ninety minutes, before going home for dinner.

Up in his office, Vetinari signed the Guild’s quarterly funding approval. Three hundred euros. The best money the city spent.

Revolutions, he’d learned, were best handled by giving them a suggestion box and a committee.