Terry Pratchett. Jingo
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...ke sums with letters. For... for people whose brains aren't clever enoughfor numbers, see?'
'Is that a fact?'
'Right,' said Colon. 'In fact,' he went on, a little more assertively
now he could see a way ahead, 'I heard this wizard down the University say
that the Klatchians invented nothing. That was their great contribution to
maffs, he said. I said "What?" an' he said, they come up with zero.'
'Dun't sound that clever to me,' said Nobby. 'Anyone could invent
nothing. I ain't invented anything.'
'My point exactly,' said Colon. 'I told him, it was people who invented
numbers like four and, and-'
'-seven-'
'-right, who were the geniuses. Nothing didn't need inventing. It was
just there. They probably just found it.'
'It's having all that desert,' said Nobby.
'Right! Good point. Desert. Which, as everyone
knows, is basically nothing. Nothing's a natural resource to them. It
stands to reason. Whereas we're more civilized, see, and we got a lot more
stuff around to count, so we invented numbers. It's like... well, they say
the Klatchians invented astronomy-'
'Al-tronomy,' said Nobby helpfully.
'No, no... no, Nobby, I reckon they'd discovered esses by then,
probably nicked' em off'f us... anyway, they were bound to invent astronomy,
'cos there's bugger all else for them to look at but the sky. Anyone can
look at the stars and give 'em names. 's going it a bit to call it
inventing, in any case. We don't go around saying we've invented something
just because we had a quick dekko at it.'
'I heard where they've got a lot of odd gods,' said Nobby.
'Yeah, and mad priests,' said Colon. 'Foaming at the mouth, half of
'em. Believe all kinds of loony things.'
They watched the painter in silence for a moment. Colon was dreading
the question that came.
'So how exactly are they different from ours, then?' said Nobby. 'I
mean, some of our priests are-'
'I hope you ain't being unpatriotic,' said Colon severely.
'No, of course not. I was just asking. I can see where they'd be a lot
worse than ours, being foreign and everything.
'And of course they're all mad for fighting,' said Colon. 'Vicious
buggers with all those curvy swords of theirs.'
'You mean, like they viciously attack you while cowardly running away
after tasting cold steel?' said Nobby, who sometimes had a treacherously
good memory for detail.
'You can't trust 'em, like I said. And they burp hugely after meals.'
'Well... so do you, sarge.'
'Yes, but I don't pretend it's polite, Nobby.'
'Well, it's certainly a good job there's you around to explain things,
sarge,' said Nobby. 'It's amazing the stuff you know.'
'I surprise myself, sometimes,' said Colon modestly. The painter of the
ship leaned back to admire his work. They heard him give a heartfelt little
groan, and both of them nodded in satisfaction.
Hostage negotiations were always tricky, Carrot had learned. It paid
not to rush things. Let the other man talk when he was ready.
So he was whiling away the time sitting behind the upturned cart they
were using as a shield from the occasional random arrow and writing his
letter home. The exercise was carried out with much frowning, sucking of the
pencil and what Commander Vimes called a ballistic approach to spelling and
punctuation.
Dere Mum and Dade,
I hope this letter finds you in good health as I am
also. Thank you for the big parcel of dwarf bread you
sent me I have sharred it with the other dwarfs on
the Watch and they say it is better even than
Ironcrufts ('t'Bread Wi' T'Edge') and you carn't
beat the taste of a home-forged loaf, so well done
mum.
Things are going well with the Wolf Pack that I
have told you about but Cmdr. Vimes is not happy, I
told him they were good lads at heart and it would
help them to learn the ways of Natchure and the
Wilderness and he said hah they know them already
that is the trouble. But he gave me $5 to buy a
football which proves he cares deep down.
We have more new faeces in the Watch which is
just as well with this truble with Klatch, it is all
looking very Grave, Ifeel it is the Clam before the
Storm and no mistake.
I must brake off now because some robbers have
broke into Vortin's Dimond Warehouse and
have taken Corporal Angua hostage. I fear there
may be terrible bloodshed so,
I remain,
Yr. Loving Son,
Carrot Ironfoundersson (Captain)
ps I will write again tomorrow
Carrot folded the letter carefully and slipped it under his
breastplate.
'I think they have had long enough to consider our suggestion,
constable. What's next on the list?'
Constable Shoe leafed through a file of grubby paper and pulled out
another sheet
'Well, we're down to offences of stealing pennies off blind beggars
now,' he said. 'Oh, no, this is a good one...'
Carrot took the sheet in one hand and megaphone in the other and raised
his head carefully over the edge of the cart.
'Good morning again!' he said brightly. 'We've found another one. Theft
of jewellery from-'
'Yes! Yes! We did it!' shouted a voice from the building.
'Really? I haven't even said what it was yet,' said Carrot.
'Never mind, we did it! Now can we come out, please?' There was another
sound behind the voice. It sounded like a low, continuous growl.
'I think you ought to be able to tell me what you stole,' said Carrot.
'Er... rings? Cold rings?'
'Sorry, no rings mentioned.'
'Pearl necklace? Yes, that's what-'
'Getting warmer, but no.'
'Earrings?'
'Ooo, you're so close,' said Carrot encouragingly.
'A crown, was it? Maybe a coronet?'
Carrot leaned down to the constable. 'Says here a tiara, Reg, can we
let-?' He stood up. 'We're prepared to accept "coronet". Well done!'
He looked down at Constable Shoe again.
'This is all right, isn't it, Reg? It's not coercion, is it?'
'Can't see how it can be, captain. I mean, they broke in, they took a
hostage...'
'I suppose you're right-'
'Please! No! Good boy! Down!'
'Seems to be about it, sir,' said Reg Shoe, peering around the edge of
the cart. 'We've got them down for everything but the Hide Park Flasher-'
'We did that!' screamed someone.
'-and that was a woman...'
'We did it!' This time the voice was a lot higher. 'Now please can we
come out?'
Carrot stood up and raised the megaphone. 'If you gentlemen would care
to step out with your hands up?'
'Are you joking?' whimpered someone, against the background of another
growl.
'Well, at least with your hands where I can see them.'
'You bet, mister!'
Four men stumbled out into the street. Their tom clothing fluttered in
the breeze. The apparent leader pointed an angry finger back at the doorway
as Carrot walked towards them.
'The owner of that place ought to be prosecuted!' he shouted. 'Keeping
a wild animal like that in his strongroom, it's disgraceful! We broke in
perfectly peacefully and it just attacked us for no reason at all!'
'You shot at Constable Shoe here,' said Carrot.
'Only to miss! Only to miss!'
Constable Shoe pointed at the arrow sticking into his breastplate.
'Right where it shows!' he complained. 'It's a welding job and we have
to pay for our own armour repairs and there'll always be a mark, you know,
no matter what I do.'
Their horrified gaze took in the stitch marks around his neck and on
his hands, and it dawned on them that although the human race came in a
variety of colours, very few living people were grey with a hint of green.
'Here, you're a zombie!'
'That's right, kick a man when he's dead,' said Constable Shoe sharply.
'And you took Corporal Angua hostage. A lady,' said Carrot, in the same
level voice. It was very polite. But it simply suggested that somewhere a
fuse was burning, and it would be a good idea not to wait for it to reach
the barrel.
'Yes... sort of... but she must've got away when that creature turned
up...'
'So you left her in there?' said Carrot, still very calm.
The men dropped to their knees. The leader raised his hand imploringly.
'Please! We're just robbers and thieves! We're not bad men!'
Carrot nodded to Constable Shoe. 'Take them down to the Yard,
constable.'
'Right!' said Reg. There was a mean look in his eye as he cocked his
crossbow. 'I'm down ten dollars thanks to you. So you'd better not try to
escape.'
'No, sir. Not us.'
Carrot wandered into the gloom of the building. Fearful faces peered
out of doorways. He gave them a reassuring smile as he walked towards the
strongroom.
Corporal Angua was adjusting her uniform.
'I didn't bite anyone, before you start,' she said, as he appeared in
the doorway. 'Not even flesh wounds. I just tore at their trousers. And that
was no bed of roses, I might add.'
A frightened face appeared round the door.
'Ah, Mr Vortin,' said Carrot. 'I think you will find that all is in
order. They seem to have dropped everything.'
The diamond merchant looked at him in amazement.
'But they had a hostage-'
'They saw the error of their ways,' said Carrot.
'And... and there were snarling noises... sounded like a wolf...'
'Ah, yes,' said Carrot. 'Well, you know, when thieves fall out...'
Which was no kind of explanation, but because the tone of voice suggested
that it was, Mr Vortin accepted it as such for fully five minutes after
Carrot and Angua had left.
'Well, that's a nice start to the day,' said Carrot.
'Thank you, yes, I wasn't hurt,' said Angua.
'It makes it all seem worthwhile, somehow.'
'Just my hair messed up and another shirt ruined.'
'Well done.'
'Sometimes I might suspect that you don't listen to anything I say,'
said Angua.
'Glad to hear it,' said Carrot.
The entire Watch was mustering. Vimes looked down at the sea of faces.
My gods, he thought. How many have we got now? A few years ago you
could count the Watch on the fingers of a blind butcher's hand, and now...
There's more coming in!
He leaned sideways to Captain Carrot. 'Who're all these people?'
'Watchmen, sir. You appointed them.'
'Did I? I haven't even met some of them!'
'You signed the paperwork, sir. And you sign the wage bill every month.
Eventually.'
There was a hint of criticism in his voice. Vimes's approach to
paperwork was not to touch it until someone was shouting, and then at least
there would be someone to help him sort through the stacks.
'But how did they join?'
'Usual way, sir. Swore them in, gave them each a helmet-'
'Hey, that's Reg Shoe! He's a zombie! He falls to bits all the time!'
'Very big man in the undead community, sir,' said Carrot.
'How come he joined?'
'He came round last week to complain about the Watch harassing some
bogeymen, sir. He was very, er, vehement, sir. So I persuaded him that what
the Watch needed was some expertise, and so he joined up, sir.'
'No more complaints?'
'Twice as many, sir. All from undead, sir, and all against Mr Shoe.
Funny, that.'
Vimes gave his captain a sideways look.
'He's very hurt about it, sir. He says he's found that the undead just
don't understand the difficulties of policing in a multi-vital society,
sir.'
Good gods, thought Vimes, that's just what I would have done. But Id
have done it because I'm not a nice person. Carrot is a nice person, he's
practially got medals for it, surely he wouldn't have...
And he knew that he would never know. Somewhere behind Carrot's
innocent stare was a steel door.
'You enrolled him, did you?'
'Nossir. You did, sir. You signed his joining orders and his kit chitty
and his posting orders, sir.'
Vimes had another vision of too many documents, hurriedly signed. But
he must have signed them and they needed the men, true enough. It was just
that it ought to be him who-
'And anyone of sergeant rank or above can recruit, sir,' said Carrot,
as if reading his mind. 'It's in the General Orders. Page twenty-two, sir.
just below the tea stain.'
'And you've recruited... how many?'
'Oh, just one or two. We're still very short-handed, sir.'
'We are with Reg. His arms keep falling off.'
'Aren't you going to talk to the men, sir?'
Vimes looked at the assembled... well, multitude. There was no other
word. Well, there were plenty, but none that it would be fair to use.
Big ones, short ones, fat ones, troll ones with the lichen still on,
bearded dwarf ones, the looming pottery presence of the golem Constable
Dorfl, undead ones... and even now he wasn't certain if that term should
include Corporal Angua, an intelligent girl and a very useful wolf when she
had to be. Waifs and strays, Colon had said once. Waifs and bloody strays,
because normal people wouldn't be coppers.
Technically they were all in uniform, too, except that mostly they
weren't wearing the same uniform as anyone else. Everyone had just been sent
down to the armoury to collect whatever fitted, and the result was a walking
historical exhibit: Funny-Shaped Helmets Through the Ages.
'Er... ladies and gentlemen-' he began.
'Be quiet, please, and listen to Commander Vimes!' bellowed Carrot.
Vimes found himself meeting the gaze of Angua, who was leaning against
the wall. She rolled her eyes helplessly.
'Yes, yes, thank you, captain,' said Vimes. He turned back to the
massed array of Ankh-Morpork's finest. He opened his mouth. He stared. And
then he shut his mouth, all but a corner of it. And said out of that corner:
'What's that little lump on Constable Flint's head?'
'That's Probationary Constable Buggy Swires, sir. He likes to get a
good view.'
'He's a gnome!'
'Well done, sir.'
'Another one of yours?'
'Ours, sir,' said Carrot, using his reproachful voice again. 'Yes, sir.
Attached to the Chitterling Street Station since last week, sir.'
'Oh my gods...' murmured Vimes.
Buggy Swires saw his stare and saluted. He was five inches tall.
Vimes regathered his mental balance. The long and the short and the
tall... waifs and strays, all of us.
'I'm not going to keep you long,' he said. 'You all know me... well,
most of you know me,' he added, with a sidelong glance at Carrot, 'and I
don't make speeches. But I'm sure all of you have noticed the way this Leshp
business has got people all stirred up. There's a lot of loose talk about
war. Well, war isn't our business. War is soldiers' business. Our business,
I think, is to keep the peace. Let me show you this--'
He stood back and pulled something out of his pocket with a flourish.
At least, that was the intention. There was a rip as something ceased to be
entangled in the lining.
'Damn... ah...'
He produced a length of shiny black wood from the ragged pocket. There
was a large silver knob on the end. The watchmen craned to look.
'This... er... this...'Vimes groped. 'This old man turned up from the
palace a couple of weeks ago. Cave me this damn thing. Cot a label saying
"Regalia of the Watch Commandr., Citie of Ankh-Morporke". You know they
never throw anything away up at the palace.'
He waved it vaguely. The wood was surprisingly heavy.
'It's got the coat of arms on the knob, look.' Thirty watchmen tried to
see.
'And I thought... I thought, good grief, this is what I'm supposed to
carry? And I thought about it, and then I thought, no, that's right, just
once someone got it right. It's not even a weapon, it's just a thing. It
ain't for using, it's just for having. That's what it's all about.
Same thing with uniforms. You see, a soldier's uniform, it's to turn
him into part of a crowd of other parts all in the same uniform, but a
copper's uniform is there to-'
Vimes stopped. Perplexed expressions in front of him told him that he
was building a house of cards with too few cards on the bottom.
He coughed.
'Anyway,' he went on, with a glare to indicate that everyone should
forget the previous twenty seconds, 'our job is to stop people fighting.
There's a lot happening on the street. You've probably heard that they're
starting up the regiments again. Well, people can recruit if they like. But
we're not going to have any mobs. There's a nasty mood around. I don't know
what's going to happen, but we've got to be there when it does.' He looked
around the room. 'Another thing. This new Klatchian envoy or whatever he's
called is arriving tomorrow. I don't think the Assassins' Guild has anything
planned but tonight we're going to check the route the wizards' procession
will be taking. A nice little job for the night shift. And tonight we're all
on the night shift.'
There was a groan from the Watch.
'As my old sergeant used to say, if you can't take a joke you shouldn't
have joined,' said Vimes. 'A nice gentle door-to-door inspection, shaking
hands with doorknobs, giving the uniform a bit of an airing. Good
old-fashioned policing. Any questions? Good. Thank you very much.'
There was a general rustling and relaxing among the squad as it dawned
on them that they were free to go.
Carrot started to clap.
It wasn't the clap used by middlings to encourage
underlings to applaud overlings.[1] It had genuine enthusiasm behind it
which was, somehow, worse. A couple of the more impressionable new
constables picked it up and then, in the same way that little pebbles lead
the avalanche, the sound of humanoids banging their hands together filled
the room.
Vimes glowered.
'Very inspiring, sir!' said Carrot, as the clapping rose to a storm.
Rain poured on Ankh-Morpork. It filled the gutters and overflowed and
was then flung away by the wind. It tasted of salt.
The gargoyles had crept out of their daytime shadows and were perched
on every cornice and tower, ears and wings outstretched to sieve anything
edible out of the water. It was amazing what could fall on Ankh-Morpork.
Rains of small fish and frogs were common enough, although bedsteads caused
comment.
A broken gutter poured a sheet of water down the window of Ossie Brunt,
who was sitting on his bed because there were no chairs or, indeed, any
other furniture. He didn't mind at the moment. In a minute or two he might
be very angry. And, then again, possibly not.
It was not that Ossie was insane in any way. Friends would have called
him a quiet sort who kept himself to himself, but they didn't because he
didn't have any friends. There was a group of men who went to practise at
the archery butts on Tuesday nights, and he sometimes went to a pub with
them afterwards and sat and listened to them talk, and he'd saved up once
and bought a round of drinks, although they probably wouldn't remember or
maybe they'd say, 'Oh... yeah... Ossie.' People said that. People tended to
put him out of their minds, in the same way that you didn't pay much
attention to empty space.
He wasn't stupid. He thought a lot about things. Sometimes he'd sit and
think for hours, just staring at the opposite wall where the rain came in on
damp nights and made a map of Klatch.
Someone hammered on the door. 'Mr Brunt? Are you decent?'
'I'm a bit busy, Mrs Spent" he said, putting his bow under the bed with
his magazines.
'It's about the rent!'
'Yes, Mrs Spent?'
'You know my rules!'
'I shall pay you tomorrow, Mrs Spent,' said Ossie, looking towards the
window.
'Cash in my hand by noon or it's out you go!'
'Yes, Mrs Spent.'
He heard her stamp downstairs again.
He counted to fifty, very carefully, and then reached down and pulled
out his bow again.
Angua was on patrol with Nobby Nobbs. This was not an ideal
arrangement, but Carrot was on swing patrol and on a night like this Fred
Colon, who kept the roster, had an uncanny knack of being on desk duty in
the warm. So the spare partners had been thrown together. It was a
terrible thought.
'Can I have a word, miss?' said Nobby, as they rattled doorknobs and
waved their lanterns into alleyways.
'Yes, Nobby?'
'It's pers'nal.'
'Oh.'
'Only I'd ask Fred, but he wouldn't understand, and I fink you would
understand on account of you being a woman. Most of the time, anyway. No
offence meant.'
'What do you want, Nobby?'
'It's about my... sexual nature, miss.'
Angua said nothing. Rain banged off Nobby's illfitting helmet.
'I think it's time I looked it full in the face, miss.'
Angua cursed her graphic imagination again.
'And, er... how were you thinking of doing that, Nobby?'
'I mean, I sent off for stuff, miss, Creams an' that.'
'Creams,' said Angua flatly.
'That you rub on,' said Nobby helpfully.
'Rub on.'
'And a thing you do exercises with-'
'Oh gods...'
'Sorry, miss?'
'What? Oh... I was just thinking of something else. Do go on.
Exercises?'
'Yeah. To build up my biceps and that.'
'Oh, exercises. Really?' Nobby did not appear to have any biceps to
speak of. There wasn't really anything for them to be - on. Technically he
had arms, because his hands were attached to his shoulders, but that was
about all you could say.
Horrified interest got the better of her.
'Why, Nobby?'
He looked down, sheepishly.
'Well... I mean... you know... girls an' that...' To her amazement,
Nobby was blushing.
'You mean you...' she began. 'You want to... you're looking for...'
'Oh, I'm not just after... I mean, if you want a thing done properly
then... I mean, no,' said Nobby reproachfully. 'What I'm saying is, as you
get older, you know, you think about settlin' down, findin' someone who'll
go with you hand in hand down life's bumpy highway- Why's your mouth open?'
Angua shut it abruptly.
'But I just don't seem to meet girls,' Nobby said. 'Well, I mean, I
meet girls, and then they rush off.'
'Despite the cream.'
'Right.'
'And the exercises.'
'Yes.'
'Well, you've covered all the angles, I can see that,' said Angua.
'Beats me where you're going wrong.' She sighed. 'What about Stamina Thrum,
in Elm Street?'
'She's got a wooden leg.'
'Well, then... Verity Pushpram, nice girl, she runs the clam and cockle
barrow in Rime Street?'
'Hammerhead? Stinks of fish all the time. And she's got a squint.'
'She's got her own business, though. Does wonderful chowder, too.'
'And a squint.'
'Not exactly a squint, Nobby.'
'Yes, but you know what I mean.'
Angua had to admit that she did. Verity had the opposite of a squint.
Both eyes appeared to be endeavouring to see the adjacent ear. When you
talked to her, you had to suppress a feeling that she was about to walk off
in two directions. But she could gut fish like a champion.
She sighed again. She was familiar with the syndrome. They said they
wanted a soulmate and helpmeet but sooner or later the list would include a
skin like silk and a chest fit for a herd of cows.
Except for Carrot. That was almost... almost one of the annoying things
about him. She suspected he wouldn't mind if she shaved her head or grew a
beard. It wasn't that he wouldn't notice, he just wouldn't mind, and for
some reason that was very aggravating.
'The only thing I can suggest,' she said, 'is that women are quite
often attracted to men who can make them laugh.'
Nobby brightened. 'Really?' he said. 'I ought to be well in there,
then.'
'Good.'
'People laugh at me all the time.'
High above, quite oblivious of the rain that had already soaked him to
the skin, Ossie Brunt checked the oilskin cover round his bow and settled
down for the long wait.
Rain was a copper's friend. Tonight people were making do with indoor
crime.
Vimes stood in the lee of one of the fountains in Sator Square. The
fountain hadn't worked for years, but he was getting just as wet as if it
were in full flow. He'd never experienced truly horizontal rain before.
There was no-one around. The rain marched across the square like...
like an army...
Now there was an image from his youth. Funny how they hung around in
the dark alleys of your brain and suddenly jumped out on you.
Rain falling on water...
Ah, yes... When he was a little lad he'd pretended that the raindrops
splashing in the running gutters were soldiers. Millions of soldiers. And
the bubbles that sometimes went floating by were men on horseback.
Right now he couldn't remember what the occasional dead dog had been.
Some kind of siege weapon, possibly.
Water swirled around his boots and dripped off his cape. When he tried
to light a cigar the wind blew the match out and the rain poured off his
helmet and soaked the cigar in any case.
He grinned in the night.
He was, temporarily, a happy man. He was cold, wet and alone, hying to
keep out of the worst of the weather at three o'clock on a ferocious
morning. He'd spent some of the best nights of his life like this. At such
times you could just... sort of hunch your shoulders like this and let your
head pull in like this and you became a little hutch of warmth and peace,
the rain banging on your helmet, the mind just ticking over, sorting out the
world...
It was like this in the old days, when no-one cared about the Watch and
all you really had to do was keep out of trouble. Those were the days when
there wasn't as much to do.
But there was as much to do, said an inner voice. You just didn't do
it.
He could feel the official truncheon hanging heavily in the special
pocket that Sybil herself had sewn in his breeches. Why is it just a bit of
wood? he'd asked himself when he'd unwrapped it. Why not a sword? That's the
symbol of power. And then he'd realized why it couldn't ever be a sword
'Ho there, good citizen! May I ask your business this brisk morning?'
He sighed. There was a lantern appearing through the murk, surrounded
by a halo of water.
Ho there, good citizen... There was only one person in the city who
would say something like that and mean it.
'It's me, captain.'
The halo drew nearer and illuminated the damp face of Captain Carrot.
The young man ripped off a salute - at godsdam three in the morning, Vimes
thought - that would have brought a happy tear to the eye of the most
psychotic drill sergeant.
'What're you doing out, sir?'
'I just wanted to... check up on things,' said Vimes.
'You could have left it all to me, sir,' said Carrot. 'delegation is
the key to successful command.'
'Really? Is it?' said Vimes sourly. 'My word, we live and learn, don't
we.' And you certainly learn, he added in the privacy of his head. And he
was almost sure he was being mean and stupid.
'We've just about finished, sir. We've checked all the empty buildings.
And there will be an extra squad of constables on the route. And the
gargoyles will be up as high as they can. You know how good they are at
watching, sir.'
'Gargoyles? I thought we just had Constable Downspout...'
'And Constable Pediment now, sir.'
'One of yours?'
'One of ours, sir. You signed-'
'Yes, yes, I'm sure I did. Damn!'
A gust of wind caught the water pouring from an overloaded gutter and
dumped it down Vimes's neck.
'They say this new island's upset the air streams" said Carrot.
'Not just the air,' said Vimes. 'A lot of damn fuss over a few square
miles of silt and some old ruins! Who cares?'
'They say it's strategically very important,' said Carrot, falling into
step beside him.
'What for? We're not at war with anyone. Hah! But we might go to war to
keep some damn island that's only useful in case we have to go to war,
right?'
'Oh, his lordship will have it all sorted out today. I'm sure that when
moderate-mannered men of goodwill can get round a table there's no problem
that can't be resolved,' said Carrot cheerfully.
He is, thought Vimes glumly. He really is sure. 'Know much about
Klatch?' he said.
'I've read a little, sir.'
'Very sandy place, they say.'
'Yes, sir. Apparently.'
There was a crash somewhere ahead of them, and a scream. Coppers
learned to be good at screams. There was to the connoisseur a world of
difference between 'I'm drunk and I've just trodden on my fingers and I
can't get up!' and 'Look out! He's got a knife!'
Both men started to run.
Light blazed out in a narrow street. Heavy footsteps vanished into the
darkness.
The light flickered beyond a shop's broken window. Vimes stumbled
through the doorway pulled off his sodden cape and threw it over the fire in
the middle of the floor.
There was a hiss, and a smell of hot leather.
Then Vimes stood back and tried to work out where the hell he was.
People were staring at him. Dimly, his mind assembled clues: the
turban, the beard, the woman's jewellery...
'Where did he come from? Who is this man?'
'Er . good morning?' he said. 'Looks like there's been a bit of an
accident?' He raised the cape gingerly.
A broken bottle lay in a pool of sizzling oil.
Vimes looked up at the broken window. 'Oh...'
The other two people were a boy almost as tall as his father and a
small girl trying to hide behind her mother.
Vimes felt his stomach turn to lead.
Carrot arrived in the doorway.
'I lost them,' he panted. 'There were three of them, I think. Can't see
anything in this rain... Oh, it's you Mr Goriff. What happened here?'
'Captain Carrot! Someone threw a burning bottle through out window and
then this beggar man rushed in and put it out!'
'What'd he say? What did you say?' said Vimes. 'You speak Klatchian?'
'Not very well,' said Carrot modestly. 'I just can't get the
backof-the-throat sound to-'
'But... you can understand what he said?'
'Oh, yes. He just thanked you very much, by the way. It's all right, Mr
Goriff, He's a watchman.'
'But you speak-'
Carrot knelt down and looked at the broken bottle.
'Oh, you know how it is. You come in here on night shift for a hot
caraway bun and you just get chatting. You must have picked up the odd word,
sir.'
'Well... vindaloo maybe, but.. .'
'This is a firebomb, sir.'
'I know, captain.'
'This is very bad. Who would do a thing like this?'
'Right now?' said Vimes. 'Half the city, I should think.'
He looked helplessly at Goriff. He vaguely recognized the face. He
vaguely recognized Mrs Goriff's face. They were... faces. They were usually
at the other end of some arms holding a portion of carry or a kebab.
Sometimes the boy ran the place. The shop opened very early in the morning
and very late at night, when the streets were owned by bakers, thieves and
watchmen.
Vimes knew the place as Mundane Meals. Nobby Nobbs had said that Goriff
had wanted a word that meant ordinary, everyday, straight-forward, and had
asked around until he found one he liked the sound of.
'Er... tell him... tell him you're staying here, and I'll go back to
the Watch House and send someone out to relieve you,' said Vimes.
'Thank you,' said Goriff.
'Oh, you underst-' Vimes felt like an idiot. 'Of course you do, you
must have been here, what, five, six years?'
'Ten years, sir.'
'Really?' said Vimes manically. 'That long? Really? My word... well,
I'd better get along... Good morning to you-'
He hurried out into the rain.
I must have been going in there for years, he thought, as he splashed
through the darkness. And I know how to say 'vindaloo'. And... 'korma'... ?
Carrot's hardly been here five minutes and he gargles the language like a
native.
Good grief, I can get by in dwarfish and I can at least say,' cut down
that rock, you're under arrest,' in troll, but...
He stamped into the Watch House, water pooling off him. Prod Colon was
dozing quietly at the desk. In deference to the fact that he'd known Fwd.
all these years, Vimes was extra noisy about taking off his cape.
When he officially turned round, the sergeant was sitting at attention.
'I didn't know you were on tonight, Mr Vimes...'
'This is unofficial, Fred,' said Vimes. He accepted 'Me from certain
people. In an odd way, they'd earned it. 'Send someone along to Mundane
Meals in Scandal Alley, will you? A bit of trouble there.'
He reached the stairs.
'You stopping, sir?' said Fred.
'Oh, yes,' said Vimes grimly. 'I've got to catch up on the paperwork.'
The rain fell on Leshp so hard it probably hadn't been worth the
island's bother of rising from the bottom of the sea.
Most of the explorers slept in their boats now. There were buildings on
the risen island, but...
... the buildings weren't quite right.
Solid Jackson peered out from the tarpaulin he'd rigged up on deck.
Mist was rising off the soaking ground and was made luminous by the
occasional flash of lightning.
The city, by storm light, looked far too malevolent. There were things
he could recognize - columns and steps and archways and so on - but there
were others... he shuddered. It looked as if people had once tried to add
human touches to structures that were already ancient...
It was because of his son that everyone was staying in the boats.
A party of Ankh-Morpork fishermen had gone ashore that morning to
search for the heaps of treasure that everyone knew littered the ocean
bottom and had found a tiled floor, washed clean by the rain. Pretty blue
and white squares showed a pattern of waves and shells, and, in the middle,
a squid.
And Les had said, 'That looks pretty big, Dad.'
And everyone had looked around at the weedcovered buildings and had
shared the Thought, which remained unspoken but was made up of a lot of
little thoughts like the occasional ripples in the pools, and the little
splashes in the dark water of cellars that made the mind think of claws,
winnowing the deeps, and the odd things that sometimes got washed up on
beaches or tamed up in nets. Sometimes you pulled things over the side
that'd put a man off fish for life.
And suddenly no-one wanted to explore any more, just in case they found
something.
Solid Jackson pulled his head back under the cover.
'Why'n't we going home, Dad?' said his son. 'You said this place gives
you the willies.'
'All right, but they're Ankh-Morpork willies, see? And no foreigner's
going to get his hands on them.'
'Dad?'
'Yes, lad?'
'Who was Mr Hong?'
'How should I know?'
'Only, when we was all heading back for the boats one of the other men
said, 'We all know what happened to Mr Hong when he opened the Three Jolly
Luck Take-Away Fish Bar on the site of the old fish-god temple in Dagon
Street on the night of the full moon, don't we... ?" Well, I don't know.'
'Ah...' Solid Jackson hesitated. Still, Les was a big lad now...
'He... closed up and left in a bit of a hurry, lad. So quick he had to
leave some things behind.'
'Like what?'
'If you must know... half an earhole and one kidney.'
'Cool!'
The boat rocked, and wood splintered. Jackson jerked the cover up.
Spray washed over him. Somewhere close in the wet darkness a voice shouted:
'Why you not carrying lights, you second cousin of a jackal?'
Jackson pulled out the lantern and held it up.
'What're you doing in Ankh-Morpork territorial waters, you camel-eating
devil?'
'These waters belong to us!'
'We were here first!'
'Yeah? We were here first!'
'We were here first first!'
'You damaged my boat! That's piracy, that is!'
There were other shouts around them. In the darkness the two flotillas
had collided. Bowsprits tore away rigging. Hulls boomed. The controlled
panic that is normal sailing became the frantic panic camposed of darkness,
spray and too much rigging coming unrigged.
At times like this the ancient traditions of the sea that unite all
mariners should some to the fore and see them combine in the face of their
common foe, the hungry and relentless ocean.
However, at this point Mr Arif hit Mr Jackson over the head with an
oar.
'Hnh? Wuh?'
Vimes opened the only eye that appeared to respond. A horrible sight
met it.
...I read him his rites, whereupon, he said up, yours copper. Sgnt
Detritus then, cautioned him, upon which he said, ouch...
There may be a lot of things I'm not good at, thought Vimes, but at
least I don't treat tile punctuation of a sentence like a game of Pin the
Tail on the Donkey...
He rolled his head away from Carrot's fractured grammar. The pile of
paper shifted under him.
Vimes's desk was becoming famous. Once there were piles, but they had
slipped as piles do, forming this dense compacted layer that was now turning
into something like peat. It was said there were plates and unfinished meals
somewhere down there. No-one wanted to check. Some people said they'd heard
movement.
There was a genteel cough. Vimes rolled his head again and looked up
into the big pink face of Willikins, Lady Sybil's butler. His butler too,
technically, although Vimes hated to think of him like that.
'I think we had better proceed with alacrity, Sir Samuel. I have
brought your dress uniform, and your shaving things are by the basin.'
'What? What?'
'You are due at the University in half an hour. Lady Sybil has
vouchsafed to me that if you are not there she will utilize your intestines
for hosiery accessories, sir.'
'Was she smiling?' said Vimes, staggering to his feet and making his
way to the steaming basin on the wash stand.
'Only slightly, sir.'
'Oh gods...'
'Yes, sir.'
Vimes made an attempt at shaving while, behind him, Willikins brushed
and polished. Outside, the city's clocks began to strike ten.
It must've been almost four when I sat down Vimes thought. I know I
heard the shift change at eight, and then I had to sort out Nobby's
expenses, that's advanced mathematics if ever there was some...
He tried to yawn and shave at the same time, which is never a good
idea.
'Damn!'
'I shall fetch some tissue paper directly, sir,' said Willikins,
without looking round. As Vimes dabbed at his chin, the butler went on: 'I
should like to take this opportunity to raise a matter of some import,
sir...'
'Yes?' Vimes shared blearily at the red tights that seemed to be a
major item of his dress uniform.
'Regretfully, I am afraid I must ask leave to give in my notice, sir. I
wish to join the Colours.'
'Which colours are these, Willikins?' said Vimes, holding up a shirt
with puffed sleeves. Then his brain caught up with his cars. 'You want to
become a soldier?'
'They say Klatch needs to be taught a sharp lesson, sir. A Willikins
has never been found wanting when his country calls. I thought that Lord
Venturi's Heavy Infantry would do for me. They have a particularly
attractive uniform of red and white, sir. With gold frogging.'
Vimes pulled his boots on. 'You've had military experience, have you?'
'Oh, no, sir. But I am a quick learner, sir, and I believe I have some
prowess with the carving knife.' The butler's face showed a patriotic
alertness.
'On turkeys and on...'said Vimes.
'Yes, sir; said Willikins, buffing up die ceremonial helmet.
'And you're off to fight the screaming hordes in Klatch, are you?'
'If it should come to that, sir,' said Willikins. 'I think this is
adequately polished now, sir.'
'A very sandy place, so they say.'
'Indeed, sir,' said Willikins, adjusting the helmet under Vimes's chin.
'And rocky. Very rocky. Lots of rocks. Dusty, too.'
'Very parched in parts, sir, I believe you are correct.'
'And so into this land of sand-coloured dust and sandcoloured rocks and
sand-coloured sand you, Willikins, will march with your expertise in cutlery
and your red and white uniform?'
'With the gold frogging, sir.' Willikins thrust out his jaw. 'Yes, sir.
If the need arises.'
'You don't see anything wrong with this picture?'
'Sir?'
'Oh, never mind.' Vimes yawned. 'Well, we shall miss you, Willikins.'
Others may not, he thought. Especially if they have time for a second shot.
'Oh, Lord Venturi says it'll all be over by Hogswatch, sir.'
'Really? I didn't know it had started.'
Vimes ran down the stairs and into a smell of curry.
'We saved you some, sir,' said Sergeant Colon. 'You was asleep when the
lad brought it round.'
'It was Goriff's kid,' said Nobby, chasing a bit of rice around his tin
plate. 'Enough for half the shift.'
'The rewards of duty,' said Vimes, hurrying towards the door.
'Bread and mango pickle and everything,' said Colon happily. 'I've
always said old Goriff isn't that bad for a rag'ead.'
A pool of sizzling oil... Vimes stopped at the door. The family,
huddling together... He took out his watch. It was twenty past ten. If he
ran-
'Fred, could you just step up to my office?' he said. 'It won't take a
moment.'
'Right, sir.'
Vimes ushered the sergeant up the stairs and closed the door.
Nobby and the other watchmen strained to listen, but there was no sound
except for a low murmuring which went on for some time.
The door opened again. Vimes came down the stairs.
'Nobby, come up to the University in five minutes, will you? I want to
stay in touch and I'm damned if I'm taking a pigeon with this uniform on.'
'Right, sir.'
Vimes left.
A few moments later Sergeant Colon walked carefully down to the main
office. He had a slightly glassy look and walked back to his desk with the
nonchalance that only the extremely worried try to achieve. He toyed with
some paper for a while and then said:
'You don't mind what people call you, do you, Nobby?'
'I'd be minding the whole time if I minded that, sarge,' said Corporal
Nobbs cheerfully.
'Right. Right! And I don't mind what people call me, neither.' Colon
scratched his head. 'Don't make sense, really. I reckon Sir Sam is missing
too much sleep.'
'He's a very busy man, Fred.'
'Trying to do everything, that's his trouble. And... Nobby?'
'Yes?'
'It's Sergeant Colon, thanks.'
There was sherry. There was always sherry at these occasions. Seam
Vimes could regard it dispassionately, since he always drank fruit juice
these days. He'd heard they made sherry by letting wine go rotten He
couldn't see the point of sherry.
'And you will try to look dignified, won't you?' said Lady Sybil,
adjusting his cloak.
'Yes, dear.'
'What will you try to look?'
'Dignified, dear.'
'And please try to be diplomatic.'
'Yes, dear.'
'What will you try to be?'
'Diplomatic, dear.'
'You're using your "henpecked" voice, Sam.'
'Yes, dear.'
'You know that's not fair.'
'No, dear.' Vimes raised a hand in a theatrical gesture of submission.
'All right, all right. It's just these feathers. And these tights,' He
winced and tried to do some surreptitious rearranging in an effort to
prevent himself becoming the city's first hunchgroin. 'I mean, supposing
people see me?'
'Of course they'll see you, Sam. You're leading the procession. And I'm
very proud of you.'
She brushed some lint off his shoulder.[2]
Feathers in my hat, Vimes thought glumly. And fancy tights. And a shiny
breastplate. A breastplate shouldn't be shiny. It should be too denied to
take a decent polish. And diplomatic talk? How should I know how to talk
diplomatically?
'And now I must go and have a word with Lady Selachii,' said Lady
Broil. 'You'll be all right, will you? You keep yawning.'
'Of course. Didn't get much sleep last night, that's all.'
'You promise not to run away?'
'Me? I never run-'
'You ran away before the big soiree for the Genuan ambassador. Everyone
saw you.'
'I'd just got news that the De Bris gang were robbing Vortin's
strongroom!'
'But you don't have to chase everyone, Sam. You employ people for that
now.'
'We got 'em, though,' said Vimes, with satisfaction.
He'd enjoyed it immensely, too. It wasn't just the pursuit that was so
invigorating, with his velvet cloak left behind on a tree and his hat in a
puddle somewhere, it was the knowledge that while he was doing this he
wasn't eating very small sandwiches and making even smaller talk. It wasn't
proper police work, Vimes considered, unless you were doing something that
someone somewhere would much rather you weren't doing.
When Sybil had disappeared into the crowd he found a handy shadow and
lurked in it. It enabled him to see almost the whole of the University's
Great Hall.
He quite liked the wizards. They didn't commit crimes. Not Vimes's type
of crimes, anyway. The occult wasn't Vimes's beat. The wizards might well
mess up the very fabric of time and space but they
didn't lead to paperwork, and that was fine by Vimes. There were a lot
of them in the hall, in all their glory. And there was nothing finer than a
wizard dressed up formally, until someone could find a way of inflating a
Bird of Paradise, possibly by using an elastic band and some kind of gas.
But the wizards were getting a run for their money, because the rest of the
guests were either nobles or guild leaders or both, and an occasion like the
Convivium brought out the peacock in everyone.
His gaze went from face to chatting face, and he wondered idly what
each person was guilty of.[3]
Quite a few of the ambassadors were there, too. They were easy to pick
out. They wore their national costumes, but since by and large their
national costumes were what the average peasant wore they looked slightly
out of place in them. Their bodies wore feathers and silks, but their minds
persistently wore suits.
They chatted in small groups. One or two nodded and smiled to him as
they passed.
The world is watching, Vimes thought. If something went wrong and this
stupid Leshp business started a war, it's men like these who'd be working
out exactly how to deal with the winner, whoever it was. Never mind who
started it, never mind how it was fought, they'd want to know how to deal
with things now. They represented what people called the 'international
community'. And like all uses of the world 'community', you were never quite
sure what or who it was.
He shrugged. It wasn't his world, thank goodness.
He sidled over to Corporal Nobbs, who was standing by the main doors in
the sort of lopsided slouch which was the closest a living Nobbs could come
to attention.
'All quiet, Nobby?' he said, out of the corner of his mouth.
'Yessir.'
'Nothing going on at all?'
'Nossir. Not a pigeon anywhere, sir.'
'What, nowhere? Nothing?'
'Nossir.'
'There was trouble all over the place yesterday!'
'Yessir.'
'You did tell Fred he was to send a bird if there was anything at all?'
'Yessir.'
'The Shades? There's always something-'
'Dead quiet, sir.'
'Damn!'
Vimes shook his head at the sheer untrustworthiness of Ankh-Morpork's
criminal fraternity.
'I suppose you couldn't take a brick and-'
'Lady Sybil was very speffic about how you was to stop here" said
Corporal Nobbs, staring straight ahead.
'Speffic?'
'Yeah, sir. She come and have a word with me. Cave me a dollar,' said
Nobby.
'Ah, Sir Samuel!' said a booming voice behind him, 'I don't think
you've met Prince Khufurah yet, have you?'
He turned. Archchancellor Ridcully was bearing down on him, towing a
couple of swarthy men. Vimes hurriedly put on his official face.
'This is Commander Vimes, gentlemen. Sam... no, I'm doing this the
wrong way round, aren't I, got the
protocol all wrong - so much to sort out, the Bursar's locked himself
in the safe again, we don't know how he manages to get the key in there with
him, I mean, it's not even as if it's got a keyhole on the inside...'
The first man held out a hand as Ridcully bustled off again. 'Prince
Khufurah,' he said. 'My carpet got in only two hours ago.'
'Carpet? Oh... yes... you flew . .
'Yes, very chilly and of course you just can't get a good meal. And did
you get your man, Sir Samuel?'
'What? Pardon?'
'I believe our ambasssador told me you had to leave the reception last
week...?' The Prince was a tall man who had probably once been quite
athletic until the big dinners had finally weighed him down. And he had a
beard. All Klatchians had beards. This Klatchian had intelligent eyes, too.
Disconcertingly intelligent. You looked into them and several layers of
person looked back at you.
'What? Oh. Yes. Yes, we got 'em all right,' said Vimes.
'Well done. He put up a fight, I see.'
Vimes looked surprised. The Prince tapped his jaw thoughtfully. Vimes's
hand flew up and encountered a little bit of tissue on his own chin.
'Ah... er... yes...'
'Commander Vimes always gets his man,' said the Prince.
'Well, I wouldn't say I-'
'Vetinari's terrier, I've heard them call you,' the Prince went on.
'Always hot on the chase, they say, and he won't let go.'
Vimes stared into the calm, knowing gaze.
'I suppose, at the end of the day, we're all someone's dog,' he said,
weakly.
'In fact it is fortuitous I have met you, commander.' lit is?'
'I was just wondering about the meaning of the word shouted at me as we
were on our way down here. Would you be so kind?'
'Er... if I...'
'I believe it was... let me see now... oh, yes... towelhead.'
The Prince's eyes stayed locked on Vimes's face.
Vimes was conscious of his own thoughts mov...
