Men at Arms (19 page)

“Well, sir, when I was a kid we owned a cow once, and one day it got sick, and it was always my job to clean out the cowshed, and—”

“It reminds
me
of a clock,” said the Patrician. “Big wheels, little wheels. All clicking away. The little wheels spin and the big wheels turn, all at different speeds, you see, but the
machine
works. And that is the most important thing. The machine keeps going. Because when the machine breaks down…”

He turned suddenly, strode to his desk with his usual predatory stalk, and sat down.

“Or, again, sometimes a piece of grit might get into the wheels, throwing them off balance. One speck of grit.”

Vetinari looked up and flashed Vimes a mirthless smile.

“I won’t have that.”

Vimes stared at the wall.

“I believe I told you to forget about certain recent events, captain?”

“Sir.”

“Yet it appears that the Watch have been getting in the wheels.”

“Sir.”

“What am I to do with you?”

“Couldn’t say, sir.”

Vimes minutely examined the wall. He wished Carrot was here. The lad might be simple, but he was so simple that sometimes he saw things that the subtle missed. And he kept coming up with simple ideas that stuck in your mind. Policeman, for example. He’d said to Vimes one day, while they were proceeding along the Street of Small Gods: Do you know where “policeman” comes from, sir? Vimes hadn’t. “Polis” used to mean “city”, said Carrot. That’s what policeman means: “a man for the city”. Not many people know that. The word “polite” comes from “polis”, too. It used to mean the proper behavior from someone living
in
a city.

Man of the city…Carrot was always throwing out stuff like that. Like “copper”. Vimes had believed all his life that the Watch were called coppers because they carried copper badges, but no, said Carrot, it comes from the old word
cappere
, to capture.

Carrot read books in his spare time. Not well. He’d have real difficulty if you cut his index finger off. But continuously. And he wandered around Ankh-Morpork
on his day off
.

“Captain Vimes?”

Vimes blinked.

“Sir?”

“You have no concept of the delicate balance of the city. I’ll tell you one more time. This business with the Assassins and the dwarf and this clown…you are to cease involving yourself.”

“No, sir. I can’t.”

“Give me your badge.”

Vimes looked down at his badge.

He never really thought about it. It was just something he’d always had. It didn’t
mean
anything very much…really…one way or the other. It was just something he’d always had.

“My badge?”

“And your sword.”

Slowly, with fingers that suddenly felt like bananas, and bananas that didn’t belong to him at that, Vimes undid his sword belt.

“And your badge.”

“Um. Not my badge.”

“Why not?”

“Um. Because it’s my badge.”

“But you’re resigning anyway when you get married.”

“Right.”

Their eyes met.

“How much does it mean to you?”

Vimes stared. He couldn’t find the right words. It was just that he’d always been a man with a badge. He wasn’t sure he could be one without the other.

Finally Lord Vetinari said: “Very well. I believe you’re getting married at noon tomorrow.” His long fingers picked up the gilt-embossed invitation from the desk. “Yes. You can keep your badge, then. And have an honorable retirement. But I’m keeping the sword. And the Day Watch will be sent down to the Yard shortly to disarm your men. I’m standing the Night Watch down, Captain Vimes. In due course I might appoint another man in charge—at my leisure. Until then, you and your men can consider yourselves on leave.”

“The Day Watch? A bunch of—”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yes, sir.”

“One infraction, however, and the badge is mine. Remember.”

Cuddy opened his eyes.

“You’re alive?” said Detritus.

The dwarf gingerly removed his helmet. There was a gouge in the rim, and his head ached.

“It looks like a mild skin abrasion,” said Detritus.

“A what?
Ooooh.
” Cuddy grimaced. “What about you, anyway?” he said. There was something odd about the troll. It hadn’t quite dawned on him what it was, but there was definitely something unfamiliar, quite apart from all the holes.

“I suppose the armor was
some
help,” said Detritus. He pulled at the straps of his breastplate. Five discs of metal slid out at around belt level. “If it hadn’t slowed them down I’d be seriously abraded.”

“What’s up with you? Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what, pray?”

“What happened to the ‘me big troll’ talk? No offense meant.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Cuddy shivered, and stamped his feet to keep warm.

“Let’s get out of here.”

They trotted to the door. It was shut fast.

“Can you knock it down?”

“No. If this place wasn’t troll proof, it’d be empty. Sorry.”

“Detritus?”

“Yes?”

“Are you all right? Only there’s steam coming off your head.”

“I do feel…er…”

Detritus blinked. There was a tinkle of falling ice. Odd things were happening in his skull.

Thoughts that normally ambulated sluggishly around his brain were suddenly springing into vibrant, coruscating life. And there seemed to be more and more of them.

“My goodness,” he said, to no one in particular.

This was a sufficiently un-troll-like comment that even Cuddy, whose extremities were already going numb, stared at him.

“I do believe,” said Detritus, “that I am genuinely cogitating. How very interesting!”

“What do you mean?”

More ice cascaded off Detritus as he rubbed his head.

“Of course!” he said, holding up a giant finger. “Superconductivity!”

“Wha’?”

“You see? Brain of impure silicon. Problem of heat dissipation. Daytime temperature too hot, processing speed slows down, weather gets hotter, brain stops completely, trolls turn to stone until nightfall, ie, coldertemperature, however, lowertemperature-
enough
, brainoperates
faster
and—”

“I think I’m going to freeze to death soon,” said Cuddy.

Detritus looked around.

“There are small glazed apertures up there,” he said.

“Too hi’ to rea’, e’en if I st’ on y’shoulders,” mumbled Cuddy, slumping down further.

“Ah, but my plan involves throwing something through them to attract help,” said Detritus.

“Wha’ pla’?”

“I have in fact eventuated twenty-three but this one has a ninety-seven percent chance of success,” said Detritus, beaming.

“Ha’nt got an’ting t’throw,” said Cuddy.

“
I
have,” said Detritus, scooping him up. “Do not worry. I can compute your trajectory with astonishing precision. And then all you will need to do is fetch Captain Vimes or Carrot or someone.”

Cuddy’s feeble protests described an arc through the freezing air and vanished along with the window glass.

Detritus sat down again. Life was so simple, when you really thought about it. And he was really thinking.

He was seventy-six percent sure he was going to get at least seven degrees colder.

Mr. Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, Purveyor, Merchant Venturer and all-round salesman, had thought long and hard about going into ethnic foodstuffs. But it was a natural career procession. The old sausage-in-a-bun trade had been falling off lately, while there were all these trolls and dwarfs around with money in their pockets or wherever it was trolls kept their money, and money in the possession of other people had always seemed to Throat to be against the proper natural order of things.

Dwarfs were easy enough to cater for. Rat-on-a-stick was simple enough, although it meant a general improvement in Dibbler’s normal catering standards.

On the other hand, trolls were basically, when you got right down to it, no offense meant, speak as you find…basically, they were walking rocks.

He’d sought advice about troll food from Chrysoprase, who was also a troll, although you’d hardly know it any more, he’d been around humans so long he wore a suit now and, as he said, had learned all kindsa civilized things, like extortion, money-lending at 300 percent interest per munf, and stuff like that. Chrysoprase might have been born in a cave above the snowline on some mountain somewhere, but five minutes in Ankh-Morpork and he’d fitted right in. Dibbler liked to think of Chrysoprase as a friend; you’d hate to think of him as an enemy.

Throat had chosen today to give his new approach a try. He pushed his hot food barrow through streets broad and narrow, crying:

“Sausages! Hot sausages! Inna bun!
Meat
pies! Get them while they’re hot!”

This was by way of a warm up. The chances of a human eating anything off Dibbler’s barrow unless it was stamped flat and pushed under the door after two weeks on a starvation diet was, by now, remote. He looked around conspiratorially—there were always trolls working in the docks—and took the cover off a fresh tray.

Now then, what was it? Oh, yes…

“Dolomitic conglomerates!
Get
chore dolomitic conglomerates heeyar! Manganese nodules! Manganese nodules! Get them while they’re…uh…nodule-shaped.” He hesitated a bit, and then rallied. “Pumice! Pumice! Tufa a dollar! Roast limestones—”

A few trolls wandered up to stare at him.

“You, sir, you look…hungry,” said Dibbler, grinning widely at the smallest troll. “Why not try our shale on a bun? Mmm-mmm! Taste that alluvial deposit, know what I mean?”

C. M. O. T. Dibbler had a number of bad points, but species prejudice was not one of them. He liked anyone who had money, regardless of the color and shape of the hand that was proffering it. For Dibbler believed in a world where a sapient creature could walk tall, breathe free, pursue life, liberty and happiness, and step out toward the bright new dawn. If they could be persuaded to gobble something off Dibbler’s hot-food tray at the same time, this was all to the good.

The troll inspected the tray suspiciously, and lifted up a bun.

“Urrh, yuk,” he said, “it’s got all ammonites in it! Yuk!”

“Pardon?” said Dibbler.

“Dis shale,” said the troll, “is stale.”

“Lovely and fresh! Just like mother used to hew!”

“Yeah, and there’s bloody quartz all through dis granite,” said another troll, towering over Dibbler. “Clogs the arteries, quartz.”

He slammed the rock back on the tray. The trolls ambled off, occasionally turning around to give Dibbler a suspicious look.

“Stale?
Stale!
How can it be stale? It’s
rock!
” shouted Dibbler after them.

He shrugged. Oh, well. The hallmark of a good businessman was knowing when to cut your losses.

He closed the lid of the tray, and opened another one.

“Hole food! Hole food! Rat! Rat! Rat-onna-stick! Rat-in-a-bun! Get them while they’re dead! Get chore—”

There was a crash of glass above him, and Lance-Constable Cuddy landed head first in the tray.

“There’s no need to rush, plenty for everyone,” said Dibbler.

“Pull me out,” said Cuddy, in a muffled voice. “Or pass me the ketchup.”

Dibbler hauled on the dwarf’s boots. There was ice on them.

“Just come down the mountain, have you?”

“Where’s the man with the key to this warehouse?”

“If you liked our rat, then why not try our fine selection of—”

Cuddy’s axe appeared almost magically in his hand.

“I’ll cut your knees off,” he said.

“GerhardtSockoftheButchers’Guildiswhoyouwant.”

“Right.”

“Nowpleasetaketheaxeaway.”

Cuddy’s boots skidded on the cobbles as he hurried off.

Dibbler peered at the broken remains of the cart. His lips moved as he calculated.

“Here!” he shouted. “You owe—hey, you owe me for three rats!”

Lord Vetinari had felt slightly ashamed when he watched the door close behind Captain Vimes. He couldn’t work out why. Of course, it was hard on the man, but it was the only way…

He took a key from a cabinet by his desk and walked over to the wall. His hands touched a mark on the plaster that was apparently no different from a dozen other marks, but this one caused a section of wall to swing aside on well-oiled hinges.

No one knew all the passages and tunnels hidden in the walls of the Palace; it was said that some of them went a lot further than that. And there were any amount of old cellars under the city. A man with a pick-axe and a sense of direction could go where he liked just by knocking down forgotten walls.

He walked down several narrow flights of steps and along a passage to a door, which he unlocked. It swung back on well-oiled hinges.

It was not, exactly, a dungeon; the room on the other side was quite airy and well lit by several large but high windows. It had a smell of wood shavings and glue.

“Look out!”

The Patrician ducked.

Something batlike clicked and whirred over his head, circled erratically in the middle of the room, and then flew apart into a dozen jerking pieces.

“Oh dear,” said a mild voice. “Back to the drawing tablet. Good afternoon, your lordship.”

“Good afternoon, Leonard,” said the Patrician. “What was that?”

“I call it a flapping-wing-flying-device,” said Leonard da Quirm, getting down off his launching stepladder. “It works by gutta-percha strips twisted tightly together. But not very well, I’m afraid.”

Leonard of Quirm was not, in fact, all that old. He was one of those people who started looking venerable around the age of thirty, and would probably still look about the same at the age of ninety. He wasn’t exactly bald, either. His head had just grown up through his hair, rising like a mighty rock dome through heavy forest.

Inspirations sleet through the universe continuously. Their destination, as if they cared, is the right mind in the right place at the right time. They hit the right neuron, there’s a chain reaction, and a little while later someone is blinking foolishly in the TV lights and wondering how the hell he came up with the idea of pre-sliced bread in the first place.