The dots hung in the air, the ghosts of words unsaid. Little things, thought Vimes. That’s how a war starts.
‘There’s so much to do, Sybil,’ he said, as patiently as he could.
‘There’s always been a lot to do. And the bigger the Watch gets the more there is to do, have you noticed that?’
Vimes nodded. That was true. Rotas, receipts, notebooks, reports… the Watch might or might not be making a difference in the city, but it was certainly frightening a lot of trees.
‘You ought to delegate,’ said Lady Sybil.
‘So he tells me,’ muttered Vimes.
‘Pardon?’
‘Just thinking aloud, dear.’ Vimes pushed the paperwork away. ‘I’ll tell you what… let’s have an evening in,’ he said. ‘There’s a nice fire in the drawing room–’
‘Er… no, Sam, there isn’t.’
‘Hasn’t young Forthright lit it?’ Forthright was the Boy; it came as news to Vimes that this was an official servant position, but the Boy’s job was to light the fires, clean the privies, help the gardener and take the blame.
‘He’s gone off to be a drummer boy in the Duke of Eorle’s regiment,’ said Lady Sybil.
‘Him too? He seemed a bright lad! Isn’t he too young?’
‘He said he was going to lie about his age.’
‘I hope he lies about his musical ability. I’ve heard him whistling.’ Vimes shook his head. ‘Whatever possessed him to do such a daft thing?’
‘He thinks the uniform will impress the girls.’
Sybil gave him a gentle smile. An evening at home suddenly began to seem very inviting.
‘Well, it won’t take a genius to find the woodshed,’
said Vimes. ‘And then we can bolt the doors and–’
One of the aforesaid doors shook to the sound of frantic knocking.
Vimes caught Sybil’s gaze.
‘Go on, then. Answer it,’ she sighed, and sat down.
The door admitted Corporal Littlebottom, seriously out of breath.
‘You… got to come quick, sir… it’s… murder this… time!’
Vimes looked helplessly at his wife.
‘Of course you must go,’ she said.
Angua brushed out her hair in front of the mirror.
‘I don’t like this,’ said Carrot. ‘It’s not a proper way to behave.’
She patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Vimes explained it all. You’re acting as though we’re doing something wrong.’
‘I like being a watchman,’ said Carrot, still in the mournful depths. ‘And you’ve got to wear a uniform. If you don’t wear a uniform it’s like spying on people. He knows I think that.’
Angua looked at his short red hair and honest cars.
‘I’ve taken a lot of the work off his shoulders,’ Carrot went on. ‘He doesn’t have to go on patrol at all, but he still tries to do everything.’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t want you to be quite so helpful?’ said Angua, as tactfully as possible.
‘It’s not as if he’s getting any younger, either. I’ve tried to point that out.’
‘That was kind of you.’
‘And I’ve never worn plain clothes.’
‘On you they’ll never be very plain,’ said Angua, pulling on her coat. It was a relief to be out of that
armour. As for Carrot, there was no disguising him. The size, the ears, the red hair, the expression of muscular good–naturedness…
‘I suppose a werewolf is in plain clothes all the time, when you think about it,’ said Carrot.
‘Thank you, Carrot. And you are absolutely right.’
‘I just don’t feel comfortable, living a lie.’
‘Walk a mile on these paws.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Oh… nothing.’
Goriff’s son Janil had been angry. He didn’t know why. The anger was built up of a lot of things. The firebomb last night was a big part. So were some of the words he’d been hearing in the street. He’d had an argument with his father about sending that food round to the Watch House this morning. They were an official part of the city. They had those stupid badges. They had uniforms. He was angry about a lot of things, including the fact that he was thirteen.
So when, at nine in the evening while his father was baking bread, the door had slammed back and a man had rushed in, Janil had pulled his father’s elderly crossbow from under the counter and aimed it where he thought the heart was and pulled the trigger.
Carrot stamped his feet once or twice and looked around.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘I was standing here. And the Prince was… in that direction.’
Angua obediently walked across the square. Several people turned to look curiously at Carrot.
‘All right… stop… no, on a bit… stop… turn a
little bit to the left… I mean my left… back a bit… now throw your arms up…’
He walked over to her and followed her gaze.
‘He was shot from the University?’
‘Looks like the library building,’ said Angua. ‘But a wizard wouldn’t do it, surely? They keep out of that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, it’s not too hard to get in there, even when the gates are shut,’ said Carrot. ‘Let’s try the unofficial way, shall we?’
‘OK Carrot?’
‘Yes?’
‘The false moustache… it’s not you, you know. And the nose is far too pink’
‘Doesn’t it make me look inconspicuous?’
‘No. And the hat… I should lose the hat, too’ It is a good hat,’ she added quickly. ‘But a brown bowler… it’s not your style. It doesn’t suit you.’
‘Exactly!’ said Carrot. ‘If it was my style, people would know it’s me, right?’
‘I mean it makes you look like a twerp, Carrot.’
‘Do I normally look like a twerp?’
‘No, not–’
‘Aha!’ Carrot fumbled in the pocket of his large brown overcoat. ‘I got this book of disguises from the joke shop in Phedre Road, look. Funny thing, Nobby was in there buying stuff too. I asked him why and he said it was desperate measures. What d’you think he meant by that?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ said Angua.
‘It’s just amazing the stuff they’ve got. False hair, false noses, false beards, even false…’ He hesitated, and began to blush. ‘Even false… you know, chests. For ladies. But I can’t imagine for the life of me why they’d want to disguise those.’
He probably couldn’t, Angua thought. She took the very small book from Carrot and glanced through it. She sighed.
‘Carrot, these disguises are meant for a potato.’
‘Are they?’
‘Look, they’re all on potatoes, see?’
‘I thought that was just for display.’
‘Carrot, it’s got “Mr Spuddy Face” on it.’
Behind his thick black moustache Carrot looked hurt and perplexed. ‘What does a potato want a disguise for?’ he said.
They’d reached the alley alongside the University that had been known informally as Scholars’ Entry for so many centuries that this was now on a nameplate at one end. A couple of student wizards went past.
The unofficial entrance to the University has always been known only to students. What most students failed to remember was that the senior members of the faculty had also been students once, and also liked to get out and about after the official shutting of the gates. This naturally led to a certain amount of embarrassment and diplomacy on dark evenings.
Carrot and Angua waited patiently as a few more students climbed over, followed by the Dean.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Carrot, politely.
‘Good evening to you, Spuddy,’ said the Dean, and ambled off into the night.
‘You see?’
‘Ah, but he didn’t call me Carrot,’ said Carrot. ‘The principle is sound.’
They dropped down on to lawns of academia and headed for the library.
‘It’ll be shut,’ said Angua.
‘Remember, we have a man on the inside,’ said Carrot, and knocked.
The door opened a little way. ‘Ook?’
Carrot raised his horrible little round hat.
‘Good evening, sir, I wonder if we could come in? It’s Watch business.’
‘Ook eek ook?’
‘ Er…,
‘What did he say?’ said Angua.
‘If you must know, he said, “My goodness me, a walking potato,”‘ said Carrot.
The Librarian wrinkled his nose at Angua. He did not like the smell of werewolves. But he beckoned them inside and then left them waiting while he knuckled back to his desk and rummaged in a drawer. He produced a Watch Special Constable’s badge on a string, which he hung around the general area where his neck should have been, and then stood as much to attention as an orang–utan can, which is not a great deal. The central ape gets the idea but outlying areas are slow to catch on.
‘Ook ook!’
‘Was that “How may I be of assistance, Captain Tuber?”‘ said Angua.
‘We need to have a look on the fifth floor, overlooking the square,’ said Carrot, a shade coldly.
‘Ook oook – ook.’
‘He says that’s just old storerooms,’ said Carrot.
‘And that last “ook’?’ said Angua.
‘ “Mr Horrible Hat”,’ said Carrot.
‘Still, he hasn’t worked out who you are, eh?’ said Angua.
The fifth floor was a corridor of airless rooms, smelling sadly of old, unwanted books. They were stacked not on shelves but on wide racks, bundled up with string. A lot of them were battered and missing their covers. judging by what remained, though, they were old textbooks that not even the most ardent bibliophile could treasure.