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?’