pay to know, within a day, when it had arrived? And how much the cargo was worth? Had it been sold? Was there credit to the trader’s name in AnkhMorpork?
Coining money? Oh, yes!
And it had caught on as fast as every other craze did in the big city. It seemed as though everybody who could put together a pole, a couple of gargoyles and some second-hand windmill machinery was in on the business. You couldn’t go out to dinner these days without seeing people nip out of the restaurant every five minutes to check that there weren’t any messages for them on the nearest pole. As for those who cut out the middleman and signalled directly to their friends across a crowded room, causing mild contusions to those nearby …
Vimes shook his head. That was messages without meaning: telepathy without brains.
But it had been good, hadn’t it, last week? When Don’t Know Jack had pinched that silver in Sto Lat and then galloped at speed to the sanctuary of the Shades in AnkhMorpork? And Sergeant Edge of the Sto Lat Watch, who’d trained under Vimes, had put a message on the clacks which arrived on Vimes’s desk more than an hour before Jack sauntered through the city gates and into the waiting embrace of Sergeant Detritus? Legally it had been a bit tricky, since the offence hadn’t been committed on AnkhMorpork soil and a semaphore message did not, strictly speaking, come under the heading of ‘hot pursuit’, but Jack had kindly solved that one by taking a wild swing at the troll, resulting in his arrest for Assault on a Watch Officer and treatment for a broken wrist …
There was a gentle snore from Lady Sybil. A marriage is always made up of two people who are prepared to swear that only the other one snores.
Inigo Skimmer was hunched in a corner, reading a book. Vimes watched him for some time.
‘I’m just going up top for some air,’ he said at last, opening the door. The clattering of the wheels filled the tiny, hot space, and dust blew in.
‘Your grace-‘ Inigo began, standing up.
Vimes, already clambering up the side of the coach, stuck his head back in. ‘You’re not making any friends with that attitude,’ he said, and kicked the door shut with his foot.
Cheery and Detritus had made themselves comfortable on the roof. It was a lot less stuffy and at least there was a view, if vegetables were your idea of a panorama.
Vimes worked himself into a niche between two bundles and leaned towards Cheery.
‘You know about the clacks, right?’ he said.
‘Well, sort of, sir…’
‘Good.’ Vimes passed her a piece of paper. ‘There’s bound to be a tower near where we stop tonight. Cypher this and send it to the Watch, will you? They ought to be able to turn it around in an hour, if they ask the right people. Tell them to try Washable Topsy, she does the laundry there. Or Gilbert Gilbert; he always seems to know what’s going on.’
Cheery read the message, and then stared at Vimes.
‘Are you sure, sir?’ she said.
‘Maybe. Make sure you send the description. Names don’t mean much.’
‘May I ask what makes you think-‘
‘His walk. And he didn’t catch an orange,’ said Vimes. ‘Mhm. Mhm.’
Constable Visit was cleaning out the old pigeon loft when the message arrived on the clacks.
He was spending more and more time with the pigeons these days. It wasn’t a popular job, so no one had tried to take it away from him, and at least up here the shouts and door-slammings were muffled.
The perches gleamed.
Constable Visit enjoyed his job. He didn’t have many friends in the city. Truth to tell, he didn’t have many friends in the Watch, either. But at least there were people to talk to, and he was making headway with the religious instruction of the pigeons.
But now there was this …
It was addressed to Captain Carrot. That meant it probably ought to be delivered to Captain Colon now, and personally, because Captain Colon thought that people were spying on his messages sent via the suction tube.
Constable Visit had been fairly safe until now. Omnians were good at not questioning orders, even ones that made no sense. Visit instinctively respected authority, no matter how crazy, because he’d been brought up properly. And he had plenty of time to keep his armour bright.
Brightly polished armour had suddenly become very important in the Watch, for some reason.
Even so, going into Colon’s office needed all the courage that the legendary Bishop Horn had shown when entering the city of the Oolites, and everyone knew what they did to strangers.
Visit climbed down from the loft and made his nervous way to the main building, taking care to walk smartly.
The main office was more or less empty. There seemed to be fewer watchmen around these days. Usually people preferred to loaf indoors in this chilly weather, but suddenly everyone was keen to be out of Captain Colon’s view.
Visit went up to the office and knocked on the door.
He knocked again.
When there was no reply he pushed open the door, walked carefully over to the sparkling clean desk, and went to tuck the message flimsy under the ink bottle in case it blew away
‘Aha!’
The ink soared up as Visit’s hand jerked. He had a vision of the blue-black shower passing his eye, and heard the splat as it hit something behind him.
He turned like an automaton, to see a Captain Colon who would have, been white-faced if it wasn’t for the ink.
‘I see,’ said Colon. ‘Assault on a superior officer, eh?’
‘It was an accident, captain!’
‘Oh, was it? And why, pray, were you sneaking into my office?’
‘I didn’t think you were in here, captain!’ Visit gabbled.
,jai,
‘ S orry?’
‘Sneaking a look at my private papers, eh?’
‘No, captain!’ Visit rallied a little bit. ‘Why were you standing behind the door, captain?’
‘Oh? I’m not allowed to stand behind my own door, is that it?’
It was then that Constable Visit made his next mistake. He tried to smile.
‘Well, it is a bit odd, sir-‘
‘Are you suggesting there is anything odd about me, constable?’ said Captain Colon. ‘Is there anything about me that you finds funny?’
Visit stared at the mottled face speckled with ink. ‘Not a thing, sir.’
‘You’ve been working acceptably, constable,’ said Colon, standing slightly too close to Visit, ‘and therefore I don’t intend to be harsh with you. No one could call me an unfair man. You is demoted to lanceconstable, understand? Your pay will be adjusted and backdated to the beginning of the month.’
Visit saluted. It was probably the only way to get out of there alive. One of Colon’s eyes was twitching.
‘However, you could redeem yourself,’ said Colon, ‘if you was to tell me who has been stealing, I said stealing, the sugar lumps.’
‘Sir?’
‘I knows there was forty-three last night. I counted ‘em very thoroughly. There’s fortyone this morning, constable. And they’re locked in the desk. Can you explain that?’
If Visit had been suicidal and honest, he would have said: well, captain, while of course I think you have many worthy qualities, I have known you count your fingers twice arid come up with different answers.
‘Er … mice?’ he said weakly.
‘Hah! Off you go, lanceconstable, and just you think about what I said!’
When the dejected Visit had gone, Captain Colon sat down at his big, clean desk.
The little flickering part of his brain that was still sparking coherent thought through the fog of mind-numbing terror that filled Colon’s head was telling him that he was so far out of his depth that the fish had lights on their noses.
Yes, he did have a clean desk. But that was because he was throwing all the paperwork away.
It wasn’t that he was illiterate, but Fred Colon did need a bit of a think and a run-up to tackle anything much longer than a list and he tended to get lost in any word that had more than three syllables. He was, in fact, functionally literate. That is, he thought of reading and writing like he thought about boots – you needed them, but they weren’t supposed to be fun, and you got suspicious about people who got a kick out of them.
Of course, Mr Vimes had kept his desk piled high with paperwork, but it occurred to Colon that maybe Vimes and Carrot between them had developed a way of keeping just ahead of the piles, by knowing what was important and what
wasn’t. To Colon, it was all gut-wrenchingly mysterious. There were complaints and memos and invitations, and letters requesting ‘a few minutes of your time’ and forms to fill in, and reports to read, and sentences containing words like ‘iniquitous’ and ‘immediate action’, and they tottered in his mind like a great big wave, poised to fall on him.