There were dwarfs coming up the street, with a purposeful and deadly air. The trolls scattered.
Cuddy ran forward.
‘What are you lot doing?’ he said. ‘Are you mad, or something?’
A dwarf pointed a trembling finger at Detritus.
‘What’s that?’
‘He’s a Watchman.’
‘Looks like a troll to me. Get it!’
Cuddy took a step backwards and produced his axe.
‘I know you, Stronginthearm,’ he said. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘You know, Watchman,’ said Stronginthearm. ‘The Watch say a troll killed Bjorn Hammerhock. They’ve found the troll!’
‘No, that’s not—’
There was a sound behind Cuddy. The trolls were back, armed for dwarf. Detritus turned around and waved a finger at them.
‘Any troll move,’ he said, ‘and I start counting.’
‘Hammerhock was killed by a man,’ said Cuddy. ‘Captain Vimes thinks—’
‘The Watch have got the troll,’ said a dwarf. ‘Damn rocks!’
‘Gritsuckers!’
‘Monoliths!’
‘Eaters of rats!’
‘Hah, I been a man only hardly any time,’ said Detritus, ‘and already I fed up with you stupid trolls. What you think humans say, eh? Oh, them ethnic, them don’t know how to behave in big city, go around waving clubs at the drop of a thing you wear on head.’
‘We’re Watchmen,’ said Cuddy. ‘Our job is to keep the peace.’
‘Good,’ said Stronginthearm. ‘Go and keep it safe somewhere until we need it.’
‘This not Koom Valley,’ said Detritus.
‘That’s right!’ shouted a dwarf at the back of the crowd. ‘This time we can see you!’
Trolls and dwarfs were pouring in at either end of the street.
‘What would Corporal Carrot do at a time like this?’ whispered Cuddy.
‘He say, you bad people, make me angry, you stop toot sweet.’
‘And then they’d go away, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What would happen if we tried that?’
‘We look in gutter for our heads.’
‘I think you’re right.’
‘You see that alley? It a nice alley. It say, hello. You outnumbered . . . 256+64+8+2+1 to 1. Drop in and see me.’
A club bounced off Detritus’ helmet.
‘Run!’
The two Watchmen sprinted for the alley. The impromptu armies watched them and then, differences momentarily forgotten, gave chase.
‘Where this go?’
‘It goes away from the people chasing us!’
‘I like this alley.’
Behind them the pursuers, suddenly trying to make progress in a gap barely wide enough to accommodate a troll, realized that they were pushing and shoving with their mortal enemies and started to fight one another in the quickest, nastiest and above all narrowest battle ever held in the city.
Cuddy waved Detritus to a halt and peered around a comer.
‘I think we’re safe,’ he said. ‘All we have to do is get out of the other end of this and get back to the Watch House. OK?’
He turned around, failed to see the troll, took a step forward, and vanished temporarily from the world of men.
‘Oh, no,’ said Sergeant Colon. ‘He promised he wasn’t going to touch it any more! Look, he’s had a whole bottle!’
‘What is it? Bearhugger’s?’ said Nobby.
‘Shouldn’t think so, he’s still breathing. Come on, help me up with him.’
The Night Watch clustered around. Carrot had deposited Captain Vimes on a chair in the middle of the Watch House floor.
Angua picked out the bottle and looked at the label.
‘C M. O. T. Dibbler’s Genuine Authentic Soggy Mountain Dew,’ she read. ‘He’s going to die! It says, “One hundred and fifty per cent proof”!’
‘Nah, that’s just old Dibbler’s advertising,’ said Nobby. ‘It ain’t got no proof. Just circumstantial evidence.’
‘Why hasn’t he got his sword?’ said Angua.
Vimes opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the concerned face of Nobby.
‘Aargh!’ he said. ‘Swor’? Gi’ it ‘way! Hooray!’
‘What?’ said Colon.
‘No mo’ Watsh! All go’ . . .’
‘I think he’s a bit drunk,’ said Carrot.
‘Drun’? ‘m not drun’! You wouldn’dare call m’ drun’ if I was sober!’
‘Get him some coffee,’ said Angua.
‘I reckon he’s beyond our coffee,’ said Colon. ‘Nobby, nip along to Fat Sally’s in Squeezebelly Alley and get a jug of their special Klatchian stuff. Not a metal jug, mind.’
Vimes blinked as they manhandled him into a chair.
All go ‘way,’ he said. ‘Bang! Bang!’
‘Lady Sybil’s going to be really mad,’ said Nobby. ‘You know he promised to leave it alone.’
‘Captain Vimes?’ said Carrot.
‘Mm?’
‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Mm?’
‘How many hands, then?’
‘Fo’?’
‘Blimey, I haven’t seen him like this for years,’ said Colon. ‘Here, let me try something. Want another drink, captain?’
‘He certainly doesn’t need a—’
‘Shut up, I know what I’m doing. Another drink, Captain Vimes?’
‘Mm?’
‘I’ve never known him not be able to give a loud clear “yes!”,’ said Colon, standing back. ‘I think we’d better get him up to his room.’
‘I’ll take him, poor chap,’ said Carrot. He lifted Vimes easily, and slung him over his shoulder.
‘I hate to see him like this,’ said Angua, following him into the hallway and up the stairs.
‘He only drinks when he gets depressed,’ said Carrot.
‘Why does he get depressed?’
‘Sometimes it’s because he hasn’t had a drink.’
The house in Pseudopolis Yard had originally been a Ramkin family residence. Now the first floor was occupied by the guards on an ad hoc basis. Carrot had a room. Nobby had rooms consecutively, four so far, moving out when the floor became hard to find. And Vimes had a room.
More or less. It was hard to tell. Even a prisoner in a cell manages to stamp his personality on it somewhere, but Angua had never seen such an unlived-in room.
‘This is where he lives?’ said Angua. ‘Good grief.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘I don’t know. Anything. Something. Not nothing.’
There was a joyless iron bedstead. The springs and mattress had sagged so that they formed a sort of mould, forcing anyone who got into it to instantly fold into a sleeping position. There was a washstand, under a broken mirror. On the stand was a razor, carefully aligned towards the Hub because Vimes shared the folk belief that this kept it sharp. There was a brown wooden chair with the cane seat broken. And a small chest at the foot of the bed.
And that was all.
‘I mean, at least a rug,’ said Angua. ‘A picture on the wall. Something.’
Carrot deposited Vimes on the bed, where he flowed unconsciously into the shape.
‘Haven’t you got something in your room?’ Angua asked.
‘Yes. I’ve got a cutaway diagram of No.5 shaft at home. It’s very interesting strata. I helped cut it. And some books and things. Captain Vimes isn’t really an indoors kind of person.’
‘But there’s not even a candle!’
‘He finds his way to bed by memory, he says.’
‘Or an ornament or anything.’
‘There’s a sheet of cardboard under the bed,’ Carrot volunteered. ‘I remember I was with him in Filigree Street when he found it. He said “There’s a month’s soles in this, if I’m any judge”. He was very pleased about that.’
‘He can’t even afford boots?’
‘I don’t think so. I know Lady Sybil offered to buy him all the new boots he wanted, and he got a bit offended about that. He seems to try to make them last.’
‘But you can buy boots, and you get less than him. And you send money home. He must drink it all, the idiot.’
‘Don’t think so. I didn’t think he’d touched the stuff for months. Lady Sybil got him on to cigars.’
Vimes snored loudly.
‘How can you admire a man like this?’ said Angua.
‘He’s a very fine man.’
Angua raised the lid of the wooden chest with her foot.
‘Hey, I don’t think you should do that—’ said Carrot wretchedly.
‘I’m just looking,’ said Angua. ‘No law against that.’
‘In fact, under the Privacy Act of 1467, it is an—’
‘There’s only old boots and stuff. And some paper.’ She reached down and picked up a crudely made book. It was merely a wad of irregular shaped bits of paper sandwiched together between card covers.
‘That belongs to Captain—’
She opened the book and read a few lines. Her mouth dropped open.
‘Will you look at this? No wonder he never has any money!’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘He spends it on women! You wouldn’t think it, would you? Look at this entry. Four in one week!’
Carrot looked over her shoulder. On the bed, Vimes snorted.
There, on the page, in Vimes’ curly handwriting, were the words:
Mrs Gafkin, Mincing St: $5
Mrs Scurrick, Treacle St: $4
Mrs Maroon, Wixon’s Alley: $4
Annabel Curry, Lobfneaks: $2
Annabel Curry couldn’t have been much good, for only two dollars,’ said Angua.
She was aware of a sudden drop in temperature.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Carrot, slowly. ‘She’s only nine years old.’ .
One of his hands gripped her wrist tightly and the other prised the book out of her fingers.