‘It’s not far along,’ he said, handing Carrot the torch.
Carrot disappeared.
They heard his footsteps in the mud, and then a whistle of surprise, and then silence for a while.
Carrot reappeared.
‘My word,’ he said. ‘You two know who this is?’
‘It looks like—’ Cuddy began.
‘It looks like trouble,’ said Carrot.
‘You see why we didn’t bring it back up?’ said Cuddy. ‘Carrying a human’s corpse through the streets right now would not be a good idea, I thought. Especially this one.’
‘I thought some of that, too,’ Detritus volunteered.
‘Right enough,’ said Carrot. ‘Well done, men. I think we’d better . . . leave it for now, and come back with a sack later on. And . . . don’t tell anyone else.’
‘Except the sergeant and everyone,’ said Cuddy.
‘No . . . not even them. If d make everyone very . . . jumpy.’
‘Just as you say, Corporal Carrot.’
‘We’re dealing with a sick mind here, men.’
Underground light dawned on Cuddy.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You suspect Corporal Nobbs, sir?’
‘This is worse. Come on, let’s get back up.’ He looked back towards the big pillar-barred cavern. ‘Any idea where we are, Cuddy?’
‘Could be under the Palace, sir.’
‘That’s what I reckoned. Of course, the tunnels go everywhere . . .’
Carrot’s worried train of thought faltered away on some distant track.
There was water in the sewers, even in this drought. Springs flowed into them, or water filtered down from far above. Everywhere was the drip and splash of water. And cool, cool air.
It would almost be pleasant were it not for the sad, hunched corpse of someone that looked for all the world like Beano the clown.
Vimes dried himself off. Willikins had also laid out a dressing gown with brocade on the sleeves. He put it on, and wandered into his dressing room.
That was another new thing. The rich even had rooms for dressing in, and clothes to wear while you went into the dressing rooms to get dressed.
Fresh clothes had been laid out for him. Tonight there was something dashing in red and yellow . . .
. . . about now he’d be patrolling Treacle Mine Road . . . . . . and a hat. It had a feather in it.
Vimes dressed himself, and even wore the hat. And he seemed quite normal and composed, until you realized that he avoided meeting his own gaze in the mirror.
The Watch sat around the big table in the guardroom and in deep gloom. They were Off Duty. They’d never really been Off Duty before.
‘What say we have a game of cards?’ said Nobby, brightly. He produced a greasy pack from somewhere in the noisome recesses of his uniform.
‘You won everyone’s wages off them yesterday,’ said Sergeant Colon.
‘Now’s the chance to win ’em back, then.’
‘Yeah, but there were five kings in your hand, Nobby.’
Nobby shuffled the cards.
‘ ‘S’funny, that,’ he said, ‘there’s kings everywhere, when you look.’
‘There certainly is if you look up your sleeve.’
‘No, I mean, there’s Kings Way in Ankh, and kings in cards, and we get the King’s Shilling when we join up,’ said Nobby. ‘We got kings all over the place except on that gold throne in the Palace. I’ll tell you . . . there wouldn’t be all this trouble around the place if we had a king.’
Carrot was staring at the ceiling, his eyebrows locked in concentration. Detritus was counting on his fingers.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Sergeant Colon. ‘Beer’d be a penny a pint, the trees’d bloom again. Oh, yeah. Every time someone stubs a toe in this town, turns out it wouldn’t have happened if there’d been a king. Vimes’d go spare to hear you talk like that.’
‘People’d listen to a king, though,’ said Nobby.
‘Vimes’d say that’s the trouble,’ said Colon. ‘It’s like that thing of his about using magic. That stuff makes him angry.’
‘How you get king inna first place?’ said Detritus.
‘Someone sawed up a stone,’ said Colon.
‘Hah! Anti-siliconism!’
‘Nah, someone pulled a sword out of a stone,’ said Nobby.
‘How’d he know it was in there, then?’ Colon demanded.
‘It . . . it was sticking out, wasn’t it?’
‘Where anyone could’ve grabbed it? In this town?’
‘Only the rightful king could do it, see,’ said Nobby.
‘Oh, right,’ said Colon. ‘I understand. Oh, yes. So what you’re saying is, someone’d decided who the rightful king was before he pulled it out? Sounds like a fix to me. Prob’ly someone had a fake hollow stone and some dwarf inside hanging on the other end with a pair of pliers until the right guy came along—’
A fly bounced on the window pane for a while, then zigzagged across the room and settled on a beam, where Cuddy’s idly thrown axe cut it in half.
‘You got no soul, Fred,’ said Nobby. ‘I wouldn’t’ve minded being a knight in shining armour. That’s what a king does if you’re useful. He makes you a knight.’
‘A night watchman in crappy armour is about your métier,’ said Colon, who looked around proudly to see if anyone had noticed the slanty thing over the e. ‘Nah, catch me being respectful to some bloke because he just pulled a sword out of a stone. That don’t make you a king. Mind you,’ he said, ‘someone who could shove a sword into a stone . . . a man like that, now, he’s a king ‘A man like that’d be an ace,’ said Nobby.
Angua yawned.
Ding-ding a-ding-ding—
‘What the hell’s that?’ said Colon.
Carrot’s chair thumped forward. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a velvet bag, which he upended on to the table. Out slid a golden disc about three inches across. When he pressed a catch on one side it opened like a clamshell.
The stopped Watch peered at it.
‘It’s a clock?’ said Angua.
‘A watch,’ said Carrot.
‘It’s very big.’
‘That’s because of the clockwork. There has to be room for all the little wheels. The small watches just have those little time demons in and they don’t last and anyway they keep rotten time—’
Ding-ding a-ding-ding, ding dingle ding ding . . .
‘And it plays a rune!’ said Angua.
‘Every hour,’ said Carrot. ‘It’s part of the clockwork.’
Ding. Ding. Ding.
‘And it chimes the hours afterwards,’ said Carrot.
‘It’s slow, then,’ said Sergeant Colon. ‘All the others just struck, you couldn’t miss ’em.’
‘My cousin Jorgen makes ones like these,’ said Cuddy. ‘They keep better time than demons or water clocks or candles. Or those big pendulum things.’
‘There’s a spring and wheels,’ said Carrot.
‘The important bit,’ said Cuddy, taking an eyeglass from somewhere in his beard and examining the watch carefully, ‘is a little rocking-thingummy that stops the wheels from going too fast.’
‘How does it know if they’re going too fast?’ said Angua.
‘It’s kind of built-in,’ said Cuddy. ‘Don’t understand it much myself. What’s this inscription here . . .’
He read it aloud.
‘ “A Watch From, Your Old Freinds in the Watch”?’
‘It’s a play on words,’ said Carrot.
There was a long, embarrassed silence.
‘Um. I chipped in a few dollars each from you new recruits,’ he added, blushing. ‘I mean . . . you can pay me back when you like. If you want to. I mean . . . you’d be bound to be friends. Once you got to know him.’
The rest of the Watch exchanged glances.
He could lead armies, Angua thought. He really could. Some people have inspired whole countries to great deeds because of the power of their vision. And so could he. Not because he dreams about marching hordes, or world domination, or an empire of a thousand years. Just because he thinks that everyone’s really decent underneath and would get along just fine if only they made the effort, and he believes that so strongly it burns like a flame which is bigger than he is. He’s got a dream and we’re all part of it, so that it shapes the world around him. And the weird thing is that no-one wants to disappoint him. It’d be like kicking the biggest puppy in the universe. It’s a kind of magic.
‘The gold’s rubbing off,’ said Cuddy. ‘But it’s a good watch,’ he added quickly.
‘I was hoping we could give it to him tonight,’ said Carrot. ‘And all go out for a . . . drink . . .’
‘Not a good idea,’ said Angua.
‘Leave it until tomorrow,’ said Colon. ‘We’ll form a guard of honour at the wedding. That’s traditional. Everyone holds their swords up in a kind of arch.’
‘We’ve only got one sword between us,’ said Carrot glumly.
They all stared at the floor.
‘It’s not fair,’ said Angua. ‘I don’t care who stole whatever they stole from the Assassins, but he was right to try to find out who killed Mr Hammerhock And no-one cares about Lettice Knibbs.’