Men at Arms

Vimes laid the papers down and put the piece of metal on top of them.

Then he reached in his pocket and produced a couple of metal pellets.

A stick, the gargoyle had said.

Vimes looked at the sketch. It looked, as Cuddy had noted, like the stock of a crossbow with a pipe on the top of it. There were a few sketches of strange mechanical devices alongside it, and a couple of the little six-pipe things. The whole drawing looked like a doodle. Someone, possibly this Leonard, had been reading a book about fireworks and had scribbled in the margins.

Fireworks.

Well. . . fireworks? But fireworks weren't a weapon. Crackers went bang. Rockets went up, more or less, but all you could be sure of them hitting was the sky.

Hammerhock was noted for his skill with mechanisms. That wasn't a major dwarfish attribute. People thought it was, but it wasn't. They were skilled with metal all right, and they made good swords and jewellery, but they weren't too technical when it came to things like cogwheels and springs. Hammerhock was unusual.

So. . .

Supposing there was a weapon. Supposing there was something about it that was different, strange, terrifying.

No, that couldn't be it. It'd either end up all over the place, or it'd be destroyed. It wouldn't end up in the Assassins' museum. What got put in museums?

Things that hadn't worked, or had got lost, or ought to be remembered . . . so where's the sense in putting our firework on show?

There had been a lot of locks on the door. So . . . not a museum you just wandered into, then. Maybe you had to be a high-up Assassin, and one day one of the Guild leaders'd take you down there at dead, hah, of night, and say . . . and say . . .

For some reason the face of the Patrician loomed up at this point.

Once again Vimes felt the edge of something, some fundamental central thing . . .

'Where'd he go? Where'd he go?'

There was a maze of alleys around the doors. Cuddy leaned against a wall and fought for breath.

'There he go!' shouted Detritus. 'Along Whalebone Lane!'

He lumbered off in pursuit.

Vimes put down his coffee cup.

Whoever had shot those lead balls at him had been very accurate across several hundred yards, and had got off six shots faster than anyone could fire an arrow . . .

Vimes picked up the pipes. Six little pipes, six shots. And you could carry a pocketful of these things. You could shoot further, faster, more accurately than anyone else with any other kind of weapon . . .

So. A new type of weapon. Much, much faster than a bow. The Assassins wouldn't like that. They wouldn't like that at all. They weren't even keen on bows. The Assassins preferred to kill up close.

So they'd put the . . . the gonne safely under lock and key. The gods alone knew how they'd come by it in the first place. And a few senior Assassins would know about it. They'd pass on the secret: beware of things like this . . .

'Down there! He went into Grope Alley!'

'Slow down! Slow down!'

'Why?' said Detritus.

'It's a dead end.'

The two Watchmen lumbered to a halt.

Cuddy knew that he was currently the brains of the partnership, even though Detritus was presently counting, his face beaming with pride, the stones in the wall beside him.

Why had they chased someone halfway across the dry ? Because they'd run away. No-one ran away from the Watch. Thieves just flashed their licences. Unlicensed thieves had nothing to fear from the Watch, since they'd saved up all their fear for the Thieves' Guild. Assassins always obeyed the letter of the law. And honest men didn't run away from the Watch.[18] Running away from the Watch was downright suspicious.

The origin of Grope Alley's name was fortunately lost in the celebrated mists of time, but it had come to be deserved. It had turned into a kind of tunnel as upper storeys were built out and over it, leaving a few inches of sky.

Cuddy peered around the corner, into the gloom.

Click. Click.

It came from deep in the darkness.

'Detritus?'

'Yeah?'

'Did he have any weapons?'

'Just a stick. One stick.'

'Only . . . I smell fireworks.'

Cuddy pulled his head back, very carefully.

There had been the smell of fireworks in Hammer-hock's workshop. And Mr Hammerhock ended up with a big hole in his chest. And a sense of named dread, which is much more specific and terrifying than nameless dread, was stealing over Cuddy. It was similar to the feeling you get when you're playing a high stakes game and your opponent suddenly grins and you realize that you don't know all the rules but you do know you'll be lucky to get out of this with, if you are very fortunate, your shirt.

On the other hand . . . he could picture Sergeant Colon's face. We chased this man into an alley, sarge, and then we came away . . .

He drew his sword.

'Lance-Constable Detritus?'

'Yes, Lance-Constable Cuddy?'

'Follow me.'

Why? The damn thing was made of metal, wasn't it? Ten minutes in a hot crucible and that'd be the end of the problem. Something like that, something dangerous, why not just get rid of it? Why keep it?

But that wasn't human nature, was it? Sometimes things were too fascinating to destroy.

He looked at the strange metal tubes. Six short pipes, welded together, sealed firmly at one end. There was a small hole in the top side of each of the pipes . . .

Vimes slowly picked up one of the lumps of lead . . .

The alley twisted once or twice, but there were no other alleys or doors off it. There was one at the far end. It was larger than a normal door, and heavily constructed.

'Where are we?' whispered Cuddy.

'Don't know,' said Detritus. 'Back of the docks somewhere.'

Cuddy pushed open the door with his sword.

'Cuddy?'

'Yeah?'

'We walked seven-ty-nine steps!'

'That's nice.'

Cold air rushed past them.

'Meat store,' whispered Cuddy. 'Someone picked the lock.'

He slipped through and into a high, gloomy room, as large as a temple, which in some ways it resembled. Faint light crept through the high, ice-covered windows. From rack upon rack, all the way to the ceiling, hung meat carcasses.

They were semi-transparent and so very cold Cuddy's breath turned to crystals in the air.

'Oh, my,' said Detritus. 'I think this the pork futures warehouse in Morpork Road.'

'What?'

'Used to work here,' said the troll. 'Used to work everywhere. Go away, you stupid troll, you too thick,' he added, gloomily.

'Is there any way out?'

'The main door is in Morpork Street. But no-one comes in here for months. Till pork exists.'[19]

Cuddy shivered.

'You in here!' he shouted. 'It's the Watch! Step out now!'

A dark figure appeared from between a couple of pre-pigs.

'Now what we do?' said Detritus.

The distant figure raised what looked like a stick, holding it like a crossbow.

And fired. The first shot zinged off Cuddy's helmet.

A stony hand clamped on to the dwarf's head and Detritus pushed Cuddy behind him, but then the figure was running, running towards them, still firing.

Detritus blinked.

Five more shots, one after another, punctured his breastplate.

And then the running man was through the open door, slamming it behind him.

'Captain Vimes?'

He looked up. It was Captain Quirke of the Day Watch, with a couple of his men behind him.

'Yes?'

'You come with us. And give me your sword.'

'What?'

'I think you heard me, captain.'

'Look, it's me, Quirke. Sam Vimes? Don't be a fool.'

'I ain't a fool. I've got men with crossbows. Men. It's you that'd be the fool if you resist arrest.'

'Oh? I'm under arrest?'

'Only if you don't come with us . . .'

The Patrician was in the Oblong Office, staring out of the window. The multi-belled cacophony of five o'clock was just dying away.

Vimes saluted. From the back, Vetinari looked like a carnivorous flamingo.

'Ah, Vimes,' he said, without looking around, 'come here, will you? And tell me what you see.'

Vimes hated guessing games, but he joined the Patri-cian anyway.

The Oblong Office had a view over half the city, although most of it was rooftops and towers. Vimes' imagination peopled the towers with men holding gonnes. The Patrician would be an easy target.

'What do you see out there, captain?'

'City of Ankh-Morpork, sir,' said Vimes, keeping his expression carefully blank.

'And does it put you in mind of anything, captain?'

Vimes scratched his head. If he was going to play gaames, he was going to play games . . .

'Well, sir, when I was a kid we owned a cow once, and one day it got sick, and it was always my job to clean out the cowshed, and—'

'It reminds me of a clock,' said the Patrician. 'Big wheels, little wheels. All clicking away. The little wheels spin and the big wheels turn, all at different speeds, you see, but the machine works. And that is the most important thing. The machine keeps going. Because when the machine breaks down . . .'

He turned suddenly, strode to his desk with his usual predatory stalk, and sat down.

'Or, again, sometimes a piece of grit might get into the wheels, throwing them off balance. One speck of grit.'

Vetinari looked up and flashed Vimes a mirthless smile.

'I won't have that.'

Vimes stared at the wall.

'I believe I told you to forget about certain recent events, captain?'

'Sir.'

'Yet it appears that the Watch have been getting in the wheels.'

'Sir.'

'What am I to do with you?'

'Couldn't say, sir.'

Vimes minutely examined the wall. He wished Carrot was here. The lad might be simple, but he was so simple that sometimes he saw things that the subtle missed. And he kept coming up with simple ideas that stuck in your mind. Policeman, for example. He'd said to Vimes one day, while they were proceeding along the Street of Small Gods: Do you know where 'policeman' comes from, sir? Vimes hadn't. 'Polis' used to mean 'city', said Carrot. That's what policeman means: 'a man for the city'. Not many people know that. The word 'polite comes from 'polis', too. It used to mean the ptoper behaviour from someone living in a city.

Man of the city . . . Carrot was always throwing out stuff like that. Like 'copper'. Vimes had believed all his life that the Watch were called coppers because they carried copper badges, but no, said Carrot, it comes from the old word cappere, to capture.

Carrot read books in his spare time. Not well. He'd have real difficulty if you cut his index finger off. But continuously. And he wandered around Ankh-Morpork on his day off.

'Captain Vimes?'

Vimes blinked.

'Sir?'

'You have no concept of the delicate balance of the dry. I'll tell you one more time. This business with the Assassins and the dwarf and this clown . . . you are to cease involving yourself.'

'No, sir. I can't.'

'Give me your badge.'

Vimes looked down at his badge.

He never really thought about it. It was just something he'd always had. It didn't mean anything very much . . . really . . . one way or the other. It was just something he'd always had.

'My badge?'

'And your sword.'

Slowly, with fingers that suddenly felt like bananas, and bananas that didn't belong to him at that, Vimes undid his sword belt.

'And your badge.'

'Um. Not my badge.'

Why not?'

'Um. Because it's my badge.'

'But you're resigning anyway when you get married.'

'Right.'

Their eyes met.

'How much does it mean to you?'

Vimes stared. He couldn't find the right words. It was just that he'd always been a man with a badge. He wasn't sure he could be one without the other.