Men at Arms (Discworld #15)(51)

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.


Finally Lord Vetinari said: 'Very well. I believe you're getting married at noon tomorrow.' His long fingers picked up the gilt-embossed invitation from the desk 'Yes. You can keep your badge, then. And have an honourable retirement. But I'm keeping the sword. And the Day Watch will be sent down to the Yard shortly to disarm your men. I'm standing the Night Watch down, Captain Vimes. In due course I might appoint another man in charge – at my leisure. Until then, you and your men can consider yourselves on leave.'

'The Day Watch? A bunch of—'

'I'm sorry?'

'Yes, sir.'

'One infraction, however, and the badge is mine. Remember.'

Cuddy opened his eyes.

'You're alive?' said Detritus.

The dwarf gingerly removed his helmet. There was a gouge in the rim, and his head ached.

'It looks like a mild skin abrasion,' said Detritus.

'A what? Ooooh.' Cuddy grimaced. 'What about you, anyway?' he said. There was something odd about the troll. It hadn't quite dawned on him what it was, but there was definitely something unfamiliar, quite apart from all the holes.

'I suppose the armour was some help,' said Detritus. He pulled at the straps of his breastplate. Five discs of slid out at around belt level. 'If it hadn't slowed down I'd be seriously abraded.'

'What's up with you? Why are you talking like that?'

'Lake what, pray?'

'What happened to the “me big troll” talk? No offence meant.'

'I'm not sure I understand.'

Cuddy shivered, and stamped his feet to keep warm.

'Let's get out of here.'

They trotted to the door. It was shut fast.

'Can you knock it down?'

'No. If this place wasn't troll proof, it'd be empty. Sorry.'

'Detritus?'

'Yes?'

Are you all right? Only there's steam coming off your head.'

'I do feel . . . er . . .'

Detritus blinked. There was a tinkle of falling ice. Odd things were happening in his skull.

Thoughts that normally ambulated sluggishly around his brain were suddenly springing into vibrant, coruscat-ing life. And there seemed to be more and more of them.

'My goodness,' he said, to no-one in particular.

This was a sufficiently un-troll-like comment that even Cuddy, whose extremities were already going numb, stared at him.

'I do believe,' said Detritus, 'that I am genuinely cogitating. How very interesting!'

'What do you mean?'

More ice cascaded off Detritus as he rubbed his head.

'Of course!' he said, holding up a giant finger. 'Superconductivity!'

'Wha'?'

'You see? Brain of impure silicon. Problem of heat dissipation. Daytime temperature too hot, processing speed slows down, weather gets hotter, brain stops completely, trolls turn to stone until nightfall, ie, colder-temperature,however,lowertemperatureenough,brain operatesfasterand—'

'I think I'm going to freeze to death soon,' said Cuddy.

Detritus looked around.

'There are small glazed apertures up there,' he said.

'Too hi' to rea', e'en if I st' on y'shoulders,' mumbled Cuddy, slumping down further.

'Ah, but my plan involves throwing something through them to attract help,' said Detritus.

'Wha' pla'?'

'I have in fact eventuated twenty-three but this one has a ninety-seven per cent chance of success,' said Detritus, beaming.

'Ha'nt got an'ting t'throw,' said Cuddy.

'I have,' said Detritus, scooping him up. 'Do not worry. I can compute your trajectory with astonishing precision. And then all you will need to do is fetch Captain Vimes or Carrot or someone.'

Cuddy's feeble protests described an arc through the freezing air and vanished along with the window glass.