Men at Arms (Discworld #15)(6)

'With the new recruits, I mean,' said Vimes, meaningfully. 'You remember, sir?'

The ones you told me I had to have? he added in the privacy of his head. They weren't to go in the Day Watch, of course. And those bastards in the Palace Guard wouldn't take them, either. Oh, no. Put 'em in the Night Watch, because it's a joke anyway and no-one'll really see 'em. No-one important, anyway.

Vimes had only given in because he knew it wouldn't be his problem for long.

It wasn't as if he was speciesist, he told himself. But the Watch was a job for men.

'How about Corporal Nobbs?' said the Patrician.

'Nobby?'

They shared a mental picture of Corporal Nobbs.

'No.'

'No.'

'Then of course there is,' the Patrician smiled, 'Corporal Carrot. A fine young man. Already making a name for himself, I gather.'

'That's . . . true,' said Vimes.

'A further promotion opportunity, perhaps? I would value your advice.'

Vimes formed a mental picture of Corporal Carrot—

'This,' said Corporal Carrot, 'is the Hubwards Gate. To the whole city. Which is what we guard.'

'What from?' said Lance-Constable Angua, the last of the new recruits.

'Oh, you know. Barbarian hordes, warring tribesmen, bandit armies . . . that sort of thing.'

'What? Just us?'

'Us? Oh, no!' Carrot laughed. 'That'd be silly, wouldn't it? No, if you see anything like that, you just ring your bell as hard as you like.'

'What happens then?'

'Sergeant Colon and Nobby and the rest of 'em will come running along just as soon as they can.'

Lance-Constable Angua scanned the hazy horizon.

She smiled.

Carrot blushed.

Constable Angua had mastered saluting first go. She wouldn't have a full uniform yet, not until someone had taken a, well, let's face it, a breastplate along to old Remitt the armourer and told him to beat it out really well here and here, and no helmet in the world would cover all that mass of ash-blond hair but, it occurred to Carrot, Constable Angua wouldn't need any of that stuff really. People would be queuing up to get arrested.

'So what do we do now?' she said.

'Proceed back tp the Watch House, I suppose,' said Carrot. 'Sergeant Colon'll be reading out the evening report, I expect.'

She'd mastered 'proceeding', too. It's a special walk devised by beat officers throughout the multiverse – a gentle lifting of the instep, a careful swing of the leg, a walking pace that can be kept up hour after hour, street after street. Lance-Constable Detritus wasn't going to be ready to learn 'proceeding' for some time, or at least until he stopped knocking himself out every time he saluted.

'Sergeant Colon,' said Angua. 'He was the fat one, yes?'

'That's right.'

'Why has he got a pet monkey?'

'Ah,' said Carrot. 'I think it is Corporal Nobbs to whom you refer . . .'

'It's human? He's got a face like a join-the-dots puzzle!'

'He does have a very good collection of boils, poor man. He does tricks with them. Just never get between him and a mirror.'

Not many people were on the streets. It was too hot, even for an Ankh-Morpork summer. Heat radiated from every surface. The river slunk sullenly in the bottom of its bed, like a student around 11 a.m. People with no pressing business out of doors lurked in cellars and only came out at night.

Carrot moved through the baking streets with a proprietorial air and a slight patina of honest sweat, occasionally exchanging a greeting. Everyone knew Carrot. He was easily recognizable. No-one else was about two metres tall with flame-red hair. Besides, he walked as if he owned the city.

'Who was that man with the granite face I saw in the Watch House?' said Angua, as they proceeded along Broad Way.

'That was Detritus the troll,' said Carrot. 'He used to be a bit of a criminal, but now he's courting Ruby she says he's got to—'

'No, that man,' said Angua, learning as had so many others that Carrot tended to have a bit of trouble with metaphors. 'Face like thu—face like someone very disgruntled.'

'Oh, that was Captain Vimes. But he's never been gruntled, I think. He's retiring at the end of the week, and getting married.'

'Doesn't look very happy about it,' said Angua.

'Couldn't say.'

'I don't think he likes the new recruits.'

The other thing about Constable Carrot was that he was incapable of lying.

'Well, he doesn't like trolls much,' he said. 'We couldn't get a word out of him all day when he heard we had to advertise for a troll recruit. And then we had to have a dwarf, otherwise they'd be trouble. I'm a dwarf, too, but the dwarfs here don't believe it.'

'You don't say?' said Angua, looking up at him.

'My mother had me by adoption.'

'Oh. Yes, but I'm not a troll or a dwarf,' said Angua sweetly.

'No, but you're a w—'

Angua stopped. 'That's it, is it? Good grief! This is the Century of the Fruitbat, you know. Ye gods, does he really think like that?'

'He's a bit set in his ways.'