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July 25 - August 3, 2024
Individuals aren’t naturally paid-up members of the human race, except biologically. They need to be bounced around by the Brownian motion of society, which is a mechanism by which human beings constantly remind one another that they are . . . well . . . human beings.
He could think in italics. Such people need watching. Preferably from a safe distance.
Dwarfs are very attached to gold. Any highwayman demanding “Your money or your life” had better bring a folding chair and packed lunch and a book to read while the debate goes on.
The reason that the rich were so rich, Vimes reasoned, was because they managed to spend less money.
This was the Captain Samuel Vimes “Boots” theory of socioeconomic unfairness.
The Ramkins were more highly bred than a hilltop bakery, whereas Corporal Nobbs had been disqualified from the human race for shoving.
Dwarfs were not a naturally religious species, but in a world where pit props could crack without warning and pockets of fire damp could suddenly explode they’d seen the need for gods as the sort of supernatural equivalent of a hard hat.
Besides, when you hit your thumb with an eight-pound hammer it’s nice to be able to blaspheme. It takes a very special and strong-minded kind of atheist to jump up and down with their hand clasped under their other armpit and shout, “Oh, random fluctuations-in-the-space-time-contiuum!” or “Aaargh, primitive-and-outmoded-concept on a crutch!”
The last thing you needed was some Watchman blundering around upsetting things, like a loose . . . a loose . . . a loose siege catapult.
If you had enough money, you could hardly commit crimes at all. You just perpetrated amusing little peccadilloes.
“How do you mean, odd?” said Colon. I am detectoring, he thought, with a faint touch of pride. People are Helping me with My Inquiries.
No clowns were funny. That was the whole purpose of a clown. People laughed at clowns, but only out of nervousness. The point of clowns was that, after watching them, anything else that happened seemed enjoyable.
“Well, Nobby, you’re what I might call a career soldier, right?” “’S’right, Fred.” “How many dishonorable discharges have you had?” “Lots,” said Nobby, proudly. “But I always puts a poultice on ’em.”
In many a faraway battlefield the last thing many a mortally wounded foeman ever saw was Corporal Nobbs heading toward him with a sack, a knife and a calculating expression.
So many crimes are solved by a happy accident—by the random stopping of a car, by an overheard remark, by someone of the right nationality happening to be within five miles of the scene of the crime without an alibi . . .
Cuddy had only been a guard for a few days, but already he had absorbed one important and basic fact: it is almost impossible for anyone to be in a street without breaking the law. There are a whole quiverful of offenses available to a policeman who wishes to pass the time of day with a citizen, ranging from Loitering with Intent through Obstruction to Lingering While Being the Wrong Color/Shape/Species/Sex.
“But we know the way,” said Detritus. “It’s either that, or stay down here eating rat for rest of your life.” Cuddy hesitated. The idea had a certain appeal . . . “Without ketchup,” Detritus added.
“Shot at you?” “Five time,” said Detritus, happily. “Have to report damage to breastplate but not to backplate on account of fortunately my body got in way, saving valuable city property worth three dollars.”
“We’re dealing with a sick mind here, men.” Underground light dawned on Cuddy. “Ah,” he said. “You suspect Corporal Nobbs, sir?”
“A night watchman in crappy armor 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.”
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
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“You can’t trust ’em,” said Detritus. “Who?” said Skully. “Trolls. Nasty pieces of work in my opinion,” said Detritus, with all the conviction of a troll with a badge. “They need keeping a eye on.”
“They say,” said Dibbler. “You know. They. Everyone. They say the trolls have killed someone up at Dolly Sisters and the dwarfs have smashed up Chalky the troll’s all-night pottery and they’ve broken down the Brass Bridge and—” Carrot looked up the road. “You just came over the Brass Bridge,” he said. “Yeah, well . . . that’s what they say,” said Dibbler.
Scuse me,” said Corporal Nobbs, pushing past. “Let me have a go. I’ve been here before, sort of thing.” He kicked the door with his steel capped boots, known and feared wherever men were on the floor and in no position to fight back.
“How? He recognized him, of course. That’s how you know who people are. You look at them and you say . . . that’s him. That’s called re-cog-nit-ion,” said the clown, with pointed deliberation.
Foul Ole Ron was a Beggars’ Guild member in good standing. He was a Mutterer, and a good one. He would walk behind people muttering in his own private language until they gave him money not to.
Nobby was a terrified blur. When you are swinging a spiky ball on a chain, the only realistic option is to keep moving. Standing still is an interesting but brief demonstration of a spiral in action.
“This your club with a nail in it. You will eat it. You will sleep on it! When Detritus say Jump, you say . . . what color! We goin’ to do this by the numbers! And I got lotsa numbers!”
“How did he hint?” Colon took a step back. “He sort of said, ‘Fred, she’s a damn werewolf. I don’t like it any more than you do, but Vetinari says we’ve got to take one of them as well, and a werewolf’s better than a vampire or a zombie, and that’s all there is to it.’ That’s what he hinted.”
