Men at Arms (Discworld, #15; City Watch, #2)

by Terry Pratchett

“And this is a rather good—well done, Bl-enkin—image of the bust of Queen Coanna.” “Thank you, Mr. Edward.” “More of her face would have enabled us to be certain of the likeness, however. There is sufficient, I believe. You may go, Blenkin.”

“Don’t worry, miss,” said Colon. “He—” “Lance-Constable,” said Angua. “What?” “Lance-Constable,” she repeated. “Not miss. Carrot says I don’t have any sex while I’m on duty.” To the background of Nobby’s frantic coughing, Colon said, very quickly, “What I mean is, lance-constable, young Carrot’s got krisma. Bags of krisma.” “Krisma?” “Bags of it.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Vimes. “A monarch’s an absolute ruler, right? The head honcho—” “Unless he’s a queen,” said Carrot. Vimes glared at him, and then nodded. “OK, or the head honchette—” “No, that’d only apply if she was a young woman. Queens tend to be older. She’d have to be a . . . a honcharina? No, that’s for very young princesses. No. Um. A honchesa, I think.” Vimes paused. There’s something in the air in this city, he thought. If the Creator had said, “Let there be light” in Ankh-Morpork, he’d have got no further because of all the people saying “What color?”

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 Alchemists’ Guild is opposite the Gamblers’ Guild. Usually. Sometimes it’s above it, or below it, or falling in bits around it. The gamblers are occasionally asked why they continue to maintain an establishment opposite a Guild which accidentally blows up its Guild Hall every few months, and they say: “Did you read the sign on the door when you came in?”

“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.”

Angua picked out the bottle and looked at the label. “C. M. O. T. Dibbler’s Genuine Authentic Soggy Mountain Dew,” she read. “He’s going to die! It says, ‘One hundred and fifty percent proof’!” “Nah, that’s just old Dibbler’s advertising,” said Nobby. “It ain’t got no proof. Just circumstantial evidence.”

There was, on the whole, no real racial prejudice in Ankh-Morpork; when you’ve got dwarfs and trolls, the mere color of other humans is not a major item. But Quirke was the kind of man to whom it comes naturally to pronounce the word negro with two gs.

“I’ve seen big dwarf halls in the mountains,” said Cuddy, “but I’ve got to admit this is something else.” His voice echoed back and forth in the chamber. “Oh, yes,” said Detritus. “It’s got to be something else, because it’s not a dwarf hall in the mountains.”

The moon was high now, in a sky as black as a cup of coffee that wasn’t very black at all.

“Did you know she was a werewolf?” “Um . . . Captain Vimes kind of hinted, sir . . .” “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.”

People were already filing into the Great Hall of Unseen University. Vimes had been firm about this. It was the only thing he’d held out for. He wasn’t exactly an atheist, because atheism was a non-survival trait on a world with several thousand gods. He just didn’t like any of them very much, and didn’t see what business it was of theirs that he was getting married. He’d turned down any of the temples and churches, but the Great Hall had a sufficiently churchy look, which is what people always feel is mandatory on these occasions. It’s not actually essential for any gods to drop in, but they should feel at home if they do.

“I appear . . . to be losing a lot of blood,” said Lord Vetinari. “Who would have thought you had it in you,” said Vimes, with the frankness of those probably about to die.

“SIT!” said Gaspode, in passable Human. The command bounced back and forth around the alley, and fifty percent of the animals obeyed. In most cases, it was the hind fifty percent.