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

by Terry Pratchett

Dogs are not like cats, who amusingly tolerate humans only until someone comes up with a tin opener that can be operated with a paw.

“Lat’ral thinking,” he muttered. “That’s the stuff. Now, a wolf, your basic wolf, he’d jump, and if he couldn’t jump, he’d be stuck. Whereas me, on account of superior intelligence, can assess the whole wossname and arrive at a solution through application of mental processes.” He nudged the gargoyle squatting on the angle of the gutter. “Ot oo oo ont?” “If you don’t help me down to that balcony, I’ll widdle in your ear.”

BIG FIDO? “Yes?” HEEL.

“Oh,” he said. “I see. I didn’t think I was going to survive that. Not after the first hundred feet.” YOU WERE CORRECT.

“Right. So long as that’s understood. Sergeant Colon?” “Sir?” “Put out the news that we’ve arrested Edward d’Eath. Whoever he is.” “Yessir.” “And your next move, Mr. Carrot?” said Vimes.

It was important to ensure that rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated.

“Corporal Carrot here has a crossbow too,” he said. “I’m not sure if he’d use it. He’s a good man. He thinks everyone else is a good man. I’m not. I’m mean, nasty and tired.

So hope like hell your captor is an evil man. A good man will kill you with hardly a word.

Suddenly the stock was against his shoulder and his finger was on the trigger. You’re mine. We don’t need him any more. The shock of the voice was so great that he cried out. He swore afterwards that he didn’t pull the trigger. It moved of its own accord, pulling his finger with it.

A trainee Assassin looked at Vimes with his nostrils. “Who are you, pray?” The gonne swung toward him. Vimes managed to haul the barrel upward just as it fired, and the shot took away a lot of ceiling. “The law, you sons of bitches!” he shouted.

“Yes. But personal isn’t the same as important.”

Carrot stepped in front of the gonne. His arm moved in a blur. There was hardly a sound. Pray you never face a good man, Vimes thought. He’ll kill you with hardly a word.

No wonder no one had destroyed it. You couldn’t destroy something as perfect as this. It called out to something deep in the soul. Hold it in your hand, and you had power. More power than any bow or spear—they just stored up your own muscles’ power, when you thought about it. But the gonne gave you power from outside. You didn’t use it, it used you.

Lights came on, all over the city. Presently, the moon rose. The door opened. Angua entered, walking softly. Carrot turned, and smiled. “I wasn’t certain,” he said. “But I thought, well, isn’t it only silver that kills them? I just had to hope.”

“But there used to be a rank, in the old days. Commander of the Watch. I suggest Samuel Vimes.”

“You’re a man interested in words, captain. I’d just invite you to consider something your predecessor never fully grasped.” “Sir?” “Have you ever wondered where the word ‘politician’ comes from?” said the Patrician.

For as long as she’d known him, Sam Vimes had been vibrating with the internal anger of a man who wants to arrest the gods for not doing it right, and then he’d handed in his badge and he was…well, not exactly Sam Vimes any more.

A man needs to work. Not all are built for a life of retirement.

“It’s all right, lad,” said Vimes, as nicely as he could manage. “You don’t need to salute.” “Yes I do, sir,” said Carrot. He handed Vimes an envelope. It had the seal of the Patrician on it.

“You mean you could have vampires in the Watch?” “Very good on night duty, sir. And aerial surveillance.” “And always useful if you want to stake out somewhere.”

“Corp—Captain Carrot?” “Sah!” Carrot stared straight ahead of him with the glistening air of one busting with duty and efficiency and an absolute resolve to duck and dodge any direct questions put to him.

“You’ve won, haven’t you?” he said. “You’ve won.” “Sir? Don’t understand, sir,” said Carrot, radiating honest ignorance.

Perhaps this wasn’t the way it ought to be. But it was the way it was. On the whole, he reflected, it could have been a lot worse.