Feet of Clay - Terry Pratchett [54]
“You boys new in town?” said Mr. Cheese, buffing a glass.
The boldest of the three waved his bow under the barman’s nose. “All the money right now!” he screamed. “Otherwise,” he said, to the room in general, “you’ve got a dead barman.”
“Plenty of other bars in town, boyo,” said a voice.
Mr. Cheese didn’t look up from the glass he was polishing. “I know that was you, Constable Thighbiter,” he said calmly. “There’s two dollars and thirty pence on your slate, thank you very much.”
The thieves drew closer together. Bars shouldn’t act like this. And they fancied they could hear the faint sliding noises of assorted weapons being drawn from various sheaths.
“Haven’t I seen you before?” said Carrot.
“Oh gods, it’s him,” moaned one of the men. “The bread-thrower!”
“I thought Mr. Ironcrust was taking you to the Thieves’ Guild,” Carrot went on.
“There was a bit of an argument about taxes…”
“Don’t tell him!”
Carrot tapped his head. “The tax forms!” he said. “I expect Mr. Ironcrust is worried I’ve forgotten about them!”
The thieves were now so close together they looked like a fat six-armed man with a very large bill for hats.
“Er…Watchmen aren’t allowed to kill people, right?” said one of them.
“Not while we’re on duty,” said Vimes.
The boldest of the three moved suddenly, grabbed Angua and pulled her upright. “We walk out of here unharmed or the girl gets it, all right?” he snarled.
Someone sniggered.
“I hope you’re not going to kill anyone,” said Carrot.
“That’s up to us!”
“Sorry, was I talking to you?” said Carrot.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” said Angua. She looked around to make sure Cheery wasn’t there, and then sighed. “Come on, gentlemen, let’s get it over with.”
“Don’t play with your food!” said a voice from the crowd.
There were one or two giggles until Carrot turned in his seat, whereupon everyone was suddenly intensely interested in their drinks.
“It’s OK,” said Angua quietly.
Aware that something was out of kilter, but not quite sure what it was, the thieves edged back to the door. No one moved as they unbolted it and, still holding Angua, stepped out into the fog, shutting the door behind them.
“Hadn’t we better help?” said a constable who was new to the Watch.
“They don’t deserve help,” said Vimes.
There was a clank of armor and then a long, deep growl, right outside in the street.
And a scream. And then another scream. And a third scream modulated with “NONONOnononono nonoNO!…aarghaarghaargh!” Something heavy hit the door.
Vimes turned back to Carrot. “You and Constable Angua,” he said. You…er…get along all right?”
“Fine, sir,” said Carrot.
“Some people might think that, er, there might be, er, problems…”
There was a thud, and then a faint bubbling noise.
“We work around them, sir,” said Carrot, raising his voice slightly.
“I heard that her father’s not very happy about her working here…”
“They don’t have much law up in Uberwald, sir. They think it’s for weak societies. The baron’s not a very civic-minded man.”
“He’s pretty bloodthirsty, from what I’ve heard.”
“She wants to stay in the Watch, sir. She likes meeting people.”
From outside came another gurgle. Fingernails scrabbled at a windowpane. Then their owner disappeared abruptly from view.
“Well, it’s not for me to judge,” said Vimes.
“No, sir.”
After a few moments of silence the door opened, slowly. Angua walked in, adjusting her clothes, and sat down. All the Watchmen in the room suddenly took a second course of advanced beer-study.
“Er…” Carrot began.
“Flesh wounds,” said Angua. “But one of them did shoot one of the others in the leg by accident.”
“I think you’d better put it in your report as ‘self-inflicted wounds while resisting arrest’,” said Vimes.
“Yes, sir,” said Angua.
“Not all of them,” said Carrot.
“They tried to rob our bar and take a wer—Angua hostage,” said Vimes.
“Oh, I see what you mean, sir,” said Carrot. “Self-inflicted. Yes. Of course.”
It had gone quiet in the Mended Drum. This was because it is usually very hard to be both loud and unconscious.
Sergeant Colon was