Guards! Guards! - Terry Pratchett [24]
“And more drinking?” Carrot thumbed hastily through the book.
“I hope so,” said Nobby. He nodded to the troll which was employed by the Drum as a splatter.1 “Evenin’, Detritus. Just showing the new lad the ropes.”
The troll grunted, and waved a crusted arm.
The inside of the Mended Drum is now legendary as the most famous disreputable tavern on the Discworld, and such a feature of the city that, after recent unavoidable redecorations, the new owner spent days recreating the original patina of dirt, soot and less identifiable substances on the walls and imported a ton of pre-rotted rushes for the floor. The drinkers were the usual bunch of heroes, cut throats, mercenaries, desperadoes and villains, and only microscopic analysis could have told which was which. Thick coils of smoke hung in the air, perhaps to avoid touching the walls.
The conversation dipped fractionally as the two guards wandered in, and then rose to its former level. A couple of cronies waved to Nobby.
He realized that Carrot was busy.
“What you doin’?” he said. “And no talkin’ about mothers, right?”
“I’m taking notes,” said Carrot, grimly. “I’ve got a notebook.”
“That’s the ticket,” said Nobby. “You’ll like this place. I comes here every night for my supper.”
“How do you spell ‘contravention’?” said Carrot, turning over a page.
“I don’t,” said Nobby, pushing through the crowds. A rare impulse to generosity lodged in his mind. “What d’you want to drink?”
“I don’t think that would be very appropriate,” said Carrot. “Anyway, Strong Drink is a Mocker.”
He was aware of a penetrating stare in the back of his neck, and turned and looked into the big, bland and gentle face of an orangutan.
It was seated at the bar with a pint mug and a bowl of peanuts in front of it. It tilted its glass amicably toward Carrot and then drank deeply and noisily by apparently forming its lower lip into a sort of prehensile funnel and making a noise like a canal being drained.
Carrot nudged Nobby.
“There’s a monk—” he began.
“Don’t say it!” said Nobby urgently. “Don’t say the word! It’s the Librarian. Works up at the University. Always comes down here for a nightcap of an evening.”
“And people don’t object?”
“Why should they?” said Nobby. “He always stands his round, just like everyone else.”
Carrot turned and looked at the ape again. A number of questions pressed for attention, such as: where does it keep its money? The Librarian caught his gaze, misinterpreted it, and gently pushed the bowl of peanuts toward him.
Carrot pulled himself to his full impressive height and consulted his notebook. The afternoon spent reading The Laws and Ordinances had been well spent.
“Who is the owner, proprietor, lessee, or landlord of these premises?” he said to Nobby.
“Wassat?” said the small guard. “Landlord? Well, I suppose Charley here is in charge tonight. Why?” He indicated a large, heavy-set man whose face was a net of scars; its owner paused in the act of spreading the dirt more evenly around some glasses by means of a damp cloth, and gave Carrot a conspiratorial wink.
“Charley, this is Carrot,” said Nobby. “He’s stopping along of Rosie Palm’s.”
“What, every night?” said Charley.
Carrot cleared his throat.
“If you are in charge,” he intoned, “then it is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest.”
“A rest of what, friend?” said Charley, still polishing.
“Under arrest,” said Carrot, “with a view to the presentation of charges to whit 1)(i) that on or about 18th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did a) serve or b) did cause to serve alcoholic beverages after the hours of 12 (twelve) midnight, contrary to the provisions of the Public Ale Houses (Opening) Act of 1678, and 1)(ii) on or about 18th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did serve or did cause to serve alcoholic beverages in containers other than of a size and capacity laid down by aforesaid Act, and 2)(i) that on or about 18th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street,