Men at Arms - Terry Pratchett [30]
“Sir?”
“You will cease any investigations connected with this theft from the Assassins’ Guild. Do you understand? It is entirely Guild business.”
“Sir,” Vimes kept his face carefully immobile.
“I’m choosing to believe that the unspoken word in that sentence was a yes, captain.”
“Sir.”
“And that one, too. As for the matter of the unfortunate Mr. Hammerhock…The body was discovered just a short while ago?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then it’s out of your jurisdiction, captain.”
“What? Sir?”
“The Day Watch can deal with it.”
“But we’ve never bothered with that hours-of-day-light jurisdiction stuff!”
“Nevertheless, in the current circumstances I shall instruct Captain Quirke to take over the investigation, if it turns out that one is necessary.”
If one is necessary. If people don’t end up with half their chest gone by accident. Meteorite strike, perhaps, thought Vimes.
He took a deep breath and leaned on the Patrician’s desk.
“Mayonnaise Quirke couldn’t find his arse with an atlas! And he’s got no idea about how to talk to dwarfs! He calls them gritsuckers! My men found the body! It’s my jurisdiction!”
The Patrician glanced at Vimes’ hands. Vimes removed them from the desk as if it had suddenly grown red-hot.
“Night Watch. That’s what you are, captain. Your writ runs in the hours of darkness.”
“It’s dwarfs we’re talking about! If we don’t get it right, they’ll take the law into their own hands! That usually means chopping the head off the nearest troll! And you’ll put Quirke on this?”
“I’ve given you an order, captain.”
“But—”
“You may go.”
“You can’t—”
“I said you may go, Captain Vimes!”
“Sir.”
Vimes saluted. Then he turned about, and marched out of the room. He closed the door carefully, so that there was barely a click.
The Patrician heard him thump the wall outside. Vimes wasn’t aware, but there were a number of barely perceptible dents in the wall outside the Oblong Office, their depths corresponding to his emotional state at the time.
By the sound of it, this one would need the services of a plasterer.
Lord Vetinari permitted himself a smile, although there was no humor in it.
The city operated. It was a self-regulating college of Guilds linked by the inexorable laws of mutual self-interest, and it worked. On average. By and large. Overall. Normally.
The last thing you needed was some Watchman blundering around upsetting things, like a loose…a loose…a loose siege catapult.
Normally.
Vimes seemed in a suitable emotional state. With any luck, the orders would have the desired effect…
There’s a bar like it in every big city. It’s where the coppers drink.
The Guard seldom drank in Ankh-Morpork’s more cheerful taverns when they were off duty. It was too easy to see something that would put them back on duty again.* So they generally went to The Bucket, in Gleam Street. It was small and low-ceilinged, and the presence of city guards tended to discourage other drinkers. But Mr. Cheese, the owner, wasn’t too worried about this. No one drinks like a copper who has seen too much to stay sober.
Carrot counted out his change on the counter.
“That’s three beers, one milk, one molten sulphur on coke with phosphoric acid—”
“With umbrella in it,” said Detritus.
“—and A Slow Comfortable Double-Entendre with lemonade.”
“With a fruit salad in it,” said Nobby.
“Woof?”
“And some beer in a bowl,” said Angua.
“That little dog seems to have taken quite a shine to you,” said Carrot.
“Yes,” said Angua. “I can’t think why.”
The drinks were put in front of them. They stared at the drinks. They drank the drinks.
Mr. Cheese, who knew coppers, wordlessly refilled the glasses and Detritus’ insulated mug.
They stared at the drinks. They drank the drinks.
“You know,” said Colon, after a while, “what gets me, what really gets me, is they just dumped him in the water. I mean, not even weights. Just dumped him. Like it didn’t matter if he was found. You know what I mean?”
“What gets me,” said Cuddy, “is that he was a dwarf.