Men at Arms - Terry Pratchett [53]
Vimes nodded. It sits up here in all weather straining gnats through its ears, he thought. People like that don’t have a crowded address book. Even whelks get out more.
“I’m Captain Vimes of the Watch.”
The gargoyle pricked up its huge ears.
“Ar. Oo erk or Ister Arrot?”
Vimes worked this one out, too, and blinked.
“You know Corporal Carrot?”
“Oh, Ess. Air-ee-un owes Arrot.”
Vimes snorted. I grew up here, he thought, and when I walk down the street everyone says, “Who’s that glum bugger?” Carrot’s been here a few months and everyone knows him. And he knows everyone. Everyone likes him. I’d be annoyed about that, if only he wasn’t so likeable.
“You live right up here,” said Vimes, interested despite the more pressing problem on his mind, “how come you know Arrot…Carrot?”
“Ee cuns uk ere um-imes an awks oo ugg.”
“Uz ee?”
“Egg.”
“Did someone else come up here? Just now?”
“Egg.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“Oh. Ee oot izh oot on i ed. Ang et ogg a ire-erk. I or ing un ah-ay a-ong Or-oh-Erns Eet.”
Holofernes Street, Vimes translated. Whoever it was would be well away by now.
“Ee ad a ick,” Cornice volunteered. “A ire-erkhtick.”
“A what?”
“Ire-erk. Oo oh? Ang! Ock! Arks! Ocketks! Ang!”
“Oh, fireworks.”
“Egg. Aks ot I ed.”
“A firework stick? Like…like a rocket stick?”
“Oh, ih-ee-ot! A htick, oo oint, ik koes ANG!”
“You point it and it goes bang?”
“Egg!”
Vimes scratched his head. Sounded like a wizard’s staff. But they didn’t go bang.
“Well…thanks,” he said. “You’ve been…eh-ee elkfhull.”
He turned back toward the stairs.
Someone had tried to kill him.
And the Patrician had warned him against investigating the theft from the Assassins’ Guild. Theft, he said.
Up until then, Vimes hadn’t even been certain there had been a theft.
And then, of course, there are the laws of chance. They play a far greater role in police procedure than narrative causality would like to admit. For every murder solved by the careful discovery of a vital footprint or a cigarette end, a hundred failed to be resolved because the wind blew some leaves the wrong way or it didn’t rain the night before. So many crimes are solved by a happy accident—by the random stopping of a car, by an overhead remark, by someone of the right nationality happening to be within five miles of the scene of the crime without an alibi…
Even Vimes knew about the power of chance.
His sandal clinked against something metallic.
“And this,” said Corporal Carrot, “is the famous commemorative arch celebrating the Battle of Crumhorn. We won it, I think. It’s got over ninety statues of famous soldiers. It’s something of a landmark.”
“Should have put up a stachoo to the accounttants,” said a doggy voice behind Angua. “First battle in the universe where the enemy were persuaded to sell their weapons.”
“Where is it, then?” said Angua, still ignoring Gaspode.
“Ah. Yes. That’s the problem,” said Carrot. “Excuse me, Mr. Scant. This is Mr. Scant. Official Keeper of the Monuments. According to ancient tradition, his pay is one dollar a year and a new vest every Hogswatchday.”
There was an old man sitting on a stool at the road junction, with his hat over his eyes. He pushed it up.
“Afternoon, Mr. Carrot. You’ll be wanting to see the triumphal arch, will you?”
“Yes, please.” Carrot turned back to Angua. “Unfortunately, the actual practical design was turned over to Bloody Stupid Johnson.”
The old man eventually produced a small cardboard box from a pocket, and reverentially took off the lid.
“Where is it?”
“Just there,” said Carrot. “Behind that little bit of cotton wool.”
“Oh.”
“I’m afraid that for Mr. Johnson accurate measurements were something that happened to other people.”
Mr. Scant closed the lid.
“He also did the Quirm Memorial, the Hanging Gardens of Ankh, and the Colossus of Morpork,” said Carrot.
“The Colossus of Morpork?” said Angua.
Mr. Scant held up a skinny finger. “Ah,” he said. “Don’t go away.” He started to pat his pockets. “Got ’im ’ere somewhere.”
“Didn’t the man ever design anything useful?”
“Well, he did design an ornamental cruet