Men at Arms - Terry Pratchett [84]
“I’ll take over from this point, if you don’t mind.”
He gently pushed the siege bow away, but Detritus hadn’t liked the crack about people and it kept swinging back again.
“Now,” said Carrot, “I don’t like this element of coercion. We’re not here to bully this poor man. He’s a city employee, just like us. It’s very wrong of you to put him in fear. Why not just ask?”
“Sorry, sir,” said Nobby.
Carrot patted the armorer on the shoulder.
“May we take some weapons?” he said.
“What?”
“Some weapons? For official purposes?”
The armorer looked unable to cope with this.
“You mean I got a choice?” he said.
“Why, certainly. We practice policing by consent in Ankh-Morpork. If you feel unable to agree to our request, you only have to say the word.”
There was a faint bong as the tip of the iron arrow once again bounced on the back of the armorer’s skull. He sought in vain for something to say, because the only word he could think of right now was “Fire!”
“Uh,” he said. “Uh. Yeah. Right. Sure. Take what you want.”
“Fine, fine. And Sergeant Colon will give you a receipt, adding of course that you release the weapons of your own free will.”
“My own free will?”
“You have absolute choice in the matter, of course.”
The man’s face screwed up in the effort of desperate cogitation.
“I reckon…”
“Yes?”
“I reckon it’s OK for you to take ’em. Take ’em right away.”
“Good man. Do you have a trolley?”
“And do you happen to know what it is they say about dwarfs?” said Cuddy.
It crept over Angua once again that Carrot had no irony in his soul. He meant every word. If the man had really held out, Carrot would probably have given in. Of course, there was a bit of a gap between probably and certainly.
Nobby was down the end of the row, occasionally squeaking with delight as he found an interesting war hammer or an especially evil-looking glaive. He was trying to hold everything, all at once.
Then he dropped the lot and ran forward.
“Oh, wow! A Klatchian fire engine! This is more my meteor!”
They heard him rummaging around in the gloom. He emerged pushing a sort of bin on small squeaky wheels. It had various handles and fat leathery bags, and a nozzle at the front. It looked like a very large kettle.
“The leather’s been kept greased, too!”
“What is it?” said Carrot.
“And there’s oil in the reservoir!” Nobby pumped a handle energetically. “Last I heard, this thing had been banned in eight countries and three religions said they’d excommunicate any soldiers found using it!* Anyone got a light?”
“Here,” said Carrot, “but what’s—”
“Watch!”
Nobby lit a match, applied it to the tube at the front of the device, and pulled a lever.
They put out the flames eventually.
“Needs a bit of adjustment,” said Nobby, through his mask of soot.
“No,” said Carrot. For the rest of his life he’d remember the jet of fire scorching his face en route to the opposite wall.
“But it’s—”
“No. It’s too dangerous.”
“It’s meant to be—”
“I mean it could hurt people.”
“Ah,” said Nobby, “right. You should have said. We’re after weapons that don’t hurt people, right?”
“Corporal Nobbs?” said Sergeant Colon, who’d been even closer to the flame than Carrot.
“Yes, sarge?”
“You heard Corporal Carrot. No heathen weapons. Anyway, how come you know so much about all this stuff?”
“Milit’ry service.”
“Really, Nobby?” said Carrot.
“Had a special job, sir. Very responsible.”
“And what was that?”
“Quartermaster, sir,” said Nobby, saluting smartly.
“You were a quartermaster?” said Carrot. “In whose army?”
“Duke of Pseudopolis, sir.”
“But Pseudopolis always lost its wars!”
“Ah…well…”
“Who did you sell the weapons to?”
“That’s a slander, that is! They just used to spend a lot of time away for polishing and sharpening.”
“Nobby, this is Carrot talking to you. How much time, approximately?”
“Approximately? Oh. About a hundred percent, if we’re talking approximately, sir.”
“Nobby?”
“Sir?”
“You don’t have to call me sir.”
“Yessir.”
In the end, Cuddy remained faithful to his axe, but added a couple more as an afterthought; Sergeant Colon chose a pike because