Men at Arms - Terry Pratchett [96]
“Put it down, Nobby,” hissed Colon, “I don’t think they’re going to make trouble…”
“I can’t let go, Fred!”
Carrot sucked his knuckles.
“Do you think that comes under the heading of ‘minimum necessary force’, sergeant?” he asked. He appeared to be genuinely worried.
“Fred! Fred! What’ll I do?”
Nobby was a terrified blur. When you are swinging a spiky ball on a chain, the only realistic option is to keep moving. Standing still is an interesting but brief demonstration of a spiral in action.
“Is he still breathing?” said Colon.
“Oh, yes. I pulled the punch.”
“Sounds minimum enough to me, sir,” said Colon loyally.
“Fredddd!”
Carrot reached out absent-mindedly as the morningstar rocketed past and caught it by the chain. Then he threw it against the wall, where it stuck.
“You men in there in the Watch House,” he said, “come out now.”
Five men emerged, edging cautiously around the prone captain.
“Good. Now go and get Coalface.”
“Er…he’s in a bit of a bad temper, Corporal Carrot.”
“On account of being chained to the floor,” volunteered another guard.
“Well, now,” said Carrot. “The thing is, he’s going to be unchained right now.” The men shuffled their feet nervously, possibly remembering an old proverb that fitted the occasion very well.* Carrot nodded. “I won’t ask you to do it, but I might suggest you take some time off,” he said.
“Quirm is very nice at this time of year,” said Sergeant Colon helpfully. “They’ve got a floral clock.”
“Er…since you mention it…I’ve got some sick leave coming up,” one of them said.
“I should think that’s very probable, if you hang around,” said Carrot.
They sidled off as fast as decency allowed. The crowd hardly paid them any attention. There was still a lot more mileage in watching Carrot.
“Right,” said Carrot. “Detritus, you take some men and go and bring out the prisoner.”
“I don’t see why—” a dwarf began.
“You shut up, you horrible man,” said Detritus, drunk with power.
You could have heard a guillotine drop.
In the crowd, a number of different-sized knobbly hands gripped a variety of concealed weapons.
Everyone looked at Carrot.
That was the strange thing, Colon remembered later. Everyone looked at Carrot.
Gaspode sniffed a lamppost.
“I see Three-legged Shep has been ill again,” he said. “And old Willy the Pup is back in town.”
To a dog, a well-placed hitching post or lamp is a social calendar.
“Where are we?” said Angua. Foul Ole Ron’s trail was hard to follow. There were so many other smells.
“Somewhere in the Shades,” said Gaspode. “Sweetheart Lane, smells like.” He snuffled across the ground. “Ah, here he is again, the little…”
“’ullo, Gaspode…”
It was a deep, hoarse voice, a kind of whisper with sand in it. It came from somewhere in an alley.
“’o’s yer fwiend, Gaspode?”
There was a snigger.
“Ah,” said Gaspode. “Uh. Hi, guys.”
Two dogs emerged from the alley. They were huge. Their species was indeterminate. One of them was jet black and looked like a pit bull terrier crossed with a mincing machine. The other…the other looked like a dog whose name was almost certainly “Butch”. Both top and bottom set of fangs had grown so large that he appeared to be looking at the world through bars. He was also bow-legged, although it would probably be a bad if not terminal move for anyone to comment on this.
Gaspode’s tail vibrated nervously.
“These are my friends Black Roger and—”
“Butch?” suggested Angua.
“How did you know that?”
“A lucky guess,” said Angua.
The two big dogs had moved around so that they were on either side of them.
“Well, well, well,” said Black Roger. “Who’s this, then?”
“Angua,” said Gaspode. “She’s a—”
“—wolfhound,” said Angua.
The two dogs paced around them hungrily.
“Big Fido know about her?” said Black Roger.
“I was just—” Gaspode began.
“Well, now,” said Black Roger, “I reckon you’d be wanting to come with us. Guild night tonight.