Night Watch - Terry Pratchett [10]
“Carcer doesn’t need a reason,” said Vimes. “He just needs an excuse.” A movement far above caught his eye, and he grinned.
A large bird was gaining height over the city.
The heron, mumbling complaints, fought for altitude in big, sweeping circles. The city whirled around Corporal Buggy Swires as he gripped even harder with his knees, and he swung the bird downwind and it landed with a staggering run on the top of the Tower of Art, the highest building in the city.
With a practiced movement, the gnome sliced through the string holding the portable semaphore in place, and leaped down after it into the compost of ivy leaves and old ravens’ nests that carpeted the top of the tower.
The heron watched him with round-eyed stupidity. Buggy had tamed it in the usual gnome way: you painted yourself green like a frog and hung out in the marshes, croaking, and then, when a heron tried to eat you, you ran up its beak and beaned it. By the time it came around you’d blown the special oil up its nostrils—that had taken all day to make, and the stink of it had emptied the Watch House—and it took one look at you and thought you were its mum.
A heron was useful. It could carry equipment. But Buggy preferred a sparrowhawk for traffic patrol. It was better for hovering.
He slotted the portable semaphore arms onto the post he’d secretly installed weeks ago. Then he unshipped a tiny telescope from the heron’s saddlebags and strapped it onto the edge of the stone, looking almost straight down. Buggy liked moments like this. It was the only time that everyone else was smaller than him.
“Now…let’s see what we can see,” he muttered.
There were the University buildings. There was the clock tower of Old Tom, and the unmistakable bulk of Sergeant Detritus climbing among the nearby chimneys. The yellow light of the gathering storm glinted off the helmets of watchmen who were hurrying through the streets. And there, creeping along behind the parapet…
“Gotcha,” he said quietly, and reached for the handles of the semaphore.
“D…T…R…T…S space H…D…N…G space O…L space T…M,” said Cheery.
Vimes nodded. Detritus was on the roof near the tower of Old Tom. And Detritus carried a siege crossbow that three men couldn’t lift, and had converted it to fire a thick sheaf of arrows all at once. Mostly they shattered in the air because of the forces involved, and the target was hit by an expanding cloud of burning splinters. Vimes had banned him from using it on people, but it was a damn good way of getting into buildings. It could open the front door and the back door at the same time.
“Tell him to fire a warning shot,” he said. “If he hits Carcer with that thing we won’t even find a corpse.” Though I’d quite like to find a corpse, he added to himself.
“Yes, sir.” Cheery pulled a couple of white-painted paddles out of her belt, sighted on the top of the tower, and sent a brief signal. There was an answering signal from the distant Buggy.
“D…T…R…T…S space W…R…N…G space S…H…T,” Cheery muttered to herself as she waved the rest of the message.
There was another answering dip from above. A moment later a red flare shot up from the top of the tower and exploded. It was an efficient way of getting everyone to pay attention. Then Vimes saw the message relayed.
Around the University buildings, watchmen who’d also seen the order ducked into doorways. They knew about the bow.
There were a few seconds for the troll to work out the spelling, a distant heavy thud, a sound like a swarm of hellish bees, and then a crash of tiles and masonry. Pieces of tile rained down into the square. An entire chimney, still with a wisp of smoke coming from it, smashed down a few yards from where Vimes was standing.
Then there was the patter of dust and small bits of wood, and a gentle shower of pigeon feathers.
Vimes shook some flakes of mortar off his helmet.
“Yes, well, I think he’s been warned,” he said.
Half a weathercock landed next to the chimney.
Cheery blew some feathers off her telescope and sighted on the top of the tower again.
“Buggy says he’s stopped moving,