Night Watch - Terry Pratchett [91]
Vimes tried not to run back to the Watch House, because too many people were standing around in groups and even a running uniform could be risky.
Besides, you didn’t run for officers. He was a sergeant. Sergeants walked with a measured tread.
To his mild surprise, the men were still out in the yard. Someone had even hung up the swordsmanship targets, which would certainly be helpful if the watchmen were faced with an enemy who was armless and tied to a pole.
He climbed the stairs. The captain’s door was open, and he saw that the new man had repositioned his desk so that he could see out onto the landing and down the stairs. Not a good sign, not a good sign at all. An officer shouldn’t see what was going on, he should rely on his sergeants to tell him what was going on. That way things ran smoothly.
This man was keen. Oh, dear…
The new captain looked up. Oh, good grief, Vimes thought. It’s bloody Rust this time round! And it was indeed the Hon. Ronald Rust, the gods’ gift to the enemy, any enemy, and a walking encouragement to desertion.
The Rust family had produced great soldiers, by the undemanding standards of “Deduct Your Own Casualties From Those Of The Enemy, And If The Answer Is A Positive Sum, It Was A Glorious Victory” school of applied warfare. But Rust’s lack of any kind of military grasp was matched only by his high opinion of the talent he, in fact, possessed only in negative amounts.
It hadn’t been Rust last time. He vaguely remembered some other dim captain. All these little changes…what would they add up to?
I bet he’s only just been made a captain, thought Vimes. Just think of the lives I could save by accidentally cutting his head off now. Look at those blue eyes. Look at that stupid curly mustache. And he’s only going to get worse.
“Are you Keel?” The voice was a bark.
“Yessir.”
“I sent an order for you to come up here an hour ago, man.”
“Yessir. But I’ve been on duty all night and morning and there’s been rather a lot to attend to—”
“I expect orders to be obeyed promptly, Sergeant.”
“Yessir. So do I, sir. That’s why—”
“Discipline starts at the top, Sergeant. The men obey you, you obey me, I obey my superiors.”
“Glad to hear it, sir.” Rust had the same firm grip of common politeness, too.
“What is all that going on in the yard?”
Vimes steered according to the prevailing wind…
“A bit of morale-building, sir. Instilling a bit of esprit de corps.”
…and hit a reef. Rust raised his eyebrows.
“Why?” he said. “The men’s job is to do what they are told, as is yours. A group hug is not part of the arrangement, is it?”
“A bit of camaraderie helps the job along, sir. In my experience.”
“Are you eyeballing me, Keel?”
“No, sir. I am wearing an expression of honest doubt, sir. ‘Eyeballing’ is four steps up, right after ‘looking at you in a funny way,’ sir. By standard military custom and practice, sir, sergeants are allowed to go all the way up to an expression of acute—”
“What’s that pip over your stripes, man?”
“Means sergeant-at-arms, sir. They were a special kind of copper.”
The captain grunted and glanced at the papers in front of him.
“Lord Winder has received an extraordinary request that you be promoted to lieutenant, Sergeant. It has come from Captain Swing of the Particulars. And his lordship listens to Captain Swing. Oh, and he wants you to be transferred to the Particulars. Personally, I think the man is mad.”
“I’m one hundred percent behind you there, sir.”
“You do not wish to be a lieutenant?”
“No, sir. Too long for Dick and too short for Richard, sir,” said Vimes, focusing on a point a few inches above Rust’s head.
“What?”
“Neither one thing nor t’other, sir.”
“Oh, so you’d like to be a captain, eh?” said Rust, grinning evilly.
“Nosir. Don’t want to be an officer, sir. Get confused when I see more’n one knife and fork on the table, sir.”
“You certainly don’t look like officer material to me, Sergeant.”
“Nosir. Thank you, sir.” Good old Rust. Good young Rust. The same unthinking