The Fifth Elephant - Terry Pratchett [60]
The coaches bowled over the cobbles. Not the right sort of cobbles, of course. Vimes knew that.
The coach stopped again. Vimes stuck his head out of the window. Two rather scruffier guards had barred the road this time.
“Ah, I recognize this one,” said Vimes grimly. “I reckon that this time we’ve just met Colonesque and Nobbski.”
He stepped out and walked up to them.
“Well?”
The fatter of the two hesitated, and then held out his hand.
“Pisspot,” he said.
“Inigo?” said Vimes quietly, without turning his head.
“Ah,” said Inigo, after some muttered exchanges. “Now the problem seems to be Sergeant Detritus. No trolls are allowed in this part of town during the hours of daylight, apparently, without a passport signed by their…owner. Uh…in Bonk the only trolls allowed are prisoners of war. They have to carry identification.”
“Detritus is a citizen of Ankh-Morpork and my sergeant,” said Vimes.
“However, he is a troll. Perhaps in the interests of diplomacy you could write a short—”
“Do I need a pisspot?”
“A passport…no, Your Grace.”
“Then he doesn’t, either.”
“Nevertheless, Your Grace—”
“There is no nevertheless.”
“But it may be advisable to—”
“There’s no advisable, either.”
A few other guards had drifted over. Vimes was aware of watching eyes.
“He could be ejected by force,” said Inigo.
“Now there’s an experiment I wouldn’t want to miss,” said Vimes.
Detritus made a rumbling noise. “I don’t mind goin’ back if—”
“Shut up, Sergeant. You’re a free troll. That’s an order.”
Vimes permitted himself another brief scan of the growing, silent crowd. And he saw the fear in the eyes of the men with the halberds. They did not want to be doing this, any more than the captain had.
“I’ll tell you what, Inigo,” he said, “tell the…guards that the Ambassador from Ankh-Morpork commends them for their diligence, congratulates them on their dress sense, and will see that their instruction is obeyed forthwith. That should do it, shouldn’t it?”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
“And now turn the coach around, Detritus. Coming, Inigo?”
Inigo’s expression changed rapidly.
“We passed an inn about ten miles back,” Vimes went on. “Ought to make it by dark, do you think?”
“But you can’t go, Your Grace!”
Vimes turned, very slowly.
“Would you repeat that, Mister Skimmer?”
“I mean—”
“We are leaving, Mister Skimmer. What you do, of course, is up to you.”
He sat down inside the coach. Opposite him, Sybil made a fist and said “Well done!”
“Sorry, dear,” said Vimes, as the coach turned. “It didn’t look like a very good inn.”
“Serves them right, the little bullies,” said Sybil. “You showed them.”
Vimes glanced out and saw, at the edge of the crowd, a black coach with dark windows. He could make out a figure in the gloom within. The luckless guards were looking at it, as if for instructions. It waved a gloved hand languidly.
He started counting under his breath.
After eleven seconds Inigo trotted alongside the coach and jumped onto the running board.
“Your Grace, apparently the guards acted quite without authority and will be punished—”
“No they didn’t. I was looking at ’em. They’d been given an order,” said Vimes.
“Nevertheless, diplomatically it would be a good idea to accept the explan—”
“So that the poor buggers can be hung up by their thumbs?” said Vimes. “No. Just you go back and tell whoever’s giving the orders that all our people can go anywhere they like in this city, d’you see, whatever shape they are.”
“I don’t think you can actually demand that, sir—”
“Those lads had old Burleigh and Stronginthearm weapons, Mister Skimmer. Made in Ankh-Morpork. So did the men on the gate. Trade, Mister Skimmer. Isn’t that part of what diplomacy is all about? You go back and talk to whoever’s in the black carriage, and then you’d better get them to lend you a horse, because I reckon we’ll have gone a little way by then.”
“You could perhaps wait