Thud! - Terry Pratchett [61]
Look at it like dis, he thought as he trudged along, singin’ gang songs a bit behind the beat, because he didn’t know the words…all right, being in der middle of dis mob o’ trolls ain’t “lyin’ low,” dat is a fact. But Totally Slag had said the word wuz dat der Watch wuz also after der troll who’d been down dat mine, right? An,’ if you fink about it, der best place to hide a troll, right, is a big bunch of trolls. ’Cos the Watch’d be pokin’ around in der cellars where der real mean trollz hung out, dey wouldn’t be lookin’ here. An’ if dey did, an’ were puttin’ der finger on him, den all dese brother trolls would help him out.
He wasn’t too certain about that last bit, in his heart of hearts. His possibly negative IQ, complete absence of street cred, and, above all, his permanent inclination to snort, suck, swallow, or bite anything that promised to make his brain sparkle, meant that he had been turned down even by the Tenth Egg Street Can’t-Fink-Of-A-Name Gang, rumored to be so dense that one of their members was a lump of concrete on a piece of string. No, it would be hard to imagine any troll caring much what happened to Brick. But right now dey were brothers, and der only game in town.
He nudged the skull-necklaced, graffiti-ornamented, lichen-covered, huge club–dragging troll marching stoically alongside him.
“Resplect, bro!” he said, clenching a scabby fist.
“Whyn’t you go and ghuhg yerself, Brick, you little piece of coprolite…” the troll muttered.
“Right off!” said Brick cheerfully.
The main office was packed, but Vimes fought his way through by shoving and shouting until he reached the duty desk, which was under siege.
“It looks worse than it is, sir!” shouted Cheery over the din. “Detritus and Constable Bluejohn are in the Cham right now, along with all three golem officers! We’ve started getting the line in place! Both the mobs are too busy getting themselves worked up!”
“Good work, Sergeant!”
Cheery leaned down and lowered her voice. Vimes had to hang on to the tall desk to stop himself being carried away by the throng.
“Fred Colon’s signing up the Specials in the Old Lemonade Factory, sir. And Mr. de Worde of the Times is looking for you.”
“Sorry, Sergeant, didn’t catch that last bit!” said Vimes loudly. “The lemonade factory, right? Okay!”
He turned around and almost tripped over Mr. A. E. Pessimal, who was holding a neat clipboard.
“Ah, Your Grace, there’s just a few small matters I’d like to discuss with you,” said the gleaming little man.
Vimes’s mouth dropped open.
“And you think this is a good time, do you?” he managed as he was jostled by an officer carrying a bundle of swords.
“Well, yes, I’ve turned up a number of little financial and procedural problems,” said A. E. Pessimal calmly, “and I think it’s vitally important that I understand exactly what—”
Vimes, grinning horribly, grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Yes! Right! Absolutely!” he shouted. “My dear Mr. Pessimal, what have I been thinking of? You should understand! Come with me, please!”
He half-dragged the bewildered man out through the back door, lifted him out of the way of a trundling cart as he negotiated the crowded yard, and hustled him into the old factory yard, where the Specials were being kitted up.
Technically, they were the citizen’s militia, but, as Fred Colon had remarked, it was “better to have them in here pissing themselves than outside pissing on you.” The Special constables were men—mostly—who could be coppers in times of dire need but were generally disqualified from formal Watch membership by reason of shape, profession, age, or, sometimes, brain.
A lot of the professionals didn’t like them, but Vimes had lately taken the view that when push came to shove