Thud! - Terry Pratchett [98]
I mean, what would really happen if there was real proof that, say, the dwarfs ambushed the trolls? Nothing that isn’t happening already, that’s what. You can always find an excuse that your side will accept, and who cares what the enemy thinks? In the real world, it wouldn’t make any difference.
There was a very faint knock at the door, the sort that you use if you secretly hope it won’t be answered. Vimes sprang from his chair and pulled it open.
A. E. Pessimal stood there.
“Ah, A. E.,” said Vimes, going back to his desk and laying down his pencil. “Come on in. What can I do for you? How’s the arm?”
“Er…could you spare a moment of your time, Your Grace?”
Your Grace, thought Vimes. Well, he hadn’t the heart to object, this time.
He sat down again. A. E. Pessimal was still wearing the chain-mail shirt with the Specials badge on it. He didn’t look very shiny. Brick’s swipe had bowled him across the plaza like a ball.
“Er…” A. E. Pessimal began.
“You’ll have to start as a lance constable, but a man of your talents ought to make it to sergeant within a year. And you can have your own office,” said Vimes.
A. E. Pessimal shut his eyes. “How did you know?” he breathed.
“You attacked a boozed-up troll with your teeth,” said Vimes. “‘There’s a man born for the badge,’ I thought to myself.”
And that’s what you’ve always wanted, right? But you were always too small, too weak, too shy to be a watchman. I can buy big and strong anywhere. Right now I need a man who knows how to hold a pencil without breaking it.
“You’ll be my adjutant,” he went on. “You’ll handle all my paperwork. You’ll read the reports, you’ll try to figure out what’s important. And so you can learn what is important, you’ll have to do at least two patrols a week.”
A tear was running down A. E. Pessimal’s cheek. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said hoarsely.
If A. E. Pessimal had enough chest to stick out, it would be sticking.
“Of course, you’ll need to finish your report on the Watch first,” Vimes added. “That is a matter between you and his lordship. And now, if you will excuse me, I really must get on. I look forward to seeing you working for me, Lance Constable Pessimal.”
“Thank you, Your Grace!”
“Oh, and you won’t call me ‘Your Grace,’ ” said Vimes. He thought for a moment, and decided that the man had earned this, all in one go, and added: “ ‘Mister Vimes’ will do.”
And so we make progress, he said to himself, after A. E. Pessimal had floated away. And his lordship won’t like it, so, as far as I can see, there’s no downside. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, er, qui custodes custodient? Was that right for “Who watches the watcher that watches the watchmen”? Probably not. Still…your move, my lord.
He was just puzzling over his notebook again when the door opened without an introductory knock.
Sybil entered, with a plate.
“You’re not eating enough, Sam,” she announced. “And the canteen here is a disgrace. It’s all grease and garbage!”
“That’s what the men like, I’m afraid,” said Vimes guiltily.
“I’ve cleaned out the tar in the tea urn, at least,” Sybil went on, with satisfaction.
“You cleaned out the tea urn?” said Vimes in a hollow voice. It was like being told that someone had wiped the patina off a fine old work of art.
“Yes, it was like tar in there. There really wasn’t much proper food in the store, but I managed to make you a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich.”
“Thank you, dear.” Vimes cautiously lifted a corner of the bread with his broken pencil. There seemed to be too much lettuce, which was to say, there was some lettuce.
“There’s a lot of dwarfs come to see you, Sam,” said Sibyl, as if this was preying on her mind.
Vimes stood up so fast that his chair fell over.
“Is Young Sam all right?” he said.
“Yes, Sam. They’re city dwarfs. You know them all, I think. They say they want to talk to you about—”
But Vimes was already clattering down the stairs, drawing his sword as he did so.
The dwarfs were clustered nervously by the duty sergeant’s desk. They had that opulence of metalwork, sleekness of beard, and