Men at Arms

“I hope you are well. The weather is Fine. This is a corpse who, we fished out of the river last night but, we don't know who he is except he is a member of the Fools' Guild called Beano. He has been seriously hit on the back of the head and has been stuck under the bridge for some time, he is not a Pretty sight. Captain Vimes says to find out things. He says he thinks it is mixed up with the Murder of Mr Hammerhock. He says talk to the Fools. He says Do It. Also please find attached Piece of Paper. Captain Vimes says, try it out on the Alchemists—”

Sergeant Colon stopped reading for a while to curse all alchemists.

“—because it is Puzzling Evidence. Hoping this finds you in Good Health, Yours Faithfully, Carrot Ironfoundersson, (Cpl).”

The sergeant scratched his head. What the hell did that all mean?

Just after breakfast a couple of senior jesters from the Fools' Guild had come to pick up the corpse. Corpses in the river… well, there was nothing very unusual about that. But it wasn't the way clowns died, usually. After all, what did a clown have that was worth stealing? What sort of danger was a clown?

As for the alchemists, he was blowed if he was—

Of course, he didn't have to. He looked up at the recruits. They had to be good for something.

“Cuddy and Detritus—don't salute!—I've got a little job for you. Just take this piece of paper to the Alchemists' Guild, all right? And ask one of the loonies to tell you what he makes of it.”

“Where's the Alchemists' Guild, sergeant?” said Cuddy.

“In the Street of Alchemists, of course,” said Colon, “at the moment. But I should run, if I was you.”

The Alchemists' Guild is opposite the Gamblers' Guild. Usually. Sometimes it's above it, or below it, or falling in bits around it.

The gamblers are occasionally asked why they continue to maintain an establishment opposite a Guild which accidentally blows up its Guild Hall every few months, and they say: “Did you read the sign on the door when you came in?”

The troll and the dwarf walked towards it, occasionally barging into each other by deliberate accident.

“Anyway, you so clever, he gave paper to me?”

“Hah! Can you read it, then? Can you?”

“No, I tell you to read it. That called del-eg-ay-shun.”

“Hah! Can't read! Can't count! Stupid troll!”

“Not stupid!”

“Hah! Yes? Everyone knows trolls can't even count up to four!”12

“Eater of rats!”

“How many fingers am I holding up? You tell me, Mr Clever Rocks in the Head.”

“Many,” Detritus hazarded.

“Har har, no, five. You'll be in big trouble on payday. Sergeant Colon'll say, stupid troll, he won't know how many dollars I give him! Hah! How come you read the notice about joining the Watch, anyway? Got someone to read it to you?”

“How come you read notice? Get someone to hold you up?”

They walked into the door of the Alchemists' Guild.

“I knock. My job!”

“I'll knock!”

When Mr Sendivoge, the Guild secretary, opened the door it was to find a dwarf hanging on the knocker and being swung up and down by a troll. He adjusted his crash helmet.

“Yes?” he said.

Cuddy let go.

Detritus' massive brows knitted.

“Er. You loony bastard, what you make of this?” he said.

Sendivoge stared from Detritus to the paper. Cuddy was struggling to get around the troll, who was almost completely blocking the doorway.

“What'd you go and call him that for?”

“Sergeant Colon, he said–”

“I could make a hat out of it,” said Sendivoge, “or a string of dollies, if I could get some scissors—”

“What my… colleague means, sir, is can you help us in our inquiries in re the writing on this alleged piece of paper here?” said Cuddy. “That bloody hurt!”

Sendivoge peered at him.

“Are you Watchmen?” he said.

“I'm Lance-Constable Cuddy and this,” said Cuddy, gesturing upwards, “is Lance-trying-to-be-Constable Detritus—don't salu- oh…”

There was a thump, and Detritus slumped sideways.

“Suicide squad, is he?” said the alchemist.

“He'll come round in a minute,” said Cuddy. “It's the saluting. It's too much for him. You know trolls.”

Sendivoge shrugged and stared at the writing.

“Looks… familiar,” he said. “Seen it somewhere before. Here… you're a dwarf, aren't you?”

“It's the nose, isn't it?” said Cuddy. “It always gives me away.”

“Well, I'm sure we always try to be of help to the community,” said Sendivoge. “Do come in.”

Cuddy's steel-tipped boots kicked Detritus back into semi-sensibility, and he lumbered after them.

“Why the, er, why the crash helmet, mister?” said Cuddy, as they walked along the corridor. All around them was the sound of hammering. The Guild was usually being rebuilt.

Sendivoge rolled his eyes.

“Balls,” he said, “billiard balls, in fact.”

“I knew a man who played like that,” said Cuddy.

“Oh, no. Mr Silverfish is a good shot. That tends rather to be the problem, in fact.”

Cuddy looked at the crash helmet again.

“It's the ivory, you see.”

“Ah,” said Cuddy, not seeing, “elephants?”

“Ivory without elephants. Transmuted ivory. Sound commercial venture.”