Men at Arms

“Ah, Vimes,” he said, without looking around, “come here, will you? And tell me what you see.”

Vimes hated guessing games, but he joined the Patrician anyway.

The Oblong Office had a view over half the city, although most of it was rooftops and towers. Vimes' imagination peopled the towers with men holding gonnes. The Patrician would be an easy target.

“What do you see out there, captain?”

“City of Ankh-Morpork, sir,” said Vimes, keeping his expression carefully blank.

“And does it put you in mind of anything, captain?”

Vimes scratched his head. If he was going to play games, he was going to play games…

“Well, sir, when I was a kid we owned a cow once, and one day it got sick, and it was always my job to clean out the cowshed, and—”

“It reminds me of a clock,” said the Patrician. “Big wheels, little wheels. All clicking away. The little wheels spin and the big wheels turn, all at different speeds, you see, but the machine works. And that is the most important thing. The machine keeps going. Because when the machine breaks down…”

He turned suddenly, strode to his desk with his usual predatory stalk, and sat down.

“Or, again, sometimes a piece of grit might get into the wheels, throwing them off balance. One speck of grit.”

Vetinari looked up and flashed Vimes a mirthless smile.

“I won't have that.”

Vimes stared at the wall.

“I believe I told you to forget about certain recent events, captain?”

“Sir.”

“Yet it appears that the Watch have been getting in the wheels.”

“Sir.”

“What am I to do with you?”

“Couldn't say, sir.”

Vimes minutely examined the wall. He wished Carrot was here. The lad might be simple, but he was so simple that sometimes he saw things that the subtle missed. And he kept coming up with simple ideas that stuck in your mind. Policeman, for example. He'd said to Vimes one day, while they were proceeding along the Street of Small Gods: Do you know where “policeman” comes from, sir? Vimes hadn't. “Polis” used to mean “city”, said Carrot. That's what policeman means: “a man for the city”. Not many people know that. The word “polite” comes from “polis”, too. It used to mean the proper behaviour from someone living in a city.

Man of the city… Carrot was always throwing out stuff like that. Like “copper”. Vimes had believed all his life that the Watch were called coppers because they carried copper badges, but no, said Carrot, it comes from the old word cappere, to capture.

Carrot read books in his spare time. Not well. He'd have real difficulty if you cut his index finger off. But continuously. And he wandered around Ankh-Morpork on his day off.

“Captain Vimes?”

Vimes blinked.

“Sir?”

“You have no concept of the delicate balance of the city. I'll tell you one more time. This business with the Assassins and the dwarf and this clown… you are to cease involving yourself.”

“No, sir. I can't.”

“Give me your badge.”

Vimes looked down at his badge.

He never really thought about it. It was just something he'd always had. It didn't mean anything very much… really… one way or the other. It was just something he'd always had.

“My badge?”

“And your sword.”

Slowly, with fingers that suddenly felt like bananas, and bananas that didn't belong to him at that, Vimes undid his sword belt.

“And your badge.”

“Um. Not my badge.”

Why not?”

“Um. Because it's my badge.”

“But you're resigning anyway when you get married.”

“Right.”

Their eyes met.

“How much does it mean to you?”

Vimes stared. He couldn't find the right words. It was just that he'd always been a man with a badge. He wasn't sure he could be one without the other.

Finally Lord Vetinari said: “Very well. I believe you're getting married at noon tomorrow.” His long fingers picked up the gilt-embossed invitation from the desk “Yes. You can keep your badge, then. And have an honourable retirement. But I'm keeping the sword. And the Day Watch will be sent down to the Yard shortly to disarm your men. I'm standing the Night Watch down, Captain Vimes. In due course I might appoint another man in charge—at my leisure. Until then, you and your men can consider yourselves on leave.”

“The Day Watch? A bunch of—”

“I'm sorry?”

“Yes, sir.”

“One infraction, however, and the badge is mine. Remember.”

Cuddy opened his eyes.

“You're alive?” said Detritus.

The dwarf gingerly removed his helmet. There was a gouge in the rim, and his head ached.

“It looks like a mild skin abrasion,” said Detritus.

“A what? Ooooh.” Cuddy grimaced. “What about you, anyway?” he said. There was something odd about the troll. It hadn't quite dawned on him what it was, but there was definitely something unfamiliar, quite apart from all the holes.

“I suppose the armour was some help,” said Detritus. He pulled at the straps of his breastplate. Five discs of metal slid out at around belt level. “If it hadn't slowed down I'd be seriously abraded.”

“What's up with you? Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what, pray?”

“What happened to the ‘me big troll’ talk? No offence meant.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”