Men at Arms

“It is for a troll. Anyway, if he didn't do that, he probably did something. There's plenty of evidence against him.”

“Like what?” said Angua.

“He's a troll.”

“That's not evidence.”

“It is to Captain Quirke,” said the sergeant.

“He's bound to have done something,” Nobby repeated.

In this he was echoing the Patrician's view of crime and punishment. If there was crime, there should be punishment. If the specific criminal should be involved in the punishment process then this was a happy accident, but if not then any criminal would do, and since everyone was undoubtedly guilty of something, the net result was that, in general terms, justice was done.

“He's a nasty piece of work, that Coalface,” said Colon. “A righthand troll for Chrysoprase.”

“Yes, but he couldn't have killed Bjorn,” said Carrot. “And what about the beggar girl?”

Vimes sat looking at the floor.

“What do you think, captain?” said Carrot.

Vimes shrugged.

“Who cares?” he said.

“Well, you care,” said Carrot. “You always care. We can't let even someone like—”

“Listen to me,” said Vimes, in a small voice. “Supposing we'd found who killed the dwarf and the clown? Or the girl. It wouldn't make any difference. It's all rotten anyway.”

“What is, captain?” said Colon.

“All of it. You might as well try and empty a well with a sieve. Let the Assassins try to sort it out. Or the thieves. He can try the rats next. Why not? We're not the people for this. We ought to have just stayed with ringing our bells and shouting ‘All's well!’”

“But all isn't well, captain,” said Carrot.

“So what? When has that ever mattered?”

“Oh, dear,” said Angua, under her breath. “I think perhaps you gave him too much of that coffee…”

Vimes said, “I'm retiring from the Watch tomorrow. Twenty-five years on the streets—”

Nobby started to grin nervously and stopped as the sergeant, without apparently shifting position, grabbed one of his arms and twisted it gently but meaningfully up his back.

“—and what good's it all been? What good have I done? I've just worn out a lot of boots. There's no place in Ankh-Morpork for policemen! Who cares what's right or wrong? Assassins and thieves and trolls and dwarfs! Might as well have a bloody king and have done with it!”

The rest of the Night Watch stood looking at their feet in mute embarrassment. Then Carrot said, “It's better to light a candle than curse the darkness, captain. That's what they say.”

“What?” Vimes' sudden rage was like a thunderclap. “Who says that? When has that ever been true? It's never been true! It's the kind of thing people without power say to make it all seem less bloody awful, but it's just words, it never makes any difference

–”

Someone hammered at the door.

“That'll be Quirke,” said Vimes. “You're to hand over your weapons. The Night Watch is being stood down for a day. Can't have coppers running around upsetting things, can we? Open the door, Carrot.”

“But—” Carrot began.

“That was an order. I might not be any good for anything else, but I can bloody well order you to open the door, so open the door!”

Quirke was accompanied by half a dozen members of the Day Watch. They had crossbows. In deference to the fact that they were doing a mildly unpleasant job involving fellow officers, they had them pointing slightly downwards. In deference to the fact that they weren't damn fools, they had the safety catches off.

Quirke wasn't actually a bad man. He didn't have the imagination. He dealt more in that sort of generalized low-grade unpleasantness which slightly tarnishes the soul of all who come into contact with it.24 Many people are in jobs that are a little beyond them, but there are ways of reacting to the situation. Sometimes they're flustered and nice, sometimes they're Quirke. Quirke handled them with the maxim: it doesn't matter if you're right or wrong, so long as you're definite. There was, on the whole, no real racial prejudice in Ankh-Morpork; when you've got dwarfs and trolls, the mere colour of other, humans is not a major item. But Quirke was the kind of man to whom it comes naturally to pronounce the word negro with two gs.

He had a hat with plumes in it.

“Come in, come in,” said Vimes. “It wasn't as if we were doing anything.”

“Captain Vimes—”

“It's all right. We know. Give him your weapons, people. That's an order, Carrot. One official issue sword, one pike or halberd, one night stick or truncheon, one crossbow. That's right, isn't it, Sergeant Colon?”

“Yessir.”

Carrot hesitated only a moment.

“Oh, well,” he said. “My official sword is in the rack.”

“What's that one in your belt?”

Carrot said nothing. However, he shifted position slightly. His biceps strained against the leather of his jerkin.

“Official sword. Right,” said Quirke. He turned. He was one of those people who would recoil from an assault on strength, but attack weakness without mercy. “Where's the gritsucker?” he said. “And the rock?”