Men at Arms

coughed. The cough had a leer in it.
    “Yes, sergeant?” said Carrot, without looking around.
    “What do you want me to do next, sir?”
    “Send them out in squads, sergeant. At least one human, one dwarf and one troll in each.”
    “Yessir. What’ll they be doing, sir?”
    “They’ll be being visible, sergeant.”
    “Right, sir. Sir? One of the volunteers just now…it’s Mr. Bleakley, sir. From Elm Street? He’s a vampire, well, technic’ly, but he works up at the slaughterhouse so it’s not really—”
    “Thank him very much and send him home, sergeant.”
    Colon glanced at Angua.
    “Yessir. Right,” he said reluctantly. “But he’s not a problem, it’s just that he needs these extra homogoblins in his blo—”
    “No!”
    “Right. Fine. I’ll, er, I’ll tell him to go away, then.”
    Colon shut the door. The hinge leered.
    “They call you sir,” said Angua. “Do you notice that?”
    “I know. It’s not right. People ought to think for themselves, Captain Vimes says. The problem is, people only think for themselves if you tell them to. How do you spell ‘eventuality’?”
    “I don’t.”
    “OK.” Carrot still didn’t look around. “We’ll hold the city together through the rest of the night, I think. Everyone’s seen sense.”
    No they haven’t, said Angua in the privacy of her own head. They’ve seen you. It’s like hypnotism.
    People live your vision. You dream, just like Big Fido, only he dreamed a nightmare and you dream for everyone. You really think everyone is basically nice. Just for a moment, while they are near you, everyone else believes it too.
    From somewhere outside came the sound of marching knuckles. Detritus’ troop was making another circuit.
    Oh, well. He’s got to know sooner or later…
    “Carrot?”
    “Hmm?”
    “You know…when Cuddy and the troll and me joined the Watch—well, you know why it was us three, don’t you?”
    “Of course. Minority group representation. One troll, one dwarf, one woman.”
    “Ah.” Angua hesitated. It was still moonlight outside. She could tell him, run downstairs, Change and be well outside the city by dawn. She’d have to do it. She was an expert at running away from cities.
    “It wasn’t exactly like that,” she said. “You see, there’s a lot of undead in the city and the Patrician insisted that—”
    “Give her a kiss,” said Gaspode, from under the bed.
    Angua froze. Carrot’s face took on the usual vaguely puzzled look of someone whose ears have just heard what their brain is programmed to believe doesn’t exist. He began to blush.
    “Gaspode!” snapped Angua, dropping into Canine.
    “I know what I’m doin’. A Man, a Woman. It is Fate,” said Gaspode.
    Angua stood up. Carrot shot up too, so fast that his chair fell over.
    “I must be going,” she said.
    “Um. Don’t go—”
    “Now you just reach out,” said Gaspode.
    It’d never work, Angua told herself. It never does. Werewolves have to hang around with other werewolves, they’re the only ones who understand …
    But…
    On the other hand…since she’d have to run anyway…
    She held up a finger.
    “Just one moment,” she said brightly and, in one movement, reached under the bed and pulled out Gaspode by the scruff of his neck.
    “You need me!” the dog whimpered, as he was carried to the door. “I mean, what does he know? His idea of a good time is showing you the Colossus of Morpork! Put me—”
    The door slammed. Angua leaned on it.
    It’ll end up just like it did in Pseudopolis and Quirm and—
    “Angua?” said Carrot.
    She turned.
    “Don’t say anything,” she said. “And it might be all right.”
    After a while the bedsprings went glink .
    And shortly after that, for Corporal Carrot, the Discworld moved. And didn’t even bother to stop to cancel the bread and newspapers.

    Corporal Carrot awoke around four a.m., that secret hour known only to the night people, such as criminals, policemen and other misfits. He lay on his half of the narrow bed and stared at the wall.
    It had definitely been an interesting night.
    Although he was indeed simple, he wasn’t stupid, and he’d always been aware of what might be called the mechanics . He’d been acquainted with several young ladies, and had taken them on many invigorating walks to see fascinating ironwork and interesting civic buildings until they’d unaccountably lost interest. He’d patrolled the Whore Pits often enough, although Mrs. Palm and the Guild