Men at Arms

mean.”
    Nobby fidgeted awkwardly.
    “You should’ve bawled her out for not being in uniform,” he said.
    “Bit tricky, that.”
    “If I’d run through here without me clothes on, you’d fine me a half a dollar for being improperly dressed—”
    “Here’s half a dollar, Nobby. Now shut up.”
    Lord Vetinari beamed at them. Then there was the guard in the corner, another of the big lumpy ones—
    “Still all right, your lordship?” said Nobby.
    “Who’s that gentleman?”
    He followed the Patrician’s gaze.
    “That’s Detritus the troll, sir.”
    “Why is he sitting like that?”
    “He’s thinking, sir.”
    “He hasn’t moved for some time.”
    “He thinks slow, sir.”
    Detritus stood up. There was something about the way he did it, some hint of a mighty continent beginning a tectonic movement that would end in the fearsome creation of some unscalable mountain range, which made people stop and look. Not one of the watchers was familiar with the experience of watching mountain building, but now they had some vague idea of what it was like: it was like Detritus standing up, with Cuddy’s twisted axe in his hand.
    “But deep, sometimes,” said Nobby, eyeing various possible escape routes.
    The troll stared at the crowd as if wondering what they were doing there. Then, arms swinging, he began to walk forward.
    “Acting-Constable Detritus…er…as you were…” Colon ventured.
    Detritus ignored him. He was moving quite fast now, in the deceptive way that lava does.
    He reached the wall, and punched it out of the way.
    “Has anyone been giving him sulphur?” said Nobby.
    Colon looked around at the guard. “Lance-Constable Bauxite! Lance-Constable Coalface! Apprehend Acting-Constable Detritus!”
    The two trolls looked first at the retreating form of Detritus, then at one another, and finally at Sergeant Colon.
    Bauxite managed a salute.
    “Permission for leave to attend grandmother’s funeral, sir?”
    “Why?”
    “It her or me, sarge.”
    “We get our goohuloog heads kicked in,” said Coalface, the less circuitous thinker.

    A match flared. In the sewers, its light was like a nova.
    Vimes lit first his cigar, and then a lamp.
    “Dr. Cruces?” he said.
    The chief of Assassins froze.
    “Corporal Carrot here has a crossbow too,” he said. “I’m not sure if he’d use it. He’s a good man. He thinks everyone else is a good man. I’m not. I’m mean, nasty and tired. And now, doctor, you’ve had time to think, you’re an intelligent man…What were you doing down here, please? It can’t be to look for the mortal remains of young Edward, because our Corporal Nobbs has taken him off to the Watch morgue this morning, probably nicking any small items of personal jewelery he had on him, but that’s just Nobby’s way. He’s got a criminal mind, has our Nobby. But I’ll say this for him: he hasn’t got a criminal soul.
    “I hope he’s cleaned the clown make-up off the poor chap. Dear me. You used him, didn’t you? He killed poor old Beano, and then he got the gonne, and he was there when it killed Hammerhock, he even left a bit of his Beano wig in the timbers, and just when he could have done with some good advice, such as to turn himself in, you killed him. The point, the interesting point, is that young Edward couldn’t have been the man on the Tower a little while ago. Not with the stab wound in his heart and everything. I know that being dead isn’t always a barrier to quiet enjoyment in this city, but I don’t think young Edward has been up and about much. The piece of cloth was a nice touch. But, you know, I’ve never believed in that stuff—footprints in the flower bed, tell-tale buttons, stuff like that. People think that stuff’s policing. It’s not. Policing’s luck and slog, most of the time. But lots of people’d believe it. I mean, he’s been dead…what…not two days, and it’s nice and cool down here…you could haul him up, I daresay you could fool people who didn’t look too close once he was on a slab, and you’d have got the man who shot the Patrician. Mind you, half the city would be fighting the other half by then, I daresay. Some more deaths would be involved. I wonder if you’d care.” He paused. “You still haven’t said anything.”
    “You have no understanding,” said Cruces.
    “Yes?”
    “D’Eath was right. He was mad, but he was right.”
    “About what, Dr. Cruces?” said Vimes.
    And then the Assassin was gone, diving into