Men at Arms

slammed in like a thunderclap.
    The little metallic sound as Vimes’ badge bounced on the floor filled it from edge to edge.
    He raised the gonne and, gently, let the tension ease out of his hand.
    A bell started.
    It was a tinny, jolly little tune, barely to be heard at all except in this pool of silence…
    Cling, bing, a-bing, bong …
    …but much more accurate than hourglasses, waterclocks and pendulums.
    “Put down the gonne, captain,” said Carrot, climbing slowly up the stairs.
    He held his sword in one hand, and the presentation watch in the other.
    … bing, bing, a-bing, cling …
    Vimes didn’t move.
    “Put it down. Put it down now, captain.”
    “I can wait out another bell,” said Vimes.
    … a-bing, a-bing …
    “Can’t let you do that, captain. It’d be murder.”
    … clong, a-bing …
    “You’ll stop me, will you?”
    “Yes.”
    … bing…bing …
    Vimes turned his head slightly.
    “He killed Angua. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
    … bing…bing…bing…bing …
    Carrot nodded.
    “Yes. But personal isn’t the same as important.”
    Vimes looked along his arm. The face of Dr. Cruces, mouth open in terror, pivoted on the tip of the barrel.
    … bing…bing…bing…bing…bing …
    “Captain Vimes?”
    … bing .
    “Captain? Badge 177, captain. It’s never had more than dirt on it.”
    The pounding spirit of the gonne flowing up Vimes’ arms met the armies of sheer stone-headed Vimesness surging the other way.
    “I should put it down, captain. You don’t need it,” said Carrot, like someone speaking to a child.
    Vimes stared at the thing in his hands. The screaming was muted now.
    “Put that down now, Watchman! That’s an order!”
    The gonne hit the floor. Vimes saluted, and then realized what he was doing. He blinked at Carrot.
    “Personal isn’t the same as important ?” he said.
    “Listen,” Cruces said, “I’m sorry about the…the girl, that was an accident, but I only wanted—There’s evidence! There’s a—”
    Cruces was hardly paying any attention to the Watchmen. He pulled a leather satchel off the table and waved it at them.
    “It’s here! All of it, sire! Evidence! Edward was stupid, he thought it was all crowns and ceremony, he had no idea what he’d found! And then, last night, it was as if—”
    “I’m not interested,” mumbled Vimes.
    “The city needs a king!”
    “It does not need murderers,” said Carrot.
    “But—”
    And then Cruces dived for the gonne and scooped it up.
    One moment Vimes was trying to reassemble his thoughts, and the next they were fleeing to far corners of his consciousness. He was looking into the mouth of the gonne. It grinned at him.
    Cruces slumped against the pillar, but the gonne remained steady, pointing itself at Vimes.
    “It’s all there, sire,” he said. “Everything written down. The whole thing. Birthmarks and prophecies and genealogy and everything. Even your sword. It’s the sword!”
    “Really?” said Carrot. “May I see?”
    Carrot lowered his sword and, to Vimes’ horror, walked over to the desk and pulled the bundle of documents out of the case. Cruces nodded approvingly, as if rewarding a good boy.
    Carrot read a page, and turned to the next one.
    “This is interesting,” he said.
    “Exactly. But now we must remove this annoying policeman,” said Cruces.
    Vimes felt that he could see all the way along the tube, to the little slug of metal that was soon to launch itself at him…
    “It’s a shame,” said Cruces, “if only you had—”
    Carrot stepped in front of the gonne. His arm moved in a blur. There was hardly a sound.
    Pray you never face a good man, Vimes thought. He’ll kill you with hardly a word.
    Cruces looked down. There was blood on his shirt. He raised a hand to the sword hilt protruding from his chest, and looked back up into Carrot’s eyes.
    “But why? You could have been—”
    And he died. The gonne fell from his hands, and fired at the floor.
    There was silence.
    Carrot grasped the hilt of his sword and pulled it back. The body slumped.
    Vimes leaned on the table and fought to get his breath back.
    “Damn…his…hide,” he panted.
    “Sir?”
    “He…he called you sire ,” he said. “What was in that—”
    “You’re late, captain,” said Carrot.
    “Late? Late? What do you mean?” Vimes fought to prevent his brain parting company with reality.
    “You were supposed to have been married—” Carrot looked at the watch, then snapped it