Men at Arms

stick?”
    “Oh, ih-ee-ot! A htick, oo oint, ik koes ANG!”
    “You point it and it goes bang?”
    “Egg!”
    Vimes scratched his head. Sounded like a wizard’s staff. But they didn’t go bang.
    “Well…thanks,” he said. “You’ve been…eh-ee elkfhull.”
    He turned back toward the stairs.
    Someone had tried to kill him.
    And the Patrician had warned him against investigating the theft from the Assassins’ Guild. Theft , he said.
    Up until then, Vimes hadn’t even been certain there had been a theft.
    And then, of course, there are the laws of chance. They play a far greater role in police procedure than narrative causality would like to admit. For every murder solved by the careful discovery of a vital footprint or a cigarette end, a hundred failed to be resolved because the wind blew some leaves the wrong way or it didn’t rain the night before. So many crimes are solved by a happy accident—by the random stopping of a car, by an overhead remark, by someone of the right nationality happening to be within five miles of the scene of the crime without an alibi…
    Even Vimes knew about the power of chance.
    His sandal clinked against something metallic.

    “And this,” said Corporal Carrot, “is the famous commemorative arch celebrating the Battle of Crumhorn. We won it, I think. It’s got over ninety statues of famous soldiers. It’s something of a landmark.”
    “Should have put up a stachoo to the accounttants,” said a doggy voice behind Angua. “First battle in the universe where the enemy were persuaded to sell their weapons.”
    “Where is it, then?” said Angua, still ignoring Gaspode.
    “Ah. Yes. That’s the problem,” said Carrot. “Excuse me, Mr. Scant. This is Mr. Scant. Official Keeper of the Monuments. According to ancient tradition, his pay is one dollar a year and a new vest every Hogswatchday.”
    There was an old man sitting on a stool at the road junction, with his hat over his eyes. He pushed it up.
    “Afternoon, Mr. Carrot. You’ll be wanting to see the triumphal arch, will you?”
    “Yes, please.” Carrot turned back to Angua. “Unfortunately, the actual practical design was turned over to Bloody Stupid Johnson.”
    The old man eventually produced a small cardboard box from a pocket, and reverentially took off the lid.
    “Where is it?”
    “Just there,” said Carrot. “Behind that little bit of cotton wool.”
    “Oh.”
    “I’m afraid that for Mr. Johnson accurate measurements were something that happened to other people.”
    Mr. Scant closed the lid.
    “He also did the Quirm Memorial, the Hanging Gardens of Ankh, and the Colossus of Morpork,” said Carrot.
    “The Colossus of Morpork?” said Angua.
    Mr. Scant held up a skinny finger. “Ah,” he said. “Don’t go away.” He started to pat his pockets. “Got ’im ’ere somewhere.”
    “Didn’t the man ever design anything useful?”
    “Well, he did design an ornamental cruet set for Mad Lord Snapcase,” said Carrot, as they strolled away.
    “He got that right?”
    “Not exactly. But here’s an interesting fact, four families live in a salt shaker and we use the pepper pot for storing grain.”
    Angua smiled. Interesting facts. Carrot was full of interesting facts about Ankh-Morpork. Angua felt she was floating uneasily on a sea of them. Walking along a street with Carrot was like having three guided tours rolled into one.
    “Now here,” said Carrot, “is the Beggars’ Guild. They’re the oldest of the Guilds. Not many people know that.”
    “Is that so?”
    “People think it’d be the Fools or the Assassins. Ask anyone. They’ll say ‘the oldest Guild in Ankh-Morpork is certainly the Fools’ Guild or the Assassins’ Guild.’ But they aren’t. They’re quite recent. But there’s been a Beggars’ Guild for centuries.”
    “Really?” said Angua, weakly. In the last hour she’d learned more about Ankh-Morpork than any reasonable person wanted to know. She vaguely suspected that Carrot was trying to court her. But, instead of the usual flowers or chocolate, he seemed to be trying to gift-wrap a city.
    And, despite all her better instincts, she was feeling jealous. Of a city! Ye gods, I’ve known him a couple of days!
    It was the way he wore the place. You expected him any moment to break into the kind of song that has suspicious rhymes and phrases like “my kind of town” and “I wanna be a part of it” in it; the kind of song where people dance in the street and give