Men at Arms

writing and said Leonard always wrote backwards becavse he was a genivs. I have copied same herewith.”
    Vimes laid the papers down and put the piece of metal on top of them.
    Then he reached in his pocket and produced a couple of metal pellets.
    A stick, the gargoyle had said.
    Vimes looked at the sketch. It looked, as Cuddy had noted, like the stock of a crossbow with a pipe on the top of it. There were a few sketches of strange mechanical devices alongside it, and a couple of the little six-pipe things. The whole drawing looked like a doodle. Someone, possibly this Leonard, had been reading a book about fireworks and had scribbled in the margins.
    Fireworks.
    Well…fireworks? But fireworks weren’t a weapon. Crackers went bang. Rockets went up, more or less, but all you could be sure of them hitting was the sky.
    Hammerhock was noted for his skill with mechanisms. That wasn’t a major dwarfish attribute. People thought it was, but it wasn’t. They were skilled with metal all right, and they made good swords and jewelery, but they weren’t too technical when it came to things like cogwheels and springs. Hammerhock was unusual.
    So…
    Supposing there was a weapon. Supposing there was something about it that was different, strange, terrifying.
    No, that couldn’t be it. It’d either end up all over the place, or it’d be destroyed. It wouldn’t end up in the Assassins’ museum. What got put in museums? Things that hadn’t worked, or had got lost, or ought to be remembered…so where’s the sense in putting our firework on show?
    There had been a lot of locks on the door. So…not a museum you just wandered into, then. Maybe you had to be a high-up Assassin, and one day one of the Guild leaders’d take you down there at dead, hah, of night, and say…and say…
    For some reason the face of the Patrician loomed up at this point.
    Once again Vimes felt the edge of something, some fundamental central thing…

    “Where’d he go? Where’d he go?”
    There was a maze of alleys around the doors. Cuddy leaned against a wall and fought for breath.
    “There he go!” shouted Detritus. “Along Whalebone Lane!”
    He lumbered off in pursuit.

    Vimes put down his coffee cup.
    Whoever had shot those lead balls at him had been very accurate across several hundred yards, and had got off six shots faster than anyone could fire an arrow…
    Vimes picked up the pipes. Six little pipes, six shots. And you could carry a pocketful of these things. You could shoot further, faster, more accurately than anyone else with any other kind of weapon…
    So. A new type of weapon. Much, much faster than a bow. The Assassins wouldn’t like that. They wouldn’t like that at all . They weren’t even keen on bows. The Assassins preferred to kill up close.
    So they’d put the…the gonne safely under lock and key. The gods alone knew how they’d come by it in the first place. And a few senior Assassins would know about it. They’d pass on the secret: beware of things like this …

    “Down there! He went into Grope Alley!”
    “Slow down! Slow down!”
    “Why?” said Detritus.
    “It’s a dead end.”
    The two Watchmen lumbered to a halt.
    Cuddy knew that he was currently the brains of the partnership, even though Detritus was presently counting, his face beaming with pride, the stones in the wall beside him.
    Why had they chased someone halfway across the city? Because they’d run away. No one ran away from the Watch. Thieves just flashed their licenses. Unlicensed thieves had nothing to fear from the Watch, since they’d saved up all their fear for the Thieves’ Guild. Assassins always obeyed the letter of the law. And honest men didn’t run away from the Watch. * Running away from the Watch was downright suspicious.
    The origin of Grope Alley’s name was fortunately lost in the celebrated mists of time, but it had come to be deserved. It had turned into a kind of tunnel as upper stories were built out and over it, leaving a few inches of sky.
    Cuddy peered around the corner, into the gloom.
    Click. Click .
    It came from deep in the darkness.
    “Detritus?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Did he have any weapons?”
    “Just a stick. One stick.”
    “Only…I smell fireworks.”
    Cuddy pulled his head back, very carefully.
    There had been the smell of fireworks in Hammerhock’s workshop. And Mr. Hammerhock ended up with a big hole in his chest. And a sense of named dread, which is much more specific and terrifying than