Men at Arms

dollar! Roast limestones—”
    A few trolls wandered up to stare at him.
    “You, sir, you look…hungry,” said Dibbler, grinning widely at the smallest troll. “Why not try our shale on a bun? Mmm-mmm! Taste that alluvial deposit, know what I mean?”
    C. M. O. T. Dibbler had a number of bad points, but species prejudice was not one of them. He liked anyone who had money, regardless of the color and shape of the hand that was proffering it. For Dibbler believed in a world where a sapient creature could walk tall, breathe free, pursue life, liberty and happiness, and step out toward the bright new dawn. If they could be persuaded to gobble something off Dibbler’s hot-food tray at the same time, this was all to the good.
    The troll inspected the tray suspiciously, and lifted up a bun.
    “Urrh, yuk,” he said, “it’s got all ammonites in it! Yuk!”
    “Pardon?” said Dibbler.
    “Dis shale,” said the troll, “is stale.”
    “Lovely and fresh! Just like mother used to hew!”
    “Yeah, and there’s bloody quartz all through dis granite,” said another troll, towering over Dibbler. “Clogs the arteries, quartz.”
    He slammed the rock back on the tray. The trolls ambled off, occasionally turning around to give Dibbler a suspicious look.
    “Stale? Stale! How can it be stale? It’s rock! ” shouted Dibbler after them.
    He shrugged. Oh, well. The hallmark of a good businessman was knowing when to cut your losses.
    He closed the lid of the tray, and opened another one.
    “Hole food! Hole food! Rat! Rat! Rat-onna-stick! Rat-in-a-bun! Get them while they’re dead! Get chore—”
    There was a crash of glass above him, and Lance-Constable Cuddy landed head first in the tray.
    “There’s no need to rush, plenty for everyone,” said Dibbler.
    “Pull me out,” said Cuddy, in a muffled voice. “Or pass me the ketchup.”
    Dibbler hauled on the dwarf’s boots. There was ice on them.
    “Just come down the mountain, have you?”
    “Where’s the man with the key to this warehouse?”
    “If you liked our rat, then why not try our fine selection of—”
    Cuddy’s axe appeared almost magically in his hand.
    “I’ll cut your knees off,” he said.
    “GerhardtSockoftheButchers’Guildiswhoyouwant.”
    “Right.”
    “Nowpleasetaketheaxeaway.”
    Cuddy’s boots skidded on the cobbles as he hurried off.
    Dibbler peered at the broken remains of the cart. His lips moved as he calculated.
    “Here!” he shouted. “You owe—hey, you owe me for three rats!”

    Lord Vetinari had felt slightly ashamed when he watched the door close behind Captain Vimes. He couldn’t work out why. Of course, it was hard on the man, but it was the only way…
    He took a key from a cabinet by his desk and walked over to the wall. His hands touched a mark on the plaster that was apparently no different from a dozen other marks, but this one caused a section of wall to swing aside on well-oiled hinges.
    No one knew all the passages and tunnels hidden in the walls of the Palace; it was said that some of them went a lot further than that. And there were any amount of old cellars under the city. A man with a pick-axe and a sense of direction could go where he liked just by knocking down forgotten walls.
    He walked down several narrow flights of steps and along a passage to a door, which he unlocked. It swung back on well-oiled hinges.
    It was not, exactly, a dungeon; the room on the other side was quite airy and well lit by several large but high windows. It had a smell of wood shavings and glue.
    “Look out!”
    The Patrician ducked.
    Something batlike clicked and whirred over his head, circled erratically in the middle of the room, and then flew apart into a dozen jerking pieces.
    “Oh dear,” said a mild voice. “Back to the drawing tablet. Good afternoon, your lordship.”
    “Good afternoon, Leonard,” said the Patrician. “What was that?”
    “I call it a flapping-wing-flying-device,” said Leonard da Quirm, getting down off his launching stepladder. “It works by gutta-percha strips twisted tightly together. But not very well, I’m afraid.”
    Leonard of Quirm was not, in fact, all that old. He was one of those people who started looking venerable around the age of thirty, and would probably still look about the same at the age of ninety. He wasn’t exactly bald, either. His head had just grown up through his hair, rising like a mighty rock dome through heavy forest.
    Inspirations sleet through the universe