Men at Arms

“Go and keep it safe somewhere until we need it.”
    “This not Koom Valley,” said Detritus.
    “That’s right!” shouted a dwarf at the back of the crowd. “This time we can see you!”
    Trolls and dwarfs were pouring in at either end of the street.
    “What would Corporal Carrot do at a time like this?” whispered Cuddy.
    “He say, you bad people, make me angry, you stop toot sweet,”
    “And then they’d go away, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What would happen if we tried that?”
    “We look in gutter for our heads.”
    “I think you’re right.”
    “You see that alley? It a nice alley. It say, hello. You out-numbered…256 + 64 + 8 + 2 + 1 to 1. Drop in and see me.”
    A club bounced off Detritus’ helmet.
    “Run!”
    The two Watchmen sprinted for the alley. The impromptu armies watched them and then, differences momentarily forgotten, gave chase.
    “Where this go?”
    “It goes away from the people chasing us!”
    “I like this alley.”
    Behind them the pursuers, suddenly trying to make progress in a gap barely wide enough to accommodate a troll, realized that they were pushing and shoving with their mortal enemies and started to fight one another in the quickest, nastiest and above all narrowest battle ever held in the city.
    Cuddy waved Detritus to a halt and peered around a corner.
    “I think we’re safe,” he said. “All we have to do is get out of the other end of this and get back to the Watch House. OK?”
    He turned around, failed to see the troll, took a step forward, and vanished temporarily from the world of men.

    “Oh, no,” said Sergeant Colon. “He promised he wasn’t going to touch it any more! Look, he’s had a whole bottle!”
    “What is it? Bearhugger’s?” said Nobby.
    “Shouldn’t think so, he’s still breathing. Come on, help me up with him.”
    The Night Watch clustered around. Carrot had deposited Captain Vimes on a chair in the middle of the Watch House floor.
    Angua picked out the bottle and looked at the label.
    “C. M. O. T. Dibbler’s Genuine Authentic Soggy Mountain Dew,” she read. “He’s going to die! It says, ‘One hundred and fifty percent proof’!”
    “Nah, that’s just old Dibbler’s advertising,” said Nobby. “It ain’t got no proof . Just circumstantial evidence.”
    “Why hasn’t he got his sword?” said Angua.
    Vimes opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the concerned face of Nobby.
    “Aargh!” he said. “Swor’? Gi’ it ’way! Hooray!”
    “What?” said Colon.
    “No mo’ Watsh! All go’…”
    “I think he’s a bit drunk,” said Carrot.
    “Drun’? ’m not drun’! You wouldn’ dare call m’ drun’ if I was sober!”
    “Get him some coffee,” said Angua.
    “I reckon he’s beyond our coffee,” said Colon. “Nobby, nip along to Fat Sally’s in Squeezebelly Alley and get a jug of their special Klatchian stuff. Not a metal jug, mind.”
    Vimes blinked as they manhandled him into a chair.
    “All go ’way,” he said. “Bang! Bang!”
    “Lady Sybil’s going to be really mad,” said Nobby. “You know he promised to leave it alone.”
    “Captain Vimes?” said Carrot.
    “Mm?”
    “How many fingers am I holding up?”
    “Mm?”
    “How many hands, then?”
    “Fo’?”
    “Blimey, I haven’t seen him like this for years,” said Colon. “Here, let me try something. Want another drink, captain ?”
    “He certainly doesn’t need a—”
    “Shut up, I know what I’m doing. Another drink, Captain Vimes?”
    “Mm?”
    “I’ve never known him not be able to give a loud clear ‘yes!’,” said Colon, standing back. “I think we’d better get him up to his room.”
    “I’ll take him, poor chap.” said Carrot. He lifted Vimes easily, and slung him over his shoulder.
    “I hate to see him like this,” said Angua, following him into the hallway and up the stairs.
    “He only drinks when he gets depressed,” said Carrot.
    “Why does he get depressed?”
    “Sometimes it’s because he hasn’t had a drink.”
    The house in Pseudopolis Yard had originally been a Ramkin family residence. Now the first floor was occupied by the guards on an ad hoc basis. Carrot had a room. Nobby had rooms consecutively, four so far, moving out when the floor became hard to find. And Vimes had a room.
    More or less. It was hard to tell. Even a prisoner in a cell manages to stamp his personality on it somewhere, but Angua had never seen such an unlived-in room.
    “This is where he lives?” said