Men at Arms

eh?”
    Carrot looked shocked.
    “No. The Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork, sir. It’s all down here. Can you tell me what evidence you have against the prisoner Coalface?”
    “That damn troll? It’s a troll!”
    “Yes?”
    Quirke looked around.
    “Look, I don’t have to tell you with everyone here—”
    “As a matter of fact, according to the rules, you do. That’s why it’s called evidence. It means ‘that which is seen’.”
    “Listen!” hissed Quirke, leaning toward Carrot. “He’s a troll . He’s as guilty as hell of something . They all are!”
    Carrot smiled brightly.
    Colon had come to know that smile. Carrot’s face seemed to go waxy and glisten when he smiled like that.
    “And so you locked him up?”
    “Right!”
    “Oh. I see. I understand now.”
    Carrot turned away.
    “I don’t know what you think you’re—” Quirke began.
    People hardly saw Carrot move. There was just a blur, a sound like a steak being thumped on a slab, and the captain was flat on the cobbles.
    A couple of members of the Day Watch appeared cautiously in the doorway.
    Everyone became aware of a rattling noise. Nobby was spinning the morningstar round and round on the end of its chain, except that because the spiky ball was a very heavy spiky ball, and because the difference between Nobby and a dwarf was species rather than height, it was more a case of both of them orbiting around each other. If he let go, it was an even chance that the target would be hit by a spiky ball or an unexploded Corporal Nobbs. Neither prospect pleased.
    “Put it down, Nobby,” hissed Colon, “I don’t think they’re going to make trouble…”
    “I can’t let go, Fred!”
    Carrot sucked his knuckles.
    “Do you think that comes under the heading of ‘minimum necessary force’, sergeant?” he asked. He appeared to be genuinely worried.
    “Fred! Fred! What’ll I do?”
    Nobby was a terrified blur. When you are swinging a spiky ball on a chain, the only realistic option is to keep moving. Standing still is an interesting but brief demonstration of a spiral in action.
    “Is he still breathing?” said Colon.
    “Oh, yes. I pulled the punch.”
    “Sounds minimum enough to me, sir,” said Colon loyally.
    “ Fredddd !”
    Carrot reached out absent-mindedly as the morningstar rocketed past and caught it by the chain. Then he threw it against the wall, where it stuck.
    “You men in there in the Watch House,” he said, “come out now.”
    Five men emerged, edging cautiously around the prone captain.
    “Good. Now go and get Coalface.”
    “Er…he’s in a bit of a bad temper, Corporal Carrot.”
    “On account of being chained to the floor,” volunteered another guard.
    “Well, now,” said Carrot. “The thing is, he’s going to be unchained right now.” The men shuffled their feet nervously, possibly remembering an old proverb that fitted the occasion very well. * Carrot nodded. “I won’t ask you to do it, but I might suggest you take some time off,” he said.
    “Quirm is very nice at this time of year,” said Sergeant Colon helpfully. “They’ve got a floral clock.”
    “Er…since you mention it…I’ve got some sick leave coming up,” one of them said.
    “I should think that’s very probable, if you hang around,” said Carrot.
    They sidled off as fast as decency allowed. The crowd hardly paid them any attention. There was still a lot more mileage in watching Carrot.
    “Right,” said Carrot. “Detritus, you take some men and go and bring out the prisoner.”
    “I don’t see why—” a dwarf began.
    “You shut up, you horrible man,” said Detritus, drunk with power.
    You could have heard a guillotine drop.
    In the crowd, a number of different-sized knobbly hands gripped a variety of concealed weapons.
    Everyone looked at Carrot.
    That was the strange thing, Colon remembered later. Everyone looked at Carrot.

    Gaspode sniffed a lamppost.
    “I see Three-legged Shep has been ill again,” he said. “And old Willy the Pup is back in town.”
    To a dog, a well-placed hitching post or lamp is a social calendar.
    “Where are we?” said Angua. Foul Ole Ron’s trail was hard to follow. There were so many other smells.
    “Somewhere in the Shades,” said Gaspode. “Sweetheart Lane, smells like.” He snuffled across the ground. “Ah, here he is again, the little…”
    “’ ullo, Gaspode …”
    It was a deep, hoarse voice, a kind of whisper with sand in it. It came from somewhere in an