Thud!

when it tries to hit me?” A. E. Pessimal said, hypnotized by the description and dropping the sword again. “What if it is, in fact, behind me?”
    “Ah, well, I am afraid that in that case sir has to go back and start all over again, sir.”
    “And…er…how do I do that?”
    “Being born is traditionally the first step, sir,” said Willikins, shaking his head.
    Vimes gave him a nod, and moved the trembling Pessimal on through the chattering crowd, while the fine rain fell and the mists rose and the torches flickered.
    “Good evening, sir!” said a cheerful voice, and there, yes, was Special Constable Hancock, an amiable bearded man with an amiable smile and more cutlery about his person than was good for Vimes’s mental health. That was the trouble with some of the Specials. They really got into it. They bought their own gear, and it was always better than Watch issue. Some of them clanged even more than dwarfs, with patent handcuffs and complicated night-sticks and comfy padded helmets and pencils that wrote underwater and, in the case of Special Constable Hancock, two curved Agatean swords strapped across his back. Those who’d dared to venture into the training yard when he was using them said they looked rather impressive. Vimes had heard that an Agatean ninja could give a fly a shave and a haircut in mid-flight, but this didn’t make him feel any better.
    “Oh, hello…Andy,” he said. “I think—”
    “Captain Carrot’s had a word with me,” said Special Constable Hancock, giving him a huge wink. “I’ll see to it!”
    “Oh, good,” said Vimes, horribly aware that he’d put himself in a tricky position vis-à-vis suggesting that maybe one sword might be enough. The man was going to do them a favor, after all. “Er…You’ll be up against the trolls, at least to start with,” he said. “Just remember that there’s our people around you, will you? Remember Special Constable Piggle, eh?”
    “But, in fairness, it was a clean cut, sir!” said Hancock. “Igor said he’d never done such an easy reattachment!”
    “Nevertheless, it’s truncheons only tonight, Andy, unless I give any other order, okay?”
    “Understood, Commander Vimes. I’ve just got a new truncheon, as a matter of fact.”
    Some sixth sense made Vimes say: “Oh, really? May I see?”
    “Right here, sir.” Hancock pulled out what looked to Vimes like two truncheons, joined together with a length of chain.
    “They’re Agatean numknuts , sir. No sharp edges at all.”
    Vimes gave them an experimental swing and hit his own elbow. He handed them back quickly. “Rather you than me, lad. Still, I suppose they’ll make a troll stop and think.”
    Mr. Pessimal was staring in horror, not least because wayward wood had just missed him.
    “Oh, this is Mr. Pessimal, Andy,” said Vimes. “He’s finding out how we do things. Mr. Hancock is one of our…keenest Special constables, Mr. Pessimal.”
    “Nice to met you, Mr. Pessimal!” said Hancock. “If you need any weapons catalogs, I’m your man!”
    Vimes moved on quickly, just in case the man drew those swords again, and ran up against a slightly more reassuring figure.
    “And here we have Mr. Boggis,” he said. “ Good to see you. Mr. Boggis is president of the Guild of Thieves, Mr. Pessimal.”
    Mr. Boggis saluted proudly. He had accepted a chain-mail jacket from Fred, but no power in the world would have parted him from his brown bowler hat. Any power nevertheless inclined to try would in any case have to contend with the narrow-eyed, stony-jawed men on either side of him, who had eschewed any weapons or armor. One of them was cleaning his fingernails with a cutthroat razor. In a strange but very definite way, they looked much more dangerous even than Special Constable Hancock.
    “And also Vinnie ‘No Ears’ Ludd and Harry ‘Can’t Remember His Nickname’ Jones, I see,” Vimes went on. “You’ve brought your bodyguards, Mr. Boggis?”
    “Vinnie and Harry like to get out in the fresh air, Mister Vimes,” said Mr. Boggis. “And I see you’ve got your own bodyguard, then?” He beamed down on A. E. Pessimal and then grinned at Vimes. “You have to watch them little bantam fighters, Mister Vimes, they can have the nose off your face quicker’n wink. I can tell a killing cove when I see one, eh? Best of luck to you, Mr. Pessimal!”
    Vimes bustled the astonished man away before Mr. Boggis was killed on the spot by the God of Overacting, and