Men at Arms полностью

“Ah,” said Vimes, “you are referring to those representative members of our fellow sapient races who have chosen to throw in their lots with the people of this city?”

“I mean the dwarf and the troll,” said Quirke.

“Haven't the faintest idea,” said Vimes cheerfully. It seemed to Angua that he was drunk again, if people could get drunk on despair.

“We dunno, sir,” said Colon. “Haven't seen 'em all day.”

“Probably fighting up in Quarry Lane with the rest of them,” said Quirke. “You can't trust people of their type. You ought to know that.”

And it also seemed to Angua that although words like halfpint and gritsucker were offensive, they were as terms of universal brotherhood compared to words like “people of their type” in the mouth of men like Quirke. Much to her shock, she found her gaze concentrating on the man's jugular vein.

“Fighting?” said Carrot. “Why?”

Quirke shrugged.

“Who knows?”

“Let me think now,” said Vimes. “It could be something to do with a wrongful arrest. It could be something to do with some of the more restless dwarfs just needing any excuse to have a go at the trolls. What do you think, Quirke?”

“I don't think, Vimes.”

“Good man. You're just the type the city needs.”

Vimes stood up.

“I'll be going, then,” he said. “I'll see you all tomorrow. If there is one.”

The door slammed behind him.

This hall was huge. It was the size of a city square, with pillars every few yards to support the roof. Tunnels radiated off it in every direction, and at various heights in the walls. Water trickled out of many of them, from small springs and underground streams.

That was the problem. The film of running water over the stone floor of the hall had wiped away traces of the footprints.

A very large tunnel, almost blocked with debris and silt, led off in what Cuddy was pretty sure was the direction of the estuary.

It was almost pleasant. There was no smell, other than a damp, under-a-stone mustiness. And it was cool.

“I've seen big dwarf halls in the mountains,” said Cuddy, “but I've got to admit this is something else.” His voice echoed back and forth in the chamber.

“Oh, yes,” said Detritus, “it's got to be something else, because it's not a dwarf hall in the mountains.”

“Can you see any way up?”

“No.”

“We could have passed a dozen ways to the surface and not known it.”

“Yes,” said the troll. “It's a knotty problem.”

“Detritus?”

“Yes?”

“Did you know you're getting smarter again, down here in the cool?”

“Really?”

“Can you use it to think of a way out?”

“Digging?” the troll suggested.

There were fallen blocks here and there in the tunnels. Not many; the place had been well built…

“Nah. Haven't got a shovel,” said Cuddy.

Detritus nodded.

“Give me your breastplate,” he said.

He leaned it up against the wall. His fist pounded into it a few times. He handed it back. It was, more or less, shovel shaped.

“It's a long way up,” Cuddy said doubtfully.

“But we know the way,” said Detritus. “It's either that, or stay down here eating rat for rest of your life.”

Cuddy hesitated. The idea had a certain appeal…

“Without ketchup,” Detritus added.

“I think I saw a fallen stone just a way back there,” said the dwarf.

Captain Quirke looked around the Watch room with the air of one who was doing the scenery a favour by glancing at it.

“Nice place, this,” he said. “I think we'll move in here. Better than the quarters near the Palace.”

“But we're here,” said Sergeant Colon.

“You'll just have to squash up,” said Captain Quirke.

He glanced at Angua. Her stare was getting on his nerves.

“There'll be a few changes, too,” he said. Behind him, the door creaked open. A small, smelly dog limped in.

“But Lord Vetinari hasn't said who's commanding Night Watch,” said Carrot.

“Ho, yes? Seems to me, seems to me,” said Quirke, “that it's not likely to be one of you lot, eh? Seems to me it's likely the Watches'll be combined. Seems to me there's too much sloppiness around the place. Seems to me there's a bit too much of a ragtag.”

He glanced at Angua again. The way she was looking at him was putting him off.

“Seems to me—” Quirke began again, and then noticed the dog. “Look at this!” he said. “Dogs in the Watch House!” He kicked Gaspode hard, and grinned as the dog ran yelping under the table.

“What about Lettice Knibbs, the beggar girl?” said Angua. “No troll killed her. Or the clown.”

“You got to see the big picture,” said Quirke.

“Mister Captain,” said a low voice from under the table, audible at a conscious level only to Angua, “you got an itchy bottom.”

“What big picture's this, then?” said Sergeant Colon.

“Got to think in terms of the whole city,” said Quirke. He shifted uneasily.

“Really itchy,” said the sub-table voice.

“You feeling all right, Captain Quirke?” said Angua.

The captain squirmed.

“Prickle, prickle, prickle,” said the voice.

“I mean, some things are important, some ain't,” said Quirke. “Aargh!”

“Sorry?”

“Prickle.”

“Can't hang around here talking to you all day,” said Quirke. “You. Report to me. Tomorrow afternoon—”

“Prickle, prickle, prickle—”

“Abouuut face!”