He wrote his report. He swept the main room's floor; there was a rota, and it was his turn. He had a wash. He changed his shirt, and dressed the wound on his shoulder, and cleaned his armour, rubbing with wire wool and a graded series of cloths until he could, once again, see his face in it.
He heard, far off, Fondel's 'Wedding March' scored for Monstrous Organ with Miscellaneous Farmyard Noises accompaniment. He fished out a half bottle of rum from what Sergeant Colon thought was his secure hiding place, poured himself a very small amount, and drank a toast to the sound, saying, 'Here's to Mr Vimes and Lady Ramkin!' in a clear, sincere voice which would have severely embarrassed anyone who had heard it.
There was a scratching at the door. He let Gaspode in. The little dog slunk under the table, saying nothing.
Then Carrot went up to his room, and sat in his chair and looked out of the window.
The afternoon wore on. The rain stopped around teatime.
Lights came on, all over the city.
Presently, the moon rose.
The door opened. Angua entered, walking softly.
Carrot turned, and smiled.
'I wasn't certain,' he said. 'But I thought, well, isn't it only silver that kills them? I just had to hope.'
It was two days later. The rain had set in. It didn't pour, it slouched out of the grey clouds, running in rivulets through the mud. It filled the Ankh, which slurped once again through its underground kingdom. It poured from the mouths of gargoyles. It hit the ground so hard there was sort of a mist of ricochets.
It drummed off the gravestones in the cemetery behind the Temple of Small Gods, and into the small pit dug for Acting-Constable Cuddy.
There were always only guards at a guard's funeral, Vimes told himself. Oh, sometimes there were relatives, like Lady Ramkin and Detritus' Ruby here today, but you never got crowds. Perhaps Carrot was right. When you became a guard, you stopped being everything else.
Although there were other people today, standing silently at the railings around the cemetery. They weren't at the funeral, but they were watching it.
There was a small priest who gave the generic fill-in-deceased's-name-here service, designed to be vaguely satisfactory to any gods who might be listening. Then Detritus lowered the coffin into the grave, and the priest threw a ceremonial handful of dirt on to the coffin, except that instead of the rattle of soil there was a very final splat.
And Carrot, to Vimes' surprise, made a speech. It echoed across the soggy ground to the rain-dripping trees. It was really based around the only text you could use on this occasion: he was my friend, he was one of us, he was a good copper.
He was a good copper. That had got said at every guard funeral Vimes had ever attended. If d probably be said even at Corporal Nobbs' funeral, although everyone would have their fingers crossed behind their backs. It was what you had to say.
Vimes stared at the coffin. And then a strange feeling came creeping over him, as insidiously as the rain trickling down the back of his neck. It wasn't exactly a suspicion. If it stayed in his mind long enough it would be a suspicion, but right now it was only a faint tingle of a hunch.
He had to ask. He'd never stop thinking about it if he didn't at least ask.
So as they were walking away from the grave he said, 'Corporal?'
'Yessir?'
'No-one's found the gonne, then?'
'No, sir.'
'Someone said you had it last.'
'I must have put it down somewhere. You know how busy it all was.'
'Yes. Oh, yes. I'm pretty sure I saw you carry most of it out of the Guild . . .'
'Must have done, sir.'
'Yes. Er. I hope you put it somewhere safe, then. Do you, er, do you think you left it somewhere safe?'
Behind them, the gravedigger began to shovel the wet, clinging loam of Ankh-Morpork into the hole.
'I think I must have done, sir. Don't you? Seeing as no-one has found it. I mean, we'd soon know if anyone'd found it!'
'Maybe it's all for the best, Corporal Carrot.'
'I certainly hope so.'
'He was a good copper.'
'Yes, sir.'
Vimes went for broke.
'And . . . it seemed to me, as we were carrying that little coffin . . . slightly heavier . . .?'
'Really, sir? I really couldn't say I noticed.'
'But at least he's got a proper dwarf burial.'
'Oh, yes. I saw to that, sir,' said Carrot.
The rain gurgled off the roofs of the Palace. The gargoyles had taken up their stations at every corner, straining gnats and flies via their ears.
Corporal Carrot shook the drops off his leather rain cape and exchanged salutes with the troll on guard. He strolled through the clerks in the outer rooms and knocked respectfully on the door of the Oblong Office.
'Come.'
Carrot entered, marched to the desk, saluted and stood at ease.
Lord Vetinari tensed, very slightly.
'Oh, yes,' he said. 'Corporal Carrot. I was expecting . . . something like this. I'm sure you've come to ask me for . . . something?'
Carrot unfolded a piece of grubby paper, and cleared his throat.
'Well, sir . . . we could do with a new dartboard. You know. For when we're off duty?'
The Patrician blinked. It was not often that he blinked.
'I beg your pardon?'
'A new dartboard, sir. It helps the men relax after their shift, sir.'
Vetinari recovered a little.
'Another one? But you had one only last year!'
'It's the Librarian, sir. Nobby lets him play and he just leans a bit and hammers the darts in with his fist. It ruins the board. Anyway, Detritus threw one through it. Through the wall behind it, too.'
'Very well. And?'
'Well . . . Acting-Constable Detritus needs to be let off having to pay for five holes in his breastplate.'
'Granted. Tell him not to do it again.'
'Yes, sir. Well, I think that's about it. Except for a new kettle.'
The Patrician's hand moved in front of his lips. He was trying not to smile. ,
'Dear me. Another kettle as well? What happened to the old one?'
'Oh, we still use it, sir, we still use it. But we're going to need another because of the new arrangements.'
'I'm sorry? What new arrangements?'
Carrot unfolded a second, and rather larger, piece of paper.
'The Watch to be brought up to an establishment strength of fifty-six; the old Watch Houses at the River Gate, the Deosil Gate and the Hubwards Gate to be reopened and manned on a twenty-four hour basis—'
The Patrician's smile remained, but his face seemed to pull away from it, leaving it stranded and all alone in the world.
'—a department for, well, we haven't got a name for it yet, but for looking at clues and things like dead bodies, e.g., how long they've been dead, and to start with we'll need an alchemist and possibly a ghoul provided they promise not to take anything home and eat it; a special unit using dogs, which could be very useful, and Lance-Constable Angua can deal with that since she can, um, be her own handler a lot of the time; a request here from Corporal Nobbs that Watchmen be allowed all the weapons they can carry, although I'd be obliged if you said no to that; a—'
Lord Vetinari waved a hand.
'All right, all right,' he said. 'I can see how this is going. And supposing I say no?'
There was another of those long, long pauses, wherein may be seen the possibilities of several different futures.
'Do you know, sir, I never even considered that you'd say no?'
'You didn't?'
'No, sir.'
'I'm intrigued. Why not?'
'It's all for the good of the city, sir. Do you know where the word “policeman” comes from? It means “man of the city”, sir. From the old word polis.'
'Yes. I do know.'
The Patrician looked at Carrot. He seemed to be shuffling futures in his head. Then:
'Yes. I accede to all the requests, except the one involving Corporal Nobbs. And you, I think, should be promoted to Captain.'
'Ye-es. I agree, sir. That would be a good thing for Ankh-Morpork. But I will not command the Watch, if that's what you mean.'
'Why not?'
'Because I could command the Watch. Because . . . people should do things because an officer tells them. They shouldn't do it just because Corporal Carrot says so. Just because Corporal Carrot is . . . good at being obeyed.' Carrot's face was carefully blank.
An interesting point.'
'But there used to be a rank, in the old days. Commander of the Watch. I suggest Samuel Vimes.'
The Patrician leaned back. 'Oh, yes,' he said. 'Commander of the Watch. Of course, that became a rather unpopular job, after all that business with Lorenzo the Kind. It was a Vimes who held the post in those days. I've never liked to ask him if he was an ancestor.'
'He was, sir. I looked it up.'
'Would he accept?'
'Is the High Priest an Offlian? Does a dragon explode in the woods?'
The Patrician steepled his ringers and looked at Carrot over the top of them. It was a mannerism that had unnerved many.
'But, you see, captain, the trouble with Sam Vimes is that he upsets a lot of important people. And I think that a Commander of the Watch would have to move in very exalted circles, attend Guild functions . . .'
They exchanged glances. The Patrician got the best of the bargain, since Carrot's face was bigger. Both of them were trying not to grin.
'An excellent choice, in fact,' said the Patrician.
'I'd taken the liberty, sir, of drafting a letter to the cap— to Mr Vimes on your behalf. Just to save you trouble, sir. Perhaps you'd care to have a look?'
'You think of everything, don't you?'
'I hope so, sir.'
Lord Vetinari read the letter. He smiled once or twice. Then he picked up his pen, signed at the bottom, and handed it back.
'And is that the last of your dema— requests?'
Carrot scratched his ear.
'There is one, actually. I need a home for a small dog. It must have a large garden, a warm spot by the fire, and happy laughing children.'
'Good heavens. Really? Well, I suppose we can find one.'
'Thank you, sir. That's all, I think.'
The Patrician stood up and limped over to the window. It was dusk. Lights were being lit all over the city.
With his back to Carrot he said, 'Tell me, captain . . . this business about there being an heir to the throne . . . What do you think about it?'
'I don't think .about it, sir. That's all sword-in-a-stone nonsense. Kings don't come out of nowhere, waving a sword and putting everything right. Everyone knows that.'
'But there was some talk of . . . evidence?'
'No-one seems to know where it is, sir.'
'When I spoke to Captain . . . to Commander Vimes he said you'd got it.'
'Then I must have put it down somewhere. I'm sure I couldn't say where, sir.'
'My word, I hope you absent-mindedly put it down somewhere safe.'
'I'm sure it's . . . well guarded, sir.'
'I think you've learned a lot from Cap— Commander Vimes, captain.'
'Sir. My father always said I was a quick learner, sir.'
'Perhaps the city does need a king, though. Have you considered that?'
'Like a fish needs a . . . er . . . a thing that doesn't work underwater, sir.'
'Yet a king can appeal to the emotions of his subjects, captain. In . . . very much the same way as you did recently, I understand.'
'Yes, sir. But what will he do next day? You can't treat people like puppet dolls. No, sir. Mr Vimes always said a man has got to know his limitations. If there was a king, then the best thing he could do would be to get on with a decent day's work—'
'Indeed.'
'But if there was some pressing need . . . then perhaps he'd think again.' Carrot brightened up. 'It's a bit like being a guard, really. When you need us, you really need us. And when you don't . . . well, best if we just walk around the streets and shout All's Well. Providing all is well, of course.'
'Captain Carrot,' said Lord Vetinari, 'because we understand one another so well, and I think we do understand one another . . . there is something I'd like to show you. Come this way.'
He led the way into the throne room, which was, empty at this time of day. As he hobbled across the wide floor he pointed ahead of him.
'I expect you know what that is, captain?'
'Oh, yes. The golden throne of Ankh-Morpork.'
And no-one has sat in it for many hundreds of years. Have you ever wondered about it?'
'Exactly what do you mean, sir?'
'So much gold, when even the brass has been stripped off the Brass Bridge? Take a look behind the throne, will you?'
Carrot mounted the steps.
'Good grief!'
The Patrician looked over his shoulder.
'It's just gold foil over wood . . .'
'Quite so.'
It was hardly even wood any more. Rot and worms had fought one another to a standstill over the last biodegradable fragment. Carrot prodded it with his sword, and part of it drifted gently away in a puff of dust.
'What do you think about this, captain?'
Carrot stood up.
'On the whole, sir, it's probably just as well that people don't know.'
'So I have always thought. Well, I will not keep you. I'm sure you have a lot to organize.'
Carrot saluted.
'Thank you, sir.'
'I gather that you and, er, Constable Angua are getting along well?'
'We have a very good Understanding, sir. Of course, there will be minor difficulties,' said Carrot, 'but, to look on the positive side, I've got someone who's always ready for a walk around the city.'
As Carrot had his hand on the door handle Lord Vetinari called out to him.
'Yes, sir?'
Carrot looked back at the tall thin man, standing in the big bare room beside the golden throne filled with decay.
'You're a man interested in words, captain. I'd just invite you to consider something your predecessor never fully grasped.'
'Sir?'
'Have you ever wondered where the word “politician” comes from?' said the Patrician.
And then there's the committee of the Sunshine Sanctuary,' said Lady Ramkin, from her side of the dining table. 'We must get you on that. And the Country Landowners' Association. And the Friendly Flamethrowers' League. Cheer up. You'll find your time will just fill up like nobody's business.'
'Yes, dear,' said Vimes. The days stretched ahead of him, just filling up like nobody's business with committees and good works and . . . nobody's business. It was probably better than walking the streets. Lady Sybil and Mr Vimes.
He sighed.
Sybil Vimes, née Ramkin, looked at him with an expression of faint concern. For as long as she'd known him, Sam Vimes had been vibrating with the internal anger of a man who wants to arrest the gods for not doing it right, and then he'd handed in his badge and he was . . . well, not exactly Sam Vimes any more.
The clock in the corner chimed eight o'clock. Vimes pulled out his presentation watch and opened it.
'That clock's five minutes fast,' he said, above the tinkling chimes. He snapped the lid shut, and read again the words on it: 'A Watch From, Your Old Freinds In The Watch'.
Carrot had been behind that, sure enough. Vimes had grown to recognize that blindness to the position of 'i's and 'e's and that wanton cruelty to the common comma.
They said goodbye to you, they took you out of the measure of your days, and they gave you a watch . . .
'Excuse me, m'lady?'
'Yes, Willikins?''
'There is a Watchman at the door, m'lady. The tradesman's entrance.'
'You sent a Watchman to the tradesman's entrance?' said Lady Sybil.
'No, m'lady. That's the one he came to. It's Captain Carrot.'
Vimes put his hand over his eyes. 'He's been made captain and he comes to the back door,' he said. 'That's Carrot, that is. Bring him on in.'
It was barely noticeable, except to Vimes but the butler glanced at Lady Ramkin for her approval.
'Do as your master says,' she said, gallantly.
'I'm no-one's mas—' Vimes began.
'Now, Sam,' said Lady Ramkin.
'Well, I'm not,' said Vimes sullenly.
Carrot marched in, and stood to attention. As usual, the room subtly became a mere background to him.
'It's all right, lad,' said Vimes, as nicely as he could manage. 'You don't need to salute.'
'Yes I do, sir,' said Carrot. He handed Vimes an envelope. It had the seal of the Patrician on it.
Vimes picked up a knife and broke the seal.
'Probably charging me five dollars for unnecessary wear and tear on my chainmail,' he said.
His lips moved as he read.
'Blimey,' he said eventually. 'Fifty-six?'
'Yes, sir. Detritus is looking forward to breaking them in.'
'Including undead? It says here open to all, regardless of species or mortal status—'
'Yes, sir,' said Carrot, firmly. 'They're all citizens.'
'You mean you could have vampires in the Watch?'
'Very good on night duty, sir. And aerial surveillance.'
'And always useful if you want to stake out somewhere.'
'Yes, sir?'
Vimes watched the feeble pun go right through Carrot 's head without triggering his brain. He turned back to the paper.
'Hmm. Pensions for widows, I see.'
'Yessir.'
'Re-opening the old Watch Houses?'
'That's what he says, sir.'
Vimes read on:
We consider particularly that, this enlarged Watch will need an expereinced man in charge who, is held in Esteem by all parts of soceity and, we are convinced that you should fulfil this Roll. You will therefore take up your Duties immediately as, Commander of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch. This post traditionally carreis with it the rank of Knight which, we are minded to resurrect on this one occasion.
Hoping this finds you in good health, Yrs. faithfully
Havelock Vetinari (Patrician)
Vimes read it again.
He drummed his fingers on the table. There was no doubt that the signature was genuine. But . . .
'Corp— Captain Carrot?'
'Sah!' Carrot stared straight ahead of him with the glistening air of one busting with duty and efficiency and an absolute resolve to duck and dodge any direct questions put to him.
'I—' Vimes picked up the paper again, put it down, picked it up, and then passed it over to Sybil.
'My word!' she said. 'A knighthood? Not a moment too soon, either!'
'Oh, no! Not me! You know what I think about the so-called aristocrats in this city – apart from you, Sybil, of course.'
'Perhaps it's about time the general stock was improved, then,' said Lady Ramkin.
'His lordship did say,' said Carrot, 'that no part of the package was negotiable, sir. I mean, it's all or nothing, if you understand me.'
'All . . .?'
'Yessir.'
'. . . or nothing.'
'Yessir.'
Vimes drummed his ringers on the table.
'You've won, haven't you?' he said. 'You've won.'
'Sir? Don't understand, sir,' said Carrot, radiating honest ignorance.
There was another dangerous silence.
'But, of course,' said Vimes, 'there's no possible way I could oversee this sort of thing.'
'What do you mean, sir?' said Carrot.
Vimes pulled the candelabra towards him and thumped the paper with a finger.
'Well, look what it says here. I mean, opening those old Watch Houses? On the gates? What's the point in that? Right out there on the edge?'
'Oh, I'm sure matters of organization detail can be changed, sir,' said Carrot.
'Keep a general gate guard, yes, but if you're going to have any kind of finger on the pulse of . . . look, you'd need one along Elm Street somewhere, dose to the Shades and the docks, and another one halfway up Short Street, and maybe a smaller one in Kingsway. Somewhere up there, anyway. You've got to think about population centres. How many men based per Watch House?'
'I thought ten, sir. Allowing for shifts.'
'No, can't do that. Use six at most. A corporal, say, and one other per shift. The rest you'll move around on, oh, a monthly rota. You want to keep everyone on their toes, yes? And that way everyone gets to walk every street. That's very important. And . . . wish I had a map here . . . oh . . . thank you, dear. Right. Now, see here. You've got a strength of fixty-six, nominal, OK? But you're taking over day watch too, plus you've got to allow for days off, two grandmother's funerals per year per man – gods know how your undead'll sort out that one, maybe they get time off to go to their own funerals – and then there's sickness and so on. So . . . we want four shifts, staggered around the city. Got a light? Thanks. We don't want the whole guard changing shift at once. On the other hand, you've got to allow each Watch House officer a certain amount of initiative. But we should maintain a special squad in Pseudopolis Yard for emergencies . . . look, give me that pencil. Now give me that notebook. Right . . .'
Cigar smoke filled the room. The little presentation watch played every quarter of an hour, entirely unheeded.
Lady Sybil smiled and shut the door behind her, and went to feed the dragons.
'Dearest Mumm and Dad,
Well here is Amazing news for, I am now Captain!! It has been a very busy and vareid Week all round as, I shall now recount. . .'
And only one thing more . . .
There was a large house in one of the nicer areas of Ankh, with a spacious garden with a children's tree-house in it and, quite probably, a warm spot by the fire.
And a window, breaking . . .
Gaspode landed on the lawn, and ran like hell towards the fence. Flower-scented bubbles streamed off his coat. He was wearing a ribbon with a bow on it, and carrying in his mouth a bowl labelled MR HUGGY.
He dug his way frantically under the fence and squirmed into the road.
A fresh pile of horse droppings took care of the floral smell, and five minutes of scratching removed the bow.
'Not a bloody flea left,' he moaned, dropping the bowl. 'An' I had nearly the complete set. Whee-ooo! I'm well out of that. Huh!'
Gaspode brightened up. It was Tuesday. That meant steak-and-suspicious-organs pie at the Thieves' Guild, and the head cook there was known to be susceptible to a thumping tail and a penetrating stare. And holding an empty bowl in your mouth and looking pathetic was a sure-fire winner, if Gaspode was any judge. It shouldn't take too long to claw off MR HUGGY.
Perhaps this wasn't the way it ought to be. But it was the way it was.
On the whole, he reflected, it could have been a lot worse.
The End