Men at Arms (Discworld #15)

All the trolls listened intently. Stronginthearm realized that he was suddenly the centre of attention, and hesitated.

'Well . . . you've only got the one dwarf, for one thing . . .' he began.

'I'm a dwarf,' said Carrot, 'technically.'

Stronginthearm looked a little nervous. The whole issue of Carrot's keenly embraced dwarfishness was a difficult one for the more politically minded dwarfs.

'You're a bit big,' he said lamely.

'Big? What's size got to do with being a dwarf?' Carrot demanded.

'Um . . . a lot?' whispered Cuddy.

'Good point,' said Carrot. 'That's a good point.' He scanned the faces. 'Right. We need some honest, law-abiding dwarfs . . . you there . . .'

'Me?' said an unwary dwarf.

'Have you got any previous convictions?'

'Well, I dunno . . . I suppose I used to believe very firmly that a penny saved is a penny earned—'

'Good. And I'll take . . . you two . . . and you. Four more dwarfs, yes? Can't complain about that, eh?'

'Ain't gonna be inna Watch,' said Bauxite again, but uncertainty modulated his tone.

'You trolls can't leave now,' said Detritus. 'Otherwise, too many dwarfs. That's numbers, that is.'

'I'm not joining any Watch!' said a dwarf.

'Not man enough, eh?' said Cuddy.

'What? I'm as good as any bloody troll any day!'

'Right, that's sorted out then,' said Carrot, rubbing his hands together. 'Acting-Constable Cuddy?'

'Sir?'

'Hey,' said Detritus, 'how come he suddenly full constable?'

'Since he was in charge of the dwarf recruits,' said Carrot. 'And you're in charge of the troll recruits, Acting-Constable Detritus.'

'I full acting-constable in charge of the troll recruits?'

'Of course. Now, if you would step out of the way, Lance-Constable Bauxite—'

Behind Carrot, Detritus drew a big proud breath.

'Ain't gonna—'

'Lance-Constable Bauxite! You horrible big troll! You standing up straight! You saluting right now! You stepping out of the way of Corporal Carrot! You two troll, you come here! Wurn . . . two-er . . . tree . . . four-er! You in the Watch now! Aaargh, I cannot believe it what my eye it seeing! Where you from, Bauxite?'

'Slice Mountain, but—'

'Slice Mountain! Slice Mountain? Only . . .' Detritus looked at his fingers for a moment, and rammed them behind his back. 'Only two-er things come from Slice Mountain! Rocks . . . an' . . . an' . . .' he struck out wildly, 'other sortsa rocks! What kind you, Bauxite?'

'What the hell's going on here?'

The Watch House door had opened. Captain Quirke emerged, sword in hand.

'You two horrible troll! You raise your hand right now, you repeat troll oath—'

'Ah, captain,' said Carrot. 'Can we have a word?'

'You're in real trouble, Corporal Garret,' snarled Quirke. 'Who do you think you are?'

'I will do what I told—'

'Don't wanna be inna—'

Wham!

'I will do what I told—'

'Just the man on the spot, captain,' said Carrot cheerfully.

'Well, man on the spot, I'm the senior officer here, and you can damn well—'

'Interesting point,' said Carrot. He produced his black book. 'I'm relieving you of your command.'

'—otherwise I get my goohuloog head kicked in.'

'—otherwise I get my goohuloog head kicked in.'

'Wha—? Are you mad?'

'No, sir, but I'm choosing to believe that you are. There are regulations laid down for this eventuality.'

'Where is your authority?' Quirke stared at the crowd. Hah! I suppose you'll say this armed mob is your authority, 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 towards 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.

Tut 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 demon- stration 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 morning-star 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.[26] 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 lamp-post.

'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. 'Sweethear 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 wit? sand in it. It came from somewhere in an alley.

' 'o's yer fwiend, Gaspode?'

There was a snigger.

'Ah,' said Gaspode. 'Uh. Hi, guys.'

Two dogs emerged from the alley. They were huge. Their species was indeterminate. One of them was jet black and looked like a pit bull terrier crossed with a mincing machine. The other . . . the other looked like a dog whose name was almost certainly 'Butch'. Both sop and bottom set of fangs had grown so large that he appeared to be looking at the world through bars. He was also bow-legged, although it would probably be a tad if not terminal move for anyone to comment on Gaspode's tail vibrated nervously.

These are my friends Black Roger and —'

Butch?' suggested Angua.

How did you know that?' A lucky guess,' said Angua.

The two big dogs had moved around so that they were e either side of them.

Well, well, well,' said Black Roger. 'Who's this, then?' Angua,' said Gaspode. 'She's a —'


— wolfhound,' said Angua.

The two dogs paced around them hungrily.

'Big Fido know about her?' said Black Roger.

'I was just —' Gaspode began.

'Well, now,' said Black Roger, 'I reckon you'd be wanting to come with us. Guild night tonight.'

'Sure, sure,' said Gaspode. 'No problem there.'

I could certainly manage either of them, Angua thought. But not both at once.

Being a werewolf meant having the dexterity and jaw power to instantly rip out a man's jugular. It was a trick of her father's that had always annoyed her mother, especially when he did it just before meals. But Angua had never been able to bring herself to do it. She'd preferred the vegetarian option.

' 'ullo,' said Butch, in her ear.

'Don't you worry about anything,' moaned Gaspode. 'Me an' Big Fido . . . we're like that.'

'What're you trying to do? Cross your claws? I didn't know dogs could do that.'

'We can't,' said Gaspode miserably.

Other dogs slunk out of the shadows as the two of them were half led, half driven along byways that weren't even alleys any more, just gaps between walls. They opened out eventually into a bare area, nothing more than a large light well for the buildings around it. There was a very large barrel on its side in one corner, with a ragged bit of blanket in it. A variety of dogs were waiting around in front of it, looking expectant; some of them had only one eye, some of them had only one ear, all of them had scars, and all of them had teeth.

'You,' said Black Roger, 'wait here.'

'Do not twy to wun away,' said Butch, ' 'cos having your intestines chewed often offends.'

Angua lowered her head to Gaspode level. The little dog was shaking.

'What have you got me into?' she growled. 'This is the dog Guild, right? A pack of strays?'

'Shsssh! Don't say that! These aren't strays. Oh, blimey.' Gaspode glanced around. 'You don't just get any hound in the Guild. Oh, dear me, no. These are dogs that have been . . .' he lowered his voice, '. . . er . . . bad dogs.'

'Bad dogs?'

'Bad dogs. You naughty boy. Give him a smack. You bad dog,' muttered Gaspode, like some horrible litany. 'Every dog you see here, right, every dog . . . run away Run away from his or her actual owner.'

'Is that all?'

'All? All ? Well. Of course. You ain't exactly a dog. You wouldn't understand. You wouldn't know what it was like. But Big Fido . . . he told 'em. Throw off your choke chains, he said. Bite the hand that feeds you. Rise up and howl. He gave 'em pride,' said Gaspode, his voice a mixture of fear and fascination, 'He told 'em. Any dog he finds not bein' a free spirit – that dog is a dead dog. He killed a Dobermann last week, just for wagging his tail when a human went past.'

Angua looked at some of the other dogs. They were all unkempt. They were also, in a strange way, un-doglike. There was a small and rather dainty white poodle that still just about had the overgrown remains of its poodle cut, and a lapdog with the tattered remains of a tartan jacket still hanging from its shoulder. But they weren't milling around, or squabbling. They had a uniform intent look that she'd seen before, although never on dogs.

Gaspode was clearly trembling now. Angua slunk over to the poodle. It still had a diamante collar visible under the crusty fur.

'This Big Fido,' she said, 'is he some kind of wolf, or what?'

'Spiritually, all dogs are wolves,' said the poodle, 'but cynically and cruelly severed from their true destiny by the manipulations of so-called humanity.'

It sounded like a quote. 'Big Fido said that?' Angua hazarded.

The poodle turned its head. For the first time she saw its eyes. They were red, and as mad as hell. Anything with eyes like that could kill anything it wanted because madness, true madness, can drive a fist through a plank.

'Yes,' said Big Fido.

He had been a normal dog. He'd begged, and rolled over, and heeled, and fetched. Every night he'd been taken for a walk.

There was no flash of light when It happened. He'd just been lying in his basket one night and he'd thought about his name, which was Fido, and the name on the basket, which was Fido. And he thought about his blanket with Fido on it, and his bowl with Fido on it, and above all he brooded on the collar with Fido on it, and something somewhere deep in his brain had gone 'click' and he'd eaten his blanket, savaged his owner and dived out through the kitchen window. In the street outside a labrador four times the size of Fido had sniggered at the collar, and thirty seconds later had fled, whimpering.

That had just been the start.

The dog hierarchy was a simple matter. Fido had simply asked around, generally in a muffled voice because he had someone's leg in his jaws, until he located the leader of the largest gang of feral dogs in the city. People – that is, dogs -still talked about the fight between Fido and Barking Mad Arthur, a rottweiler with one eye and a very bad temper. But most animals don't fight to the death, only to the defeat, and Fido was impossible to defeat; he was simply a very small fast killing streak with a collar. He'd hung on to bits of Barking Mad Arthur until Barking Mad Arthur had given in, and then to his amazement Fido had killed him. There was something inexplicably determined about the dog – you could have sandblasted him for five minutes and what was left still wouldn't have given up and you'd better not turn your back on it.

Because Big Fido had a dream.

'Is there a problem?' said Carrot.

'That troll insulted that dwarf,' said Stronginthearm the dwarf.

'I heard Acting-Constable Detritus give an order to Lance-Constable . . . Hrolf Pyjama,' said Carrot. 'What about it?'

'He's a troll!'

'Well?'

'He insulted a dwarf!'

'Actually, it's a technical milit'ry term—' said Sergeant Colon.

'That damn troll just happened to save my life today,' shouted Cuddy.

'What for?'

'What for? What for? 'Cos it was my life, that's what tor! I happen to be very attached to it!'

'I didn't mean—'

'You just shut up, Abba Stronginthearm! What do you know about anything, you civilian! Why're you so stupid? Aargh! I'm too short for this shit!'

A shadow loomed in the doorway. Coalface was a basically horizontal shape, a dark mass of fracture lines and sheer surfaces. His eyes gleamed red and suspicious.

'Now you're letting it go!' moaned a dwarf.

'This is because we have no reason to keep him locked up,' said Carrot. 'Whoever killed Mr Hammerhock was small enough to get through a dwarf's doorway. A troll his size couldn't manage that.'

'But everyone knows he's a bad troll!' shouted Stronginthearm.

'I never done nuffin,' said Coalface.

'You can't turn him loose now, sir,' hissed Colon. 'They'll set on him!'

'I never done nuffin.'

'Good point, sergeant. Acting-Constable Detritus!'

'Sir?'

'Volunteer him.'

'I never done nuffin.'

'You can't do that!' shouted the dwarf.

'Ain't gonna be in no Watch,' growled Coalface.

Carrot leaned towards him. 'There's a hundred dwarfs over there. With great big axes,' he whispered.

Coalface blinked.

'I'll join.'

'Swear him in, acting-constable.'

'Permission to enrol another dwarf, sir? To maintain parity?'

'Go ahead, Acting-Constable Cuddy.'

Carrot removed his helmet and wiped his forehead.

'I think that's about it, then,' he said.

The crowd stared at him.

He smiled brightly.

'No-one has to stay here unless they want to,' he said.

'I never done nuffin.'

'Yes . . . but . . . look,' said Stronginthearm. 'If he didn't kill old Hammerhock, who did?'

'I never done nuffin.'

'Our inquiries are proceeding.'

'You don't know!'

'But I'm finding out.'

'Oh, yes? And when, pray, will you know?'

'Tomorrow.'

The dwarf hesitated.

'All right, then,' he said, with extreme reluctance. 'Tomorrow. But it had better be tomorrow.'

'All right,' said Carrot.

The crowd dispersed, or at least spread out a bit. Trolls, dwarfs and humans alike, an Ankh-Morpork citizen is never keen on moving on if there's some street theatre left.

Acting-Constable Detritus, his chest so swollen with pride and pomposity that his knuckles barely touched the ground, reviewed his troops.

'You listen up, you horrible trolls!'

He paused, while the next thoughts shuffled into position.

'You listen up good right now! You in the Watch, boy! It a job with opportunity!' said Detritus. 'I only been doin' it ten minute and already I get promoted! Also got education and training for a good job in Civilian Street!

'This your club with a nail in it. You will eat it. You will sleep on it! When Detritus say Jump, you say . . . what colour! We goin' to do this by the numbers! And I got lotsa numbers!'

'I never done nuffin.'

'You Coalface, you smarten up, you got a field-marshal's button in your knapsack!'

'Never took nuffin, neither.'

'You get down now and give me thirty-two! No! Make it sixty-four!'

Sergeant Colon pinched the bridge of his nose. We're alive, he thought. A troll insulted a dwarf in front of a lot of other dwarfs. Coalface . . . I mean, Coalface, I mean, Detritus is Mr Clean by comparison . . . is free and now he's a guard. Carrot laid out Mayonnaise. Carrot's said we'll sort it all out by tomorrow, and it's dark already. But we're alive.