Jingo

“Oh, just a little masterpiece,” said Vimes, pushing Fred Colon's report aside.

“Interesting, is it?” said Lady Sybil a little sourly.

“Practically unparalleled,” said Vimes. “The only things they haven't found are the bunch of dates and the camel hidden under the pillow…”

Belatedly, his nuptial radar detected a certain chilliness from the far side of the cruet.

“Is, er, there something wrong, dear?” he said.

“Can you remember when we last had dinner together, Sam?”

“Tuesday, wasn't it?”

“That was the Guild of Merchants' annual dinner, Sam.”

Vimes's brow wrinkled. “But you were there too, weren't you?”

A further subtle change in the dragonhouse quotient told him that this was not a well chosen answer.

“And then you rushed off afterwards because of that business with the barber in Gleam Street.”

“Sweeney Jones,”^{39} said Vimes. “Well, he was killing people, Sybil. The best you could say is that he didn't mean to. He was just very bad at shaving—”

“But you didn't have to go, I'm sure.”

“Policing's a twenty-four-hour job, dear.”

“Only for you! Your constables do their ten hours and that's it. But you're always working. It's not good for you. You're always running around during the day, and when I wake up in the middle of the night there's always a cold space beside me…”

The dots hung in the air, the ghosts of words unsaid. Little things, thought Vimes. That's how a war starts.

“There's so much to do, Sybil,” he said, as patiently as he could.

“There's always been a lot to do. And the bigger the Watch gets the more there is to do, have you noticed that?”

Vimes nodded. That was true. Rotas, receipts, notebooks, reports… the Watch might or might not be making a difference in the city, but it was certainly frightening a lot of trees.

“You ought to delegate,” said Lady Sybil.

“So he tells me,” muttered Vimes.

“Pardon?”

“Just thinking aloud, dear.” Vimes pushed the paperwork away. “I'll tell you what… let's have an evening in,” he said. “There's a nice fire in the drawing room—”

“Er… no, Sam, there isn't.”

“Hasn't young Forthright lit it?” Forthright was the Boy; it came as news to Vimes that this was an official servant position, but the Boy's job was to light the fires, clean the privies, help the gardener and take the blame.

“He's gone off to be a drummer boy in the Duke of Eorle's regiment,” said Lady Sybil.

“Him too? He seemed a bright lad! Isn't he too young?”

“He said he was going to lie about his age.”

“I hope he lies about his musical ability. I've heard him whistling.” Vimes shook his head. “Whatever possessed him to do such a daft thing?”

“He thinks the uniform will impress the girls.”

Sybil gave him a gentle smile. An evening at home suddenly began to seem very inviting.

“Well, it won't take a genius to find the woodshed,” said Vimes. “And then we can bolt the doors and—”

One of the aforesaid doors shook to the sound of frantic knocking.

Vimes caught Sybil's gaze.

“Go on, then. Answer it,” she sighed, and sat down.

The door admitted Corporal Littlebottom, seriously out of breath.

“You… got to come quick, sir… it's… murder this… time!”

Vimes looked helplessly at his wife.

“Of course you must go,” she said.

Angua brushed out her hair in front of the mirror.

“I don't like this,” said Carrot. “It's not a proper way to behave.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “Don't worry,” she said. “Vimes explained it all. You're acting as though we're doing something wrong.”

“I like being a watchman,” said Carrot, still in the mournful depths. “And you've got to wear a uniform. If you don't wear a uniform it's like spying on people. He knows I think that.”

Angua looked at his short red hair and honest ears.

“I've taken a lot of the work off his shoulders,” Carrot went on. “He doesn't have to go on patrol at all, but he still tries to do everything.”

“Perhaps he doesn't want you to be quite so helpful?” said Angua, as tactfully as possible.

“It's not as if he's getting any younger, either. I've tried to point that out.”

“That was kind of you.”

“And I've never worn plain clothes.”

“On you they'll never be very plain,” said Angua, pulling on her coat. It was a relief to be out of that armour. As for Carrot, there was no disguising him. The size, the ears, the red hair, the expression of muscular good- naturedness…

“I suppose a werewolf is in plain clothes all the time, when you think about it,” said Carrot.

“Thank you, Carrot. And you are absolutely right.”

“I just don't feel comfortable, living a lie.”

“Walk a mile on these paws.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh… nothing.”

Goriff's son Janil had been angry. He didn't know why. The anger was built up of a lot of things. The firebomb last night was a big part. So were some of the words he'd been hearing in the street. He'd had an argument with his father about sending that food round to the Watch House this morning. They were an official part of the city. They had those stupid badges. They had uniforms. He was angry about a lot of things, including the fact that he was thirteen.

So when, at nine in the evening while his father was baking bread, the door had slammed back and a man had rushed in, Janil had pulled his father's elderly crossbow from under the counter and aimed it where he thought the heart was and pulled the trigger.

Carrot stamped his feet once or twice and looked around.

“Here,” he said. “I was standing here. And the Prince was… in that direction.”

Angua obediently walked across the square. Several people turned to look curiously at Carrot.

“All right… stop… no, on a bit… stop… turn a little bit to the left… I mean my left… back a bit… now throw your arms up…”

He walked over to her and followed her gaze.

“He was shot from the University?”

“Looks like the library building,”^{40} said Angua. “But a wizard wouldn't do it, surely? They keep out of that sort of thing.”

“Oh, it's not too hard to get in there, even when the gates are shut,” said Carrot. “Let's try the unofficial way, shall we?”

“OK, Carrot?”

“Yes?”

“The false moustache… it's not you, you know. And the nose is far too pink”