'Yes, sir,' said Colon obediently.
'It's deciding what to do next.'
'Yes, sir?'
'They're not unintelligent, you know. They just don't think like us.'
'Yes, sir.'
'So be damned to any lining of the route. I want you three up on roofs, understand?'
'Yes, si — what?'
'Up on the roofs. Up high. When it makes its move, I want us to be the first to know.'
Colon tried to indicate by his expression that he didn't.
'Do you think that's a good idea, sir?' he ventured.
Vimes gave him a blank look. 'Yes, Sergeant, I do. It was one of mine,' he said coldly. 'Now go and see toil.'
When he was left to himself Vimes washed and shaved in cold water, and then rummaged in his campaign chest until he unearthed his ceremonial breastplate and red cloak. Well, the cloak had been red once, and still was, here and there, although most of it resembled a small net used very successfully for catching moths. There was also a helmet, defiantly without plumes, from which the molecule-thick gold leaf had long ago peeled.
He'd started saving up for a new cloak, once. Whatever had happened to the money?
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