There was a clang. Not a particularly loud one. He felt something bright and silver whirr past his ear and strike the wall.
Wonse's mouth fell open. He dropped the remnant of his sword and backed away, clutching The Summoning.
'You'll be sorry,' he hissed. 'You'll all be very sorry!'
He started to mumble under his breath.
Vimes felt himself trembling. He was pretty certain he knew what had zinged past his head, and the mere thought was making his hands sweat. He'd come to the palace ready to kill and there'd been this minute, just this minute, when for once the world had seemed to be operating properly and he was in charge of it and now, now all he wanted was a drink. And a nice week's sleep.
'Oh, give up!' he said. 'Are you going to come quietly?'
The mumbling went on. The air began to feel hot and dry.
Vimes shrugged. 'That's it, then,' he said, and turned away. 'Throw the book at him, Carrot.'
'Right, sir.'
Vimes remembered too late.
Dwarfs have trouble with metaphors.
Вы читаете Guards! Guards!
