'No sub–lettin'!'
'They said I should pay you two dollars!' The pressure of the door was released a little. 'On top of what they paid?' said Mrs Spent. 'Of course.'
'Well...' She looked Carrot up and down and sniffed. 'All right. What shift are you on?'
'Sorry?'
'You're a watchman, right?'
'Er...' Carrot hesitated, and then raised his voice. 'No, I am not a watchman. Haha, you think I'm a watchman? Do I look like a watchman?'
'Yes, you do,' said Mrs Spent. 'You're Captain Carrot. I seen you walking about the town. Still, I suppose even coppers have to sleep somewhere.' On the roof, Angua rolled her eyes. 'No wimmin, no cookin', no music, no pets,' said Mrs Spent, as she led the way up the creaking stairs. Angua waited in the dark until she heard the window open. 'She's gone,' Carrot hissed. 'There's glass on the tiles out here, just like Fred reported,' said Angua, as she swung herself over the sill. Inside the room she took a deep breath and shut her eyes. First she had to forget the smell of Carrot – anxious sweat, soap, the lingering hints of armour polish... ...and Fred Colon, all perspiration with a hint of beer, and then the odd ointment Nobby used for his skin condition, and the smells of feet, bodies, clothes, polish, fingernails... After an hour it was possible for the eye of the nose to see someone walk across the room, frozen in time by their smell. But after a day smells criss– crossed and entangled. You had to take them apart, remove the familiar pieces, and what you had left 'They're so mixed up!'
'All right, all right,' said Carrot soothingly.
'At least three people! But I think one of them is Ossie... It's stronger round the bed... and. ..' She opened her eyes wide and looked down at the floor. 'Somewhere here!'
'What? What is?' Angua crouched down with her nose just above the floorboards. 'I can smell it but I can't see it!' A knife appeared in front of her. Carrot got down on his knees and ran the blade along the dust–filled crack between the floorboards. Something splintery and brown popped up. It had been trodden on and rolled underfoot, but at this distance even Carrot could pick up traces of the clove smell. 'Do you think Ossie made a lot of apple pies?' he whispered. 'No cookin', remember?' said Angua, and grinned. 'There's something else...' Carrot levered out more dirt and dust. In it, something glittered. 'Fred said all the glass was outside, didn't he?'
's “Whereby”, sergeant.'
'I knew dat.' He straightened up again. “'Whereby... it is...” ' Beads of the troll equivalent of sweat began to form on Detritus's forehead. `Whereby it is... ack–no–legg–ed. ..“'
'Acknowledged,' whispered Constable Visit. 'I knew dat.' Detritus stared at the paper again, and then gave up. 'Youse don't want to stand here listenin' to me all day!' he bellowed. 'Dis is der Riot Act and you've all got to read it, right? Pass it round.'
'What if we don't read it?' said a voice in the crowd. 'You got to read it. It legal.'
'And then what happens?'
'Den I shoot you,' said Detritus. 'That's not allowed!' said another voice. 'You've got to shout ”Stop! Armed Watchman!" first.'
'Sure, dat suits me,' said Detritus. He shrugged one huge shoulder to bring his crossbow under his arm. It was a siege bow, intended to be mounted on the cart. The bolt was six feet long. 'It harder to hit runnin' targets.' He released the safety catch. 'Anyone finishing readin' dat thing yet?'
'Sergeant!' Vimes pushed his way through the crowd. And it was a crowd now. Ankh– Morpork was always a good audience. There was a clang as Detritus saluted. 'Were you proposing to shoot these people in cold blood, sergeant?'
'Nossir. just a warning shot inna head, sir.'
'Really? Just give me a moment to talk to them, then.' Vimes looked at the man next to him. He was holding a flaming torch in one hand and a long length of wood in the other. He gave Vimes the
nervously defiant stare of someone who has just felt the ground shift under his feet. Vimes pulled the torch towards him and lit a cigar. 'What's happening here, friend?'
'The Klatchians have been shooting people, Mr Vimes! Unprovoked attack!'
'Really?'
'People have been killed!'
'Who?'
'I... there were... everyone knows they've been killing people!' The man's mental footsteps found safer ground. 'Who do they think they are, coming over–'
'That's enough,' said Vimes. He stood back and raised his voice. 'I recognize a lot of you,' he said. 'And I know you've got homes to go to. See this?' He pulled his baton of office out of his pocket. 'This says I've got to keep the peace. So in ten seconds I'm going somewhere else to find some peace to keep, but Detritus is going to stay here. And I just hope he doesn't do anything to disgrace the uniform. Or get it very dirty, at least.' irony was not a degree–level subject among the listeners, but the brighter ones recognized Vimes's expression. It said that here was a man hanging on to his patience by his teeth. The mob dispersed, going ragged at the edges as people legged it down side alleys, threw away their makeshift weapons and emerged at the other end walking the grave, thoughtful walk of honest citizens. 'All right, what happened?' said Vimes, turning to the troll. 'We're hearing where dis boy shot dis man,' said Detritus. 'We got here, next minute it rainin' people from everywhere, shoutin'.'
'He smote him as Hudrun smote the fleshpots of Ur,' said Constable Visit. 6 'Smote?' said Vimes, bewildered. 'He killed someone?'
'Not by der way der man was cussing, sir,' said Detritus. 'Hit him in der arm. His friends brought him round der Watch House to complain. He a baker on der night shift. He said he was late for work, he come runnin' in to pick up his dinner, next minute he flat on der floor.' 6 Constable Visit–The–Ungodly–With–Explanatory–Pamphlets was a good copper, Vimes always said, and that was his highest term of praise. He was an Omnian with his countrymen's almost pathological interest in evangelical religion and spent all his wages on pamphlets; he even had his own printing press. The results were handed out to anyone interested and everyone who wasn't interested as well. Even Detritus couldn't clear a crowd faster than Visit, Vimes said. And on his days off he could be seen tramping the streets with his colleague, Smite–TheUnbeliever–With–Cunning–Arguments. So far they hadn't made a single convert. Vimes thought that Visit was probably a really nice man underneath it all, but somehow he could never face the task of finding out.
Vimes walked across the street and tried the door of the shop. It opened a little way, and then fetched up against what seemed to be a barricade. Furniture had been piled up against the window as well. 'How many people were there, constable?'