Thud!

by Terry Pratchett

  “Good evening, sir!” said a cheerful voice, and there, yes, was Special Constable Hancock, an amiable bearded man with an amiable smile and more cutlery about his person than was good for Vimes’s mental health. That was the trouble with some of the Specials. They really got into it. They bought their own gear, and it was always better than Watch issue. Some of them clanged even more than dwarfs, with patent handcuffs and complicated night-sticks and comfy padded helmets and pencils that wrote underwater and, in the case of Special Constable Hancock, two curved Agatean swords strapped across his back. Those who’d dared to venture into the training yard when he was using them said they looked rather impressive. Vimes had heard that an Agatean ninja could give a fly a shave and a haircut in mid-flight, but this didn’t make him feel any better.

  “Oh, hello…Andy,” he said. “I think—”

  “Captain Carrot’s had a word with me,” said Special Constable Hancock, giving him a huge wink. “I’ll see to it!”

  “Oh, good,” said Vimes, horribly aware that he’d put himself in a tricky position vis-à-vis suggesting that maybe one sword might be enough. The man was going to do them a favor, after all. “Er…You’ll be up against the trolls, at least to start with,” he said. “Just remember that there’s our people around you, will you? Remember Special Constable Piggle, eh?”

  “But, in fairness, it was a clean cut, sir!” said Hancock. “Igor said he’d never done such an easy reattachment!”

  “Nevertheless, it’s truncheons only tonight, Andy, unless I give any other order, okay?”

  “Understood, Commander Vimes. I’ve just got a new truncheon, as a matter of fact.”

  Some sixth sense made Vimes say: “Oh, really? May I see?”

  “Right here, sir.” Hancock pulled out what looked to Vimes like two truncheons, joined together with a length of chain.

  “They’re Agatean numknuts, sir. No sharp edges at all.”

  Vimes gave them an experimental swing and hit his own elbow. He handed them back quickly. “Rather you than me, lad. Still, I suppose they’ll make a troll stop and think.”

  Mr. Pessimal was staring in horror, not least because wayward wood had just missed him.

  “Oh, this is Mr. Pessimal, Andy,” said Vimes. “He’s finding out how we do things. Mr. Hancock is one of our…keenest Special constables, Mr. Pessimal.”

  “Nice to met you, Mr. Pessimal!” said Hancock. “If you need any weapons catalogs, I’m your man!”

  Vimes moved on quickly, just in case the man drew those swords again, and ran up against a slightly more reassuring figure.

  “And here we have Mr. Boggis,” he said. “Good to see you. Mr. Boggis is president of the Guild of Thieves, Mr. Pessimal.”

  Mr. Boggis saluted proudly. He had accepted a chain-mail jacket from Fred, but no power in the world would have parted him from his brown bowler hat. Any power nevertheless inclined to try would in any case have to contend with the narrow-eyed, stony-jawed men on either side of him, who had eschewed any weapons or armor. One of them was cleaning his fingernails with a cutthroat razor. In a strange but very definite way, they looked much more dangerous even than Special Constable Hancock.

  “And also Vinnie ‘No Ears’ Ludd and Harry ‘Can’t Remember His Nickname’ Jones, I see,” Vimes went on. “You’ve brought your bodyguards, Mr. Boggis?”

  “Vinnie and Harry like to get out in the fresh air, Mister Vimes,” said Mr. Boggis. “And I see you’ve got your own bodyguard, then?” He beamed down on A. E. Pessimal and then grinned at Vimes. “You have to watch them little bantam fighters, Mister Vimes, they can have the nose off your face quicker’n wink. I can tell a killing cove when I see one, eh? Best of luck to you, Mr. Pessimal!”

  Vimes bustled the astonished man away before Mr. Boggis was killed on the spot by the God of Overacting, and almost walked into the one Special who could be guaranteed not to talk too much.

  “And here, Mr. Pessimal, here we have the university Librarian,” he said, “Good man in a melee, eh?”

  “But that—that’s not a man! That’s an orangutan, Pongo Pongo, native of BhangBhangduc and nearby islands!”

  “Ook!” said the Librarian, patting A. E. Pessimal on the head and handing him a banana skin.

  “Well done, A. E.!” said Vimes. “Not many people get that right!”

  And so Vimes dragged the inspector back through the crowd of damp, armored men, introducing him right and left. Then he pushed him into a corner and, to faint stunned protestations, dragged the mail shirt over his head.

  “You stick close behind me, Mr. Pessimal,” he said as the man tried to move. “It could get a bit sticky later on. The trolls are up in the plaza and the dwarfs are down in the square, and both of ’em are drinking up enough courage to have a good scrap. That’s why we’ll be lining up in the Cham, right between ’em, the thin brown streak, haha. The dwarfs favor battle-axes, the trolls go in for clubs. Our weapon of first resort will be our truncheons, and our weapon of last resort is our feet. That is to say, we’ll run like hell.”

  “But, but, you have swords!” A. E. Pessimal managed.

  “We have swords, Acting Constable. Yes, that is a fact, but poking holes in citizens is Watch brutality, and we don’t want any of that now, do we? Let’s get going, I wouldn’t like you to miss anything.”

  He harried the man again, out into the street and the stream of watchmen heading for the Cham. Apart from them, the street was empty. Ankh-Morpork people had an instinct for staying indoors when there were too many battle-axes and spiky clubs out there.

  The Cham was simply a very, very wide road, once intended for ceremonial parades, a hangover from the days when the city had much to be ceremonious about. Drizzle filled it now and did not do much more than wet the pavements and reflect the light of the flares along the barricades.

  Barricades…well, that’s what they were called on the Watch inventory. Ha! Lengths of wood painted in black and yellow stripes and mounted on trestles were not barricades, not to anyone who’d been behind a real one, which was built of rubbish and furniture and barrels and fear and bowel-knotting defiance. No, these simple things were the physical symbol of an idea. It was a line in the sand. It said: thus far, and no further. It said, this is where the law is. Step over this line and you’ve gone beyond the law. Step over this line, with your massive axes and huge morningstars and heavy, heavy spiky clubs, and we few, we happy few who stand here with our wooden truncheons, we’ll…we’ll…

  …Well, you just better not step over the line, okay?

  The yellow-and-black edges of the Law had been set about twelve feet apart, giving plenty of room for two lines of watchmen standing back-to-back, facing outwards.

  Vimes dragged Mr. Pessimal into the center of the Cham, between the lines, and let him go.

  “Any questions?” he said as latecomers jostled past them to take up their positions.

  The little man stared toward the distant plaza, where the trolls had lit a big fire, and then turned to look the other way, at the square, where the dwarfs had lit several fires. There was the sound of distant singing.

  “Oh, yes, we’ll get the singing first. At this point, it’s all about getting the blood pounding, you see,” Vimes added helpfully. “Songs about heroes, great victories, killing your enemies and drinking out of their warm skulls, that sort of thing.”

  “And then, er, they’ll attack us?” said A. E. Pessimal.

  “Well, not as such,” Vimes conceded. “They’ll try to attack the other bunch, and we’re in the way.”

  “They won’t go around, perhaps?” said A. E. Pessimal hopefully.

  “I doubt it. They won’t be in the mood for narrow alleys. They’ll be thinking in straight lines. Charge and yell, they’ll say, that’s the way.”

  “Ah, there’s the university over there!” said A. E. Pessimal, as if noticing the huge bulk of Unseen University for the very first time. “Surely the wizards could—”

  “—magic their
weapons out of their hands, possibly leaving them with all their fingers? Magic them into the cells? Turn them all into ferrets? And what then, Mr. Pessimal?” Vimes lit a cigar, cupping the match in his hand so that the flame made his face glow briefly. “Shall we follow where magic leads us? Wave a wand, eh, to find out who’s guilty, and what of? Magic men good? The innocent would have nothing to fear, d’you think? I wouldn’t bet tuppence, Mr. Pessimal. Magic’s a little bit alive, a little bit tricky. Just when you think you’ve got it by the throat, it bites you in the arse. No magic in my Watch, Mr. Pessimal. We use good, old-fashioned policing.”

  “But there are lots of them, Commander.”

  “About a thousand altogether, I reckon,” said Vimes placidly. “Plus who knows how many more out there who’ll whale in if we let it get out of hand. This is just the hotheads and the gangs right now.”

  “B-but can’t you just, er, leave them to it?”

  “No, Mr. Pessimal, because that’d be what we in the Watch call ‘complete and utter bloody chaos,’ and it will not stop, and it will get bigger very quickly. We have to finish it right now, so—”

  There was a thud from the direction of the plaza. It was loud enough to echo around the buildings.

  “What was that?” A. E. Pessimal said, looking around hurriedly.

  “Oh, that was to be expected,” said Vimes.

  Pessimal relaxed very slightly.

  “It was?”

  “Yes, it’s the gahanka, the troll war beat,” said Vimes. “They say that within ten minutes of hearing it, you’re dead.” Behind Pessimal, Detritus grinned, the torchlight turning his diamond teeth into rubies.

  “Is that true?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said Vimes. “And now please excuse me for a while, Acting Constable Pessimal, I’ll leave you in the good hands of Sergeant Detritus while I talk to my men. Stiffen their sinews, that sort of thing.”

  He moved away quickly. He told himself he shouldn’t be doing this to the inspector, who was just a clerk in the wrong place and probably wasn’t a bad man. The trouble was, the trolls up in the plaza probably weren’t bad trolls, and the dwarfs down in the square probably weren’t bad dwarfs, either. People who probably weren’t bad could kill you.

  The troll beat boomed around the city as Vimes reached Fred Colon.

  “I see they’re giving us the ol’ gahanka then, Mister Vimes,” said the sergeant, with nervous cheerfulness.

  “Yep. They’ll be charging pretty soon, I expect.” Vimes screwed up his eyes, trying to see figures around the distant glow. Trolls didn’t charge fast, but when they charged, it was like a wall getting nearer. Extending a hand and shouting “Halt” in a firm, authoritative voice probably would not be sufficient.

  “You thinking about another barricade, Mister Vimes?” said Fred.

  “Hmm?” said Vimes, dismissing the mental picture of himself laminated to the street.

  “Barricades, sir,” Colon prompted. “More’n thirty years ago?”

  Vimes gave a curt nod. Oh yes, he remembered the Glorious Revolution. It hadn’t really been a revolution, and had been glorious only if you thought an early grave was glorious. Men had died there, too, because of other men who, bar one or two, probably weren’t bad…

  “Yes,” he said. “And it seems like only yesterday.” Every day, he thought, it seems like only yesterday.

  “Remember ol’ Sergeant Keel? He pulled off a few tricks that night!” Sergeant Colon’s voice, like A. E. Pessimal’s, had a curiously hopeful tone.

  Vimes nodded.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t have one or two up your sleeve, too, sir?” Fred went on, the hope now naked and unashamed.

  “You know me, Fred, always willing to learn,” said Vimes vaguely. He strolled on, nodding to watchmen he knew, slapping others on the back, and trying not to get trapped in anyone’s gaze. Every face was in some way a reflection of the face of Fred Colon. He could practically see their thoughts, while the thud of five hundred clubs hitting the stone in unison banged on the eardrums like a hammer.

  You have got it sorted, haven’t you, Mister Vimes? We’re not really going to be stuck here like the meat in a sandwich, right? It’s a trick, yes? It is a trick, isn’t it? Sir?

  I hope it is, Vimes thought. But, one way or another, the Watch has to be here. That’s the bloody truth of it.

  Something had changed in the rhythm of the gahanka. You had to be listening, but some of the clubs were hitting the ground just ahead or just after the beat. Ah.

  He reached Cheery and Carrot, who were staring at the distant fires of the dwarfs.

  “We think we might be getting a result, sir,” said Carrot.

  “I damn well hope so! What’s happening with the dwarfs?”

  “No so much singing, sir,” Cheery reported.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “We could handle them, though, couldn’t we, sir?” said Carrot. “With the golem officers on our side, too? If it came to it?”

  Of course we couldn’t, Vimes’s mind supplied, not if they mean it. What we could is die valiantly. I’ve seen men die valiantly. There’s no future in it.

  “I don’t want it to come to it, Captain—” Vimes stopped. A deeper shadow had moved among the shadows.

  “What’s the password?” he said quickly.

  The shadowy figure, who was cloaked and hooded, hesitated.

  “Pathword? Excthuthe me, I’ve got it written down thome-where—” it began.

  “Okay, Igor, come on in,” said Carrot.

  “How did you know it wath me, thur?” said Igor, ducking under the barricade.

  “Your aftershave,” said Vimes, winking at the captain. “How did it go?”

  “Jutht as you thaid, thur,” said Igor, pushing his hood back. “Inthidentally, thur, I have thcrubbed the thlab well and my couthin Igor ith thtanding by to lend a hand. In cathe of any little acthidenth, thur…”

  “Thank you for thinking of that, Igor,” said Vimes, as if Igors ever thought of anything else. “I hope it won’t be needed.”

  He looked up and down the Cham. The rain was falling harder now. Just once, the copper’s friend had turned up when he really needed it. Rain tended to dampen martial enthusiasm.

  “Anyone seen Nobby?” he said.

  A voice from the shadows said, “Here, Mister Vimes! Been here five minutes!”

  “Why didn’t you sing out, then?”

  “Couldn’t remember the password, sir! I thought I’d wait ’til I heard Igor say it!”

  “Oh, come on in. Did it work?”

  “Better’n you’d imagine, sir!” said Nobby, rain pouring down his cloak.

  Vimes stood back. “Okay, lads, then this is it. Carrot and Cheery, you head for the dwarfs, me and Detritus will take the trolls. You know the drill. Lines to advance slowly, and no edged weapons. I repeat, no edged weapons until it’s that or die. Let’s do this like coppers, okay? On the signal!”

  He hurried back up the line of barricades as fast as the stir ran along the ranks of the watchmen.

  Detritus was waiting stoically. He grunted when Vimes arrived.

  “Clubs have jus’ about stopped, sir,” he reported.

  “I heard, Sergeant.” Vimes took off his oiled leather cloak and hung it on the barricade. He needed his arms free.

  “By the way, how did it go in Turn Again Lane?” he said, stretching and breathing deeply.

  “Oh, wonnerfuI, sir,” said Detritus happily. “Six alchemists an’ fifty pound o’ fresh Slide. In an’ out, quick an’ sweet, all banged up in the Tanty.”

  “Didn’t know what hit ’em, eh?” said Vimes.

  Detritus looked mildly offended at this. “Oh no, sir,” he said. “I made sure they knew I hit ’em.”

  And then Vimes spotted Mr. Pessimal, still where he had left him, his face a pale disc in the shadows. Well, enough of that game. Maybe the little tit would have learned something, standing here in the rain, waiting to be caught between a couple
of screaming mobs. Maybe he’d had time to wonder what it was like to spend your life going through moments like that. A bit harder than pushing paper, eh?

  “If I was you, I’d just wait here, Mr. Pessimal,” he said as kindly as he could manage. “This might be a bit rough in parts.”

  “No, Commander,” said A. E. Pessimal, looking up.

  “What?”

  “I have been paying attention to what has been said, and intend to face the foe, Commander,” said A. E. Pessimal.

  “Now see here, Mr. Pessi…er, see here, A. E.,” said Vimes, putting his hand on the little man’s shoulder. He stopped. A. E. Pessimal was trembling so much that his chain mail was faintly jingling. Vimes persevered. “Look, go on home, eh? This isn’t where you belong.” He patted the shoulder a few times, totally nonplussed.

  “Commander Vimes!” snapped the inspector.

  “Er, yes?”A. E. Pessimal turned up to Vimes a face wetter than the drizzle rightly accounted for.

  “I am an acting constable, am I not?”

  “Well, yes, I know I said that, but I did not expect you to take it seriously…”

  “I am a serious man, Commander Vimes. And there is no place I would rather be now than here!” Acting Constable Pessimal said, his teeth chattering. “And no time I’d rather be here than now! Let’s do this, shall we?”

  Vimes looked at Detritus, who shrugged his massive shoulders. Something was happening here, in the mind of a little man whose back he could probably break with one hand.

  “Oh, well, if you say so,” he said hopelessly. “You heard the inspector, Sergeant Detritus. Let’s do this, shall we?”

  The troll nodded, and turned to face the distant troll encampment. He cupped his hands and bellowed a string of trollish, which bounced off the buildings.

  “Something we can all understand, perhaps?” said Vimes as the echoes died away.

  A. E. Pessimal stepped forward, taking a deep breath.

  “C’mon if you think you’re hard enough!” he screamed wildly.

  Vimes coughed. “Thank you, Mr. Pessimal,” he said weakly. “I imagine that should do it.”

  The moon was somewhere beyond the clouds, but Angua didn’t need to see it. Carrot once had a special watch made for her birthday. It was a little moon that turned right around, black side and white side, every twenty-eight days. It must have cost him a lot of money, and Angua now wore it on her collar, the one item of clothing that she could wear all month around. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she didn’t need it. You knew what was happening.