Jingo

“He came round last week to complain about the Watch harassing some bogeymen, sir. He was very, er, vehement, sir. So I persuaded him that what the Watch needed was some expertise, and so he joined up, sir.”

“No more complaints?”

“Twice as many, sir. All from undead, sir, and all against Mr Shoe. Funny, that.”

Vimes gave his captain a sideways look.

“He's very hurt about it, sir. He says he's found that the undead just don't understand the difficulties of policing in a multi-vital society, sir.”

Good gods, thought Vimes, that's just what I would have done. But I'd have done it because I'm not a nice person. Carrot is a nice person, he's practially got medals for it, surely he wouldn't have…

And he knew that he would never know. Somewhere behind Carrot's innocent stare was a steel door.

“You enrolled him, did you?”

“Nossir. You did, sir. You signed his joining orders and his kit chitty and his posting orders, sir.”

Vimes had another vision of too many documents, hurriedly signed. But he must have signed them and they needed the men, true enough. It was just that it ought to be him who—

“And anyone of sergeant rank or above can recruit, sir,” said Carrot, as if reading his mind. “It's in the General Orders. Page twenty-two, sir. Just below the tea stain.”

“And you've recruited… how many?”

“Oh, just one or two. We're still very short-handed, sir.”

“We are with Reg. His arms keep falling off.”

“Aren't you going to talk to the men, sir?”

Vimes looked at the assembled… well, multitude. There was no other word. Well, there were plenty, but none that it would be fair to use.

Big ones, short ones, fat ones, troll ones with the lichen still on, bearded dwarf ones, the looming pottery presence of the golem Constable Dorfl, undead ones… and even now he wasn't certain if that term should include Corporal Angua, an intelligent girl and a very useful wolf when she had to be. Waifs and strays, Colon had said once. Waifs and bloody strays, because normal people wouldn't be coppers.

Technically they were all in uniform, too, except that mostly they weren't wearing the same uniform as anyone else. Everyone had just been sent down to the armoury to collect whatever fitted, and the result was a walking historical exhibit: Funny-Shaped Helmets Through the Ages.

“Er… ladies and gentlemen—” he began.

“Be quiet, please, and listen to Commander Vimes!” bellowed Carrot.

Vimes found himself meeting the gaze of Angua, who was leaning against the wall. She rolled her eyes helplessly.

“Yes, yes, thank you, captain,” said Vimes. He turned back to the massed array of Ankh-Morpork's finest. He opened his mouth. He stared. And then he shut his mouth, all but a corner of it. And said out of that corner: “What's that little lump on Constable Flint's head?”

“That's Probationary Constable Buggy Swires, sir. He likes to get a good view.”

“He's a gnome!”

“Well done, sir.”

“Another one of yours?”

“Ours, sir,” said Carrot, using his reproachful voice again. “Yes, sir. Attached to the Chitterling Street Station since last week, sir.”

“Oh my gods…” murmured Vimes.

Buggy Swires saw his stare and saluted. He was five inches tall.

Vimes regathered his mental balance. The long and the short and the tall… waifs and strays, all of us.

“I'm not going to keep you long,” he said. “You all know me… well, most of you know me,” he added, with a sidelong glance at Carrot, “and I don't make speeches. But I'm sure all of you have noticed the way this Leshp business has got people all stirred up. There's a lot of loose talk about war. Well, war isn't our business. War is soldiers' business. Our business, I think, is to keep the peace. Let me show you this—”

He stood back and pulled something out of his pocket with a flourish. At least, that was the intention. There was a rip as something ceased to be entangled in the lining.

“Damn… ah…”

He produced a length of shiny black wood from the ragged pocket. There was a large silver knob on the end. The watchmen craned to look.

“This… er… this…” Vimes groped. “This old man turned up from the palace a couple of weeks ago. Gave me this damn thing. Got a label saying ‘Regalia of the Watch Commandr., Citie of Ankh-Morporke’. You know they never throw anything away up at the palace.”

He waved it vaguely. The wood was surprisingly heavy.

“It's got the coat of arms on the knob, look.” Thirty watchmen tried to see.

“And I thought… I thought, good grief, this is what I'm supposed to carry? And I thought about it, and then I thought, no, that's right, just once someone got it right. It's not even a weapon, it's just a thing. It ain't for using, it's just for having. That's what it's all about. Same thing with uniforms. You see, a soldier's uniform, it's to turn him into part of a crowd of other parts all in the same uniform, but a copper's uniform is there to—”

Vimes stopped. Perplexed expressions in front of him told him that he was building a house of cards with too few cards on the bottom.