Jingo

He coughed.

“Anyway,” he went on, with a glare to indicate that everyone should forget the previous twenty seconds, “our job is to stop people fighting. There's a lot happening on the street. You've probably heard that they're starting up the regiments again. Well, people can recruit if they like. But we're not going to have any mobs. There's a nasty mood around. I don't know what's going to happen, but we've got to be there when it does.” He looked around the room. “Another thing. This new Klatchian envoy or whatever he's called is arriving tomorrow. I don't think the Assassins' Guild has anything planned but tonight we're going to check the route the wizards' procession will be taking. A nice little job for the night shift. And tonight we're all on the night shift.”

There was a groan from the Watch.

“As my old sergeant used to say, if you can't take a joke you shouldn't have joined,” said Vimes. “A nice gentle door-to-door inspection, shaking hands with doorknobs, giving the uniform a bit of an airing. Good old-fashioned policing. Any questions? Good. Thank you very much.”

There was a general rustling and relaxing among the squad as it dawned on them that they were free to go.

Carrot started to clap.

It wasn't the clap used by middlings to encourage underlings to applaud overlings.1 It had genuine enthusiasm behind it which was, somehow, worse. A couple of the more impressionable new constables picked it up and then, in the same way that little pebbles lead the avalanche, the sound of humanoids banging their hands together filled the room.

Vimes glowered.

“Very inspiring, sir!” said Carrot, as the clapping rose to a storm.

Rain poured on Ankh-Morpork. It filled the gutters and overflowed and was then flung away by the wind. It tasted of salt.

The gargoyles had crept out of their daytime shadows and were perched on every cornice and tower, ears and wings outstretched to sieve anything edible out of the water. It was amazing what could fall on Ankh-Morpork. Rains of small fish and frogs were common enough, although bedsteads caused comment.

A broken gutter poured a sheet of water down the window of Ossie Brunt, who was sitting on his bed because there were no chairs or, indeed, any other furniture. He didn't mind at the moment. In a minute or two he might be very angry. And, then again, possibly not.

It was not that Ossie was insane in any way. Friends would have called him a quiet sort who kept himself to himself, but they didn't because he didn't have any friends. There was a group of men who went to practise at the archery butts on Tuesday nights, and he sometimes went to a pub with them afterwards and sat and listened to them talk, and he'd saved up once and bought a round of drinks, although they probably wouldn't remember or maybe they'd say, “Oh… yeah… Ossie.” People said that. People tended to put him out of their minds, in the same way that you didn't pay much attention to empty space.

He wasn't stupid. He thought a lot about things. Sometimes he'd sit and think for hours, just staring at the opposite wall where the rain came in on damp nights and made a map of Klatch.

Someone hammered on the door. “Mr Brunt? Are you decent?”

“I'm a bit busy, Mrs Spent” he said, putting his bow under the bed with his magazines.

“It's about the rent!”

“Yes, Mrs Spent?”

“You know my rules!”

“I shall pay you tomorrow, Mrs Spent,” said Ossie, looking towards the window.

“Cash in my hand by noon or it's out you go!”

“Yes, Mrs Spent.”

He heard her stamp downstairs again.

He counted to fifty, very carefully, and then reached down and pulled out his bow again.

Angua was on patrol with Nobby Nobbs. This was not an ideal arrangement, but Carrot was on swing patrol and on a night like this Fred Colon, who kept the roster, had an uncanny knack of being on desk duty in the warm. So the spare partners had been thrown together. It was a terrible thought.

“Can I have a word, miss?” said Nobby, as they rattled doorknobs and waved their lanterns into alleyways.

“Yes, Nobby?”

“It's pers'nal.”

“Oh.”

“Only I'd ask Fred, but he wouldn't understand, and I fink you would understand on account of you being a woman. Most of the time, anyway. No offence meant.”

“What do you want, Nobby?”

“It's about my… sexual nature, miss.”

Angua said nothing. Rain banged off Nobby's illfitting helmet.

“I think it's time I looked it full in the face, miss.”

Angua cursed her graphic imagination again.

“And, er… how were you thinking of doing that, Nobby?”

“I mean, I sent off for stuff, miss, Creams an' that.”

“Creams,” said Angua flatly.

“That you rub on,” said Nobby helpfully.

“Rub on.”

“And a thing you do exercises with—”

“Oh gods…”

“Sorry, miss?”

“What? Oh… I was just thinking of something else. Do go on. Exercises?”

“Yeah. To build up my biceps and that.”