Jingo

“Carrot, it's going to be five minutes before I can smell anything except—”

But he was staring past her, at the big red glow in the sky.

Vimes coughed. And then coughed some more. And eventually opened his streaming eyes in the confident expectation of seeing his own lungs in front of him.

“Glass of water, Mr Vimes?”

Vimes peered through the tears at the shifting shape of Fred Colon.

“Thanks, Fred. What's the horrible burning smell?”

“It's you, sir.”

Vimes was sitting on a low wall outside the wreck of the embassy. Cool air washed around him. He felt like underdone beef. The heat was radiating off him.

“You was passed on for a while there, sir,” said Sergeant Colon helpfully. “But everyone saw you swing in that window, sir! And you threw that woman out for Detritus to catch! That'll be a feather in your cap and no mistake, sir! I bet the ragh– I bet the Klatchians'll be giving you the Order of the Camel or something for this night's work, sir!” Colon beamed, bursting with pride by association.

“A feather in my cap…” murmured Vimes. He undid his helmet and with a certain amount of exhausted delight saw that every single plume had been burned to a stub.

He blinked slowly.

“What about the man, Fred? Did he get out?”

“What man?”

“There was…” Vimes blinked again. Various parts of his body, aware that he hadn't been taking calls, were ringing in to complain.

There had been… some man? Vimes had landed on a bed or something, and there was a woman clutching at him, and he had smashed out what was left of the window, seen the big, broad and above all strong arms of Detritus down below, and had thrown her out as politely as the circumstances allowed. Then the man from the roof had come out of the smoke again, carrying another figure over his shoulder, screamed something at him and beckoned him to follow and…

…then the floor had given way…

“There were… two other people in there,” he said, coughing again.

“They didn't get out the front way, then,” said Colon.

“How did I get out?” said Vimes.

“Oh, Dorfl was stamping on the fire down below, sir. Very handy, a ceramic constable. You landed right on him, so of course he stopped what he was doing and brought you out. 's gonna be handshakes and buns all round in the morning, sir!”

There weren't any right now, Vimes noted There were still plenty of people around, carrying bundles, putting out small fires, arguing with one another… but there was a big hole where congratulating-the-hero-of-the-hour should have been.

“Oh, everyone's always a bit preoccupied after something like this, sir,” said Colon, as if reading his thoughts.

“I think I'll have a nice cold bath,” said Vimes, to the world in general. “And then some sleep. Sybil's got some wonderful ointment for burns… Ah, hello, you two.”

“We saw the fire—” Carrot began, running up. “Is it all over?”

“Mr Vimes saved the day!” said Sergeant Colon excitedly. “Just went straight in and saved everyone, in the finest tradition of the Watch!”

“Fred?” said Vimes, wearily.

“Yessir?”

“Fred, the finest tradition of the Watch is having a quiet smoke somewhere out of the wind at 3 a.m. Let's not get carried away, eh?”

Colon looked crestfallen. “Well—” He began.

Vimes staggered to his feet and patted his sergeant on the back

“Oh, all right, it's a tradition,” he conceded. “You can do the next one, Fred. And now,” he steadied himself as he stood up, “I'm going down to the Yard to write my report.”

“You're covered in ash and you're swaying,” said Carrot. “I should just get on home, sir.”

“Oh no,” said Vimes. “Got to do the paperwork. Anyone know the time?”

“Bingeley-bingeley beep!” said a cheerful voice from his pocket.

“Damn!” said Vimes, but it was too late.

“It is,” said the voice, which had the squeaky friendly quality that begs to be strangled, “about… nineish.”

“Nineish?”

“Yep. Nineish. Precisely about nineish.”

Vimes rolled his eyes. “Precisely about nineish?” he said, pulling a small box out of his pocket and opening the lid. The demon inside gave him an angry look.

“Yesterday you said,” it said, “that if I, and I quote, Didn't Stop all that Eight Fifty-Six and Six Seconds Precisely business I Would Be Looking at a Hammer From Below. And when I said, Mr Insert Name Here, that this would invalidate my warranty, you said that I could take my warranty and—”

“I thought you'd lost that thing,” said Carrot.

“Hah,” said the Dis-organizer, “really? You thought he did? I don't call putting something in your trouser pockets just before they go into the wash losing it.”