Thud

Vimes, grinning horribly, grabbed him by the shoulder.

`Yes! Right! Absolutely!' he shouted. `My dear Mr Pessimal, what have I been thinking of? You should understand! Come with me, please!'

He half dragged the bewildered man out through the back door, lifted him out of the way of a trundling cart as he negotiated the crowded yard, and hustled him into the old factory yard, where the Specials were being kitted up.

Technically, they were the Citizens' Militia but, as Fred Colon had remarked, it was `better to have them in here pissing themselves than outside pissing on you'. The special constables were men - mostly - who could be a copper in times of dire need but were generally disqualified from formal Watch membership by reason of shape, profession, age or, sometimes, brain.

A lot of the professionals didn't like them, but Vimes had lately taken the view that when push came to shove it was better to have your fellow citizens shoving alongside you and, that being the case, you might as well teach them how to hold a sword right, lest the arm they clumsily removed was yours.

Vimes pulled A. E. Pessimal through the press of bodies until he found Fred Colon, who was handing out one-size- doesn't-fitanybody helmets.

`New man for you, Fred,' he said loudly. `Mr A. E. Pessimal,

plain A. E. if he ever makes friends. He's the government inspector. Kit him out, full fig, and don't forget the riot shield. A. E. here wants to understand coppering, so he's kindly volunteered to be an actingconstable on the barricades with us.' Over the top of A. E. Pessimal's head he gave Fred a big wink.

`Oh, er, right,' said Fred, and his face, in the flickering light of the flares, acquired the innocent smile of one about to make someone's life a little pot of bubbling dread. He leaned over the trestle table.

`Know how to use a sword, Acting-Constable Pessimal?' he said, and dropped a helmet on the man's head, where it spun.

`Well, I didn't exactly-' the inspector began, as a very elderly sword was shoved across the planks, followed by a heavy truncheon.

`A shield, then? Any good with a shield?' said Fred, pushing a large such item after the sword.

`Actually, I didn't mean-'said A. E. Pessimal, trying to hold both the sword and the truncheon and dropping both, and then the sword and the truncheon and the shield and dropping all three.

`Any good at running a hundred yards in ten seconds? In this?' Fred went on. A ragged chain mail coat dropped slowly off the table like a parcel of snakes and landed on A. E. Pessimal's bright little shoes.

'Uh, I don't think-'

`Standing still and going to the toilet really, really quickly?' said Fred. `Oh well, you'll learn soon enough.'

Vimes turned the man round, picked up 35lb of rust-eaten chain mail and dropped it into his arms, causing A. E. Pessimal to bend double. `I'll introduce you to some of the citizens who will be fighting alongside you tonight, shall I?' he said, as the little man hobbled after him. `This is Willikins, my butler. No sharpened pennies in your cap tonight, Willikins?'

`No, sir,' said Willikins, staring at the struggling A. E. Pessimal.

`Glad to hear it. This is Acting-Constable Pessimal, Willikins.' Vimes winked.

`Honoured to meet you, acting-constable, sir,' said Willikins gravely. `Now that sir is with us I am sure the miscreants will just melt away. Has sir by any chance gone sir-on-one with a troll before? No? A little advice, sir. The important thing is to get in front of them and dodge the first blow. They always leave themselves open and sir may then step smartly forward and select sir's target of choice.'

`Er, what if ... if I'm not in front of one when it tries to hit me?' A. E. Pessimal said, hypnotized by the description and dropping the sword again. `What if it is in fact behind me?'

`Ah, well, I am afraid that in that case sir has to go back and start all over again, sir:

`And, er, how do I do that?

'Being born is traditionally the first step, sir,' said Willikins, shaking his head.

Vimes gave him a nod and moved the trembling Pessimal on through the chattering crowd, while the fine rain fell and the mists rose and the torches flickered.

`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 nightsticks 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.