Disclaimer: Discworld and all characters thereof are the property of Sir Terry Pratchett; The greatest comedic fantasy genius since Douglas Adams.
Stranger Days
(or, more literally, Days of Strangers)Night Watch
Pseudopolis Yard is always bustling with activity but this afternoon saw the watch house reach epic proportions of hysterical industriousness. The reason for such manic diligence in an otherwise energy-conservative staff like the Watch was twofold.
1) This week was the end of the fiscal year which meant all the watchmen would be up for salary review. In some cities this might hold the prospect of a rise in pay but in Ankh-Morpork Lord Vetinari had found it far more effective to threaten pay deductions in harmony with employee performance. Some people might work extra hard in hopes of a raise but absolutely everyone will slave to avoid a cut.
2) Commander Vimes, he of the stony face and glare, was currently at the Patrician's office. This meant that, at any moment, he was due to return in a fit of such barely contained fury that anyone caught breathing would be put on Shades patrol for the week. It was rumored that Vimes had once come back from a meeting with Vetinari so livid that when he'd been handed a cup of tea it went to boiling. (This is not verifiably true as the cup was shattered in his fist before any confirmation could be made)
So everyone who hadn't already escaped on patrol kept their eyes glued to paperwork with the sort of intensity usually only mastered by very lonely men at exotic dance establishments. Angua was getting ready to go out on her patrol but hadn't yet escaped because her partner had yet to arrive. Instead she stood impatiently by the door talking to Carrot in a tone agonizing between flirtatious and infuriated.
"I was slated to patrol with you, Carrot." She growled, as only a werewolf can.
"Special instructions, Angua. The Commander wants a full sweep of the Palace and grounds before tomorrow night. It really shows what confidence he has in the two of you!" Carrot beamed proudly at her, full of respect for the abilities her nature had cursed her with.
"But you and I work faster together. We might even finish with time for a quick double-knot. Extra-hot." She winked, her voice a little lower. All coppers were natural eavesdroppers. Carrot paused, puzzling over this idea as he did over anything new and not covered in a manual.
"I don't think the pretzel carts are out that late. They barely hang around for last call to dump customers on the streets and pack up right after. Something to do with starting the next batch of dough, I understand."
Angua stared; she always did when Carrot spoke with such naiveté, just in case there was some guile beneath the innocence. There wasn't even the faintest twitch or glimmer in his eye to suggest anything other than his usual absolute virtuous simplicity. After all these years you'd think I'd understand.
"Fine," she gave up and slumped back against the wall by the door, "Where is she anyway? Bloody vampires. Always have to be 'fashionably late.'"
Carrot, who knew that Corporal Von Humpeding was only three minutes late and that the Watch clock was fast, said nothing. They fell into habitual conversation about the latest batch of disturbance reports (they'd both been on the Watch so long that this was also their pillow talk).
Suddenly Angua straightened up and her eyes darted to the door. Carrot knew what that meant. Angua could pick out each and every member of the Watch by their unique smell. Cheery was a floral body wash, a heavy splash of musk (because the dwarf had recently discovered perfume and assumed – dwarfishly – that more was better) and the faint odor of acids. Constable Visit always smelled of earnestness and printing ink. Sergeant Colon smelled like a donut that had been fried in bacon fat and when he was nervous there was an undertone of mackerel. Nobby smelled like... well, Nobby.
Commander Sir Samuel Vimes smelled like the paving stones of the street after a heavy rain. It was a complex smell that had to have been absorbed through his feet and it was completely unmistakable. Angua put her hand on the door and counted down the seconds as the odor grew closer. Four . . . three . . . two . . . one. She pulled the door open right before Vimes might've burst through on his own. The wall behind the door couldn't take too many more strikes from the handle.
Everyone braced for the tidal swell of rage and heat that generally flowed in with the Commander on these occasions, only to be left gasping like fish swept ashore. Vimes was not stomping in. He was strolling with one hand in his pocket and the other playing with the half a cigar he'd apparently been enjoying on his stroll. He was humming. Angua glanced askance at Carrot, seeing only sincere confusion in his eyes as well. The rest of the Watch were so unnerved that they all either left for patrol early, decided now was the perfect time for tea break or suddenly took ill. A few actually tripped over each other in the doorways.
"The meeting with Lord Vetinari went well, then, Commander?" Carrot saluted his greeting – pointless since Vimes' back was to him on the stairs.
"My head still on? Then yes, it must have." No mood was too good for Vimes to lose his sarcastic edge.
"You're unusually chipper," Carrot hazarded again, "Has the Guild Banquet for tomorrow night been suddenly canceled?"
"Ha!" Vimes turned now, the twinkle in his eyes clearly a glint, "Not a chance. Have to give the guild leaders and the aristocrats one night a year to size each other up and prove who the bigger wanker is. I think I'll bet on the guilds this year, even the Assassins haven't got a handicap like Rust."
"And it is still full formal dress, isn't it?" Angua tried the next obvious suspicion.
"Yes, blast it. Tights and all. Odd thing though, Sybil hasn't been able to find the hat." Vimes definitely had a hint of a smile when he said this. It wasn't so much in his mouth as in the way the hard lines softened. He turned and headed up to his office, the two officers automatically falling in behind them. Carrot and Angua communicated with each other through urgent glances and the complex sign language of eyebrows. They were trying desperately to imagine what could have their boss in such good spirits. For half a minute the man was actually whistling under his breath!
"I don't suppose she's been able to order another? Hat?"
"Sadly, no. It's quite unusual material. The haberdashery can't get the proper makings for at least a month." Sam settled in behind his desk and took another long, satisfied draw on his cigar.
"Which haberdashery, sir?" Carrot puzzled, he knew at least 18 shops in Isle of Gods alone. Several of which would manufacture forged goods on site, up to and including Octarine for wizards' hats.
"All of them." Vimes smiled now. That certainly explained the 'special investigative patrol' that he'd sent Dorfl and Nobby out on all week. Carrot's forehead was beginning to contort into a knot with his effort to be tactful, circumspect, respectful but still suspicious as all hell. Angua decided to spare him the worry lines.
"You're unusually cheerful, sir. It's not like you after a visit with the Patrician." She stated plainly. Vimes' smile didn't move, in fact it might have widened a bit. There was something smug about the edges of his expression.
"Apparently Lord Vetinari had to listen to Lord Downey fume for some time this afternoon. The Assassin's Guild is quite upset about some new challengers in their market. Some up and coming young chap's been bad for business."
"Which is always good for us?" Carrot hazarded, trying to find the particular angle that made this view so rosy. Usually competing assassins just meant more dead bodies. All with proper paperwork, of course.
"Anything that upsets Downey is good for us, Captain. He says business is down, which is just another way of saying more people are living. I don't know who or what is happening in the world of assassins right now but put the word out: whoever is sticking it to the guild is our newest friend."
"Unofficially, sir?"
"Damn straight. I want an unofficial report on this unauthorized person so I can informally shake his unofficial hand!"
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