Odd One Out
A Discworld fanfiction by Intrasonic
The author would like to take this moment to
silence the rampant rumour(1) that this story is actually being written
on-the-fly. He would also like to stress that this story is completely
planned out, start to finish, word-for-word. So anyone thinking that he's
actually putting this story together based on only a few random ideas can
stop thinking such ridiculous thoughts.
No, really. Would I lie to you?
Incidentally, this would be a rather boring
story if there wasn't some terrible and sinister plot in the works. And
while this may indeed turn out to be boring, it won't be through a lack
of a terrible and sinister plot.
And also incidentally, the existence of a
plot naturally means that the storyline is probably going to get a little
muddled. And as I mentioned in the prologue, I'm forced to assume a little
bit of knowledge on the reader's part regarding certain details. From here
on in, sorry in advance. That stated...
*****
(1) Well, not rampant. But it probably has Plans.
It was dark in the room, which was only natural considering that the windows were boarded up, the door was shut, and the roof had been patched recently. Even the room's walls were in decent shape, so there was absolutely no stray beams of light leaking into the room. It was also night outside, so there wasn't much light to sneak inside in the first place. In short, if you were looking for a dark and ominous location to carry out secret and occult deeds, this room was definitely on the top-ten list.
In the darkness, a match flared noisily, casting
its flickering rays throughout the room. In the dim light, if one looked
closely, it could be seen that the holder was an elderly old man. From
the way the match trembled between his wrinkled index finger and thumb,
it could be surmised that the holder's physical facilities were probably
past their warranty period by a considerable margin. Any sensible life
insurance company would have shooed him out the door without a second thought.
Even the cast of ER would have put him down as a write-off.
But the eyes told a different story altogether.
They had a glint in them that indicated that time had served to hone an
already keen mind to something even sharper. And while continuous sharpening
will eventually wear a blade away to nothing, this mind had yet to reach
that stage...
After several suspenseful moments had passed,
the match's flame burned down the length of the stick and caused the fingers
to drop it on the ground. It was, admittedly, quite possible that there
wasn't much material left to sharpen with anymore.
The old man muttered a few curses, then lit
another match. This time, he quickly lit a few candles before safely extinguishing
the match. Now that he could actually see where he was walking in the room(1),
he crossed the sparse accommodations to a table. Upon this table, a lone
object rested quietly, the reverence that the old man showed it indicating
its importance in the upcoming scene.
It was possessed of a rich, golden-yellow
hue over most of its length, save for erratically interspersed spots of
darker brown. It's slightly curved length was gentle and sweeping, coming
to a blunt point at one end, with the other end looking as though it may
have been broken off from something else, perhaps its parent object. It
caught the light only dimly, but in a way that inanimate metals were unable
to entirely duplicate.
The old man strongly suspected that the banana
was going rotten. And he'd paid two dollars for it this afternoon.
Fortunately, his many years of life had taught
him a thing or two about looking past the surface of a situation. And whatever
else it appeared to be, the young lady selling the banana had sold a lot
of things to people. And they had all cured whatever ailment she
had said they would. In light of evidence like that, you didn't argue with
the results. So when you asked for a medicine to make yourself young again,
and you were given a banana...
The old man looked at the piece of fruit,
suddenly feeling every ache and pain that his body had managed to accumulate
during his lifetime.
There were people who spent their entire lives
trying to regain their facilities and strength they had possessed as a
youth. And those people were all idiots. Why bother trying to train an
old and worn body to be like a youth and healthy one? Old bodies were old
bodies, while young bodies were young bodies. No matter how hard you tried,
you couldn't make one act like the other. Not indefinitely, anyway.
But there was a simple solution: you could
change the old body into a young body. If you did that, you didn't
have to bother trying to make something old act like something young. Instead,
you'd have something young trying to act like something young, which happened
naturally. It was quite simple, really.
Like most "simple" things that accomplish
a great deal, it somewhere involved a simple, BIG step. But if you
could find a way to overcome that step...
Picking up the banana, the old man returned
to the centre of the centre of the room. Amazingly enough, there was little
doubt in his mind that this innocent-looking piece of fruit was going to
go down in the annals of banana history. But that didn't mean that it might
not pay to have an open area to collapse in afterwards.
Peeling back the skin of the fruit, the old
man took a bite...
*****
(1) Fun Fact!!! We'd be completely overrun by evil forces right now,
if they didn't always insist on working in darkness and secrecy. Many a
promising cult had come to a messy and gruesome end, even as a devotee
says 'Well, dang, those potions looked the same in the dark to me...'.
Elsewhere, it was a quiet and sullen night.
At least, it was trying to be one. Ankh-Morpork, the city that never sleeps, quite literally in some cases, doesn't actually get the really quiet and sullen nights. They're only sort of quiet and sullen. It's hard to be quiet and sullen when some drunken noble is staggering down the road with a bottle of Jacqueline Danielle and tripping over homeless bums who are just trying to get some sleep.
An large arm abruptly reached out of an alleyway, towards the aforementioned drunken nobleman. Demonstrating the type of finesse and skill that the Watch can teach you, Detritus lightly bashed the man over the head and tossed the unconscious body over the fence and the next fence and the next fence into an animal stable. The troll then resumed watching the building across the street, skulking in the mouth of a nearby alleyway. Despite the excreta-orange tint to the moonlight, the sign was legible to anyone who was slightly literate, reading 'Stone's Herbs and Spices'. And, contrary to intuition, when given reason to, Trolls could skulk much quieter than humans could(1).
Twenty paces away, and ten feet off the ground,
Angua was also watching the same shop from atop a low balcony. It was during
instances like this that she not only stopped being uncomfortable about
her species, but actually felt damn proud of it. Perhaps there were
other races who could out-muscle her, out-stealth her, out-run her, out-sense
her, or out-fight her. But none of them could manage all of them.
She suspected that Vimes had reasoned that out a long time ago.
Briefly swivelling her gaze from the store
under scrutiny, her lupine-vision had no trouble spotting her commander's
form against the wall of another alleyway. He was probably wishing for
a cigar.
From his mildly cramped position in the shadows
of another alleyway, Vimes wished he could light up a cigar. It was one
of those things that simply felt right, at least in a narrative
sense of the word. But when you were staking out a location, you didn't
dare provide a glowing ember to give them a chance to grab their weapons
or start running.
Realistically, the only thing keeping them
from immediately rushing the building was the question of whether there
was anyone inside. More specifically, the question of whether there was
a certain Mr. Stone inside. Neither Angua nor Detritus could see anyone
inside, and Vimes knew that he was already on slightly shaky ground at
the moment. Despite a general laxness that surrounded some aspects of the
city's politics, there were more than a few people in high places who would
jump on the news that the Watch - more specifically, Vimes - had
trashed a building and the wrong man. The fact that the Watch had 'accidentally'
trashed the building yesterday and borrowed items for evidence would be
more fuel on the fire.
But producing a slab-dealer would probably
be enough to silence any critics, because in this city, the ends could
justify quite a few means. Using the slab-dealer to get to whoever was
really
in charge would earn the Watch a metaphorical ribbon, which was much cheaper
than real ones, and tended to be the only kind that Ankh-Morpork bothered
giving out.
The watchmen continued to wait.
*****
(1) A/N: Funny that. But I've noticed it on a few of occasions throughout
various DW novels.
"Corporal?"
No answer.
"Um, Corporal?"
The second time was finally enough for several
key neurons to click into place, assembling themselves inside the skull
belonging to the aforementioned corporal.
Nobby blinked, quickly realizing that the
'corporal' was him. It wasn't that he didn't know that, but it wasn't
something he was used to be called. Not on a regular basis, anyway. But
being called by his rank for the past twenty minutes was slowly helping
his memory.
He kept his glance towards the ground, because
it didn't do to accidentally spot a crime in progress. "Yeah?"
His present assignment, a certain Lance-constable
Irie, had no such compunctions, and was visually scouring the street for
anything that could be considered remotely criminal. "So what else do we
do?"
Oh yes, Nobby recalled. He was supposed to
be teaching her how to be a watchman. But he knew that if he did a good
job, he might be asked to continue teaching her, which was a bad
thing. And besides, he'd probably run out of things to teach in the first
hour anyway. Probably in the first ten minutes, actually..
"Well, we patrol," he explained to
her. Implicit in this statement was the fact that no further explanation
should be needed. Nobby sincerely hoped not.
Fortunately, Irie was very good at
coming to her own conclusions about matters. "So we're being pro-active
and going to find the criminals before they do terrible things!"
Nobby shrugged. "Sure."
"I'll bet that a city like this has lots
of criminals in it! Maybe even thousands!!!"
"Prolly more. Mister Vimes says that everyone
is a criminal."
"Well, we'll show those men that they
can't get away with breaking the law!"
This was going to be a long night, Nobby realized.
o/ "...with a hammerhead shark if you nail it down first..." o/
It was a good night for the Mended Drum.
o/ "...but the hedgehog can never be buggered at all!!!" o/
This was the devout conviction of the bartender
for the premise, even as he frantically tried to keep wiping the scum out
of the used glasses before filling them up again. It was almost midnight,
and the drink was still flowing - or in this case, oozing - at full force.
Best of all, no fighting had started yet,
which was the sort of thing that normally qualified as a twilight zone
experience at this location. But the stream of coinage flowing into the
cash drawer was providing an adequate anchor to his reality.
"Y'know any other verses, miss?"
It was proving to be a very educational night, the bartender had to admit. No one here, be they human, dwarf, troll or something else entirely, would have EVER thought there could be so many different verses to one song. And in the event that there were that many verses, you didn't expect to learn them from some slip of a girl who looked like she actually bathed every day.
"S'one 'bouta lion... don 'member all the... wordses..."
Then again, it had been a night for the unexpected, the bartender had to admit. It was probably all the girl's fault. What was her name... Tockley or something like that. Anyone who could waltz into this bar and start shouting orders, and most importantly, have them obeyed... you could probably blame anything on someone like that.
"'member one abouta al'gator..."
She was presently finishing off her eleventh
helping of the Drum's not-so-finest, and she hadn't collapsed yet. To be
sure, she was attaining a state of drunkenness that bordered on transcendent,
and had made a lot of trips to the privy in between mugs. But the entire
time, she was managing to stay upright and drinking, and her voice hadn't
given out yet.
More significantly, while her singing voice
wasn't bad, if nowhere near professional, The Song was absolutely
horrid.
You didn't even have to understand the words, because something in them
transcended any spoken language. Somehow they managed to stir the deepest
bowels of your imagination in a way that no education system had managed
yet. He'd heard her recount verses involving snails, goats, giraffes, bears,
turtles, and of course, hedgehogs. Previously, he would have thought that
the jellyfish couldn't be buggered at all either.
o/ "...with an alligator if you make it real snappy..." o/
In the meantime, the drink was flowing, and no one was fighting yet, and that meant lots of profit for the Drum. And the night was only middle-aged.
o/ "...but the hedgehog can never be buggered at all!" o/
An indeterminate amount of time later, someone regained consciousness to find themselves lying in a heap on the floor. Normally this sort of experience was accompanied by various combinations of dizziness, nausea, headaches, and occasionally, 'what was I thinking last night?', but none of those seemed to be present at the moment.
One thing for certain, that had been one hell of a banana.
It is a rare person who can awaken with full
understanding of where they are in relation to the rest of the world. It's
an even rarer person who can have their world altered while unconscious,
and still understand the world when they wake up. This person qualified
nicely for the second category, simply because he stood up gracefully,
without the slightest hesitation of lack of coordination.
And that was pretty darn good, because he'd
been sixty years older when he passed out. Being able to instantly bring
more than double the expected muscle mass under normal control is something
that is much harder than it looks, and it's just as well that most people
are never expected to try. But a close approximation would involve a mermaid
coming ashore for a hike across the Himalayas.
Several strides brought him in front of a
full-length mirror, which he immediately looked up and down with obvious
satisfaction. Gone was the wrinkles and sagging skin that he had almost
accepted as his fate in his life. In was the full head of hair and rather
nicely-defined musculature that had nearly given up as lost. Against all
reason and common sense, he'd just eaten a slightly-rotten banana and shed
sixty years of age.
He would probably have to go shopping for
new clothing.
Even better, his mind had benefited even more
so. Gone was the cloudiness and indecision that he had fought in vain against
for so long. In was the clarity of thought and razor-sharp decisiveness
that so many young people frequently wasted in the process of getting drunk
or laid, sometimes in that order.
In short, this old-turned-young man, with
a lifetime of experience, now had a body that could actually put all that
experience to proper use. And he'd definitely experienced a few things
over the last sixty years. He'd also learned some fascinating bits of information
along the way, because it was amazing how easily people would ignore a
helpless old man hobbling about the streets.
It was time to see what someone, given the
chance of a lifetime, could really accomplish.
Prying his eyes from the mirror, the man turned
to face another object, one barely visible in the room's flickering candlelight.
It was massive, measuring well over ten feet high, and the shadows suggested
a vaguely humanoid appearance. It was rather sparse as far as fine details
were concerned, because it had been originally designed as a worker, not
an art exhibit.
It was called a Golem. And it was about to enter a whole new line of work.
Elsewhere in the city, Nobby was attempting to enlighten his inadvertent protege in regards to various aspects the city he'd always taken for granted. Some of them seemed pretty basic as far as he was concerned, but apparently things were done differently in other cities.
"I thought this street was called Short Street?"
"Sure."
"But it's not a short street."
"Longest one in the city, they say," Nobby
agreed. "Bugger if I know who did the measurin'."
"But you can't call a long street 'Short Street'."
This statement received some consideration.
"How come?"
Irie's face screwed up. "But... it's a LONG
street! And it says that it's short... and..."
Nobby gave her an understanding smile. "Ah,
you can't trust 'em, y'know."
"You can't? Who?"
"Everybody," he stressed. "'Specially
all the nobs. The buggers act all friendly-like, but they're really just
tryin' to grease you so you'll do whatever it is they want."
Irie slowly nodded, her expression darkening.
"I'll bet they're all men."
"Mister Vimes says they're all a bunch of
useless streaks who'd sell their souls if they could find anyone willin'
to fork over a few pence and take the loss."
"All men are, if you ask me.
And I'll bet that right now, there's a man harassing some innocent woman-"
Nobby idly tuned out the rantings of his assignment.
As many other people had noted on other occasions, it wasn't that the constant
deluge of insults upon half of humanity was particularly offensive. As
far as Nobby was concerned, most of it was actually complimentary compared
to what was usually said about him.
Fortunately it wasn't too hard to tune it
out, then listen in as soon as something important was said. Working alongside
constable Visit could give you a lot of practice in that sort of thing.
"HEY!!!"
Nobby instantly snapped to attention, his
body instinctively switching over into flight-or-flight mode. He hadn't
gotten where he was today without not being in certain other places
in the past.
"That man's littering!"
Nobby's ears almost rejected the statement.
Out of several thousands available crimes in Ankh-Morpork, littering was
pretty far down the list. Somewhere around 'Going too long without a nose-hair
trim' and 'Having marital relations with a mousetrap'. In a lot of cases,
the litter tended to be cleaner than the streets, anyhow. Put simply, there
were better crimes for someone to commit, and better crimes to arrest someone
for.
Unfortunately, this fact seemed unknown to
the Watch's latest recruit, even as she began to berate the litterer with
a gusto.
"...so typical that a man like you
would be so thoughtless as to think you can just throw your garbage
anywhere
you like!!!"
The man tried to back away from the vocal
barrage, but he'd had the misfortunate to be leaning against a wall at
the time. "Ah..."
"...people like you make me sick!!!
You should be locked up forever and ever, except even prison is too good
for scum like you!!!"
Nobby hastily intervened on the scene. "Er...
we'll let him go with a warning, this time, uh, Lance-constable. I think
he's sorry for his, um, crime." Silently, the corporal mouthed the words
'Say Sorry' to the bewildered litterer.
"Ah... sor-ry?" the man ventured, the words
being alien and unfamiliar to him.
"Sorry?!?" Irie growled. As with most
negative expressions she attempted, it came out all wrong, much like a
bunny rabbit trying to do guard duty(1). "Sorry doesn't cut it!!!"
Snatching the offending paper from the ground,
she held it up to his face for close inspection. "Can you imagine what
this world would look like if everyone just went throwing their garbage
everywhere!?!"
The man glanced around, clearly feeling that
if everyone just went throwing their garbage everywhere, the world would
look exactly like Ankh-Morpork.
Nobby thought so too. "Er... we'll get back
to him when he does something really bad."
Irie gaped. "But this man-"
Nobby frantically mustered every ounce of
authority he possessed, which didn't actually amount to much at all. But
the fear of actually having to do real police work could serve as a good
substitute. "Um... we'll be on our way, lance-constable. Er, right now."
"But we're Watchmen!" Irie protested in horror.
"It's our duty to make this law-breaking man see Justice!!!"
"Ah, I think he's seen it," Nobby assured
her, meaning every word. And if the man saw any more of it, he might not
be able to contain his laughter. "And he'll make sure he doesn't get caught
again."
Irie's face wore an expression of frustration
as the litterer made his escape while he had a chance. "I thought
we were supposed to be pro-active and stop criminals!"
"Well, sure," Nobby reluctantly allowed, his
mind rapidly scrounging for explanations. "You see... if you go around
arresting everyone..." You'd wind up in a gutter, because a lot
of people took exception to being detained. "...you'll miss the big
crimes."
"The big crimes?"
Nobby nodded, deciding to work with the conjured
explanation. "Right. Y'see, there's all kinds o' crimes happenin' in the
city. But some of them are just little ones."
"Little ones?"
"Right."
"You mean like... littering?"
"Right. And some of them are big crimes."
"Like stealing and murder?" Irie ventured.
Nobby shook his head. "Nah, that's all fine,
as long as it's by the guilds."
"Then what are big crimes?"
"Er... you'll know 'em when you see 'em."
"Oh."
Something in Irie's facial expression was
enough draw a tiny bit of sympathy from Nobby. "Ah, you'll get used to
it all. Mister Vimes always says that bein' a copper's all in your feet.
When he's not always sayin' something else, anyhow."
"In my feet?" Irie looked suspicious. "Is
that some sort of lewd, chauvinistic male remark?"
"Erm, I sure hope not. I'm sure it'll prolly
all make sense sooner or later."
"Right!" she agreed, clenching her fists.
"I'll learn everything about this city and do my best to represent
all womankind!"
For his part, Nobby privately feared that
he might be shortly forced to downgrade his opinion of all womankind.
*****
(1) No Monty Python jokes, thank-you.
It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when
something interesting happened. This wasn't to say that many other interesting
things probably didn't happen in other locations, at other times. But this
story won't concern itself with them, not unlike a person's desire to save
ten cents at the supermarket overruling their concern about other issues,
such as genocide and world hunger.
In this particular case, it happened in the
location where three watchmen were still patiently watching a house
called 'Stone's Spices and Herbs'. More specifically, a faint flickering
of candlelight shone through one of the building's windows. Or, on account
of an earlier incident involving a large siege catapult bolt and some chemicals
that had absolutely no business being in a spice store, the big gaping
hole where a window had once been.
It wasn't much, but two of the watchmen possessed
distinctly inhuman eyesight in the dark. And the third one had spent more
than half his life patrolling the city at night. So it was that all three
people saw a rapidly moving shadow scuttling around in the house, occasionally
making quiet clatterings as it moved around the house.
Vimes tensed up, letting some feeling return
to his stiff muscles. It was time to move in for the kill. The metaphorical
one, anyway. He'd recognize that short, overweight, shadow anywhere.
Mr. Stone was frisking about his shop, and
his motions were reflective of someone trying to be quiet and only halfway
succeeding. Furthermore, they were strongly suggestive of someone who was
attempting to make a run for it, after realizing that some rather important
things were missing from his lab, and that they'd gone missing only a short
time after the Watch had 'accidentally' wrecked their store yesterday.
Thus, in keeping with the criminal - and Ankh-Morporkian
- mind set, Mr. Stone was making a break for safety at night. Unfortunately
for him, he was forgetting that not only did the Watch employ a lot of
watchmen who's natural environment was nighttime, but it had originated
from the city's old Night Watch. And judging from the muffled commotion
inside, Mr. Stone was stupid enough to waste time trying to take some things
with him.
After a moment, things went silent. Then the
front door was opened, Mr. Stone cautiously poking his head out. When his
complete lack of night vision failed to detect anything, he left the building,
closing the door behind him. Then he broke into a rather hurried jog towards
the city gates.
An inopportune boot in his path brought him
to a rolling halt, spitting dirt. The bag he had been carrying fell to
the ground, spilling a lot of round, shiny, metal things all over the immediate
area.
"Oops, sorry about that," a voice apologized
from within the alleyway next to the house. It didn't sound very sorry.
Mr. Stone cursed, scrambling to his feet and
backing away.
A pair of hands clamped over both his wrists,
squeezing just hard enough to indicate that nothing short of heavy machinery
was going to release them. "What's the hurry?" a female voice breathed.
The source of the first voice came into the
light, revealing a cheerfully-smiling Vimes, in the process of lighting
up a cigar. "Lovely night out, isn't it? And I wouldn't try anything rash.
Sergeant Angua's got a handshake like you wouldn't believe."
Twisting his head, Mr. Stone was met with
a not-cheerfully-smiling Angua. He was pretty sure it was just a trick
of the light, but her smile didn't seem... quite right at the moment.
"Anyway," Vimes continued. "You seem to be
in quite a rush right now. And with quite a bit of money. For your own
safety, you're being detaining at our convenience."
"W-what is the meaning of this!" Mr. Stone
demanded, trying to gather his wits and dignity. "I'll do no such thing!
Release me at once!"
The light from the overhead street lamp was
abruptly blotted out, a fact which registered on Mr. Stone after several
pregnant seconds. Twisting his head, he came face-to-face with a giant
silhouette, complete with glowing red eyes.
"Oh, and this is Sergeant Detritus," Vimes
introduced. "I think you'll find he's got a real soft spot for slab dealers.
Meaning that he'd like nothing better than to turn them into a soft spot
on the pavement. But I'm sure you won't give him any reason to, will you?"
"This is against the law-"
"Only a little bit against the law,"
the commander reassured him, "considering what we found earlier today.
Remember that terrible and unfortunate accident here? Well, you won't believe
this, but we found some interesting chemicals, and one of my officers tells
me that they're so illegal and dangerous that even the Alchemist's Guild
has banned them."
Mr. Stone gaped."You... you stole from
my place! You'll never get away with this!"
"I assure you, Mr. Stone, none of my men took
anything from your store this afternoon."
"That's right," Angua agreed, her grip remaining
fixed. "None of his men."
"So it's your choice," Vimes informed him.
"You can be escorted back to the Watch House by Angua. Or you can be escorted
back the Watch House by Detritus, and we can take bets on whether you'll
be in any shape for questioning by the time you get there."
"Y-you can't do this to me!"
"Detritus?" Vimes inquired pointedly.
"Takin' him back to der Watch," the troll
agreed, sounding a little too cheerful. One of his hands/pile-drivers reached
forwards, clearly intent of ensuring that Mr. Stone's feet would not be
required for the trip back.
"He has to be able to talk, remember."
"I'll go, I'll go!" Mr. Stone hastily agreed.
"I'm so glad you agree. Angua, take
him back and toss him in a cell. Then get Cheery and bring her back here.
I want this place turned over before the sun rises. Detritus and I will
start checking this place out for anything dangerous."
"Yes sir. Mr. Stone...?"
The sight of a troll at night, complete
with glowing red eyes the size of many was something that inspired cooperation
in a lot of people. Mr. Stone's instincts for self-preservation seemed
to be in working order, because he didn't offer any resistance to Angua's
steering him towards the main watch house. Approximately five steps closer
to Psuedopolis Yard, various events
proceeded to happen very quickly.
For starters, the brick wall next to Mr. Stone's
shop was ripped apart in a manner normally associated with dynamite.
Next, Vimes and Angua both dove for cover
as slabs of rock were tossed everywhere like exploding popcorn. For his
part, Detritus stood there and let the chunks bounce off him harmlessly.
Lastly, a massive shape entered the street,
non-challantly brushing aside the rest of the wall like a stray confetti.
"Dat's a Golem," Detritus informed all nearby
listeners, even as they came to their own conclusions about the massive
ceramic figure that had crashed the scene, as well as the wall.
"What the hell is it doing?" Vimes
spat, getting to his feet again. A flurry of movement diverted his attention
for a moment. "Angua!"
Angua was already running after Mr. Stone,
who had thrown caution to the wind and was now escaping in a randomly chosen
direction away from the chaos. Since the race involved a young woman/werewolf
in her prime against an overweight, older man who was far past his prime,
it was clearly destined to be a short race.
Then the golem spotted them.
Almost instantly, Vimes could feel his hairs
trying to stand on end. He didn't know why, but he'd long ago learned
how much crucial time could be lost waiting for answer. "Detritus, your
crossbow!"
"Didn't bring it," the troll rumbled.
Dammit. Because Vimes had wanted Mr.
Stone alive and the shop intact, of course. And while he didn't know why,
he did know that he would have traded a lot of cigars for a fully
loaded and drawn Piecemaker right now. Breaking into a run, "After them!"
"You're under arrest!" Angua snapped, grappling
Mr. Stone, then tossing him over her shoulder in a unique interpretation
of justifiable force. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll stay
arrested!"
Mr. Stone hit the ground in a fashion that
arrested his breathing, gasping for air and unsuccessfully trying to get
to his feet again. A boot on his neck quickly made him give up on the second
idea.
"Now, where were we?" Angua asked pointedly,
her voice carrying far too much saccharine to be legitimate.
"Sergeant!" Vimes yelled, his voice rapidly
approaching. "The golem!"
It wasn't as though he had to remind her.
While recent events, as well as Carrot, had done a lot to soften her views,
she still had feelings of reservation and unease where golems were concerned.
She didn't have to bother turning to know that one was approaching, as
she could feel its footsteps through the pavement without even trying.
But she would deal with it once Mr. Stone
was feeling more reasonable. For starters, she'd ask who its owner was,
and why that owner was letting its golem rampage all over the city like
this.
"SERGEANT!!!"
That was when the golem hit her.
Hard.