Chapter 3 - Estne Volumen In Toga, An Solum Tibi Libet Me Videre?

Dhul-Fiqaar cleared his throat nervously. He wasn't a brave man. He wasn't a coward, either, which is more than can be said for most. But he was at least half sane, and that bit of him was very, very frightened.

The Commander's office was dry and tidy, well-lit by several new gas lamps set into the stone walls. The desk was special from Ankh-Morpork, and there were a few bits of paperwork scattered across the top and tipping onto the floor. But mostly there was just the Commander.

"Er," said Dhul-Fiqaar.

"Sergeant Dhul-Fiqaar," Carlin sighed, "you look as though you're about to piss yourself. Please sit down. Carefully. The Prince sits there too, you know, I'd rather it was dry the next time he comes in to glower and patronize me."

The sergeant sat nervously, clutching his turban to his knees. As with all sergeants, he felt inherently uncomfortable around officers. Carlin's numerous... oddities didn't help. He made a face as the harsh cigar smoke wafted across his face.

Oddities. Yes. That was it. Like the recently acquired cigar habit. And the Ankh-Morpork accent. Dubious use of the word 'piss'. Irreverence toward the royal family.

The G word paraded about, a grinning traitor, in his mind's eye.

Carlin sat back in the slightly broken chair and gave Dhul-Fiqaar a studied look before nabbing a bit of paper, seemingly at random, from the mildly cluttered desk.

Silence. After a minute the sergeant coughed, tired of attempting to restrain himself from biting his turban.

"Yes. Right," Carlin said, seeming to remember what was going on. "As you probably know, I sent Kareem out to check up on the scene of the crime, see how the boys are getting on, pass out sandwiches, hot tea, you know. General den mother stuff. Should've had him wear an apron, in retrospect." Dhul-Fiqaar goggled. He was a literal-minded sort of man, and his brain twisted itself around trying to imagine Kareem, the loping snake-eyed bastard, toddling about passing round sandwiches and hot tea like a common biddy. His imagination went on strike before he could envision the apron. "Don't eyeball me, Sergeant," Carlin said after a minute, grinning a little bit. "I know what I'm doing. I'm a bit tetchy, but I haven't lost it altogether."

"Tetchy," said Dhul-Fiqaar.

"Now, look, he's brought some... interesting... things to my attention," Carlin continued, ignoring Dhul-Fiqaar's expression of confusion and sheepish helplessness in front of the wave of chatteringly frightening good will that was the Commander. "Footprints. Dropped change. Bits of rubbish swept around in the corners. Too bad the bloody alcove isn't enclosed or we could've taken fingerprints. Something helpful like that. Bugger all... I wish we had a werewolf."

"Werewolf," said Dhul-Fiqaar. The stress had finally gotten to Carlin. That was it. Gone funny in the head.

"Yeah, you know, run about Uberwald in the dead of night, castle, lightning, full moon, arooo, hair and teeth, much trouble in the village, hero with a silver-tipped arrow in his crossbow, werewolf is dead, hurrah, let's all eat drink and be merry. Yes?"

The Sergeant squished up in his chair and gave the Commander a very strange look.

Carlin coughed. "No, then. Right. Anyway. They're fabulously helpful when you need things sniffed out is my point. Anyway... look at this." The Commander tipped out the contents of a small envelope on the desk. There were some coins, a half-burnt matchstick, a folded handkerchief, a tattered religious pamphlet, bits of dust, a pair of sunglasses. Things you would find in a semi-popular tourist attraction. "See a pattern?"

Dhul-Fiqaar stared at the random assortment of junk for a minute, sweat rolling down his face. He was beginning to seriously fear for Carlin's sanity. "Er... no."

"Three coins," the Commander said, moving them aside. "All from Ankh-Morpork. A matchstick. Ordinary enough, but look at the wood... it's from Lancre. How many matchstick makers around here import wood all the way from Lancre? Not even very good quality. Right, anyway; a handkerchief. Embroidered with the initials NC and, handily enough, also an address if found. A religious pamphlet." The Commander paused. "Irrelevant. Don't know how that got in there. I'll have to have a word with Kareem. Continuing: a pair of sunglasses. Quite noticeably from number 3 stall on the Street of Cunning Artificers in Ankh-Morpork. What does that tell us?"

"Er... the criminal... is... from... Ankh-Morpork?" Dhul-Fiqaar queried.

"Actually, no," Carlin said, drawing something out of a pocket. "All it tells us is that the alcove isn't swept very often. THIS is what tells us that they are from Ankh-Morpork." The sheaf of papers fell heavily onto the top of the desk, scattering the lighter items spread lackadaisically about the place and churning up the dust in the air with a soft 'whump'. "Sweeping rotas. Signed testimony from the night janitors, detailing that each of them was on duty at the time scheduled. Guard schedules and reports. And this-" Carlin threw down one last piece of cardboard triumphantly "- is a round-trip ticket from the Ankh-Morpork port. The date for departure is yesterday, the date for return is today. The ship is the 'Dubious', captained by a Mr. J Lance, which left on time, with all of its passengers on board, exactly at 7:30am this morning. According to the ticket lady, however, there was some difficulty with one of the passengers having lost their return ticket and having to buy another one. Fortunately the companion of the passenger in question, no doubt in a hurry to claim their cabin, resolved it by simply buying another ticket, and the remainder of the departure went off without a hitch."

Dhul-Fiqaar stared at the papers. He could feel his brain twitching. "Er..."

"The ticket was dropped in the alcove between 5:47am, when the night janitor finished cleaning the alcove and monument for the upcoming business day, and 6:02am, when you and Lance Constable Goriff happened along, Sergeant," Carlin said. "As were the handkerchief, sunglasses, and matchstick."

The sergeant would be the first to admit to his own dullness, but sometimes things stuck. "What about the religious pamphlet?" he muttered.

Carlin stared at it. "Haven't a clue. Remind me to have a word with Kareem. But first... I need you to send a clacks for me."

"Where?"

"Pseudopolis Yard, of course. We're going on Hot Pursuit."

"You're WHAT?" Vimes yelled. He took a deep breath and tried again. "You're doing what, sir?"

"Allowing four members of the Al Khali watch to enter the city in Hot Pursuit," Vetinari replied, going through the everpresent stack of papers on his desk. "Apparently they have overwhelming evidence that the criminals they are pursuing have fled to Ankh-Morpork. I have chosen to allow them to do so, as an expression of goodwill."

"Goodwill!" Vimes squeaked. "Pardon my rudeness, sir, but-"

"Consider all rudeness pardoned. Nevertheless, they're coming. Please give them as much assistance as they require. I believe that is all, Vimes."

Vimes made a squeaking noise in the back of his throat. "So, what, 71-hour Ahmed? We get to house some D'regs at Pseudopolis Yard? Here's hoping the men don't mind finding ears in their soup, because that's just what might happen! Er... sir."

Vetinari turned over a piece of paper and studied it for a moment. "The squad is headed by Commander Teren Carlin, Commander Vimes," he said smoothly, reading off the page. "Born, raised, and trained in Ankh-Morpork. One of your Sammies, you'll be interested to learn. The three watchmen are unspecified, but somehow I doubt that the esteemed Mister Ahmed will be counted among them. I hear that Carlin and our impatient friend operate under a large and enduring umbrella of mutual dislike, and it would be highly unlikely for him to appear in Ankh-Morpork under Carlin's command."

Vimes boggled. "A Sammy? Commanding the Al Khali watch?"

Vetinari glanced up at him. "Indeed, Commander. Not such an unbelievable prospect, I should think. You do personally oversee much of their training, and who better to train future leaders but our best - and first - commander for centuries?"

"Sir," Vimes sighed, trying not to glower too much. "I still wish you had informed me of this sooner, sir."

Vetinari gave him a passive look. "I'm sure you do, Commander. I'm sure you do. Now, I'm sure you have much better things to see to. Don't let me detain you."

Vimes looked agonized for a moment, and then regained his composure. "Sir," he mumbled stiffly, and stalked out of the office.

In the changing light, Vetinari allowed himself a smile as he bent back over the paperwork. There was much to do... and not much time in which to do it.

Constable Visit stood distractedly in front of the watch house, humming to himself. He knew he shouldn't, but the fire and brimstone and sheer self-righteous energy of the old hymns got stuck in his head and hammered to be let out. "At the sign of tri-umph the un-right-eous, yea, doth flee/on then, Omnian soldiers, on to vic-tor-y! Hell's foun-da-tions quiver at the-"

"Visit! Visit? You're Visit, aren't you? Old Washpot?"

"Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets," he said automatically, and then turned. "Er," he said.

"I have no explanatory pamphlets," Captain Anwaar loomed, grinning at Visit with teeth that seemed entirely too white and much, much too big. "Will this be a problem?"

"If not, I'm sure you can supply one if called upon to do so, Anwaar," came a weary voice from behind the gigantic man. "Stand down, please." Anwaar moved to the side reluctantly, still smiling distressingly at the Omnian. Visit made a little sound like a mouse being stepped on.

"Right then," said the voice again. This time it was coming from a face, which was only slightly more reassuring. The face itself wasn't that alarming, but the armor, weaponry, and two large, dark watchmen surrounding it were. "We're the squad from Al Khali, in Ankh-Morpork on Hot Pursuit. I'm Commander Carlin. May I please speak to Commander Vimes? I'm almost positive he's here. He must be. It's past time for dinner."

"Uh," said Visit. He was momentarily at a loss, and scrambled to find some familiar ground. "Would you be interested in some pamphlets? They're quite... er... that is..."

Carlin gave him an odd look. "Just point me to Captain Carrot, there's a good chap. I don't want to bother you unduly. Hate to make a nuisance of myself, et cetera."

"Er... in the watch house," Visit said, thrusting his thumb toward the door. "Probably congregating with the unrighteous," he added darkly. "I pray he helps them see the light."

"We'll go check up on how that light thing is doing then, Constable. Anwaar, Kareem, Dhul-Fiqaar... come with me. I might be able to get you some cocoa or something while I have a little chat with the Commander."

The skinny, gold-skinned watchman behind Carlin perked up as they walked in the door. "Cocoa?" he said. "You never said there'd be COCOA. This just gets better and better."

"Shut up, Kareem."

Kareem grinned and loped after them. "You know me, Commander. Always up for a little chocolate."

"Kareem?"

"Hmm?"

"Seriously."

"Right."

"And if you keep it up you're going to end up getting slapped anyway. Or worse." Carlin grinned back at Kareem. "Welcome to Ankh-Morpork, Pearl of Cities."

"But pearls form by-"

"Exactly. You're getting it!"

Shave and a haircut, no legs.

Vimes looked up at the sound of the one resoundingly familiar Morkporkian knock. "What?" he said, and the door opened.

"Good afternoon, Commander Vimes," Carlin said, descending upon the room. "Carrot said you weren't that busy so to just go right on up. He's a good chap, innee? Anyway, sorry to dash your day to pieces, but I'm Commander Teren Carlin of the Al Khali Watch. Ye gods, I've had to say that too many times today. You'd be surprised how many people have gone and had a heart attack after seeing a white face under the turban when they stopped me to have a little good-natured mugging. Anwaar was terribly confused about the whole thing, I'm afraid, but luckily we got them to the doctor in time. I'm babbling again, terribly sorry. Where were we?"

"Al Khali Watch?" Vimes queried after a second, oggling the person in front of him.

"Right!" Carlin gave a big grin. "As you may well know, we're over here on Hot Pursuit. Woo nelly. Never thought we'd be doing this, eh? At any rate, it's absolutely terrific seeing you again, Mister Vimes."

The chatter died, leaving a slimy trail of silence through the room.

Vimes blinked. "Sergeant Carlin?" he said, recollection waving a weak flag of warning.

Carlin saluted, and grinned again. "Commander Carlin now, Mister Vimes. And thus fully entitled to avoid the responsibility of calling you 'sir', thank goodness. Never got the hang of it. Our mum said I was just born to lead, but then she was always a bit off her rocker. I think I was just born to ignore authority, jolly lot of good that gets me in Klatch."

Vimes gave Carlin a look. "They actually hired you? I thought that Prince Khufurah had a... thing... about your sort of people."

Carlin sighed. "My sort of people, Mister Vimes?"

Vimes shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't really at home with this sort of thing. "Women, I mean."

"Well, yes," Carlin said, and paused for a moment. "Our mum had some things to say about that, too."

To Be Continued