The layout of the Treacle Mine Road watch house was a condensed version of Pseudopolis Yard. Most of the room was an open floor, some of the space taken up by desks. To the right was a staircase that presumably led up to the corporal's office. There was even a grumpy-looking dwarf at the front desk. Their beard was blonde and neatly-kept, both rare occurrences on a dwarf.
The dwarf scowled at her, or at least that's what it looked like. It's hard to convey much more than a scowl with the limited space you've got between beard and helmet. Then they saw the uniform in Sweetpea's arms and stood up. This made them marginally taller.
"You must be the new lance-constable?" they asked.
"Sweetpea Hakim. That's me." Sweetpea stuck out a hand from beneath the pile of clothes. The dwarf came forward and shook it.
"Constable Dars Ironcrust. She/her pronouns, please."
Well, that was new. Most dwarfs didn't tell you their gender right off the bat, they waited for you to guess or rather shyly told you after several months.
"Er…nice to meet you, constable," said Sweetpea. "Do you want to know my pronouns?"
"Only if you want to tell them to me," said Constable Ironcrust briskly. She yelled up the stairs, "Oi! Kip! Get down here, the new lance-constable is in!"
There was the sound of a door shutting, and then feet thumping downstairs. The first thing Sweetpea saw of "Kip" was his gangly legs and arms—this man had more limb than he knew what to do with. The next body part revealed was his torso, wearing a well-fit but well-battered breastplate. Finally was his head—messy brown hair covering a genial, smiling face.
"Welcome!" said Constable Haddock, for it was him. Most people called him Kipper or Kip, because with a name like Haddock the universe wasn't going to let him get away without a nickname. It could have been a lot worse, though, and it helped that everybody liked Constable Haddock. In a city where every citizen dreaded a visit from the Watch (for after all, everybody was guilty of something), Haddock could making helping Watch inquiries almost pleasant. And he didn't do it in the way of Captain Carrot, which left the inquire feel that they were being sent up the whole time. He did it in a way that said "I know you're innocent, and you know you're innocent, but why don't we get this over with together?"
"Lance-Constable Hakim, isn't it?" Haddock said. "Nice to meet you. It'll be good to have an even six again. Corporal Flint should be here to show you the watch house, but he and Fittly are investigating a break-in. Dars, why don't you show Hakim to the ladies' locker room? She should get changed if we're going to show her the ropes."
Dars offered Haddock her seat with a sarcastic bow, which he received with an even lower and more sardonic bow. Then the dwarf grabbed Sweetpea's sleeve and pulled her across the room. An unlabeled door led into a narrow hallway.
"Back here is the mess, where we have our breaks and write our reports," said Dars, nodding to a door as they walked past it. "And down here are the locker rooms. They made the girls' slightly smaller, since the watch is only 20% female anyway."
"Is it?" said Sweetpea, surprised. "I thought it was even less."
"That'll be because of the dwarfs," sighed Dars. "Everyone assumes we're male. But we aren't about to go wearing dresses on duty and shaving our beards," she added fiercely. "We want to be female dwarfs on our own terms."
"I like the sound of that," said Sweetpea. "Female on your own terms. Yeah."
Dars smiled at her. "Just you wait, lance-constable. It's a whole new world for women of every species. Me and Lars Skulldrinker over at Dolly Sisters are working on a pamphlet together."
She pushed open the door to the locker room. It was, indeed, tiny. There were four lockers set into the wall, and a tub in the corner. Clothes and armor were strewn everywhere. Dars coughed.
"I'm used to having the place to myself," she said a touch defiantly. "And I didn't have time to clean up when I heard you were coming."
She halfheartedly kicked at a few shirts. Sweetpea dumped her stuff in an empty corner, as far away from Dars' things as possible. She didn't want to get in the dwarf's way, no matter how much space she was using up.
"I'm sure it'll be fine," said Sweetpea. "We aren't going to be here for very long anyway."
Dars paused in the act of poking a malevolent pile of laundry with her axe handle.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I'm only on probation for six weeks or so," Sweetpea began, "And there's supposed to be a rotation of officers—"
Dars rolled her eyes. "Oh, that. Well, there's supposed to be $10 in the tea kitty at all times, but that's been empty since Fittly got here. Our reports are supposed to be turned into Corporal Flint, but everybody just gives them to Haddock to read. The rotation system's more of a suggestion than anything. Corporal Flint likes Haddock and me, so he's kept us on since Ick." Dars shrugged. "No complaints from us. Now Fittly…Fittly hasn't been here very long, and he probably won't be here for much longer either. I haven't had any trouble from him since the first day, but he never gets kept anywhere long."
"Fittly. Right." The more she heard about this constable, the less she wanted to meet him. "Should I get changed now? I haven't got any armor yet."
"We've got some mail and a couple of helmets lying around," Dars said. Her voice was slightly muffled by the locker she had her whole body stuck in. "Just put on the uniform for now."
Since it didn't look like Dars was going to leave the room while she changed, Sweetpea turned her body towards the corner and began to undress. The Watch uniform consisted of knee-length breeches, sturdy sandals (with 1 pair boots for wintertime), a stiff leather belt, a short-sleeved tunic, and a long cloak. The cloak looked warmer than anything Sweetpea owned.
When she had gotten everything on, she turned to see Dars watching her.
"Uh…" said Sweetpea. Dars regarded her critically, ignoring her embarrassment.
"You've got the belt on wrong," she said. "We wear it a little higher than that, and over the tunic." She pulled up her chain mail to show Sweetpea. "Like mine, see?"
Sweetpea copied the style, and Dars nodded.
"You at least look the part. Got your truncheon? Now we see if you can walk the walk."
After a brief tussle over who was going to take Sweetpea on her first patrol (Haddock won by pulling rank—he said he was "nearly lance corporal"), Sweetpea walked out onto Treacle Mine Road as Lance-Constable Hakim. Dars had found her a mail shirt that was too small and a helmet that was too big, but Sweetpea knew that she was getting some proper armor soon, armor made to fit her. It was a warm May day, and the streets were bustling like only Ankh-Morpork streets can.
"We'll just mosey on down to Cable Street," said Constable Haddock. He turned and waved to a figure outlined on the roof. "Pediment and Dars are keeping an eye on HQ, so all is well. Hopefully you'll get to meet Pediment soon. He only comes inside about once a week, but there's no one better for surveillance."
"He's a gargoyle?" Sweetpea asked, just to confirm. It didn't pay to assume anything in Ankh-Morpork.
"Yep," said Haddock. "Part of the reason we need a sixth person stationed here—he can't go out on patrol."
Sweetpea tried to fall in step with Haddock's proceeding. It was a little easier to keep up with him than Corporal Shoe. Shoe shambled, but Haddock just swung his lanky legs. Sweetpea found that it all had to do with the turn of the foot. Once you had that down, everything else slotted into place.
"You're doing it!" Haddock said in approval after a few minutes. "You're a natural, lance-constable."
"But being a copper isn't just walking, is it?"
Walking and shouting "all's well"—that's what coppering had been when Sweetpea was a kid. Then all of a sudden, in the last five years or so, being a Watchman meant something. They made a difference.
"If being a copper was just walking, everyone would do it," said Haddock wisely. "We do the things nobody else can do. You see over there?" The constable pointed across the street, where the buildings bent their heads conspiratorially and the alleys dissolved into shadow. "That's the Shades, that is. But we patrol there."
"Do we?" Sweetpea asked, her stomach lurching. The Shades…
"Got to," Haddock nodded. "We're the Treacle Mine Road house. 'S part of our jurisdiction. And d'you know? I haven't ever been attacked there. Not once."
"Really?" Sweetpea could hardly find this believable. Every kid in Ankh-Morpork knew that you didn't go into the Shades, unless you were with your whole gang. Sweetpea had never been in a gang, as her brother had told her in no uncertain terms that only "bad girls" were gang members. He had narrowly avoided being in one himself. After he steamed the gang leader in the face with the espresso machine, they pretty much left him alone.
"They wouldn't dare attack a watchman in there, not with the fear of Sam Vimes in their hearts," said Haddock. "He'd be on them like a bunch of rectangular building materials."
Now that did make sense. If you weren't afraid of Commander Vimes, you were either very unwise or just crazy. Sweetpea understood that, now that she had met the man. She'd gone to see him for a job interview and was scared—imagine if she'd seen him for an interrogation.
"Of course, it's not just patrolling and breaking up post-football game riots," continued Constable Haddock. "We get cases to solve every now and then. The big ones, the murders or armed robbery, those go up to the Yard. We get the missing grannies and the late-night break-ins. And then, sometimes…" Haddock heaved a sigh. "Sometimes you're on watch in the middle of the night, with the rain pouring down, and an armed drunk fighting you in the gutter. That's when you find out if you're a true copper or not."
He fell into silence. Sweetpea didn't want to break the silence by telling him that she would never be a true copper, not if she was going to be spending all of her time behind a desk. But if it took someone coming at you with a knife to be a "real" watchman, then a desk job didn't sound so bad.
They had just gone past the Gleam Street junction when a stout man—Classic Tavern Owner #13, by the looks of it—came stomping out of a bar. He was dragging another man by the scruff of his neck. The tavern owner looked around for a moment, as if trying to find the best place to throw the other man. Then he saw Sweetpea and Haddock, and his face lit up.
"Ah, the Watch!" he said. "Perfect timing. You need to arrest this man immediately!"
"Watch and learn," Haddock whispered to Sweetpea. He gripped his breastplate like lapels and strode over to the tavern owner.
"What has he done, sir?"
"Ain't don't nuffin'," the other man muttered, swinging from the tavern owner's fist. "Just ordered a drink. I even tried to pay for it. Should be grateful."
"Oh, you tried to pay for it all right, Scuttie. With counterfeit money!"
The tavern owner swung Scuttie again, who just rolled his eyes.
"Can I see the money in question, sir?" Constable Haddock asked politely. "And please put down Scuttie here. We wouldn't want him to get hurt."
Scuttie was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. Sweetpea watched him carefully. When it looked as though the tavern owner and Haddock were occupied, he began to slink away on his hands and knees. Sweetpea was ready for this.
"I think you'd better stick around, Scuttie," she said, casually blocking his path. Scuttie sat down and folded his arms like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum.
"Fine," he huffed.
The tavern owner, meanwhile, was rooting around in the pocket of an apron stained with years of other people's drinks. Finally he pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to Haddock. The constable held it theatrically up to the light.
"Yes," he said carefully. "You were clever to not let this one get past you, Mr. Driver. What do you think, Lance-Constable?"
Haddock handed the fake bill to Sweetpea, and when she saw it she had to work very hard to contain her laughter. Scuttie's try at making a counterfeit bill had been to cut out a piece of paper in the vague shape of a rectangle, color it in with green ink, and write "Oen doller" on both sides. She nodded solemnly and gave it back to Haddock.
"Good catch, Mr. Driver," she said.
"I think we'd better take Scuttie back to the cells." Haddock took the dangerous criminal by the arm and hauled him back to his feet. He nodded to Mr. Driver, who stuck his thumbs into his belt proudly. When they were out of his earshot, Sweetpea whispered to Haddock,
"Are we really putting Scuttie in the cells?"
"We'll keep him for the night," Haddock replied. "Our esteemed friend is a common patron of the Treacle Mine Road Motel."
"Is that so?"
Sweetpea looked at Scuttie, who was muttering under his breath but leading the way back to the watch house without any prodding.
"Does that sort of thing happen a lot? Are there…regulars?"
Haddock tilted his helmet back and looked thoughtfully at the sky. "Let's see…in this area, we always get in some of the rowdier seamstresses. Mr. Ivanson is in and out about once a week—he tries to cut off people's knees when he gets drunk, but luckily he hasn't had a real axe for years. And then there's always Done-It Duncan…but I heard he's staying up around the Long Wall station." He winked at her. "So, yes, you might say we've got a regular crew. What would you suggest we do with them?"
"Take down their name and address, if they've got it, and let them stay a night in the cells," said Sweetpea slowly. "And…give them some tea?"
"That's about it," said Haddock. "You're catching on mightily quick."
"Wish I'd caught on as quick to clerking," Sweetpea muttered.
"That's right, you went through the Clerk's Guild, didn't you? Sergeant Angua said something about that."
"You won't tell anyone, will you?" Sweetpea implored. She was already going to be a copper that did mostly writing, and being guild-trained seemed to make that worse. Constable Fittly, she was sure, was going to have lots of fuel.
"Not if you don't want me to," said Haddock, a little confused. "But I say good for you for getting a good education."
"I suppose," said Sweetpea miserably.
The watch house was in sight. Scuttie pushed the door open, and was greeted with Constable Ironcrust sighing,
"Oh, Scuttie, what've you done this time?"
Haddock and Sweetpea joined the perennial criminal inside. Scuttie was leaning on the front desk with an air of familiarity. Haddock carefully set the fake dollar on the wood in front of him.
"In for counterfeiting this time, Dars," he said. The dwarf raised an eyebrow at Scuttie.
"That's a step up for you, Scuttie," she said. "Counterfeiting is a serious offense. Good thing we got to you before anyone else, eh?"
"It's not my fault," Scuttie whined. "They're so much easier to forge than a coin."
"That's…true," said Sweetpea slowly. Dars and Haddock looked at her. She was staring at the fake dollar bill on the desk.
"Something wrong, Hakim?" Dars asked.
"Not exactly," she said, the gears in her head churning. "I'll take the report on this one, though."
"Volunteering for writing a report? You must really want a favor," came a voice from behind the desk. Dars and Haddock rolled their eyes in unison, and turned to reveal a young man, a bit older than Sweetpea, sitting at a desk. He had a piece of paper in front of him, but clearly hadn't gotten very far with writing his own report. He smiled in a smarmy sort of way at Sweetpea.
"Lance-Constable Sweetheart, isn't it?"
"Actually, it's Sweetpea," said Sweetpea coolly. "And I believe it's common Watch practice to refer to fellow officers by their last names."
Dars had to hide a chuckle, and Haddock smiled.
"She's got you there, Fittly. Why don't you leave the new kid alone?"
Fittly looked hurt. "I haven't done anything, Kipper, have I? I only asked her name."
"It's fine," said Sweetpea. The last thing she needed were other people standing up for her. That had gone disastrously every time Chelsea heard her being insulted—she would often threaten to beat people up. She took the dollar and went to sit at an empty desk. There were some interesting words carved into the wood.
"Well, salaam, anyway," Fittly said as he bent over his report.
"What?"
"Isn't that how they say hello in Klatch?"
Sweetpea glared at the back of the constable's head.
"I was born in Ankh-Morpork," she said as civilly as she could.
"Oh. Right."
Sweetpea shook her head and began to look around for writing materials. After opening a few drawers, she found a stack of paper, a bottle of ink, and a quill. She was going to have to get a notebook—all good coppers carried notebooks, especially if their job was to pass on information. Let's see…
Ever since the paper money had been introduced by Mr. Lipwig last year, you heard complaints about counterfeit bills. They weren't as easy to forge as stamps, being bigger, but that didn't stop people from trying. It certainly hadn't helped when the Ankh-Morpork Times had printed out a full-color picture of the one-dollar bill, back and front. Glued-together bills had circulated small businesses for weeks.
After writing a few sentences, Sweetpea set her quill down. She was going to have to get more information before she made a full report.
"Constable Ironcrust?" she asked. "Do we have a clacks tower on the roof?"
"Up that way." Dars waved vaguely at the stairs. "You might look in on the corporal on your way up. He hasn't met you yet."