Captain Carrot turned out to be almost the size of Fred Colon, although where Carrot had rippling muscle Colon just had ripples. The red-haired captain sat behind Commander Vimes' desk, which was presumably somewhere underneath the pile of paperwork that dated back to the early days of the city. Carrot spun his newly-recovered pen between his fingers and put it back down on the desk.
"Sergeant Colon," he said. "Please escort Corporal Nobbs back downstairs and fine him fivepence for the pen (1)."
"Yessir." Colon ripped off a salute and left. Carrot sat in complete silence for almost a minute after the door closed. Somewhere, a clock ticked. Tick tick tick.
The captain showed no signs of stopping his relentless silence. Finally the youth cracked. The smell of soap was beginning to get overpowering.
"Are you going to-" but Carrot held up a hand to silence him. Then he got up, walked over to the door, and rapped on it firmly. There was a yelp and the sounds of two men attempting to run down the stairs quietly. Then Carrot sat back down, opening a file.
"Mister Neil Bryman, I presume?"
"Yessir."
"I understand you are a student at Unseen University?" asked Carrot.
"Yessir."
"But you originally hale from the Isles of Fog?"
"Yessir."
"Please sign here," said the captain. He pushed the file and an arrest warrant across to Neil. The file was one of those most rare of pieces of documentation; actual paperwork from the university. He recognised it as his slip for an exchange.
It hadn't been easy. Most people had never heard of the idea of swapping students between universities; many didn't even realise that there wereother universities. But after the Archchancellor had taken a mysterious visit to XXXX he had warmed to the idea, and within a few months Neil was on a ship to Ankh-Morpork. He hadn't been surprised at the state of the place, but it was still tricky to get the hang of life here.
"Um… can I borrow a pen?"
Carrot reached down to where his pen had been. It was gone. He frowned slightly and picked up a speaking tube.
"Can Corporal Nobbs be sent to Commander Vimes' office please? Thank you." He put the speaker down again and turned back to Neil. "Now, the warrant for your arrest states that you are to spend the next month in the harbourside stocks. However, the Isles embassy here is protesting that you should be sent back home…" Neil looked up hopefully. Short prison sentences and comfortable cells beckoned… "But we've argued them down, and after your month is over you will be returned to the Isles to await court there."
Neil slumped in his chair. "Can I speak with the consul?"
"He will see you when you're on the stocks. Sergeant Klay will escort you there. Good day, Mister Bryman."
Sergeant Klay turned out to be the largest troll Neil had ever seen; not tall, but wide enough that he was not allowed inside the watchousefor fear of what he would do to the walls. He was also, as Neil discovered after a brief bout of experimentation, very difficult to escape from.
"Look, I don't like havin' to do dis any more than you do," Klay had rumbled, shortly after he threw Neil over one shoulder in exasperation. "But I really can't be havn' with you tryin' to run off like dat. It's bad for what is my repu-tation as Chief Stocksman."
Neil was puzzled. "You don't like locking me in the stocks any more than I like being locked in the stocks?"
"Erm… well come to tink of it I guess I do like it a bit more dan you," admitted the troll as he led Neil up onto the platform. "But I am still fairly remorseful, you have my word." He bent Neil over ninety degrees and fastened his hands and head in the wood. "Hey, you're a wizard, right?" the troll dropped him a huge wink with an audible crack. "I'm sure you can nego-tiate some kind of escape mecha-nism with dose nifty spells of yours. Den you can fix up Mistah Vimes."
It was an interesting way the troll had of speaking, thought Neil. Any word longer than three syllables was divided into two shorter words. Any word longer than that didn't exist.
"I don't –" (the troll fastened and locked the stocks) "really know–" (the troll gave him a cheerful salute and began to climb down the stairs to the street below) "how to do –" (the troll had disappeared) "that kind of spell," Neil finished lamely.
The morning cold had diluted somewhat but it was still chilly outside. Wind whistled through the alleyways and snaked its way into peoples' bodies, racing up clothing and down shirts in ways that proved the long debated theory of whether the Gods had a sense of humour. Neil struggled a little to get his back into a more comfortable position. By some freak of architecture the platform had been designed so Neil's rear end was pointed firmly and irrevocably into the wind, chilling places that were not meant to be chilled. The harbourside stocks were true to their name, positioned specifically that the freezing sea-spray would wash over the paved beach and over the unfortunate prisoner's body.
The humiliating aspect of the punishment was not quite at the level he would have expected (2). At one stage, a bit later on in the day, a haggard-looking man Neil recognised vaguely from the university shook his hand and told him he knew exactly how he felt; later again, a man in a golden suit gave him an encouraging smile and a nod, but mostly people just treated him like they would any other piece of architecture, interesting, but not actually worth devoting any time or effort to.
It was about three hours after he was imprisoned that the dwarf arrived. He was dressed in a suit of armour that had been clearly designed for visual impact as opposed to actual practicality; despite the fact that a massive suit of plate armour looks very dramatic and warlike in certain artistic representations, in real life it was simply an unbelievably heavy thing to drag around that your beard got caught in. The miniature man pulled himself up onto the platform alongside Neil, breathing heavily.
"The Patrician will see you now," he said breathlessly.
Neil looked around helplessly. "Um, I'm sure the patrician is a very nice man and all, and under normal circumstances I'd love to meet him, but I'm a little tied up right now. Can he call back later?"
The dwarf pulled the largest axe Neil had ever seen from his back. There was a brief flurry of splinters. The dwarf put the largest axe Neil had ever seen back on his back.
"The Patrician will see you now," he repeated, and started walking back down the stairs. Neil cracked his back into place again, and followed the clanking dwarf.
The Patrician's palace turned out to be one of the largest buildings Neil had ever seen, big enough to house an army, as it had been forced to do during several historical wars, or the entire Guild of Pensioners fiftieth annual Hogswatch meet, as it had been forced to do only two weeks ago. Neil was directed up the mighty stairway to the Patrician's Oblong Office by the dwarf, or rather, by the dwarf's crossbow, which poked him in the back as a stern and sharp reminder of what would happen if he tried any of his 'wizardly tricks', as the dwarf called them.
After a few short stops for breaks (the dwarf's armour was really very heavy), they reached the top of the stairs, where they sat on a bench outside the Office. I wonder whether he does this deliberately, thought Neil. A sort of horrible instinctive recall to the days of sitting outside the principal's office.
Finally a clerk opened the mighty wooden doorways into the room. "Misters Bryman and Tablespoon? The Patrician requests your immediate attendance."
There were three men inside the Office; the massive Archchancellor Ricully of Unseen University was sitting on one end of the table, his arms folded over his chest. Opposite him was an almost indescribably boring looking man holding a file, and sitting alongside him was a tall man, dressed in a dull gray, his hands steepled over his face. Neil wondered which one was Lord Vetinari.
"Thank you, Drumknott," said the tall man with steepled hands. The clerk bowed and left. The tall man turned to the dwarf. "Mister Tablespoon, I've told you on several occasions that wearing your anti-everything armour will not be necessary on a mission of this mundanity."
The dwarf saluted. "Sorry suh! Wouldn't be seen in public without it, suh!"
"I see. At this particular point and time your expertise is no longer required, Mister Tablespoon. Do not let me detain you."
The doors swung shut. Neil sat down.
"Mister Bryman, I presume?"
"Yessir, that's me."
"I see. And you of course know why you are here?"
"Um… not exactly, sir."
"Hmph," said the man, who Neil now presumed to be the Patrician himself. "If you will, Mister Milligan?"
The boring looking man stood nodded. "Thank you, my lord. Mister Bryman, you have put us in a very difficult position. Mister Vimes has still not awoken from his… sleep. Doctors, wizards, and Igors alike have been unable to determine the cause of it; in fact, he doesn't even seem to be technically asleep. By all means he is dozing, lying on the table with his eyes closed and his brain fully awake. This of course does not alter the fact that we cannot wake him, but does suggest some powerful magic."
"Damn right," said Ridcully. "We're tossing up whether to lock you in the tanty or just offer you a scholarship and be done with it."
"Your imput is as always appreciated, Archchancellor," said Vetinari. "But we'll let the consul have his say first, hmm?"
"Thank you, sir," said Mister Milligan gratefully. He turned back to Neil. "You can see our problem. Rather a large amount of Ankh-Morpork's nobility is crying for war to be declared on the Isles in retaliation (3)."
"Um… they do realise that I'm not remotely high enough level of a wizard to cast a spell of that power, don't they?" Neil asked. "I'm not even first level yet!"
Ridcully nodded at this. "We know that. The public don't." Neil nodded. He understood this. In the general public, everyone was an expert on everything.
"So what are we going to do about it?" asked Neil.
"We?" Lord Vetinari looked surprised. "Weare going to do exactly as we feel is necessary. And right now that involves sending you back to the stocks. Thank you, Mister Bryman, and good day."
"But–"
"Don't let me detain you, Mister Bryman.
(1) Thus bringing the total money Nobby owed in general fines to the city watch to AM$158,459.32.
(2) This was because the people who got their kicks out of seeing other people tied up in uncomfortable positions were either at the Thieves Guild stocks where passer-bys were encouraged to hurl fruit, abuse, and occasionally weaponry at offenders, or on the Street of Negotiable Affection, where enough money could satisfy anyone'skicks.
(3) 'Rather a large amount' can here be interpreted as Lord Rust, who was nevertheless capable of being rather a lot all by himself.