Hot and Cold

Chapter 6

Sir Samuel Vimes took one look at his office and swore. He couldn't recall having so much paperwork to do, but there it was, stack upon stacks of paper heaped on his desk. Vimes was sure that those at the bottom have conglomerated into bedrock, and he'd need a bloody pickaxe and a good length of rope to reach the peak.

It wasn't always like this, Vimes thought. He distinctly recalled a time when the Watch was for those who had nowhere to go, people like Nobby and Sergeant Colon and, well, him. Those blokes who had hit rock-bottom and had nothing to aspire to and nothing to live for. Drifters. Bottom-feeders.

Now things were different. So different that he couldn't remember exactly how he had gone from point A to point B, all the while incurring a monumental amount of paperwork. A long time ago, he thought that he could have gone off and disappeared off the face of the Disc without anyone even blinking twice. If he did that now, well, he couldn't do that now. It wouldn't be right. There was Sybil to think about...and while she had spent a major portion of her life without even knowing he existed, those years that she did know mattered more to the both of them.

He also had responsibilities in the Watch; they needed him here. Or was it the other way around? Perhaps things weren't so different from the way they were before. The stakes just get higher, and the higher it gets the greater the fall becomes. And the greater the fall, the lesser the chances of survival.

Well, if there was anything that Ankh-Morpork taught him, it was learning how to save his own neck.

Vimes went across the table, passed Mt. Paperwork and sat down on his rickety chair. It was an old, plain wooden chair from the old Watch House, and he had it brought here. He wanted to bring his old desk too, but Carrot said that it wouldn't 'send the right message'. The desk had a slight skew to the right and the wood was rotting in places, hell, it probably wouldn't even stand the sheer amount of stuff that ended up on his desk these days...but the chair had to come with him, 'cos it was the only one that could hit that right squeak when he pulls his legs up and puts them on the table, like this. Vimes gave it a few rickety squeaks and that was all he needed to bring himself back to those days.

His eyes fluttered shut...there it was...the old drafty Watch house with the paint peeling in places. Fred would be making tea the way it's s'posed to be made, none of those fancy cozies and thin porcelain...Nobby dozing off the rest of the afternoon...Carrot would be off somewhere, probably walking around town memorising everybody's names...and Vimes would just reach for that lower drawer and pull out that bottle of...

Vimes opened his eyes. He saw that he had pulled out his lower drawer, revealing, among a number of things, the unopened bottle of Bearhugger's Whiskey. He looked at it as he would a stranger, and he felt strangely proud. Sometimes, he just had to convince himself that he wasn't that man who literally had his face down the gutter anymore. It's not that he's any different from that man...or any better for that matter...their only difference was that he, the Vimes now, had something to live for and care about.

Now that he thought about it, that probably made all the difference in the world.

Great...now he was brooding, and that made him want to smoke. He fished the silver cigar case from his pocket and pulled out one, lit it, and inhaled sweetly. Nothing like Pantweed's...yeah.

Vimes sat pensively for some moments until someone knocked on the door.

He pulled his feet from the table and piles of paper slid down in an avalanche. "Oh, bugger," he muttered, and he stuck the cigar in the corner of his mouth to push up the heap with both hands. "Carm erng," he managed to say, and the door opened to admit Carrot's large frame.

When the mess seemed to have more or less stabilised, Vimes pulled his hands gently away. It teetered for a second or two, but appeared to have changed its mind. He pulled the cigar from his mouth.

"Carrot," Vimes greeted. "Have a seat." He gestured to the chair across his desk, or at least where he thought it was; he really couldn't see because of the bloody heap.

"Thanks, sir." Carrot answered. He appeared to have sat down because Vimes couldn't see him anymore. "Um, sir?" Carrot asked. He sensed that the Captain was looking for an opening among the heap, ducking this way and that.

Vimes pushed a stack a couple of inches to the left, and Carrot peeped across. "Oh, there you are, sir," he said.

"Yes, Captain?"

Carrot's eye looked directly at him. "Just reporting, sir."

Vimes nodded for him to continue; Carrot looked down at his copper's jotter. "Another pile up at King's Bridge, sir," he began. "No recorded casualties, but there were six broken ribs, one stomped bladder and two broken legs."

"Good gods!" Vimes exclaimed. "The poor bleeder's still alive?" He tried to imagine what all those injuries looked like on a person...hell, if that we're him, he'd probably beg to be burked off right away.

Carrot's eye wandered for a moment. "I don't think the injuries were on the same person, sir," Carrot answered. "They have all been taken to the Lady Sybil Free Hospital. Um, there were also four injured horses, six overturned carts...total damage probably around five thousand dollars. Most of the carts held produce and-"

Vimes narrowed his eyes; he was trying to recall something. "Hold on," he said, "didn't we have signs put up on that street? Sergeant Colon said we had 'Halt!' signs there all over."

Carrot's head bobbed. "Yessir," he replied, "we did. I'm afraid no one reads them, sir."

"Well, Captain, what do you think we should do?" Vimes challenged.

Carrot cleared his throat and looked down for a few moments. "I'm suggesting we make the signs bigger, sir," he said earnestly.

Make the signs bigger...Vimes repeated again and again in his mind. He resisted the urge to facepalm himself, and he knew better than to ask Carrot if he was horsing him around. The man is as straight as they come, and he'd probably tell Vimes that he didn't own a horse, all with a look as innocent as a lamb's. Still one couldn't help but wonder...

Best to just get along with it, Vimes thought. "Alright, Captain," he said, "you have my permission. Make sure you tell Fred as well."

"Will do, sir," Carrot said spiritedly. "Erm, and I also have other news from, um, Grub Street, sir."

Vimes groaned. That street's caused more trouble than unlicensed thievery and non-contractual murders combined. Grub Street is a short thoroughfare between Schooner Way and the Hubwards end of Reeldrag Street, and has been a witness to several turf wars between the Gangsaw Gang and the Llew Llaw Grifters. Gangsaws had Schooner all the way to the Raddled Cabin at Filligrew's while the Grifters had Reeldrag until the other side of New Mead. Grub Street was no-man's land, because aside from the fact that both gangs have been fighting over it for what seemed like forever, there was literally no one there. It used to have a few establishments, an inn or two and a few shops maybe, but they have since hightailed it and set up business somewhere else. Being there in itself is already asking to be hit by a liquor bottle or a lead pipe. In fact, people who need a good beaten-up look (for some reason) just pass by Grub Street for an instant make-over. Both gangs caught wind of this trend, and now they charge ten pence for it of course, depending on which side of the street one is walking towards.

Vimes himself had been there once or twice, for reasons that are now long forgotten, but he recalled that the ten pence charge was definitely a good bargain. The look stays on for days...

"Do they still charge ten pence for a good whack?" Vimes asked reflectively.

Carrot didn't even snigger or stare incredulously. "It's now fifteen pence, sir," he replied. "Plus two for a quality arm-breaking and four for a solid Sunday punch."

Vimes coughed. "That's bloody extortion!" he said. "It used to be plus one for a busted kneecap and two for a solid Sunday punch."

"They had to adjust for inflation, sir," Carrot said. "Liquor bottles and lead pipes get pricier, so does their service, if they want to maintain quality, sir."

Vimes huffed. There was nothing to do about it, he thought. Grub Street, after all, was the best. "What's the trouble up there, anyhow? One of the gangs finally owned the street?" It was next to impossible, of course, but if they could raise the price for a godsdamn beating, anything can happen.

Carrot shook his head. "No, sir," he said. "Just another fight. Bigger than last month's. Some of the kids had to be taken to the clinic right at Schooner's. The injured Grifters, as expected, refused to be treated there."

"Which of the lads did we have there?" Vimes asked. "Where'd they take the Grifters, then?"

"We sent Sergeant Angua and Detritus," Carrot answered. "And some of the lads at the Dolly Sisters Watch house were also called up. They took the Grifters to the clinic at Reeldrag, while the worse cases had to be taken to a hospital."

There were clinics at both ends of Grub Street, for no other reason than that sound business sense dictates that you should be where your market is. Doctors there do very well...most of the time.

"Anything else?" Vimes asked. He didn't even have to ask the reason why the fight started. It's nothing but a time-forged feud between the two gangs, nothing but tradition. Vimes was sure that if he went down there to ask those kids what they were even fighting about, the last thing he would get would be a straight answer that wasn't a shrug or a dumb stare. He knew because he was once a kid in a gang, and those were standard answers. Everyone who joined was there because there was nowhere else to be...

Carrot cleared his throat. "Sergeant Angua reported that there were young dwarfs and trolls in the fight too, sir," he said.

Vimes raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What, they have their own gangs now?" It wouldn't be much of a surprise, he thought. Dwarfs and trolls used to stay out of trouble, but their kids got into the Ankh-Morpork spirit much easier. It would've been good, if it wasn't so misplaced. Then again, seeds grow in the soil where they were sown, be it sand or clay or, in this case, the cobbles of the city.

"No, sir," Carrot answered. "It appears that they were either Grifters or Gangsaws."

Vimes's jaw dropped. "Both gangs accept both dwarfs and trolls?" he said. "Amazing..." There really was no other word for it. Amazing how the times are a-changing, while some things remain the same.

"Yes, sir," the Captain said. "They do now. Word on the street, sir, is that they will probably open their hide-outs to other races, even the undead. They say that if the Watch could, then so could they," Carrot paused and adopted a troubled look. His forehead, or the half that Vimes could see, creased with concern. "It's worrying, sir, how they sort of look up to us..."

Vimes didn't know if he would feel proud or ashamed. You could always change things, he thought, but you couldn't always control how. Words get twisted, actions become misunderstood...you just hope that they get the right idea. If they don't, then you should never have expected them to, because people tend to be idiots anyhow.

Vimes smiled half a smile. "Then don't you think we could use this to our advantage, Captain?" he said.

Carrot nodded solemnly and said, "I guess so, sir." He glanced down at his jotter. "Oh, before I forget, sir, there's one more thing-"

"Another unlicensed theft at Scomber?" Vimes guessed.

Carrot's eye widened for a moment. "How did you know, sir?" he asked.

"It's Tuesday," Vimes said. "Scomber always gets robbed by some bloody idiot at Tuesday. Is there anything new?"

"Well, we caught him, sir," Carrot said. "We had the street watched round the clock until the unlicensed theif showed up. He made a run for a nearby alley, but one of the lads got him."

One of the lads, Vimes thought, I probably won't even know his name anymore. "What's the lad's name?"

Carrot checked his jotter. "Lance-Constable Wrack, sir, up at Nap Hill. Anyway," he paused, "we had the thief brought 'round here."

Vimes didn't even know. You know now, he said to himself, no use fretting about it. "Well," Vimes said, "did he say?"

Carrot tilted his head closer. "Did he say what, sir?" he asked.

"Did he say why he bloody well robs at Scomber every soddin' Tuesday?" Vimes said with some exasperation.

The Captain drew back. "Not yet, sir," Carrot replied. "Detritus is not yet done interrogating, sir."

Vimes sighed and leaned back on his chair. It ricketed. "Alright, Captain, inform me when he is done, and tell Detritus to...what the hell is that?"

There was a shuffling sound in the hallway, like someone running but didn't weigh enough to make it sound like heavy footsteps. The shuffling appeared to become closer, then it stopped, only to be replaced by an urgent knock on the door.

Vimes heard the door open. "Sir?" said a voice.

He looked at Carrot between the gap. "Captain," he whispered, "can you tell me who it is?"

"It's Corporal Littlebottom, sir," said Carrot quietly.

Vimes nodded and raised his head. "Ah, Corporal," he said towards the general direction of the door, "step inside. Thank you, Carrot, you can go now, erm, if you want."

He saw Carrot again when he drew himself up. The Captain seemed to be giving directions to Cheery, because she sat down and looked at the gap immediately.

"You really ought to do something about this paperwork, sir," said Cheery.

"I'll need a pickaxe and some rope," Vimes said. "Well, what is it, Corporal?"

Cheery looked at him strangely. "There's a coach outside waiting for you, sir," she replied.

"What?" he said, feeling slightly displaced. "Do I have to be somewhere right now? Who are they?"

"They said they're taking you to Camembart Hall, sir, for the Awards Ceremony."

Camembart Hall...where the bloody hell was that? And why are they waiting for him on a coach? "I didn't get a memo for this," he joked.

Cheery laughed nervously. "I think you did, sir," she said.

It was Vimes's turn to laugh nervously. It was very likely that he did. Cheery was right, he ought to do something about this paperwork, right after he could figure out this coach-award business.

Vimes stood up and strode towards the door. "Well, I'd better ask them what it's all about," he said. "I'm coming down."

Cheery followed him. "But I got something on the Cooper boy, sir," she said. "It's important."

Vimes turned to Cheery and gave her a pointed look. "Then you're bloody well coming with me," he said.