Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

Vimes had got through the rest of the interview on automatic.

He could hardly think about it now. When he tried, his thoughts kept skidding away. And, just as always happened when the world got too much for him, they skidded somewhere else.

He pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and stared at the shiny bottle of Bearhugger's Very Fine Whiskey. He wasn't sure how it had got there. Somehow he'd never got around to throwing it out.

Start that again and you won't even see retirement. Stick to cigars.

He shut the drawer and leaned back, taking a half-smoked cigar from his pocket.

Maybe the guards weren't so good now anyway. Politics. Hah! Watchmen like old Kepple would turn in their graves if they knew that the Watch had taken on a w—

And the world exploded.

The window blew in, peppering the wall behind Vimes'desk with fragments and cutting one of his ears.

He threw himself to the floor and rolled under the desk.

Right, that did it! The alchemists had blown up their Guild House for the last time, if Vimes had anything to do with it . . .

But when he peered over the window sill he saw, across the river, the column of dust rising over the Assassins' Guild . . .

The rest of the Watch came trotting along Filigree Street as Vimes reached the Guild entrance. A couple of black-clad Assassins barred his way, in a polite manner which nevertheless indicated that impoliteness was a future option. There were sounds of hurrying feet behind the gates.

'You see this badge? You see it?' Vimes demanded.

'Nevertheless, this is Guild property,' said an Assassin.

'Let us in, in the name of the law!' bellowed Vimes.

The Assassin smiled nervously at him. 'The law is that Guild law prevails inside Guild walls,' he said.

Vimes glared at him. But it was true. The laws of the city, such as they were, stopped outside the Guild Houses. The Guilds had their own laws. The Guild owned the . . .

He stopped.

Behind him, Lance-Constable Angua reached down and picked up a fragment of glass.

Then she stirred the debris with her foot.

And then her gaze met that of a small, non-descript mongrel dog watching her very intently from under a cart. In fact non-descript was not what it was. It was very easy to descript. It looked like halitosis with a wet nose.

'Woof, woof,' said the dog, in a bored way. 'Woof, woof, woof, and growl, growl.'

The dog trotted into the mouth of an alleyway. Angua glanced around, and followed it. The rest of the squad were gathered around Vimes, who'd gone very quiet.

'Fetch me the Master of Assassins,' he said. 'Now!'

The young Assassin tried to sneer.

'Hah! Your uniform doesn't scare me,' he said.

Vimes looked down at his battered breastplate and worn mail.

'You're right,' he said. 'This is not a scary uniform. I'm sorry. Forward, Corporal Carrot and Lance-Constable Detritus.'

The Assassin was suddenly aware of the sunlight being blocked out.

'Now these, I think you'll agree,' said Vimes, from somewhere behind the eclipse, 'are scary uniforms.'