Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

'Ee cuns uk ere um-imes an awks oo ugg.'

'Uz ee?'

'Egg.'

'Did someone else come up here? Just now?'

'Egg-'

'Did you see who it was?'

'Oh. Ee oot izh oot on i ed. Ang et ogg a ire-erk. I or ing un ah-ay a-ong Or-oh-Erns Eet.'

Holofernes Street, Vimes translated. Whoever it was would be well away by now.

'Ee ad a ick,' Cornice volunteered. A ire-erk htick.'

A what?'

'Ire-erk. Oo oh? Ang! Ock! Arks! Ockekts! Ang!'

'Oh, fireworks.'

'Egg. Aks ot I ed.'

A firework stick? Like . . . like a rocket stick?'

'Oh, ih-ee-ot! A htick, oo oint, ik koes ANG!'

'You point it and it goes bang?'

'Egg!'

Vimes scratched his head. Sounded like a wizard's staff. But they didn't go bang.

'Well . . . thanks,' he said. 'You've been . . . eh-ee elkfhull.'

He turned back towards the stairs.

Someone had tried to kill him.

And the Patrician had warned him against investigating the theft from the Assassins' Guild. Theft, he said.

Up until then, Vimes hadn't even been certain there had been a theft.

And then, of course, there are the laws of chance. They play a far greater role in police procedure than narrative causality would like to admit. For every murder solved by the careful discovery of a vital footprint or a cigarette end, a hundred failed to be resolved because the wind blew some leaves the wrong way or it didn't rain the night before. So many crimes are solved by a happy accident – by the random stopping of a car, by an overheard remark, by someone of the right nationality happening to be within five miles of the scene of the crime without an alibi . . .

Even Vimes knew about the power of chance.

His sandal clinked against something metallic.

And this,' said Corporal Carrot, 'is the famous commemorative arch celebrating the Battle of Crumhorn. We won it, I think. It's got over ninety statues of famous soldiers. It's something of a landmark.'

'Should have put up a stachoo to the accountants,' said a doggy voice behind Angua. 'First battle in the universe where the enemy were persuaded to sell their weapons.'

'Where is it, then?' said Angua, still ignoring Gaspode.

Ah. Yes. That's the problem,' said Carrot. 'Excuse me, Mr Scant. This is Mr Scant. Official Keeper of the Monuments. According to ancient tradition, his pay is one dollar a year and a new vest every Hogswatchday.'