Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

'Is he still breathing?' said Colon.

'Oh, yes. I pulled the punch.'

'Sounds minimum enough to me, sir,' said Colon loyally.

'Fredddd!'

Carrot reached out absent-mindedly as the morning-star rocketed past and caught it by the chain. Then he threw it against the wall, where it stuck.

'You men in there in the Watch House,' he said, 'come out now.'

Five men emerged, edging cautiously around the prone captain.

'Good. Now go and get Coalface.'

'Er . . . he's in a bit of a bad temper, Corporal Carrot.'

'On account of being chained to the floor,' volunteered another guard.

'Well, now,' said Carrot. 'The thing is, he's going to be unchained right now.' The men shuffled their feet nervously, possibly remembering an old proverb that fitted the occasion very well.[26] Carrot nodded. 'I won't ask you to do it, but I might suggest you take some time off,' he said.

'Quirm is very nice at this time of year,' said Sergeant Colon helpfully. 'They've got a floral clock.'

'Er . . . since you mention it . . . I've got some sick leave coming up,' one of them said.

'I should think that's very probable, if you hang around,' said Carrot.

They sidled off as fast as decency allowed. The crowd hardly paid them any attention. There was still a lot more mileage in watching Carrot.

'Right,' said Carrot. 'Detritus, you take some men and go and bring out the prisoner.'

'I don't see why—' a dwarf began.

'You shut up, you horrible man,' said Detritus, drunk with power.

You could have heard a guillotine drop.

In the crowd, a number of different-sized knobbly hands gripped a variety of concealed weapons.

Everyone looked at Carrot.

That was the strange thing, Colon remembered later. Everyone looked at Carrot.

Gaspode sniffed a lamp-post.

'I see Three-legged Shep has been ill again,' he said 'And old Willy the Pup is back in town.'

To a dog, a well-placed hitching post or lamp is a social calendar.

'Where are we?' said Angua. Foul Ole Ron's trail was hard to follow. There were so many other smells.

'Somewhere in the Shades,' said Gaspode. 'Sweethear Lane, smells like.' He snuffled across the ground. Ah here he is again, the little . . .'

' 'ullo, Gaspode . . .'

It was a deep, hoarse voice, a kind of whisper wit? sand in it. It came from somewhere in an alley.

' 'o's yer fwiend, Gaspode?'