Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

'Listen,' Cruces said, 'I'm sorry about the . . . the girl, that was an accident, but I only wanted— There's evidence! There's a—'

Cruces was hardly paying any attention to the Watchmen. He pulled a leather satchel off the table and waved it at them.

'It's here! All of it, sire! Evidence! Edward was stupid, he thought it was all crowns and ceremony, he had no idea what he'd found! And then, last night, it was as if—'

'I'm not interested,' mumbled Vimes.

'The city needs a king!'

'It does not need murderers,' said Carrot.

'But—'

And then Cruces dived for the gonne and scooped it up.

One moment Vimes was trying to reassemble his thoughts, and the next they were fleeing to far corners of his consciousness. He was looking into the mouth of the gonne. It grinned at him.

Cruces slumped against the pillar, but the gonne remained steady, pointing itself at Vimes.

'It's all there, sire,' he said. 'Everything written down. The whole thing. Birthmarks and prophecies and genealogy and everything. Even your sword. It's the sword!'

'Really?' said Carrot. 'May I see?'

Carrot lowered his sword and, to Vimes' horror, walked over to the desk and pulled the bundle of documents out of the case. Cruces nodded approvingly, as if rewarding a good boy.

Carrot read a page, and turned to the next one.

'This is interesting,' he said.

'Exactly. But now we must remove this annoying policeman,' said Cruces.

Vimes felt that he could see all the way along the tube, to the little slug of metal that was soon to launch itself at him . . .

'It's a shame,' said Cruces, 'if only you had—'

Carrot stepped in front of the gonne. His arm moved in a blur. There was hardly a sound.

Pray you never face a good man, Vimes thought. He'll kill you with hardly a word.

Cruces looked down. There was blood on his shirt. He raised a hand to the sword hilt protruding from his chest, and looked back up into Carrot's eyes.

'But why? You could have been—'

And he died. The gonne fell from his hands, and fired at the floor.

There was silence.

Carrot grasped the hilt of his sword and pulled it back. The body slumped.

Vimes leaned on the table and fought to get his breath back.

'Damn . . . his . . . hide,' he panted.

'Sir?'

'He . . . he called you sire,' he said. 'What was in that—'

'You're late, captain,' said Carrot.