Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

Carrot mounted the steps.

'Good grief!'

The Patrician looked over his shoulder.

'It's just gold foil over wood . . .'

'Quite so.'

It was hardly even wood any more. Rot and worms had fought one another to a standstill over the last biodegradable fragment. Carrot prodded it with his sword, and part of it drifted gently away in a puff of dust.

'What do you think about this, captain?'

Carrot stood up.

'On the whole, sir, it's probably just as well that people don't know.'

'So I have always thought. Well, I will not keep you. I'm sure you have a lot to organize.'

Carrot saluted.

'Thank you, sir.'

'I gather that you and, er, Constable Angua are getting along well?'

'We have a very good Understanding, sir. Of course, there will be minor difficulties,' said Carrot, 'but, to look on the positive side, I've got someone who's always ready for a walk around the city.'

As Carrot had his hand on the door handle Lord Vetinari called out to him.

'Yes, sir?'

Carrot looked back at the tall thin man, standing in the big bare room beside the golden throne filled with decay.

'You're a man interested in words, captain. I'd just invite you to consider something your predecessor never fully grasped.'

'Sir?'

'Have you ever wondered where the word “politician” comes from?' said the Patrician.

And then there's the committee of the Sunshine Sanctuary,' said Lady Ramkin, from her side of the dining table. 'We must get you on that. And the Country Landowners' Association. And the Friendly Flamethrowers' League. Cheer up. You'll find your time will just fill up like nobody's business.'

'Yes, dear,' said Vimes. The days stretched ahead of him, just filling up like nobody's business with committees and good works and . . . nobody's business. It was probably better than walking the streets. Lady Sybil and Mr Vimes.

He sighed.

Sybil Vimes, née Ramkin, looked at him with an expression of faint concern. For as long as she'd known him, Sam Vimes had been vibrating with the internal anger of a man who wants to arrest the gods for not doing it right, and then he'd handed in his badge and he was . . . well, not exactly Sam Vimes any more.

The clock in the corner chimed eight o'clock. Vimes pulled out his presentation watch and opened it.

'That clock's five minutes fast,' he said, above the tinkling chimes. He snapped the lid shut, and read again the words on it: 'A Watch From, Your Old Freinds In The Watch'.

Carrot had been behind that, sure enough. Vimes had grown to recognize that blindness to the position of 'i's and 'e's and that wanton cruelty to the common comma.

They said goodbye to you, they took you out of the measure of your days, and they gave you a watch . . .

'Excuse me, m'lady?'

'Yes, Willikins?''