“Assaulting an officer of the Watch in the execution of his duty and ... oh, yes. Resisting arrest.”
“Under Section (vii) of the Public Order Act of 1457?” said Carrot.
“Yes,” said Vimes solemnly. “Yes. Yes, I suppose so.”
“But they didn't resist very much, sir,” Carrot pointed out.
“Well, attempting to resist arrest. I should just leave them over by the wall until we come back. I don't expect they'll want to go anywhere.”
“Right you are, sir.”
“Don't hurt them, mind,” said Vimes. “You mustn't hurt prisoners.”
“That's right, sir,” said Carrot, conscientiously. “Prisoners once Charged have Rights, sir. It says so in the Dignity of Man (Civic Rights) Act of 1341. I keep telling Corporal Nobbs. They have Rights, I tell him. This means you do not Put the Boot in.”
“Very well put, constable.”
Carrot looked down. “You have the right to remain silent,” he said. “You have the right not to injure yourself falling down the steps on the way to the cells. You have the right not to jump out of high windows. You do not have to say anything, you see, but any thing you do say, well, I have to take it down and it might be used in evidence.” He pulled out his notebook and licked his pencil. He leaned down further.
“Pardon?” he said. He looked up at Vimes.
“How do you spell 'groan', sir?” he said.
“G-R-O-N-E, I think.”
“Very good, sir.”
"Oh, and constable?'
“Yes, sir?”
“Why the axes?”
“They were armed, sir. I got them from the blacksmith in Market Street, sir. I said you'd be along later to pay for them.”
“And the cry?” said Vimes weakly.
“Dwarfish war yodel, sir,” said Carrot proudly.
“It's a good cry,” said Vimes, picking his words with care. “But I'd be grateful if you'd warn me first another time, all right?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“In writing, I think.”
...
The Librarian swung on. It was slow progress, because there were things he wasn't keen on meeting. Creatures evolve to fill every niche in the environment, and some of those in the dusty immensity of L-space were best avoided. They were much more unusual than ordinary unusual creatures.
Usually he could forewarn himself by keeping a careful eye on the kickstool crabs that grazed harmlessly on the dust. When they were spooked, it was time to hide. Several times he had to flatten himself against the shelves as a thesaurus thundered by. He waited patiently as a herd of Critters crawled past, grazing on the contents of the choicer books and leaving behind them piles of small slim volumes of literary criticism. And there were other things, things which he hurried away from and tried not to look hard at ...
And you had to avoid cliches at all costs.
He finished the last of his peanuts atop a stepladder, which was browsing mindlessly off the high shelves.
The territory definitely had a familiar feel, or at least he got the feeling that it would eventually be familiar. Time had a different meaning in L-space.
There were shelves whose outline he felt he knew. The book titles, while still unreadable, held a tantalising hint of legibility. Even the musty air had a smell he thought he recognised.