Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

He shrugged, and picked up his wine glass and sought for a phrase. One crept into his wildly resonating mind.

“Here's looking at you, kid,” he said.

...

The gongs of various midnights banged out the old day.

(. . . and further towards the Hub, where the Ram-top Mountains joined the forbidding spires of the central massif, where strange hairy creatures roamed the eternal snows, where blizzards howled around the freezing peaks, the lights of a lone lamasery shone out over the high valleys. In the courtyard a couple of yellow-robed monks stacked the last case of small green bottles on to a sleigh, ready for the first leg of the incredibly difficult journey down to the distant plains. The box was labelled, in careful brush-strokes, “Mstr. C.M.O.T. Dibbler, Ankh-Morpork.”

“You know, Lobsang,” said one of them, “one cannot help wondering what it is he does with this stuff.”)

Corporal Nobbs and Sergeant Colon lounged in the shadows near the Mended Drum, but straightened up as Carrot came out bearing a tray. Detritus the troll stepped aside respectfully.

“Here we are, lads,” said Carrot. “Three pints. On the house.”

“Bloody hell, I never thought you'd do it,” said Colon, grasping a handle. “What did you say to him?”

“I just explained how it was the duty of all good citizens to help the guard at all times,” said Carrot innocently, ' 'and I thanked him for his co-operation.''

“Yeah, and the rest,” said Nobby.

“No, that was all I said.”

“Then you must have a really convincing tone of voice.”

“Ah. Well, make the most of it, lads, while it lasts,” said Colon.

They drank thoughtfully. It was a moment of supreme peace, a few minutes snatched from the realities of real life. It was a brief bite of stolen fruit and enjoyed as such. No-one in the whole city seemed to be fighting or stabbing or making affray and, just for now, it was possible to believe that this wonderful state of affairs might continue.

And even if it didn't, then there were memories to get them through. Of running, and people getting out of the way. Of the looks on the faces of the horrible palace guard. Of, when all the thieves and heroes and gods had failed, of being there. Of nearly doing things nearly right.

Nobby shoved the pot on a convenient window sill, stamped some life back into his feet and blew on his fingers. A brief fumble in the dark recesses of his ear produced a fragment of cigarette.

“What a time, eh?” said Colon contentedly, as the flare of a match illuminated the three of them.

The others nodded. Yesterday seemed like a lifetime ago, even now. But you could never forget something like that, no matter who else did, no matter what happened from now on.

“If I never see any bloody king it'll be too soon,” said Nobby.

“I don't reckon he was the right king, anyway,” said Carrot. “Talking of kings: anyone want a crisp?”

' 'There's no right longs,'' said Colon, but without much rancour. Ten dollars a month was going to make a big difference. Mrs Colon was acting very differently towards a man bringing home another ten dollars a month. Her notes on the kitchen table were a lot more friendly.

“No, but I mean, there's nothing special about having an ancient sword,” said Carrot. “Or a birthmark. I mean, look at me. I've got a birthmark on my arm.”

“My brother's got one, too,” said Colon. “Shaped like a boat.”

“Mine's more like a crown thing,” said Carrot.

“Oho, that makes you a king, then,” grinned Nobby. “Stands to reason.”

“I don't see why. My brother's not an admiral,” said Colon reasonably.

“And I've got this sword,” said Carrot.

He drew it. Colon took it from his hand, and turned it over and over in the light from the flare over the Drum's door. The blade was dull and short, and notched like a saw. It was well-made and there might have been an inscription on it once, but it had long ago been worn into indecipherability by sheer use.

“It's a nice sword,” he said thoughtfully. “Well-balanced.”