Feet of Clay by Terry Pratchett

you to have a look at this one. Take…yes, take Corporal Little-bottom,” he said. “He’s been doing some work on it. Angua’s from Uberwald too, Littlebottom. Maybe you’ve got friends in common, that sort of thing.”
    Carrot nodded cheerfully. Angua’s expression went wooden.
    “Ah, h’druk g’har dWatch, Sh’rt’azs!” said Carrot.
    “H’h Angua tConstable…Angua g’har, b’hk bargr’a Sh’rt’azs Kad’k…” *
    Angua appeared to concentrate. “Grr’dukk d’buzh’drak…” she managed.
    Carrot laughed. “You just said ‘small delightful mining tool of a feminine nature’!”
    Cheery stared at Angua, who returned the stare blankly while mumbling, “Well, dwarfish is difficult if you haven’t eaten gravel all your life…”
    Cheery was still staring. “Er…thank you,” he managed. “Er…I’d better go and tidy up.”
    “What about Lord Vetinari?” said Carrot.
    “I’m putting my best man on that,” said Vimes. “Trustworthy, reliable, knows the ins and outs of this place like the back of his hand. I’m handling it, in other words.”
    Carrot’s hopeful expression faded to hurt puzzlement. “Don’t you want me to?” he said. “I could—”
    “No. Indulge an old man. I want you to go back to the Watch House and take care of things.”
    “What things?”
    “Everything! Rise to the occasion. Move paper around. There’s that new shift rota to draw up. Shout at people! Read reports!”
    Carrot saluted. “Yes, Commander Vimes.”
    “Good. Off you go, then.”
    And if anything happens to Vetinari , Vimes added to himself as the dejected Carrot went out, no one will be able to say you were anywhere near him .

    The little grille in the gate of the Royal College of Arms snapped open, to the distant accompaniment of brayings and grunts. “Yes?” said a voice, “what dost thee want?”
    “I’m Corporal Nobbs,” said Nobby.
    An eye applied itself to the grille. It took in the full, dreadful extent of the godly handiwork that was Corporal Nobbs.
    “Are you the baboon? We’ve had one on order for…”
    “No. I’ve come about some coat with arms,” said Nobby.
    “You?” said the voice. The owner of the voice made it very clear that he was aware there were degrees of nobility from something above kingship stretching all the way down to commoner, and that as far as Corporal Nobbs was concerned an entirely new category—commonest, perhaps—would have to be coined.
    “I’ve been told,” said Nobby, miserably. “It’s about this ring I got.”
    “Go round the back door,” said the voice.

    Cheery was tidying away the makeshift equipment he’d set up in the privy when a sound made him look around. Angua was leaning against the doorway.
    “What do you want?” he demanded.
    “Nothing. I just thought I’d say: don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
    “I think you’re lying.”
    Cheery dropped a test tube, and sagged on to a seat. “How could you tell?” he said. “Even other dwarfs can’t tell! I’ve been so careful!”
    “Shall we just say…I have special talents?” said Angua.
    Cheery started to clean a beaker distractedly.
    “I don’t know why you’re so upset,” said Angua. “I thought dwarfs hardly recognized the difference between male and female, anyway. Half the dwarfs we bring in here on a No. 23 are female, I know that, and they’re the ones that are hardest to subdue—”
    “What’s a No. 23?”
    “‘Running Screaming at People While Drunk and Trying to Cut Their Knees Off’,” said Angua. “It’s easier to give them numbers than write it down every time. Look, there’s plenty of women in this town that’d love to do things the dwarf way. I mean, what’re the choices they’ve got? Barmaid, seamstress or someone’s wife. While you can do anything the men do…”
    “Provided we do only what the men do,” said Cheery.
    Angua paused. “Oh,”