Guards! Guards! by Terry Pratchett

imagine that someone would have noticed, wouldn’t you agree?”
    The captain nodded at the wall and its dreadful frieze. “Apart from them, you mean, sir?”
    “In my opinion,” said Lord Vetinari, “it’s some kind of warfare. Possibly a rival gang has hired a wizard. A little local difficulty.”
    “Could be linked to all this strange thieving, sir,” volunteered Wonse.
    “But there’s the footprints, sir,” said Vimes doggedly.
    “We’re close to the river,” said the Patrician. “Possibly it was, perhaps, a wading bird of some sort. A mere coincidence,” he added, “but I should cover them over, if I were you. We don’t want people getting the wrong idea and jumping to silly conclusions, do we?” he added sharply.
    Vimes gave in.
    “As you wish, sir,” he said, looking at his sandals.
    The Patrician patted him on the shoulder.
    “Never mind,” he said. “Carry on. Good show of initiative, that man. Patrolling in the Shades, too. Well done.”
    He turned, and almost walked into the wall of chain mail that was Carrot.
    To his horror, Captain Vimes saw his newest recruit point politely to the Patrician’s coach. Around it, fully-armed and wary, were six members of the Palace Guard, who straightened up and took a wary interest. Vimes disliked them intensely. They had plumes on their helmets. He hated plumes on a guard.
    He heard Carrot say, “Excuse me, sir, is this your coach, sir?” and the Patrician looked him blankly up and down and said, “It is. Who are you, young man?”
    Carrot saluted. “Lance-constable Carrot, sir.”
    “Carrot, Carrot. That name rings a bell.”
    Lupine Wonse, who had been hovering behind him, whispered in the Patrician’s ear. His face brightened. “Ah, the young thief-taker. A little error there, I think, but commendable. No person is above the law, eh?”
    “No, sir,” said Carrot.
    “Commendable, commendable,” said the Patrician. “And now, gentlemen—”
    “About your coach, sir,” said Carrot doggedly, “I couldn’t help noticing that the front offside wheel, contrary to the—”
    He’s going to arrest the Patrician, Vimes told himself, the thought trickling through his brain like an icy rivulet. He’s actually going to arrest the Patrician. The supreme ruler. He’s going to arrest him. This is what he’s actually going to do. The boy doesn’t know the meaning of the word “fear.” Oh, wouldn’t it be a good idea if he knew the meaning of the word “survival…”
    And I can’t get my jaw muscles to move.
    We’re all dead. Or worse, we’re all detained at the Patrician’s pleasure. And as we all know, he’s seldom that pleased.
    It was at this precise moment that Sergeant Colon earned himself a metaphorical medal.
    “Lance-constable Carrot!” he shouted. “Attention! Lance-constable Carrot, abou-uta turna! Lance-constable Carrot, quiuck marcha!”
    Carrot brought himself to attention like a barn being raised and stared straight ahead with a ferocious expression of acute obedience.
    “Well done, that man,” said the Patrician thoughtfully, as Carrot strode stiffly away. “Carry on, Captain. And do come down heavily on any silly rumors about dragons, right?”
    “Yes, sir,” said Captain Vimes.
    “Good man.”
    The coach rattled off, the bodyguard running alongside.
    Behind him, Captain Vimes was only vaguely aware of the sergeant yelling at the retreating Carrot to stop.
    He was thinking.
    He looked at the prints in the mud. He used his regulation pike, which he knew was exactly seven feet long, to measure their size and the distance between them. He whistled under his breath. Then, with considerable caution, he followed the alley around the corner; it led to a small, padlocked and dirt-encrusted door in the back of a timber warehouse.
    There was something very wrong, he thought.
    The prints come out of the alley, but they don’t go in. And we don’t often get any wading birds in the Ankh, mainly because the pollution would