Men At Arms by Terry Pratchett

Author:Terry Pratchett [Pratchett, Terry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Publisher: Transworld
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Mrs Gafkin, Mincing St: $5

Mrs Scurrick, Treacle St: $4

Mrs Maroon, Wixon’s Alley: $4

Annabel Curry, Lobfneaks: $2

‘Annabel Curry couldn’t have been much good, for only two dollars,’ said Angua.

She was aware of a sudden drop in temperature.

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Carrot, slowly. ‘She’s only nine years old.’

One of his hands gripped her wrist tightly and the other prised the book out of her fingers.

‘Hey, let go!’

‘Sergeant!’ shouted Carrot, over his shoulder, ‘can you come up here a moment?’

Angua tried to pull away. Carrot’s arm was as immovable as an iron bar.

There was the creak of Colon’s foot on the stair, and the door swung open.

He was holding a very small cup in a pair of tongs.

‘Nobby got the coff—’ he began, and stopped.

‘Sergeant,’ said Carrot, staring into Angua’s face, ‘Lance-Constable Angua wants to know about Mrs Gaskin.’

‘Old Leggy Gaskin’s widow? She lives in Mincing Street.’

‘And Mrs Scurrick?’

‘In Treacle Street? Takes in laundry now.’ Sergeant Colon looked from one to the other, trying to get a handle on the situation.

‘Mrs Maroon?’

‘That’s Sergeant Maroon’s widow, she sells coal in—’

‘How about Annabel Curry?’

‘She still goes to the Spiteful Sisters of Seven-Handed Sek Charity School, doesn’t she?’ Colon smiled nervously at Angua, still not sure of what was happening. ‘She’s the daughter of Corporal Curry, but of course he was before your time—’

Angua looked up at Carrot’s face. His expression was unreadable.

‘They’re the widows of coppers?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘And one orphan.’

‘It’s a tough old life,’ said Colon. ‘No pensions for widows, see.’

He looked from one to the other.

‘Is there something wrong?’ he said.

Carrot relaxed his grip, turned, slipped the book into the box, and shut the lid.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Look, I’m sorr—’ Angua began. Carrot ignored her and nodded at the sergeant.

‘Give him the coffee.’

‘But … fourteen dollars … that’s nearly half his pay!’

Carrot picked up Vimes’ limp arm and tried to prise his fist open, but even though Vimes was out cold the fingers were locked.

‘I mean, half his pay!’

‘I don’t know what he’s holding in here,’ said Carrot, ignoring her. ‘Maybe it’s a clue.’

He took the coffee and hauled up Vimes by his collar.

‘You just drink this, captain,’ he said, ‘and everything will look a lot … clearer …’

Klatchian coffee has an even bigger sobering effect than an unexpected brown envelope from the tax man. In fact, coffee enthusiasts take the precaution of getting thoroughly drunk before touching the stuff, because Klatchian coffee takes you back through sobriety and, if you’re not careful, out the other side, where the mind of man should not go. The Watch was generally of the opinion that Samuel Vimes was at least two drinks under par, and needed a stiff double even to be sober.

‘Careful … careful …’ Carrot let a few drops dribble between Vimes’ lips.

‘Look, when I said—’ Angua began.

‘Forget it.’ Carrot didn’t even look round.

‘I was only—’

‘I said forget it.’

Vimes opened his eyes, took a look at the world, and screamed.

‘Nobby!’

‘Yes, sarge?’

‘Did you buy the Red Desert Special or the Curly Mountain Straight?’

‘Red Desert, sarge, because—’

‘You could have said.

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