' Hasn't been seen for hours, sir!' he reported.
Colon rolled his eyes.
'And some of you will . . . Where's Lance-Constable Angua?' will personally—' He hesitated. He'd never been cruel to an animal in his life.
'I'll turn the matter over to Corporal Nobbs,' he said.
'That's what I like,' said Gaspode bitterly. 'Incentive.'
He presssed his blotchy nose to the ground. It was all show, anyway. Angua's scent hung in the air like a rainbow.
'You can really talk?' said Carrot.
Gaspode rolled his eyes.
' 'Course not,' he said.
The figure had reached the top of the tower.
Lamps and candles were alight all over the city. It was spread out below him. Ten thousand little earthbound stars . . . and he could turn off any one he wanted, just like that. It was like being a god.
It was amazing how sounds were so audible up here. It was like being a god. He could hear the howl of dogs, the sound of voices. Occasionally one would be louder than the rest, rising up into the night sky.
This was power. The power he had below, the power to say: do this, do that . . . that was just something human, but this . . . this was like being a god.
He pulled the gonne into position, clicked a rack of six bullets into position, and sighted at random on a light. And then on another one. And another one.
He really shouldn't have let it shoot that beggar girl. That wasn't the plan. Guild leaders, that was poor little Edward's plan. Guild leaders, to start with. Leave the city leaderless and in turmoil, and then confront his silly candidate and say: Go forth and rule, it is your destiny.
That was an old disease, that kind of thinking. You caught it from crowns, and silly stories. You believed . . . hah . . . you believed that some trick like, like pulling a sword from a stone was somehow a qualification for kingly office. A sword from a stone? The gonne was more magical than that. He lay down, stroked the gonne, and waited.
Day broke.
'I never touched nuffin,' said Coalface, and turned over on his slab.
Detritus hit him over the head with his club.
'Up you get, soldiers! Hand off rock and on with sock! It another beautiful day inna Watch! Lance-Constable Coalface, on your feet, you horrible little man!'
Twenty minutes later a bleary-eyed Sergeant Colon surveyed the troops. They were slumped on the benches, except for Acting-Constable Detritus, who was sitting bolt upright with an air of official helpfulness.
'Right, men,' Colon began, 'now, as you—'
'You men, you listen up good right now!' Detritus boomed.
'Thank you, Acting-Constable Detritus,' said Colon wearily. 'Captain Vimes is getting married today. We're going to provide a guard of honour. That's what we always used to do in the old days when a Watchman got wed. So I want helmets and breastplates bright and shiny. And cohorts gleaming. Not a speck of muck . . . where's Corporal Nobbs?'
There was a dink as Acting-Constable Detritus' hand bounced off his new helmet.
'Hasn't been seen for hours, sir!' he reported.
Colon rolled his eyes.
'And some of you will . . . Where's Lance-Constable Angua?'
Dink. 'No-one's seen her since last night, sir.'
'All right. We got through the night, we're going to get through the day. Corporal Carrot says we're to look sharp.'