Jingo by Terry Pratchett

banging on your helmet, the mind just ticking over, sorting out the world…
    It was like this in the old days, when no one cared about the Watch and all you really had to do was keep out of trouble. Those were the days when there wasn’t as much to do.
    But there was as much to do, said an inner voice. You just didn’t do it.
    He could feel the official truncheon hanging heavily in the special pocket that Sybil herself had sewn in his breeches. Why is it just a bit of wood? he’d asked himself when he’d unwrapped it. Why not a sword? That’s the symbol of power. And then he’d realized why it couldn’t ever be a sword—
    “Ho there, good citizen! May I ask your business this brisk morning?”
    He sighed. There was a lantern appearing through the murk, surrounded by a halo of water.
    Ho there, good citizen …There was only one person in the city who would say something like that and mean it.
    “It’s me, captain.”
    The halo drew nearer and illuminated the damp face of Captain Carrot. The young man ripped off a salute—at godsdamn three in the morning, Vimes thought—that would have brought a happy tear to the eye of the most psychotic drill sergeant.
    “What’re you doing out, sir?”
    “I just wanted to…check up on things,” said Vimes.
    “You could have left it all to me, sir,” said Carrot. “Delegation is the key to successful command.”
    “Really? Is it?” said Vimes sourly. “My word, we live and learn, don’t we.” And you certainly learn, he added in the privacy of his head. And he was almost sure he was being mean and stupid.
    “We’ve just about finished, sir. We’ve checked all the empty buildings. And there will be an extra squad of constables on the route. And the gargoyles will be up as high as they can. You know how good they are at watching, sir.”
    “Gargoyles? I thought we just had Constable Downspout…”
    “And Constable Pediment now, sir.”
    “One of yours?”
    “One of ours, sir. You signed—”
    “Yes, yes, I’m sure I did. Damn!”
    A gust of wind caught the water pouring from an overloaded gutter and dumped it down Vimes’s neck.
    “They say this new island’s upset the air streams,” said Carrot.
    “Not just the air,” said Vimes. “A lot of damn fuss over a few square miles of silt and some old ruins! Who cares?”
    “They say it’s strategically very important,” said Carrot, falling into step beside him.
    “What for? We’re not at war with anyone. Hah! But we might go to war to keep some damn island that’s only useful in case we have to go to war, right?”
    “Oh, his lordship will have it all sorted out today. I’m sure that when moderate-mannered men of goodwill can get round a table there’s no problem that can’t be resolved,” said Carrot cheerfully.
    He is, thought Vimes glumly. He really is sure. “Know much about Klatch?” he said.
    “I’ve read a little, sir.”
    “Very sandy place, they say.”
    “Yes, sir. Apparently.”
    There was a crash somewhere ahead of them, and a scream. Coppers learned to be good at screams. There was to the connoisseur a world of difference between “I’m drunk and I’ve just trodden on my fingers and I can’t get up!” and “Look out! He’s got a knife!”
    Both men started to run.
    Light blazed out in a narrow street. Heavy footsteps vanished into the darkness.
    The light flickered beyond a shop’s broken window. Vimes stumbled through the doorway, pulled off his sodden cape and threw it over the fire in the middle of the floor.
    There was a hiss, and a smell of hot leather.
    Then Vimes stood back and tried to work out where the hell he was.
    People were staring at him. Dimly, his mind assembled clues: the turban, the beard, the woman’s jewelry…
    “ Where did he come from? Who is this man ?”
    “Er…good morning?” he said. “Looks like there’s been a bit of an accident?” He raised the cape gingerly.
    A broken bottle lay in a pool of sizzling oil.
    Vimes looked up at