Men at Arms by Terry Pratchett Page B

it up, handed it back, and said, coldly, “I see. The freehold, at least.”
    “Quite so. Could you tell me what has been happening, please?”
    He was aware of other senior Assassins entering the courtyard through the hole in the wall. They were very carefully looking at the debris.
    Dr. Cruces hesitated for a moment.
    “Fireworks,” he said.

    “What happened,” said Gaspode, “was that someone put a dragon in a box right up against the wall inside the courtyard, right, and then they went and hid behind one of the statues and pulled a string and next minute—bang!”
    “Bang?”
    “’S’right. Then our friend nips into the hole for a few seconds, right, comes out again, trots around the courtyard and next minute there’s Assassins everywhere and he’s among ’em. What the hell. Another man in black. No one notices, see?”
    “You mean he’s still in there?”
    “How do I know? Hoods and cloaks, everyone in black…”
    “How come you were able to see this?”
    “Oh, I always nip into the Assassins’ Guild on a Wednesday night. Mixed grill night, see?” Gaspode sighed at Angua’s blank expression. “The cook always does a mixed grill of a Wednesday night. No one ever eats the black pudding. So it’s round the kitchens, see, woof woof, beg beg, who’s a good boy then, look at the little bugger, he looks as though he understands every word I’m sayin’, let’s see what we’ve got here for a good doggy…”
    He looked embarrassed for a moment.
    “Pride is all very well, but a sausage is a sausage,” he said.

    “Fireworks?” said Vimes.
    Dr. Cruces looked like a man grasping a floating log in a choppy sea.
    “Yes. Fireworks. Yes. For Founder’s Day. Unfortunately someone threw away a lighted match which ignited the box.” Dr. Cruces suddenly smiled. “My dear Captain Vimes,” he said, clapping his hands, “much as I appreciate your concern, I really—”
    “They were stored in that room over there?” said Vimes.
    “Yes, but that’s of no account—”
    Vimes crossed to the hole in the wall and peered inside. A couple of Assassins glanced at Dr. Cruces and reached nonchalantly toward various areas of their clothing. He shook his head. His caution might have had something to do with the way Carrot put his hand on the hilt of his sword, but it could also have been because Assassins did have a certain code, after all. It was dishonorable to kill someone if you weren’t being paid.
    “It seems to be some kind of…museum,” said Vimes. “Guild memorabilia, that sort of thing?”
    “Yes, exactly. Odd and ends. You know how they mount up over the years.”
    “Oh. Well, that all seems in order,” said Vimes. “Sorry to have troubled you, doctor. I will be going. I hope I have not inconvenienced you in any way.”
    “Of course not! Glad to have been able to put your mind at rest.”
    They were ushered gently yet firmly toward the gateway.
    “I should clean up this glass,” said Captain Vimes, glancing at the debris again. “Someone could hurt themselves, all this glass lying around. Wouldn’t like to see one of your people get hurt.”
    “We shall be doing it right this minute, captain,” said Dr. Cruces.
    “Good. Good. Thank you very much.” Captain Vimes paused at the doorway, and then thumped the palm of his hand on his forehead. “Sorry, excuse me—mind like a sieve these days—what was it you said was stolen?”
    Not a muscle, not a sinew moved on Dr. Cruces’ face.
    “I didn’t say anything was stolen, Captain Vimes.”
    Vimes gaped at him for a moment.
    “Right! Sorry! Of course, you didn’t…Apologies…Work getting on top of me, I expect. I’ll be going, then.”
    The door slammed in his face.
    “Right,” said Vimes.
    “Captain, why—?” Carrot began. Vimes held up a hand.
    “That wraps it up, then,” he said, slightly louder than necessary. “Nothing to worry about. Let’s get back to the Yard. Where’s Lance-Constable Whatshername?”
    “Here,