Free Guards! Guards! by Terry Pratchett

getting on tonight, can you imagine what she’d think if she saw you now? Your own dear mothers, who first showed you how to use a pickax—”
    Nobby, standing by the doorway in terror and amazement, was aware of a growing chorus of nose-blowings and muffled sobs as Carrot went on: “—she’s probably thinking, I expect he’s having a quiet game of dominoes or something—”
    A nearby dwarf, wearing a helmet encrusted with six-inch spikes, started to cry gently into his beer.
    “And I bet it’s a long time since any of you wrote her a letter, too, and you promised to write every week—”
    Nobby absent-mindedly took out a grubby handkerchief and passed it to a dwarf who was leaning against the wall, shaking with grief.
    “Now, then,” said Carrot kindly. “I don’t want to be hard on anyone, but I shall be coming past here every night from now on and I shall expect to see proper standards of dwarf behavior. I know what it’s like when you’re far from home, but there’s no excuse for this sort of thing.” He touched his helmet. “G’hruk, t’uk.” 1
    He gave them all a bright smile and half-walked, half-crouched out of the bar. As he emerged into the street Nobby tapped him on the arm.
    “Don’t you ever do anything like that to me again,” he fumed. “You’re in the City Watch! Don’t give me anymore of this law business!”
    “But it is very important,” said Carrot seriously, trotting after Nobby as he sidled into a narrower street.
    “Not as important as stayin’ in one piece,” said Nobby. “Dwarf bars! If you’ve got any sense, my lad, you’ll come in here. And shut up.”
    Carrot stared up at the building they had reached. It was set back a little from the mud of the street. The sounds of considerable drinking were coming from inside. A battered sign hung over the door. It showed a drum.
    “A tavern, is it?” said Carrot, thoughtfully. “Open at this hour?”
    “Don’t see why not,” said Nobby, pushing open the door. “Damn useful idea. The Mended Drum.”
    “And more drinking?” Carrot thumbed hastily through the book.
    “I hope so,” said Nobby. He nodded to the troll which was employed by the Drum as a splatter. 1 “Evenin’, Detritus. Just showing the new lad the ropes.”
    The troll grunted, and waved a crusted arm.
    The inside of the Mended Drum is now legendary as the most famous disreputable tavern on the Discworld, and such a feature of the city that, after recent unavoidable redecorations, the new owner spent days recreating the original patina of dirt, soot and less identifiable substances on the walls and imported a ton of pre-rotted rushes for the floor. The drinkers were the usual bunch of heroes, cut throats, mercenaries, desperadoes and villains, and only microscopic analysis could have told which was which. Thick coils of smoke hung in the air, perhaps to avoid touching the walls.
    The conversation dipped fractionally as the two guards wandered in, and then rose to its former level. A couple of cronies waved to Nobby.
    He realized that Carrot was busy.
    “What you doin’?” he said. “And no talkin’ about mothers, right?”
    “I’m taking notes,” said Carrot, grimly. “I’ve got a notebook.”
    “That’s the ticket,” said Nobby. “You’ll like this place. I comes here every night for my supper.”
    “How do you spell ‘contravention’?” said Carrot, turning over a page.
    “I don’t,” said Nobby, pushing through the crowds. A rare impulse to generosity lodged in his mind. “What d’you want to drink?”
    “I don’t think that would be very appropriate,” said Carrot. “Anyway, Strong Drink is a Mocker.”
    He was aware of a penetrating stare in the back of his neck, and turned and looked into the big, bland and gentle face of an orangutan.
    It was seated at the bar with a pint mug and a bowl of peanuts in front of it. It tilted its glass amicably toward Carrot and then drank deeply and noisily by apparently forming its