Free Guards! Guards! by Terry Pratchett Page B

talking about it. Sort of bendy educational thing, you know?” He appeared to think for a moment. “ Learning curve . That was it. It’s a learning curve. Detritus, get your big stony arse over here a moment.”
    Generally, about this time in the Mended Drum, someone throws a glass. And, in fact, this now happened.

    Captain Vimes ran up Short Street—the longest in the city, which shows the famous Morpork subtle sense of humor in a nutshell—with Sergeant Colon stumbling along behind, protesting.
    Nobby was outside the Drum, hopping from one foot to another. In times of danger he had a way of propelling himself from place to place without apparently moving through the intervening space which could put any ordinary matter transporter to shame.
    “’E’s fighting in there!” he stuttered, grabbing the captain’s arm.
    “All by himself?” said the captain.
    “No, with everyone!” shouted Nobby, hopping from one foot to the other.
    “Oh.”
    Conscience said: There’s three of you. He’s wearing the same uniform. He’s one of your men . Remember poor old Gaskin.
    Another part of his brain, the hated, despicable part which had nevertheless enabled him to survive in the Guards these past ten years, said: It’s rude to butt in. We’ll wait until he’s finished, and then ask him if he wants any assistance. Besides, it isn’t Watch policy to interfere in fights. It’s a lot simpler to go in afterward and arrest anyone recumbent.
    There was a crash as a nearby window burst outward and deposited a stunned fighter on the opposite side of the street.
    “I think,” said the captain carefully, “that we’d better take prompt action.”
    “That’s right,” said Sgt. Colon, “a man could get hurt standing here.”
    They sidled cautiously a little way down the street, where the sound of splintering wood and breaking glass wasn’t so overpowering, and carefully avoided one another’s eyes. There was the occasional scream from within the tavern, and every now and again a mysterious ringing noise, as though someone was hitting a gong with their knee.
    They stood in a little pool of embarrassed silence.
    “You had your holidays this year, Sergeant?” said Captain Vimes eventually, rocking back and forth on his heels.
    “Yessir. Sent the wife to Quirm last month, sir, to see her aunt.”
    “Very nice at this time of year, I’m told.”
    “Yessir.”
    “All the geraniums and whatnot.”
    A figure tumbled out of an upper window and crumpled on the cobbles.
    “That’s where they’ve got the floral sundial, isn’t it?” said the captain desperately.
    “Yessir. Very nice, sir. All done with little flowers, sir.”
    There was a sound like something hitting something else repeatedly with something heavy and wooden. Vimes winced.
    “I don’t think he’d of been happy in the Watch, sir,” said the sergeant, in a kindly voice.
    The door of the Mended Drum had been torn off during riots so often that specially-tempered hinges had recently been installed, and the fact that the next tremendous crash tore the whole door and doorframe out of the wall only showed that quite a lot of money had been wasted. A figure in the midst of the wreckage tried to raise itself on its elbows, groaned, and slumped back.
    “Well, it would seem that it’s all—” the captain began, and Nobby said: “It’s that bloody troll!”
    “What?” said Vimes.
    “It’s the troll! The one they have on the door!”
    They advanced with extreme caution.
    It was, indeed, Detritus the splatter.
    It is very difficult to hurt a creature that is, to all intents and purposes, a mobile stone. Someone seemed to have managed it, though. The fallen figure was groaning like a couple of bricks being crushed together.
    “That’s a turnup for the books,” said the sergeant vaguely. All three of them turned and peered at the brightly-lit rectangle where the doorway had been. Things had definitely quietened down a bit in there.
    “You don’t