The sergeant had located a miraculously unbroken bottle of spirits in the wreckage and forced a lot of its contents between Carrot's lips.
"What we going to do with all this lot, Captain?" he said over his shoulder.
"I haven't the faintest," said Vimes, sitting down. The Watch jail was just about big enough for six very small people, which were usually the only sort to be put in it. Whereas these
He looked around him desperately. There was Nork the Impaler, lying under a table and making bubbling noises. There was Big Henri. There was Grabber Simmons, one of the most feared bar-room fighters in the city. All in all, there were a lot of people it wouldn't pay to be near when they woke up.
"We could cut their throats, sir," said Nobby, veteran of a score of residual battlefields. He had found an unconscious fighter who was about the right size and was speculatively removing his boots, which looked quite new and about the right size.
"That would be entirely wrong," said Vimes. He wasn't sure how you actually went about cutting a throat. It had never hitherto been an option.
"No," he said, "I think perhaps we'll let them off with a caution."
There was a groan from under the bench.
"Besides," he went on quickly, "we should get our fallen comrade to a place of safety as soon as possible."
"Good point," said the sergeant. He took a swig of the spirits, for the sake of his nerves.
The two of them managed to sling Carrot between them and guide his wobbling legs up the steps. Vimes, collapsing under the weight, looked around for Nobby.
"Corporal Nobbs," he rasped, "why are you kicking people when they're down?"
"Safest way, sir," said Nobby.
Nobby had long ago been told about fighting fair and not striking a fallen opponent, and had then given some creative thought to how these rules applied to someone four feet tall with the muscle tone of an elastic band.
"Well, stop it. I want you to caution the felons," said the captain.
"How, sir?"
"Well, you" Captain Vimes stopped. He was blowed if he knew. He'd never done it.
"Just do it," he snapped. "Surely I don't have to tell you everything?''
Nobby was left alone at the top of the stairs. A general muttering and groaning from the floor indicated that people were waking up. Nobby thought quickly. He shook an admonitory cheese-straw of a finger.
"Let that be a lesson to you," he said. "Don't do it again.''
And ran for it.
Up in the darkness of the rafters the Librarian scratched himself reflectively. Life was certainly full of surprises. He was going to watch developments with interest. He shelled a thoughtful peanut with his feet, and swung away into the darkness.
The Supreme Grand Master raised his hands.
"Are the Thuribles of Destiny ritually chastised, that Evil and Loose Thinking may be banished from this Sanctified Circle?"
"Yep."
The Supreme Grand Master lowered his hands.
"Yep?" he said.
"Yep," said Brother Dunnykin happily. "Done it myself."
"You are supposed to say 'Yea, O Supreme One'," said the Supreme Grand Master. "Honestly, I've told you enough times, if you're not all going to enter into the spirit of the thing-"
"Yes, you listen to what the Supreme Grand Master tells you," said Brother Watchtower, glaring at the errant Brother.
"I spent hours chastising them thuribles," muttered Brother Dunnykin.
"Carry on, O Supreme Grand Master," said Brother Watchtower.
"Very well, then," said the Grand Master. "Tonight we'll try another experimental summoning. I trust you have obtained suitable raw material, brothers?"
"scrubbed and scrubbed, not that you get any thanks''
"All sorted out, Supreme Grand Master," said Brother Watchtower.
It was, the Grand Master conceded, a slightly better collection. The Brothers had certainly been busy. Pride of place was given to an illuminated tavern sign whose removal, the Grand Master thought, should have merited some sort of civic aware. At the moment the E was a ghastly pink and flashed on and off at random.
"I got that," said Brother Watchtower
proudly. "They thought I was mending it or something, but I took my screwdriver and I.."
"Yes, well done," said the Supreme Grand Master. "Shows initiative."
"Thank you, Supreme Grand Master," beamed Brother Watchtower.
''knuckles rubbed raw, all red and cracked. Never even got my three dollars back, either, no one as much as says''
"And now," said the Supreme Grand Master, taking up the book, "we will begin to commence. Shut up, Brother Dunnykin."
...
Every town in the multiverse has a part that is something like Ankh-Morpork's Shades. It's usually the oldest part, its lanes faithfully following the original tracks of medieval cows going down to the river, and they have names like the Shambles, the Rookery, Sniggs Alley . . .
Most of Ankh-Morpork is like that in any case. But the Shades was even more so, a sort of black hole of bred-in-the-brickwork lawlessness. Put it like this: even the criminals were afraid to walk the streets. The Watch didn't set foot in it.
They were accidentally setting foot in it now. Not very reliably. It had been a trying night, and they had been steadying their nerves. They were now so steady that all four were relying on the other three to keep them upright and steer.