Terry Pratchett - Night Watch

“Yeah,” said Nobby. “An' not likely to get old. It's okay, Leggie, you can say you've asked us.”

The gravedigger looked relieved. “Thanks, Nobby,” he said. “And I'd just like to say that when your time comes, gents, you'll be on a good shelf with a view. I've put your names down in my ledger for them as comes after me.”

“Well, that's, er, very kind of you, Leggie,” said Colon, wondering if it was. Because of pressure of space, bones in the crypt were stored by size, not by owner. There were rooms of ribs. There were avenues of femurs. And shelf after shelf of skulls up near the entrance, of course, because a crypt without a lot of skulls wasn't a proper crypt at all. If some of the religions were right and there really was bodily resurrection one day, Fred mused, there was going to be an awful lot of confusion and general milling about.

“I've got just the spot—” Leggie began, and then stopped. He pointed angrily towards the entrance. “You know what I said about him coming up here!”

They turned. Corporal Reg Shoe, a whole bouquet of lilac tied to his helmet, was walking solemnly up the gravel path. He had a long-handled shovel over his shoulder.

“It's only Reg,” said Fred. “He's got a right to be here, Leggie. You know that.”

“He's a dead man! I'm not havin' a dead man in my cemetery!”

“It's full of 'em, Leggie,” said Dibbler, trying to calm the man down.

“Yeah, but the rest of 'em don't walk in and out!”

“Come on, Leggie, you act like this every year,” said Fred Colon. “He can't help the way he was killed. Just because you're a zombie doesn't mean you're a bad person. He's a useful lad, Reg. Plus it'd be a lot neater up here if everyone looked after their plots like he does, 'morning, Reg.”

Reg Shoe, grey-faced but smiling, nodded at the four of them and strolled on.

“And bringing his own shovel, too,” muttered Leggie. “It's disgusting!”

“I've always thought it was rather, you know, nice of him to do what he does,” said Fred. “You let him alone, Leggie. If you start throwing stones at him like you did the year before last Commander Vimes'll get to hear about it and there'll be trouble. Be told. You're a good man with a, a—”

“—cadaver,” said Nobby.

“—but…well, Leggie, you weren't there,” said Colon. “That's the start and finish of it. Reg was. That's all there is to it, Leggie. If you weren't there, you don't understand. Now you just run along and count the skulls again, I know you like that. Cheerio, Leggie.”

Legitimate First watched them go as they walked away. Sergeant Colon felt he was being measured up.

“I've always wondered about his name,” said Nobby, turning and waving. “I mean…Legitimate?”

“Can't blame a mother for being proud, Nobby,” said Colon.

“What else should I know today?” said Vimes, as he and Carrot shouldered their way through the streets.

“We've had a letter from the Black Ribboners 2, sir, suggesting that it would be a great step forward for species harmony in the city if you'd see your way clear to—”

“They want a vampire in the Watch?”

“Yes, sir. I believe many members of the Watch Committee think that despite your stated reservations it would be a good—”

“Does it look to you as if my body is dead?”

“No, sir.”

“Then the answer's no. What else?”

Carrot riffled through a stuffed clipboard as he half ran to keep up.

“ The Times says Borogravia has invaded Mouldavia,” he announced.

“Is that good? I can't remember where it is.”

“Both formerly part of the Dark Empire, sir. Right next door to Uberwald.”

“Whose side are we on?”

“ The Times said we should be supporting little Mouldavia against the aggressor, sir.”

“I like Borogravia already,” snapped Vimes. The Times had printed, in his opinion, a particularly unflattering cartoon of him the previous week, and to make matters worse Sybil had requested the original and had had it framed. “And what does this all mean to us?”

“Probably more refugees, sir.”

“Ye gods, we've got no more room! Why do they keep coming here?”

“In search of a better life, sir, I think.”

“A better life?” said Vimes. “ Here? ”

“I think things are worse where they come from, sir,” said Carrot.

“What kind of refugees are we talking about here?”

“Mostly human, sir.”

“Do you mean that most of them will be human, or that each individual will be mostly human?” said Vimes. After a while in Ankh-Morpork, you learned how to phrase that kind of question.

“Er, apart from humans the only species I've heard of there in any numbers are the kvetch, sir. They live in the deep woods and are covered in hair.”

“Really? Well, we'll probably find out more about them when we're asked to employ one in the Watch,” said Vimes sourly. “What else?”

“Rather hopeful news, sir,” said Carrot, smiling. “You know the Hooms? The street gang?”

“What about them?”

“They've initiated their first troll member.”

“What? I thought they went around beating up trolls! I thought that was the whole point !”

“Well, apparently young Calcite likes beating up trolls, too.”

“And that's good?”

“In a way, sir, I suppose it's a step forward.”

“United in hatred, you mean?”

“I suppose so, sir,” said Carrot. He flicked papers back and forth on his clipboard. “Now, what else have I got? Oh, yes, the river patrol boat has sunk again—”

Where did I go wrong? thought Vimes as the litany went on. I was a copper once. A real copper. I chased people. I was a hunter. It was what I did best. I knew where I was anywhere in the city by the feel of the street under my boots. And now look at me! A Duke! Commander of the Watch! A political animal! I have to know about who's fighting who a thousand miles away, just in case that's going to mean riots here!

When did I last go on patrol? Last week? Last month? And it's never a proper point patrol, 'cos the sergeants make damn sure everyone knows I've left the building and every damn constable reeks of armour polish and has had a shave by the time I get there, even if I nip down the back streets (and that thought, at least, was freighted with a little pride, because it showed he didn't employ stupid sergeants). I never stand all night in the rain, or fight for my life rolling in the gutter with some thug, and I never move above a walk. That's all been taken away. And for what?

Comfort, power, money and a wonderful wife…

…er…

…which was a good thing, of course , but…even so…

Damn. But I'm not a copper any more, I'm a, a manager. I have to talk to the damn committee as if they're children. I go to receptions and wear damn stupid toy armour. It's all politics and paperwork. It's all got too big .

What has happened to the days when it was all so simple?

Faded like the lilac, he thought.

They entered the palace and went up the main stairs to the Oblong Office.

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was standing looking out of the window when they entered. The room was otherwise deserted.

“Ah, Vimes,” he said, without turning round. “I thought you might be late. In the circumstances, I dismissed the committee. They were sorry, as indeed was I, to hear about Stronginthearm. No doubt you have been writing the official letter.”

Vimes flashed a questioning expression at Carrot, who rolled his eyes and shrugged. Vetinari found things out very quickly.

“Yes, that's right,” said Vimes.

“And on such a beautiful day as this, too,” said Vetinari. “Although there's a storm heading our way, I see.” He turned. He had a sprig of lilac pinned to his robe.