Terry Pratchett - Night Watch

“Lady Sybil is doing well?” he said, sitting down.

“You tell me,” said Vimes.

“Some things can't be hurried, no doubt,” said Vetinari smoothly, shuffling the papers. “Let me see now, let me see, there were just a few points that I should deal with…ah, the regular letter from our religious friends at the Temple of Small Gods.” He carefully removed it from the pile and set it to one side. “I think I shall invite the new deacon to tea and explain matters to him. Now, where was I…ah, the political situation in—yes?”

The door opened. Drumknott, the chief clerk, came in.

“Message for his grace,” he said, although he handed it to Lord Vetinari. The Patrician passed it, very politely, across the desk. Vimes unfolded it.

“It's off the clacks!” he yelled. “We've got Carcer cornered in New Hall! I've got to get down there now !”

“How exciting,” said Lord Vetinari, standing up suddenly. “The call to the chase. But is it necessary for you to attend personally, your grace?”

Vimes gave him a grey look. “ Yes ,” he said. “Because if I don't, y'see, some poor sod who's been trained by me to do the right thing is going to try to arrest the bugger.” He turned to Carrot. “Captain, get on it right now! Clacks, pigeons, runners, whatever. I want everyone answering this shout, okay? But no one , I repeat, no one is to try to tackle him without a lot of backup! Understood? And get Swires airborne! Oh, damn …”

“What's wrong, sir?” said Carrot.

“This message is from Littlebottom. She sent it straight here. What's she doing there? She's Forensic. She's not street! She'll do it by the book!”

“Shouldn't she?” said Vetinari.

“No. Carcer needs an arrow in his leg just to get his attention. You shoot first—”

“—and ask questions later?” said Vetinari.

Vimes paused at the door and said, “There's nothing I want to ask him.”

Vimes had to slow down for breath in Sator Square, and that was disgusting. A few years ago he'd've only really been getting into his stride by now! But the storm rolling over the plains was driving the heat before it, and it wouldn't do for the commander to turn up wheezing. As it was, even after pausing behind a street market stall for a few gulps of air, he doubted if he had enough wind left for a lengthy sentence.

To his tremendous relief, an entirely unwounded Corporal Cheery Littlebottom was waiting by the University walls. She saluted.

“Reporting, sir,” she said.

“Mm,” murmured Vimes.

“I spotted a couple of trolls on traffic duty, sir,” said Cheery, “so I've sent them round to the Water Bridge. Then Sergeant Detritus turned up and I told—I advised him to go into the University via main gate and get up high. Sergeant Colon and Nobby arrived and I sent them along to the Bridge of Size—”

“Why?” said Vimes.

“Because I doubt if he's really going to try going that way,” said Cheery, her face a very careful picture of innocence. Vimes had to stop himself from nodding. “And then as more people come along I'm putting them around the perimeter. But I think he's gone up and he's staying high.”

“Why?”

“Because how's he going to fight his way out through a lot of wizards, sir? His best chance is to sneak around on the roofs and drop down somewhere quiet. There's a lot of hiding places and he can get all the way to Peach Pie Street without coming down.”

Forensic, thought Vimes. Hah. And with any luck he doesn't know about Buggy.

“Well thought out,” he said.

“Thank you, sir. Would you mind standing a bit closer to this wall, sir?”

“What for?”

Something shattered on the cobbles. Vimes was suddenly flat against the wall.

“He's got a crossbow, sir,” said Cheery. “We think he stole it from Stronginthearm. But he's not very good with it.”

“Well done, corporal,” said Vimes weakly. “Good job,” he glanced around the square behind him. The wind was whipping at the awnings of the market stalls and the traders, with occasional looks at the sky, were covering their wares.

“But we can't just let him hang around up there,” he went on. “He'll start taking pot shots and he's bound to hit someone .”

“Why would he do that, sir?”

“Carcer doesn't need a reason,” said Vimes. “He just needs an excuse.” A movement far above caught his eye, and he grinned.

A large bird was gaining height over the city.

The heron, mumbling complaints, fought for altitude in big, sweeping circles. The city whirled around Corporal Buggy Swires as he gripped even harder with his knees, and then he swung the bird downwind and it landed with a staggering run on the top of the Tower of Art, the highest building in the city.

With a practised movement the gnome sliced through the string holding the portable semaphore in place, and leapt down after it into the compost of ivy leaves and old ravens' nests that carpeted the top of the tower.

The heron watched him with round-eyed stupidity. Buggy had tamed it in the usual gnome way; you painted yourself green like a frog and hung out in the marshes, croaking, and then when a heron tried to eat you, you ran up its beak and nutted it. By the time it came round you'd blown the special oil—that had taken all day to make, and the stink of it had emptied the Watch House—up its nostrils and it took one look at you and thought you were its mum.

A heron was useful. It could carry equipment. But Buggy preferred a sparrowhawk for traffic patrol. It was better for hovering.

He slotted the portable semaphore arms on to the post he'd secretly installed weeks ago. Then he unshipped a tiny telescope from the heron's saddlebags and strapped it on to the edge of the stone, looking almost straight down. Buggy liked moments like this. It was the only time that everyone else was smaller than him.

“Now…let's see what we can see,” he muttered.

There were the University buildings. There was the clock tower of Old Tom, and the unmistakable bulk of Sergeant Detritus climbing among the nearby chimneys. The yellow light of the gathering storm glinted off the helmets of watchmen who were hurrying through the streets. And there, creeping along behind the parapet…

“Gotcha,” he said quietly, and reached for the handles of the semaphore.

“D…T…R…T…S space H…D…N…G space O…L space T…M,” said Cheery.

Vimes nodded. Detritus was on the roof near the tower of Old Tom. And Detritus carried a siege crossbow that three men couldn't lift, and had converted it to fire a thick sheaf of arrows all at once. Mostly they shattered in the air because of the forces involved and the target was hit by an expanding cloud of burning splinters. Vimes had banned him from using it on people, but it was a damn good way of getting into buildings. It could open the front door and the back door at the same time.

“Tell him to fire a warning shot,” he said. “If he hits Carcer with that thing we won't even find a corpse.” Though I'd quite like to find a corpse, he added to himself.

“Yes, sir.” Cheery pulled a couple of white-painted paddles out of her belt, sighted on the top of the tower, and sent a brief signal. There was an answering signal from the distant Buggy.

“D…T…R…T…S space W…R…N…G space S…H…T,” Cheery muttered to herself, as she waved the rest of the message.

There was another answering dip from above. A moment later a red flare shot up from the top of the tower and exploded. It was an efficient way of getting everyone to pay attention. Then Vimes saw the message relayed.

Around the University buildings, watchmen who'd also seen the order ducked into doorways. They knew about the bow.