Chapter 4 – Peter’s Day (In Which Peter Helps Rescue a Girl)

Peter stared down at the piece of paper on his desk again. It wasn’t much, really, just a short note in Vimes’s cramped, hurried scrawl; but what it said was a big change.

For as long as Peter could remember, he had been a constable. Ever since the day he had joined the Watch, it had been “constable” this and “constable” that. Nobody ever talked about promoting him, and Peter couldn’t see what the big deal was, anyway. He was happy with constable. It worked, and it sounded right: Constable Tork.

But this…this note changed that. You, it said, are a corporal. Actually, what it really said was something along the lines of, “we’re in need of another corporal, you’re in need of a promotion, here you go.” Corporal Tork; how bad did that sound? And not only that, but Peter had usually been sent on patrol with people he liked, people who didn’t really need accompaniment but who took someone else along anyway, just for company. Now who would he be sent out with? Sergeant Colon? Corporal Nobbs? The thought was enough to make his stomach turn. No, he was going to have to have a talk with Vimes about this.

Peter was just about to get up when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened slowly, revealing the bullet head of Corporal Littlebottom.

“There’s someone downstairs who wants to talk to you about something,” she reported.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “That all?”

“Well, he wasn’t very specific. He’s laughing and having trouble stopping,” the dwarf shrugged.

“Ah well, let him in,” Peter said agreeably. There wasn’t any reason to refuse, really; it was a welcome delay of the inevitable, considering that confronting Commander Vimes was way down on every watchman’s list of smart things to do.

A minute later, Mike entered Peter’s small office, cradling his left arm and chuckling.

“Oh, er, well good morning Mike,” Peter greeted him with surprise.

“Mornin’ Pete,” Mike returned happily, sitting down in the chair opposite Peter’s desk.

“What happened to you?” Peter inquired, gesturing towards Mike’s arm.

Mike looked down almost as if he hadn’t realized something was wrong. “Oh, that, yeah, that’s what I’m here about, actually. You guys have an Igor, right?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good, because I broke my wrist.”

“What?”

“Long story,” Mike waved the impending explanation away with his good hand, “Let’s just say I’m out of a job and I’m happy about it.”

Peter raised his eyebrows, but all he said was, “Well, let’s go see Igor then, c’mon. I’ve got to go that way, anyhow.”

“Why?” Mike asked as he followed Peter out of the room.

“I’ve got to talk to Commander Vimes about this,” Peter handed the note to Mike, who read it and whistled.

“Wow Peter, corporal huh? What’d you do to get that one?”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know, but I don’t want it.”

It was Mike’s turn to not ask questions. He continued to follow Peter until they came to a door on the first floor of the Watch House. Peter opened the door and poked his head in.

“Igor?”

“Yeth?” Igor turned away from his workbench, where he had been doing something with twine and fingernails.

“You any good a broken wrists?” Peter opened the door a little wider to reveal Mike.

Igor came over and gingerly examined Mike’s wrist, tutting to himself and nodding occasionally. Soon, he straightened up.

“I can take care of thith, no sweat,” he reported, “Come with me.” He gestured for Mike to follow him through a door next to the workbench. As soon as they were out of sight, Peter turned and headed in the direction of Vimes’s office, trying to think of a calm way to approach the subject.

First off, was the only reason he didn’t want a promotion the fact that he wasn’t too thrilled about the other people occupying similar positions? There had to be more than that; Vimes hated practically everyone, yet he still dealt with them, so an argument like that wouldn’t stand. There was always the idea of not feeling safe, but Vimes would probably have a retort for that one, too. “The city isn’t safe,” he’d say, or something like that. By the time Peter reached the door to Vimes’s office, the best thing he had come up with was to ask why he had been promoted in the first place, and if there was any particular reason why he had to be a corporal. He lifted his hand to knock and was nearly blown down the stairs by Vimes exiting his office at high speed.

“Sorry corporal, no time to talk!” he called, sprinting down the stairs. Peter raised and eyebrow and followed Vimes curiously. It wasn’t hard; although Peter kept losing sight of the commander, he simply followed the resulting trail of bewildered looks. Finally, he came out the back door of the Watch House and saw Vimes heading down Peach Pie Street in a flat-out run. Thinking that this was quite possibly none of his business, Peter began to run, as well.

Vimes stopped outside an alley quite suddenly, and Peter skidded to a halt, opting to watch from several buildings away. He half-hid behind an abandoned sales stall and watched.

Vimes entered the alley. There were shouts, then a surprised silence. He emerged a moment later, leading a young woman gently by the elbow. Peter couldn’t tell, but the girl appeared to be crying. Vimes spoke to her, then turned and shouted at whoever remained in the alley, shaking his fist and pointing to his badge. Suddenly, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a half-smoked cigar. He lit it so calmly that Peter felt as though he was watching the scene in slow motion. What was the commander doing?

That question was answered a moment later when Vimes puffed on the cigar until the end nearly flamed, then flicked it into the alley. There was a muffled explosion and Vimes drew the young woman back against the wall as bits of wood, among other things, flew out of the alley. Nodding, Vimes put an arm around the girl’s shoulders and headed back towards the Watch House. It was then that he noticed Peter.

“Ah, corporal, could you give me a hand here?” he asked, not apparently surprised that Peter had followed him.

“Sir?” said Peter, a bit puzzled.

Vimes indicated the sobbing young lady. “She won’t tell me anything. You’re better with people than I am, corporal, you talk to her.”

Peter decided not to point out the fact that the reason Vimes had such poor people skills was because his mere presence caused most people to feel as if they were under intense interrogation. Instead, he put an arm around the girl and gently piloted her away from Vimes.

“I’ll just…take her on a walk then?” he suggested.

Vimes nodded. “See if you can find out anything about the explosives.”

“Yessir.” Peter began to walk, and the girl went along beside him simply, it seemed, because that was the safest thing to do at that point.

“It’s all right, you know,” Peter said at length, “Whoever was in that alley is gone.” Judging by the size of the earlier explosion and the nature of some of the bits that had flown out of the alley, he felt quite confident in saying this.

The girl continued to cry. Not quite sure of what he was doing, Peter stopped walking and gave the girl an awkward hug. She sobbed into his shoulder for several minutes before drawing back and wiping her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, “I was just so…startled. And frightened.” She punctuated her apology with several hiccups.

“Is this the wrong time to ask you what happened?” Peter inquired carefully, hoping his question wouldn’t bring fresh sobs from the girl.

“N-no. I think I’m fine,” the girl replied, pulling her fingers through her long brown hair, “And I’m not exactly sure what was going on, but I can tell you what it looked like.”

“That’s a start,” Peter smiled encouragingly.

The girl took a deep breath. “Well,” she began, “I was on a walk, and I was going past the docks. There was some sort of ruckus going on, and two people came out of the crowd, carrying something between them and running. Someone yelled, ‘Stop! Unlicensed thief!’ and someone else started chasing them. I was pretty curious, but I didn’t follow. In fact, I really ended up in that alley by accident. I turned in there to get away from Dibbler and his sausages and found these three people and a box of fireworks. One of them was the unlicensed thief, and the other two were Assassins, I think. One of them might have been a licensed thief. Either way, once I saw them, they wouldn’t let me leave, and by the time Vimes showed up the thief and the Assassin were arguing about whether or not to kill me. It was scary, to say the least.” The girl shook her head.

Unlicensed thieves and Assassins? Peter sighed. You hardly ever met anyone hospitable when you were a watchman. Of course, it wasn’t a watchman’s job to be a social person. You just caught the wrongdoers and kept out of the way of any planned Guild business. And then, of course, there was the way Vimes handled the law…

Peter wasn’t paying attention to where he was going and rounded a corner, running directly in to Captain Carrot. Peter blinked and rubbed his nose. Running into Carrot was somewhat like running into a brick wall, only shinier.

“Oh, good afternoon corporal,” said Carrot, his voice cheery.

“Afternoon, captain,” Peter replied. Geez, news traveled fast! Carrot knew practically everything about everyone anyway, but Peter had only just found out about the corporal thing himself. There was something about the way Carrot said the word “corporal”, though. He made it sound important.

“And hello there, Windy is it?” Carrot said to the girl. She laughed.

“Hello, Captain Carrot.”

Peter looked at Carrot and shook his head. “You really do know everyone, don’t you?”

“I get around,” Carrot replied with an honest smile, “And I hear that band you’re in is performing tonight.” “That’s right,” it was Peter’s turn to smile, “In Sator Square.”

“Band?” Windy inquired, peering at Peter closely, “Oh! Oh man, why didn’t I see it before? I thought it was you! You’re Peter, right?”

Peter was caught off-guard; he wasn’t used to being recognized in connection with the band. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Only the week before, Davy’s life had been threatened multiple times by trolls who hadn’t liked the fact he’d sung “Gonna Build a Mountain”. Not being the known face had its advantages.

“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” he said finally.

“Gosh, I love your music!” Windy exclaimed, “It’s such a refreshing change. There are only so many times you can hear the Klatchian anthem and ‘The Hedgehog Song’ before they get really old.”

“Too true,” Peter laughed, “Which song’s your favorite?”

“Oh man, don’t make me choose!” Windy laughed, as well, “I think I’d have to say, at least right now, I love ‘For Pete’s Sake’. That’ll probably change by, oh, say, tomorrow?”

“Well, maybe we’ll see you at the gig?” Peter suggested.

“Definitely!” Windy nodded, “And thank you.”

“No problem,” Peter smiled to himself as the girl walked away. It occurred to him that Vimes would probably want to know why Peter hadn’t brought her back to the Watch House, but what did that matter? She’d given the information, and wasn’t that what Vimes wanted? Oh well. Peter became aware that Carrot was looking down at him, smiling slightly.

“No, I don’t like her,” Peter said before the question could be asked.

“She seemed to like you, though,” Carrot pointed out.

“Only because she suddenly knew who I was,” Peter countered.

Carrot nodded. “Perhaps, but I would think it had at least something to do with you helping her.”

“Funny thing about helping,” Peter mused, “Is that so few people appreciate it.”

“She did, though,” Carrot persisted.

Peter stopped and looked up at Carrot’s face. The two had unconsciously started proceeding along Peach Pie Street as they talked, and now Peter saw in the captain’s face only open honesty, and possibly the hint of a smile.

“Captain, am I right in assuming that you’re trying to encourage me to go after this girl?” he asked finally.

Carrot laughed. “No, not really. But it could happen.”

Peter thought about this. Ankh-Morpork wasn’t really a place to meet girls, except possibly seamstresses, and Peter had no interest in that. But someone like Windy…of course, what kind of impression did he have of her? She was frightened of Thieves and Assassins, and she liked the band. Perhaps that was it: she had an appreciation for music. Mike would like that. Peter knew that, although he was usually wrapped up in “his” music, Mike secretly wanted people to like what he did. Peter, for one, didn’t blame him. After all, Peter himself had joined the band to make music, to really have a place to create and people to create with. He would never forget the day he had been patrolling behind the Drum and heard the faint strains of Mike practicing his guitar floating out into the street. He’d looked in the back door and seen Mike sitting on a stool at the bottom on the basement stairs, concentrating intently on his current song. Ignoring the fact that he probably should remain on patrol, Peter had gone in and stood in the corner quietly until Mike had finished.

There had been an awkward silence when Mike looked up. He seemed both surprised and slightly put off at the fact he’d acquired an audience, but that had passed when Peter said,

“Nice. What’s it called?”

“It’s ‘Don’t Call On Me’,” Mike had replied, “I’ve been working on it for a while, but I just can’t seem to get it to sound right.”

“I’ve had songs like that,” Peter told him absently. Looking back now, Peter realized that this was probably the statement that had gotten him into the band. Mike’s eyebrows had gone up and his voice had taken on an immediate tone of interest.

“You write songs?” he had asked, “What for? I mean, what do you play?”

“Guitar, mostly,” Peter had found himself saying, “Some bass, a bit of piano, and some banjo here and there. I just go with what sounds right.”

“I could use some of that,” Mike had said with a grin, “I’ve been looking to start a band.” “Really?”

“Yeah. So, what do you say? You up for it?”

Peter had mirrored Mike’s grin. “Why not? I’m Peter, by the way.”

“Mike,” Mike had shaken Peter’s hand and invited him to sit down. The rest, really, was history. Peter and Mike had started practicing together, and then there had been the day when Micky showed up. Then they’d taken Davy on. It hadn’t taken all that long, really. Now that they were a quartet, it seemed hard to think that they’d ever been anything else.

Peter snapped out of the memory when he realized that he and Carrot were back at the Watch House. Around the table in the main room sat Corporal Nobbs, Sergeant Colon, and Corporal Littlebottom. They seemed to be absorbed in a game of Cripple Mr. Onion. Carrot sat down next to Cheery and Peter settled in a few seats away from Nobby. Colon was staring at his hand, frowning; Cheery seemed to be indifferent; and Nobby had the world’s biggest grin. Peter suspected that he was cheating.

Cheery flipped a coin into the pile already on the table.

“All right,” she said, “That’s my bet for this hand. Anyone else in?”

Nobby pushed two coins and half a bottle of Bearhugger’s into the pile.

“That’s mine,” he said, almost sniggering. Cheery and Colon looked at each other, apparently debating on whether to show their hands or to quit while they were ahead. Carrot saw this, reached over without looking, and picked Nobby’s arm up by the sleeve. Peter caught on and grabbed the other sleeve. All total, Nobby’s sleeves turned out to be holding three aces, two kings, a queen, and a rusty key.

“I knew it!” Cheery exclaimed, throwing her cards down, “I knew you were cheating, Nobby! You get us to bet everything but our chain mail and then hold cards!”

Nobby looked down at the table, but was still grinning. Colon gave him a disappointed glance, but then tossed his cards onto the table noncommittally and got up, muttering to himself. Nobby left the room, his grin shrinking slightly, but that was probably only because he didn’t get to keep any of the betting money.

“What’s the key for?” Carrot asked, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. He seemed amused.

“Let me see,” Peter took the key and looked at it for moment, “The armory.”

“How do you know that?” Carrot wanted to know.

“Because Commander Vimes lost it last week, and Nobby’s about the only person I can think of who would take a particular interest in it,” Peter replied.

“That and anything else that ain’t nailed down,” Colon put in.

Peter laughed. “That, too.”

The door opened and Vimes blew in, all leather cape, worn boots, mud, and anger.

“Damn!” he shouted, hanging his cape up and sitting down at the table across from Carrot and Peter, “I hate cases like this! Fireworks! Why couldn’t they stick to something normal? Now I’ll have to go see Vetinari.”

“Small price to pay, sir,” Carrot pointed out in what Peter thought of as a “hopefully helpful” tone. That was a tone that said the speaking party was trying to be helpful while, at the same time, hoping that the receiving party wouldn’t take his head off.

Vimes snorted cynically and pulled out a thin, slightly damp cigar. “Hardly. Facing Vetinari is like facing some sort of bureaucratic brick wall that grins at you. And can be ironic. Anybody got a light?”

Peter fished around in his pocket and brought out a rather tarnished lighter.

“Ah, thank you corporal,” Vimes inhaled deeply and leaned back, blowing a smoke ring at the ceiling, “You know what the worst thing is? There’s nothing I can tell him except what the witnesses say, and there weren’t many of them that are reliable. Ha, reliable, like you can get that in a city like Ankh-Morpork! All I know is that there were a few buggers that had a crate of fireworks for some reason, and now that all three of them are so extremely dead, there’s nothing more anyone can do about it. But then you’ve got someone like Vetinari who’ll want to hear all about it. I think he actually enjoys things like this. It’s street theatre to him.”

“But he does run the city well, sir,” Carrot couldn’t help pointing out. Both Vimes and Peter gave him disgusted looks. Peter didn’t personally like the running of Ankh-Morpork any more than Vimes did, and he’d had enough encounters with the Patrician to severely dislike him, as well.

“The Guilds run the city, lad,” Vimes said after a minute, “Vetinari just watches, the bastard.”

Colon and Cheery had edged out of the room early on in the conversation, and in the ensuing emptiness Peter suddenly realized that he and Vimes had more in common than he would like to admit. The funny thing was that, while the watchmen admired Vimes, none of them actually, when it came down to it, wanted to be like Vimes.

“The problem with a case like this,” Vimes continued, breaking the silence, “Is that there isn’t really any evidence, any motive, any anything. There’re too many questions, too many blank spaces, too many…”

“Shades of gray?” Peter volunteered.

Vimes snapped his fingers. “That’s it! That’s it exactly. By the way, what were you able to find out from that girl, corporal?”

As Peter relayed what Windy had told him, he thought about whether or not he should bring up the whole matter of being promoted. In the end, he decided to let it lie for a while. Vimes didn’t seem to be in the mood to discuss ranking, especially since he had a case and the prospect of facing the Patrician weighing on his mind.

“Wait a minute, what time is it?” Peter asked suddenly. Vimes produced a watch from somewhere in the recesses of his uniform and glanced at it.

“Half past six, why?”

“Shit!” Peter exclaimed, standing up so fast that his chair fell over, “I’ve got to be in Sator Square in an hour! Geez, how does time get away from me like this?”

He sprinted out of the room, leaving Vimes and Carrot looking at each other in mild bewilderment. Time didn’t often mean much to watchmen, but now Peter was hurrying down the corridor. When he got to his room, he began rooting around frantically for a suitable performing outfit. He probably owned more civilian clothes than any other watchman, except possibly Vimes, but the difference between the two was that Peter actually preferred a shirt and trousers to chain mail and armor. Sure, being a watchman was rewarding in some ways, but there was just something about the feeling of being officially off-duty that so few watchmen got to experience. Peter considered himself extremely lucky in that sense. Soon, he had discarded his breastplate and sword belt and was in the process of pulling off his mail shirt when there was a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” he called.

“Pete, man, it’s Micky,” came the reply, “Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Micky pushed the door open, looking happy but hurried. He had a pair of pants slung over his shoulder. “Got a shirt I could borrow?”

“Depends on what you’re going for,” Peter replied, gesturing towards his clothes chest, “Take a look.”

Micky began rooting through Peter’s clothes in an attempt to find something less flashy than his wizard’s robe.

“Peter, half of this can’t possibly be yours,” he said after a minute, “I mean, look at this shirt. It wouldn’t fit a dwarf, let alone you.”

Peter looked at the ratty shirt Micky was holding at arm’s length.

“Oh, I swiped that and about four others from Nobby so he’d stop wearing them,” he explained, “He has no concept of dirty. You should see his last five rooms.”

Micky chuckled. “That’s really nasty. Now let’s see…” he bent over the trunk again and continued to dig around, “Ah, this one’s good. Thanks, man.”

“No problem. You’d better just use the room down the hall; we don’t have much time,” Peter gestured vaguely to the left. Micky headed out and Peter threw on his own outfit, then assembled his various musical instruments. They hadn’t planned any particular lineup for that night, so he figured he should bring everything, just to be on the safe side.

Micky came back a minute later, his wizard’s robe over his arm and his hat in his hands.

“I’ve got to run back to the University,” he said, “I’ll see you at the gig.”

“Right,” Peter nodded, picking up his guitar and his banjo and following Micky down the stairs. Carrot and Vimes were still sitting at the table. They had been joined by Angua and appeared to have taken up the earlier game of Cripple Mr. Onion, only they didn’t seem to be betting.

Peter set his instrument cases down by the door. “Er, Carrot?”

Carrot looked up. “Yes?”

“I’ve got about five things I need to carry to Sator Square. Do you think you could give me a little help?”

Carrot glanced toward Vimes, who nodded slightly.

“All right,” Carrot agreed, putting his cards down and standing up.

“I’ve got to get the rest down,” Peter said to him, “Then I’ve really got to get going.”

Carrot nodded and Peter hurried up the stairs. Ten minutes later, the two were heading in the direction of Sator Square, somehow carrying all of Peter’s instruments.

“Do you really think that Lord Vetinari does such a bad job running the city?” Carrot asked suddenly. Peter was taken by surprise and had to think for a minute before answering.

“I’m probably not as hard on him as Vimes is,” he said finally, “But I don’t know…I just don’t like him. Of course, I don’t like the whole Guild thing either. It’s just a big moneymaking machine. The Thieves’ Guild has their premiums, the Assassins get paid to kill people, the Beggars always want something or other, and of course there’s the Seamstresses…it’s a mess, really. I’m surprised anyone would allow it.”

“Imagine the city without it,” Carrot replied.

Peter had to admit that the captain had a point. “Still…things could be different.”

“That is often the case,” said Carrot, and again Peter had to admit that he had a point.

“Speaking of case, do you think Vimes’ll make out all right when he talks to Vetinari? I mean, he did kind of single-handedly ruin any and all chance of finding out exactly what happened.”

“I think it’s small enough that it can just blow over,” Carrot replied, “There are plenty of things that happen in the city that are bigger and more dangerous than a box of fireworks.”

Peter laughed. “You’ve got that right.”

continued