Coffee was only a way of stealing time that should by rights belong to your slightly older self. Vimes drank two cups, and had a wash and at least an attempt at a shave, which made him feel quite human if he ignored the sensation that parts of his head were stuffed with warm cotton wool. At last, deciding that he felt as good as he was going to, and could probably handle quite long questions, he was ushered into the Oblong Office of the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork.
“Ah, Commander,” said Lord Vetinari, looking up after a considered interval and pushing aside some paperwork. “Thank you for coming. It seems that congratulations are in order. So I am told.”
“And why’s that, sir?” said Vimes, putting on his special, blank, talking-to-Vetinari face.
“Come now, Vimes. Yesterday it looked as if we would be having a species war right in the middle of the city, and suddenly we are not. Those gangs were quite fearsome, I gather.”
“Most of ’em were asleep or squabbling among themselves by the time we arrived, sir. We just had to tidy them away,” Vimes volunteered.
“Yes indeed,” said Vetinari. “It was quite astonishing, really. Do sit down, by the way. It really is not necessary for you to stand in front of me like a corporal on a charge.”
“Don’t know what you mean, sir,” said Vimes, collapsing gratefully into a chair.
“You don’t? I was referring, Vimes, to the speed with which both parties managed to incapacitate themselves with strong liquor at the same time…?”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir.” That was an automatic reaction; it made life simpler.
“No? It appears, Vimes, that while steeling themselves for the fracas to come, both the trolls and the dwarfs came into possession of what I assume they thought was beer…?”
“They had been on the pi—been drinking all day, sir,” Vimes pointed out.
“Indeed, Vimes, and possibly that is why the dwarf contingent were less than cautious in drinking copiously from beer that has been considerably…fortified? Areas of Sator Square, I gather, still smell faintly of apples, Vimes. One could come to believe, therefore, that what they were drinking was, in fact, a mixture of strong beer and scumble, which is, as you know, distilled from apples—”
“Uh, mostly apples, sir,” said Vimes helpfully.
“Quite. The cocktail is known as Fluff, I believe. As to the trolls, one might speculate that it would be very hard to find anything to make their beer even more dangerous than it palpably is, but I wonder if you have heard, Vimes, that an admixture of various metallic salts produces a drink known as luglarr, or ‘Big Hammer’?”
“Can’t say I do, sir.”
“Vimes, some of the flagstones in the plaza have actually been etched by the stuff!”
“Sorry about that, sir.”
Vetinari drummed his fingers on the table.
“What would you do if I asked you an outright question, Vimes?”
“I’d tell you a downright lie, sir.”
“Then I will not do so,” said Vetinari, smiling faintly.
“Thank you, sir. Nor will I.”
“Where are your prisoners?”
“We spread them around the Watch house yards,” said Vimes. “As they wake up, we hose ’em clean, take their names, give ’em a receipt for their weapon and a hot drink, and push ’em out into the street.”
“Their weapons are culturally very important to them, Vimes,” said Vetinari.
“Yeah, sir, I know. I myself have a strong cultural bias against getting my brains bashed in and my knees cut off,” said Vimes, stifling a yawn and wincing as his ribs objected.
“Indeed. Were there any casualties in the battle?”
“None that won’t heal.” Vimes grimaced. “I have to report that Mr. A. E. Pessimal sustained a broken arm and multiple bruises, though.”
Vetinari actually looked taken aback.
“The inspector? What was he doing?”
“Er…attacking a troll, sir.”
“I’m sorry? Mr. A. E. Pessimal attacked a troll?”
“Yessir.”
“A. E. Pessimal?” Vetinari repeated.
“That’s the man, sir.”
“A whole troll?”
“Yessir. With his teeth, sir.”
“Mr. A. E. Pessimal? You are sure? Small man? Very clean shoes?” “Yessir.”
Vetinari grabbed a helpful question from the gathering throng. “Why?”
Vimes coughed. “Well, sir…”