Lord Vetinari had a very good memory. But everyone wrote things down, didn't they? You couldn't remember every little thing. Wednesday: 3pm, reign of terror; 3.15pm, clean out scorpion pit ...
He held the organizer up to his lips. Take a memo,' he said.
'Hooray! Go right ahead. Don't forget to say memo first!!'
'Speak to ... blast... Memo: What about Vetinari's journal?'
'Is that it?'
'Yes.'
Someone knocked politely at the door. Vimes opened it carefully. 'Oh, it's you, Littlebottom.'
Vimes blinked. Something wasn't right about the dwarf.
'I'll mix up some of Mr Doughnut's jollop right away, sir.' The dwarf looked past Vimes to the bed. 'Ooo ... he doesn't look good, does he ... ?'
'Get someone to move him into a different bedroom,' said Vimes. 'Get the servants to prepare a new room, right?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And, after they've done it, pick a different room at random and move him into it. And change everything, understand? Every stick of furniture, every vase, every rug - '
'Er... yes, sir.'
Vimes hesitated. Now he could put his finger on what had been bothering him for the last twenty seconds.
'Littlebottom
'Sir?'
'You ... er ... you ... on your ears?'
'Earrings, sir,' said Cheery nervously. 'Constable Angua gave them to me.'
'Really? Er ... right ... I didn't think dwarfs wore jewellery, that's all.'
'We're known for rings, sir.'
'Yes, of course.' Rings, yes. No one quite like a dwarf for forging a magical ring. But... magical earrings? Oh, well. There were some waters too deep to wade.
Sergeant Detritus's approach to these matters was almost instinctively correct. He had the palace staff lined up in front of him and was shouting at them at the top of his voice.
Look at old Detritus, Vimes thought as he went down the stairs. Just your basic thick troll a few years ago, now a valuable member of the Watch provided you get him to repeat his orders back to you to make sure he understands you. His armour gleams even brighter than Carrot's because he doesn't get bored with polishing. And he's mastered policing as it is practised by the majority of forces in the universe, which is, basically, screaming angrily at people until they give in. The only reason that he's not a one-troll reign of terror is the ease with which his thought processes can be derailed by anyone who tries something fiendishly cunning, like an outright denial.
'I know you all done it!' he was shouting. 'If the person wot done it does not own up der whole staff, an' I means this, der whole staff will be locked up in der Tanty also we throws der key away!' He pointed a finger at a stout scullerymaid. 'It was you wot done it, own up!'
'No.'
Detritus paused. Then: 'Where was you last night? Own up!'
'In bed, of course!'
'Aha, dat a likely story, own up, dat where you always is at night?'
'Of course.'
'Aha, own up, you got witnesses?'