And then there was another scent, as she passed a tunnel opening. It was quite faint, but it was unmistakably the whiff of corruption. A fresh death ... dged the skull-necklaced, graffiti-ornamented, lichencovered, huge-club-dragging troll marching stoically alongside him.
"Resplect, bro!" he said, clenching a scabby fist.
"Why"nt you go and ghuhgyerself, Brick, you little piece of coprolite ...the troll muttered.
"Right off!" said Brick.
The main office was packed but Vimes fought his way through by shoving and shouting until he reached the duty desk, which was under siege.
"It looks worse than it is, sir!" shouted Cheery, over the din. "Detritus and Constable Bluejohn are in the Cham right now, along with all three golem officers! We"ve started putting the line in place! Both the mobs are too busy getting themselves worked up!"
"Good work, sergeant!"
Cheery leaned down and lowered her voice. Vimes had to hang on to the tall desk to stop himself being carried away by the throng.
"Fred Colon"s signing up the Specials in the old lemonade factory, sir. And Mr de Worde of the Times is looking for you."
"Sorry, sergeant, didn"t catch that last bit!" said Vimes loudly. "The lemonade factory, right? Okay!"
He turned round, and almost tripped over Mr A. E. Pessimal, who was holding a neat clipboard.
"Ah, your grace, there"re just a few small matters I"d like to discuss with you," said the gleaming little man.
Vimes"s mouth dropped open.
"And you think this is a good time, do you?" he managed, as he was jostled by an officer carrying a bundle of swords.
"Well, yes, I"ve turned up a number of little financial and procedural problems," said A. E. Pessimal calmly, "and I think it"s vitally important that I understand exactly what-"
Vimes, grinning horribly, grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Yes! Right! Absolutely!" he shouted. "My dear Mr Pessimal, what have I been thinking of? You should understand! Come with me, please!"
He half dragged the bewildered man out through the back door, lifted him out of the way of a trundling cart as he negotiated the crowded yard, and hustled him into the old factory yard, where the Specials were being kitted up.
Technically, they were the Citizens" Militia but, as Fred Colon had remarked, it was "better to have them in here pissing themselves than outside pissing on you". The special constables were men - mostly - who could be a copper in times of dire need but were generally disqualified from formal Watch membership by reason of shape, profession, age or, sometimes, brain.
A lot of the professionals didn"t like them, but Vimes had lately taken the view that when push came to shove it was better to have your fellow citizens shoving alongside you and, that being the case, you might as well teach them how to hold a sword right, lest the arm they clumsily removed was yours.
Vimes pulled A. E. Pessimal through the press of bodies until he found Fred Colon, who was handing out one-size- doesn"t-fitanybody helmets.
"New man for you, Fred," he said loudly. "Mr A. E. Pessimal,
plain A. E. if he ever makes friends. He"s the government inspector. Kit him out, full fig, and don"t forget the riot shield. A. E. here wants to understand coppering, so he"s kindly volunteered to be an actingconstable on the barricades with us." Over the top of A. E. Pessimal"s head he gave Fred a big wink.
"Oh, er, right," said Fred, and his face, in the flickering light of the flares, acquired the innocent smile of one about to make someone"s life a little pot of bubbling dread. He leaned over the trestle table.
"Know how to use a sword, Acting-Constable Pessimal?" he said, and dropped a helmet on the man"s head, where it spun.
"Well, I didn"t exactly-" the inspector began, as a very elderly sword was shoved across the planks, followed by a heavy truncheon.
"A shield, then? Any good with a shield?" said Fred, pushing a large such item after the sword.
"Actually, I didn"t mean-"said A. E. Pessimal, trying to hold both the sword and the truncheon and dropping both, and then the sword and the truncheon and the shield and dropping all three.
"Any good at running a hundred yards in ten seconds? In this?" Fred went on. A ragged chain mail coat dropped slowly off the table like a parcel of snakes and landed on A. E. Pessimal"s bright little shoes.
"Uh, I don"t think-"