The patrons of the Ball thought it was quite a good show. They hadn't
expected amateur theatricals from the Watch, but that trick with the
knife in the Commander's shoe was bloody well done, almost looked as if
someone had really thrown a knife at the Captain. Carrot wasn't about
to dissuade them from the notion that it was all a planned
entertainment; he gave orders, as he was carrying the unconscious
Watchman down and helping an embarrassed Vimes back across the
catwalks, for the other officers to act normally. Normally for
Watchmen, anyhow.

Carrot was, himself, quite impressed by the shoe trick, as Vimes sat
in a dim, moldy-smelling back room of the Opera House and eased the
boot off his foot. Angua, nearby, was readjusting her dress and
trying to recall where she'd left her shoes.

"Never saw anything like that, sir," Carrot said excitedly. "It was
like kung-faux*!"

"It was bloody stupid is what it was," Vimes said. "Bloody stupid and
bloody good luck, that's all." He examined his foot, gingerly. The
blade had gone in just above the boot's sole, and there was a neat,
shallow slice on the ball of his foot, which had already stopped
bleeding. He'd thought it must have hit his ankle, but apparently that
was just the force of shoe-meets-knife when both were traveling at
relatively high speeds. He'd limp for a few days. He limped now, as he
crossed to the Watchman bound up in the corner.

It was a Sergeant named Bealle, a veteran who'd said he'd come out from
Sto Helit to join the Watch in the big city. Bealle had been a corporal
under Quirke, until he made rank. That explained at least part of it.

Vimes tried slapping him awake, but he was out cold. Instead, he
turned his attention to the doorway, as Sybil entered the room. She was
followed by Vetinari and Downey.

Downey was fast. Vimes was faster, and angrier. He had him pinned to
the wall, one hand on his throat and the other on a knife that was
perilously close to making Downey sing soprano, before anyone could
react.

"No outside contracts," Vimes grated, as Carrot hovered behind him.
Downey froze. When you had a blade that close to a man's vitals, he
tended to move carefully, if at all. "You bloody commissioned it
yourself, didn't you?"

Downey gurgled. Sybil put a hand on her husband's arm.

"You wouldn't like the rest of the Watch to see this," she said
quietly. He glanced at her, and dropped Downey. The Assassin slid
limply down the wall.

"Now, what's going on?" Sybil asked. Vetinari, very casually, swung
his walking stick out sharply, to prevent Downey from lunging forward.

"He hired a Watchman to kill Carrot," Vimes snarled. "Hired and trained
him, didn't you?"

Vetinari looked slightly more carnivorous than usual. "I believe you've
reversed the order, Sir Samuel," he said, watching Downey intently.
Vimes turned to look at Bealle.

"An Assassin?" he roared. "A Guild spy in /my Watch/?"

Vetinari examined the brass head of his stick. "Well, Downey?" he
asked, as if the Master of Assassins was a child getting caught at a
game of Naughty Fruit Throwing. Downey gurgled again, rubbing his
throat. The tip of Vetinari's walking stick rested against his chest.

"It was the only way we could put the abeyance through into Guild law,"
Downey began hoarsely. "I'm doing you a favor, Commander."

"I'll do you a favor - " Vimes began, but this time Carrot and Angua
were ready, and caught his arms, stopping him.

"What's all this, then?" Carrot asked.

"What abeyance?" added Angua.

"Nobody'd ever wanted us to even /try/!" Downey protested. "Nobody
wants the Captain dead."

"Let me see if I can sum up events, shall I?" the Patrician said.
"Nobody wants our good Captain dead. I certainly don't. But several
dozen attempts have been made on his Commander's life, yes? The Duke
does so enjoy his games with the Guild."

"I don't /enjoy/ - " Vimes protested, weakly.

"Please, Sir Samuel, do not interrupt. Perhaps...yes. An arrest is
made. A troubled youth, to be sure. The son of a lord, or..." Vetinari
gave Vimes a toothy little smile, "You arrested the Duke of Eorle's
nephew, visiting from Quirm, did you not?"

"Assault on a Watch Officer," Vimes growled.

"Yes, and if I recall, several Seamstresses as well. Rosemary Palm was
most put out that you got there first. She seems to think that Watch
justice is somewhat lacking in...flavor. At any rate, while the native
population of Ankh-Morpork holds you in quite high esteem, Captain, the
sentiment does not hold true for spoilt young men from Quirm. I seem to
recall a scene between the Duke of Eorle and several Guild members when
he was informed that the Guild would not take contracts on the
Commander. I imagine his sentiment was to the effect that someone ought
to be assassinated. He didn't seem particular about whom."

"So we suggested that Captain Carrot be put in abeyance," Downey said,
less hoarsely now. "But it's a Council decision, you know. I can't just
say 'so shall it be done'. There are rules that have to be followed. At
least one attempt has to be made, first. With Sir Samuel, this was not
a problem, but - "

"Are you telling me that you took Eorle's offer on Carrot because I
wasn't available? Sorry, the Commander's out, call on the Captain?"
Vimes demanded.

"It was the only way," Downey answered. "I said we oughtn't to give the
contract to Bealle, the only reason he's even in the Watch is that he
couldn't make a living as an Assassin, and nobody but Bealle thought
that if the Captain died he'd be next promoted. It was out of my
hands!"

Angua had begun to growl, low, in the back of the throat. It was a
sound that many of the criminal underclass were quite familiar with,
albeit for brief periods of time. For many of them it was the herald of
unconsciousness.

"Unsporting," Sybil murmured, in the tone of voice that the upper
class used, which made it sound as though being a bad sport was second
only to being a genocide.

"That's what I said!" Downey answered. "I said Bealle was unbalanced,
he didn't even wear /black/ - "

"Yes, a breach of Guild law, how sad for you," Vetinari said sharply.
"In the meantime, Downey, I would /suggest/ that the attempt having
been made and thwarted, there will be no further objection to the
removal of the Captain from active...bidding? And Mr. Bealle will be
removed from the Guild's active list and sent quite far away. Or shall
I pay a visit to the Guild council to explain the situation? Say,
Monday, at eight? I can be there quite early," he added, with a look of
predatory benevolence.

"That will not be necessary," Downey said firmly. "I think, between His
Grace's most emphatic protest and your lordship's interest in the case,
I can convince the council to - "

"Just like that?" said Vimes, abruptly. "All sorted out then, is it?
Nobody's going to complain about the fact that Carrot almost got
killed? All because of some legal wrangle in the rulebooks of a guild
that murders people for a living?" He turned to Carrot. "I think my lad
here's got a right to a little more than that, don't you?"

Carrot looked dubious. "Well, it's not as though they can really make
amends, sir," he said. "I mean, Lord Downey's already said he's sorry,
sort of. I suppose they could buy you a new set of armour, and maybe
give some money to Dorfl's volunteer firefighters. There's the water
that the Patrician bought for us. And Sham Harga, we owe him for a new
grill," he added brightly.

Vimes covered his eyes with his hand, exasperated. Angua gave him a
sypmathetic pat on his shoulder.

"It's just his way, sir," she said.

"Yes, Angua, I know," he answered. "All right," he added, turning to
Downey. "You heard Carrot."

"Of course," Downey said, with the smoothness of a man who's been
beaten but may still get out alive. He drew an expensive, discreet
pocket-book out of his coat, and poised a pen over a blank cheque.
"How much, Captain?"

Carrot pursed his lips. "Was it your good breastplate, sir?"

"No, Carrot."

"Right then. Ten and fifteen for repairs and making good; three to the
Patrician for the water. Where do you buy your shirts, sir?"

Vimes, thoroughly angry but also beginning to understand where Carrot
was going, looked at Sybil. She insisted on buying his uniform clothes
for him; if he bought his own, she had the laundry girl lose them, and
replaced them with ones she'd bought anyway.

"Marks & Stronginthearm," she said. "Low-collar, smooth spin."

"Good quality. Twenty dollars about right? Fifty for the trousers?"

"I'd say so, yes," Sybil smiled.

"Fifty dollars?" Vimes asked. "I pay fifty dollars for my trousers?"

"They're very durable, Sam."

"Good lord."

"Plus the grill and a donation, new boots, I'd say...two hundred and
fifty-eight dollars and twenty pence ought to do it," Carrot said.
"Made out to Mister Vimes, of course."

Downey scowled. Vimes grinned, suddenly.

He was going to have the cancelled cheque framed and hung in his
office.

***

The event was definitely a hit. There were no end of people who wanted
to tell him how much they'd enjoyed it. Vimes could have lived with a
few less people enjoying it, truth be told. But he tried to smile and
say 'thank you', and blamed the whole thing on Carrot if anyone asked.

"Do you think we could escape?" he asked Sybil, as another Leader of
Industry or Lord His Honor The or someone wandered off.

"Your foot?" she asked, sympathetically. The pain had died to a dull
twinge, but for once in his life he seized the opportunity.

"Yes. Terrible aches," he said. "I'll limp for a month."

"You're not a very good liar, Sam," she said, but she smiled. "I'll go
have a word with Carrot."

He stood in the shadows, where he liked to be, and watched the dancing.
Angua sidled up, quietly.

"I see you found your shoes, Sergeant," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Enjoy yourself?"

"Mostly, sir," Angua answered, because she was a truthful woman. "Be
glad to get back in uniform."

"That's two of us, then."

"Have a good evening, sir," she said, and hugged him briefly. He
blinked. "That's for caring about Carrot," she added, and vanished into
the crowd.

"All right, I've settled things," Sybil said, returning. "Shall we go,
Sam?"

He smiled, and offered her his arm, and even remembered to limp as they
walked towards the carriage.

"I think the Policeman's Ball has been quite a success, don't you?" he
asked.

END

* A little-known form of martial arts where the combatants dress in
fake fur and wigs. It never caught on, really.