This is just a little niblet of a story that flew in my ear one evening
and buzzed until I wrote it down. Probably cathartic; I was having a
terrible day in the paint shop, and have resolved that I hate floors.
All floors. When I'm king, no more floors.

The story has no crux, really; it's just a possible future. I suppose
it's a bit depressing, gentle readers, but it's not like anyone dies
or anything.

Thanks to Lunar, for the kind beta-reading. :)

Beware the Night Watch spoilers.
CHANGES
History, contrary to popular theories, /is/ kings and dates and
battles. - Small Gods
The house was large. Bigger than large. It was a house on a grand
scale, with turrets and alleys, hidden nooks in the outer architecture,
sweeping halls and airy rooms on the inside. The grounds sprawled over
a good portion of the block, and included several ornamental ponds, a
few fountains, lots of shrubbery, and the Dragon House.

Carrot had been to the mansion on Scoone Avenue many times, but it
always put him slightly in awe. That people lived here was amazing.
That Mister Vimes lived here - Mister Vimes, who had lived happily in
a room with no furniture other than a bed and chair - was fascinating.

Carrot always came to the back entrance. He didn't feel right going to
the front door. He didn't go to the front door anywhere else, after
all.

The kitchen staff, well-used to Carrot's ways, let him in and sent him
up through the kitchens to the library. He could hear voices; Mister
Vimes and young Sam. Mostly young Sam.

"Where...up...on...the Watch arr...ived, and the meeting was broken up."

"Very good. Do you know what 'whereupon' means?"

"Yep. It means 'at that time'."

"That's right. Now try this one. See, it's about the picture."

"The picture of the man in his underwear?"

"It's called a loincloth. It's what barbarian adventurers wear."

"Don't they get cold?"

There was a laugh. "I don't know, Sam. Here."

"Eight injured in brawl at Brew Rat tavern."

"Blue rat."

"It says Brew."

"It's a typo."

"What's that?"

"A mistake."

"How do you know?"

Silence for a moment. "Well, I know the name of the tavern, and if you
look down in the article - see there? - it says Blue."

"Oh."

Carrot knocked on the door, and Mister Vimes' voice echoed back.
"Come in!"

"Morning, sir," Carrot said, stepping inside. Vimes folded the
newspaper he was holding and laid it on the table. Young Sam, in his
lap, turned wide six-year-old eyes to the Captain.

"Good morning, Carrot," he said with a smile. "Say hallo to Carrot,
Sam."

"Hallo Carrot," Sam said obediently. "We were reading about you."

"Oh?" Carrot asked. "In the newspaper?"

"I read the whole article. It said you apprehended a man in Short
Street with a knife."

"The man had the knife, not Carrot," Vimes added.

"That's right, papa," Sam said seriously. "Is it true, Carrot?"

"Yes, lad," Carrot said. "Come to bring you the shift reports, sir."

"Monday again, is it?" Vimes asked. He accepted the files, paging
through them. "New shift schedules, how're they working?"

"Ticking over fine, sir, once we got everyone to set their clocks
right," said Carrot. "There's incident reports too. Strange murder
up in Five-and-Seven yard. Angua's handling it."

"I'll look it over first thing," said the Commander, reaching into
his breast pocket. He pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and
gave Carrot an embarrassed look. "Only for reading," he murmured.

"Not surprised, sir, all the reading you have to do," Carrot said.
He was sorry as soon as he'd said it, but Vimes waved a hand.

"You're right, of course. Hm. Cheery had a look at this?"

"Not yet, sir. Just happened last night. She's down there now,
taking iconographs."

"Good. Good. Have her send up the results, when she gets them. I may
take an interest in this," he added. Sam, bored, began to fidget,
and Vimes put him carefully on the floor. "Run on to your mum, Sam,
she's down in the dragon house."

"Bye, Carrot!" Sam called, from the hallway.

"Well-mannered little lad, sir," Carrot said.

"Yes, he's a good boy. All right, Carrot, these look in order. Have
them back to you by end of week. If I get a chance, I'd like to see
more on the murder. I'll be down later today, if I get Cheery's
iconographs soon enough."

"Be good to see you out on a case, sir."

"Yes, I'm sure it would," Vimes said grimly. "That's all, Carrot.
Thank you."

"Sir..." Carrot said. Vimes looked up at him, and noticed his uneasy
look.

"I think I know what this is about, Carrot. Have a seat."

Carrot remained standing. It was a point of pride among Watchmen.

"Sit down, for the gods' sake, Carrot. If it helps, I know you're
asking as a friend, not a watchman."

It was a good point. Carrot sat. Vimes rubbed his jaw, thoughtfully.

"Sybil's asked you to have a word with me, is that it?" he said. Carrot
nodded, slightly shamefaced. "Let me see...she says I've been
preoccupied, that I spend too much time in the library, and she's
concerned that I've become depressed."

"Well, sir, not in so many words..."

"I thought she might be worried. I meant to have a word with her before
she spoke to anyone about it, but time...moves quickly, these days,"
Vimes said. He picked up a notebook and passed it to Carrot, silently.
"I've been working on something. A...side project. I'd like you to have
a look at it, actually, when you get the chance. I'm afraid these past
few weeks, I've been neglecting things. I'm almost finished, now."

Carrot looked relieved. He picked up the notebook and opened it. After
a few lines, his expression changed to one of intense interest. It was
the expression Carrot usually wore when he was reading; words had never
come easily to him, but he was a very thorough reader. When he reached
the end of the page, he looked up.

"A history of Ankh-Morpork?" he asked.

"Not just a history, Carrot. A history from our point of view."

"The Watch?"

"The regular people. It's not just about battles and dates and kings,
though there's that, too. It's a history of what happened to the
ordinary people while all those things were going on. I got the idea
when I...right after Sam was born. Just now getting around to working
on it."

"I hadn't thought of you as a historian, sir."

"Well, I'm not. But Sybil said I needed a hobby, and you're managing
the Watch rather well without me - no, Carrot, I know you're doing
fine. I know what I am," he added, with no more than a trace of
bitterness in his voice. "I'm really a Commander now. I read reports
and give commands, just like Vetinari, and then you get to go and do
it. And I get to go back to reading the paper with Sam. It's all right,
Carrot. I don't mind. Much," he added.

His hands went to the sides of his chair, and he moved deftly around
the table, the well-oiled wheels making barely a sound on the carpeted
floor. Carrot, as always when he saw his Commander operating the
wheelchair, looked sad.

"Sooner or later I knew it would come down to it," he said quietly. "It
was only a matter of time before all I did was sit in an office anyhow.
Besides, someone's got to teach Sam about the world. Might as well be
his father."

Carrot gave an uncharacteristic scowl. "It isn't right, sir."

"No, Carrot, it's not. But it's what is," Vimes said with a sigh.
"There was always going to be a day I had to stop running. It could
have been worse. Now," he added, rolling back smoothly, "You've got a
murder to solve, unless you want me wheeling around Five-and-Seven yard,
and a Watch to run. Off you go. I'll be expecting those iconographs,"
he added, as Carrot saluted and turned to leave.

When the Captain was gone, vimes smiled and shook his head. The
wheelchair wasn't the prison Carrot always made it out to be; it was a
release, of a sort. It had taught him patience, which most men, if they
hadn't learned it by the age of fifty, wouldn't learn at all. At
first, it had kept him at home, and that was perhaps best, especially
for young Sam, who otherwise would probably only know his father as a
man who was occasionally around at mealtimes.

Young Sam banged on the door, and didn't wait to be invited to charge
inside; he carried a small hatchling dragon with him, and Vimes sighed.
His son, who had inherited his eyes and jawline, had also inherited
Sybil's madness for dragons.

"Look, papa!" Sam cried, holding the hatchling up for his father to
see. Vimes looked down interestedly. There was no doubt about it;
Sybil's breeding programme was definitely inching the bloodline back
towards Errol, the old Watch mascot who'd rearranged his internal
digestion to produce a rather...different sort of flame.

"Look at that nose," Sybil said, from the doorway. "We're getting
closer."

"Aye, I can see that," Vimes said, pulling Sam back onto his lap, and
stroking the little hatchling's head. It dribbled something corrosive
on the table. Sybil crossed the floor, scooping it up before it
damaged anything more.

"Carrot met us on the way from the dragon house," she said. "He
explained things. If I'd known - "

"I meant to tell you."

"Well, I should have asked."

"All right. It's you're fault," he said, good-naturedly. She smiled,
and stroked his hair out of his eyes.

"I'd like to read it sometime," she said.

"When it's done."

"I'm sure it's marvellous."

He kept silent, out of mild embarrassment. The hatchling burped,
excitedly.

"I still don't see why you want to breed Errol's genes back into the
line. Ugliest little whittle I ever saw," Vimes said finally.

"Well, I suppose. But you know, sometimes the whittles are the most
worthwhile," she said. He glanced up at her. It was their little joke;
Vimes, like Errol, had been nothing much more than a runt and a whittle
before Sybil. But she'd seen something in him that was worthwhile, and
occasionally she liked to remind him of that fact.

Sam, who was still young enough to believe that he should always be the
center of attention, stood on his father's lap and tugged at his
mother's hand, peering over her fingers at the hatchling, who peered
back.

"Would you change that? If you could?" Sybil asked.

His left hand strayed down to the thin metal rim on one of the chair's
wheels, rubbing it thoughtfully.

"No," he said, finally, with a smile. He raised his hand to steady Sam,
touching the small of his back. "I wouldn't change a thing."

END