Why does this kind of thing always happen to me?
He had fallen asleep at his desk.
There weren’t many good reasons these days for His Grace the Duke of Ankh Commander Sir Samuel Vimes to fall asleep at his desk. He was commander of the city watch and a duke and, it was said, the most important (and certainly the richest) man in Ankh-Morpork next to the Patrician. Vimes still liked to say that he was still the common thief-taker he had always been, nothing more, and brave was the man who tried to contradict him, but the truth of the matter was that these days his role in Ankh-Morpork was more administrative and, gods help him, political. It didn’t mean less work, or even fewer late nights, but it did mean that, barring city-wide catastrophe, he should probably have been home in bed.
But it had been a bloody long day, even for him. There had been five significant unlicensed thieves caught by the Watch, the last of which, unfortunately, had been found by Corporal Shoe two minutes after the Thieves Guild had. Guild business was, grudgingly, guild business, which meant they got to deal with unlicensed thieves as they saw fit (usually swiftly and violently), but when it converged directly on Watch business it tended to lead to lots of messy paperwork, not to mention shouting*. The Funny Nadgers Arsonist** was still at large and getting cleverer - Sergeant Angua had finally had to go home ill after repeated scent bombs had been thrown in her path. And then there had been the monthly meeting of the guild leaders, an event that always left Vimes in a bad mood, and then the ball at the Patrician’s Palace.
The fact that they had arrived "fashionably late" (Sam would be damned if he would be fashionable about anything, but he would also be damned if he would skip his daily six o’clock pm appointment to read “Where’s My Cow” to his two-year-old son for the sake of a city function.) had still given him plenty of time to be driven mad. The Ambassador from Borogravia had accosted him and insisted quite vehemently that he do something about the "persistent rumors of a seditious nature" being purported by the Ankh-Morpork Times, stating that there had been a massive cover-up of the large number of female soldiers in the highest ranks of the Borogravian army for some years, and if he did not, drastic measures would be taken. Vimes would have liked to have told him the ambassador that if he wished to take up "drastic measures" with the Times, he would have been happy to allow it, and even would have let them sell tickets, but he restrained himself.
According to Sybil he had also had a very lengthy conversation with the Duchess of Quirm about cheese. He didn’t remember it. One of the talents possessed by any night watchmen worth his salt was the ability to fall asleep standing up with his eyes open, and while it had gotten him through many a cold, dark night in the bad ol’ days, it served even better during these balls, banquets, and official functions he was forced to attend.
So when they had arrived home from the ball, Sam had told his wife that he "needed to go much around for a bit to get rid of all the muck." Sybil had despairingly rolled her eyes, and Sam had changed into his everyday uniform, complete with his most worn pair of boots. They were still far too sturdy to suit properly, but they would do. He walked from his home on Park Lane, across the Misbegot Bridge to Treacle Mine Road, testing the feel of the cobbles and breathing the dense night air. It began to rain listlessly and he lit a cigar, then, eyes closed, tracked his was to Psudopolis Yard by the feel of the stones beneath his feet.
Sometimes he just had to know he still had it in him.
There was only Constable Dorfl on the night shift at the door, and Sergeant Detritus at the desk inside, who greeted him with an "Evenin', Mister Vimes," as he passed on his way up to the office.
Secretary he might have, but Vimes still didn’t feel quite comfortable unless there was a good one-or-two inch layer of paperwork on his desk. He sat down and sifted through the papers, pulling out the bits that related to the F-N Arsonist, searching for some hint they had missed in the light of day, the corner of the jigsaw puzzle that would pull the case together. But the moon had set, and the candle had burned down to a nub, and Sam Vimes had fallen asleep with his head pillowed in his arms.
When Vimes woke the first thing he noticed was the noise. The squawking of foreign birds, the rush of wind through trees, and, very distantly, the steady crash of waves. Sam slowly opened his eyes. Everything was green - above him, below him, surrounding him. He had awoken in a green prison.
On second glance he realized that he was perched very precariously on something. And at third glance he comprehended that it was a very narrow branch of a very leafy tree. Sam cautiously looked down.
It was like one of those strange stories where otherwise harmless woodland creatures chase manically after other otherwise harmless woodland creatures off cliffs. One moment he seemed safely poised in the air next to the previously occupied branch, but in the next he made the mistake of looking down, and then he was doomed.
"Ohbugger."
He hit the floor with a resounding crash that echoed through the jungle.
* Usually by Sam at other people.
** The Watch had drawn lots to decide who got to name the criminal and Corporal Nobby Nobbs, to Vimes' horror, had won. The ever ingenuous Captain Carrot had took to calling him the F-N Arsonist, and you could almost see the blush even in his reports.
There weren’t many good reasons these days for His Grace the Duke of Ankh Commander Sir Samuel Vimes to fall asleep at his desk. He was commander of the city watch and a duke and, it was said, the most important (and certainly the richest) man in Ankh-Morpork next to the Patrician. Vimes still liked to say that he was still the common thief-taker he had always been, nothing more, and brave was the man who tried to contradict him, but the truth of the matter was that these days his role in Ankh-Morpork was more administrative and, gods help him, political. It didn’t mean less work, or even fewer late nights, but it did mean that, barring city-wide catastrophe, he should probably have been home in bed.
But it had been a bloody long day, even for him. There had been five significant unlicensed thieves caught by the Watch, the last of which, unfortunately, had been found by Corporal Shoe two minutes after the Thieves Guild had. Guild business was, grudgingly, guild business, which meant they got to deal with unlicensed thieves as they saw fit (usually swiftly and violently), but when it converged directly on Watch business it tended to lead to lots of messy paperwork, not to mention shouting*. The Funny Nadgers Arsonist** was still at large and getting cleverer - Sergeant Angua had finally had to go home ill after repeated scent bombs had been thrown in her path. And then there had been the monthly meeting of the guild leaders, an event that always left Vimes in a bad mood, and then the ball at the Patrician’s Palace.
The fact that they had arrived "fashionably late" (Sam would be damned if he would be fashionable about anything, but he would also be damned if he would skip his daily six o’clock pm appointment to read “Where’s My Cow” to his two-year-old son for the sake of a city function.) had still given him plenty of time to be driven mad. The Ambassador from Borogravia had accosted him and insisted quite vehemently that he do something about the "persistent rumors of a seditious nature" being purported by the Ankh-Morpork Times, stating that there had been a massive cover-up of the large number of female soldiers in the highest ranks of the Borogravian army for some years, and if he did not, drastic measures would be taken. Vimes would have liked to have told him the ambassador that if he wished to take up "drastic measures" with the Times, he would have been happy to allow it, and even would have let them sell tickets, but he restrained himself.
According to Sybil he had also had a very lengthy conversation with the Duchess of Quirm about cheese. He didn’t remember it. One of the talents possessed by any night watchmen worth his salt was the ability to fall asleep standing up with his eyes open, and while it had gotten him through many a cold, dark night in the bad ol’ days, it served even better during these balls, banquets, and official functions he was forced to attend.
So when they had arrived home from the ball, Sam had told his wife that he "needed to go much around for a bit to get rid of all the muck." Sybil had despairingly rolled her eyes, and Sam had changed into his everyday uniform, complete with his most worn pair of boots. They were still far too sturdy to suit properly, but they would do. He walked from his home on Park Lane, across the Misbegot Bridge to Treacle Mine Road, testing the feel of the cobbles and breathing the dense night air. It began to rain listlessly and he lit a cigar, then, eyes closed, tracked his was to Psudopolis Yard by the feel of the stones beneath his feet.
Sometimes he just had to know he still had it in him.
There was only Constable Dorfl on the night shift at the door, and Sergeant Detritus at the desk inside, who greeted him with an "Evenin', Mister Vimes," as he passed on his way up to the office.
Secretary he might have, but Vimes still didn’t feel quite comfortable unless there was a good one-or-two inch layer of paperwork on his desk. He sat down and sifted through the papers, pulling out the bits that related to the F-N Arsonist, searching for some hint they had missed in the light of day, the corner of the jigsaw puzzle that would pull the case together. But the moon had set, and the candle had burned down to a nub, and Sam Vimes had fallen asleep with his head pillowed in his arms.
When Vimes woke the first thing he noticed was the noise. The squawking of foreign birds, the rush of wind through trees, and, very distantly, the steady crash of waves. Sam slowly opened his eyes. Everything was green - above him, below him, surrounding him. He had awoken in a green prison.
On second glance he realized that he was perched very precariously on something. And at third glance he comprehended that it was a very narrow branch of a very leafy tree. Sam cautiously looked down.
It was like one of those strange stories where otherwise harmless woodland creatures chase manically after other otherwise harmless woodland creatures off cliffs. One moment he seemed safely poised in the air next to the previously occupied branch, but in the next he made the mistake of looking down, and then he was doomed.
"Ohbugger."
He hit the floor with a resounding crash that echoed through the jungle.
* Usually by Sam at other people.
** The Watch had drawn lots to decide who got to name the criminal and Corporal Nobby Nobbs, to Vimes' horror, had won. The ever ingenuous Captain Carrot had took to calling him the F-N Arsonist, and you could almost see the blush even in his reports.