Carrot moved through the baking streets with a proprietorial air and a slight patina of honest sweat, occasionally exchanging a greeting. Everyone knew Carrot. He was easily recognizable. No-one else was about two metres tall with flame-red hair. Besides, he walked as if he owned the city.

“Who was that man with the granite face I saw in the Watch House?” said Angua, as they proceeded along Broad Way.

“That was Detritus the troll,” said Carrot. “He used to be a bit of a criminal, but now he's courting Ruby she says he's got to—”

“No, that man,” said Angua, learning as had so many others that Carrot tended to have a bit of trouble with metaphors. “Face like thu—face like someone very disgruntled.”

“Oh, that was Captain Vimes. But he's never been gruntled, I think. He's retiring at the end of the week, and getting married.”

“Doesn't look very happy about it,” said Angua.

“Couldn't say.”

“I don't think he likes the new recruits.”

The other thing about Constable Carrot was that he was incapable of lying.

“Well, he doesn't like trolls much,” he said. “We couldn't get a word out of him all day when he heard we had to advertise for a troll recruit. And then we had to have a dwarf, otherwise they'd be trouble. I'm a dwarf, too, but the dwarfs here don't believe it.”

“You don't say?” said Angua, looking up at him.

“My mother had me by adoption.”

“Oh. Yes, but I'm not a troll or a dwarf,” said Angua sweetly.

“No, but you're a w—”

Angua stopped. “That's it, is it? Good grief! This is the Century of the Fruitbat, you know. Ye gods, does he really think like that?”

“He's a bit set in his ways.”