Guards! Guards!

problem there, king. 1 Right enough,” the old man had said, as they shared a nip of spirits on a bench outside Shaft #2.
    “He’s a good lad, mind you,” said the king. “Sound character. Honest. Not exactly brilliant, but you tell him to do something, he don’t rest until he’s done it. Obedient.”
    “You could chop his legs off,” said Varneshi.
    “It’s not his legs that’s going to be the problem,” said the king darkly.
    “Ah. Yes. Well, in that case you could—”
    “No.”
    “No,” agreed Varneshi, thoughtfully. “Hmm. Well, then what you should do is, you should send him away for a bit. Let him mix a bit with humans.” He sat back. “What you’ve got here, king, is a duck,” he added, in knowledgeable tones.
    “I don’t think I should tell him that. He’s refusing to believe he’s a human as it is.”
    “What I mean is, a duck brought up among chickens. Well-known farmyard phenomenon. Finds it can’t bloody well peck and doesn’t know what swimming is.” The king listened politely. Dwarfs don’t go in much for agriculture. “But you send him off to see a lot of other ducks, let him get his feet wet, and he won’t go running around after bantams anymore. And Bob’s your uncle.”
    Varneshi sat back and looked rather pleased with himself.
    When you spend a large part of your life underground, you develop a very literal mind. Dwarfs have no use for metaphor and simile. Rocks are hard, the darkness is dark. Start messing around with descriptions like that and you’re in big trouble, is their motto. But after two hundred years of talking to humans the king had, as it were, developed a painstaking mental toolkit which was nearly adequate for the job of understanding them.
    “Surely Bjorn Stronginthearm is my uncle,” he pointed out, slowly.
    “Same thing.”
    There was a pause while the king subjected this to careful analysis.
    “You’re saying,” he said, weighing each word, “that we should send Carrot away to be a duck among humans because Bjorn Stronginthearm is my uncle.”
    “He’s a fine lad. Plenty of openings for a big strong lad like him,” said Varneshi.
    “I have heard that dwarfs go off to work in the Big City,” said the king uncertainly. “And they send back money to their families, which is very commendable and proper.”
    “There you are then. Get him a job in, in—” Varneshi sought for inspiration–“in the Watch, or something. My great-grandfather was in the Watch, you know. Fine job for a big lad, my grandad said.”
    “What is a Watch?” said the king.
    “Oh,” said Varneshi, with the vagueness of someone whose family for the last three generations hadn’t traveled more than twenty miles, “they goes about making sure people keep the laws and do what they’re told.”
    “That is a very proper concern,” said the king who, since he was usually the one doing the telling, had very solid views about people doing what they were told.
    “Of course, they don’t take just anyone,” said Varneshi, dredging the depths of his recollection.
    “I should think not, for such an important task. I shall write to their king.”
    “I don’t think they have a king there,” said Varneshi. “Just some man who tells them what to do.”
    The king of the dwarfs took this calmly. This seemed to be about ninety-seven percent of the definition of kingship, as far as he was concerned.
    Carrot took the news without fuss, just as he took instructions about re-opening Shaft #4 or cutting timber for shoring props. All dwarfs are by nature dutiful, serious, literate, obedient and thoughtful people whose only minor failing is a tendency, after one drink, to rush at enemies screaming “Arrrrrrgh!” and axing their legs off at the knee. Carrot saw no reason to be any different. He would go to this city—whatever that was—and have a man made of him.
    They took only the finest, Varneshi had said. A watchman had to be a skilled fighter and clean in thought, word and deed. From the depths of his ancestral anecdotage the old man had dragged tales of moonlight chases across rooftops, and tremendous battles with miscreants which, of course, his great-grandad had won despite being heavily outnumbered.
    Carrot had to admit it sounded better than mining.
    After some thought, the king wrote to the ruler of Ankh-Morpork, respectfully asking if Carrot could be considered for a place among the city’s finest.
    Letters rarely got written in that mine. Work stopped