Terry Pratchett. Jingo
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...ing very fast, and theyseemed to reach their own decision. We'll explain later, they said. You're
too tired for explanations. Right now, with this man, it's oh so much better
to be honest...
'It... refers to your headdress,' he said.
'Oh. Is it some kind of obscure joke?'
Of course he knows, thought Vimes. And he knows I know...
'No. It's an insult,' he said eventually.
'Ah? Well, we certainly cannot be held responsible for the ramblings of
idiots, commander.' The Prince flashed a smile. 'I must commend you,
incidentally.'
'I'm sorry?'
'For your breadth of knowledge. I must have asked a dozen people that
question this morning and, do you know? Not one of them knew what it meant.
And they all seemed to have caught a cough.'
There was a diplomatic pause but, in it, someone sniggered.
Vimes let his glance drift sideways to the other man, who had not been
introduced. He was shorter and skinnier than the Prince and, under his black
headdress, had the most crowded face Vimes had ever seen. A network of scars
surrounded a nose like an eagle's beak. There was a sort of beard and
moustache, but the scars had affected the hair growth so much that they
stuck out in strange bunches and at odd angles. The man looked as though he
had been hit in the mouth by a hedgehog. He could have been any age. Some of
the scars looked fresh.
All in all, the man had a face that any policeman would arrest on
sight. There was no possible way it could be innocent of anything.
He caught Vimes's expression and grinned, and Vimes had never seen so
much gold in one mouth. He'd never seen so much gold in one place.
Vimes realized he was staring when he ought to have been making polite
diplomatic conversation.
'So,' he said, 'are we going to have a scrap over this Leshp business
or what?'
The Prince gave a dismissive shrug.
'Pfui,' he said. 'A few square miles of uninhabited fertile ground with
superb anchorage in an unsurpassed strategic position? What sort of
inconsequence is that for civilized people to war over?'
Once again Vimes felt the gaze on him, reading him. Well, the hell with
it. He said, 'Sorry, I'm not good at this diplomacy business. Did you mean
what you just said then?'
There was another snigger. Vimes turned and looked at the leering
bearded face again. And was aware of a smell, no, a stench of cloves.
Good grief, he chews the stinking things...
'Ah,' said the Prince, 'you haven't met 71-hour Ahmed?'
Ahmed grinned again and bowed. 'Offendi,' he said, in a voice like a
gravel path.
And that seemed to be it. Not 'This is 71-hour Ahmed, Cultural Attache'
or 71-hour Ahmed, my bodyguard' or even '71-hour Ahmed, walking strongroom
and moth killer'. It was dear that the next move was up to Vimes.
'That's... er... that's an unusual name" he said.
'Not at all,' said the Prince smoothly. 'Ahmed is a very common name in
my country.'
He leaned forward again. Vimes recognized this as the prelude to a
confidential aside. 'Incidentally, was that beautiful lady I saw just now
your first wife?'
'Er... all my wives,' said Vimes. 'That is-'
'Could I offer you twenty camels for her?'
Vimes looked back into the dark eyes for a moment, glanced at 71-hour
Ahmed's 24-carat grin, and said:
'This is another test, isn't it... ?'
The Prince straightened up, looking pleased.
'Well done, Sir Samuel. You're good at this. Do you know, Mr Boggis of
the Thieves' Guild was prepared to accept fifteen?'
'For Mrs Boos?' Vimes waggled a hand dismissively. 'Nah... four camels,
maybe four camels and a goat in a good light. And when she's had a shave.'
The milling guests turned at the sound of the Prince's explosion of
laughter.
'Very good! Very good! I am afraid, commander, that some of your fellow
citizens feel that just because my people invented advanced mathematics and
allday camping we are complete barbarians who'd try to buy their wives at
the drop of, shall we say, a turban. I am surprised they're giving me an
honorary degree, considering how incredibly backward I am.'
'Oh? What degree is that?' said Vimes. No wonder this man was a
diplomat. You couldn't trust him an inch, he thought in loops, and you
couldn't help liking him despite it.
The Prince pulled a letter out of his robe.
'Apparently it's a Doctorum Adamus cum Flabello Dulci - Is there
something wrong, Sir Samuel?'
Vimes managed to turn the treacherous laugh into a coughing fit. 'No,
no, nothing,' he said. 'No.'
He desperately wanted to change the subject. And fortunately there was
something here to provide just the opportunity.
'Why has Mr Ahmed got such a big curved sword slung on his back?' he
said.
'Ah, you are a policeman, you notice such things-'
'It's hardly a concealed weapon, is it? It's nearly bigger than him.
He's practically a concealed owner!'
'It's ceremonial,' said the Prince. 'And he does fret so if he has to
leave it behind.'
'And what exactly is his--'
'Ah, there you are,' said Ridcully. 'I think we're just about ready.
You know you go right at the front, Sam-'
'Yes, I know,' said Vimes. 'I was just asking His Highness what'
'-and if you, Your Highness, and you, Mr... my word, what a big sword,
and you come back here and take your place among the honoured guests, and
we'll be ready in a brace of sheikhs...'
What a thing it is to have a copper's mind, Vimes thought, as the great
file of wizards and guests tried to form a dignified and orderly line behind
him. just because someone makes himself pleasant and likeable you start to
be suspicious of him, for no other reason than the fact that anyone who goes
out of their way to be nice to a copper has got something on their mind. Of
course, he's a diplomat, but still... I just hope he never studied ancient
languages, and that's a fact.
Someone tapped Vimes on the shoulder. He turned and looked right into
the grin of 71-hour Ahmed.
'If hyou changing your mind, offendi, I give hyou twenty-five camels,
no problem,' he said, pulling a clove from his teeth. 'May your hlions be
full of fruit.'
He winked. It was the most suggestive gesture Vimes had ever seen. 'Is
this another-' he began, but the man had vanished into the crowd.
'My loins be full of fruit?' he repeated to himself. 'Good grief!'
71-hour Ahmed reappeared at his other elbow in a gust of cloves. 'I go,
I hcome back,' he growled happily. 'The Prince hsays the degree is Doctor of
Sweet Fanny Adams. A hwizard Wheeze, yes? Oh, how we are laughing.'
And then he was gone.
The Convivium was Unseen University's Big Day. Originally it had just
been the degree ceremony, but over the years it had developed into a kind of
celebration of the amicable relationship between the University and the
city, in particular celebrating the fact that people were hardly ever turned
to clams any more. In the absence of anything resembling a .Lord Mayor's
Show or a state opening of Parliament, it was one of the few formal
opportunities the citizens had of jeering at their social superiors, or at
least at people wearing tights and ridiculous costumes.
It had grown so big that it was now held in the city's Opera House.
Distrustful people - that is to say, people like Vimes considered that this
was so there could be a procession. There was nothing like the massed ranks
of wizardry walking sedately through the city in a spirit of civic
amicability to subtly remind the more thoughtful kind of person that it
hadn't always been this way. Look at us, the wizards seemed to be saying. We
used to rule this city. Look at our big staffs with the knobs on the end.
Any one of these could do some very serious damage in the wrong hands so
it's a good thing, isn't it, that they're in the right hands at the moment?
Isn't it nice that we all get along so well?
And someone, once, had decided that the Commander of the Watch should
walk in front, for symbolic reasons. That hadn't mattered for years because
there hadn't been a Commander of the Watch, but now there was, and he was
Sam Vimes. In a red shirt with silly baggy sleeves, red tights, some kind of
puffed shorts in a style that went out of fashion, by the lock of it, at the
time when flint was at the cutting edge of cuttingedge technology, a tiny
shiny breastplate and a helmet with feathers in it.
And he really did need some sleep.
And he had to carry the truncheon.
He kept his eyes fixed on the damn thing as he walked out of the
University's main gate. Last night's rain had cleaned the sky. The city
steamed.
If he stared at the truncheon he didn't have to see who was giggling at
him.
The downside was that he had to keep staring at the thing.
It said, on a little tarnished shield that he'd had to clean before
reading it, Protecter of thee Kinge's Piece.
That had brightened the occasion slightly.
Feathers and antiques, gold braid and fur...
Perhaps it was because he was tired, or just because he was trying to
shut out the world, but Vimes found himself slowing down into the
traditional watchman's walk and the traditional idling thought process.
It was an almost Pavlovian response.[4] The legs swung, the feet moved,
the mind began to work in a certain way. It wasn't a dream state, exactly.
It was just that the ears, nose and eyeballs wired themselves straight into
the ancient 'suspicious bastard' node of his brain, leaving his higher brain
centre free to freewheel.
... Fur and tights... what kind of wear was that for a watchman?
Bashed-in armour, greasy leather breeches and a tatty shirt with bloodstains
on it, someone else's for preference... that was the stuff... nice feel of
the cobbles through his boots, it was really comforting...
Behind him, confusion running up and down the ranks, the procession
slowed down to keep in step.
... Hah, Protecter of thee Kinge's Piece indeed... he'd said to the old
man who'd delivered it, 'Which piece did you have in mind?' but that had
fallen on stony cars... damn silly thing anyway, he'd thought, a short
length of wood with a lump of silver on the end... even a constable got a
decent sword, what was he supposed to do, wave it at people?... ye gods, it
was months since he'd had a good walk through the streets... lot of people
about today... some parade on, wasn't there... ?
'Oh dear,' said Captain Carrot, in the crowd. 'What's he doing?'
Next to him an Agatean tourist was industriously pulling the lever of
his iconograph.
Commander Vimes stopped and, with a faraway look in his eyes, tucked
his truncheon under one arm and reached up to his helmet.
The tourist locked up at Carrot and tugged his shirt politely.
'Please, what is he doing now?' he said.
'Er... he's... he's taking out. .
'Oh, no...' said Angua.
'... he's taking the ceremonial packet of cigars out of his helmet,'
said Carrot. 'Oh... and he's, he's lighting one...'
The tourist pulled the lever a few times.
'Very historic tradition?'
'Memorable,' murmured Angua.
The crowd had fallen silent. No one wanted to break Vimes's
concentration. There was the big gusty silence of a thousand people holding
their breath.
'What's he doing now?' said Carrot.
'Can't you see?' said Angua.
'Not with my hands over my eyes. Oh, the poor man...'
'He's... he's just blown a smoke ring... '
':first one of the day, he always does that:'
':and now he's set off again... and now he's pulled out the truncheon
and he's tossing it up in the air and catching it again, you know the way he
does with his sword when he's thinking... He looks quite happy...'
'I think he's going to really treasure this moment of happiness,' said
Carrot.
Then the murmur started. The procession had halted behind Vimes. Some
of the more impressionable people who weren't sure what they should be
doing, and those who had partaken too heavily of the University's rather
good sherry, started to fumble
around on their person for something to throw up in the air and catch.
After all, this was a Traditional Ceremony. If you took the view that you
were not going to do things because they were apparently ridiculous, you
might as well go home right now.
'He's tired, that's what it is,' said Carrot. 'He's been running around
overseeing things for days. Night and day watches. You know what a hands-on
person he is.'
'Let's hope the Patrician will agree to let him stay that way.'
'Oh, his lordship wouldn't... He wouldn't, would he?'
Laughter was starting. Vimes had started to toss the truncheon from one
hand to the other.
'He can make his sword spin three times and still catch it--'
Vimes's head turned. He looked up. His truncheon clattered on to the
cobbles and rolled into a puddle, unheeded.
Then he started to run.
Carrot stared at him and then tried to see what the man had been
looking at.
'On top of the Barbican...' he said. 'In that window... isn't that
someone up there? Excuse me, excuse me, sorry, excuse me-' He began to push
his way through the crowd.
Vimes was already a small figure in the distance, his red cloack flying
out after him.
'Well? There's lots of people watching the parade from high places,'
said Angua. 'What's so special about-'
'No one should be up there!' said Carrot, starting to run now he was
free of the crowd. 'It's all sealed up!'
Angua looked around. Every face was turned towards the street theatre,
and there was a cart near by. She sighed and strolled behind it wearing an
expression of suspicious nonchalance. There was a gasp, a faint but
distinctly organic sound, a muffled yelp and then the clank of armour
hitting the ground.
Vimes didn't know why he ran. It was a sixth sense. It was when the
back of the brain picked up out of the ether that something bad was going to
happen, and didn't have time to rationalize, and just took over the spinal
cord.
No one could get to the top of the Barbican. The Barbican had been the
fortified gateway in the days when Ankh-Morpork didn't regard an attacking
army as a marvellous commercial opportunity. Some parts were still in use,
but the bulk of it was six or seven storeys of ruin, without stairs that any
sensible man would trust. For years it had been used as an unofficial source
of masonry for the rest of the city. Bits of it fell off on windy nights.
Even gargoyles avoided it.
He was aware that far behind him the noise of the crowd became a lot of
shouting. One or two people screamed. He didn't turn round. Whatever was
going on, Carrot could take care of it.
Something overtook him. It looked like a wolf would look if one of its
ancestors had been a longhaired Klatchistan hunting dog, one of those
graceful things that were all nose and hair.
It bounded ahead and through the crumbling gateway.
The creature was nowhere to be seen when Vimes arrived. But the absence
was not a matter that grabbed at his attention, because of the more pressing
presence of the corpse, lying in a mess of fallen masonry.
One of the things Vimes had always said - that is to say, one of the
things he said he always said, and no one disagrees with the commanding
officer - was that sometimes small details, tiny little details, things that
no one would notice in ordinary circumstances, grab your senses by the
throat and scream, 'See me!'
There was a lingering, spicy scent in the air. And in the gap between a
couple of cobblestones was a clove.
It was five o'clock. Vimes and Carrot sat in the Patrician's outer
office, in silence except for the irregular ticking of the dock.
After a while Vimes said: 'Let me have a look at that again.'
Carrot obediently pulled out the small square of paper. Vimes looked at
it. There was no mistaking what it showed. He tucked it into his own pocket.
'Er... why do you want to keep it, sir?'
'Keep what?' said Vimes.
'The iconograph I borrowed from the tourist.'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' said Vimes.
'But you-'
'I can't see you going very far in the Watch, captain, if you go around
seeing things that aren't there.'
'Oh.'
The clock seemed to tick louder.
'You're thinking something, sir. Aren't you?'
'It is a use to which I occasionally put my brain, captain. Strange as
it may seem.'
'What are you thinking, sir?'
'What they want me to think,' said Vimes.
'Who's they?'
'I don't know yet. One step at a time.'
A bell tinkled.
Vimes stood up. 'You know what I always say,' he said.
Carrot removed his helmet and polished it with his sleeve. 'Yes, sir.
"Everyone's guilty of something, especially the ones that aren't," sir.'
'No, not that one...'
'Er... "Always take into consideration the fact that you might be dead
wrong," sir?'
'No, nor that one either.'
'Er... "How come Nobby ever got a job as a watchman?", sir? You say
that a lot.'
'No! I meant "Alwaysact stupid," Carrot.'
'Ah, right, sir. From now on I shall remember that you always said
that, sir.'
They put their helmets under their arms. Vimes knocked at the door.
'Come, ' said a voice.
The Patrician was standing at the window.
Sitting or standing around the office were Lord Rust and the others.
Vimes never quite understood how the civic leaders were chosen. They just
seemed to turn up, like a tack on the sole of your shoe.
'Ah, Vimes,' said Vetinari.
'Sir.'
'Let us not beat about the bush, Vimes. How did the man get up there
when your people had so thoroughly checked everything last night? Magic?'
'Couldn't say, sir.'
Carrot, still staring straight ahead, blinked.
'Your people did check the Barbican, I assume?'
'No, sir.'
'They didn't?'
'No, sir. I did that myself.'
'You physically checked it yourself, Vimes?' said Boggis of the
Thieves' Guild.
Captain Carrot could feel Vimes's thoughts at this point.
'That is correct... Boggis,' said Vimes, without turning his head.
'But... we think someone got in where the windows are boarded up and pulled
the boards back after him. Dust has been disturbed and-'
'And you didn't spot this, Vimes?'
Vimes sighed. 'It'd be hard enough to spot the nailed-back boards in
daylight, Boggis, let alone in the middle of the night.' Not that we did, he
added to himself. Angua smelled the scent on them.
Lord Vetinari sat down at his desk. 'The situation is grave, Vimes.'
'Yes, sir?'
'His Highness is very seriously injured. And Prince Cadram, we
understand, is beside himself with rage.'
'They insist on keeping his brother in the embassy,' said Lord Rust. 'A
studied insult. As if we haven't good surgeons in this city.'
'That's right, of course,' said Vimes. 'And many of them could give him
a decent shave and a haircut too.'
'Are you making fun of me, Vimes?'
'Certainly not, my lord,' said Vimes. 'ln my opinion, no surgeons
anywhere have cleaner sawdust on their floors than the ones in this city.'
Rust glared at him.
The Patrician coughed.
'You have identified the assassin?' said the Patrician.
Carrot was expecting Vimes to say, 'Alleged assassin, sir,' but instead
he said:
'Yes. He is- He was called Ossie Brunt, sir. No other name that we
know. Lived in Market Street. Did odd jobs from time to time. Bit of a
loner. No relatives or friends that we can find. We are making enquiries.'
'And that's all you fellows know?' said Lord Downey.
'It took some time to identify him sir,' said Vimes stolidly.
'Oh? Why should that be?'
'Couldn't give you the technical answer, sir, but it looked to me like
they wouldn't need to make him a coffin, they could just have posted him
between two barn doors.'
'Was he acting alone?'
'We only found the one body, sir. And a lot of recently fallen masonry,
so it looks as-'
'I meant does he belong to any organization? Any suggestion that he's
anti-Klatchian?'
'Apart from him trying to kill one? Enquiries are continuing.'
'Are you taking this seriously, Vimes?'
'I have put my best men on the job, sir.' Who's looking worried?
'Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs.' Who's looking relieved? 'Very
experienced men. The keystones of the Watch.'
'Colon and Nobbs?' said the Patrician. 'Really?'
'Yes, sir.'
Their gazes met, very briefly.
'We're getting some very threatening noises, Vimes,' said Vetinari.
'What can I say, sir? I saw someone up on the tower, I ran, someone
shot the Prince with an arrow and then I found the man at the bottom of the
tower very obviously dead, with a broken bow and a lot of rock beside him.
The storm last night probably loosened things up. I can't make up facts that
don't exist, sir.'
Carrot watched the faces round the table. The general expression was
one of relief.
'A lone bowman,' said Vetinari. 'An idiot with some kind of mad grudge.
Who died in the execution of the, uh, attempted execution. And, of course,
valiant action by our watchmen probably at least prevented an immediately
fatal shot.'
'Valiant action?' said Downey. 'I know Captain Carrot here ran towards
the VIPs and Vimes headed for the tower, but frankly, Vimes, your strange
behaviour beforehand-'
'Somewhat immaterial now,' said Lord Vetinari. Once again he adopted a
slightly faraway voice, as if reporting to somebody else. 'If Commander
Vimes had not slowed down the procession, the wretch would undoubtedly have
got a much better shot. As it was, the man panicked. Yes... the Prince,
possibly, would accept that.'
'Prince?' said Vimes. 'But the poor devil-'
'His brother,' said the Patrician.
'Ah. The nice one?'
'Thank you, commander, ' said the Patrician. 'Thank you, gentlemen. Do
not let me detain you. Oh, Vimes... just a brief word, if you would be so
good. Not you, Captain Carrot. I'm sure someone is committing some crime
somewhere.'
Vimes remained staring at the far wall while the room emptied. Vetinari
left his chair and went over to the window.
'Strange days indeed, commander,' he said.
'Sir.'
' For example, I gather that this afternoon Captain Carrot was on the
roof of the Opera House firing arrows down towards the archery butts.'
'Very keen lad, sir.'
'It could well be that the distance between the Opera House and the
targets is about the same, you
know, as the distance between the top of the Barbican and the spot
where the Prince was hit.'
'Just fancy that, sir.'
Vetinari sighed. 'And why was he doing this?'
'It's a funny thing, sir, but he was telling me the other day that in
fact it is still law that every citizen should do one hour's archery
practice every day. Apparently the law was made in 1356 and it's never
been-'
'Do you know why I sent Captain Carrot away just now, Vimes?'
'Couldn't say, sir.'
'Captain Carrot is an honest young man, Vimes.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And did you know that he winces when he hears you tell a direct lie?'
'Really, sir?' Damn.
'I can't stand to see his poor face twitch all the time, Vimes.'
'Very thoughtful of you, sir.'
'Where was the second bowman, Vimes?'
Damn! 'Second bowman, sir?'
'Have you ever had a hankering to go on the stage, Vimes?'
Yes, at the moment I'd leap on it wherever it's heading, thought Vimes.
'No, sir.'
'Pity. I am certain you're a great loss to the acting profession. I
believe you said the man had put the boards back after him.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Nailed them back?'
Blast. 'Yes, sir.'
'From the outside.'
Damn. 'Yes, sir.'
'A Particularly resourceful lone bowman, then.'
Vimes didn't bother to comment. Vetinari sat down at his desk, raised
his steepled fingers to his lips and stared at Vimes over the top of them.
'Colon and Nobbs are investigating this? Really?'
'Yes, sir.'
'If I were to ask you why, you'd pretend not to understand?'
Vimes let his forehead wrinkle in honest perplexity 'Sir?'
'If you say "Sir?" again in that stupid voice, Vimes, I swear there
will be trouble.'
'They're good men, sir.'
'However, some people might consider them to be unimaginative, stolid
and... how can I put this?... possessed of an inbuilt disposition to accept
the first explanation that presents itself and then bunk off somewhere for a
quiet smoke? A certain lack of imagination? An ability to get out of their
depth on a wet pavement? A tendency to rush to judgement?'
'I hope you are not impugning my men, sir.'
'Vimes, Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs have never been pugn'd in
their entire lives.'
'Sir?'?'
'And yet... in fact, we do not need complications, Vimes. An ingenious
lone madman... well, there are many madmen. A regrettable incident.'
'Yes, sir.' The man was looking harassed and Vimes felt there was room
for a pinch of sympathy.
'Fred and Nobby don't like complications either, sir.'
'We need simple answers, Vimes.'
'Sir. Fred and Nobby are good at simple.'
The Patrician turned away and looked out over the city.
'Ah,' he said, in a quieter voice. 'Simple men to see the simple
truth.'
'This is a fact, sir.'
'You are learning fast, Vimes.'
'Couldn't say about that, sir.'
'And when they have found the simple truth, Vimes?'
'Can't argue with the truth, sir.'
'In my experience, Vimes, you can argue with anything.'
When Vimes had gone Lord Vetinari sat at his desk for a while, staring
at nothing. Then he took a key from a drawer and walked across to a wall,
where he pressed a particular area.
There was a rattle of a counterweight. The wall swung back.
The Patrician walked softly through the narrow passageway beyond. Here
and there it was illuminated by a very faint glow from around the edges of
the little panels which, if gently slid back, would allow someone to look
out through the eyesockets of a handy portrait.
They were a relic of a previous ruler. Vetinari never bothered with
them. Looking out of someone else's eyes wasn't the trick.
There was a certain amount of travel up dark stairways and along musty
corridors. Occasionally he'd make movements the meaning of which might not
be readily apparent. He'd touch a wall here and here, apparently without
thinking, as he passed. Along one stone-flagged passage, lit only by the
grey fight from a window forgotten by everyone except the most optimistic
flies, he appeared to play a game of hopscotch, robes flying around him and
calves twinkling as he skipped from stone to stone.
These various activities did not seem to cause anything to happen.
Eventually he reached a door, which he unlocked. He did this with some
caution.
The air beyond was full of acrid smoke, and the steady pop-pop sound
which he had begun to hear further back along the passage was now quite
loud. It faltered for a moment, was followed by a much louder bang, and then
a piece of hot metal whirled past the Patrician's car and buried itself in
the wall.
In the smoke a voice said, 'Oh dear.'
It didn't seem unhappy, but sounded rather like the voice one might use
to a sweet and ingratiating little puppy which, despite one's best efforts,
is sitting next to a spreading damp patch on the carpet.
As the billows cleared the indistinct shape of the speaker turned to
Vetinari with a wan little smile and said, 'Fully fifteen seconds this time,
my lord! There is no doubt that the principle is sound.'
That was one of Leonard of Quirm's traits: he picked up conversations
out of the air, he assumed everyone was an interested friend, and he took it
for granted that you were as intelligent as he was.
Vetinari peered at a small heap of bent and twisted metal.
'What was it, Leonard?' he said.
'An experimental device for turning chemical energy into rotary
motion,' said Leonard. 'The problem, you see, is getting the little pellets
of black powder into the combustion chamber at exactly the right speed and
one at a time. If two ignite together, well, what we have is the external
combustion engine.'
'And, er, what would be the purpose of it?' said the Patrician.
'I believe it could replace the horse,' said Leonard proudly.
They looked at the stricken thing.
'One of the advantages of horses that people often point out,' said
Vetinari, after some thought, 'is that they very seldom explode. Almost
never, in my experience, apart from that unfortunate occurrence in the hot
summer a few years ago.' With fastidious fingers he pulled something out of
the mess. It was a pair of cubes, made out of some soft white fur and linked
together by a piece of string. There were dots on them.
'Dice?' he said.
Leonard smiled in an embarrassed fashion. 'Yes. I can't think why I
thought they'd help it go better. It was just, well, an idea. You know how
it is.'
Lord Vetinari nodded. He knew how it was. Be knew how it was far more
than Leonard of Quirm did, which was why there was one key to the door and
he had it. Not that the man was a prisoner, except by dull, humdrum
standards. He appeared rather grateful to be confined in this light, airy
attic with as much wood, paper, sticks of charcoal and paint as he desired
and no rent or food bills to pay.
In any case, you couldn't really imprison someone like Leonard of
Quirm. The most you could do was lock up his body. The gods alone knew where
his mind went. And, although he had so much cleverness it leaked
continually, he couldn't tell you which way the political wind was blowing
even if you fitted him with sails.
Leonard's incredible brain sizzled away alarmingly, an overloaded chip
pan on the Stove of Life. It was impossible to know what he would think of
next, because he was constantly reprogrammed by the whole universe. The
sight of a waterfall or a soaring bird would send him spinning down some new
path of practical speculation that invariably ended in a heap of wire and
springs and a cry of 'I think I know what I did wrong.' He'd been a member
of most of the craft guilds in the city but had been thrown out for getting
impossibly high marks in the exams or, in some cases, correcting the
questions. It was said that he'd accidentally blown up the Alchemists' Guild
using nothing more than a glass of water, a spoonful of acid, two lengths of
wire and a pingpong ball.
Any sensible ruler would have killed off Leonard, and Lord Vetinari was
extremely sensible and often wondered why he had not done so. He'd decided
that it was because, imprisoned in the priceless, enquiring amber of
Leonard's massive mind, underneath A that bright investigative genius was a
kind of wilful innocence that might in lesser men be called stupidity. It
was the seat and soul of that force which, down the millennia, had caused
mankind to stick its fingers in the electric fight socket of the Universe
and play with the switch to see what happened - and then be very surprised
when it did.
It was, in short, something useful. And if the Patrician was anything,
he was the political equivalent of the old lady who saves bits of string
because you never know when they might come in handy.
After all, you couldn't plan for every eventuality, because that would
involve knowing what was going to happen, and if you knew what was going to
happen, you could probably see to it that it didn't, or at least happened to
someone else. So the Patrician never planned. Plans often got in the way.
And, finally, he kept Leonard around because the man was easy to talk
to. He never understood what Lord Vetinari was talking about, he had a world
view about as complex as that of a concussed duckling and, above all, never
really paid attention. This made him an excellent confidant. After all, when
you seek advice from someone it's certainly not because you want them to
give it. You just want them to be there while you talk to yourself.
'I've just made some tea.' said Leonard. 'Will you join me?'
He followed the Patrician's gaze to a brown stain all up one wall,
which ended in a star of molten metal in the plaster.
'I'm afraid the automatical tea engine went wrong,' he said. 'I shall
have to make it by hand.'
'So kind,' said Lord Vetinari.
He sat down amidst the easels and, while Leonard busied himself at the
fireplace, leafed through the latest sketches. Leonard sketched as
automatically as other people scratched; genius - a certain kind of genius -
fell off him like dandruff.
There was a picture of a man drawing, the lines catching the figure so
accurately it appeared to stand out of the paper. And around it, because
Leonard never wasted white space, were other sketches, scattered aimlessly.
A thumb. A bowl of flowers. A device, apparently, for sharpening pencils by
water power...
Vetinari found what he was looking for in the bottom lefthand corner,
sandwiched between a sketch for a new type of screw and a tool for opening
oysters. It, or something very much like it, was always there somewhere.
One of the things that made Leonard such a rare prize, and kept him
under such secure lock and key, was that he really didn't see any difference
between the thumb and the roses and the pencil-sharpener and this.
'Ah, the self-portrait,' said Leonard, returning with two cups.
'Yes, indeed,' said Vetinari. 'But my eye was drawn to this little
sketch here. The war machine...'
'Oh, that? A mere nothing. Have you ever noticed the way in which the
dew on roses-'
'This bit here... what is it for?' said Vetinari, pointing
persistently.
'Oh, that? That's just the throwing arm for the balls of molten
sulphur,' said Leonard, picking up a plate of small cakes. 'I calculate that
one should get a range of almost half a mile, if one detaches the endless
belt from the driving wheels and uses the oxen to wind the windlass.'
'Really?' said Vetinari, taking in the carefully numbered parts. 'And
it could be built?'
'What? Oh, yes. Macaroon? In theory.'
'In theory?'
'No-one would ever actually do it. Raining unquenchable fire down upon
fellow humans? Hah!' Leonard sprayed macaroon crumbs. 'You'd never find an
artisan to build it, or a soldier who would pull the lever... That's part
3(b) on the plan, just here, look. ..'
'Ah, yes,' said Vetinari. 'Anyway,' he added, 'I imagine these huge
power arms here couldn't possibly be operated without them breaking . . '
'Seasoned ash and yew, laminated and held together by special steel
bolts,' said Leonard promptly. 'I made a few calculations, just there below
the sketch of light on a raindrop. As an intellectual exercise, obviously.'
Vetinari ran his eye along several lines of Leonard's spidery
mirror-writing.
'Oh, yes,' he said glumly. He put the paper aside.
'Have I told you that the Klatchian situation is intensely political?
Prince Cadram is trying to do a great deal very fast. He needs to
consolidate his position. He is depending on support that is somewhat
volatile. There are many plotting against. him, I understand.'
'Really? Well, this is the sort of thing people do,' said Leonard.
'Incidentally, I've recently been examining cobwebs and, I know this will
interest you, their strength in relation to their weight is much greater
even than our best steel wire. Isn't that fascinating?'
'What kind of weapon do you intend to make out of them?' said the
Patrician.
'Sorry?'
'Oh, nothing. I was just thinking aloud.'
'And you haven't touched your tea,' said Leonard.
Vetinari looked around the room. It was full of... things. Tubes and
odd paper kites and things that looked like the skeletons of ancient beasts.
One of Leonard's saving graces, in a very real sense from Vetinari's point
of view, was his strange attention span. It wasn't that he soon got bored
with things. He didn't seem to get bored with anything. But since he was
interested in everything in the universe all the time the end result tended
to be that an experimental device for disembowelling people at a distance
then became a string-weaving machine and ended up as an instrument for
ascertaining the specific gravity of cheese.
He was as easily distracted as a kitten. All that business with the
flying machine, for example. Giant bat wings hung from the ceiling even now.
The Patrician had been more than happy to let him waste his time on that
idea, because it was obvious to anyone that no human being would ever be
able to flap the wings hard enough.
He needn't have worried. Leonard was his own distraction. He had ended
up spending ages designing a special tray so that people could eat their
meals in the air.
A truly innocent man. And yet always, always, some little part of him
would sketch these wretchedly beguiling engines, with their clouds of smoke
and carefully numbered engineering diagrams...
'What's this?' Vetinari said, pointing to yet another doodle. It showed
a man holding a large metal sphere.
'That? Oh, something of a toy, really. Makes use of the strange
properties of some otherwise quite useless metals. They don't like being
squeezed. So they go bang. With extreme alacrity.'
'Another weapon...'
'Certainly not, my lord! It would be no possible use as a weapon! I did
think it might have a place in the mining industries, though.'
'Really...'
'For when they need to move mountains out of the way.'
'Tell me,' Vetinari said, putting this paper aside as well, 'you don't
have any relatives in Klatch, do you?'
'I don't believe so. My family lived in Quirm for generations.'
'Oh. Good. But... very clever people in Klatch, are they?'
'Oh, in many disciplines they practically wrote the scroll. Fine
metalwork, for example.'
'Metalwork.. .' The Patrician sighed.
'And Alchemy, of course. Affir Al-chema's Principia Explosia has been
the seminal work for more than a hundred years.'
'Alchemy,' said the Patrician, glumly. 'Sulphur and so forth...'
'Yes, indeed.'
'But the way you put it, these major achievements were some
considerable time ago...' Lord Vetinari sounded like a man straining to see
a light at the end of the tunnel.
'Certainly! I would be astonished if they haven't made considerable
progress!' said Leonard of Quirm happily.
'Ah?' The Patrician sank a little in his chair. It had turned out that
the end of the tunnel was on fire.
'A splendid people with much to recommend them,' said Leonard. 'I
always thought it was the presence of the desert. It leads to an urgency of
thought. It makes you aware of the briefness of fife.'
The Patrician glanced at another page. Between a sketch of a bird's
wing and a careful drawing of a ball-joint was a little doodle of something
with spiked wheels and spinning blades. And then there was the device for
moving mountains aside...
'The desert is not required,' he said. He sighed again and pushed the
pages aside. 'Have you heard about the lost continent of Leshp?' he said.
'Oh, yes. I did some sketches there a few years ago,' said Leonard.
'Some interesting aspects, I recall. More tea? I fear you've let that one
get cold. Was there anything you particularly wanted?'
The Patrician pinched the bridge of his nose.
'I'm not sure. There is a small problem developing. I thought perhaps
you could help. Unfortunately,' the Patrician glanced at the sketches again,
'I suspect that you can.' He stood up, straightened his robe and forced a
smile. 'You have everything you require?'
'Some more wire would be nice,' said Leonard. 'And I have run out of
Burnt Umber.'
'I shall have some sent along directly,' said Vetinari. 'And now, if
you will excuse me-'
He let himself out.
Leonard nodded happily as he cleared away the teacups. The infernal
combustion engine was carried to the heap of scrap metal beside the small
forge, and he fetched a ladder and removed the piston from the ceiling.
He'd just opened out his easel to start work on a new design when he
was aware of a distant pattering. It sounded like someone running but also
occasionally pausing to hop sideways on one leg.
Then there was a pause, such as might be made by someone adjusting
their clothing and getting their breath back.
The door opened and the Patrician returned. He sat down and looked
carefully at Leonard of Quirm.
'You did what?' he said.
Vimes turned the clove over and over under the magnifying glass.
'I see tooth marks,' he said.
'Yes sir,' said Littlebottom, who represented in her entirety the
watch's forensic department. 'Looks like someone was chewing it like a
toothpick.'
Vimes sat back. 'I would say,' he said, 'that this was last touched by
a swarthy man of about my height. He had several gold teeth. And a beard.
And a slight cast in one eye. Scarred. He was carrying a large weapon.
Curved, I'd say. And you'd have to call what he was wearing a turban because
it wasn't moving fast enough to be a badger.'
Littlebottom looked astonished.
'Detectoring is like gambling,' said Vimes, putting down the dove. 'The
secret is to know the winner in advance. Thank you, corporal. Write down
that description and make sure everyone gets a copy, please. He goes by the
name of 71-hour Ahmed, heaven knows why. And then go and get some rest.'
Vimes turned to face Carrot and Angua, who had crammed into the tiny
little room, and nodded at the girl.
'I followed the clove smell all the way down to the docks,' she said.
'And then?'
'Then I lost it, sir.' Angua looked embarrassed. 'I didn't have any
trouble through the fish market, sir. Or in the slaughterhouse district. And
then it went into the spice market-'
'Ah. I see. And didn't come out again?'
'In a way, sir. Or came out going fifty different ways. Sorry.'
'Can't be helped. Carrot?'
'I did what you said, sir. The top of the Opera House is about the
right distance from our archery butts. I used a bow just like the one he
used, sir-'
Vimes raised a finger. Carrot stared, and then said slowly: like the
one you found next to him.. .'
,Right. And?'
'It's a Burleigh and Stronginthearm "Shureshotte Five", sir. A bow for
the expert. I'm not a great bowman but I could at least hit the target at
that elevation. But...'
'I'm ahead of you,' said Vimes. 'You're, a big lad, Carrot. Our late
Ossie had arms like Nobby. I could put my hand round them.'
'Yes, sir. It's a hundred-pound draw. I doubt if he could even pull the
string back.'
'I'd hate to watch him try. Good grief... the only thing he could be
sure of hitting with a bow like that would be his foot. By the way, do you
think anyone saw you up there?'
'I doubt it, sir. I was right in among the chimneys and the air vents.'
Vimes sighed. 'Captain, I expect if you'd done it in a cellar at
midnight his lordship would have said "Wasn't it rather dark down there?"
next morning.'
He took out the by now rather creased picture. There was Carrot - or at
least Carrot's arm and ear - as he ran towards the procession. And there,
among the people in the procession turning to look at him, was the face of
the Prince. There was no sign of 71-hour Ahmed. He'd been at the soiree,
hadn't he? But then there'd been all that milling around at the door, people
changing places, treading on one another's robes, nipping back to the privy,
walking into one another... He could have gone anywhere.
'And the Prince fell as you got to him? With the arrow in his back? He
was still facing you?'
'Yes, sir. I'm sure of that. Everyone else was milling around, of
course.. .'
'So he was shot in the back by a man in front of him who could not
possibly have used the bow that he didn't shoot him with from the wrong
direction. .
There was a tapping at the window.
'That'll be Downspout,' said Vimes, without looking round. 'I sent him
on an errand...'
Downspout never quite fitted in. It wasn't that he didn't get on with
people, because he hardly ever met people, except those whose activities
took them above, say, second-floor level. Constable
Downspout's beat was the rooftops. Very slowly. He'd come down for the
Watch's Hogswatch party and had poured gravy in his ears to show Willing,
but gargoyles got very nervy indoors at ground level and he had soon exited
via the chimney and his paper squeaker had echoed out forlornly amongst the
snowy rooftops all night.
But gargoyles were good at watching, and good at remembering, and very,
very good at being patient.
Vimes opened the window. Moving jerkily, Downspout unfolded himself
into the room and then quickly scrambled up on to a corner of Vimes's desk,
for the comfort that it brought.
Angua and Carrot stared at the arrow the gargoyle held in his hand.
'Ah, well done,' said Vimes, in the same even voice. 'Where did you
find it, Downspout?'
Downspout spluttered a series of guttural syllables only pronounceable
by someone with a mouth shaped like a pipe.
'In the wall on the second floor of the dress shop in the Plaza of
Broken Moons,' Carrot translated.
' 'eshk,' said Downspout.
'That's barely halfway to Sator Square, sir.'
'Yes,' said Vimes. 'A small weak man trying to pull a heavy bow, the
arrow wobbling all over the place... Thank you very much, Downspout. There
will be an extra pigeon for you this week.'
' 'nkorr,' said Downspout, and clambered back out of the window.
'Excuse me, sir?' said Angua. She took the arrow from Vimes and,
closing her eyes, sniffed at it gingerly.
'Oh, yes... Ossie,' she said. 'All over it . .
'Thank you, corporal. It's as well to be sure.'
Carrot took the arrow from the werewolf and looked at it critically.
'Huh. Peacock feathers and a plated point. It's the sort of thing an amateur
buys because he thinks it'll magically improve his shot. Showy.'
'Right,' said Vimes. 'You, Carrot, and you, Angua... you're on the
case.'
'Sir, I don't understand,' said Carrot. 'I am perplexed. I thought you
said Fred and Nobby were investigating this?'
'Yes,' said Vimes.
'But-'
'Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs are investigating why the late Ossie
tried to kill the Prince. And do you know what? They're going to find lots
of clues. I just know it. I can feel it in my water.'
'But we know he couldn't-' said Carrot.
'Isn't this fun?' said Vimes. 'I don't want you to get in Fred's way.
Just... ask around. Try Done It Duncan, Or Sidney Lopsides, hah, there's a
man with his ear to the ground all right. Or the Agony Aunts, or Lily
Goodtime. Or Mr Slider, haven't seen him around for a while, but-'
'He's dead, sir,' said Carrot.
'What, Smelly Slider? When?'
'Last month, sir. He got hit by a falling bedstead. Freak accident,
sir.'
'No-one told me.'
'You were busy, sir. But you put some money in the envelope when Fred
brought it round, sir. Ten dollars, which Fred remarked was very generous.'
Vimes sighed. Oh, yes, the envelopes. Fred was always wandering around
with an envelope these days. Someone was always leaving, or some friend of
the Watch was in trouble, or there was a raffle, or the
tea money was low again, or some complicated explanation... so Vimes
just put some money in. Simplest way.
Old Smelly Slider...
'You should've mentioned it,' he said reproachfully.
'You've been working hard, sir.'
'Any other street news you haven't mentioned, captain?'
'Not that I can think of, sir.'
'All right. Well... see which way the wind is blowing. Very carefully.
And - trust no-one.'
Carrot looked worried.
'Er... I can trust Angua, can't I?' he said.
'Well, of course you--'
'And you, presumably.'
'Me, well, obviously. That goes without say-'
'Corporal Littlebottom? She can be very helpful-'
'Cheery, yes, certainly you can trust-'
'Sergeant Detritus? I always thought he was very trust--'
'Detritus, oh yes, he-'
'Nobby? Should I-'
'Carrot, I understand what he means,' said Angua, tugging his arm.
Carrot looked a little crestfallen. 'I've never liked... you know,
underhand things,' he mumbled.
'I don't want any written reports,' said Vimes, grateful for that small
mercy. 'This is... unofficial. But officially unofficial, if you see what I
mean.'
Angua nodded. Carrot just stayed looking dismal.
She's a werewolf, thought Vimes, of course she understands. And you'd
think a man who is technically a dwarf'd be able to fold his head around the
idea of subterfuge.
'Look, just... listen to the streets,' said Vimes. 'The
streets know everything. Talk to... Blind Hugh-'
'I'm afraid he passed away last month,' said Carrot.
'Did he? No-one told me!'
'I thought I sent you a memo, sir.'
Vimes glanced guiltily at his overloaded desk, and then shrugged.
'Have a quiet look at things. Get to the bottom of things. And trust
no- Trust practically no-one. All right? Except trustworthy people.'
'Come on, open up! Watch business!'
Corporal Nobbs pulled at Sergeant Colon's sleeve and whispered in his
ear.
'Not Watch business!' said Colon, pounding the door again. 'Nothing to
do with the Watch at all! We are just civilians, all right?'
The door opened a crack.
'Yes?' said a voice that counted its small change.
'We have to ask you some questions, missus.'
'Are you the Watch?' said the voice.
'No! I think I just made that clear-
'Piss ...
