Terry Pratchett. Jingo
страница №5
...window, like this:A cart squeaked along the wet street. Its progress was erratic because
no two of its wheels were the same size, so it rocked and wobbled and
skidded and probably involved more effort to pull than it saved overall,
especially since its contents appeared to be rubbish. But then, so did its
owner.
Who was about the size of a man, but bent almost double, and was
covered with hair or rags or quite possibly a matted mixture of both that
was so felted and unwashed that small plants had taken root on it. If the
thing had stopped walking and crouched down, it would have given an
astonishingly good impression of a long-neglected compost heap. As it walked
along, it snuffled.
A foot was stuck out to impede its progress.
'Good evening, Stoolie,' said Carrot as the cart halted.
The heap stopped. Part of it tilted upwards.
'Geroff,' it muttered, from somewhere in the thatch.
'Now, now, Stoolie, let's help one another, shall we? You help me, and
I'll help you.'
'B'g'r'ff, c'p'r.'
'Well, you tell me things I want to know,' said Carrot, 'and I won't
search your cart.'
'I hate gnolls,' said Angua. 'They smell awful.'
'Oh, that's hardly fair. The stressed be a lot dirtier without you and
yours, eh, Stoolie?' said Carrot, still speaking quite pleasantly. 'You pick
up this, you pick up that, maybe bash it against a wall until it stops
struggling-'
' 's a vile acur'cy,' said the gnoll. There was a bubbling noise that
might have been a chuckle.
'So I'm hearing you might know where Snowy Slopes is these days,' said
Carrot.
'D'nno n'thin'.'
'Fine.' Carrot produced a three-tined garden fork and walked round to
the cart, which dripped.
'D'nno n'thin' ab't-' said the gnoll quickly.
'Yes?' said Carrot, fork poised.
'D'nno n'thin' ab't t' sweetsp'p'n M'ney Tr'p L'ne.'
'The one with the Rooms To Let sign?'
'R't.'
'Well done. Thank you for being a good citizen,' said Carrot.
'Incidentally, we passed a dead seagull the way here. Its in Brewer Street.
I bet if you hurried you could beat the rush.'
'H't d'gg'ty,' snuffled the gnoll. The cart started to judder forward.
The watchmen watched it lurch and scrape around the corner.
'They're good fellows at heart,' said Carrot. 'I think it says a lot
for the spirit of tolerance in this city that even gnolls can call it home.'
'They turn my stomach,' said Angua, as they set off again. [.'That one
had plants growing on him!'
'Mr Vimes says we ought to do something for them,' said Carrot.
'All heart, that man.'
'With a flamethrower, he says.'
'Wouldn't work. Too soggy. Has anyone ever really found out what they
eat?'
'It's better to think of them as... cleaners. You certainly don't see
as much rubbish and dead animals on the streets as you used to.'
'Yes, but have you ever seen a gnoll with a brush and shovel?'
'Well, that's society for you, I'm afraid,' said Carrot. 'Everything is
dumped on the people below until you find someone who's prepared to eat it.
That's what Mr Vimes says.'
'Yes,' said Angua. They walked in silence for a while, and then she
said. 'You care a lot about what Mr Vimes says, don't you... ?'
'He is a fine officer and an example to us all.'
'And... you've never thought of getting a job in Quirm or somewhere,
have you? The other cities are headhunting Ankh-Morpork watchmen now.'
'What, leave Ankh-Morpork?' The tone of voice included the answer.
'No... I suppose not,' said Angua sadly.
'Anyway, I don't know what Mr Vimes would do without me running around
all the time.'
'It's a point of view, certainly,' said Angua.
It wasn't far to Money Trap Lane. It was in a ghetto of what Lord Rust
would probably call 'skilled artisans', the people too low down the social
scale to be movers and shakers but slightly too high to be easily moved or
shook. The sanders and polishers, generally.
The people who hadn't got very much but were proud even of that. There
were little clues. Shiny house numbers, for a start. And, on the walls of
houses that were effectively just one long continuous row, after centuries
of building and inbuilding, very careful boundaries in the paint where
people had brushed up to the very border of their property and not a gnat's
blink to each side. Carrot always said it showed the people were the kind
who instinctively realized that civilization was based on a shared respect
for ownership; Angua thought they were just tight little bastards who'd sell
you the time of day.
Carrot walked noiselessly down the alley beside the sweetshop. There
was a rough wooden staircase going up to the first floor. He pointed
silently to the midden below it.
It seemed to consist almost entirely of bottles.
'Big drinker?' Angua mouthed. Carrot shook his head.
She crouched down and looked at the labels, but her nose was already
giving her a hint. Dibbler's Homeopathic Shampoo. Mere and Stingbat's Herbal
Wash - with Herbs! Rinse 'n' Run Scalp Tonic - with Extra Herbs!...
There were others. Herbs, she thought. Chuck a handful of weeds in the
pot and you've got herbs...
Carrot was starting up the stairs when she put her hand on his
shoulder. There was another smell. It was one that drove through all the
other scents of the streets like a spear. It was one that a werewolf's nose
is particularly attuned to.
He nodded and went carefully to the door. Then he pointed down. There
was a stain under the gap.
Carrot drew his sword and kicked the door open.
Daceyville Slopes hadn't taken his condition lightly.
Bottles of all shapes and colours occupied most flat surfaces, giving
testimony to the alchemist's art and humanity's optimism.
The suds of his latest experiment were still in a bowl on the table,
and his body on the floor had a towel around his neck. The watchmen looked
down at it. Snowy had cleaned, washed and gone.
'I think we can say life is extinct,' said Carrot.
'Yuk,' said Angua. She grabbed the open shampoo bottle and sniffed
deeply. The sickly scent of marinated herbs assailed her sinuses, but
anything was better than the sharp, beguiling smell of blood.
'I wonder where his head is at?' said Carrot, in a determinedly
matter-of-fact voice. 'Oh, it's rolled over there... What's the horrible
smell?'
'This!' Angua flourished the shampoo. 'Four dollars a bottle, it says.
Sheesh!'
Angua took another deep sniff at the herbal goo, to drown out the call
of the wolf.
'Doesn't look as if they stole anything,' said Carrot. 'Unless they
were very neat- What's the matter?'
'Don't ask!'
She managed to get a window open and sucked down great draughts of
comparatively fresh air, while Carrot went through the corpse's pockets.
'Er... you can't tell if there's a clove around, can you?' he said.
'Carrot! Please! This is a room with blood all over the floor! Have you
any idea? Excuse me...'
She rushed out and down the steps. The alley had the generic smell of
all alleys everywhere, overlaid on the basic all-embracing smell of the
city. But at least it didn't make your hair grow and your teeth try to
lengthen. She leaned against the wall and fought for control. Shampoo? She
could have saved Snowy a hell of a lot of money with just one careful bite.
Then he'd know all about a really bad hair day...
Carrot came down a couple of minutes later, locking the door behind
him.
'Are you feeling better?'
'A bit. ..'
'There was something else,' said Carrot, looking thoughtful. 'I think
he wrote a note before he died. But it's all rather odd.' He waved in the
air what looked like a cheap notepad. 'This needs careful looking at.' He
shook his head. 'Poor old Snowy.'
'He was a killer!'
'Yes, but that's a nasty way to die.'
'Decapitation? With a very sharp sword, by the look of it. I can think
of worse.'
'Yes, but I can't help thinking that if only the chap had better hair
or had found the right shampoo at an early age he'd have led a different
life...'
'Well, at least he won't have to worry about dandruff any more.'
'That was a little tasteless.'
'Sorry, but you know how blood makes me, tense.'
'Your hair always looks amazing,' said Carrot, changing the subject
with, Angua thought, unusual tact. 'I don't know what you use, but it's a
shame he never tried it.'
'I doubt if he went to the right shop,' said Angua. 'It says "For a
Glossy Coat" on the bottles I usually buy- What's the matter?'
'Can you smell smoke?' said Carrot.
'Carrot, it's going to be five minutes before I can smell anything
except-'
But he was staring past her, at the big red glow in the sky.
Vimes coughed. And then coughed some more. And eventually opened his
streaming eyes in the confident expectation of seeing his own lungs in front
of him.
'Class of water, Mr Vimes?'
Vimes peered through the tears at the shifting shape of Fred Colon.
'Thanks, Fred. What's the horrible burning smell?'
'It's you, sir.'
Vimes was sitting on a low wall outside the wreck of the embassy. Cool
air washed around him. He felt like underdone beef. The heat was radiating
off him.
'You was passed on for a while there, sir,' said Sergeant Colon
helpfully. 'But everyone saw you swing in that window, sir! And you threw
that woman out for Detritus to catch! That'll be a feather in your cap and
no mistake, sir! I bet the ragh- I bet the Klatchians'll be giving you the
Order of the Camel or something for this night's work, sir!' Colon beamed,
bursting with pride by association.
'A feather in my cap...' murmured Vimes. He undid his helmet and with a
certain amount of exhausted delight saw that every single plume had been
burned to a stub.
He blinked slowly.
'What about the man, Fred? Did he get out?'
'What man?'
'There was.. .' Vimes blinked again. Various parts of his body, aware
that he hadn't been taking calls, were ringing in to complain.
There had been... some man? Vimes had landed on a bed of something, and
there was a woman clutching at him, and he had smashed out what was left of
the window, seen the big, broad and above all strong arms of Detritus down
below, and had thrown her out as politely as the circumstances allowed. Then
the man from the roof had come out of the smoke again, carrying another
figure over his shoulder, screamed something at him and beckoned him to
follow and...
...then the floor had given way...
'There were... two other people in there,' he said, coughing again.
'They didn't get out the front way, then,' said Colon.
'How did I get out?' said Vimes.
'Oh, Dorfl was stamping on the fire down below, sir. Very handy, a
ceramic constable. You landed right on him, so of course he stopped what he
was doing and brought you out. 's gonna be handshakes and buns all round in
the morning, sir!'
There weren't any right now, Vimes noted There were still plenty of
people around, carrying bundles, putting out small fires, arguing with one
another... but there was a big hole where
congratulating-the-hero-of-the-hour should have been.
'Oh, everyone's always a bit preoccupied after something like this,
sir,' said Colon, as if reading his thoughts.
'I think I'll have a nice cold bath,' said Vimes, to the world in
general. 'And then some sleep. Sybil's got some wonderful ointment for
burns... Ah, hello, you two.'
'We saw the fire-' Carrot began, running up. 'Is it all over?'
'Mr Vimes saved the day!' said Sergeant Colon excitedly. 'Just went
straight in and saved everyone, in the finest tradition of the Watch!'
'Fred?' said Vimes, wearily.
'Yessir?'
'Fred, the finest tradition of the Watch is having a quiet smoke
somewhere out of the wind at 3 a.m. Let's not get carried away, eh?'
Colon looked crestfallen. 'Well-' He began.
Vimes staggered to his feet and patted his sergeant on the back
'Oh, all right, it's a tradition,' he conceded. 'You can do the next
one, Fred. And now,' he steadied himself as he stood up, 'I'm going down to
the Yard to write my report.'
'You're covered in ash and you're swaying,' said Carrot. 'I should just
get on home, sir.'
'Oh no,' said Vimes. 'Got to do the paperwork. Anyone know the time?'
'Bingeley-bingeley beep!' said a cheerful voice from his pocket.
'Damn!' said Vimes, but it was too late.
'It is,' said the voice, which had the squeaky friendly quality that
begs to be strangled, 'about... nineish.'
'Nineish?'
'Yep. Nineish. Precisely about nineish.'
Vimes rolled his eyes. 'Precisely about nineish?' he said, pulling a
small box out of his pocket and opening the lid. The demon inside gave him
an angry look.
'Yesterday you said,' it said, 'that if I, and I quote, Didn't Stop all
that Eight Fifty-Six and Six Seconds Precisely business I Would Be Looking
at a Hammer From Below. And when I said, Mr Insert Name Here, that this
would invalidate my warranty, you said that I could take my warranty and-'
'I thought you'd lost that thing,' said Carrot.
'Hah,' said the Dis-organizer, 'really? You thought he did? I don't
call putting something in your trouser pockets just before they go into the
wash losing it.'
'That was an accident,' muttered Vimes.
'Oh? Oh? And dropping me in the dragon's feeding bowl, that was
accidental too, was it?' The demon mumbled to itself for a moment and then
said, 'Anyway, do you want to know your appointments for this evening?'
Vimes looked at the smouldering wreckage of the embassy.
'Do tell,' he said.
'You don't have any,' said the demon sulkily. 'You haven't told me
any.'
'You see?' said Vimes. 'That's what drives me lived! Why should I have
to tell you? Why didn't you tell me, ' 'Eightish: break up riot at Mundane
Meals and stop Detritus shooting people," eh?'
'You didn't tell me to tell you!'
'I didn't know! And that's how real life works! How can I tell you to
warn me about things that no-one knows are going to happen? If you were any
good, that'd be your job!'
'He writes in the manual,' said the demon nastily. 'Did you know that,
everybody? He writes in the manual.'
'Well, of course I make notes-'
'He's actually sneakily trying to keep his diary in the manual so his
wife won't find out he's never bothered to learn how to use me,' said the
demon.
'What about the Vimes manual, then?' snapped Vimes. 'I notice you've
never bothered to learn how to use me!'
The demon hesitated. 'Humans come with a manual?' it said.
'It'd be a damn good idea!' said Vimes.
'True,' murmured Angua.
'It could say things like "Chapter One: Bingeley-bingeley beep and
other damn fool things to spring on people at six in the morning," ' said
Vimes, his eyes wild. 'And "Toubleshooting: my owner keeps trying to drop me
in the privy, what am I doing wrong?" And-'
Carrot patted him gently on the back. 'I should sign off now, sir,' he
said gently. 'It's been a busy few days.'
Vimes rubbed his forehead. 'I daresay I could do with a rest,' he said.
'Come on, there's nothing more to see here. Let's go home.'
'I thought you said you weren't going--' Carrot began, but Vimes's mind
was already scolding him.
'I meant the Yard, of course,' he said. 'I'll go home afterwards.'
A ball of lamplight floated through the Ramkin library, drifting across
the shelves of huge, leatherbound books.
Many of them had never been read, Sybil knew. Various ancestors had
simply ordered them from the engravers and put them on the shelves, because
a library was something you had to have, don'tcherknow, like a stableyard
and a servants' wing and some ghastly landscaping mistake created by 'Bloody
Stupid' Johnson, although in the latter case her grandfather had shot the
man before he could do any real damage.
She held the lamp higher.
Ramkins looked down their noses at her from their frames, through the
brown varnish of the centuries. Portraits were another thing that had been
collected out of unregarded habit.
Most of them were of men. They were invariably in armour and always on
horseback. And every single
one of them had fought the sworn enemies of AnkhMorpork.
In recent times this had been quite difficult and her grandfather, for
example, had to lead an expedition all the way to Howondaland in order to
find some sworn enemies, although there was an adequate supply and a lot of
swearing by the time he left. Earlier, of course, it had been a lot easier.
Ramkin regiments had fought the city's enemies all over the Sto Plains and
had inflicted heroic casualties, quite often on people in the opposing
armies.[8]
There were a few women among the sitters, none of them holding anything
heavier than a glove or a small pet dragon. Their job had largely been to
roll bandages and await the return of their husbands with, she liked to
think, resolution and fortitude and a general hope that said husbands would
return with as many of their bits as possible.
The point was, though, that they never thought about it. There was a
war, and off they went. If there wasn't a war, they looked for one. They
didn't even use words like 'duty'. It was all built in at bone level.
She sighed. It was all so difficult these days, and Lady Sybil came
from a class that was not used to difficulty, or at least the kind that
couldn't be sorted out by shouting at a servant. Five hundred years ago one
of her ancestors had cut off a Klatchian's head in baffle and had brought it
home on a pole, and no-one thought any the worse of him, given what the
Klatchians would have cut off if they'd caught him. That seemed
straightforward. You fought them, they fought you, everyone knew the rules,
and if you got your head cut off you jolly well didn't blub about it
afterwards.
Certainly, things were better now. But they were just... more
difficult.
And of course some of those antique husbands were away for months or
years at a time, and for them wives and families were pretty much like the
library and stableyard and the Johnson Exploding Pagoda. You got them sorted
out and then didn't think much about it. At least Sam was home every day.
Well, most days. Every night, anyway.
Well... part of most nights, certainly.
At least they ate meals together.
Well, most meals.
Well, at least they made a start on most meals.
Well, at least she knew he was never very far away, just somewhere
where he was trying to do too much and run too fast and people were trying
to kill him.
All in all, she considered, she was jolly lucky.
Vimes stared at Carrot, who was standing in front of his desk.
'So what does all that add up to?' he said. 'The man we know didn't get
the Prince is dead. The man who probably did... is dead. Someone tried very
clumsily to make it look as if Ossie was paid by the Klatchians. OK, I can
see why someone might want to do that. That's what Fred calls politics. They
get Snowy to do the real business, and he helps poor dumb Ossie who's there
to take the fall, and then the Watch proves that Ossie was in the pay of the
Klatchians and that's another reason for fighting. And Snowy just slopes
off. Only someone cured his dandruff for him.'
'After he'd written something, sir,' said Carrot.
'Ah... yes.'
Vimes looked at the notepad retrieved from Snowy's room. It was a crude
affair, the wads of mismatched bits of scrap that the engravers sold off
cheaply. He sniffed at it.
'Soap on the edges,' he said.
'His new shampoo,' said Carrot. 'First time he'd used it.'
'How do you know?'
'We looked at all the bottles on the heap, sir.'
'Hmm. Looks like fresh blood here, at the spine, where they're stitched
together..
'His, sir,' said Angua.
Vimes nodded. You never argued with Angua about blood.
'But none of the actual pages have blood on them... said Vimes. 'Which
is a bit odd. Messy business, decapitation. People tend to... spray. So the
top page-'
'-has been taken away, sir,' said Carrot, grinning and nodding. 'But
that's not the funny part, sir. See if you can guess, sir!'
Vimes glared at him and then moved the lamp closer. 'Very faint
impression of writing on. the top page...' he muttered. 'Can't make it
out...'
'We can't either, sir. We know he wrote in pencil, sir. There was one
on the table.'
'Very faint traces,' said Vimes. 'Blokes like Snowy write as though
they're chipping stone.' He flicked the notebook. 'Someone tore out... not
just the page he'd written on but several below it as well.'
'Clever, eh, sir? Everyone knows-'
'-you can read the suspicious note by looking at the marks on the page
below,' said Vimes. He tossed the book on to the table again. 'Hmm. There's
a message there, yes...'
'Perhaps he was blackmailing whoever's behind all this?' said Angua.
'That's not his style,' said Vimes. 'No, what I meant was--'
There was a knock on the door, and Fred Colon entered.
'Brung you a mug of coffee,' he said, 'and there's a bunch of wo-
Klatchians to see you downstairs, Mr Vimes. Probably come to give you a
medal and gabble at you in their lingo. And if you're on for late supper,
Mrs Goriffs doing goat and rice and foreign gravy.'
'I suppose I'd better go down and see them,' said Vimes. 'But I haven't
even had time for a wash-'
'That's evidence of your heroic endeavours,' said Colon stoutly.
'Oh, all right.'
Unease began about halfway down the stairs. Vimes had never run into a
group of citizens wishing to give him a medal and so he did not have a lot
of experience on this score, but the group waiting for him in a tight
cluster near the sergeant's desk did not look like a committee of welcome.
They were Klatchian. At least, they were wearing foreign- looking
clothes and one or two of them had caught more sun than you generally got in
Ankh-Morpork. The feeling crept over Vimes that Klatch was a very big place
in which his city and the whole of the Sto Plains would be lost, and so
there must be room in it for all kinds of peoples, including this short chap
in the red fez who was practically vibrating with indignation.
'Are you the man Vimes?' the enfezzed one demanded.
'Well, I'm Commander Vimes-'
'We demand the release of the Goriff family! And we won't take any
excuses!'
Vimes blinked. 'Release?'
'You have locked them up! And confiscated their shop!'
Vimes stared at the man, and then he looked across the room at Sergeant
Detritus.
'Where did you put the family, sergeant?'
Detritus saluted. 'In der cells, sir.'
'Aha!' said the man in the fez. 'You admit it!'
'Excuse me, who are you?' said Vimes, blinking with tiredness.
'I don't have to tell you and you can't beat it out of me!' said the
man, sticking out his chest.
'Oh, thank you for telling me,' said Vimes. 'I do hate wasted effort.'
'Oh, hello, Mr Wazir,' said Carrot, appearing behind Vimes. 'Did you
get the note about that book?'
There was one of those silences that happen when everyone has to
reprogramme their faces.
Then Vimes said, 'What?'
'Mr Wazir sells books in Widdy Street,' said Carrot. 'Only I asked him
for some books on Klatch, you see, and one of the ones he gave me was The
Perfumed Allotment, or, The Garden of Delights. And I didn't mind because
the Klatchians invented gardens, sir, so I thought it might be a very useful
cultural insight. Get inside the Klatchian mind, as it were. Only it, er,
it... er... well, it wasn't about gardening... er...' He started to blush.
'Yes, yes, all right, bring it back if you like,' said Mr Wazir,
looking a little derailed.
'I just thought you ought to know in case you hadn't... in case you
sold... well... it could shock the impressionable, you know, a book like
that...'
'Yes, fine-'
'Corporal Angua was so shocked she couldn't stop laughing.' Carrot went
on.
I will have your money sent round directly,' said Wazir. His expression
turned vengeful again. He glared at Vimes.
'Books are unimportant at this time! We demand you release my
countrymen now!'
'Detritus, why the hell did you put them in the cells?' said Vimes
wearily.
'What else we got, sir? Dey're not locked in and dey got dean
blankets.'
'There's your explanation,' said Vimes. 'They're our guests.'
'In the cells!' said Wazir, relishing the word.
'They're free to go whenever they like,' said Vimes.
'I'm sure they are now,' said Wazir, contriving to indicate that only
his arrival had prevented officially sanctioned bloodshed. 'You can be sure
the Patrician will hear about this!'
'He hears about everything else,' said Vimes. 'But if they leave here,
who is going to protect them?'
'We are! Their fellow countrymen!'
'How?'
Wazir almost stood to attention. 'By force of arms, if necessary.'
'Oh, good,' said Vimes. 'Then there'll be two mobs-'
'Bingeley-bingeley beep!'
'Damn!' Vimes slapped at his pocket. 'I don't want to know I haven't
got any appointments!'
'You have one at eleven pee em. The Rats Chamber, at the palace,' said
the Dis-organizer.
'Don't be stupid!'
'Please yourself.'
'And shut up.'
'I was just trying to help.'
'Shut up.' Vimes turned back to the Klatchian bookseller.
'Mr Wazir, if Goriff wants to leave with you, we won't stop him-'
'Aha! You may well try!'
Vimes told himself that there was no reason at all why a Klatchian
couldn't be a pompous little troublemaker. But he felt uneasy about it, like
a man edging along the side of a very deep crevasse.
'Sergeant Colon?'
'Yessir?'
'See to this, will you?'
'Yessir!'
'Diplomatically.'
'Right, sir!' Colon tapped the side of his nose. 'Is this politics,
sir?'
'Just... just go and fetch the Goriff family and they can...' Vimes
waved a hand vaguely. 'They can do whatever they like.'
He turned and walked up the stairs.
'Someone has to protect my people's rights!' shouted Wazir.
They heard Vimes stop halfway up the stairs. The board creaked under
his weight for a second. Then he continued upwards, and several of the
watchmen started breathing again.
Vimes shut his office door behind him.
Politics! He sat down and scrabbled through the papers. It was much
easier to think about crime. Give him good honest-crime any time.
He tried to shut out the outside world.
Someone had beheaded Snowy Slopes. That was a fact. You couldn't put it
down to a shaving accident, or unreasonably strong shampoo.
And Snowy had attempted to shoot the Prince.
And so had Ossie, but Ossie only thought he was an assassin. Everyone
else thought he was a weird little twerp who was as impressionable as wet
clay.
A lovely idea, though. You used a real murderer, a nice quite
professional, and then you had - Vimes smiled grimly - someone else to take
the fall. And if he hadn't taken a less metaphorical fall the poor twisted
little sod would have believed he was the murderer.
And the Watch was supposed to believe it was a Klatchian plot.
Sand in their sandals... The nerve of it! Did they think he was stupid?
He wished Fred had carefully swept up the sand, because he was damn well
going to find out who'd put it there and they were going to eat it. Someone
wanted Vimes to chase Klatchians.
The man on the burning roof. Did he fit in? Did he have to fit in? What
could Vimes recall? A man in a robe, his face hidden. And a voice of a man
not just used to giving commands - Vimes was used to giving commands - but
also used to having commands obeyed, whereas a member of the Watch treated
orders as suggestions.
But some things didn't have to fit. That was where 'clues' let you
down. And the damn notebook. That was the oddest thing yet. So someone had
carefully ripped out several pages after Snowy had written whatever he'd
written. Someone bright enough to know the trick of looking at the pages
underneath for faint impressions.
So why not pinch the whole pad?
It was all too complicated. But somewhere was the one thing that'd make
it simple, that would turn it all into sense-
He flung down his pencil and wrenched open the door to the stairs.
'What the hells all this noise?' he yelled.
'Sergeant Colon was halfway up the stairs.
'It was Mr Goriff and Mr Wazir having a bit of what you might call an
argy-bargy, sir. Someone set fire to someone else's country two hundred
years ago, Carrot says.'
'What, just now?'
' 's all Klatchian to me, sir. Anyway, Wazir's gone off with his nose
in a sling.'
'Wazir comes from Smale, you see,' said Carrot. 'And Mr Goriff comes
from Elharib, and the two countries only stopped fighting ten years ago.
Religious differences.'
'Run out of weapons?' said Vimes.
'Ran out of rocks, sir. They ran out of weapons last century.'
Vimes shook his head. 'That always chews me up,' he said. 'People
killing one another just because their gods have squabbled-'
'Oh, they've got the same god, sir. Apparently it's over a word in
their holy book, sir. The Elharibians say it translates as "god" and the
Smalies say it's ''man".'
'How can you mix them up?'
'Well, there's only one tiny dot difference in the script, you see. And
some people reckon it's only a bit of fly dirt m any case.'
'Centuries of war because a fly crapped in the wrong place?'
'It could have been worse,' said Carrot. 'If it had been slightly to
the left the word would have been "liquorice".'
Vimes shook his head. Carrot was good at picking up this sort of thing.
And I know how to ask for vindaloo, he thought. And it turns out that's just
a Klatchian word meaning 'mouth-scalding gristle for macho foreign idiots'.
'I wish we understood more about Klatch,' he said.
'Sergeant Colon tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.
'Know the enemy, eh, sir?' he said.
'Oh, I know the enemy,' said Vimes. 'It's Klatchians I want to find out
about.'
'Commander Vimes?'
The watchmen looked round. Vimes narrowed his eyes.
'You're one of Rust's men, aren't you?'
The young man saluted.
'Lieutenant Hornett, sir.' He hesitated. 'Er... his lordship has sent
me to ask you if you and your senior officers would be so good as to come to
the palace at your convenience, sir.'
'Really? Those were his words?'
The lieutenant decided that honesty was the only policy.
'In fact he said, "Get Vimes and his mob up here right now," sir.'
'Oh, did he?' said Vimes.
'Bingeley-bingeley beep!' said a small triumphant voice from his
pocket. 'The time is eleven pee em precisely!'
The door opened before Nobby knocked, and a small stout woman glared
out at him.
'Yes, I am!' she snapped.
Nobby stood with his hand still raised. 'Er... are you Mrs Cake?' he
said.
'Yes, but I don't hold with doing it except for money.
Nobby's hand did not move.
'Er... you can tell the future, right?' said Nobby.
They stared at one another. Then Mrs Cake thumped her own ear a couple
of times, and blinked.
'Drat! Left my precognition on again.' Her gaze unfocused for a moment
as she replayed the recent conversation in the privacy of her head.
'I think we're sorted out,' she said. She looked at Nobby and sniffed.
'You'd better come in. Mind the carpet, it's just been washed. And I can
only give you ten minutes 'cos I've got cabbage boilin'.'
She led Corporal Nobbs into her tiny front room. A lot of it was
occupied by a round table covered with a green cloth. There was a crystal
ball on the table, not very well covered by a pink knitted lady in a
crinoline dress.
Mrs Cake motioned Nobby to sit down. He obediently did so. The smell of
cabbage drifted through the room.
'A bloke in the pub told me about you,' Nobby mumbled. 'Said you do
mediuming.'
'Would you care to tell me your problem?' said Mrs Cake. She looked at
Nobby again and, in a state of certainty that had nothing to do with
precognition and everything to do with observation, added: 'That is, which
of your problems do you want to know about?'
Nobby coughed. 'Er... it's a bit... you know... intimate. Affairs of
the heart, sort of thing.'
'Are women involved?' said Mrs Cake cautiously.
'Er... I hope so. What else is there?'
Mrs Cake visibly relaxed.
'I just want to know if I'm going to meet any,' Nobby went on.
'I see.' Mrs Cake gave a kind of facial shrug. It wasn't up to her to
tell people how to waste their money. 'Well, there's the tenpenny future.
That's what you see. And there's the ten-dollar future. That's what you
get.'
'Ten dollars? That's more'n a weeks pay! I'd better take the tenpenny
one.'
'A very wise choice,' said Mrs Cake. 'Give me your paw.'
'Hand,' said Nobby.
'That's what I said.'
Mrs Cake examined Nobby's outstretched palm while taking care not to
touch it.
'Are you going to moan and roll your eyes and stuff?' said Nobby, a man
out to get his tenpenn'orth.
'I don't have to take cheek,' said Mrs Cake, without looking up. 'That
sort of--'
She peered closer, and then gave Nobby a sharp look.
'Have you been playing with this hand?'
'Pardon?'
Mrs Cake whipped the crinoline lady off the crystal and glared into the
depths. After a while she shook her head.
'I don't know, I'm sure... oh, well.' She cleared her throat and spoke
in a more sibyllic voice. 'Mr Nobbs, I see you surrounded by dusky ladies in
a hot place. Looks a bit foreign to me. They're laughing and chatting with
you... in fact, one of them's just handed you a drink...'
'None of 'ern are shouting or anything?' said Nobby, mystified.
'Doesn't look like it,' said Mrs Cake, equally fascinated. 'They seem
quite happy.'
'You can't see any... magnets?'
'What're they?'
'Dunno,' Nobby admitted. 'I 'spect you'd know 'em if you saw 'em.'
Mrs Cake, despite a certain rigidity of character, couldn't help but be
aware of a drift in Nobby's speculation.
'Some of the ladies look... nubile,' she hinted.
'Ah, right,' said Nobby, his expression not changing in any way.
'If you understand what I mean...'
'Right. Yes. Nubile. Right.'
Mrs Cake gave up. Nobby counted out ten pennies.
'And that'll be soon, will it?' said Nobby.
'Oh yes. I can't see very far for tenpence.'
'Happy young ladies...' mused Nobby. 'Nubile, too. Definitely something
to think about.'
After he'd gone, Mrs Cake went back to her crystal and sneaked a whole
ten dollars' worth of precognition for her own curiosity and satisfaction,
and laughed about it all afternoon.
Vimes was only half surprised when the doors to the Rats Chamber opened
and there, sitting at the head of the table, was Lord Rust. The Patrician
wasn't there.
He was half surprised. That is, at a certain shallow level he thought,
that's odd, I thought you couldn't budge the man with a siege weapon. But at
a dark level, where the daylight seldom penetrated, he thought: of course.
At a time like this men like Rust rise to the top. It's like stirring a
swamp with a stick. Really
big bubbles are suddenly on the surface and there's a bad smell about
everything. Nevertheless, he saluted and said:
'Lord Vetinari on his holidays, then?'
'Lord Vetinari stepped down this evening, Vimes,' said Lord Rust. 'Pro
tem, of course. Just for the duration of the emergency.'
'Really?' said Vimes.
'Yes. And I have to say that he anticipated a certain... cynicism on
your part, commander, and therefore asked me to give you this letter. You
will see that it is sealed with his seal.'
Vimes looked at the envelope. There was certainly the official seal in
the wax, but-
He met Lord Rust's gaze and at least that suspicion faded. Rust
wouldn't try a trick like that. Men like Rust had a moral code of sorts, and
some things weren't honourable. You could own a street of crowded houses
where people lived like cockroaches and the cockroaches lived like kings and
that was perfectly OK, but Rust would probably die before he'd descend to
forgery.
'I see, sir,' said Vimes. 'You wanted me?'
'Commander Vimes, I must ask you to take the Klatchians resident in the
city into custody.'
'On what charge, sir?'
'Commander, we are on the verge of war with Klatch. Surely you
understand?'
'No, sir.'
'We are talking about spying, commander. Sabotage, even,' said Lord
Rust. 'To be frank... the city is to be placed under martial law.'
'Yessir? What kind of law's that, sir?' said Vimes, staring straight
ahead.
'You know very well, Vimes.'
'Is it the kind where you shout "Stop!" before you fire, sir, or the
other kind?'
'Ah. I see.' Rust stood up and leaned forward.
'It pleased you to be... smart with Lord Vetinari, and for some reason
he indulged you,' he said. 'I, on the other hand, know your type.'
'My type?'
'It seems to me that the streets are full of crimes, commander.
Unlicensed begging, public nuisances... but you seem to turn a blind eye,
you seem to think you should have bigger ideas. But you are not required to
have big ideas, commander. You are a thief-taker, nothing more. Are you
eyeballing me, Vimes?'
'I was trying not to turn a blind eye, sir.'
'You seem to feel, Vimes, that the law is some kind of big glowing
light in the sky which is not subject to control. And you are wrong. The law
is what we tell it to be. Im not going to add "Do you understand?" because I
know you understand and I am not going to try to reason with you. I know a
rank bad hat when I see one. '
'Bad hat?' said Vimes weakly.
'Commander Vimes,' he said, 'I had hoped to avoid this, but the last
few days point to a succession of astonishing judgemental errors on your
part The Prince Khufurah was shot, and you seemed helpless to prevent this
or find the criminal responsible. Mobs appear to run around the city
unimpeded, I gather that one of your sergeants proposed to shoot innocent
people in the head, and we have just heard that you took it upon yourself to
arrest an innocent businessman and lock him in the cells for no reason at
all.'
Vimes heard Colon gasp. But it sounded a long way off. He could feel
everything crumbling under
but his mind seemed to be flying now, flapping through a pink sky where
nothing mattered very much.
'Oh, I don't know about that, sir,' he said. 'He was guilty of
repeatedly being Klatchian, wasn't he? Don't you want me to do that to all
of 'em?'
'And if this was not enough,' Rust went on, 'we are told, and in other
circumstances I would find this very hard to believe, even of a
counter-jumper like you, that earlier tonight you, being quite unprovoked,
assaulted two Klatchian guards, trespassed on Klatchian soil, entered the
women's quarters, abducted two Klatchians from their beds, ordered the
destruction of Klatchian property and... well, frankly, acted quite
disgracefully.'
What is the point of arguing? Vimes thought. Why play cards with a
shaved deck? And yet
'Two Klatchians, sir?'
'It seems Prince Khufurah has been kidnapped, Vimes. I find it hard to
believe that even you would attempt that, but the Klatchians seem to be
suggesting this. You were seen entering their property illegally. And you
appear to have dragged a helpless lady from her bed. What have you got to
say about that?'
'It was on fire at the time, sir.'
Lieutenant Hornett stepped forward and whispered something. Lord Rust
subsided a bit.
'All right. Very well. There were perhaps mitigating circumstances, but
politically it was a most ill-advised action, Vimes. I cannot pretend to
know what has happened to the Prince, but frankly you seem to have taken a
positive delight in making matters worse.'
Can you climb, Mr Vimes? Vimes said nothing. The other man had been
carrying something bulky over his shoulder...
'You are removed from authority, commander. And the Watch will come
under the direct command of this council. Is that understood?'
Rust turned to Carrot. 'Captain Carrot, many of us here have heard...
good reports about you, and by due authority I hereby appoint you acting
Commander of the Watch-'
Vimes shut his eyes.
Carrot saluted smartly. 'No! Sir!'
Vimes opened his eyes wide.
'Really?' Rust stared at Carrot for a few moments, and then gave a
little shrug.
'Ah, well... loyalty is a fine thing. Sergeant Colon?'
'Sir!'
'In the circumstances, and since you are the most experienced
non-commissioned officer and have an exemp- and have a military record, you
will take command of the Watch for the duration of the... emergency. '
'Nossir!'
'That was an instruction, sergeant.'
Beads of sweat began to form on Colon's brow. 'Nossir!'
'Sergeant!'
'You can put it where the sun does not shine, sir!' said Colon
desperately.
Once again, Vimes saw Rust's milky-blue stare. Rust never looked
surprised. And since he knew that a mere sergeant would never dare offer
cheeky defiance, he erased Sergeant Colon from the immediate universe.
The gaze turned briefly to Detritus.
And he doesn't know how to speak to a troll, Vimes thought. And he was
once again impressed, in the same dark way, by the manner in which Rust
dealt with the problem. He dealt with it by making it not be there.
'Who is the senior corporal in the Watch, Sir Samuel?'
'That would be Corporal Nobbs.'
The committee went into a huddle. There was a rush of whispering, in
which the words'-an absolute little tit -' could be heard several times.
Finally Rust looked up again.
'And the next in seniority?'
'Let me see... that would be Corporal Stronginthearm,' said Vimes. He
felt oddly light-headed.
'Perhaps he is a man who can take orders.'
'He's a dwarf, you idiot!'
Not a muscle moved on Rust's face. There was a clink as Vimes's badge
was set neatly on the table.
'I don't have to take this,' Vimes said calmly.
'Oh, so you'd rather be a civilian, would you?'
'A watchman is a civilian, you inbred streak of piss!'
Rust's brain erased the sounds that his ears could not possibly have
heard.
'And the keys to the armoury, Sir Samuel,' he said.
They jangled as they landed on the table.
'And do the rest of you have any empty gestures to make?' said Lord
Rust.
Sergeant Colon took his grimy badge out of his pocket and was a little
disappointed that it didn't make a defiant tinkle when he threw it on the
table but instead bounced and smashed the water jug.
'I got my badge carved on my arm,' Detritus rumbled. 'Someone c'n try
an' take it off if dey likes.'
Carrot laid his badge down very carefully.
Rust raised his eyebrows. 'You too, captain?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I would have thought that you at least-'
He stopped and looked up in annoyance as the doors opened. A couple of
the palace guards ran in, with a group of Klatchians behind them.
The council got to their feet in a hurry.
Vimes recognized the Klatchian in the centre of the group. He'd seen
him around at official functions and, if it hadn't been for the fact that
the man was a Klatchian, would have marked him down as a shifty piece of
work.
'Who's he?' he whispered to Carrot.
'Prince Kalif. He's the deputy ambassador.'
'Another prince?'
The man came to a halt in front of the table, glanced at Vimes with no
show of recognition and bowed to Lord Rust.
'Prince Kalif,' said Lord Rust. 'Your arrival is unannounced but
nevertheless-'
'I have grave news, my lord.' Even in his stunned state, a part of
Vimes registered that the voice was different. Khufurah had learned his
second language on the street, but this one had had tutors.
'At a time like this, what news isn't?' said Rust.
'There have been developments on the new land. Regrettable incidents.
And indeed in Ankh-Morpork, too.' He glanced at Vimes again. 'Although here,
I must say, reports are confused. Lord Rust, I have to tell you we are,
technically, at war.'
'Technically at war?' said Vimes.
'I am afraid events are carrying us forward,' said Kalif. 'The
situation is delicate.'
They know they're going to fight, Vimes thought. This is just like the
start of a dance, where you hang around looking at your partner...
'I must tell you that you are being given twelve hours to remove all
your citizens from Leshp,' said Kalif. 'If that is done, matters will be
happily resolved. For the present.'
'Our response is that you have twelve hours to quit Leshp,' said Rust.
'If that is not done, then we will take... steps...'
Kalif bowed slightly. 'We understand one another. A formal document
will be with you shortly and, no doubt, we will be receiving one from you.'
'Indeed.'
'Here, hang on, you can't just-' Vimes began.
'Sir Samuel, you are no longer Commander of the Watch and you have no
place at these proceedings,' said Rust sharply. He turned back to the
Prince.
'It is unfortunate that things have come to this,' he said stiffly.
'Indeed. But there comes a time when words are no longer sufficient.'
'I must agree with you. And then it is time to test one's strength.'
Vimes stared in fascinated horror from one face to the other.
'We will, of course, allow you time to quit your embassy. Such of it as
remains.'
'So kind. And of course we will extend to you the same courtesy.' Kalif
bowed slightly.
So did Rust.
'After all, just because our countries are at war is no reason why we
should not respect one another as friends,' said Lord Rust.
'What? Yes, it bloody well is!' said Vimes. 'I can't believe this! You
can't just stand there and... good grief, whatever happened to diplomacy?'
'War, Vimes, is a continuation of diplomacy by other means,' said Lord
Rust. 'As you would know, if you were really a gentleman.'
'And you Klatchians are as bad,' Vimes went on. 'It's that green mouldy
mutton Jenkins sells. You've all got Foaming Sheep Disease. You can't just
stand there and-'
'Sir Samuel, you are, as you are at pains to point out, a civilian,'
said Rust. 'As such, you have no place here!'
Vimes didn't bother with a salute but just turned away and walked out
of the room. The rest of the squad followed him in silence back to
Pseudopolis Yard.
'I told him he could put it where the sun didn't shine,' said Sergeant
Colon, as they crossed the Brass Bridge.
'That's right,' said Vimes woodenly. 'Well done.'
'Right to his face. "Where the sun don't shine." Just like that,' said
Colon. It was a little difficult to tell from his tone whether this was a
matter of pride or dread.
'I'm afraid Lord Rust is technically correct, sir.' said Carrot.
'Really.'
'Yes, Mr Vimes. The safety of the city is of paramount importance, so
in times of war the civil power is subject to military authority.'
'Hah.'
'I told him,' said Fred Colon. 'Right where the sun does not shine, I
said.'
'The deputy ambassador didn't mention Prince Khufurah,' said Carrot.
'That was odd.'
'I'm going home,' said Vimes.
'We're nearly there, sir.' said Carrot.
'I mean home home. I need some sleep.'
'Yes, sir. What shall I tell the lads, sir?'
'Tell them anything you like.'
'I looked him right in the eye and I told him, I said,
you can put it right where the-' mused Sergeant Colon.
'You want me an' some of der boys go and sort out dat Rust later on?'
said Detritus. 'It no problem. He bound to be guilty o' somethin'.'
'No!'
Vimes's head felt so fight now that he couldn't touch the ground with a
rope. He left them outside the Yard and let his head drag him on and up the
hill and round the corner and into the house and past his astonished wife
and up the stairs and into the bedroom, where he fell full length on the bed
and was asleep before he hit it.
At nine next morning the first recruits for Lord Venturi's Heavy
Infantry paraded down Broadway.
The watchmen went out to watch. That was all that was left for them to
do.
'Isn't that Mr Vimes's butler?' said Angua, pointing to the stiff
figure of Willikins in the front rank.
'Yeah, and that's his kitchen boy banging the drum in front,' said
Nobby.
'You were a... military man, weren't you, Fred?' said Carrot, as the
parade passed by.
'Yes, sir. Duke of Eorle's First Heavy Infantry, sir, The Pheasant
Pluckers.'
'Pardon?' said Angua.
'Nickname for the regiment, miss. Oh, from ages ago. They were
bivvywhacking on some estate and came across a lot of pheasant pens and,
well, you know, having to live off the land and everything... anyway, that's
why we always wore a pheasant feather on our helmets. Traditional, see?'
Already old Fred's face was creasing up in the soft
expression of someone who has been mugged in Memory Lane.
'We even had a marching song,' he said. 'Mind you, it was quite hard to
sing right. Er... sorry, miss?'
'Oh, it's all right, sergeant,' said Angua. 'I often start to laugh
like that for no reason at all.'
Fred Colon once again stared dreamily at nothing. 'And o'course before
that I was in the Duke of Quirm's Middleweight Infantry. Saw a lot of action
with them.'
'I'm sure you did,' said Carrot, while Angua entertained cynical
thoughts about the ...
