‘Dwarfs?’
‘Of course they’ll be told.’
The Baron sat staring at nothing, with the same expression Detritus used when a new thought was being assembled.
‘Bad?’ he ventured, at last.
‘Guye, I’ve told you about this a thousand times!’ said the Baroness. ‘You’re spending far too much time changed! You know what you’re like afterwards. Supposing we had official visitors?’
‘Bite ‘em!’
‘You see? Go on off to bed and don’t come down until you’re fit to be human!’
‘Vimes could ruin everything, Father,’ said Wolfgang. He was now doing handstands, using one hand.
‘Guye! Down!’
The Baron stopped trying to scratch his ear with his leg. ‘Do?’ he said.
Wolfgang’s gleaming body dipped a moment as he changed hands again.
‘City life makes men weak. Vimes will be fun. They do say he likes running, though.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘We shall have to see how fast he is.’
‘His wife says he’s very soft-hearted- Guye!
Don’t you dare do that! If you’re going to do that sort of thing do it upstairs!’
The Baron looked only moderately ashamed, but readjusted his clothing anyway.
‘Bandits!’ he said.
‘Yes, they could be a problem at this time of year,’ said Wolfgang.
‘At least a dozen,’ said the Baroness. ‘Yes, that should-‘
Wolf grunted, upside down. ‘No, Mother. You are being stupid. His coach must get here safely. You understand? When he is here … that is a different matter.’
The Baron’s massive eyebrows tangled with a thought. ‘Plan! King!’
‘Exactly.’
The Baroness sighed. ‘I don’t trust that little dwarf.’
Wolf somersaulted on to his feet. ‘No. But trustworthy or not, he’s all we’ve got. Vimes must get here, with his soft heart. He may even be useful. Perhaps we should … assist matters.’
‘Why?’ snapped the Baroness. ‘Let AnkhMorpork look after their own!’
There was a knock on the door while Vimes was having breakfast. Willikins ushered in a small thin man in neat but threadbare black clothes, whose overlarge head gave him the appearance of a lolly nearing the last suck. He carried a black bowler hat the way a soldier carries his helmet, and walked like a man who had something wrong with his knees.
‘I am so sorry to disturb your grace …’
Vimes laid down his knife. He’d been peeling an orange. Sybil insisted he eat fruit.
‘Not your grace,’ he said. ‘Just Vimes. Sir Samuel, if you must. Are you Vetinari’s man?’
‘Inigo Skimmer, sir. Mhm-mhm. I am to travel with you to Uberwald.’
‘Ah, you’re the clerk who’s going to do all the whispering and winking while I hand around the cucumber sandwiches, are you?’
‘I will try to be of service, sir, although I’m not much of a winker. Mhm-mhm.’
‘Would you like some breakfast?’
‘I ate already, sir. Mhm-mhm.’
Vimes looked the clerk up and down. It wasn’t so mush that his head was big, it was simply that someone appeared to have squeezed the bottom half of it and forced everything up into the top. He was going bald, too, and had carefully teased the remaining strands of hair across the pink dome. It was hard to tell his age. He could be twenty-five and a big worrier, or a fresh-faced
forty. Vimes inclined to the former – the man had the look of someone who had spent his life watching the world over the top of a book. And there was that … well, was it a nervous laugh? A giggle? An unfortunate way of clearing his throat?
And that strange way he walked …
‘Not even some toast? A piece of fruit? These oranges are fresh from Klatch, I really can recommend them.’
Vimes tossed one at the man. It bounced off his arm, and Skimmer took a step backwards, mildly appalled at the upper class’s habit of fruithurling.
‘Are you all right, sir? Mhm-mhm?’
‘Sorry about that,’ said Vimes. ‘I was carried away by fruit.’
He laid aside his napkin and got up from the table, putting his arm around Skimmer’s shoulders.
‘I’ll just take you into the Mildly Yellow drawing room where you can wait,’ he said, walking him towards the door and patting him on the arm in a friendly way. ‘The coaches are loaded up. Sybil is re-grouting the bathroom, learning Ancient Klatchian and doing all those other little last-minute things women always do. You’re with us in the big coach.’
Skimmer recoiled. ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir! I’ll travel with your retinue. Mhm-mhm. Mhmmhm.’
‘If you mean Cheery and Detritus, they’re in there with us,’ said Vimes, noting the look of horror deepen slightly. ‘You need four for a
decent game of cards and the road’s as boring as hell for most of the way.’
‘And, er, your servants?’
‘Willikins and the cook and Sybil’s maid are in the other coach.’
‘Oh.’
Vimes smiled inwardly. He remembered the saying from his childhood: too poor to paint, but too proud to whitewash …
‘Bit of a tough choice, is it?’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what, you can come in our coach but we’ll give you a hard seat and patronize you from time to time, how about that?’
‘I am afraid you are making a mockery of me, Sir Samuel. Mhm-mhm.’
‘No, but I may be assisting. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to nip down to the Yard to sort out a few last-minute things …’
A quarter of an hour later Vimes walked into the charge room at the Yard. Sergeant Stronginthearm looked up, saluted, and then ducked to avoid the orange that was tossed at his head.
‘Sir?’ he said, bewildered.
‘Just testing, Stronginthearm.’
‘Did I pass, sir?’
‘Oh, yes. Keep the orange. It’s full of vitamins.’
‘My mother always told me those things could kill you, sir:’
Carrot was waiting patiently in Vimes’s office. Vimes shook his head. He knew all the places to tread in the corridor and he knew he didn’t make
a sound, and he’d never once .caught Carrot reading his paperwork, not even upside down. Just once it’d be nice to catch him out at something. If the man was any straighter you could use him as a plank.
Carrot stood up and saluted:
‘Yes, yes, we haven’t got a lot of time for that now,’ said Vimes, sitting behind his desk. ‘Anything new overnight?’
‘An unattributed murder, sir. A tradesman called Wallace Sonky. Found in one of his own vats with his throat cut. No Guild seal or note or anything. We’re treating it as suspicious.’
‘Yes, I think that sounds fairly suspicious,’ said Vimes. `Unless he has a record as a very careless shaver. What kind of vat?’
‘Er, rubber, sir.’
‘Rubber comes in vats? Wouldn’t he bounce out?’
‘No, sir. It’s a liquid in the vat, sir. He makes rubber … things.’
‘Hang on, I remember seeing something once … Don’t they make things by dipping them in the rubber? You make, sort of, the right shapes and dip them in to get gloves, boots … that sort of thing?’
‘Er, that, er, sort of thing, sir.’
Something about Carrot’s uneasy manner got through to Vimes. And the little file at the back of his brain eventually waved a card.
‘Sonky, Sonky .. . Carrot, we’re not talking about Sonky as in “a packet of Sonkies”, are we?’
Now Carrot was bright red with embarrassment. ‘Yes, sir!’
‘My gods, what was he dipping in the vat?’
‘He’d been thrown in, sir. Apparently.’
‘But he’s practically a national hero!’
‘Sir?’
‘Captain, the housing shortage in AnkhMorpork would be a good deal worse if it wasn’t for old man Sonky and his penny-a-packet preventatives. Who’d want to do away with him?’
‘People do have Views, sir,’ said Carrot coldly.
Yes, you do, don’t you? Vimes thought. Dwarfs don’t hold with that sort of thing.
‘Well, put some men on it. Anything else?’
‘A Carter assaulted Constable Swires last night for clamping his cart.’
‘Assault?’
‘Tried to stamp on him, sir.’
Vimes had a mental picture of Constable Swires, a gnome six inches tall but a mile high in pent-up aggression.
‘How is he?’
‘Well, the man can speak, but it’ll be a little while before he can climb back on a cart again. Apart from that, it’s all run-of-the-mill stuff.’
‘Nothing more about the Scone theft?’
‘Not really. Lots of accusations in the dwarf community, but no one really knows anything. Like you say, sir, we’ll probably know more when it goes bad.’
‘Any word on the street?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s “Halt”, sir. Sergeant Colon painted it at the top of Lower Broadway. The carters are a lot more careful now. Of course, someone has to shovel the manure off every hour or so.’
‘This whole traffic thing is not making us very popular, captain.’
‘No, sir. But we aren’t popular anyway. And at least it’s bringing in money for the city treasury. Er … there is another thing, sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘Have you seen Sergeant Angua, sir?’