After all, what could he say? ‘Sorry he’s dead – and that’s official. We’re putting our worst men on the case’ ?
The late Bjorn Hammerhock’s house had been full of dwarfs – silent, owlish, polite dwarfs. The news had got around. He wasn’t telling anyone anything they didn’t know. Many of them were holding weapons. Mr Strong-inthearm was there. Captain Vimes had talked to him before about his speeches on the subject of the need for grinding all trolls in little bits and using them to make roads. But the dwarf wasn’t saying anything now. He was just looking smug. There was an air of quiet, polite menace, that said: We’ll listen to you. Then we’ll do what we decide to do.
He hadn’t even been sure which one was Mrs Ham-merhock. They all looked alike to him. When she was introduced – helmeted, bearded – he’d got polite, noncommittal answers. No, she’d locked his workshop and seemed to have mislaid the key. Thank you.
He’d tried to indicate as subtly as possible that a wholesale march on Quarry Lane would be frowned upon by the guard (probably from a vantage point at a safe distance) but hadn’t the face to spell it out. He couldn’t say: don’t take matters into your own hands for the guard are mightily in pursuit of the wrongdoer, because he didn’t have a clue where to start. Had your husband any enemies? Yes, someone put a huge great hole in him, but apart from that, did he have any enemies?
So he’d extracted himself with as much dignity as possible, which wasn’t very much, and after a battle with himself which he’d lost, he’d picked up half a bottle of Bearhugger’s Old Persnickety and wandered into the night.
Carrot and Angua reached the end of Gleam Street.
‘Where are you staying?’ said Carrot.
‘Just down there.’ She pointed.
‘Elm Street? Not Mrs Cake’s?’
‘Yes. Why not? I just wanted a clean place, reasonably priced. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Well . . . I mean, I’ve nothing against Mrs Cake, a lovely woman, one of the best. . . but. . . well. . . you must have noticed . . .’
‘Noticed what?’
‘Well. . . she’s not very . . . you know . . . choosy.’
‘Sorry. I’m still not with you.’
‘You must have seen some of the other guests? I mean, doesn’t Reg Shoe still have lodgings there?’
‘Oh, said Angua, ‘you mean the zombie.’
‘And there’s a banshee in the attic.’
‘Mr Ixolite. Yes.’
‘And there’s old Mrs Drull.’
‘The ghoul. But she’s retired. She does children’s party catering now.’
‘I mean, doesn’t it strike you the place is a bit odd?’
‘But the rates are reasonable and the beds are clean.’
‘I shouldn’t think anyone ever sleeps in them.’
‘All right! I had to take what I could get !’
‘Sorry. I know how it is. I was like that myself when I first arrived here. But my advice is to move out as soon as it’s polite and find somewhere . . . well . . . more suitable for a young lady, if you know what I mean.’
‘Not really. Mr Shoe even tried to help me upstairs with my stuff. Mind you, I had to help him upstairs with his arms afterwards. Bits fall off him all the time, poor soul.’
‘But they’re not really . . . our kind of people,’ said Carrot wretchedly. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I mean . . . dwarfs? Some of my best friends are dwarfs. My parents are dwarfs. Trolls? No problem at all with trolls. Salt of the earth. Literally. Wonderful chaps under all that crust. But . . . undead . . . I just wish they’d go back to where they came from, that’s all.’
‘Most of them came from round here.’
‘I just don’t like ’em. Sorry.’
‘I’ve got to go,’ said Angua, coldly. She paused at the dark entrance of an alley.
‘Right. Right,’ said Carrot. ‘Um. When shall I see you again?’
‘Tomorrow. We’re in the same job, yes?’
‘But maybe when we’re off duty we could take a—’
‘Got to go!’
Angua turned and ran. The moon’s halo was already visible over the rooftops of Unseen University.
‘OK. Well. Right. Tomorrow, then,’ Carrot called after her.
Angua could feel the world spinning as she stumbled through the shadows. She shouldn’t have left it so long!
She stumbled out into a cross-street with a few people in it and managed to make it to an alley mouth, pawing at her clothes . . .
She was seen by Bundo Prung, recently expelled from the Thieves’ Guild for unnecessary enthusiasm and conduct unbecoming in a mugger, and a desperate man. An isolated woman in a dark alley was just about what he felt he could manage.
He glanced around, and followed her in.
Silence followed, for about five seconds. Then Bundo emerged, very fast, and didn’t stop running until he reached the docks, where a boat was leaving on the tide. He ran up the gangplank just before it was pulled up, and became a seaman, and died three years later when an armadillo fell on his head in a far-off country, and in all that time never said what he’d seen. But he did scream a bit whenever he saw a dog.
Angua emerged a few seconds later, and trotted away.
Lady Sybil Ramkin opened the door and sniffed the night air.
‘Samuel Vimes! You’re drunk!’
‘Not yet! But I hope to be!’ said Vimes, in cheerful tones.
‘And you haven’t changed out of your uniform!’
Vimes looked down, and then up again.
‘That’s right!’ he said brightly.
‘The guests will be here any minute. Go on up to your room. There’s a tub drawn and Willikins has laid out a suit for you. Get along with you . . .’
‘Jolly good!’
Vimes bathed in lukewarm water and a rosy alcoholic glow. Then he dried himself off as best he could and looked at the suit on the bed.
It had been made for him by the finest tailor in the city. Sybil Ramkin had a generous heart. She was a woman out for all she could give.
The suit was blue and deep purple, with lace on the wrists and at the throat. It was the height of fashion, he had been told. Sybil Ramkin wanted him to go up in the world. She’d never actually said it, but he knew she felt he was far too good to be a copper.
He stared at it in muzzy incomprehension. He’d never really worn a suit before. When he was a kid there’d been whatever rags could be tied on, and later on there’d been the leather knee britches and chainmail of the Watch – comfortable, practical clothes.
There was a hat with the suit. It had pearls on it.
Vimes had never worn any headgear before that hadn’t been hammered out of one piece of metal.
The shoes were long and pointy.
He’d always worn sandals in the summer, and the traditional cheap boots in the winter.
Captain Vimes could just about manage to be an officer. He wasn’t at all sure how to become a gentleman. Putting on the suit would seem to be part of it . . .
Guests were arriving. He could hear the crunch of carriage wheels on the driveway, and the flip-flop of the sedan-chair carriers.
He glanced out of the window. Scoone Avenue was higher than most of Morpork and offered unrivalled views of the city, if that was your idea of a good time. The Patrician’s Palace was a darker shape in the dusk, with one lighted window high up. It was the centre of a well-lit area, which got darker and darker as the view widened and began to take in those parts of the city where you didn’t light a candle because that was wasting good food. There was red torchlight around Quarry Lane . . . well, Trolls’ New Year, understandable. And a faint glow over the High Energy Magic building at Unseen University; Vimes would arrest all wizards on suspicion of being too bloody clever by half. But more lights than you’d expect to see around Cable and Sheer, the part of the city that people like Captain Quirke referred to as ‘tinytown’ . . .
‘Samuel!’
Vimes adjusted his cravat as best he could.
He’d faced trolls and dwarfs and dragons, but now he was having to meet an entirely new species. The rich.
It was always hard to remember, afterwards, how the world looked when she was dans une certaine condition, as her mother had delicately called it.
For example, she remembered seeing smells. The actual streets and buildings . . . they were there, of course, but only as a drab monochrome background against which the sounds and, yes, the smells seared like brilliant lines of . . . coloured fire and clouds of . . . well, of coloured smoke.