‘Vimes. Sir Samuel Vimes. My wife made the appointment.’
The old man cackled again. ‘Ah, ’tis usually so.’
Moving quite fast despite his wooden leg, the old man led the way through the steaming mounds of multi-species dung to the building on the other side of the yard.
‘I expect this is good for the garden, anyway,’ said Vimes, trying to make conversation.
‘I tried it on my rhubarb,’ said the old man, pushing open the door. ‘But it grew to twenty feet tall, sir, and then spontaneously caught fire. Mind where the wyvern’s been, sir, he’s been ill – oh, what a shame. Never mind, it’ll scrape off beautiful when it dries. In thee goes, sir.’
The hall inside was as quiet and dark as the yard had been full of light and noise. There was the dry, tombstone smell of old books and church towers.
Above him, when his eyes got used to the darkness, Vimes could make out hanging flags and banners. There were a few windows, but cobwebs and dead flies meant that the light they allowed in was merely grey.
The old man had shut the door and left him alone. Vimes watched through the window as he limped back to continue what he had been doing before Vimes’s appearance.
What he had been doing was setting up a living coat of arms.
There was a large shield. Cabbages, actual cabbages, had been nailed to it. The old man said something that Vimes couldn’t hear. The little owl fluttered from its perch and landed on a large ankh that had been glued to the top of the shield. The two hippos flopped out of their pool and took up station on either side.
The old man unfolded an easel in front of the scene, placed a canvas on it, picked up a palette and brush, and shouted, ‘Hup-la!’
The hippos reared, rather arthritically. The owl spread its wings.
‘Good gods,’ murmured Vimes. ‘I always thought they just made it up!’
‘Made it up, sir? Made it up?’ said a voice behind him. ‘We’d soon be in trouble if we made things up, oh dear me, yes.’
Vimes turned. Another little old man had appeared behind him, blinking happily through thick glasses. He had several scrolls under one arm.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you at the gate but we’re very busy at the moment,’ he said, holding out his spare hand. ‘Croissant Rouge Pursuivant.’
‘Er . . . you’re a small red breakfast roll?’ said Vimes, nonplussed.
‘No, no. No. It means Red Crescent. It’s my title, you see. Very ancient title. I’m a Herald. You’d be Sir Samuel Vimes, yes?’
‘Yes/
Red Crescent consulted a scroll. ‘Good. Good. How do you feel about weasels?’ he said.
‘Weasels?’
‘We have got some weasels, you see. I know they’re not strictly a heraldic animal, but we seem to have some on the strength and frankly I think I’m going to have to let them go unless we can persuade someone to adopt them, and that’d upset Pardessus Chatain Pursuivant. He always locks himself in his shed when he’s upset . . .’
‘Pardessus . . . you mean the old man out there?’ said Vimes.’I mean. . .why’s he. . . I thought you … I mean, a coat of arms is just a design. You don’t have to paint it from life!’
Red Crescent looked shocked. ‘Well, I suppose if you want to make a complete mockery of the whole thing, yes, you could just make it up. You could do that,’ he said. ‘Anyway . . . not weasels, then?’
‘Personally I’d just as soon not bother,’ said Vimes. ‘And certainly not with a weasel. My wife said that dragons would’
‘Happily, the occasion will not arise,’ said a voice in the shadows.
It wasn’t the right sort of voice to hear in any kind of light. It was dust-dry. It sounded as if it came from a mouth that had never known the pleasures of spittle. It sounded dead.
It was.
The bakery thieves considered their options.
‘I’ve got my hand on my crossbow,’ said the most enterprising of the three.
The most realistic said, ‘Have you? Well, I’ve got my heart in my mouth.’
‘Ooo,’ said the third. Ive got a weak heart, me . . .’
‘Yeah, but what I mean is … he’s not even wearing a sword. If I take the wolf, the two of you should be able to deal with him with no trouble, right?’
The one clear thinker looked at Captain Carrot. His armour shone. So did the muscles on his bare arms. Even his knees gleamed.
‘It seems to me that we have a bit of an impasse, or stand-off,’ said Captain Carrot.
‘How about if we throw down the money?’ said the clear thinker.
‘That would certainly help matters,’
‘And you’d let us go?’
‘No. But it would definitely count in your favour and I would certainly speak up on your behalf.’
The bold one with the crossbow licked his lips and glanced from Carrot to the wolf. ‘If you set it on us, I warn you, someone’s going to get killed!’ he warned.
‘Yes, it could happen,’ said Carrot, sadly. ‘I’d prefer to avoid that, if at all possible.’
He raised his hands. There was something flat and round and about six inches across in each one. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is dwarf bread. Some of Mr Ironcrust’s best. It’s not classic battle bread, of course, but it’s probably good enough for slicing . . .’
Carrot’s arm blurred. There was a brief flurry of sawdust, and the flat loaf spun to a stop half-way through the thick timbers of the cart and about half an inch away from the man with the weak heart and, as it turned out, a fragile bladder, too.
The man with the crossbow tore his attention away from the bread only when he felt a slight, damp pressure on his wrist.
There was no way that an animal could have moved that fast, but there it was, and the wolfs expression contrived to indicate very calmly that if the animal so desired the pressure could be increased more or less indefinitely.
‘Call it off!’ he said, flinging the bow away with his free hand. Tell it to let go!’
‘Oh, I never tell her anything,’ said Carrot. ‘She makes up her own mind.’
There was a clatter of iron-shod boots and half a dozen axe-bearing dwarfs raced out of the bakery gates, kicking up sparks as they skidded to a halt beside Carrot.
‘Get them!’ shouted Mr Ironcrust. Carrot dropped a hand on top of the dwarfs helmet and turned him around.
‘It’s me, Mr Ironcrust,’ he said. ‘I believe these are the men?’
‘Right you are, Captain Carrot!’ said the dwarf baker. ‘C’mon, lads! Let’s hang ’em up by the bura’zak-ka![3]’
‘Ooo,’ murmured the weak of heart, damply.
‘Now, now, Mr Ironcrust,’ said Carrot patiently. ‘We don’t practise that punishment in Ankh-Morpork.[4]’
‘They bashed Bjorn Tightbritches senseless! And they kicked Olaf Stronginthearm in the bad’dhakz![5] We’ll cut their’
‘Mr Ironcrust!’
The dwarf baker hesitated and then, to the amazement and relief of the thieves, took a step backwards. ‘Yeah … all right, Captain Carrot. If you say so.’
‘I have business elsewhere, but I would be grateful if you would take them and turn them over to the Thieves’ Guild,’ said Carrot.
The quick thinker went pale. ‘Oh, no! They get really intense about unlicensed thieving! Anything but the Thieves’Guild!’
Carrot turned. The light caught his face in a certain way. ‘Anything?’ he said.
The unlicensed thieves looked at one another, and then all spoke at once.
‘The Thieves’ Guild. Fine. No problem.’
‘We like the Thieves’ Guild.’
‘Can’t wait. Thieves’ Guild, here I come.’
‘Fine body of men.’
‘Firm but fair.’
‘Good,’ said Carrot. Then everyone’s happy. Oh, yes.’ He dug into his money pouch. ‘Here’s five pence for the loaf, Mr Ironcrust. I’ve handled the other one, but you should be able to sand it off with no trouble.’
The dwarf blinked at the coins. ‘ You want to pay me for saving my money?’ he said.
‘As a tax payer you are entitled to the protection of the Watch,’ said Carrot.
There was a delicate pause. Mr Ironcrust stared at his feet. One or two of the other dwarfs started to snigger.
Ill tell you what,’ said Carrot, in a kindly voice, Ill come round when I get a moment and help you fill in the forms, how about that?’
A thief broke the embarrassed silence.
‘Er. . . could your. . . little dog… let go of my arm, please?’
The wolf released its grip, jumped down and padded over to Carrot, who raised his hand to his helmet respectfully.
‘Good day to you all,’ he said, and strode away.
Thieves and victims watched him go.
‘Is he real? said the quick thinker.
There was a growl from the baker, then ‘You bastards!’ he shouted. ‘You bastardsl’