‘My sides ache,’ said Vimes. Something kicked his brain, trying to get attention.
‘ This one is for Mr Gerhardt Sock, president of the Butchers’ Guild,’ said Dragon. ‘His wife’s told him a coat of arms is the thing to have, and who are we to argue with the daughter of a tripe merchant, so we’ve made him a shield of red, for blood, and blue and white stripes, for a butcher’s apron, bisected by a string of sausages, centralis a cleaver held in a gloved hand, a boxing glove, which is, ah-ha, the best we could do for “sock”. Motto is Futurus Meus est in Visceris, which translates as “My Future is in (the) Entrails”, both relating to his profession and, ah-ha, alluding to the old practice of telling’
‘the future from entrails,’ said Vimes. ‘A-mazing.’ Whatever was trying to get into his attention was really jumping up and down now.
‘While this one, ah-ha, is for Rudolph Potts of the Bakers’ Guild,’ said Dragon, pointing to the third shield with a twig-thin finger. ‘Can you read it, Commander?’
Vimes gave it a gloomy stare. ‘Well, it’s divided into three, and there’s a rose, a flame and a pot,’ he said. ‘Er… bakers use fire and the pot’s for water, I suppose . . .’
‘And a pun on the name,’ said Dragon.
‘But, unless he’s called Rosie, I . . .’ Then Vimes blinked. ‘A rose is a flower. Oh, good grief. Flower, flour. Flour, fire and water? The pot looks like a guzunder to me, though. A chamber pot?’
‘The old word for baker waspistor,’ said Dragon. ‘Why, Commander, we shall make a Herald of you yet! And the motto?’
‘Quod Subigo Farinam,’ said Vimes, and wrinkled his forehead. ‘ “Because” . . . “farinaceous” means to do with corn, or flour, doesn’t it? … oh, no … “Because I Knead the Dough”?’
Dragon clapped his hands. ‘Well done, sir!’
‘This place must simply rock on those long winter evenings,’ said Vimes. ‘And that’s heraldry, is it? Crossword clues and plays on words?’
‘Of course there is a great deal more,’ said the Dragon. ‘These are simple. We more or less have to make them up. Whereas the escutcheon of an old family, such as the Nobbses . . .’
‘Nobbs!’ said Vimes, as the penny dropped. That’s it! You said “Nobbs”! Before – when you were talking about old families!’
‘Ah-ha. What? Oh, indeed. Yes. Oh, yes. A fine old family. Although now, sadly, in decay.’
‘You don’t mean Nobbs as in … Corporal Nobbs?’ said Vimes, horror edging his words.
A book thumped open. In the orange light Vimes had a vague upside-down glimpse of shields, and a rambling, unpruned family tree.
‘My word. Would that be a C. W. St J. Nobbs?’
‘Er… yes. Yes!’
‘Son of Sconner Nobbs and a lady referred to here as Maisie of Elm Street?’
‘Probably.’
‘Grandson of Slope Nobbs?’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘Who was the illegitimate son of Edward St John de Nobbes, Earl of Ankh, and a, ah-ha, a parlourmaid of unknown lineage?’
‘Good gods!’
‘The earl died without issue, except that which, ah-ha, resulted in Slope. We had not been able to trace the scion – hitherto, at any rate.’
‘Good gods!’
‘You know the gentleman?’
Vimes regarded with amazement a serious and positive sentence about Corporal Nobbs that included the word ‘gentleman’. ‘Er … yes,’ he said.
‘Is he a man of property?’
‘Only other people’s.’
‘Well, ah-ha, do tell him. There is no land or money now, of course, but the title is still extant.’
‘Sorry … let me make sure I understand this. Corporal Nobbs… my Corporal Nobbs… is the Earl of Ankh?’
‘He would have to satisfy us as to proof of his lineage but, yes, it would appear so.’
Vimes stared into the gloom. Thus far in his life,
Corporal Nobbs would have been unlikely to satisfy the examiners as to his species.
‘Good gods!’ Vimes said yet again. ‘And I suppose he gets a coat of arms?’
‘A particularly fine one.’
‘Oh.’
Vimes hadn’t even wanted a coat of arms. An hour ago he’d have cheerfully avoided this appointment as he had done so many times before. But . . .
‘Nobby?’ he said ‘Good gods!’
‘Well, well! This has been a very happy meeting,’ said Dragon. ‘I do so like to keep the records up to date. Ah-ha. Incidentally, how is young Captain Carrot getting along? I’m told his young lady is a werewolf. Ah-ha.’
‘Really,’ said Vimes.
‘Ah-ha.’ In the dark, Dragon made a movement that might have been a conspiratorial tap on the side of the nose. ‘We know these things!’
‘Captain Carrot is doing well,’ said Vimes, as icily as he could manage. ‘Captain Carrot always does well.’
He slammed the door when he went out. The candle flames wavered.
Constable Angua walked out of an alleyway, doing up her belt.
‘That went very well, I thought,’ said Carrot, ‘and will go some way to earning us the respect of the community.’
‘Pff! That man’s sleeve! I doubt if he even knows the meaning of the word “laundry”,’ said Angua, wiping her mouth.
Automatically, they fell into step – the energy-saving policeman’s walk, where the pendulum weight of the leg is used to propel the walker along with the minimum of effort. Walking was important, Vimes had always said, and because Vimes had said it Carrot believed it. Walking and talking. Walk far enough and talk to enough people and sooner or later you had an answer.
The respect of the community, thought Angua. That was a Carrot phrase. Well, in fact it was a Vimes phrase, although Sir Samuel usually spat after he said it. But Carrot believed it. It was Carrot who’d suggested to the Patrician that hardened criminals should be given the chance to ‘serve the community’ by redecorating the homes of the elderly, lending a new terror to old age and, given Ankh-Morpork’s crime rate, leading to at least one old lady having her front room wallpapered so many times in six months that now she could only get into it sideways.[6]
‘I’ve found something very interesting that you will be very interested to see,’ said Carrot, after a while.
‘That’s interesting,’ said Angua.
‘But I’m not going to tell you what it is because I want it to be a surprise,’ said Carrot.
‘Oh. Good.’
Angua walked in thought for a while and then said: ‘I wonder if it will be as surprising as the collection of rock samples you showed me last week?’
‘That was good, wasn’t it?’ said Carrot enthusiastically. ‘I’ve been along that street dozens of times and never suspected there was a mineral museum there! All those silicates!’
‘Amazing! You’d imagine people would be flocking to it, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, I can’t think why they don’t!’
Angua reminded herself that Carrot appeared to have in his soul not even a trace element of irony. She told herself that it wasn’t his fault he’d been brought up by dwarfs in some mine, and really did think that bits of rock were interesting. The week before they’d visited an iron foundry. That had been interesting, too.
And yet. . . and yet. . . you couldn’t help liking Carrot. Even people he was arresting liked Carrot. Even old ladies living in a permanent smell of fresh paint liked Carrot. She liked Carrot. A lot. Which was going to make leaving him all the harder.
She was a werewolf. That’s all there was to it. You either spent your time trying to make sure people didn’t find out or you let them find out and spent your time watching them keep their distance and whisper behind your back, although of course you’d have to turn round to watch that.
Carrot didn’t mind. But he minded that other people minded. He minded that even quite friendly colleagues tended to carry a bit of silver somewhere on their person. She could see it upsetting him. She could see the tensions building up, and he didn’t know how to deal with them.
It was just as her father had said. Get involved with humans other than at mealtimes and you might as well jump down a silver mine.
‘Apparently there’s going to be a huge firework display after the celebrations next year,’ said Carrot. ‘I like fireworks.’
‘It beats me why Ankh-Morpork wants to celebrate the fact it had a civil war three hundred years ago/ said Angua, coming back to the here-and-now.
‘Why not? We won,’ said Carrot.
‘Yes, but you lost, too.’
‘Always look on the positive side, that’s what I say. Ah, here we are.’
Angua looked up at the sign. She’d learned to read dwarf runes now.
‘ “Dwarf Bread Museum”,’ she said. ‘Gosh. I can’t wait.’
Carrot nodded happily and pushed open the door. There was a smell of ancient crusts.
‘Coo-ee, Mr Hopkinson?’ he called. There was no reply. ‘He does go out sometimes,’ he said.