‘Probably when the excitement gets too much for him,’ said Angua. ‘Hopkinson? That’s not a dwarf name, is it?’
‘Oh, he’s a human,’ said Carrot, stepping inside. ‘But an amazing authority. Bread’s his life. He wrote the definitive work on offensive baking. Well … since he’s not here I’ll just take two tickets and leave tuppence on the desk.’
It didn’t look as though Mr Hopkinson got many visitors. There was dust on the floor, and dust on die display cases, and a lot of dust on the exhibits. Most of them were the classic cowpat-like shape, an echo of their taste, but there were also buns, close-combat crumpets, deadly throwing toast and a huge dusty array of other shapes devised by a race that went in for food-fighting in a big and above all terminal way.
‘What are we looking for?’ Angua said. She sniffed. There was a nastily familiar tang in the air.
‘It’s . . . are you ready for this? . . . it’s . . . the Battle Bread of B’hrian Bloodaxe!’ said Carrot, rummaging in a desk by the entrance.
‘A loaf of bread? You brought me here to see a loaf of bread?’
She sniffed again. Yes. Blood. Fresh blood.
‘That’s right,’ said Carrot. ‘It’s only going to be here a couple of weeks on loan. It’s the actual bread he personally wielded at the Battle of Koom Valley, killing fifty-seven trolls although’ – and here Carrot’s tone changed down from enthusiasm to civic respectability – ‘that was a long time ago and we shouldn’t let ancient history blind us to the realities of a multi-ethnic society in the Century of theFruitbat.’
There was a creak of a door.
Then: ‘This battle bread,’ said Angua, indistinctly. ‘Black, isn’t it? Quite a lot bigger than normal bread?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Carrot.
‘And Mr Hopkinson … A short man? Little white pointy beard?’
That’s him.’
‘And his head all smashed in?’ ‘What?’
‘I think you’d better come and look,’ said Angua, backing away.
Dragon King of Arms sat alone among his candles.
So that was Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, he mused. Stupid man. Clearly can’t see beyond the chip on his shoulder. And people like that rise to high office these days. Still, such people have their uses, which presumably is why Vetinari has elevated him. Stupid men are often capable of things the clever would not dare to contemplate . . .
He sighed, and pulled another tome towards him. It was not much bigger than many others which lined his study, a fact which might have surprised anyone who knew its contents.
He was rather proud of it. It was quite an unusual piece of work, but he had been surprised- or would have been surprised, had Dragon been really surprised at anything at all for the last hundred years or so – at how easy some of it had been. He didn’t even need to read it now. He knew it by heart. The family trees were properly planted, the words were down there on the page, and all he had to do was sing along.
The first page was headed: ‘The Descent of King Carrot I, by the Grace of the Gods King of Ankh-Morpork’. A long and complex family tree occupied the next dozen pages until it reached:
Married . . . The words there were merely pencilled in.
‘Delphine Angua von Uberwald,’ read the Dragon aloud. ‘Father – and, ah-ha, sire – Baron Guye von Uberwald, also known as Silvertail; mother, Mme Serafine Soxe-Bloonberg, also known as Yellowfang, of Genua . . .’
It had been quite an achievement, that part. He had expected his agents to have had some difficulty with the more lupine areas of Angua’s ancestry, but it turned out that mountain wolves took quite a lot of interest in that sort of thing as well. Angua’s ancestors had definitely been among the leaders of the pack.
Dragon King of Arms grinned. As far as he was concerned, species was a secondary consideration. What really mattered in an individual was a good pedigree.
Ah, well. That was the future as it might have been.
He pushed the book aside. One of the advantages of a life much longer than average was that you saw how fragile the future was. Men said things like ‘peace in our time’ or ‘an empire that will last a thousand years’, and less than half a lifetime later no one even remembered who they were, let alone what they had said or where the mob had buried their ashes. What changed history were smaller things. Often a few strokes of the pen would do the trick.
He pulled another tome towards him. The frontispiece bore the words: ‘The Descent of King . . .’ Now, what would the man call himself? That at least was not calculable. Oh, well . . .
Dragon picked up his pencil and wrote: ‘Nobbs’.
He smiled in the candlelit room.
People kept on talking about the true king of Ankh-Morpork, but history taught a cruel lesson. It said – often in words of blood – that the true king was the one who got crowned.
Books filled this room, too. That was the first impression – one of dank, oppressive bookishness.
The late Father Tubelcek was sprawled across a drift of fallen books. He was certainly dead. No one could have bled that much and still been alive. Or survived for long with a head like a deflated football. Someone must have hit him with a lump hammer.
‘This old lady came running out screaming,’ said Constable Visit, saluting. ‘So I went in and it was just like this, sir.’
‘Just like this, Constable Visit?’
‘Yes, sir. And the name’s Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets, sir.’
‘Who was the old lady?’
‘She says she’s Mrs Kanacki, sir. She says she always brings him his meals. She says she does for him.’
‘Does for him?’
‘You know, sir. Cleaning and sweeping.’
There was, indeed, a tray on the floor, along with a broken bowl and some spilled porridge. The lady who did for the old man had been shocked to find that someone else had done for him first.
‘Did she touch him?’ he said.
‘She says not, sir.’
Which meant the old priest had somehow achieved the neatest death Vimes had ever seen. His hands were crossed on his chest. His eyes had been closed.
And something had been put in his mouth. It looked like a rolled-up piece of paper. It gave the corpse a disconcertingly jaunty look, as though he’d decided to have a last cigarette after dying.
Vimes gingerly picked out the little scroll and unrolled it. It was covered with meticulously written but unfamiliar symbols. What made them particularly noteworthy was the fact that their author had apparently made use of the only liquid lying around in huge quantities.
‘Yuk,’ said Vimes. ‘Written in blood. Does this mean anything to anyone?’
‘Yes, sir!’
Vimes rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Constable Visit?’
‘Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets, sir,’ said Constable Visit, looking hurt.
”The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets[7]”
I was just about to say it, Constable,’ said Vimes. ‘Well?’
‘It’s an ancient Klatchian script,’ said Constable Visit. ‘One of the desert tribes called the Cenotines, sir. They had a sophisticated but fundamentally flawed . . .’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Vimes, who could recognize the verbal foot getting ready to stick itself in the aural door. ‘But do you know what it means?’
‘I could find out, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘Incidentally, were you able by any chance to find time to have a look at those leaflets I gave you the other day, sir?’
‘Been very busy!’ said Vimes automatically.
‘Not to worry, sir,’ said Visit, and smiled the wan smile of those doing good against great odds. ‘When you’ve got a moment will be fine.’
The old books that had been knocked from the shelves had spilled their pages everywhere. There were splashes of blood on many of them.
‘Some of these look religious,’ Vimes said. ‘You might find something.’ He turned. ‘Detritus, have a look round, will you?’
Detritus paused in the act of laboriously drawing a chalk outline around the body. ‘Yessir. What for, sir?’
‘Anything you find.’
‘Right, sir.’
With a grunt, Vimes hunkered down and prodded at a grey smear on the floor. ‘Dirt,’ he said.
‘You get dat on floors, sir,’ said Detritus, helpfully.
‘Except this is off-white. We’re on black loam,’ said Vimes.
‘Ah,’ said Sergeant Detritus. ‘A Clue.’
‘Could be just dirt, of course.’
There was something else. Someone had made an attempt to tidy up the books. They’d stacked several dozen of them in one neat towering pile, one book wide, largest books on the bottom, all the edges squared up with geometrical precision.
‘Now that I don’t understand,’ said Vimes. ‘There’s a fight. The old man is viciously attacked. Then someone- maybe it was him, dying, maybe it was the murderer – writes something down using the poor man’s own blood. And rolls it up neatly and pops it into his mouth like a sweetie. Then he does die and someone shuts his eyes and makes him tidy and piles these books up neatly and . . . does what? Walks out into the seething hurly-burly that is Ankh-Morpork?’