Vimes didn’t even blink. But after a moment he laid the truncheon down on the desk, with a click that sounded unnaturally loud in the silence.
‘Now you put your notebook down, lad,’ he suggested, in a quiet
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voice. That way, it’s just me and you. No . . . clash of symbols.’
This time, William could see where the path of wisdom lay. He put down the book.
‘Right,’ said Vimes. ‘And now you and me are going to go over to the corner there, while your friends tidy up. Amazing, isn’t it, how much furniture can get broken, just by taking a picture?’
He went and sat down on an upturned washtub. William made do with a rocking horse.
‘All right, Mr de Worde, we’ll do this your way,’ said Vimes.
‘I didn’t know I had a way.’
‘You’re not going to tell me what you know, are you?’
‘I’m not sure what I know,’ said William. ‘But I . . . think . . . Lord Vetinari did something remarkable not long before the crime.’
Vimes pulled out his own notebook and thumbed through it.
‘He entered the palace by the stables some time before seven o’clock and dismissed the guard,’ he said.
‘He’d been out all night?’
Vimes shrugged. ‘His lordship comes and goes. The guards don’t ask him where and why. Have they been talking to you?’
William was ready for the question. He just didn’t have an answer. But the palace guard, insofar as he’d met them, weren’t men chosen for imagination or flair but for a kind of obstructive loyalty. They didn’t sound like a potential Deep Bone.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Oh, you don’t think so?’
Hold on, hold on . . . Deep Bone claimed to know the dog Wuffles, and a dog ought to know if his master was acting oddly, dogs liked routine . . .
‘I think it’s very unusual for his lordship to be outside the palace at that time,’ said William carefully. ‘Not part of the . . . routine.’
‘Nor is stabbing your clerk and trying to run off with a very heavy sack of cash,’ said Vimes. ‘Yes, we noticed that, too. We’re not stupid. We only look stupid. Oh . . . and the guard said he smelled spirits on his lordship’s breath.’
‘Does he drink?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice.’
‘He’s got a drinks cabinet in his office,’
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Vimes smiled. ‘You noticed that? He likes other people to drink,’
‘But all that might mean was that he was plucking up the courage to–‘ William began, and stopped. ‘No, that’s not Vetinari. He’s not that sort,’
‘No. He isn’t,’ said Vimes. He sat back. ‘Perhaps you’d better . . . think again, Mr de Worde. Maybe . . . maybe . . . you can find someone to help you think better,’
Something in his manner suggested that the informal part of the discussion was well and truly over.
‘Do you know much about Mr Scrope?’ said William.
“Tuttle Scrope? Son of old Tuskin Scrope. President of the Guild of Cobblers and Leatherworkers for the past seven years,’ said Vimes. ‘Family man. Old-established shop in Wixon’s Alley,’
That’s all?’
‘Mr de Worde, that’s all the Watch knows about Mr Scrope. You understand? You wouldn’t want to know about some of the people we know a lot about,’
‘Ah,’ William’s brow wrinkled. ‘But there’s not a shoe shop in Wixon’s Alley.’
‘I never mentioned shoes,’
‘In fact the only shop that is even, er, remotely connected with leather is–‘
That’s the one,’ said Vimes.
‘But that sells–‘
‘Comes under the heading of leatherwork,’ said Vimes, picking up his truncheon.
‘Well, yes . . . and rubber work, and . . . feathers . . . and whips . . . and . . . little jiggly things,’ said William, blushing. ‘But–‘
‘Never been in there myself, although I believe Corporal Nobbs gets their catalogue,’ said Vimes. ‘I don’t think there’s a Guild of Makers of Little Jiggly Things, though it’s an interesting thought. Anyway, Mr Scrope is all nice and legal, Mr de Worde. Nice old family atmosphere, I understand. Makes buying . . . this and that, and little jiggly things . . . as pleasant as half a pound of humbugs, I don’t doubt. And what rumour is telling me is that the first thing nice Mr Scrope will do is pardon Lord Vetinari.’
‘What? Without a trial?’
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‘Won’t that be nice?’ said Vimes, with horrible cheerfulness. ‘A good start to his term of office, eh? Clean sheet, fresh start, no sense in raking up unpleasantness. Poor chap. Overwork. Bound to crack. Didn’t get enough fresh air. And so on. So he can be put away in some nice quiet place and we’ll be able to stop worrying about this whole wretched affair. A bit of a relief, eh?’
‘But you know he didn’t–‘
‘Do I?’ said Vimes. This is an official truncheon of office, Mr de Worde. If it was a club with a nail in it this’d be a different sort of city. I’m off now. You’ve been thinking, you tell me. Maybe you ought to think some more.’
William watched him go.
Sacharissa had pulled herself together, perhaps because no one was trying to comfort her any more.
‘What are we going to do now?’ she said.
‘I don’t know. Get a paper out, I suppose. That’s our job.’
‘But what happens if those men come back?’
‘I don’t think they will. This place is being watched now.’
Sacharissa started to pick papers up off the floor. ‘I suppose I’ll feel better if I do something . . .’
That’s the spirit.’
‘If you can give me a few paragraphs about that fire
‘Otto got a decent picture,’ said William. ‘Didn’t you, Otto?’
‘Oh yes. That vun is okay. But. . .’
The vampire was staring down at his iconograph. It was smashed.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said William.
‘I have ozzers.’ Otto sighed. ‘You know, I thought it vould be easy in zer big city,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be civilized. Zey told me mobs don’t come after you viz pitchforks in zer big city like zey do back in Schiischien. I mean, I try. Gods know I try. Three months, four days and seven hours on zer vagon. I give up zer whole thing! Even zer pale ladies viz the velvet basques vorn on zer outside and zer fetching black lace dresses and zose little tiny, you know, high-heeled boots – and zat vas a wrench, I don’t mind telling you . . .’ He shook his head miserably, and stared at his ruined shirt. ‘And stuff all gets broken and now my
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best shirt is all covered viz . . . blood . . . covered viz red, red blood . . . rich dark blood . . . zer blood . . . covered with zer blood . . . zer blood. . .’
‘Quick!’ said Sacharissa, pushing past William. ‘Mr Goodmountain, you hold his arms!’ She waved at the dwarfs. ‘I was ready for this! Two of you hold his legs! Dozy, there’s a huge blutwurst in my desk drawer!’
‘. . . Let me valk in sunshine, Living not in vein . . .’ Otto crooned.
‘Oh, my gods, his eyes are glowing red!’ said William. ‘What shall we do?’
‘We could try cutting his head off again?’ said Boddony.
That was a very poor joke, Boddony,’ Sacharissa snapped.
‘Joke? I was smiling?’
Otto stood up, the cursing dwarfs hanging off his sparse frame.
‘Through thunderstorm and dreadful night, ve vill carry on zer fight. . :
‘He’s as strong as an ox!’ said Goodmountain.
‘Hang on, maybe it would help if we joined in!’ said Sacharissa. She fumbled in her bag and produced a slim blue pamphlet. ‘I picked this up this morning from the mission in Abattoirs Lane. It’s their songbook! And,’ she started to sniff again, ‘it’s so sad, it’s called “Walking In Sunshine” and it’s so–‘
‘You want us to have a singsong?’ said Goodmountain, as the struggling Otto lifted him off the ground.
‘Just to give him moral support!’ Sacharissa dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘You can see he’s trying to fight it! And he did lay down his life for us!’
‘Yes, but then he picked it up again!’
William bent down and took up something from the wreckage of Otto’s iconograph. The imp had escaped, but the picture that it had painted was just visible. Perhaps it’d show–
It wasn’t a good one of the man who’d called himself Brother Pin; his face was just a white blob in the glare of the light that humans couldn’t see. But the shadows behind him . . .
He looked closer.
‘Oh, my gods . . .’
The shadows behind him were alive.
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It was sleeting. Brother Pin and Sister Tulip slid and slithered through the freezing drops. Behind them, whistles were blowing in the murk.