Snuff (13 page)

Vimes looked down at the persistent little goblin. “Okay, Stinky, lead the way.”

“But my old mum is just coming out with your dinner, commander!” Feeney's voice was a wail, and Vimes hesitated. It didn't do to upset an old mum.

It was time to let the duke out. Vimes never normally bowed to anybody, but he bowed to Mistress Upshot, who almost dropped her tray in ecstatic confusion. “I am mortified, my dear Mistress Upshot, to have to ask you to keep your Man Dog Suck Po warm for us for a little while, because your son here, a credit to his uniform and to his parents, has asked me to assist him in an errand of considerable importance, which can only be entrusted to a young man with integrity, as your lad here.”

As the woman very nearly melted in pride and happiness Vimes pulled the young man away.

“Sir, the dish was Bang Suck Duck, we only have Man Dog Suck Po on Sundays. With mashed carrots.”

Vimes shook Mrs. Upshot warmly by the hand and said, “I look forward to tasting it later, my dear Mistress Upshot, but if you'll excuse me, your son is a stickler for his police work, as I'm sure you know.”

C
olonel Charles Augustus Makepeace had long ago, with the expertise of a lifelong strategist, decided to let Letitia have her way in all things. It saved so much trouble and left him able to potter around in his garden, take care of his dragons and to occasionally go trout fishing, a pastime that he loved. He rented half a mile of stream, but was sadly now finding it difficult to keep running fast enough. Nowadays he spent a lot of time in his library, working on the second volume of his memoirs, keeping from under his wife's feet and not getting involved.

Until this moment he had been quite happy that she had the role of chairman of the magistrates because it kept her away from home for hours at a time. He had never been very much of a one for thinking in terms of good or bad and guilty or not guilty. He had learned to think in terms of us and them and dead and not dead.

And therefore he wasn't exactly listening to the group sitting around the long table at the other end of the library, talking in worried voices, but nevertheless he couldn't help overhearing.

She had signed that damned document! He ought to have tried to talk her out of it, but he knew where that would have ended. Commander Vimes! Okay, by all accounts the man was the sort to rush in, and maybe he
did
have a scrap with what'shisname the blacksmith, who wasn't too bad a cove in his way, bit of a hothead of course but he'd made a damn good dragon prod only the other day at quite a reasonable price. Vimes? Not a killer, surely. That's one thing you learned in the military. You don't last long if you're a killer. Killing as duty called was another thing entirely. Letitia had listened to that unspeakable lawyer and they had all agreed that it be signed simply because that wretched Rust fella wanted it.

He opened this month's edition of
Fang and Fire
. Occasionally somebody lowered their voice, which you couldn't help thinking was damn insulting, given that they were sitting in a chap's library and especially when the chap hadn't been consulted. But he didn't protest. He had long ago learned not to protest, and so he kept his eyes focused on the pullout feature on flame-retardant incubators, holding it in front of him as if to ward off evil.

However, among the words he
didn't
hear were, “Of course, he only married her for her money, you know.” That was his wife's voice. Then, “
I
heard she was desperate to find a husband.” The curiously sharp tone of that voice identified its owner as Miss Pickings, who, the colonel couldn't help noting, as he stared grimly at a full-page advertisement for asbestos kennels, had clearly been in no hurry to find a husband herself.

The colonel was, by inclination, a live-and-let-live personality and, frankly, if a gel wanted to go around with another gel who wears a shirt and tie, trains horses and has a face like a bulldog licking vinegar off a thistle, then it was entirely
her
business. After all, he told himself, what about old “Beefy” Jackson, eh? Wore a dress every night in the mess and rather flowery aftershave for a chap, but when the call to arms came he could fight like a bloody demon. Funny old world.

He tried to find his place on the page again, but was interrupted by the Very Reverend Mouser. He never could get on with padres, couldn't see the point. “I find it very suspicious that the Ramkin family have turned up here after so many years, don't you? I keep reading about Vimes in the newspaper, not the kind of person you can imagine as simply taking a holiday.”

“According to Gravid, he is known as Vetinari's terrier,” said Letitia.

At the other end of the room her husband thrust his head even deeper into his magazine so as not to snigger. Gravid! Who would call their child Gravid? No one who had ever kept dragons or fish, that was certain. Of course, there was such a thing as a dictionary, but then the old Lord Rust had never been the kind of man to open a book if he could help it. The colonel tried to contemplate an article on the treatment of Zig-Zag Throat in older males and the wife of his heart continued, “Well, we don't want any of Vetinari's nonsense here.
Apparently
, his lordship rather enjoys allowing Vimes to break wind in the halls of the mighty.
Apparently
, Vimes is no respecter of rank. Indeed, quite the reverse. And indeed, it would seem that he is prepared to ambush a decent working man.”

Funny, thought the colonel, first time I ever heard her call the smith anything other than a blasted nuisance. It seemed to him that the gossip around the table was trite, artificial, like the conversation of raw recruits on the eve of their first battle. He thought, there's a warrant out for Commander Vimes, hero of Koom Valley (Bloody good show! Wonderful execution. Peace in our time between brother troll and brother dwarf and that sort of thing. Just the job! I've seen too much killing in my time) and now you are going to put him out of a job and a reputation, just because that greasy lad with a name like a pregnant frog has charmed you into doing so.

“I understand he has a very violent nature,” said, oh, what was his name? Bit of a bad hat in the colonel's opinion. Bought a big villa up near Overhang, one of Rust's cronies. Never seemed to do any work. What was his name, ah yes, Edgehill, not a man that you would trust behind you or in front of you, but they'd sworn him in even so.

“And he was just a street kid
and
a drunkard!” said Letitia. “What do you think of that?”

The colonel paid careful attention to his magazine while his unspoken thoughts said, Sounds jolly good to me, my dear. All I got when I married you was the promise of a half-share in your dad's fish and chip shop when I left the service, and I never even got that.

“Everybody knows that his ancestor killed a king, so I can't imagine a Vimes would jib at killing a blacksmith,” said the Honorable Ambrose. Bit of a mystery, this one. Something to do with shipping. Sent out from the city to lie low here because of something to do with a girl. And the colonel, who spent a lot of time thinking,
*
had some time ago wondered to himself how, in these modern days, you got banished from the city because of a girl, and instinct had told him that possibly it had something to do with the age of the girl. After incubating that thought for a while, the colonel had written to his old chum “Jankers” Robinson, who always knew a thing or two about this and that and one thing and another and who was now some political wallah in the palace. He had made an enquiry, as one might, of his friend whom he had once dragged to safety over the pommel of his saddle before a Klatchian scimitar got him, and had received a little note with nothing more than “Yes indeed, under-age, hushed up at great expense,” and after that the colonel had taken great care never to shake the bastard's hand again.

Blithely unaware of the thoughts of the colonel, the Honorable Ambrose, who always seemed to be slightly bigger than his clothes—said clothes being of a fashion more suited to somebody twenty years his junior—sneered, “Frankly, I think we're doing the world a service. They say that he favors dwarfs and all kinds of low-life. You might expect anything of a man like that!”

Yes, you might, thought the colonel.

And Miss Pickings said, “But we haven't done anything wrong…Have we?”

The colonel turned a page and smoothed it down with military exactitude. He thought, Well, you all condone smuggling when the right people are doing it because they're chums, and when they aren't they're heavily fined. You apply one law for the poor and none for the rich, my dear, because the poor are such a nuisance.

He felt eyes suddenly upon him because marital telepathy is a terrible thing. His wife said, “It doesn't do any harm, everybody does it.” Her head swung round again as her husband turned the page, his eyes fixedly on the type as he thought, as noiselessly as his brain could contrive: and of course there was the…incident, a few years ago. Not good, that. Not good. Not good when little babies of any sort are taken away from mothers. Not good at all. And you all know it and it worries you, and well it should.

The room was silent for a moment and then Mrs. Colonel continued. “There will not be any problems. Young Lord Rust has promised me. We have rights, after all.”

“I blame that wretched blacksmith,” said Miss Pickings. “He keeps bringing it back into people's memories, him and that damn writing woman.”

Mrs. Colonel bridled at this. “I have no idea what you're talking about, Miss Pickings. Legally nothing wrong has happened here.” Her head swiveled toward her husband. “Are you all right, dear?” she demanded.

For a moment he looked as though he wasn't and then the colonel said, “Oh, yes, dear. Right as rain. Right as rain.” But his thoughts continued: you have partaken in what is, I strongly suggest, a cynical attempt to ruin the career of a very good man.

“I heard you coughing.” It sounded like an accusation.

“Oh, just a bit of dust or something, dear, right as rain. Right as rain.” And then he slammed his magazine on to the table. Standing up, he said, “When I was nothing but a subaltern, dear, one of the first things I learned was that you never give away your position by frantic firing. I think I know the type of your Commander Vimes. Young Lord Rust may be safe, with his money and contacts, but I doubt very much that you all will be. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn't been so hasty? What's a bit of smuggling? You've just pulled the dragon's tail and made him angry!”

When his wife regained control of her tongue, she said, “How dare you, Charles!”

“Oh, quite easily, as it turns out, dear,” said the colonel, smiling happily. “A bit of smuggling might be considered a peccadillo, but not when you're supposed to be upholding the law. It baffles me that none of you seems to realize that. If you have any sense, ladies and gentlemen, you will explain that whole unfortunate goblin event to his grace right now. After all, your chum Gravid organized it. The only little problem is that you allowed him to do it, as I recall, without so much as a murmur.”

“But it was not illegal,” said his wife icily.

Her husband didn't move, but in some ineffable sense he was suddenly taller. “I think things got a bit tangled: you see, you thought about things as being legal or illegal. Well, I'm just a soldier and never was a very good one, but it's my opinion you were so worried about legal and illegal that you never stopped to think about whether it was right or wrong. And now, if you will excuse me, I'm going down to the pub.”

Automatically, his wife said, “No, dear, you know drink doesn't agree with you.”

The colonel was all smiles. “This evening I intend to settle my differences with drink and make it my friend.”

The rest of the magistrates looked at Mrs. Colonel, who glared at her husband. “I'll talk to you about this later, Charles,” she growled.

To her surprise, his smile did not change. “Yes, dear, I suspect you will, but I think you'll find that I won't be listening. Good evening to you all.” There was a click as the door shut behind him. There should have been a slam, but some doors never quite understand the situation.

T
he goblin was already moving quite fast with a dot-and-carry-one gait that was deceptively speedy. Vimes was surprised to find that Feeney made heavy weather of the little jog toward—he was not surprised—Hangman's Hill. He could hear the boy wheezing slightly. Perhaps you didn't need to be all that fast to overtake a wayward pig, but you needed to be
very
fast indeed to catch up with a young troll blizzarded to the eyeballs with Slice and you needed lots of stamina to overtake him and slap the cuffs on him before he came down enough to try to twist your head off. Policing was obviously very different in the country.

In the country, there is always somebody watching you, he thought as they sped along. Well, there was always somebody watching you in the city, too, but that was generally in the hope that you might drop dead and they could run off with your wallet. They were never
interested
. But here he thought he could feel many eyes on him. Maybe they belonged to squirrels or badgers, or whatever the damn things were that Vimes heard at night; gorillas, possibly.

He had no idea what he was going to see, but certainly didn't expect to find the top of the hill bright with lines of rope, painted yellow. He gave it only a second's glance, however. With their backs to one of the trees, and looking very apprehensive, were three goblins. One of them stood up, thus bringing its head and therefore its eyes to a level in the vicinity of Vimes's groin, not a good position to find himself. It held up a wrinkled hand and said, “Vimes? Hang!”

Vimes stared down at it and then at Feeney. “What does he mean, ‘Hang”?”

“Never been quite sure,” said Feeney. “Something like, have a nice day, I think, but only in goblin.”

“Vimes!” the old goblin continued. “It said be, you be po-leess-maan. It be big po-leess-maan! If po-leess-maan, then just ice! But just ice it be no! And when dark inside dark! Dark moving! Dark must come, Vimes! Dark rises! Just ice!”

Vimes had no idea of the sex of the speaker, or even its age. Dress wasn't a clue: goblins apparently wore anything that could be tied on. Its companions were watching him unblinkingly. They had stone axes, flint, vicious stuff, but it lost its edge after a couple of blows, which was no consolation when you were bleeding from the neck. He had heard that they were berserk fighters, too. Oh, and what was the other thing people said? Ah yes, whatever you do, don't let them scratch you…

“You want justice, do you? Justice for what?”

The goblin speaker stared at him and said, “Come with me po-leess-maan,” the words rolling out like a curse, or, at least, a threat. The speaker turned and began to walk solemnly down the far side of the hill. The other three goblins, including the one known to Vimes as Stinky, did not move.

Feeney whispered, “This could be a trap, sir.”

Vimes rolled his eyes and sneered, “You think so, do you? I thought it was probably an invitation to a magical show featuring the Amazing Bonko and Doris and the Collapsing Unicycle Brothers with Fido the Cat. What's this yellow rope all about, Mr. Upshot?”

“Police cordon, sir. My mum knitted it for me.”

“Oh yes, I can see she's managed to work the word PLICE in black in there several times, too.”

“Yes, sir, sorry about the spelling, sir,” said Feeney, clearly spooked by the stares. He went on, “There was blood all over the ground, sir, so I scraped some into a clean jam jar, just in case.”

Vimes paid that no attention, because the two goblin guards had unfolded and were standing up. Stinky beckoned Vimes to walk ahead of them. Vimes shook his head, folded his arms and turned to Feeney.

“Let me tell you what you thought, Mr. Upshot. You acted on information received, didn't you? And you heard that the blacksmith and I indulged in a bout of fisticuffs outside the pub the other night, and that is true. No doubt you were also told that at some time later someone heard a conversation in which he arranged to meet me up at this place, yes? Don't bother to answer, I can see it in your face—you haven't quite got the copper's deadpan yet. Has Mr. Jefferson gone missing?”

Feeney gave up. “Yes, Mr. Vimes.”

He didn't deserve or perhaps he
did
deserve, the force with which Vimes turned on him.

“You will not call me Mr. Vimes, lad, you ain't earned the right.
You
call me ‘Sir' or ‘Commander,' or even ‘Your grace' if you're dumb enough to do so, understand? I could have sent the blacksmith home walking very strangely if I'd had a mind to do so the other night. He's a big man but no street hero. But I let him get the steam out of his tubes and calm down without losing face. Yes, he did say he wanted to meet me up here last night. When I came up here, with a witness, there was blood on the ground which I will warrant is goblin blood, and certainly no sign of any blacksmith. You had a bloody stupid case against me when you came up to my house and it's still a bloody stupid case. Any questions?”

Feeney looked down at his feet. “No, sir, sorry, sir.”

“Good, I'm glad. Think of this as a training experience, my lad, and it won't cost you a penny. Now, these goblins seem to want us to follow them and I intend to do so, and I also intend that you will come with me, understood?”

Vimes looked at the two goblin guards. An ax was waved in a half-hearted sort of way, indicating that they should indeed be traveling. They set off and he could hear sorrowful Feeney trying to be brave, but broadcasting anxiety.

“They're not going to touch us, kid, first because if they had intended to do that they'd have done it already, and second, they want something from me.”

Feeney moved a little closer. “And what would that be, sir?”

“Justice,” said Vimes. “And I think I have a premonition about what that is going to mean…”