Men at Arms tds-15 Page 10

  It was the first time she'd seen him through these eyes. Good grief. How did people not notice it? He walked through the city like a tiger through tall grass, or a hubland bear across the snow, wearing the landscape like a skin—

  Gaspode glanced sideways. Angua was sitting on her haunches, staring.

  “Yer tongue's hanging out,” he said.

  “What?… So? So what? That's natural. I'm panting.”

  “Har, har.”

  Carrot noticed them, and stopped.

  “Why, it's the little mongrel dog,” he said.

  “Woof, woof,” said Gaspode, his traitor tail wagging.

  “I see you've got a lady friend, anyway,” said Carrot, patting him on the head and then absent-mindedly wiping his hand on his tunic.

  “And, my word, what a splendid bitch,” he said. “A Ramtop wolfhound, if I'm any judge.” He stroked Angua in a vague friendly way. “Oh, well,” he said. “This isn't getting any work done, is it?”

  “Woof, whine, give the doggy a biscuit,” said Gaspode.

  Carrot stood up and patted his pockets. “I think I've got a piece of biscuit here—well, I could believe you understand every word I say…”

  Gaspode begged, and caught the biscuit easily.

  “Woof, woof, fawn, fawn,” he said.

  Carrot gave Gaspode the slightly puzzled look that people always gave him when he said “woof” instead of barking, nodded at Angua, and carried on towards Scoone Avenue and Lady Ramkin's house.

  “There,” said Gaspode, crunching the stale biscuit noisily, “goes a very nice boy. Simple, but nice.”

  “Yes, he is simple, isn't he?” said Angua. “That's what I first noticed about him. He's simple. And everything else here is complicated.”

  “He was making sheep's eyes at you earlier,” said Gaspode. “Not that I've got anything against sheep's eyes, mind you. If they're fresh.”

  “You're disgusting.”

  “Yeah, but at least I stay the same shape all month, no offence meant.”

  “You're asking for a bite.”

  “Oh, yeah,” moaned Gaspode. “Yeah, you'll bite me. Aaargh. Oh, yes, that'll really worry me, that will. I mean, think about it. I've got so many dog diseases I'm only alive 'cos the little buggers are too busy fighting among 'emselves. I mean, I've even got Licky End, and you only get that if you're a pregnant sheep. Go on. Bite me. Change my life. Every time there's a full moon, suddenly I grow hair and yellow teeth and have to go around on all fours. Yes, I can see that making a big difference to my ongoing situation. Actually,” he said, “I'm definitely on a losing streak in the hair department, so maybe a, you know, not the whole bite, maybe just a nibble—”

  “Shut up.” At least you've got a lady friend, Carrot had said. As if there was something on his mind…

  “A quick lick, even—”

  “Shut up.”

  “This unrest is all Vetinari's fault,” said the Duke of Eorle. “The man has no style! So now, of course, we have a city where grocers have as much influence as barons. He even let the plumbers form a Guild! That's against nature, in my humble opinion.”

  “It wouldn't be so bad if he set some kind of social example,” said Lady Omnius.

  “Or even governed,” said Lady Selachii. “People seem to be able to get away with anything.”

  “I admit that the old kings were not necessarily our kind of people, towards the end,” said the Duke of Eorle, “but at least they stood for something, in my humble opinion. We had a decent city in those days. People were more respectful and knew their place. People put in a decent day's work, they didn't laze around all the time. And we certainly didn't open the gates to whatever riffraff was capable of walking through. And of course we also had law. Isn't that so, captain?”

  Captain Samuel Vimes stared glassily at a point somewhere to the left and just above the speaker's left ear.

  Cigar smoke hung almost motionless in the air. Vimes was dimly aware that he'd spent several hours eating too much food in the company of people he didn't like.

  He longed for the smell of damp streets and the feel of the cobbles under his cardboard soles. A tray of postprandial drinks was orbiting the table, but Vimes hadn't touched it, because it upset Sybil. And she tried not to show it, and that upset him even more.

  The Bearhugger's had worn off. He hated being sober. It meant he started to think. One of the thoughts jostling for space was that there was no such thing as a humble opinion.

  He hadn't had much experience with the rich and powerful. Coppers didn't, as a rule. It wasn't that they were less prone to commit crimes, it was just that the crimes they committed tended to be so far above the normal level of criminality that they were beyond the reach of men with bad boots and rusting mail. Owning a hundred slum properties wasn't a crime, although living in one was, almost; Being an Assassin—the Guild never actually said so, but an important qualification was being the son or daughter of a gentleman—wasn't a crime. If you had enough money, you could hardly commit crimes at all. You just perpetrated amusing little peccadilloes.

  “And now everywhere you look it's uppity dwarfs and trolls and rude people,” said Lady Selachii. “There's more dwarfs in Ankh-Morpork now than there are in any of their own cities, or whatever they call their holes.”

  “What do you think, captain?” said the Duke of Eorle.

  “Hmm?” Captain Vimes picked up a grape and started turning it over and over in his fingers.

  “The current ethnic problem.”

  “Are we having one?”

  “Well, yes… Look at Quarry Lane. There's fighting there every night!”

  “And they have absolutely no concept of religion!”

  Vimes examined the grape minutely. What he wanted to say was: Of course they fight. They're trolls. Of course they bash one another with clubs—trollish is basically body language and, well, they like to shout. In fact, the only one who ever gives anyone any real trouble is that bastard Chrysoprase, and that's only because he apes humans and is a quick learner. As for religion, troll gods were hitting one another with clubs ten thousand years before we'd even stopped trying to eat rocks.

  But the memory of the dead dwarf stirred something perverse in his soul.

  He put the grape back on his plate.

  “Definitely,” he said. “In my view, the godless bastards should be rounded up and marched out of the city at spearpoint.”

  There was a moment's silence.

  “It's no more than they deserve,” Vimes added.

  “Exactly! They're barely more than animals,” said Lady Omnius. Vimes suspected her first name was Sara.

  “Have you noticed how massive their heads are?” said Vimes. “That's really just rock. Very small brains.”

  “And morally, of course…” said Lord Eorle.

  There was a murmur of vague agreement. Vimes reached for his glass.

  “Willikins, I don't think Captain Vimes wants any wine,” said Lady Ramkin.

  “Wrong!” said Vimes cheerfully. “And while we're on the subject, how about the dwarfs?”

  “I don't know if anyone's noticed,” said Lord Eorle, “but you certainly don't see as many dogs about as you used to.”

  Vimes stared. It was true about the dogs. There didn't seem to be quite so many mooching around these days, that was a fact. But he'd visited a few dwarf bars with Carrot, and knew that dwarfs would indeed eat dog, but only if they couldn't get rat. And ten thousand dwarfs eating continuously with knife, fork and shovel wouldn't make a dent in Ankh-Morpork's rat population. It was a major feature in dwarfish letters back home: come on, everyone, and bring the ketchup.

  “Notice how small their heads are?” he managed. “Very limited capacity, surely. Fact of measure-ment.”

  “And you never see their women,” said Lady Sara Omnius. “I find that very… suspicious. You know what they say about dwarfs,” she added darkly.

  Vimes sighed. He was just about aware that you saw their women all the time
, although they looked just like the male dwarfs. Surely everyone knew that, who knew anything about dwarfs?

  “Cunning little devils too,” said Lady Selachii. “Sharp as needles.”

  “You know,” Vimes shook his head, “you know, that's what's so damn annoying, isn't it? The way they can be so incapable of any rational thought and so bloody shrewd at the same time.”

  Only Vimes saw the look Lady Ramkin flashed him. Lord Eorle stubbed out his cigar.

  “They just move in and take over. And work away like ants all the time real people should be getting some sleep. It's not natural.”

  Vimes' mind circled the comment and compared it to the earlier one about a decent day's work.

  “Well, one of them won't be working so hard,” said Lady Omnius. “My maid said one of them was found in the river this morning. Probably some tribal war or something.”

  “Hah… it's a start, anyway,” said Lord Eorle, laughing. “Not that anyone will notice one more or less.”

  Vimes smiled brightly.

  There was a wine bottle near his hand, despite Will-ikins' tactful best efforts to remove it. The neck looked invitingly grippable—

  He was aware of eyes on him. He looked across the table into the face of a man who was watching him intently and whose last contribution to the conversation had been “Could you be so kind as to pass me the seasonings, captain?” There was nothing remarkable about the face, except for the gaze—which was absolutely calm and mildly amused. It was Dr Cruces. Vimes had the strong impression that his thoughts were being read.

  “Samuel!”

  Vimes' hand stopped halfway to the bottle. Willikins was standing next to her ladyship.

  “Apparently there's a young man at the door asking for you,” said Lady Ramkin. “Corporal Carrot.”

  “Gosh, this is exciting!” said Lord Eorle. “Has he come to arrest us, do you think? Hahaha.”

  “Ha,” said Vimes.

  Lord Eorle nudged his partner.

  “I expect that somewhere a crime is being committed,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Vimes. “Quite close, I think.”

  Carrot was shown in, with his helmet under his arm at a respectful angle.

  He gazed at the select company, licked his lips nervously, and saluted. Everyone was looking at him. It was hard not to notice Carrot in a room. There were bigger people than him in the city. He didn't loom. He just seemed, without trying, to distort things around him. Everything became background to Corporal Carrot.

  “At ease, corporal,” said Vimes. “What's up? I mean,” he added quickly, knowing Carrot's erratic approach to colourful language, “what is the reason for you being here at this time?”

  “Got something to show you, sir. Uh. Sir, I think it's from the Assass—”

  “We'll just go and talk about it outside, shall we?” said Vimes. Dr Cruces hadn't twitched a muscle.

  Lord Eorle sat back. “Well, I must say I'm impressed,” he said. “I'd always thought you Watchmen were a pretty ineffective lot, but I see you're pursuing your duty at all times. Always on the alert for the criminal mind, eh?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Vimes. “The criminal mind. Yes.”

  The cooler air of the ancestral hallway came as a blessing. He leaned against the wall and squinted at the card.

  “‘Gonne’?”

  “You know you said you saw something in the courtyard—” Carrot began.

  “What's a gonne?”

  “Maybe something wasn't in the Assassins' museum, and they put this sign on it?” said Carrot. “You know, like ‘Removed for Cleaning’? They do that in museums.”

  “No, I shouldn't think th—What do you know about museums, anyway?”

  “Oh, well, sir,” said Carrot. “I sometimes visit them on my day off. The one in the University, of course, and Lord Vetinari lets me look around the old Palace one, and then there's the Guild ones, they generally let me in if I ask nicely, and there's the dwarf museum off Rime Street—”

  “Is there?” said Vimes, interested despite himself. He'd walked along Rime Street a thousand times.

  “Yes, sir, just up Whirligig Alley.”

  “Fancy that. What's in it?”

  “Many interesting examples of dwarf bread, sir.”

  Vimes thought about this for a moment. “That's not important right now,” he said. “This isn't how you spell gone, anyway.”

  “Yes it is, sir,” said Carrot.

  “I meant, it's not how gone is normally spelled.”

  He flicked the card back and forth in his fingers.

  “A man'd have to be a fool to break into the Assassins' Guild,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The anger had burned away the fumes. Once again he felt… not, not the thrill, that wasn't the right word… the sense of something. He still wasn't sure what it was. But it was there, waiting for him—

  “Samuel Vimes, what's going on?”

  Lady Ramkin shut the dining-room door behind her.

  “I was watching you,” she said. “You were being very rude, Sam.”

  “I was trying not to be.”

  “Lord Eorle is a very old friend.”

  “Is he?”

  “Well, I've known him a long time. I can't stand the man, actually. But you were making him look foolish.”

  “He was making himself look foolish. I was merely helping.”

  “But I've often heard you being… rude about dwarfs and trolls.”

  “That's different. I've got a right. That idiot wouldn't know a troll if it walked over him.”

  “Oh, he would know if a troll walked over him,” said Carrot, helpfully. “Some of them weigh as much as—”

  “What's so important, anyway?” said Lady Ramkin.

  “We're… looking for whoever killed Chubby,” said Vimes.

  Lady Ramkin's expression changed instantly.

  “That's different, of course,” she said. “People like that should be publicly flogged.”

  Why did I say that? thought Vimes. Maybe because it's true. The… gonne… goes missing, next minute there's a little dwarf artificer thrown in the river with a nasty draught where his chest should be. They're linked. Now all I have to do is find the links…

  “Carrot, can you come back with me to Hammerhock's?”

  “Yes, captain. Why?”

  “I want to see inside that workshop. And this time I've got a dwarf with me.”

  More than that, he added, I've got Corporal Carrot. Everyone likes Corporal Carrot.

  Vimes listened while the conversation droned on in dwarfish. Carrot seemed to be winning, but it was a near thing. The clan was giving in not because of reason, or in obedience to the law, but because… well… because it was Carrot who was asking.

  Finally, the corporal looked up. He was sitting on a dwarf stool, so his knees practically framed his head.

  “You have to understand, you see, that a dwarf's workshop is very important.”

  “Right,” said Vimes. “I understand.”

  “And, er… you're a bigger.”

  “Sorry?”

  “A bigger. Bigger than a dwarf.”

  “Ah.”

  “Er. The inside of a dwarf's workshop is like… well, it's like the inside of his clothes, if you know what I mean. They say you can look, if I'm with you. But you mustn't touch anything. Er. They're not very happy about this, captain.”

  A dwarf who was possibly Mrs Hammerhock produced a bunch of keys.

  “I've always got on well with dwarfs,” said Vimes.

  “They're not happy, sir. Um. They don't think we'll do any good.”

  “We'll do our best!”

  “Um. I didn't translate that properly. Um. They don't think we're any good. They don't mean to be offensive, sir. They just don't think we'll be allowed to get anywhere, sir.”

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry about that, captain,” said Carrot, who was walking like an inverted L. “After you. Mind your head on the—”
>
  “Ow!”

  “Perhaps it'd be best if you sat down and I'll look around.”

  The workshop was long and, of course, low, with another small door at the far end. There was a big workbench under a skylight. On the opposite wall was a forge and a tool rack. And a hole.

  A chunk of plaster had fallen away a few feet above the ground, and cracks radiated away from the shattered brickwork underneath.

  Vimes pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn't found time to sleep today. That was another thing. He'd have to get used to sleeping when it was dark. He couldn't remember when he'd last slept at night.

  He sniffed.

  “I can smell fireworks,” he said.

  “Could be from the forge,” said Carrot. “Anyway, trolls and dwarfs have been letting fireworks off all over the city.”

  Vimes nodded.

  “All right,” he said, “so what can we see?”

  “Someone thumped the wall pretty hard just here,” said Carrot.

  “Could have happened at any time,” said Vimes.

  “No, sir, because there's the plaster dust underneath and a dwarf always keeps his workshop clean.”

  “Really?”

  There were various weapons, some of them half finished, on racks by the bench. Vimes picked up most of a crossbow.

  “He did good work,” he said. “Very good at mechanisms.”

  “Well known for it,” said Carrot, poking around aimlessly on the bench. “A very delicate hand. He made musical boxes for a hobby. Could never resist a mechanical challenge. Er. What are we looking for actually, sir?”

  “Not sure. Now this is good…”

  It was a war axe, and so heavy that Vimes' arm sagged. Intricate etched lines covered the blade. It must have represented weeks of work.

  “Not your actual Saturday night special, eh?”

  “Oh no,” said Carrot, “that's a burial weapon.”

  “I should think it is!”

  “I mean, it's made to be buried with a dwarf. Every dwarf is buried with a weapon. You know? To take with him to… wherever he's going.”

  “But it's fine workmanship! And it's got an edge like—aargh,” Vimes sucked his finger, “like a razor.”