Jingo d-21 Page 12

  Since then they had relied on the good old principle of enlightened self-interest. People living close to a burning building did their best to douse the fire, because the thatch they saved might be their own.

  But the crowd watching the burning embassy were doing so in a hollow-eyed, distant way, as if it was all taking place on some distant planet.

  They moved aside automatically as Vimes elbowed his way through to the space in front of the gates. Flames were already licking from every ground-floor window, and they could make out scurrying silhouettes in the flickering light.

  He turned to the crowd. “Come on! What's up with you? Get a bucket chain going!”

  “It's their bloody embassy,” said a voice.

  “Yeah. 's Klatchian soil, right?”

  “Can't go on Klatchian soil.”

  “That'd be an invasion, that would.”

  “They wouldn't let us,” said a small boy holding a bucket.

  Vimes looked at the embassy gateway. There were a couple of guards. Their worried glances kept going back from the fire behind them to the crowd in front. They were nervous men, but it was much worse than that, because they were nervous men holding big swords.

  He advanced on them, trying to smile and holding his badge out in front of him. It had a shield on it. It was not a very big shield.

  “Commander Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch,” he said, in what he hoped was a helpful and friendly voice.

  A guard waved him away. “Hyou be off!”

  “Ah…” said Vimes. He looked down at the cobbles of the gateway and then back up at the guard. Somewhere in the flames someone was screaming.

  “You! Come here! You see this?” he shouted at the guard, pointing down. The man took a hesitant step forward.

  “That's Ankh-Morpork soil down there, my friend,” said Vimes. “And you're standing on it and you're obstructing me in my—” he rammed his fist as hard as he could into the guard's stomach “—duty!”

  He was already kicking out as the other guard rushed him. He caught him on the knee. Something went click. It felt like Vimes's own ankle.

  Cursing and limping slightly, he ran on into the embassy and caught a scurrying man by his robe.

  “Are there people still in there? Are there people in there?”

  The man gave Vimes a panicky look. The armfuls of paper he'd been carrying spilled on to the ground.

  Someone else grabbed his shoulder. “Can you climb, Mr Vimes?”

  “Who're—”

  The newcomer turned to the cowering paper-carrier and struck him heavily across the face. “Rescuer of paper!”

  As the man fell back his turban was snatched from his head.

  “This way!” The figure plunged off through the smoke. Vimes hurried after him until they reached a wall, with a drainpipe attached.

  “How did you—?”

  “Up! Up!”

  Vimes put one foot in the man's cupped hands, managed to get the other one on a bracket, and forced himself upwards.

  “Hurry!”

  He managed to half climb, half pull himself up the pipe, little fireworks of pain exploding up and down his legs as he reached a parapet and hauled himself over. The other man rose behind him as if he'd run up the wall.

  There was a strip of cloth hiding the lower half of his face. He thrust another strip towards Vimes.

  “Across your nose and mouth!” he commanded. “For the smoke!”

  It was boiling across the roof. Beside Vimes a chimneypot gushed a roaring tongue of flame.

  The rest of the unwound turban was thrust into his hands.

  “You take this side, I'll take the other,” said the apparition, and darted away again into the smoke.

  “But wh—”

  Vimes could feel the heat through his boots. He edged away across the roof, and heard the shouting coming from below.

  When he leaned over the edge here he could see the window some way below him. Someone had smashed a pane, because a hand was waving.

  There was more commotion down in the courtyard. Amid a press of figures he could make out the huge shape of Constable Dorfl, a golem and quite definitely fireproof. But Dorfl was bad enough at stairs as it was. There weren't many that could take the weight.

  The hand in the smoke stopped waving.

  Vimes looked down again.

  Can you fly, Mr Vimes?

  He looked at the chimney, belching flame.

  He looked at the unwound turban.

  A lot of Sam Vimes's brain had shut down, although the bits relaying the twinges of pain from his legs were operating with distressing efficiency. But there were still some thoughts operating down around the core, and they delivered for his consideration the insight:

  …tough-looking cloth…

  He looked back at the chimney. It looked stout enough.

  The window was about six feet below.

  Vimes began to move automatically.

  So, purely theoretically, if a man were to wrap one end of the cloth round the belching stack like this and pay it out like this and lower himself over the parapet like this and kick himself away from the wall like this, then when he swung back again his feet ought to be able to smash his way through the other panes of the window, like this…

  A cart squeaked along the wet street. Its progress was erratic because no two of its wheels were the same size, so it rocked and wobbled and skidded and probably involved more effort to pull than it saved overall, especially since its contents appeared to be rubbish. But then, so did its owner.

  Who was about the size of a man, but bent almost double, and was covered with hair or rags or quite possibly a matted mixture of both that was so felted and unwashed that small plants had taken root on it. If the thing had stopped walking and crouched down, it would have given an astonishingly good impression of a long-neglected compost heap. As it walked along, it snuffled.

  A foot was stuck out to impede its progress.

  “Good evening, Stoolie,”{45} said Carrot as the cart halted.

  The heap stopped. Part of it tilted upwards.

  “Geroff,” it muttered, from somewhere in the thatch.

  “Now, now, Stoolie, let's help one another, shall we? You help me, and I'll help you.”

  “B'g'r'ff, c'p'r.”

  “Well, you tell me things I want to know,” said Carrot, “and I won't search your cart.”

  “I hate gnolls,” said Angua. “They smell awful.”

  “Oh, that's hardly fair. The streets'd be a lot dirtier without you and yours, eh, Stoolie?” said Carrot, still speaking quite pleasantly. “You pick up this, you pick up that, maybe bash it against a wall until it stops struggling—”

  “'s a vile acur'cy,” said the gnoll. There was a bubbling noise that might have been a chuckle.

  “So I'm hearing you might know where Snowy Slopes is these days,” said Carrot.

  “D'nno n'thin'.”

  “Fine.” Carrot produced a three-tined garden fork and walked round to the cart, which dripped.

  “D'nno n'thin' ab't—” said the gnoll quickly.

  “Yes?” said Carrot, fork poised.

  “D'nno n'thin' ab't t' sweetsp'p'n M'ney Tr'p L'ne.”

  “The one with the Rooms To Let sign?”

  “R't.”

  “Well done. Thank you for being a good citizen,” said Carrot. “Incidentally, we passed a dead seagull the way here. Its in Brewer Street. I bet if you hurried you could beat the rush.”

  “H't d'gg'ty,” snuffled the gnoll. The cart started to judder forward. The watchmen watched it lurch and scrape around the corner.

  “They're good fellows at heart,” said Carrot. “I think it says a lot for the spirit of tolerance in this city that even gnolls can call it home.”

  “They turn my stomach,” said Angua, as they set off again. “That one had plants growing on him!”{46}

  “Mr Vimes says we ought to do something for them,” said Carrot.

  “All heart, that man.”
/>
  “With a flamethrower, he says.”

  “Wouldn't work. Too soggy. Has anyone ever really found out what they eat?”

  “It's better to think of them as… cleaners. You certainly don't see as much rubbish and dead animals on the streets as you used to.”

  “Yes, but have you ever seen a gnoll with a brush and shovel?”

  “Well, that's society for you, I'm afraid,” said Carrot. “Everything is dumped on the people below until you find someone who's prepared to eat it. That's what Mr Vimes says.”

  “Yes,” said Angua. They walked in silence for a while, and then she said. “You care a lot about what Mr Vimes says, don't you…?”

  “He is a fine officer and an example to us all.”

  “And… you've never thought of getting a job in Quirm or somewhere, have you? The other cities are headhunting Ankh-Morpork watchmen now.”

  “What, leave Ankh-Morpork?” The tone of voice included the answer.

  “No… I suppose not,” said Angua sadly.

  “Anyway, I don't know what Mr Vimes would do without me running around all the time.”

  “It's a point of view, certainly,” said Angua.

  It wasn't far to Money Trap Lane. It was in a ghetto of what Lord Rust would probably call “skilled artisans”, the people too low down the social scale to be movers and shakers but slightly too high to be easily moved or shook. The sanders and polishers, generally.

  The people who hadn't got very much but were proud even of that. There were little clues. Shiny house numbers, for a start. And, on the walls of houses that were effectively just one long continuous row, after centuries of building and inbuilding, very careful boundaries in the paint where people had brushed up to the very border of their property and not a gnat's blink to each side. Carrot always said it showed the people were the kind who instinctively realized that civilization was based on a shared respect for ownership; Angua thought they were just tight little bastards who'd sell you the time of day.

  Carrot walked noiselessly down the alley beside the sweetshop. There was a rough wooden staircase going up to the first floor. He pointed silently to the midden below it.

  It seemed to consist almost entirely of bottles.

  “Big drinker?” Angua mouthed. Carrot shook his head.

  She crouched down and looked at the labels, but her nose was already giving her a hint. Dibbler's Homeopathic Shampoo. Mere and Stingbat's Herbal Wash — with Herbs! Rinse 'n' Run Scalp Tonic — with Extra Herbs!…{47}

  There were others. Herbs, she thought. Chuck a handful of weeds in the pot and you've got herbs…

  Carrot was starting up the stairs when she put her hand on his shoulder. There was another smell. It was one that drove through all the other scents of the streets like a spear. It was one that a werewolf's nose is particularly attuned to.

  He nodded and went carefully to the door. Then he pointed down. There was a stain under the gap.

  Carrot drew his sword and kicked the door open.

  Daceyville Slopes hadn't taken his condition lightly.

  Bottles of all shapes and colours occupied most flat surfaces, giving testimony to the alchemist's art and humanity's optimism.

  The suds of his latest experiment were still in a bowl on the table, and his body on the floor had a towel around his neck. The watchmen looked down at it. Snowy had cleaned, washed and gone.{48}

  “I think we can say life is extinct,” said Carrot.

  “Yuk,” said Angua. She grabbed the open shampoo bottle and sniffed deeply. The sickly scent of marinated herbs assailed her sinuses, but anything was better than the sharp, beguiling smell of blood.

  “I wonder where his head is at?” said Carrot, in a determinedly matter-of-fact voice. “Oh, it's rolled over there… What's the horrible smell?”

  “This!” Angua flourished the shampoo. “Four dollars a bottle, it says. Sheesh!”

  Angua took another deep sniff at the herbal goo, to drown out the call of the wolf.

  “Doesn't look as if they stole anything,” said Carrot. “Unless they were very neat— What's the matter?”

  “Don't ask!”

  She managed to get a window open and sucked down great draughts of comparatively fresh air, while Carrot went through the corpse's pockets.

  “Er… you can't tell if there's a clove around, can you?” he said.

  “Carrot! Please! This is a room with blood all over the floor! Have you any idea? Excuse me…”

  She rushed out and down the steps. The alley had the generic smell of all alleys everywhere, overlaid on the basic all-embracing smell of the city. But at least it didn't make your hair grow and your teeth try to lengthen. She leaned against the wall and fought for control. Shampoo? She could have saved Snowy a hell of a lot of money with just one careful bite. Then he'd know all about a really bad hair day…

  Carrot came down a couple of minutes later, locking the door behind him.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “A bit…”

  “There was something else,” said Carrot, looking thoughtful. “I think he wrote a note before he died. But it's all rather odd.” He waved in the air what looked like a cheap notepad. “This needs careful looking at.” He shook his head. “Poor old Snowy.”

  “He was a killer!”

  “Yes, but that's a nasty way to die.”

  “Decapitation? With a very sharp sword, by the look of it. I can think of worse.”

  “Yes, but I can't help thinking that if only the chap had better hair or had found the right shampoo at an early age he'd have led a different life…”

  “Well, at least he won't have to worry about dandruff any more.”

  “That was a little tasteless.”

  “Sorry, but you know how blood makes me, tense.”

  “Your hair always looks amazing,” said Carrot, changing the subject with, Angua thought, unusual tact. “I don't know what you use, but it's a shame he never tried it.”

  “I doubt if he went to the right shop,” said Angua. “It says ‘For a Glossy Coat’ on the bottles I usually buy— What's the matter?”

  “Can you smell smoke?” said Carrot.

  “Carrot, it's going to be five minutes before I can smell anything except—”

  But he was staring past her, at the big red glow in the sky.

  Vimes coughed. And then coughed some more. And eventually opened his streaming eyes in the confident expectation of seeing his own lungs in front of him.

  “Glass of water, Mr Vimes?”

  Vimes peered through the tears at the shifting shape of Fred Colon.

  “Thanks, Fred. What's the horrible burning smell?”

  “It's you, sir.”

  Vimes was sitting on a low wall outside the wreck of the embassy. Cool air washed around him. He felt like underdone beef. The heat was radiating off him.

  “You was passed on for a while there, sir,” said Sergeant Colon helpfully. “But everyone saw you swing in that window, sir! And you threw that woman out for Detritus to catch! That'll be a feather in your cap and no mistake, sir! I bet the ragh— I bet the Klatchians'll be giving you the Order of the Camel or something for this night's work, sir!” Colon beamed, bursting with pride by association.

  “A feather in my cap…” murmured Vimes. He undid his helmet and with a certain amount of exhausted delight saw that every single plume had been burned to a stub.

  He blinked slowly.

  “What about the man, Fred? Did he get out?”

  “What man?”

  “There was…” Vimes blinked again. Various parts of his body, aware that he hadn't been taking calls, were ringing in to complain.

  There had been… some man? Vimes had landed on a bed or something, and there was a woman clutching at him, and he had smashed out what was left of the window, seen the big, broad and above all strong arms of Detritus down below, and had thrown her out as politely as the circumstances allowed. Then the man from the roof had come out of the smoke ag
ain, carrying another figure over his shoulder, screamed something at him and beckoned him to follow and…

  …then the floor had given way…

  “There were… two other people in there,” he said, coughing again.

  “They didn't get out the front way, then,” said Colon.

  “How did I get out?” said Vimes.

  “Oh, Dorfl was stamping on the fire down below, sir. Very handy, a ceramic constable. You landed right on him, so of course he stopped what he was doing and brought you out. 's gonna be handshakes and buns all round in the morning, sir!”

  There weren't any right now, Vimes noted There were still plenty of people around, carrying bundles, putting out small fires, arguing with one another… but there was a big hole where congratulating-the-hero-of-the-hour should have been.

  “Oh, everyone's always a bit preoccupied after something like this, sir,” said Colon, as if reading his thoughts.

  “I think I'll have a nice cold bath,” said Vimes, to the world in general. “And then some sleep. Sybil's got some wonderful ointment for burns… Ah, hello, you two.”

  “We saw the fire—” Carrot began, running up. “Is it all over?”

  “Mr Vimes saved the day!” said Sergeant Colon excitedly. “Just went straight in and saved everyone, in the finest tradition of the Watch!”

  “Fred?” said Vimes, wearily.

  “Yessir?”

  “Fred, the finest tradition of the Watch is having a quiet smoke somewhere out of the wind at 3 a.m. Let's not get carried away, eh?”

  Colon looked crestfallen. “Well—” He began.

  Vimes staggered to his feet and patted his sergeant on the back.

  “Oh, all right, it's a tradition,” he conceded. “You can do the next one, Fred. And now,” he steadied himself as he stood up, “I'm going down to the Yard to write my report.”

  “You're covered in ash and you're swaying,” said Carrot. “I should just get on home, sir.”

  “Oh no,” said Vimes. “Got to do the paperwork. Anyone know the time?”

  “Bingeley-bingeley beep!” said a cheerful voice from his pocket.

  “Damn!” said Vimes, but it was too late.

  “It is,” said the voice, which had the squeaky friendly quality that begs to be strangled, “about… nineish.”