Thud! Page 15

  “It’s mystic again, is it?” said Vimes wearily.

  “Oh yes, sir.” Carrot coughed. Vimes recognized that particular cough. It meant that bad news was on the captain’s mind and he was wondering how to shape it to fit the available not-going-totally-postal space in Vimes’s head.

  “Out with it, Captain.”

  “Er…this little chap turned up,” said Carrot, opening his hand. The Gooseberry imp sat up.

  “I ran all the way, Insert Name Here,” it said proudly.

  “We spotted it jogging along the gutter,” said Carrot. “It wasn’t hard to see, glowing pale green like that.”

  Vimes pulled the Gooseberry box out of his pocket and put it on the floor. The imp climbed inside.

  “Ooh, that feels so good,” it said. “Don’t talk to me about rats and cats!”

  “They chased you? But you’re a magical creature, aren’t you?” said Vimes.

  “They don’t know that!” said the imp. “Now, what was it…oh, yes. You asked me about the night soil removal. Over the past three months the extra honey wagon load has averaged forty tons a night.”

  “Forty tons? That’d fill a big room! Why didn’t we know about it?”

  “You did, Insert Name Here!” said the imp proudly. “But they were leaving from every gate, you see, and probably no guard ever spotted more than one or two extra carts.”

  “Yes, but they turned in reports every night! Why didn’t we spot it?”

  There was an awkward pause.

  The imp coughed. “Um…no one read the reports, Insert Name Here. They appear to be what we in the trade call write-only documents.”

  “Wasn’t anyone supposed to be reading them?” Vimes demanded.

  There was another thundering silence.

  “I rather think you were, dear,” said Sybil, paying attention to her darning.

  “But I’m in charge!” Vimes protested.

  “Yes, dear. That’s the point, really.”

  “But I can’t spend all my time shuffling bits of paper!”

  “Then get someone else to do it, dear,” said Sybil.

  “Can I do that?” said Vimes.

  “Yes, sir,” said Carrot. “You’re in charge.”

  Vimes looked at the imp, which gave him a willing grin.

  “Can you go through all of my in-tray—”

  “…floor…” murmured Sybil.

  “—and tell me what’s important?”

  “Happy to, Insert Name Here! Only one question, Insert Name Here. What is important?”

  “Well, the fact that the honey wagons are carting a whole lot more muck out of the city is pretty damn important, don’t you think?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Insert Name Here,” said the imp. “I do not, in fact, think as such. But I surmise that, if I had drawn your attention to such a fact a month ago, you would have told me to stick my head up a duck’s bottom.”

  “That’s true,” said Vimes, nodding. “I probably would. Captain Carrot?”

  “Sir!” said Carrot, sitting up straight.

  “What’s the situation on the street?”

  “Well, troll gangs have been wandering around the city all day. Dwarfs, too. Now a lot of the dwarfs are hanging around in the square, sir, and a fair number of trolls are congregating in the Plaza of Broken Moons.”

  “How many are we talking about here?” said Vimes.

  “About a thousand, all told. They’ve been drinking, of course.”

  “Just in the mood for a fight, then.”

  “Yes, sir. Just drunk enough to be stupid but too sober to fall over,” said Carrot.

  “Interesting observation, Captain,” said Vimes thoughtfully.

  “Yes, sir. The word is that they’ll start at nine. Arrangements have been made, I gather.

  “Then I think before it gets dark there should be a load of coppers in the Cham, right between them, don’t you?” said Vimes. “Get the word out to the Watch houses.”

  “I’ve done that, sir,” said Carrot.

  “And get some barricades sorted out.”

  “All arranged, sir.”

  “And call out the Specials?”

  “I put the word out an hour ago, sir.”

  Vimes hesitated. “I’ve got to be there, Captain.”

  “We should have enough men, sir,” said Carrot.

  “But you won’t have enough commander,” said Vimes. “If Vetinari hauls me over the coals tomorrow because there was a major riot in the city center, I don’t want to tell him I was having a quiet evening at home.” He turned to his wife. “Sorry, Sybil.”

  Lady Sybil sighed. “I think I shall have to have a word with Havelock about the hours he makes you keep,” she said. “It’s not doing you any good, you know.”

  “It’s the job, dear. Sorry.”

  “It’s just as well I got the cook to make up a flask of soup, then.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course. I know you, Sam. And there’re some sandwiches in a bag. Captain Carrot, you are to make sure he eats the apple and the banana. Dr. Lawn says he must eat at least five pieces of fruit or vegetables every day!”

  Vimes stared woodenly at Carrot and Sally, trying to project the warning that the first officer to crack a smile or even mention this to anyone, ever ever ever, would have a very hard time of it indeed.

  “And, incidentally, tomato ketchup is not a vegetable,” Sybil added. “Not even the dried stuff ’round the top of the bottle. Well, what are you all waiting around for?”

  “There’s something I didn’t want to mention in front of her ladyship,” said Carrot as they hurried down to the Yard. “Er… Hitherto is dead, sir.”

  “Who’s Hitherto?”

  “Lance Constable Horace Hitherto, sir? Got walloped on the back of the head last night? When we were at that meeting? When there was that, er, ‘disturbance’? Got sent to the Free Hospital?”

  “Oh, gods…” said Vimes. “It seems like a week ago. He’d only been with us a couple of months!”

  “They said at the hospital his brain died, sir. I’m sure they did their best.”

  Did we do ours? Vimes wondered. But it was a bloody melee, and the cobblestone came out of nowhere. Could have hit me, could have hit Carrot. Hit the kid, instead. What’ll I tell his parents? Killed in the line of duty? But his duty shouldn’t have been to stop one lot of idiot citizens murdering another lot of idiot citizens.

  It’s all got out of hand. There aren’t enough of us. And now there’s a few less.

  “I’ll go and see his mum and dad tomor—” he began, and sluggish memory shifted at last. “Does—didn’t he have a brother in the Watch?”

  “Yessir,” said Carrot. “Lance Constable Hector Hitherto, sir. They joined together. He’s down at Chittling Street.”

  “Then get hold of his sergeant and tell him Hector is not allowed on the street tonight, okay? I want him introduced to the joys of filing. In a cellar, if possible. And wearing a very thick helmet.”

  “I understand, sir,” said Carrot.

  “How’s Angua?”

  “I think she’ll be fine after having a lie-down, sir. The mine really got to her.”

  “I’m really, really sorry about that—” Sally began.

  “Not your fault, lance constable…Sally,” said Vimes. “It was mine. I know about the vampire and werewolf thing, but I needed you both to be down there. It’s just one of those decisions, okay? I suggest you take the evening off. No, that’s an order. You’ve done very well on your first day. Off you go. Get your head down…or whatever.”

  They watched her out of sight before continuing down the street.

  “She is very good, sir,” said Carrot. “She picks things up fast.”

  “Yes, very fast. I can see she’s going to be useful,” said Vimes thoughtfully. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd, Captain? Up she pops, just when we need her.”

  “She has been here for a couple of months, though,” said Carrot. “And the League
vouches for her.”

  “A couple of months is about the same time as Hamcrusher’s been here, too,” said Vimes. “And if you wanted to find things out, we’re not a bad outfit to join. We’re official prodnoses.”

  “Sir, you don’t think—”

  “Oh, I’m sure she’s a Black Ribboner, but I don’t think a vampire comes all the way from Uberwald to play the cello. Still, as you say, she does a good job.” Vimes stared at nothing for a moment and then said thoughtfully: “Doesn’t one of our Specials work for the clacks company?”

  “That’d be Andy Hancock, sir,” said Carrot.

  “Oh gods. You mean Two Swords?”

  “That’s him, sir. Very keen lad.”

  “Yes, I saw the dockets. Normally a training dummy lasts for months, Captain. You’re not supposed to chop through three in half an hour!”

  “He’ll be down at the Yard now, sir. Do you want a word with him?” said Carrot.

  “No. You have a word with him.”

  Vimes lowered his voice. So did Carrot. There was whispering. Then Carrot said: “Is that strictly legal, sir?”

  “I don’t see why not. Let’s find out, shall we? We haven’t had this little conversation, Captain.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Ye gods, it was so much better when there was just four of us up against that bloody great dragon, Vimes thought as they walked on. Of course, we nearly got burned alive a few times, but at least it wasn’t complicated. It was a damn great dragon. You could see it coming. It didn’t get political on you.

  It had started to rain a fine, invasive rain by the time they arrived at Pseudopolis Yard. Vimes had, with extreme reluctance, to hand it to Carrot. He certainly could organize. The place was bustling. Wagonloads of yellow and black barricades were being trundled out of the Old Lemonade Factory. Watchmen were pouring in from every street.

  “I really pushed the boat out on this one, sir,” said Carrot. “I thought it was important.”

  “Well done, Captain,” said Vimes as they stood like islands in the flood. “But I think there is a little matter of forward planning you may have overlooked…”

  “Really, sir? I thought I’ve covered everything,” said Carrot, looking puzzled.

  Vimes slapped him on the back.

  “Probably not this one,” he said. And added, but only to himself: Because you, Captain, are not a bastard.

  Bewildered and aimless, the troll wanders through the world…

  Brick’s head really gonged. He didn’t want to be doing dis, but he’d fallen into bad company. He often fell into bad company, he reflected, although sometimes he had to look all day to find it, ’cos Brick was a loser’s loser. A troll without a clan or a gang, and who is considered thick even by other trolls, has to take any bad company he can find. In this case, he’d met Totally Slag an’ Hardcore an’ Big Marble, an’ it had been easier to fall in wi’ dem dan decide not to, an’ dey’d met up wi’ more trolls an’ now…

  Look at it like dis, he thought as he trudged along, singin’ gang songs a bit behind the beat, because he didn’t know the words…all right, being in der middle of dis mob o’ trolls ain’t “lyin’ low,” dat is a fact. But Totally Slag had said the word wuz dat der Watch wuz also after der troll who’d been down dat mine, right? An,’ if you fink about it, der best place to hide a troll, right, is a big bunch of trolls. ’Cos the Watch’d be pokin’ around in der cellars where der real mean trollz hung out, dey wouldn’t be lookin’ here. An’ if dey did, an’ were puttin’ der finger on him, den all dese brother trolls would help him out.

  He wasn’t too certain about that last bit, in his heart of hearts. His possibly negative IQ, complete absence of street cred, and, above all, his permanent inclination to snort, suck, swallow, or bite anything that promised to make his brain sparkle, meant that he had been turned down even by the Tenth Egg Street Can’t-Fink-Of-A-Name Gang, rumored to be so dense that one of their members was a lump of concrete on a piece of string. No, it would be hard to imagine any troll caring much what happened to Brick. But right now dey were brothers, and der only game in town.

  He nudged the skull-necklaced, graffiti-ornamented, lichen-covered, huge club–dragging troll marching stoically alongside him.

  “Resplect, bro!” he said, clenching a scabby fist.

  “Whyn’t you go and ghuhg yerself, Brick, you little piece of coprolite…” the troll muttered.

  “Right off!” said Brick cheerfully.

  The main office was packed, but Vimes fought his way through by shoving and shouting until he reached the duty desk, which was under siege.

  “It looks worse than it is, sir!” shouted Cheery over the din. “Detritus and Constable Bluejohn are in the Cham right now, along with all three golem officers! We’ve started getting the line in place! Both the mobs are too busy getting themselves worked up!”

  “Good work, Sergeant!”

  Cheery leaned down and lowered her voice. Vimes had to hang on to the tall desk to stop himself being carried away by the throng.

  “Fred Colon’s signing up the Specials in the Old Lemonade Factory, sir. And Mr. de Worde of the Times is looking for you.”

  “Sorry, Sergeant, didn’t catch that last bit!” said Vimes loudly. “The lemonade factory, right? Okay!”

  He turned around and almost tripped over Mr. A. E. Pessimal, who was holding a neat clipboard.

  “Ah, Your Grace, there’s just a few small matters I’d like to discuss with you,” said the gleaming little man.

  Vimes’s mouth dropped open.

  “And you think this is a good time, do you?” he managed as he was jostled by an officer carrying a bundle of swords.

  “Well, yes, I’ve turned up a number of little financial and procedural problems,” said A. E. Pessimal calmly, “and I think it’s vitally important that I understand exactly what—”

  Vimes, grinning horribly, grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “Yes! Right! Absolutely!” he shouted. “My dear Mr. Pessimal, what have I been thinking of? You should understand! Come with me, please!”

  He half-dragged the bewildered man out through the back door, lifted him out of the way of a trundling cart as he negotiated the crowded yard, and hustled him into the old factory yard, where the Specials were being kitted up.

  Technically, they were the citizen’s militia, but, as Fred Colon had remarked, it was “better to have them in here pissing themselves than outside pissing on you.” The Special constables were men—mostly—who could be coppers in times of dire need but were generally disqualified from formal Watch membership by reason of shape, profession, age, or, sometimes, brain.

  A lot of the professionals didn’t like them, but Vimes had lately taken the view that when push came to shove it was better to have your fellow citizens shoving alongside you and, that being the case, you might as well teach them how to hold a sword right, lest the arm they clumsily removed was yours.

  Vimes pulled A. E. Pessimal through the press of bodies until he found Fred Colon, who was handing out one-size-doesn’t-fit-anybody helmets.

  “New man for you, Fred,” he said loudly. “Mr. A. E. Pessimal, plain A. E. if he ever makes friends. He’s the government inspector. Kit him out, full fig, and don’t forget the riot shield. A. E. here wants to understand coppering, so he’s kindly volunteered to be an acting constable on the barricades with us.” Over the top of A. E. Pessimal’s head he gave Fred a big wink.

  “Oh, er, right,” said Fred, and his face, in the flickering light of the flares, acquired the innocent smile of one about to make someone’s life a little pot of bubbling dread. He leaned over the trestle table.

  “Know how to use a sword, Acting Constable Pessimal?” he said, and dropped a helmet on the man’s head, where it spun.

  “Well, I didn’t exactly—” the inspector began as a very elderly sword was shoved across the planks, followed by a heavy truncheon.

  “A shield, then? Any good with a shield?” said Fred, pushin
g a large such item after the sword.

  “Actually, I didn’t mean—”said A. E. Pessimal, trying to hold both the sword and the truncheon and dropping both, and then the sword and the truncheon and the shield and dropping all three.

  “Any good at running a hundred yards in ten seconds? In this?” Fred went on. A ragged chain-mail coat dropped slowly off the table like a parcel of snakes and landed on A. E. Pessimal’s bright little shoes.

  “Uh, I don’t think—”

  “Standing still and going to the toilet really, really quickly?” said Fred. “Oh well, you’ll learn soon enough.”

  Vimes turned the man around, picked up thirty-five pounds of rust-eaten chain mail, and dropped it into his arms, causing A. E. Pessimal to bend double. “I’ll introduce you to some of the citizens who will be fighting alongside you tonight, shall I?” he said as the little man hobbled after him. “This is Willikins, my butler. No sharpened pennies in your cap tonight, Willikins?”

  “No, sir,” said Willikins, staring at the struggling A. E. Pessimal.

  “Glad to hear it. This is Acting Constable Pessimal, Willikins.” Vimes winked.

  “Honored to meet you, Acting Constable, sir,” said Willikins gravely. “Now that sir is with us I am sure the miscreants will just melt away. Has sir by any chance gone sir-on-one with a troll before? No? A little advice, sir. The important thing is to get in front of them and dodge the first blow. They always leave themselves open and sir may then step smartly forward and select sir’s target of choice.”

  “Er, what if…if I’m not in front of one when it tries to hit me?” A. E. Pessimal said, hypnotized by the description and dropping the sword again. “What if it is, in fact, behind me?”

  “Ah, well, I am afraid that in that case sir has to go back and start all over again, sir.”

  “And…er…how do I do that?”

  “Being born is traditionally the first step, sir,” said Willikins, shaking his head.

  Vimes gave him a nod, and moved the trembling Pessimal on through the chattering crowd, while the fine rain fell and the mists rose and the torches flickered.