Thud! Read online

  “Surely not!”

  “’Fraid so, Sarge. She cooked me dinner the other day. She tried to make distressed pudding like my ol’ mum used to make.”

  Plink!

  Fred Colon smiled all the way from his stomach. “Ah, yes. No one could distress a pudding like your ol’ mum, Nobby.”

  “It was awful, Fred,” said Nobby, hanging his head. “As for her slumpie, well, I do not wish to go there. She is not a girl who knows her way around a stove.”

  “She’s more of a pole person, Nobby, that is true.”

  “Exactly. An’ I thought, ol’ Hammerhead, well, you might never be sure which way she was lookin,’ but her buttered clams, well—” he sighed.

  “There’s a thought to keep a man warm on a cold night,” Fred agreed.

  “An,’ y’know, these days, when she hits me with a wet fish, it doesn’t sting like it used to,” Nobby went on. “I think we were reaching an understanding.”

  Plink!

  “She can crack a lobster with her fist,” Colon observed. “That’s a very portable talent.”

  “So I was thinking of speaking to Angua,” said Nobby. “She might give me a few hints on how to let Tawneee down gently.”

  “That’s a good idea, Nobby,” said Fred. “No touchin,’ sir, otherwise I shall have to cut yer fingers orf.” This was said, in a friendly tone of voice, to a dwarf who had been reaching in awe toward the board.

  “But we’ll still be friends, of course,” said Nobby as the dwarf backed away. “So long as I can get into the PussyCat Club for free, anyway, I’ll always be there if she needs a helmet to cry on.”

  “That’s very modern of you, Nobby,” said Fred. He smiled in the gloom. Somehow, the world was back on course.

  Plink!

  Wandering through the world, the eternal troll…

  Brick headed after Detritus, dragging his club. Well, he wuz goin’ up in der worl’ an’ no mistakin’! Dey said it hurt if you come off of der stuff, but Brick had always hurt, all his life, and right now it wasn’t too bad at all. It wuz, like, weird der way he could fink to der end of a sentence now an’ still remember der start of it. An’ he wuz bein’ given food, which he wuz gettin’ to like once he stopped frowing it up. Sergeant Detritus, who knew everythin’, had tole him if’n he stayed clean an’ smartened up he could rise as high as lance constable one day, makin’ heapo money.

  He wuzn’t too sure what had been happnin’ to cause all dis. It looked like he wasn’t in der city anymore, an’ dere had been some fightin’, and Sergeant Detritus had showed him dese kinda dead people and smacked him aroun’ der head an’ said “Remember!” an’ he wuz doin’ his best, but he’d been smacked aroun’ der head a hole lot harder many, many times and dat one was nuffin’. But Sergeant Detritus said it wuz all about not hatin’ dwarfs no more and dat was okay, cuz really Brick never had der energy to waste hatin’. What dey had been doin’ down dat hole was makin’ der worl’ a betterer place, Sergeant Detritus said.

  And it seemed to Brick, as he smelled the food, dat Sergeant Detritus had got dat one dead right.

  Trolls and dwarfs had raised a huge roundhouse in Koom Valley, using giant boulders for the walls and half a fallen forest for the roof. A fire thirty yards long crackled inside. Ranged around it on long benches were the kings of more than a hundred dwarf mines, and the leaders of eighty troll clans, with their followers and servants and bodyguards. The noise was intense, the smoke was thick, the heat was a wall.

  It had been a good day. Progress had been made. The guests were not mixing, that was true, but neither were they trying to kill one another. This was a promising development. The truce was holding.

  At the high table, King Rhys leaned back in his makeshift throne and said: “One does not make demands of kings. One makes requests, which are graciously granted. Does he not understand?”

  “I don’t think he gives a tra’ka, sir, if I may be coarse,” said Grag Bashfullsson, who was standing respectfully beside him. “And the senior dwarfs in the city will be right behind him on this. It’s not my place, sir, but I advise acquiescence.”

  “And that’s all he wants? No gold, no silver, no concessions?”

  “That’s all he wants, sire. But I suspect you will be hearing from Lord Vetinari before long.”

  “Oh, you may be sure of that!” said the king. He sighed. “It’s a new world, Grag, but some things don’t change. Er…that…thing has left him, has it?”

  “I believe so, sire.”

  “You are not certain?”

  The grag smiled a faint, inward smile. “Let’s just say that his reasonable request is best granted, shall we, sire?”

  “Your point is taken, Grag. Thank you.”

  King Rhys turned in his seat, leaned across the two empty places, and said to the Diamond King: “Do you think something has happened to them? It’s past six o’clock!”

  Shine smiled, filling the hall with light. “I suspect they’ve been delayed by matters of great importance.”

  “More important than this?” said the dwarf king.…and, because some things are important, the coach stood outside the magistrate’s house, down in the town. The horses stamped impatiently. The coachman waited. Inside, Lady Sybil darned a sock, because some things are important, with a faint smile on her face.

  And floating out of an open upstairs window was the voice of Sam Vimes:

  “It goes HRUUUGH! It is a hippopotamus!

  That is not my cow!”

  Nevertheless, it was close enough for now.

  About the Author

  Terry Pratchett’s novels have sold more than forty million (give or take a few million) copies worldwide. He lives in England.

  www.terrypratchettbooks.com

  Also available for HarperAudio.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Also by Terry Pratchett

  The Carpet People

  The Dark Side of the Sun

  Strata

  The Bromeliad Trilogy*: Truckers • Diggers • Wings

  Only You Can Save Mankind*

  Johnny and the Dead*

  Johnny and the Bomb

  The Unadulterated Cat (with Gray Jollife)

  Good Omens (with Neil Gaiman)

  The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents*

  The Wee Free Men*

  A Hat Full of Sky*

  The Discworld Books

  The Color of Magic*

  The Light Fantastic*

  Equal Rites*

  Mort*

  Sourcery*

  Wyrd Sisters*

  Pyramids*

  Guards! Guards!*

  Eric (with Josh Kirby)*

  Moving Pictures

  Reaper Man*

  Witches Abroad*

  Small Gods*

  Lords and Ladies*

  Men at Arms*

  Soul Music*

  Feet of Clay*

  Interesting Times*

  Maskerade*

  Hogfather*

  Jingo*

  The Last Continent*

  Carpe Jugulum*

  The Fifth Elephant*

  The Truth*

  Thief of Time*

  Night Watch*

  Monstrous Regiment*

  Going Postal*

  Where’s My Cow?*

  (with Melvyn Grant)

  The Last Hero (with Paul Kidby)*

  The Art of Discworld

  (with Paul Kidby)*

  Mort: A Discworld Big Comic

  (with Graham Higgins)

  The Streets of Ankh-Morpork

  (with Stephen Briggs)

  The Discworld Companion

  (with Stephen Briggs)

  The Discworld Mapp

  (with Stephen Briggs)

  *Published by HarperCollins

  Credits

  Jacket design and illustration by Scott McKowan

  Author photograph by Robin Matthews

&n
bsp; Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THUD! Copyright © 2005 by Terry and Lyn Pratchett. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.

  PerfectBound™ and the PerfectBound™ logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

  Mobipocket Reader August 2005 ISBN 0-06-088886-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Pratchett, Terry

  Thud!: a novel of Discworld / Terry Pratchett—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-10: 0-06-081522-1 (alk. paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-06-081522-6

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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  *This was a bit of a slur on Nobby, Vimes had to admit. Like many other officers, Nobby was human. It was just that he was the only one who had to carry a certificate to prove it.

  *As in ‘Ol’ Fred thought he said custard officer and volunteered!’ Since this is an example of office humor, it doesn’t actually have to be funny.

  *Anoia is the Ankh-Morpork Goddess of Things That Get Stuck in Drawers.

  *Vimes had never got on with any game much more complex than darts. Chess in particular had always annoyed him. It was the dumb way the pawns went off and slaughtered their fellow pawns while the kings lounged about doing nothing that always got to him; if only the pawns united, maybe talked the rooks around, the whole board could’ve been a republic in a dozen moves.

  *Vimes maintained three trays: In, Out, and Shake It All About; the last one was where he put everything he was too busy, angry, tired, or bewildered to do anything about.

  *The better class of gods, anyway. Not the ones with the tentacles, obviously.

  *Vimes had got around to a Clean Desk policy. It was a Clean Floor strategy that eluded him at the moment.

  *Troll lore says that living creatures actually move backwards through time. It’s complicated.

  *Empirical Crescent was just off Park Lane, in what was generally a high-rent district. The rents would have been higher still were it not for the continued existence of Empirical Crescent itself, which, despite the best efforts of the Ankh-Morpork Historical Preservation Society, had still not been pulled down.

  This was because it had been built by Bergholt Stuttley Johnson, better known to history as Bloody Stupid Johnson, a man who combined in one frail body such enthusiasm, self-delusion, and creative lack of talent that he was, in many respects, one of the great heroes of architecture. Only Bloody Stupid Johnson could have invented the thirteen-inch foot and a triangle with three right angles in it. Only Bloody Stupid Johnson could have twisted common matter through dimensions it was not supposed to go. And only Bloody Stupid Johnson could have done all this by accident.

  His highly original multidimensional approach to geometry was responsible for Empirical Crescent. On the outside it was a normal terraced crescent of the period, built of honey-colored stone with the occasional pillar or cherub nailed on. Inside, the front door of No. 1 opened into the back bedroom of No. 15, the ground-floor front window of No. 3 showed the view appropriate to the second floor of No. 9, and smoke from the dining-room fireplace of No. 2 came out of the chimney of No. 19

  *But it was okay to throw your rubbish into the garden, because it might not be your garden you were throwing it into.

  *That is to say, every dragon breeder not currently occupying a small artistic urn.

  *A famous Ankh-Morpork gutter sport, second only to dead-rat conkers. Turd races in the gutter appear to have died out, despite an attempt to take them upmarket with the name Poosticks.

  *Making Fred Colon possibly unique in the annals of jail history.

  *Who wasn’t an Igor, but was merely called one. It was best not to have fun with him on this subject, and especially not to ask him to sew your head back on.

  *Patience is a key virtue among dwarfs.

  They say there’s one in every police station. Constable Visit-The-Ungodly-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets was enough for two.

  *That was a phrase of Sybil’s that got to him. She’d announce at lunch, “we must have the pork tonight, it needs eating up.” Vimes never had an actual problem with this, because he’d been raised to eat what was put in front of him, and do it quickly, too, before someone else snatched it away. He was just puzzled at the suggestion that he was there to do the food a favor

  *The university porters, or bledlows, who doubled, with rather more enthusiasm, as its under-proctors, a private police force. They commanded their nickname for being thick-shelled, liable to turn red when hot, and having the smallest brain for their size of any known creature.

  *And even then had been belaboring mountain goats on apparently sheer cliff faces and, while pebbles slid and bounced around him, was clearly accusing them of obstructing his right to roam. Eric believed very firmly that the Land Belonged To The People, and also that he was more The People than anyone else was. Eric went everywhere with a map encased in waterproof material, on a string around his neck. Such people are not to be trifled with.

  *But as it happened, it was all blamed on people from another world, so that was all right.