Authors: Terry Pratchett
‘All right, I understand,’ he said. ‘It’s almost funny, really. Because there’s something else I’ve got to tell you, Nobby.’
‘Yessir?’ said Nobby, looking relieved.
‘Do you remember your father?’
Nobby looked about to panic again. ‘What kind of question is that to suddenly ask anybody, sir?’
‘Purely a social enquiry.’
‘Old Sconner, sir? Not much, sir. Never used to see him much except when the milit’ry police used to come for to drag him outa the attic.’
‘Do you know much about your, er, antecedents?’
‘That is a lie, sir. I haven’t got no antecedents, sir, no matter what you might have been tole.’
‘Oh. Good. Er … you don’t actually know what “antecedents” means, do you, Nobby?’
Nobby shifted uneasily. He didn’t like being questioned by policemen, especially since he was one. ‘Not in so many words, sir.’
‘You never got told anything about your forebears?’ Another worried expression crossed Nobby’s face, so Vimes quickly added: ‘Your ancestors?’
‘Only old Sconner, sir. Sir … if all this is working up to asking about them sacks of vegetables which went missing from the shop in Treacle Mine Road, I was not anywhere near the—’
Vimes waved a hand vaguely. ‘He didn’t … leave you anything? Or anything?’
‘Coupla scars, sir. And this trick elbow of mine. It aches sometimes, when the weather changes. I always remembers ole Sconner when the wind blows from the Hub.’
‘Ah, right—’
‘And this, o’ course …’ Nobby fished around behind his rusting breastplate. And that was a marvel, too. Even Sergeant Colon’s armour could shine, if not actually gleam. But
any
metal
anywhere
near Nobby’s skin corroded very quickly. The corporal pulled out a leather thong that hung around his neck. There was a gold ring on it. Despite the fact that gold cannot corrode, it had nevertheless developed a patina.
‘He left it to me when he was on his deathbed,’ said Nobby. ‘Well, when I say “left it” …’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Well, yeah, he did say “Give it back, you little bugger!”, sir. See, ’e ’ad it on a string round his neck, sir, just like me. But it’s not like a proper ring, sir. I’d have flogged it but it’s all I got to remember him by. Except when the wind blows from the Hub.’
Vimes took the ring and rubbed it with a finger. It was a seal ring, with a coat of arms on it. Age and wear and the immediate presence of the body of Corporal Nobbs had made it quite unreadable.
‘You are armigerous, Nobby.’
Nobby nodded. ‘But I got a special shampoo for it, sir.’
Vimes sighed. He was an honest man. He’d always felt that was one of the bigger defects in his personality.
‘When you’ve got a moment, nip along to the College of Heralds in Mollymog Street, will you? Take this ring with you and say I sent you.’
‘Er …’
‘It’s all right. Nobby,’ said Vimes. ‘You won’t get into trouble. Not as such.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘And you don’t have to bother with the “sir”, Nobby.’
‘Yessir.’
When Nobby had gone Vimes reached behind the desk and picked up a faded copy of
Twurp’s Peerage
or, as he personally thought of it, the guide to the criminal classes. You wouldn’t find slum dwellers in these pages, but you would find their landlords. And, while it was regarded as pretty good evidence of criminality to be living in a slum, for some reason owning a whole street of them merely got you invited to the very best social occasions.
These days they seemed to be bringing out a new edition every week. Dragon had been right about one thing, at least. Everyone in Ankh-Morpork seemed to be hankering after more arms than they were born with.
He looked up
de Nobbes
.
There even
was
a damn coat of arms. One supporter of the shield was a hippo, presumably one of the royal hippos of Ankh-Morpork and therefore the ancestor of Roderick and Keith. The other was a bull of some sort, with a very Nobby-like expression; it was holding a golden ankh which, this being the de Nobbes coat of arms, it had probably stolen from somewhere. The shield was red and green; there was a white chevron with five apples on it. Quite what they had to do with warfare was unclear. Perhaps they were some kind of jolly visual pune or play on words that had had them slapping their thighs down at the Royal College of Arms, although probably if Dragon slapped his thigh too hard his leg would fall off.
It was easy enough to imagine an ennobled Nobbs. Because where Nobby went wrong was in thinking small. He sidled into places and pinched things that weren’t worth much. If only he’d sidled into continents and stolen entire cities, slaughtering many of the inhabitants in the process, he’d have been a pillar of the community.
There was nothing in the book under ‘Vimes’.
Suffer-Not-lnjustice Vimes wasn’t a pillar of the community. He killed a king with his own hands. It needed doing, but the community, whatever
that
was, didn’t always like the people who did what needed to be done or said what had to be said. He put some other people to death as well, that was true, but the city had been lousy, there’d been a lot of stupid wars, we were practically part of the Klatchian empire. Sometimes you needed a bastard. History had wanted surgery. Sometimes Dr Chopper is the only surgeon to hand. There’s something final about an axe. But kill one wretched king and everyone calls you a regicide. It wasn’t as if it was a habit or anything
…
Vimes had found old Stoneface’s journal in the Unseen University library. The man had been hard, no doubt about that. But they were hard times. He’d written: ‘In the Fyres of Struggle let us bake New Men, who Will Notte heed the old Lies.’ But the old lies had won in the end.
He said to people: you’re free. And they said hooray, and then he showed them what freedom costs and they called him a tyrant and, as soon as he’d been betrayed, they milled around a bit like barn-bred chickens who’ve seen the big world outside for the first time, and then they went back into the warm and shut the door
—
‘Bing bong bingely beep.’
Vimes sighed and pulled out his organizer.
‘Yes?’
‘Memo: Appointment with bootmaker, 2pm,’ said the imp.
‘It’s not two o’clock yet and that was Tuesday in any case,’ said Vimes.
‘So I’ll cross it off the list of Things To Do, then?’
Vimes put the disorganized organizer back in his pocket and went and looked out of the window again.
Who had a motive for poisoning Lord Vetinari?
No, that wasn’t the way to crack it. Probably, if you went to some outlying area of the city and confined your investigations to little old ladies who didn’t get out much, what with all the wallpaper over the door and everything, you might be able to find someone
without
a motive. But the man stayed alive by always arranging matters so that a future without him represented a riskier business than a future with him still upright.
The only people, therefore, who’d risk killing him were madmen – and the gods knew Ankh-Morpork had enough of them – or someone who was absolutely confident that if the city collapsed he’d be standing on top of the pile.
If Fred were right – and the sergeant was generally a good indicator of how the man in the street thought because he
was
the man in the street – then that person was Captain Carrot. But Carrot was one of the few people in the city who seemed to like Vetinari.
Of course, there was one other person who stood to gain.
Damn
, thought Vimes.
It’s me, isn’t it
…
There was another knock at the door. He didn’t recognize this one.
He opened the door cautiously.
‘It’s me, sir. Littlebottom.’
‘Come in, then.’ It was nice to know there was at least one person in the world with more problems than him. ‘How is his lordship?’
‘Stable,’ said Littlebottom.
‘
Dead is
stable,’ said Vimes.
‘I mean he’s alive, sir, and sitting up reading. Mr Doughnut made up some sticky stuff that tasted of seaweed, sir, and I mixed up some Gloobool’s Salts. Sir, you know the old man in the house on the bridge?’
‘What old … oh. Yes.’ It seemed a long time ago. ‘What about him?’
‘Well … you asked me to look around and … I took some pictures. This is one, sir.’ He handed Vimes a rectangle that was nearly all black.
‘Odd. Where’d you get it?’
‘Er … have you ever heard the story about dead men’s eyes, sir?’
‘Assume I haven’t had a literary education, Littlebottom.’
‘Well … they say …’
‘
Who
say?’
‘
They
, sir. You know,
they
.’
‘The same people who’re the “everyone” in “
everyone
knows”? The people who live in “the community”?’
‘Yes, sir. I suppose so, sir.’
Vimes waved a hand. ‘Oh,
them
. Well, go on.’
‘They say that the last thing a dying man sees stays imprinted in his eyes, sir.’
‘Oh,
that
. That’s just an old story.’
‘Yes. Amazing, really. I mean, if it weren’t true, you’d have thought it wouldn’t have survived, wouldn’t you? I thought I saw this little red spark, so I got the imp to paint a really big picture before it faded completely. And, right in the centre …’
‘Couldn’t the imp have made it up?’ said Vimes, staring at the picture again.
‘They haven’t got the imagination to lie, sir. What they see is what you get.’
‘Glowing eyes.’
‘Two red dots,’ said Littlebottom, conscientiously, ‘which might indeed be a pair of glowing eyes, sir.’
‘Good point, Littlebottom.’ Vimes rubbed his chin. ‘Blast! I just hope it’s not a god of some sort. That’s all I need at a time like this. Can you make copies so I can send them to all the Watch Houses?’
‘Yes, sir. The imp’s got a good memory.’
‘Hop to it, then.’
But before Littlebottom could go the door opened again. Vimes looked up. Carrot and Angua were there.
‘Carrot? I thought you were on your day off?’
‘We found a murder, sir! At the Dwarf Bread
Museum
. But when we got back to the Watch House they told us Lord Vetinari’s dead!’
Did they?
thought Vimes.
That’s rumour for you. If we could modulate it with the truth, how useful it could be
…
‘He’s breathing well for a corpse,’ he said. ‘I think he’ll be okay. Someone got past his guard, that’s all. I’ve got a doctor to see him. Don’t worry.’
Someone got past his guard
, he thought.
Yes. And
I’m
his guard
.
‘I hope the man’s a leader in the field, that’s all I can say,’ said Carrot severely.
‘He’s even better than that – he’s the doctor
to
the leaders of the field,’ said Vimes.
I’m his guard and I didn’t see it coming
.
‘It’d be terrible for the city if anything happened to him!’ said Carrot.
Vimes saw nothing but innocent concern behind Carrot’s forthright stare. ‘It would, wouldn’t it?’ he said. ‘Anyway, it’s under control. You said there’s been
another
murder?’
‘At the Dwarf Bread Museum. Someone killed Mr Hopkinson with his own bread!’
‘Made him eat it?’
‘Hit him with it, sir,’ said Carrot reproachfully. ‘Battle Bread, sir.’
‘Is he the old man with the white beard?’
‘Yes, sir. You remember, I introduced you to him when I took you to see the Boomerang Biscuit exhibition.’
Angua thought she saw a faint wince of recollection speed guiltily across Vimes’s face. ‘Who’s
going
around killing old men?’ he said to the world at large.
‘Don’t know, sir. Constable Angua went
plain clothes
’ – Carrot waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially – ‘and couldn’t find a sniff of anyone. And nothing was taken. This is what it was done with.’
The Battle Bread was much larger than an ordinary loaf. Vimes turned it over gingerly. ‘Dwarfs throw it like a discus, right?’
‘Yes, sir. At the Seven Mountains games last year Snori Shieldbiter took the tops off a line of six hard-boiled eggs at fifty yards, sir. And that was with just a standard hunting loaf. But
this
is, well, it’s a cultural artefact. We haven’t got the baking technology for bread like this any more. It’s unique.’
‘Valuable?’
‘Very, sir.’
‘Worth stealing?’
‘You’d never be able to get rid of it! Every honest dwarf would recognize it!’
‘Hmm. Did you hear about that priest being murdered on Misbegot Bridge?’
Carrot looked shocked. ‘Not old Father Tubelcek? Really?’
Vimes stopped himself from asking: ‘You know him, then?’ Because Carrot knew
everyone
. If Carrot were to be dropped into some dense tropical jungle it’d be ‘Hello, Mr Runs Swiftly Through The Trees! Good morning, Mr Talks To The Forest, what a splendid blowpipe! And what a novel place for a feather!’
‘Did he have more than one enemy?’ said Vimes.
‘Sorry, sir? Why more than one?’
‘I should say the fact that he had
one
is obvious, wouldn’t you?’
‘He is … he
was
a nice old chap,’ said Carrot. ‘Hardly stirred out. Spends …
spent
all his time with his books. Very religious. I mean, all kinds of religion. Studied them. Bit odd, but no harm in him. Why should anyone want to kill him? Or Mr Hopkinson? A pair of harmless old men?’
Vimes handed him the Battle Bread. ‘We shall find out. Constable Angua, I want you to have a look at this one. Take … yes, take Corporal Littlebottom,’ he said. ‘He’s been doing some work on it. Angua’s from Uberwald too, Littlebottom. Maybe you’ve got friends in common, that sort of thing.’
Carrot nodded cheerfully. Angua’s expression went wooden.
‘Ah, h’druk g’har dWatch, Sh’rt’azs!’ said Carrot. ‘H’h Angua tConstable … Angua g’har, b’hk bargr’a Sh’rt’azs Kad’k …’
10
Angua appeared to concentrate. ‘Grr’dukk d’buz-h’drak …’ she managed.
Carrot laughed. ‘You just said “small delightful mining tool of a feminine nature”!’