Thud (5 page)

“Oh, damn!” He got up and hurried down the stairs, where Cheery practically cowered at his thundering approach.

“Did we know about this?” he demanded, thumping the paper down on the Occurrences Ledger.

“Know about what, sir?” said Cheery nervously.

Vimes prodded a short, illustrated article on page four, his finger stabbing at the page.

“See that?” he growled. “That pea-brained idiot at the Post Office has only gone and issued a Koom Valley stamp!”

The dwarf looked nervously at the article. “Er…
two
stamps, sir,” she said.

Vimes looked closer. He hadn’t taken in much of the detail before the red mist descended. Oh yes, two stamps. They were very nearly identical. They both showed Koom Valley, a rocky area ringed by mountains. They both showed the battle. But in one, little figures of trolls were pursuing dwarfs from right to left, and in the other, dwarfs were chasing trolls from left to right. Koom Valley, where the trolls ambushed the dwarfs and the dwarfs ambushed the trolls. Vimes groaned. Pick your own stupid history, a snip at ten pence, highly collectible.

“‘The Koom Valley Memorial Issue,’” he read. “But we don’t
want
them to remember it! We want them to forget it!”

“It’s only stamps, sir,” said Cheery. “I mean, there’s no law against stamps…”

“There ought to be one against being a bloody fool!”

“If there was, sir, we’d be on overtime every day!” said Cheery, grinning.

Vimes relaxed a little. “Yep, and no one could build cells fast enough. Remember the cabbage-scented stamp last month? ‘Send your expatriate sons and daughters the familiar odor of home’? They actually caught fire if you put too many of them together!”

“I still can’t get the smell out of my clothes, sir.”

“There are people living a hundred miles away who can’t, I reckon. What did we do with the bloody things in the end?”

“I put them in No. 4 evidence locker and left the key in the lock,” said Cheery.

“But Nobby Nobbs always steals anything that—” Vimes began.

“That’s right, sir!” said Cheery happily. “I haven’t seen them for weeks.”

There was a crash from the direction of the canteen, followed by shouting. Something in Vimes, perhaps the very part of him that had been waiting for the first shoe, propelled him across the office, down the passage, and to the canteen’s doorway at a speed that left dust spiraling on the floor.

What met his eyes was a tableau in various shades of guilt. One of the trestle tables had been knocked over. Food and cheap tinware were strewn across the floor. On one side of the mess was troll Constable Mica, currently being held between troll Constables Bluejohn and Schist; on the other was dwarf Constable Brakenshield, currently being lifted off the ground by probably human Corporal Nobbs and definitely human Constable Haddock.

There were watchmen at the other tables, too, all caught in the act of rising. And, in the silence, audible only to the fine-tuned ears of a man searching for it, was the sound of hands pausing an inch away from the weapon of choice and very slowly being lowered.

“All right,” said Vimes in the ringing vacuum. “Who’s going to be the first to tell me a huge whopper? Corporal Nobbs?”

“Well, Mr. Vimes,” said Nobby Nobbs, dropping the mute Brakensheild to the floor, “…er…Brakensheild here…picked up Mica’s…yes, picked up Mica’s
mug
by mistake, as it were…and…we all spotted that and jumped up, yes…” Nobby speeded up now, the really steep fibs now successfully negotiated, “…and that’s how the table got knocked over…’cos,” and here Nobby’s face assumed an expression of virtuous imbecility that was really quite frightening to see, “he’d have really hurt himself if he’d taken a swig of troll coffee, sir.”

Inside, Vimes sighed. As stupid, lame excuses went, it wasn’t actually a
bad
one. For one thing, it had the virtue of being completely unbelievable. No dwarf would come close to picking up a mug of troll expresso, which was a molten chemical stew with rust sprinkled on the top. Everyone knew this, just as everyone knew that Vimes could see that Brakensheild was holding an axe over his head and Constable Bluejohn was still frozen in the act of wrenching a club off Mica. And everyone knew, too, that Vimes was in the mood to sack the first bloody idiot to make a wrong move, and probably anyone standing near him.

“That’s what it was, was it?” said Vimes. “So it wasn’t, as it might be, someone making a nasty remark about a fellow officer and others of his race, perhaps? Some little bit of stupidity to add to the mess of it that’s floating around the streets right now?”

“Oh, nothing like that, sir,” said Nobby. “Just one of them…things.”

“Nearly a nasty accident, was it?” said Vimes.

“Yessir!”

“Well, we don’t want any nasty accidents, do we, Nobby…”

“Nosir!”

“
None
of us want nasty accidents, I expect,” said Vimes, looking around the room. Some of the constables, he was grimly glad to see, were sweating with the effort of not moving. “And it’s so easy to have ’em, when your mind isn’t firmly on the job. Understood?”

There was a general muttering.

“I can’t hear you!”

This time there were audible riffs on the theme of “Yessir!”

“Right,” snapped Vimes. “Now get out there and keep the peace, because as sure as hell you won’t do it in here!” He directed a special glare at Constables Brakenshield and Mica, and strode back to the main office, where he almost bumped into Sergeant Angua.

“Sorry, sir, I was just fetching—” she began.

“I sorted it out, don’t worry,” said Vimes. “But it was
that
close.”

“Some of the dwarfs are really on edge, sir. I can smell it,” said Angua.

“You and Fred Colon,” said Vimes.

“I don’t think it’s just the Hamcrusher thing, sir. It’s something…dwarfish.”

“Well, I can’t beat it out of them. And just when the day couldn’t get any worse, I’ve got to interview a damned vampire.”

Too late Vimes saw the urgent look in Angua’s eyes.

“Ah…I think that would be me,” said a small voice behind him.

F
red Colon and Nobby Nobbs,
having been rousted from their
lengthy coffee break, proceeded gently up Broad Way, giving the ol’ uniform an airing. What with one thing or another, it was probably a good idea not to be back at the Yard for a while.

They walked like men who had all day. They did have all day. They had chosen this particular street because it was busy and wide and you didn’t get too many trolls and dwarfs in this part of town. The reasoning was faultless. In lots of areas, right now, dwarfs or trolls were wandering around in groups or, alternatively, staying still in groups in case any of those wandering bastards tried any trouble in
this
neighborhood. There had been little flare-ups for weeks. In these areas, Nobby and Fred considered, there wasn’t much peace, so it was a waste of effort to keep what little was left of it, right? You wouldn’t try keeping sheep in places where all the sheep got eaten by wolves, right? It stood to reason. It would look silly. Whereas in big streets like Broad Way there was lots of peace, which, obviously, needed keeping. Common sense told them this was true. It was as plain as the nose on your face, and especially the one on Nobby’s face.

“Bad business,” said Colon, as they strolled. “I’ve never seen the dwarfs like this.”

“It always gets tricky, Sarge, just before Koom Valley Day,” Nobby observed.

“Yeah, but Hamcrusher’s really got them on the boil and no mistake.” Colon removed his helmet and wiped his brow. “I told Sam about my water, and he was impressed.”

“Well, he would be,” Nobby agreed. “It would impress anyone.”

Colon tapped his nose. “There’s a storm coming, Nobby.”

“Not a cloud in the sky, Sarge,” Nobby observed.

“Figure of speech, Nobby, figure of speech.” Colon sighed and glanced sideways at his friend. When he continued, it was in the hesitant tones of a man with something on his mind. “As a matter of fact, Nobby, there was another matter about which, per say, I wanted to speak to you about, man to—” there was only the tiniest hesitation, “—man.”

“Yes, Sarge?”

“Now you know, Nobby, that I’ve always taken a pers’nal interest in your moral well-being, what with you havin’ no dad to put your feet on the proper path…”

“That’s right, Sarge. I would have strayed no end if you hadn’t,” said Nobby virtuously.

“Well, you know you was telling me about that girl you’re goin’ out with, what was her name, now…”

“Tawneee, Sarge?”

“That’s the…bunny. The one you said worked in a club, right?”

“That’s right. Is there a problem, Sarge?” said Nobby anxiously.

“Not as such. But when you was on your day off last week, me an’ Constable Jolson got called into the Pink PussyCat Club, Nobby. You know? There’s pole-dancing and table dancing and stuff of that nature? And you know ol’ Mrs. Spudding what lives in New Cobblers?”

“Ol’ Mrs. Spudding with the wooden teeth, Sarge?”

“The very same, Nobby,” said Colon magisterially. “She does the cleaning in there. And it appears that when she come in at eight o’clock in the morning ae-em, with no one else about, Nobby, well, I hardly like to say this, but it appears she took it into her head to have a twirl on the pole.”

They shared a moment of silence as Nobby ran this image in the cinema of his imagination and hastily consigned much of it to the cutting-room floor.

“But she must be seventy-five, Sarge!” he said, staring at nothing in fascinated horror.

“A girl can dream, Nobby, a girl can dream. O’course, she forgot she wasn’t as limber as she used to be, plus she got her foot caught in her long drawers and panicked when her dress fell over her head. She was in a bad way when the manager came in, having been upside down for three hours, with her false teeth fallen out on the floor. Wouldn’t let go of the pole, too. Not a pretty sight, I trust I do not have to draw you a picture. Come the finish, Precious Jolson had to rip the pole out top and bottom and we slid her off. That girl’s got the muscles of a troll, Nobby, I’ll swear it. And then, Nobby, when we was bringing her ’round behind the scenes, this young lady wearing two sequins and a bootlace comes up and says she’s a friend of yours! I did not know where to put my face!”

“You’re not supposed to put it anywhere, Sarge. They throw you out for that sort of thing,” observed Nobby.

“You never told me she was a pole dancer, Nobby!” Fred wailed.

“Don’t say it like that, Sarge.” Nobby sounded a little hurt. “This is modern times. And she’s got class, Tawneee has. She even brings her own pole. No hanky-panky.”

“But, I mean…showin’ her body off in lewd ways, Nobby! Dancing around without her vest and practic’ly no drawers on. Is that any way to behave?”

Nobby considered this deep metaphysical question from various angles.

“Er…yes?” he ventured.

“Anyway, I thought you were still walking out with Verity Pushpram? That’s a handy little seafood stall she runs,” Colon said, sounding as though he was pleading a case.

“Oh, Hammerhead’s a nice girl if you catch her on a good day, Sarge,” Nobby conceded.

“You mean those days when she doesn’t tell you to bugger off and chases you down the street throwing crabs at you?”

“Exactly those days, Sarge. But good or bad, you can never get rid of the smell of fish. And her eyes are too far apart. I mean, it’s hard to get a relationship goin’ with a girl who can’t see you if you stand right in front of her.”

“I shouldn’t think Tawneee can see you if you’re up close, either!” Colon burst out. “She’s nearly six feet tall and she’s got a bosom like…well, she’s a big girl, Nobby.” Fred Colon was at a loss. Nobby Nobbs and a dancer with big hair, a big smile, and…general bigitigy? Look upon this picture, and on this! It did your head in, it really did.

He struggled on. “She told me, Nobby, that she’d been Miss May on the centerfold of
Girls, Giggles and Garters
! Well, I mean…!”

“
What
do you mean, Sarge? Anyway, she wasn’t just Miss May, she was the first week in June as well,” Nobby pointed out. “It was the only way they had room.”

“Err…well, I ask you,” Fred floundered, “is a girl who displays her body for money the kind of wife for a copper? Ask yourself that!”

For the second time in five minutes, what passed for Nobby’s face wrinkled up in deep thought.

“Is this a trick question, Sarge?” he said at last. “’Cos I know for a fact that Haddock has got that picture pinned up in his locker and every time he opens it he goes, ‘Pwaor, will you look at th—’ ”

“How did you meet her, anyway?” said Colon quickly.

“What? Oh, our eyes met when I shoved an IOU in her garter, Sarge,” said Nobby happily.

“And…she hadn’t just been hit on the head, or something?”

“I don’t think so, Sarge.”

“She’s not…ill, is she?” said Fred Colon, exploring every likelihood.

“No, Sarge!”

“Are you
sure
?”

“She says perhaps we’re two halves of the same soul, Sarge,” said Nobby dreamily.

Colon stopped with one foot raised above the pavement. He stared at nothing, his lips moving.

“Sarge?” said Nobby, puzzled by this.

“Yeah…yeah,” said Colon, more or less to himself. “Yeah. I can see that. Not the same stuff in each half, obviously. Sort of…sieved…”

The foot landed.

“I say!”

It was more of a bleat than a cry, and it came from the door of the Royal Art Museum. A tall, thin figure was beckoning to the watchmen, who strolled over.

“Yessir?” said Colon, touching his helmet.

“We’ve had a burglareah, officer!”

“Burglar rear?” said Nobby.

“Oh dear, sir,” said Colon, putting a warning hand on the corporal’s shoulders. “Anything taken?”

“Years. I rather think that’s hwhy it was a burglareah, you see?” said the man. He had the attitude of a preoccupied chicken, but Fred Colon was impressed. You could barely understand the man, he was that posh. It was not so much speech as modulated yawning. “I’m Sir Reynold Stitched, the curator of Fine Art, and I was hwalking through the Long Gallereah and…oh, dear, they took the Rascal!”