Thud! - A Novel Of Discworld Part 10

"There might be some protests about Sally, sir," said Carrot.

"Why? Will they spot she's a vampire?"

"No, sir, I don't think they-"

"Then don't tell 'em," said Vimes. "You're the...smelter, it's up to you what, er, tools you use. Seen this?"

He waved the report about the three officers he was trying not to think of as deserters.

"Yes, sir. I was meaning to talk to you about that. It might help if we changed the patrols a bit," said Carrot.

"How do you mean?"

"Er...it would be quite easy to arrange the patrol schedules so that trolls and dwarfs don't have to go on the beat together, sir. Um...some of the lads say they'd be a bit happier if we could..."

Carrot let the sentence die away in the stony glare.

"We've never paid any attention to an officer's species when we do the roster, Captain," said Vimes coldly. "Except for the gnomes, of course."

"There's your precedent, then-" Carrot began.

"Don't be daft. A typical gnome room is about twice the size of a s...o...b..x, Captain! Look, you can see this idea is nuts. Dangerous nuts, too. We'd have to patrol troll with troll, dwarf, with dwarf and human with human-"

"Not necessarily, sir. Humans could patrol with either of the others."

Vimes rocked his chair forward. "No, they couldn't! This is not about common sense, this is about fear! If a troll sees a dwarf and a human patrolling together, he'll think: 'There's the enemy, two against one.' Can't you see where this is going? When a copper's in a tight corner and blows his whistle for backup, I don't want him demanding that when it arrives it's the right d.a.m.n shape!" He calmed down a little, opened his notebook, and tossed it on the desk. "And talking of shapes, do you know what this means? I spotted it in the mine, and a dwarf called Helmclever scrawled it with some spilt coffee, and you know what? I think he was only half-aware that he'd done it."

Carrot picked up the notebook and regarded the sketch solemnly for a moment.

"Mine sign, sir," he said. "It means 'The Following Dark.' "

"And what does that that mean?" mean?"

"Er...that things are pretty bad down there, sir," said Carrot earnestly. "Oh dear." He put the notebook down slowly, as if half-afraid that it might explode.

"Well, there has been a murder, Captain," Vimes pointed out.

"Yes, sir. But this might mean something worse, sir. Mine sign is a very strange phenomenon."

"There was a sign like it over the door, only there was just one line and it was horizontal," Vimes added.

"Oh, that'd be the Long Dark rune, sir," said Carrot dismissively. "It's just the symbol for a mine. Nothing to worry about."

"But this other one is? Is it anything to do with grags sitting in a room surrounded by lighted candles?"

It was always nice to surprise Carrot, and this time he looked amazed. "How did you work that out, sir?"

"It's only words, Captain," said Vimes, waving a hand. " 'The Following Dark' doesn't sound good. Time to stay brightly lit, maybe? When I met them, they were surrounded by candles. I thought maybe it was some kind of ceremony."

"Could be," Carrot agreed, carefully. "Thank you for this, sir. I'll go prepared."

As Carrot reached the door, Vimes added, "One thing, Captain?"

"Yes, sir?"

Vimes didn't look up from the sandwich, from which he was daintily separating fragments of the L and the T from the crispy B.

"Just remember you're a copper, will you?" he said.

Sally knew something was up as soon as she got back into the was up as soon as she got back into the locker room, in her s.h.i.+ny new breastplate and soup-bowl helmet. Coppers of various species were standing around trying to look nonchalant. Coppers are never any good at this at all. locker room, in her s.h.i.+ny new breastplate and soup-bowl helmet. Coppers of various species were standing around trying to look nonchalant. Coppers are never any good at this at all.

They watched as she approached her locker. She opened the door, therefore, with due care. The shelf was full of garlic.

Ah. It starts, and so soon, too. Just as well she'd been prepared...

Here and there, behind her, she heard the faint coughs and throat clearings of people trying not to laugh. And there was smirking going on; a smirk makes a subtle noise if you're listening for it.

She reached into the locker with both hands and pulled out two big fat bulbs. All eyes were on her, all coppers were motionless as she walked slowly around the room.

The reek of garlic was strong on one young constable, whose big grin was suddenly caked with nervousness at the corners. He had the look about him of the kind of fool who'd do anything for a giggle.

"Excuse me, Constable, but what is your name?" she said meekly.

"Er...Fittly, miss..."

"Are these from you?" Sally demanded. She let her canines extend just enough to notice.

"...er, only a joke, miss..."

"Nothing funny about it," said Sally sweetly. "I like garlic. I love love garlic. Don't you?" garlic. Don't you?"

"Er...yeah..." said the unhappy Fittly.

"Good," said Sally.

With a speed that made him flinch, she rammed a bulb into her mouth and bit down heavily.

The crunching was the only sound in the locker room.

And then she swallowed.

"Oh dear, where are are my manners, Constable?" she said, holding out the other bulb. "This one's yours..." my manners, Constable?" she said, holding out the other bulb. "This one's yours..."

Laughter broke out around the room. Coppers are like any other mob. The table's been turned, and this way around it's funnier. It's a bit of a laugh, a bit of fun. No harm done, eh?

"Come on, Fittly," said someone. "It's only fair. She ate hers!" And someone else, as someone always does, began to clap and urge "Eat! Eat!" Others took it up, encouraged by the fact that Fittly had gone bright red.

"Eat! eat! eat! eat! eat! eat! eat! eat! eat!eat!eat!-"

A man without an option, Fittly grabbed the bulb, forced it into his mouth, and bit it hard, to the accompaniment of cheers. A moment later, Sally saw his eyes widen.

"Lance Constable von Humpeding?"

She turned. A young man of G.o.dlike proportions* was standing in the doorway. Unlike the armor of the other officers, his breastplate shone and the chain mail was quite devoid of rust. was standing in the doorway. Unlike the armor of the other officers, his breastplate shone and the chain mail was quite devoid of rust.

"Everything all right?" The officer glanced at Fittly, who'd dropped to his knees and was coughing garlic across the room, but somehow quite failed to see him.

"Er, fine, sir," said Sally, puzzled, as Fittly began to throw up.

"We've met already. Everyone calls me Captain Carrot. Come with me, please."

Out in the main office, Carrot stopped and turned. "All right, Lance Constable...you had a bulb already prepared, right? Don't look like that, there's a vegetable barrow out in the square today. It's not hard to work out."

"Er...Sergeant Angua did warn me..."

"So...?"

"So I carved a garlic out of a turnip, sir."

"And the one you gave Fittly?"

"Oh, that was a carved turnip, too. I try not to touch garlic, sir," said Sally. Oh G.o.ds, this one really was attractive...

"Really? Turnip? He seemed to take it badly," said Carrot.

"I put a few fresh chili seeds in it," Sally added. "About thirty, I think."

"Oh? Why did you do that?"

"Oh, you know, sir," said Sally, radiating innocence. "A bit of a laugh, a bit of fun. No harm done, eh?"

The captain appeared to consider this.

"We'll leave it at that, then," he said. "Now, Lance Constable, have you ever seen a dead body?"

Sally waited to see if he was serious. Apparently, he was.

"Strictly speaking, no, sir," she said.

Vimes fretted through the afternoon. There was, of course through the afternoon. There was, of course, the paperwork. There was always the paperwork. The trays were only the start. Heaps of it were ranged accusingly along one wall, and gently merging.* He knew that he had to do it. Warrants, dockets, Watch orders, signatures-that was what made the Watch a police force rather than just a bunch of fairly rough fellows with inquisitive habits. Paperwork: you had to have lots of it, and it had to be signed by him. He knew that he had to do it. Warrants, dockets, Watch orders, signatures-that was what made the Watch a police force rather than just a bunch of fairly rough fellows with inquisitive habits. Paperwork: you had to have lots of it, and it had to be signed by him.

He signed the Arrests book, the Occurrences book, even the Lost Property book. Lost Property book! They never had one of those in the old days. If someone turned up complaining that they'd lost some small item, you just held n.o.bby n.o.bbs upside down and sorted through what dropped out.

But he didn't know two-thirds of the coppers he employed now-not know know, in the sense of knowing when they'd stand and when they'd run, knowing the little giveaways that'd tell him when they were lying or scared witless. It wasn't really his Watch anymore. It was the city's Watch. He just ran it.

He went through the Station Sergeant's reports, the Watch Officers' reports, the Sick reports, the Disciplinary reports, the Petty Cash reports- "Duddle-dum-duddle-dum-duddle-"

Vimes slammed the Gooseberry down on the desk and picked up the small loaf of dwarf bread that for the last few years he'd used as a paperweight.

"Switch off or die," he growled.

"Now, I can see you're slightly slightly upset," said the imp, looking up at the looming loaf, "but could I ask you to look at things from my point of view? This is my upset," said the imp, looking up at the looming loaf, "but could I ask you to look at things from my point of view? This is my job job. This is what I am am. I am, therefore I think. And I think we could get along famously if you would only read the manu-please, no! I really could help you!"

Vimes hesitated in mid-thump, and then carefully put down the loaf.

"How?" he said.

"You've been adding up the numbers wrong," said the imp. "You don't always carry the tens."

"And how would you know that?" Vimes demanded.

"You mutter to yourself," said the imp.

"You eavesdrop eavesdrop on me?" on me?"

"It's my job! I can't switch my ears off! I have to listen! That's how I know about the appointments!"

Vimes picked up the Petty Cash report and glanced at the messy columns of figures. He prided himself on what he had, since infancy, called "sums." Yes, he knew he plodded a bit, but he got there in the end.

"You think you could do better?" he said.

"Let me out and give me a pencil!" said the imp. Vimes shrugged. It had been a strange day, after all. He opened the little cage door.

The imp was a very pale green and translucent, little more than a creature made out of colored air, but it was able to grip the tiny pencil stub. It ran up and down the column of figures in the Petty Cash book and, Vimes was pleased to hear, it muttered to itself.

"It's out by three dollars and five pence," it reported after a few seconds.

"That's fine, then," said Vimes.

"But the money is not accounted for!"

"Oh yes it is," said Vimes. "It was stolen by n.o.bby n.o.bbs. It always is. He never steals more than four dollars fifty."

"Would you like me to make an appointment for a disciplinary interview?" said the imp hopefully.

"Of course not. I'm signing it off now. Er...thank you. Can you add up the other dockets?"

The imp beamed.

"Absolutely!"