Thud! - A Novel Of Discworld Part 26

...Why did we go into that mine? Because we heard there'd been a murder, that's why!

No, that's not my cow!

...Everyone knows that dwarfs gossip. It was stupid to tell them to keep it from us!

That's the deep-downers for you, they think they just have to say a thing and it's true!

Where's my cow?

...Water dripping on a stone.

Is that my cow?

Where did I see one of those Thud boards recently?

It goes naaaay!

Oh, yes, Helmclever. He was very worried, wasn't he?

It is a horse!

He had a board. He said he was a keen player.

No, that's not my cow!

That was a dwarf under pressure if ever I saw one; he looked as if he was dying to tell me something...

Where's my cow?

That look in his eyes...

Is that my cow?

I was so angry angry. Don't tell the Watch? What did they expect? You'd have thought he would have known...

It goes HRUUUGH!

He knew knew I'd go postal! I'd go postal!

It is a hippopotamus!

He wanted me to be angry!

No, that's not my cow!

He d.a.m.n well wanted wanted me to be angry! me to be angry!

Vimes snorted and crowed his way through the rest of the zoo, missing out not one bark or squeak, and tucked up his son with a kiss.

There was the sound of tinkling gla.s.s from downstairs. Oh, someone's dropped a gla.s.s, said his front brain. But his back brain, which had steered him safely through these mean streets for more than fifty years, whispered: Like h.e.l.l they did!

Purity would be up in her room. Cook had the evening off. Sybil was out feeding the dragons. That left Willikins. Butlers didn't drop things.

From below, there was a quiet "ugh," and then the thud of something hitting meat.

And Vimes's sword was on the hook at the other end of the hall, because Sybil didn't like him wearing it in the house.

As quietly as possible, he sought around for something, anything, that could be turned into a weapon. Regrettably, they had, when choosing toys for Young Sam, completely neglected the whole area of hard things with sharp edges. Bunnies, chickies, and piggies there were in plenty, but-ah! Vimes spotted something that would do, and wrenched it free.

Moving soundlessly on thick, over-darned socks, he crept down the stairs.

The door to the wine cellar was open. Vimes didn't drink these days, but guests did, and Willikins, in accordance with some butlerian duty to generations only just or as yet unborn, cared for it and bought the occasional promising vintage. Was there the crackle of gla.s.s being trodden on? Okay, did the stairs creak? He'd find out.

He reached the vaulted, damp cellar, and stepped carefully out of the light filtering down from the hall.

Now he could smell it...the faint reek of black oil.

The little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! And they could see in the dark, too, right?

He reached into his pocket and fumbled for his matches, while his heart thudded in his ears. His fingers closed over a match, he took a deep breath- One hand grasped his wrist, and, as he swung madly at the darkness with the hind leg of a rocking horse, this, too, was wrested from him. Instinctively, he kicked out, and there was a grunt. His arms were released, and from somewhere near the floor, the voice of Willikins, rather strained, said: "Excuse me, sir, I appear to have walked into your foot."

"Willikins? What the h.e.l.l's been happening?"

"Some dwarfish gentlemen called while you were upstairs, sir," said the butler, unfolding slowly. "Through the cellar wall, in fact. I regret to say that I found it necessary to deal somewhat strictly with them. I fear one might be dead."

Vimes peered around. "Might be dead? Is he still breathing?" be dead? Is he still breathing?"

"I do not know, sir." Willikins applied a match, with great care, to a stub of candle. "I heard him gurgling, but he appears to have stopped. I'm sorry to say that they came upon me when I was leaving the ice store, and I was forced to defend myself with the first thing that came to hand."

"Which was...?"

"The ice knife, sir," said Willikins levelly. He held up eighteen inches of sharp, serrated steel, designed to slice ice into convenient blocks. "The other gentleman I have lodged on a meat hook, sir."

"You didn't-" Vimes began, horrified.

"Only through his clothing, sir. I am sorry to have laid hands on you, but I feared the wretched oil might have been inflammable. I hope I got all of them. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for the mess-"

But Vimes was gone and already halfway up the cellar steps. In the hall, his heart stopped.

A short dark figure was at the top of the stairs and disappearing into the nursery.

The broad, stately staircase soared in front of him, a stairway to the top of the sky. He ran up it, hearing himself screaming- "I'll kill I'll killyoukillyoukillyoukillkillkill I'll kill you kill I'llkill you-" The terrible fury choked him, the rage and dreadful fear set his lungs on fire, and still the stairs unrolled. There was no end to them. They climbed forever, while he was falling backwards, into h.e.l.l. But h.e.l.l buoyed him up, gave wings to his rage, lifted him, sent him back... The terrible fury choked him, the rage and dreadful fear set his lungs on fire, and still the stairs unrolled. There was no end to them. They climbed forever, while he was falling backwards, into h.e.l.l. But h.e.l.l buoyed him up, gave wings to his rage, lifted him, sent him back...

And then, his breath now nothing more than one long, profane scream, he reached the top step- The dwarf came out of the nursery doorway, backwards and fast. He hit the railings and crashed through them onto the floor below. Vimes ran on, sliding on the polished wood, skidding as he swung into the nursery, dreading the sight of- -Young Sam, sleeping peacefully. On the wall, the little lamb rocked the night away.

Sam Vimes picked up his son, wrapped in his blue blanket, and sagged to his knees. He hadn't drawn breath all the way up the stairs, and now his body cashed its checks, sucking in air and redemption in huge, racking sobs. Tears boiled out of him, shaking him wretchedly...

Through the running, wet blur, he saw something on the floor. There, on the rug, was the rag ball, the hoop, and the wooly snake, lying where they'd fallen.

The ball had rolled, more or less, into the middle of the hoop. The snake lay half-uncoiled, its head resting on the edge of the circle.

Together, in this weak nursery light, they looked at first glance like a big eye with a tail.

"Sir? Is everything all right?"

Vimes looked up and focused on the red face of Willikins, out of breath.

"Er...yeah...what?...yeah...fine...thanks," he managed, summoning his scattered senses. "Fine, Willikins. Thank you."

"One must've got past me in the dark-"

"Huh? Yeah, very remiss of you, then," said Vimes, getting to his feet but still clutching his son to him. "I'd just bet bet most butlers 'round here would have taken out all three with one swipe of their polis.h.i.+ng cloth, right?" most butlers 'round here would have taken out all three with one swipe of their polis.h.i.+ng cloth, right?"

"Are you all right, sir? Because-"

"But you you went to the Shamlegger School of Butlering!" Vimes giggled. His knees were trembling. Part of him knew what this was all about. After the terror came that drunken feeling, when you were still alive and suddenly everything was funny. "I went to the Shamlegger School of Butlering!" Vimes giggled. His knees were trembling. Part of him knew what this was all about. After the terror came that drunken feeling, when you were still alive and suddenly everything was funny. "I mean mean, other butlers just know how to cut people dead with a look, but you, you, Willikins, you know how to cut them dead with-" Willikins, you know how to cut them dead with-"

"Listen, sir! He's got outside, sir!" said Willikins urgently. "So is Lady Sybil!"

Vimes's grin froze.

"Shall I take the young man, sir?" Willikins said, reaching.

Vimes backed away. A troll with a crowbar and a tub of grease would not have wrested his son from him.

"No! But give me that knife! And go and make sure Purity is all right!"

Clutching Young Sam to him, he ran back downstairs, across the hall, and out into the garden. It was stupid, stupid, stupid. He told himself that later. But right now Sam Vimes was thinking only in primary colors. It had been hard, hard, to go into the nursery in the face of the images that thronged his imagination. He was not going to go through that ever again. And the rage flowed back, easily, under control now. Smooth like a river of fire. He'd find them all, all of them, and they would burn... burn...

The main dragon shed could only be reached now by dodging around three big cast-iron flame-deflector s.h.i.+elds, put in place two months ago; dragon breeding was not a hobby for sissies or people who minded having to repaint the whole side of the house occasionally. There were big iron doors at either end; Vimes headed toward one at random, ran into the dragon shed, and bolted the door behind him.

It was always warm in there, because the dragons burped all the time; it was that or explode, which occasionally did happen. And there was Sybil, in full dragon-keeping gear, walking calmly between the pens with a bucket in each hand, and behind her the doors at the other end were opening, and there was a short, dark figure, and there was a rod with a little pilot flame on the end, and- "Look out! Behind you!" Vimes yelled.

His wife stared at him, turned around, dropped the buckets, and started to shout something.

And then the flame blossomed. It hit Sybil in the chest, splashed across the pens, and went out abruptly. The dwarf looked down and began to thump the pipe desperately.

The pillar of flame that was Lady Sybil said, in an authoritative voice that brooked no disobeying: "Lie down, Sam. Right now." And Sybil dropped to the sandy floor as, all down the lines of pens, dragon heads rose on long dragon necks.

Their nostrils were flaring. They were breathing in.

They'd been challenged. They'd been offended. And they'd just had their supper.

"Good boys," said Sybil, from the floor. boys," said Sybil, from the floor.

Twenty-six streams of answering dragon fire rose to the occasion. Vimes, lying on the floor so that his body s.h.i.+elded Young Sam, felt the hairs crisp on the back of his neck.

This wasn't the smoky red of the dwarf fire; this was something only a dragon's stomach could cook up. The flames were practically invisible. At least one of them must have hit the dwarf's weapon, because there was an explosion and something went through the roof. The dragon pens were built like a fireworks factory: the walls were very thick, and the roof was as thin as possible, to provide a faster exit to heaven.

When the noise had died to an excited hiccuping, Vimes risked looking up. Sybil was also getting to her feet, a little clumsily, because of all the special clothing every dragon breeder wore.*

The iron of the far doors glowed around the black outline of a dwarf. A little way in front of them, two iron boots were cooling from white heat in a puddle of molten sand.

Metal went plink plink.

Lady Sybil reached up with heavy-gloved hands, patted out some patches of burning oil on her leather ap.r.o.n, and lifted off her helmet. It landed on the sand with a thud.

"Oh, Sam..." she said softly.

"Are you all right? Young Sam is fine. We've got to get out of here!"

"Oh, Sam..."

"Sybil, I need you to take him!" Vimes said, speaking slowly and clearly to get through the shock. "There could be others out there!"

Lady Sybil's eyes focused.

"Give him to me," she ordered. "And you you take Raja!" take Raja!"

Vimes looked where she was indicating. A young dragon with floppy ears and an expression of mildly concussed good humor blinked at him. He was a Golden Wouter, a breed with a flame so strong that one of them had once been used by thieves to melt their way into a bank vault.

Vimes picked him up carefully, and still winced. Ye G.o.ds, the ache in his hand had gone all the way to the elbow...

"Coal him up," Sybil commanded.

Good old Sybil, he told himself as he fed anthracite into Raja's eager gullet. Her female forebears had valiantly backed up their husbands as distant emba.s.sies were besieged, had given birth on a camel back or in the shade of a stricken elephant, had handed around little gold-wrapped chocolates while trolls were trying to break into the compound, or had merely stayed at home and nursed such bits of husbands and sons that made it back from endless little wars. The result was a species of woman who, when duty called, turned into solid steel.

Vimes flinched as Raja burped.

"That was a dwarf, wasn't it?" said Sybil, cradling Young Sam. "One of those deep-down ones you see about?"

"Yes."

"Why did it try to kill me?"

When people are trying to kill you, it means you're doing something right. It was a rule Sam had lived by. But this...even a real stone killer like Chrysophrase wouldn't have tried something like this. It was insane. They will burn. They will burn... They will burn. They will burn...

"I think they're frightened of what I'm going to find out," said Vimes. "I think it's all gone wrong for them, and they want to stop me."

Could they have been that stupid? he wondered. A dead wife? A dead child? Could they think that would mean for one moment for one moment that I'd stop? As it is, when I catch up with whoever ordered this, that I'd stop? As it is, when I catch up with whoever ordered this, and I will, and I will, I hope there's someone there to hold me back. I hope there's someone there to hold me back.

They will burn for what they did.

"Oh, Sam..." murmured Sybil, the iron mast falling for a moment.

"I'm sorry. I never expected this," said Vimes. He put the dragon down and held her carefully, almost fearfully. The rage had been so strong; he felt he might grow spikes, or snap into shards. And the headache was coming back, like a lump of lead nailed just over his eyes.

"Whatever happened to all that, you know, hi-ho, hi-ho, and being kind to poor lost orphans in the forest, Sam?" Sybil whispered.