Thud (2 page)

T
hud…

…that was the sound the heavy club made as it connected with the head. The body jerked, and slumped back.

And it was done, unheard, unseen: the perfect end, a perfect solution, a perfect story.

But, as the dwarfs say, where there is trouble you will always find a troll.

The troll saw.

I
t started out as a perfect day.
It would soon enough be an
imperfect one, he knew, but just for these few minutes, it was possible to pretend that it wouldn’t.

Sam Vimes shaved himself. It was his daily act of defiance, a confirmation that he was…well, plain Sam Vimes.

Admittedly, he shaved himself in a mansion, and while he did so his butler read out bits from the
Times
, but they were just…circumstances. It was still Sam Vimes looking back at him from the mirror. The day he saw the duke of Ankh-Morpork in there would be a bad day. “Duke” was just a job description, that’s all.

“Most of the news is about the current…dwarfish situation, sir,” said Willikins, as Vimes negotiated the tricky area under the nose. He still used his granddad’s cutthroat razor. It was another anchor to reality. Besides, the steel was a lot better than the steel you got today. Sybil, who had a strange enthusiasm for modern gadgetry, kept on suggesting he get one of those new shavers, with a little magic imp inside that had its own scissors and did all the cutting very quickly, but Vimes had held out. If anyone was going to be using a blade near his face, it was going to be
him
.

“Koom Valley, Koom Valley,” he muttered to his reflection. “Anything
new
?”

“Not as such, sir,” said Willikins, turning back to the front page. “There is a report of that speech by Grag Hamcrusher. There was a disturbance afterwards, it says. Several dwarfs and trolls were wounded. Community leaders have appealed for calm.”

Vimes shook some lather off the blade. “Hah! I bet they have. Tell me, Willikins, did you fight much when you were a kid? Were you in a gang or anything?”

“I was privileged to belong to the Shamlegger Street Rude Boys, sir,” said the butler primly.

“Really?” said Vimes, genuinely impressed. “They were pretty tough nuts, as I recall.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Willikins smoothly. “I pride myself I used to give somewhat more than I got if we needed to discuss the vexed area of turf issues with the young men from Rope Street. Stevedore’s hooks were their weapon of choice, as I recall.”

“And yours…?” said Vimes, agog.

“A cap-brim sewn with sharpened pennies, sir. An ever-present help in times of trouble.”

“Ye gods, man! You could put someone’s eye out with something like that.”

“With care, sir, yes.”

And here you stand now, in your pinstripe trousers and butlering coat, shiny as schmaltz and fat as butter, Vimes thought, while he tidied up under the ears. And I’m a duke. How the world turns.

“And have you
ever
heard someone say ‘let’s have a disturbance’?” he said.

“Never, sir,” said Wilkins, picking up the paper again.

“Me neither. It only happens in newspapers.” Vimes glanced at the bandage on his arm. It had been quite disturbing, even so.

“Did it mention I took personal charge?” he said.

“No, sir. But it does say here that rival factions in the street outside were kept apart by the valiant efforts of the Watch, sir.”

“They actually used the word ‘valiant’?” said Vimes.

“Indeed they did, sir.”

“Well, good,” Vimes conceded grumpily. “Do they record that two officers had to be taken to the Free Hospital, one of them quite badly hurt?”

“Unaccountably, not, sir,” said the butler.

“Huh. Typical. Oh, well…carry on.”

Willikins coughed a butlery cough. “You might wish to lower the razor for the next one, sir. I got into trouble with her ladyship about last week’s little nick.”

Vimes watched his image sigh, and lowered the razor. “All right, Willikins. Tell me the worst.”

Behind him, the paper was professionally rustled. “The headline on page three is: ‘Vampire Officer For The Watch?,’ sir,” said the butler and took a careful step backwards.

“Damn! Who told them?”

“I really couldn’t say, sir. It says you are not in favor of vampires in the Watch, but will be interviewing a recruit today. It says there is a lively controversy over the issue.”

“Turn to page eight, will you?” said Vimes grimly. Behind him, the paper rustled again.

“Well?” he said. “That’s where they usually put their silly political cartoon, isn’t it?”

“You
did
put the razor down, did you, sir?” said Willikins.

“Yes!”

“Perhaps it would also be just as well if you stepped away from the washbasin, too, sir.”

“There’s one of me, isn’t there…” said Vimes grimly.

“Indeed there is, sir. It portrays a small, nervous vampire and, if I may say so, a rather larger-than-life drawing of yourself leaning over your desk, holding a wooden stake in your right hand. The caption is ‘Any good on a stakeout, eh?,’ sir, this being a humorous wordplay referring, on the one hand, to the standard police procedure—”

“Yes, I think I can just about spot it,” said Vimes wearily. “Any chance you could nip down and buy the original before Sybil does? Every time they run a cartoon of me, she gets hold of it and hangs it up in the library!”

“Mr., er, Fizz does capture a very good likeness, sir,” the butler conceded. “And I regret to say that her ladyship has already instructed me to go down to the
Times
office on
her
behalf.”

Vimes groaned.

“Moreover, sir,” Willikins went on, “her ladyship desired me to remind you that she and Young Sam will meet at the studio of Sir Joshua at eleven sharp, sir. The painting is at an important stage, I gather.”

“But I—”

“She was very specific, sir. She said if a commander of police cannot take time off, who can?”

O
ne little light
illuminated the cellar, which was to say that
it lent different textures to the darkness and divided shadow from darker shadow.

The figures barely showed up at all. It was quite impossible, with normal eyes, to tell who was talking.

“This is not to be talked about, do you understand?”

“Not talked about? He’s
dead
!”

“This is dwarf business! It’s not to come to the ears of the City Watch! They have no place here! Do any of us want
them
down here?”

“They do have dwarf officers—”

“Hah.
D’rkza
. Too much time in the sun. They’re just short humans now. Do they
think
dwarf? And Vimes will dig and dig and wave the silly rags and tatters they call laws. Why should we allow such a violation? Besides, this is hardly a mystery. Only a troll could have done it, agreed? I said, are we agreed
?”

“That is what happened,” said a figure; the voice was thin and old and, in truth, uncertain.

“Indeed, it was a troll,” said another voice, almost the twin of that one, but with a little more assurance.

The subsequent pause was underlined by the ever-present sound of the pumps.

“It could only have been a troll,” said the first voice. “And is it not said that behind every crime you will find the troll?”

T
here was a small crowd
outside the Watch House in
Pseudopolis Yard when Commander Sam Vimes arrived at work. It had been a fine sunny morning up until then. Now it was still sunny, but nothing like as fine.

The crowd had placards.
BLOODSUCKERS OUT
!!, Vimes read, and
NO FANGS
! Faces turned toward him with a sullen, half-frightened defiance.

He uttered a bad word under his breath, but only just.

Otto Chriek, the
Times
iconographer, was standing nearby, holding a sunshade and looking dejected. He caught Vimes’s eye and trudged over.

“What’s in this for you, Otto?” said Vimes. “Come to get a picture of a jolly good riot, have you?”

“It’s news, Commander,” said Otto, looking down at his very shiny shoes.

“Who tipped you off?”

“I just do zer pictures, Commander,” said Otto, looking up with a hurt expression. “Anyvay, I couldn’t tell you even if I knew, because of zer Freedom of the Press.”

“Freedom to pour oil on a flame, d’you mean?” Vimes demanded.

“Zat’s freedom for you,” said Otto. “No-vun said it vas
nice
.”

“But…well, you’re a vampire, too!” said Vimes, waving a hand toward the protesters. “Do
you
like what’s been stirred up?”

“It’s still news, Commander,” said Otto meekly.

Vimes glared at the crowd again. It was mostly human. There
was
one troll, although, admittedly, the troll had probably joined in on general principle, simply because something was happening. A vampire would need a masonry drill and a lot of patience before it could put a troll to any trouble. Still, there was one good thing, if you could call it that—this little sideshow took people’s minds off Koom Valley.

“It’s strange that they don’t seem to mind
you
, Otto,” he said, calming down a little.

“Vell, I’m not official,” said Otto. “I do not haf zer sword und zer badge. I do not threaten. I am just a vorking stiff. And I make zem laff.”

Vimes stared at the man. He’s never thought about that before. But yes…Little fussy Otto, in his red-lined black opera cloak with pockets for all his gear, his shiny black shoes, his carefully cut widow’s peak and, not least, his ridiculous accent that grew thicker or thinner depending on whom he was talking to, did not look like a threat. He looked funny, a joke, a music-hall vampire. It had never previously occurred to Vimes that, just possibly, the joke was on other people. Make them laugh, and they’re not afraid.

He nodded to Otto and went inside, where Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom was standing—on a box—at the too-high duty officer’s desk, her chevrons all shiny and new on her sleeve. Vimes made a mental note to do something about the box. Some of the dwarf officers were getting sensitive about having to use it.

“I think we could do with a couple of lads standing outside, Cheery,” he said. “Nothing provocative, just a little reminder to people that
we
keep the peace.”

“I don’t think we’ll need that, Mister Vimes,” said the dwarf.

“I’m not interested in seeing a picture in the
Times
showing the Watch’s first vampire recruit being mobbed by protesters, Corp—Sergeant,” said Vimes severely.

“I thought you wouldn’t be, sir,” said Cheery. “So I asked Sergeant Angua to fetch her. They came in the back way half an hour ago. She’s showing her the building. I think they’re down in the locker room.”

“You asked
Angua
to do it?” said Vimes, his heart sinking.

“Yessir?” said Cheery, suddenly looking worried. “Er…is there a problem?”

Vimes stared at her. She’s a good, orderly officer, he thought, I wish I had two more like her. And she deserved the promotion, heavens knew,
but
, he reminded himself, she’s from Woerworld, isn’t she? She should have remebered about the…thing between them and werewolves. Maybe it’s my fault. I tell ’em that all coppers are just coppers.

“What? Oh, no,” he said. “Probably not.”

A vampire and a werewolf in one room, he thought, as he headed on up the stairs to his office. Well, they’ll just have to deal with it. And that’ll be just the
first
of our problems.

“And I took Mr. Pessimal up to the interview room,” Cheery called after him.

Vimes stopped in mid-stair.

“Pessimal?” he said.

“The government inspector, sir?” said Cheery. “The one you told me about?”

Oh yes, thought Vimes. The
second
of our problems.

I
t was politics.
Vimes could never get a handle on politics, which
was full of traps for honest men. This one had been sprung last week, in Lord Vetinari’s office, at the normal daily briefing…

“Ah, Vimes,” said his lordship, as Vimes entered. “So kind of you to come. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

Up until now, Vimes thought when he spotted the two other people in the room.

“You wanted me, sir?” he said, turning to Vetinari again. “There’s a Silicon Anti-Defamation League march in Water Street, and I’ve got traffic backed up all the way to Least Gate—”

“I’m sure it can wait, Commander.”

“Yes, sir. That’s the trouble, sir. That’s what it’s doing.”

Vetinari waved a languid hand. “Full carts congesting the street, Vimes, is a sign of progress,” he declared.

“Only in the figurative sense, sir,” said Vimes.

“Well, at any rate I’m sure your men can deal with it,” said Vetinari, nodding to an empty chair. “You have so many of them now. Such an expense. Do sit down, Commander. Do you know Mr. John Smith?”