Snuff

by Terry Pratchett

  And there it was! Right down there on the coast. Definitely rectangular and quite a lot of it. After a brief meal of hardboiled egg he persuaded the bird to perch in a treetop. Jumping to the ground was no fearsome undertaking for one of Feegle stock.

  As evening began to fall, Wee Mad Arthur walked through line after line of fragrant tobacco plants. But also noticeably rectangular, in this land where geometry was rare, were the sheds, visible not far away.

  He moved stealthily to begin with and increasingly more stealthily when he saw the pile, white and complex in the gloaming. The whiteness consisted of bones. Small bones, not Feegle but far too small for human; and then, when he investigated further, he saw the corpses. One of them was still moving, more or less.

  Wee Mad Arthur recognized a goblin when he saw one. There were enough people who did not like Feegles for Feegles not to be too snotty on the subject of goblins. They were a damn nuisance, but even Feegles would be happy to agree that so were they themselves. And being a nuisance is not something you should die of. In short, Wee Mad Arthur recognized this situation as very bad.

  He took a look at the one who was moving. There were wounds all over it. One leg was twisted back on itself and suppurating scars covered its body. Wee Mad Arthur knew death when he saw it and that was in the air right now. He looked at the pleading in the goblin’s one remaining eye, took out his knife and ended its suffering.

  While he was staring at this, a voice behind him said, “And where the hell did you escape from?”

  Wee Mad Arthur pointed to his badge, which to him was the size of a shield, and said, “Ankh-Morpork City Watch, ye ken?”

  The burly human stared at him and said, “There ain’t no law here, whatever you are, you little squirt.”

  As Commander Vimes always said in his occasional rousing speeches to his men, it was the mark of a good officer if he or she is able to improvise in unfamiliar circumstances. Wee Mad Arthur recalled the words very clearly. “Nobody expects you to be a first-class lawyer,” Vimes had said, “but if you have evidence that suggests that your proposed action is, on the face of it, justified, then you should take it.”

  And then Wee Mad Arthur, ticking off points in his head, thought: slavery is illegal. I know it used to be done, but I don’t know anywhere it’s done anymore. The dwarfs don’t do it and neither do the trolls and I know that Lord Vetinari is dead against it. He checked all this again to make certain that he had got it right, and then looked up at the scowling human and said, “Excuse me, sir? What was that you just said to me?”

  The man smiled horribly, grasping the handle of his whip. “I said, there ain’t no law here, you rabid little skunk.”

  There was a pause and Wee Mad Arthur glanced down at the dead goblin on the stinking bone-filled midden. “Guess again,” he said.

  As battles go, it was one of the most one sided, because that side belonged to Wee Mad Arthur. There were only a dozen or so guards on the plantation, because starving creatures in chains do not, as a rule, fight back. And they never knew who they were fighting. It was some kind of force that sped backward and forward across the ground and then up your trouser leg, leaving you in no heart whatsoever for fighting or, for that matter, anything else.

  Punches came out of nowhere. Those who ran were tripped. Those who didn’t were left unconscious. It was, of course, an unfair fight. It generally is if you are fighting even one Nac mac Feegle, even if you are a platoon.

  Afterward, Wee Mad Arthur found chains in some of the huts and carefully chained every recumbent guard. Only then did he open the other huts.

  The iron door of the lockup slammed against the stone as Vimes entered; nevertheless he was taking care where he placed his feet.

  And Mr. Flutter sang, he certainly sang. Vimes was in no ornithological position to judge the singing in terms of nightingale or robin equivalent, but even if he had sung like a frog it would not have mattered, because he sang about a moocher called Benny No-Nose, who hung about as such men do in the hope of picking up unconsidered trifles and had traded a pair of boots—“I don’t know where they came from, and no more do you, okay?”—for a turkey the very evening before the nightmare began for Ted.

  “Well, sir,” Flutter told him. “You asked me about what happened years ago, see, and what with one thing and another, what might have happened yesterday didn’t cross my mind, if you see what I mean? It was all so sudden like. Anyway, yeah, he said they’d coupled a tender behind a two-oxen riverboat that very afternoon, and it smelled to him like goblins, him living near their cave in Overhang, and you never forget that smell, or so he said to the dockmaster, a man known to one and all as Wobbly No-Name, on account of him often walking funny when the drink is on him, and was told, ‘Yeah, they’re sending them down while the going is good, and you never saw them, and neither did I, understand?’ Someone must think it very important ’cos Stratford is on the boat. Someone must have stamped their foot about that because Stratford, well, he don’t like boats. Don’t like water, come to that. Won’t travel on a boat at all if he can help it.”

  Vimes didn’t whoop. He didn’t even smile, he hoped—you made sure you didn’t if you could help it—but he gave himself a point for being civil to Flutter. You couldn’t get off Feegle free after a charge of accessory to murder, but there were ways and ways of doing time, and if this all worked out as he hoped it would, Flutter might find that time would pass comfortably, and even, perhaps, faster than usual.

  He said, “Well, thank you, Ted, I’ll look into it. In the meantime, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Chief Constable Upshot, to whom a prisoner is as sacred as his dear old mum, trust me.” He pulled out the key to let himself out, and then paused as if an important point had just aimlessly struck him. “A two-oxen boat? Does that go twice as fast?”

  And now Flutter was a riverboat expert. “Not really, but you can pull more load, even through the night, see? Now, your one-ox boat has to stop overnight at a cattle landing, so as the beast can have its rations and a jolly good chew and some shut-eye before dawn and there’s a cost in time and money, right there.”

  Prisoner or not, Ted was now a self-styled lecturer to the unfortunately ignorant. “But with two oxen, well, one can be taking a bit of a rest while the other is keeping the boat moving. I reckon there were three barges behind that one, not too much for one ox downstream at this time of year.” He sniffed. “I wanted to be an ox boat pilot, but of course, the bloody Zoons* had got it sewn up. I did do a season on one, mucking out and feeding, but I prefer turkeys.”

  “And the name of the boat?” said Vimes carefully.

  “Oh, everybody knows it! It’s the biggest on the river. Everybody knows the Wonderful Fanny!”

  Internal monologues can play themselves out quite fast, and Vimes’s went: Let me think. Ah yes, almost certainly there was a captain who had a wife who was probably named Francesca at birth, but that’s too much of a mouthful, and he named his boat after her because he loved her very much. And there you have it. There is no need to dwell on the subject, because there are only so many words, letters and syllables available to the tongue, and if you can’t come to terms with that then you might as well never get out of bed. And so, having got his brain sorted out, he released the clamps on his silly-embarrassed-face reflex and said, “Thank you for your cooperation, Ted, but if you had told us earlier we might have been able to catch the damn boat!”

  Flutter looked at him in astonishment. “Catch the Fanny? Bless you, sir, a man with one leg could do that! She’s a bulk carrier, not a streaker! Even going all night she won’t have got much past Fender’s Bend by now. There are bends all the way, you see? I reckon you never get more than half a mile without a bend! And it’s full of rocks, too. Seriously, you have to zigzag so much on Old Treachery that you’re often crossing your own wake.”

  Vimes nodded at this. “One last thing, Ted. Remind me again…What exactly does Mr. Stratford look like?”

  “Oh, you know the typ
e, sir, sort of average. Dunno how old he is. Maybe twenty-five. Maybe twenty. Sort of mousy hair. No scars that show, amazingly.” Ted looked embarrassed at this paucity of information and shrugged. “Sort of average height, sir.” He scrabbled for details and gave up. “To tell you the truth, he sort of looks like everyone else, sir, that is until he gets angry”—Ted’s face lit up—“and that, sir, is when he looks like Stratford.”

  Willikins was sitting on the bench under the chestnut tree with his hands resting peacefully on his knees. He was good at it. He had a talent for resting that had escaped Vimes. It must be a servant thing, Vimes thought: if you don’t have anything to do, don’t do anything. And right now he could do with a rest. Maybe evidence was going downstream even as he stood there, but by the sound of it at a speed that could almost be overtaken on foot. Regrettably Sybil was right. At his age you had to be sensible. You sometimes had to catch your breath, while you still had some. He sat down beside the man, and said, “An interesting day, Willikins.”

  “Indeed, yes, commander, and may I say that young Constable Upshot handled his responsibilities with great aplomb. You have a talent for inspiring people, sir, if I may say so.”

  There was silence for a while, and then Vimes said, “Well, of course, we were helped by the fact that some bloody fool actually let an arrow go! You could see them thinking about what might happen if you’re one of the gang that killed a dear old lady. That’s a kind of trouble you don’t get out of easily. That opened them up! And it was obviously a real stroke of luck for us,” Vimes added, without turning his head. He let the silence continue as the storm raged in the distance, while, nearby, whatever it was that was chirruping in the bushes carried on doing so in the warm, sultry afternoon.

  “It puzzles me, though,” he went on, as if a thought had only just crossed his mind. “If it was someone in the front of the crowd who had loosed his crossbow then surely I would have seen it, and if it was one toward the back then he would have to have been clever and skilful enough to sight through maybe a very narrow space. That would be very clever shooting, Willikins.”

  Willikins was still staring placidly ahead. Vimes’s sideways glance spotted no hint of moisture on his brow. Then the gentleman’s gentleman said, “I expect these country lads excel at trick shooting, commander.”

  Vimes slapped him on the back and laughed. “Well, that’s the funny thing, don’t you think? I mean, did you see their gear? It was low-grade stuff, in my opinion, not well maintained, the kind of stuff that granddad brought back from some war, whereas that arrow, I recognized that evil little package as a custom-made bolt for the Burleigh and Stronginthearm Piecemaker Mark IX, you remember?”

  “I am afraid you will have to refresh my memory, commander.”

  Vimes was beginning to enjoy himself and said, “Oh, you must! Only three of them were made, and two of them are still under wizard-assisted lock and key in the company vaults and the other—surely you remember this?—is locked safely in that little vault that we made in the cellar in Scoone Avenue last year? You and I poured concrete while Sybil and the lad were out, and rubbed dirt all over the floor so that you had to know it was there in order to find it. It’s a hanging matter for anyone to be found with one of them, according to Vetinari, and the Assassins’ Guild told the Times that hanging would be a picnic compared with what would happen to anyone they found in possession of one of those. I mean, think about it: can’t hardly tell it’s a crossbow. Silent, folds up and fits in a pocket in an instant, easily concealed and deadly in the hands of a skilled man, such as you or I.” Vimes laughed again. “Don’t be surprised, Willikins, I recall your prowess with even a standard military bow during the war. Heavens know what someone like you could manage with the damn Piecemaker. I just wonder how one turned up out here in the country. After all, Feeney confiscated all the weapons he found, but maybe one of those chaps had hidden it in his boot. What do you think?”

  Willikins cleared his throat. “Well, commander, if I may speak freely, I might surmise that there are many workers at Burleigh and Stronginthearm, which is one factor, and, of course, the directors of the most famous weapons producer on the Plains might also have decided to hide away a few souvenirs before the range was banned, and who knows where they might have got to. I can think of no other explanation.”

  “Well, of course you may be right,” said Vimes. “And while it’s a terrifying thought that one of these things might be out on the streets somewhere, I must admit that the idiot who used it really helped us out of a difficult situation.” He paused for a while and then said, “Have you had a pay rise lately, Willikins?”

  “I am entirely satisfied with my remuneration, commander.”

  “It is entirely deserved, but to be on the safe side, I’d like you, as soon as we are back home, to check in the cellar just in case, will you? Because obviously, if there are more of those bloody things out there, I want to make certain that I’ve still got one too.” And as Willikins turned away Vimes continued, “Oh, and Willikins, it’s a damn good job for you that Feeney cannot put two and two together.”

  Was that the faintest sigh of relief? Surely not. “I will expedite that as soon as we enter the building, commander, and I am certain that should you yourself want to go down there some time later to make a personal check, you will find it resting where it has always been.”

  “I’m sure I shall, Willikins; but I wonder if you could solve a problem for me? I have to catch the Wonderful Fanny.”

  He added hurriedly, “Which is a boat, of course.”

  “Yes, sir, I am aware of the vessel in question. Remember that I’d already been here for some time before you and her ladyship arrived, and I happened to be near the river when she went upstream. I recall the people pointed her out to me. I was given to understand that she was going up to Overhang to load up, probably with iron ore brought down from the dwarf mine, which rather surprised me, given that normally they smelt directly at their mines and export the bar-stock, this being a more economical method, sir.”

  “Fascinating,” said Vimes, “but I think that however slow it goes, I ought to get after her.”

  Feeney was just emerging from the cottage.

  “I’ve heard about the…the boat, lad. We should get going while it’s still light.”

  Feeney actually saluted. “Yes, I have that in hand, sir, but what about my prisoner? I mean, my old mum could give him his meals and empty his bucket for him, won’t be the first time she’s had to do that sort of thing, but I don’t like leaving her by herself, right now, if you get my thinking?”

  Vimes nodded. Back home he only had to snap his fingers for a watchman to become immediately available, but now…Well, he had no choice. “Willikins!”

  “Yes, commander?”

  “Willikins, against my better judgement and I dare say yours, I hereby appoint you to the rank of Special Constable and I command you to take the prisoner back to the Hall and keep him under lock and key there. Even a bloody army would be mad to attack the Hall with Sybil in it. But just in case, Willikins, I can think of no man better suited to guard my family.”

  Willikins beamed and saluted. “Yes, sir, orders received and understood, sir. You can depend on me, sir, only…er, well, when we get back to the city could you, er, please not let anyone know that I was a copper for a while? I have friends, sir, dear friends who have known me for a long time and they would cut my ears off if they heard I was a copper.”

  “Well, far be it from me to whiten a man’s name against his will,” said Vimes. “Do we have an understanding? I’d be grateful if you could refrain from too much adventureishness. Just guard the prisoner and ensure that no harm comes to him. If this means a little judicious harm has to come to someone else, I will regretfully accept the fact.”

  Willikins looked solemn. “Yes, sir, fully understood, sir. My comb will not leave my pocket.”

  Vimes sighed. “You have a great many things in your pockets, Willikins. Ration their usage, ma
n. And by the way, please tell Sybil and Young Sam that Daddy is chasing the bad men and will see them again soon.”

  Feeney looked from Vimes to Willikins. “Glad that’s sorted out, gentlemen,” he said, and smiled nervously. “Now, if you’re ready, commander, we’ll just go along to the livery stable and pick up a couple of horses.” With that he began to walk smartly down to the village, leaving Sam Vimes no alternative but to follow.

  Vimes said, “Horses?”

  “Absolutely, commander. From what I hear we should catch up with the Fanny in an hour. To tell you the truth, we could probably outrun it, but it’s best to be on the safe side, don’t you think?”

  Feeney looked sheepish for a moment and then added, “I don’t usually ride much, sir, but I’ll try not to disgrace myself in front of you.”

  Vimes opened his mouth. Then Vimes shut his mouth, trapping the words: Lad, I’d rather ride a pig than a horse, if it’s all the same to you? I mean, pigs just run along, but horses? Most of the time I’ve got nothing against horses, and then I come down very firmly against horses, and then I’m shot up in the air again so that once more I have nothing against horses, but I know that in half a second the whole damn thing starts again, and yes before you come out with the whole business of “It’s all right if you rise up when they go down” let me say that has never ever worked for me, because then I’m either above and a little behind the horse or against the horse so firmly that I’m really glad that Sybil and I have decided to have only one child…

  Feeney was, however, in keen and chattering form. “I expect there were a lot of horses at Koom Valley, eh, sir?”

  And Vimes was stuck. “Actually, lad, the trolls have no use for them and the dwarfs are said to eat them, on the quiet.”