Snuff

by Terry Pratchett

  There was a huge jamming of coaches around the Opera House as would-be patrons, high or low, forsook their carriages and took to their feet, fighting their way through the throng that was seeking admission. Of course, it helped if you had a squad of trolls or dwarfs with you.

  Ankh-Morpork liked surprises, provided they didn’t involve the revenue. The curtain was not due to go up for another hour, but that didn’t matter, because the important thing was to be there and even more importantly to be seen to be there, especially by the people you wanted to see. Whatever it was going to be it was going to be an occasion, and you would have been there and people would have seen you there and it was important and, therefore, so were you.

  It would be a night to remember, even if the mysterious performance was an act to forget. The really rich often put on these things out of vanity, but this one looked particularly mysterious and possibly a jolly good laugh if it fell on its face.

  Day was turning into night. The pub was filling up, as were the drinkers, who had been told by Jiminy that they were drinking courtesy of Commander Vimes, again. And Jiminy watched him carefully from the doorway as the shadows lengthened and Vimes stood there, motionless, occasionally looking at his watch.

  At last the lad everybody knew as young Feeney turned up, with his arm still in its cast but, nevertheless, the old boys agreed amongst themselves, looking rather more grown-up than they’d ever seen him before. He was accompanied by Jefferson the blacksmith, whom they regarded as a ticking bomb at the best of times, and he had a badge, just like Feeney. People overflowed from the pub as the two of them went up to Vimes, and there was an unheard conversation. They’d wondered why the blacksmith was carrying a megaphone, but now they watched him hand it to Vimes, and Feeney and the blacksmith walked back toward the pub and people parted like a wave to let them through.

  Vimes looked at his watch again. More people were hurrying toward the green. People with an instinct for the dramatic had run home to say that something was up and you’d better come and look. And country people liked a spectacle, or even a serious death, just like city people. They too liked to say, “I was there,” even if it came out as “I was there, ooh-arr.”

  Vimes put his watch in his pocket for the last time, and raised the megaphone to his lips.

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” The blacksmith had hammered out a pretty good loud-hailer and the voice echoed across the green. “I have heard it said, ladies and gentlemen, that in the end all sins are forgiven.” Out of the corner of his mouth he said, so that only Feeney and the blacksmith could hear, “We shall see.” And then he continued. “Bad things have been done. Bad things have been ordered. Bad orders have been obeyed. But they never will be again…will they, ladies and gentlemen? Because there needs to be a law, but before there is a law, there has to be a crime!”

  There was absolute silence in the gloom as he walked over the green to the tower and broke the two bottles of brandy on its woodwork, stepped back a little way and threw the glowing end of his cigar after them.

  In the Opera House the gossip faded and died as Lady Sybil stepped through the curtains and onto the stage. She was a woman of, as they say, ample proportions, although she felt that some of them were more than ample. However, she could afford the very best dressmakers and did indeed have the manner and poise that were the symbol of her class, or at least the class she had been born into, and so she stepped out in front of the curtain and applause broke out and grew. When she judged that it had gone on long enough she made a little gesture which magically silenced the auditorium.

  Lady Sybil had exactly the right voice for these occasions. Somehow she could make everybody think she was talking just to them. She said, “My Lord Patrician, Lady Margolotta, your grace the viceroy, ambassadors, ladies and gentlemen, I am so touched you have all decided to come along to my little twilight soirée, especially since I have been rather naughty and have been very sparing of information.” Lady Sybil took a deep breath, which caused several elderly gentlemen near the front of the audience to very nearly burst into tears.*

  “I have been privileged recently to find a musician beyond compare, and without more ado I will let you into this wonderful secret. Can we have the house lights down, Jeffrey? Good. Ladies and gentlemen, I am honored to be able to present to you tonight Tears of the Mushroom playing her own composition, The Twilight Serenade. I hope you will like it, and, in fact, I know that you will.”

  Lady Sybil stepped back as the curtains dragged themselves aside, and took a chair next to Tears of the Mushroom, who was seated obediently at her concert harp.

  Beneath the seemingly impregnable composure, Sybil’s heart was bouncing like a flamenco dancer. A low light—that had been the thing. The girl shouldn’t be able to see the thousands out there. Sybil had taken her in hand, fearful that sudden exposure to the massed gaze of Ankh-Morpork, far from her home, would have some terrible effect, but in fact it wasn’t working like that. The girl had a curious tranquillity, as if she hadn’t realized that she should be in awe. She smiled at Sybil in her strange way and waited, with fingers poised, over the strings. There was no sound but the susurration of people asking one another what the intense little figure they were seeing really was. Lady Sybil smiled to herself. By the time they realized, it would be too late. She looked at her watch.

  The flames were so high over the Ramkin Estate that the blaze could surely be seen all the way to Ankh-Morpork (bet you a gallon of brandy and a brace of turbot). There was barely any wind and it stood there like a beacon.

  Vimes announced to the gathered throng, “Ladies and gentlemen, the area known as the Shires is under the rule of law tonight, and by that I mean the proper law, the law that is written down for everybody to see, and even to be changed if enough people agree. Chief Constable Upshot and Constable Jefferson are currently acting with the backing of their colleagues in the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, who would like to be assured that their colleagues receive the respect that is due. At this moment, a number of people from the Shires are being courteously brought here, although possibly to their dismay. Some of them will be the people who call themselves your magistrates and they will be taken away and asked to explain to a lawyer by what right they have assumed that position. If any one of you wants to argue with me, please come on and do so. The law is there for the people, rather than the other way round. When it is the other way round don’t hesitate to grab your weapons, understand? The bar is still free, BUT BEFORE YOU STAMPEDE, THERE IS ONE MORE THING!”

  Vimes had to put the megaphone back to his mouth because the mention of “bar” and “free” in one breath has an invigorating effect on people. “Right now, ladies and gentlemen, the goblins on Hangman’s Hill, and indeed all other goblins in this area, are under my protection and the protection of the law. They are also subject to it, and I’ll see to it that they have their own police force. It appears that they make natural clacks operators, so if they wish they can derive a revenue from so doing. I’m paying to have that clacks tower made permanent. You will benefit from it and so will they! They won’t need to steal your chickens because they’ll buy them from you, and if they do pinch them, then that’s a crime and will be treated as such. One law, ladies and gentlemen…One size fits all!”

  There was a cheer at this, as loud as any cheer in the vicinity of the prospect of a free bar can be. Of course, some of it might have been cheer at the fact that there was now some justice in the world, but on the whole it was quite likely that the bar won the day. You didn’t have to be a cynic, you just had to understand people.

  Vimes walked slowly toward the brightly lit pub, although the chances of getting inside were small. On the other hand, the chances of being given a hug by Miss Felicity Beedle were exactly one hundred per cent, because that was what she was doing, while being watched sheepishly by the blacksmith.

  Vimes let go of her hand as she said, “You are a great man, commander, and I hope they put up a statue to you!”

  “Oh
dear, I hope not! You only get a statue when you’re dead!”

  She laughed, but Vimes said, “Listen, Miss Beedle, right now I don’t know if I’m facing a statue or the sack. Some of the ways I’ve acted have been quite lawful, and others have been somewhat…debatable. I have an officer who can do with numbers what Sergeant Detritus can do with a hammer and he’s going through the records of the son of one of the most influential people in Ankh-Morpork. And at the same time experienced police officers have visited the home of every member on the list of local magistrates. They are presenting them with a document, under my seal, informing them that they are no longer members of the self-elected board of magistrates of the Shires and reiterating that there may be formal charges to be made. My justification for this ought to work, but now? It’s probably going to be a case of who has the best lawyers.

  “The future, Miss Beedle, is somewhat uncertain, but I have to tell you that Young Sam, thanks to you, is probably going to be the world expert on poo. I must tell you that his mother and I are very pleased and only hope he aspires to higher things.”

  There was already the rattle of wagons and coaches in the distance; the sound of pigeons coming home to roost. “I think I’ll soon have people to talk to, Miss Beedle, although I suspect that they’d rather not talk to me.”

  “Of course, commander. Can I say that the goblins seem very attached to your Corporal Nobbs? They treat him as one of their own, in fact, and he seems to be very fond of Shine of the Rainbow, as she is of him. You may be interested to know that the goblin name for him is Breaking Wind?”

  She did not appear to smile and Vimes said, “Yes, very apt. I’ve always thought of Nobby as a draft-extruder. In fact, at my wife’s express suggestion I have breveted him to the rank of sergeant for his stay here, and I hope that he’ll assist the goblins to understand the benefits of the law—although, of course, the fusion might simply mean that people’s chickens will be more expertly stolen from now on.”

  “Oh, you are a joker, commander!”

  Vimes’s expression had not changed and did not change now. “Yes, aren’t I?”

  He turned to Jefferson. “You know, things would have been a lot easier if you’d trusted me at the start.”

  The blacksmith shrugged. “Why should I have trusted you? You’re a nob.”

  “Do you trust me now?”

  The blacksmith’s gaze remained steady for longer than Vimes could be happy with, but at last the man smiled and said, “Yeah, for now.”

  There was only one reply that Vimes could conceivably deliver. He smiled back and said, “A policeman’s answer if ever I heard one.”

  As the couple strolled away there was a polite cough behind Vimes. He turned around and recognized the worried face of the colonel. “Do you have a minute, commander?”

  Oh dear, thought Vimes.

  “May I first say, commander, that I firmly agree with what you are doing and heavens know it needed doing.” The colonel coughed again and said, “You will not have any disagreement with me on that point.” Vimes waited and he continued, “My wife is a rather foolish woman who does appear to worship things like titles and, if I may say so, gives herself airs. Her father was a fisherman, an extremely good one, but do you know what? I think she would rather die than have anyone know.”

  There was another pause, and in the red light Vimes could see the shine on the old man’s face. “What is going to happen to her, commander? At the moment, two polite young ladies in Ankh-Morpork City Watch uniform are standing guard over her in our house. I don’t know if this helps very much, but the first thing she did when the arresting officers arrived was make them tea. There is such a thing as good manners, you see. Is she going to prison?”

  Vimes felt the urge to say, “Would you like her to?” but he choked it back, because of the tears. “It’s Charles, isn’t it?”

  The colonel looked surprised. “As a matter of fact, commander, it’s Chas to my friends.”

  “Am I one of them?” And Vimes went on, “Other people will decide what has to be done here. I’ve merely made certain that nobody can inadvertently leave before I’ve had a chance to talk to them all, do you understand? I’m not the judge and nor would I be allowed to sit on a jury. Coppers aren’t. And right now I’m not even certain what the penalty is for being stupid, vain and unthinking, although it does occur to me that if I was to put in prison every person guilty of these crimes we’d have to build about five hundred more.

  “Speaking for myself,” Vimes continued, “I’d like to see that murderers, if such I might find, are seen and dealt with as murderers, and the frightened and unthinking obedient also treated as they deserve. And right now, sir, I’d just like to not be living in a world of bloody fools. Personally, I have no particular interest in seeing your wife in prison, although I have a suspicion that if she was put in the women’s wing of the Tanty her horizon would be usefully expanded and I expect she’d be so bossy that she’d be running the place after a couple of weeks.”

  “I do love her, you know,” said the colonel. “We’ve been married for fifty-five years. I’m very sorry you’ve been troubled and, as I’ve said, I envy you your job.”

  “I think, perhaps, I should envy her her husband,” said Vimes. “You know, colonel, I’ll be happy just for the truth to come out, preferably on page one of the Ankh-Morpork Times, if you understand me.”

  “Absolutely, commander.”

  Vimes looked down at the man, who now looked rather relieved, and added, “For what it’s worth, I suspect Lord Vetinari will make certain of his backing and possibly there will be some token punishments. Too many skeletons, you see, too many cupboards. Too many things around the world that maybe happened too long ago. What in the world can you do if some copper is going to go around digging them up? That’s called realpolitik, sir, and so I suspect that the world will go on and you will not be very long without the company of your wife, which should, if I’m any judge, mean that you can have more or less anything for dinner that you want for the next week.”

  The idea seemed to uplift the colonel’s spirits. The old man smiled. “Do you know, commander, I’m sure that, if treated with respect, potted shrimps might turn out to be my bosom chums.”

  The colonel held out his hand and Vimes took it, shook it and said, “Bon appétit.”

  Afterward, there were several explanations about why the Quirm wagon containing a very important prisoner overturned in the middle of the night and rolled down a very steep hill, coming to bits as it did so. You could blame the dark, you could blame the fog, you could blame its speed and above all you could blame the express mail coach from Ankh-Morpork that ran straight into it on the corner.

  By the time the wounded were in any state to comprehend what had happened they were minus one prisoner, who appeared to have picked the lock of his shackles, and plus one guard whose throat had been cut.

  It was dark, it was cold, it was foggy and, hunched together, the survivors waited until dawn. After all, how could you find a man in darkness?

  Stratford was good at speed. Speed was always useful, and he stayed on the road that was just visible in the murk. It didn’t really matter where he went; after all, he knew no one had ever given a description of him that helped. It was a gift to be indescribable.

  After a while, however, he was surprised and delighted to hear a horse trotting along the road behind him. Some brave traveler, he thought, and smiled in the fog and waited. To his further surprise, the horse was reined to a halt a little way from him and the rider slid off. Stratford could barely make out a shape in the shimmering, water-laden air.

  “My word! The famous Mr. Stratford,” said a voice cheerfully, as the stranger strolled toward him. “And let me tell you right now, if you make any kind of move you’ll be so dead that the graveyards would have to run backward.”

  “I know you! Vimes sent you, after me?”

  “Oh, dear me no, sir,” said Willikins. “The commander doesn’t know I’m h
ere at all, sir, and nor will he ever. That is a certainty. No, sir, I’m here, as it might be, out of a matter of professional pride. By the way, sir, if you’re thinking of killing me and taking my horse I’d be most grateful if you’d try that right now.”

  Stratford hesitated. There was something about the voice that induced hesitation. It was calm, friendly, and…worrying.

  Willikins strolled a little closer and there was a chuckle in his voice. “My word, sir, I’m a bit of a fighter myself, and when I heard about you chopping up that girl and that, I thought, goodness me, I thought. And so the other day, when I had my day off in lieu—very important your day off in lieu, if you’re a working man—I took a trip up to Overhang and learned a few things about you, and, my word, did I learn a few things. You really scare people, eh?”

  Stratford still hesitated. This didn’t sound right. The man had a straightforward and cheerful voice, like a man you didn’t know very well having a companionable chat in the pub, and Stratford was used to people being very nervous when they spoke to him.

  “Now, me,” said Willikins, “I was raised by the street as a fighter and I fight dirty, you can depend on that, and I’ll fight anybody, but I never punched a girl…oh, except Kinky Elsie, who was always game for that sort of thing and had me by the I’m-not-going-to-mentions at the time and my hands were tied, in more ways than one, as it were, and so I had to give her a sharp nudge with my foot. Happy days. But you? You’re just a killer. Worthless. A bully. I fight because I might get killed and the other bloke might win, or maybe we’d both end up in the gutter, too weak to throw another punch, when, quite likely, we’d prop each other up and go to the pub for a drink and a wash.”