Snuff

by Terry Pratchett

  He took another step closer. Stratford took a step back. “And you, Mr. Stratford, set out to kill Commander Vimes’s little lad, or worse. And do you know what is even worser? I reckon that if you’d done so, the commander would have arrested you and dragged you to the nearest police station. But inside he’d be cutting himself up with razorblades from top to bottom. And he’d be doing that because the poor bugger is scared that he could be as bad as you.” Willikins laughed. “Truth is, Mr. Stratford, from where I sits he’s a choirboy, he really is, but there has to be some justice in the world, you see, not necessarily law justice, but justice justice, and that’s why I am going to kill you. Although, because I’m a fair man I’m going to give you a chance to kill me first. That means one or other of us will die, so whatever happens the world is going to be a better place, eh? Call it…cleaning up. I know you have a weapon because you’d have run if you didn’t, and so I reckon you have a blade from one of those poor buggers from Quirm and I warrant that in all the confusion you probably stabbed him with it.”

  “I did, too,” said Stratford. “And he was a copper and you’re just a butler.”

  “Very true,” said Willikins, “and much older than you and heavier than you and slower than you, but still a bit spry. What’ve you got to lose?”

  Only the horse, steaming patiently in the mist, saw what happened next, and being a horse was in no position to articulate its thoughts on the matter. Had it been able to do so it would have given as its opinion that one human ran toward another human carrying a huge metal stick while the other human quite calmly put his hand into his breast pocket. This was followed by a terrible scream, a gurgling noise and then silence.

  Willikins staggered to the side of the road and sat down on a stone, panting a little. Stratford certainly had been fast, no doubt about that. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, staring at nothing but the fog. Then he stood up, looked down at the shadow on the ground and said, “But not fast enough.” Then, like a good citizen, Willikins went back to see he if he could help the unlucky gentlemen of the law, who appeared to be in difficulties. You should always help the gentlemen of the law. Where would we be without them?

  The chief sub-editor of the Ankh-Morpork Times really hated poetry. He was a plain man and had devoted a large part of his career to keeping it out of his paper. But they were a cunning bunch, poets, and could sneak it up on you when your back was turned. And tonight, with the paper already so late that the lads downstairs were into overtime, he stared at the report just delivered by hand from Knatchbull Harrington, the paper’s music critic. A man of whom he was deeply suspicious. He turned to his deputy and waved the page angrily. “ ‘Whence came it, that ethereal music?’ See what I mean? What’s wrong with ‘Where did that music come from’? Bloody stupid introductory sentence in any case. And what does ethereal mean, anyway?”

  The deputy sub hesitated. “I think it means runny. Could be wrong.”

  The chief sub-editor stood in misery. “Definitely poetry!”

  Somebody had played some music that was very good. Apparently it made everybody amazed. Why didn’t that twit in his rather feminine purple silk shirts just write something like that? After all, it said everything that you needed to know, didn’t it? He took out his red pencil, and just as he was applying it to the wretched manuscript there was a sound on the metal staircase and Mr. de Worde, the editor, staggered into the office, looking as if he had seen a ghost or, perhaps, a ghost had seen him.

  He looked groggily at the two puzzled men and managed to say, “Did Harrington send in his stuff?”

  The chief sub held out the offending stuff in front of him. “Yes, guv, a load of rubbish in my opinion.”

  De Worde grabbed it, read it with his lips moving and thrust it back at the man. “Don’t you dare change a single word. Front page, Bugsy, and I hope to hell that Otto got an iconograph.”

  “Yessir, but, sir—”

  “And don’t bloody argue!” screamed De Worde. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in my office.”

  He clattered on up the stairs while the sub-editor and his deputy stood gloomily reading Knatchbull Harrington’s copy again. It began:

  Whence came it, that ethereal music, from what hidden grot or secret cell? From what dark cave? From what window into paradise? We watched the tiny figure under the spotlight and the music poured over us, sometimes soothing, sometimes blessing, sometimes accusing. Every one of us confronting ghosts, demons and old memories. The recital by Tears of the Mushroom, a young lady of the goblin persuasion, took but half an hour or, perhaps, it took a lifetime, and then it was over, to a silence which spread and grew and expanded until at last it exploded. Every single patron standing and clapping their hands raw, tears running down our faces. We had been taken somewhere and brought back and we were different people, longing for another journey into paradise, no matter what hell we had to atone for on the way.

  The chief sub and his deputy looked at each other with what Knatchbull would certainly have called a “wild surmise.” At last, the deputy sub-editor ventured, “I think he liked it.”

  Three days passed. They were busy days for Vimes. He had to get back into the swing again, although, to tell the truth, it was a case of getting out of one swing and into another one, while they were both swinging. So much paperwork to read! So much paperwork to push away! So much paperwork to delegate! So much paperwork to pretend he hadn’t received and that might have been eaten by the gargoyles.

  But today, in the Oblong Office, Lord Vetinari was close to ranting. Admittedly you needed to know him very well to realize this. He drummed his fingers on the table. “Snarkenfaugister? I’m sure she makes these things up!”

  Drumknott carefully put a cup of coffee on his master’s desk. “Alas, sir, there really is such a word. In Nothingfjord it means a maker of small but necessary items such as, for example, spills and very small clothes pegs for indoor use and half-sized cocktail sticks for people who don’t drink long drinks. The term could be considered of historical interest, because my research this morning turned up the fact that the last known snarkenfaugister died twenty-seven years ago in a freak pencil-sharpener accident. As a matter of fact, I gather that your crossword adversary herself does actually come from Nothingfjord.”

  “Ah! There you have it! All those long winters sitting around the stove! Such terrible patience! But she runs the pet shop in Pellicool Steps! Dog collars! Cat biscuits! Mealworms! Such deviousness! Such subterfuge! Such a vocabulary! Snarkenfaugister!”

  “Well, sir, she is now the chief crossword compiler for the Times, and I suppose those things go with the territory.”

  Lord Vetinari calmed down. “One down, one across. She has won and I am cross. And, as you know, I am very rarely cross, Drumknott. A calm if cynical detachment is generally my forte. I can change the fate of nations but am thwarted at every turn by an apparently blameless lady who compiles crosswords!”

  Drumknott nodded. “Indeed, sir, but on that note, if you will permit me to extend that note a little, may I remind you that Commander Vimes is waiting in the other room.”

  “Indeed? Show him in, by all means.”

  Vimes marched in, saluted very nearly smartly, and stood to attention.

  “Ah, your grace, it is good to see you back at last. How went your holidays, apart from lawless actions, ad hoc activities, fights, chases on both land and sea and indeed freshwater, unauthorized expenditure and, of course, farting in the halls of the mighty?”

  Vimes’s gaze was steady and just above the Patrician’s eye line. “Point of detail, my lord: didn’t fart, may have picked nose inadvertently.”

  “The exigencies of the service, I assume?” said Lord Vetinari wryly. “Vimes, you have caused a considerable amount of paperwork to cross my desk in the last few days. In some cases the writers wanted your head on a plate, others were more circumspect because the writers were in mortal dread of a prison cell. Can
I make one thing perfectly clear, your grace, the law cannot operate retrospectively. If it did, none of us would be safe.

  “Lord Rust junior may have done, indeed has done many bad things, but making slaves of goblins under current law cannot be one of them. However, as I suspect, the recent revelations about his additional activities have done his reputation a considerable amount of no good. You might not know this, Vimes, but in society this sort of thing can be worse than a prison sentence, possibly worse than a death. Young Gravid is a man with not many friends right now. I hope that will give you some pleasure.”

  Vimes said nothing, but he thought, the ball dropped.

  Vetinari glared at him and said, “I have here an eloquent missive from Lord Rust senior, pleading for the life of, if not the freedom of, his son, who he fully admits has trodden the family honor into the mud.” Lord Vetinari held up a hand. “His Lordship is an old man and so, Vimes, if your next remark was going to be something on the lines of ‘even further’ then I suggest you deploy a little charity. His lordship is anxious to avoid a scandal. Apart from that, may I have your views?”

  “Yes. The scandal has already taken place, sir, more than once,” said Vimes coldly. “He trafficked in living, breathing and thinking people. Many of them died!”

  “Once again, Vimes, I have to tell you that laws cannot be made retrospectively.”

  “That may be so,” said Vimes, “but what about the troll kids, who took that damn rubbish? Are you going to ask the Diamond King if they should be retrospective?”

  “I can assure you, Vimes, that the laws will be upheld, and since you ask, right now I am having to negotiate with the King who is demanding, demanding of me—me, Vimes—that young Lord Rust be handed over for questioning regarding the manufacture and distribution of absolutely deadly troll narcotics. Of course, under troll law the wretched man would be put to death, and I am saddened to say that at this moment in the complex world of human, troll and dwarven politics, I feel that that might have some long-term repercussions, making it an unfortunate option for this city. I have to negotiate this problem, and, believe me, it’s going to take a lot of quid for the pro quo. And it’s only nine thirty in the morning!”

  Vimes’s knuckles reddened. “They are living creatures who can talk and think and have songs and names, and he treated them like some kind of disposable tools.”

  “Indeed, Vimes, but, as I have indicated, goblins have always been considered a kind of vermin. However, Ankh-Morpork, the kingdom of the Low King and also that of the Diamond King, Uberwald, Lancre and all the independent cities of the plain are passing a law to the effect that goblins will henceforth be considered as sapient beings, equal to, if not the same as, trolls and dwarfs and humans and werewolves, et cetera et cetera, answerable to what we have agreed to call ‘the common law’ and also protected by it. That means killing one would be a capital crime. You have won, commander, you have won. Because of a song, commander. Oh, and of course other efforts, but it was your wife who got most of the ambassadors to her little amusement which, I may say, Vimes, was eloquence personified. Though frankly, Vimes, I find myself shamed. One spends one’s life scheming, negotiating, giving and taking and greasing such wheels as squeak, and in general doing one’s best to stop this battered old world from exploding into pieces. And now, because of a piece of music, Vimes, a piece of music, some very powerful states have agreed to work together to heal the problems of another autonomous state and, almost as collateral, turn some animals into people at a stroke. Can you imagine that, Vimes? In what world could that possibly happen? All because of a song at twilight, Vimes. All because of a song. It was a thing of strangely tinkling tones and unbelievable cadences which somehow found its way into our souls, reminding some of us that we have some. Lady Sybil is worth a dozen diplomats. You are a lucky man, commander.”

  Vimes opened his mouth to speak, but Vetinari interrupted. “And also a bloody fool, a bloody, headstrong fool. The law must start with a crime? I understand, but don’t condone.” Vetinari picked the letter off his desk. “Lord Rust asks that his son be given a moderately short sentence, subsequent to which he be allowed to emigrate to Fourecks, to start a new life. Since the man was deeply involved in smuggling the fine will be harsh.”

  He held up a hand. “No, hear me out; after all, I am the tyrant in this vicinity.” Vetinari slumped into his chair, wiped his brow and said, “And I have already lost my temper with an otherwise inoffensive sweet lady who compiles crossword puzzles for the Times. However, Vimes, Lord Rust refers to you as a man of honor and probity and astonishing integrity and vigilance. Moreover, he is disinheriting his son, which means upon his death his title will devolve to his daughter Regina, a ferocious woman, very difficult and hot-headed. And that, Vimes, creates another problem for me. His lordship is extremely frail and, frankly, I was looking forward to dealing with the son, who is an ignorant, arrogant, pompous idiot, but his sister? She is smart!” and then, almost to himself, Lord Vetinari added, “But at least she doesn’t compile crosswords…Now you can speak, commander.”

  “There was a murder,” said Vimes sullenly.

  Vetinari sighed hugely. “No, Vimes! There was a slaughter! Do you not understand? At that point goblins were vermin and no, do not shout at me! At this very moment in palaces and chancelleries all over the world goblins are becoming as human as you or I, but that was then. I would like you to be fully aware that the reason that Stratford would have gone to the tender mercies of Mr. Trooper is that he and his ruffians boarded the Enormous Fanny— Yes, what is it?”

  Vetinari looked around as Drumknott tapped him on the shoulder. There was a muffled whispering before Vetinari cleared his throat and said, “Of course, I meant the Wonderful Fanny,” and he did not exactly meet Vimes’s gaze as he continued. “That was an act of piracy and the good people of Quirm, where the…boat in question was registered, are all in favor of the death penalty for that kind of thing. I am aware of his manifold other crimes but, alas, you can only hang a man once…Although, as it turned out, apparently Mr. Stratford was mortally wounded in a collision three nights ago, being thrown some distance from the wreckage with a surgically cut throat. Convenient, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t you dare look at me like that, sir.”

  “Heavens, I wouldn’t accuse you, commander, I was just wondering if you knew of any other person with a grudge against the corpse?”

  “Nossir,” said Vimes, pulling himself to attention.

  “You know, Vimes, sometimes your expression becomes so wooden that I think I could make a table out of it. Just tell me this: did you give any instructions?”

  How does he do it? thought Vimes. How? Out loud he said, “I don’t know what you are talking about, sir, but if what I suspect to be true is so, then the answer is no. If there was any foul play that night it wasn’t by my order. I wanted to see Stratford on the gallows. That’s legal.” And he thought, I am never going to broach the subject with Willikins.

  Vetinari’s eyebrows rose as Vimes went on, “But his lordship’s wretched son is being allowed to go on a long holiday full of sun, sea, surf and sand and economically priced wines!” He slammed his fist on the desk and Vetinari looked pointedly at it until Vimes took it away. “Are you going to leave it at that?”

  “It has been known, as people put it, for the leopard to change its shorts. All of us hope for a little redemption, whether if we deserve it or not. We will keep an eye on the young fool, you can be certain of that.”

  “Oh, you’re sending the Dark Clerks after him?”

  “Vimes, the Dark Clerks are a myth, as everybody knows. To tell you the truth, some flunkey from our embassy down there will pay attention to his progress. And now the world is a better place, commander. You have no understanding, Vimes, no understanding at all of the deals, stratagems and unseen expedients by which some of us make shift to see that it remains that way. Do not seek perfection. None exists. All we can do is strive. Understand this, commander,
because from where I sit you have no alternative. And remember, for this week’s work you will be remembered. Lord Rust may not like it but news travels fast. The truth will be known and written down in the history books.” Vetinari gave a wan smile. “It will, I shall see to it. And, slightly better than before, the world will continue to turn.”

  Vetinari picked up yet another piece of paper, appearing to glance at it, and said, “You may go, commander, in the knowledge that I, for so many reasons, envy you. My regards to your good lady.”

  Vimes looked at Drumknott. The man’s face so assiduously betrayed nothing that it betrayed everything.

  Vetinari pulled a file toward him and picked up his pen. “Don’t let me detain you, commander.”

  An hour later Lord Vetinari was sitting at his desk with his fingers steepled, apparently lost in thought, staring at the ceiling, and, to Drumknott’s surprise, occasionally waving his hand as if conducting some hidden music. Drumknott knew enough not to disturb him, but at last he dared to say, “It was a most memorable recital, wasn’t it, sir?”

  Vetinari ceased being the invisible conductor and said, brightly, “Yes, it was, wasn’t it? They say that the eyes of some paintings can follow you around the room, a fact that I doubt, but I am wondering whether some music can follow you for ever.” He appeared to pull himself together and continued, “On the whole, the Rust dynasty, though not exactly empowered with brains, tends to be an honorable and patriotic bunch, by and large, am I not right, Drumknott?”