“Oh, about half of them, commander, that’s to say their names, families, home addresses and similar. The rest of them are from other places. I can’t say that they’re all angels, but they’re mostly not too bad.”
This sensible little speech in the circumstances earned Feeney a few smirks and a certain relieved look all round, and, happily, an opening for Vimes, who said, “So which one of them had an arrow ready in his crossbow, do you think, Mr. Feeney?”
But before Feeney had time to open his mouth Vimes had spun round to confront the returning Mr. Stoner, whose digestion had let him down. Willikins, whose instincts seldom failed, was still keeping an eye on him. Loudly and cheerfully Vimes said, “I see that my good friend Mr. Stoner is back, and he’s a lawyer and I’m a policeman and we know how to talk to one another. Do come this way, Mr. Stoner.”
He grabbed the unwilling lawyer gently but firmly by the arm and led him some way from the crowd, who watched, Vimes was pleased to see, with immediate deep suspicion.
“You are a lawyer, are you not, Mr. Stoner? Not a criminal lawyer by any chance?”
“No, your grace, I specialize mostly in land and property matters.”
“Ah, far less dangerous,” said Vimes, “and I suppose you’re a member of the Ankh-Morpork bar, presided over by my old chum Mr. Slant?” He had said it convivially, but Vimes knew that the name of the old zombie would strike terror into any lawyer’s heart—although whether Mr. Slant still had one of his own was questionable. And now Mr. Stoner must be thinking quite quickly. If he had any sense, and read his Law Journal between the lines, he would be aware that while Mr. Slant would bow (rather stiffly) to the rich and influential, he did not like mistakes, and he did not like seeing the law being brought into disrepute by inept lawyers and laymen, believing that this particular duty should be left to senior lawyers, such as Mr. Slant, who could do it with care and panache and AM$300 an hour. And Mr. Stoner should be thinking that, since it appeared that landowners around here had made up the law to suit themselves, which was the prerogative of the legal profession as a whole, Mr. Slant would not be a happy zombie; and, as custom and practice now dictated that he should no longer walk around groaning with his hands held out directly in front of him (one of them perhaps holding a severed head for effect), he was known to vent his still considerable spleen on snotty young lawyers with ideas above their station by talking to them for some time in a calm, low voice, causing them to say afterward that the severed head was, by contrast, the vegetarian option.
Vimes watched the young man’s face as he considered his meager options and found that there was no plural.
“I did endeavor to properly advise the justices as to their situation, of course,” he said, like a man rehearsing a plea, “but I’m sorry to say that they took the view that since they own the land hereabouts, then they decide the law of said land. I have to say that they are, in themselves, quite decent people.”
Vimes was surprised at how well his temper was keeping these days. He said, “Land, I quite like land, it’s one of my favorite things for standing on. But land, and landlord, and law, well …A man might get quite confused, yes? Especially in the presence of a pretty good fee? And it’s quite easy for people to be jolly decent people when they can afford to hire thoroughly un-decent people, people that don’t even need orders, just a nod and a wink.”
At this point there was a roll of thunder, not really appropriate to the last comment, and therefore without occult significance. Nevertheless, it was a giant roll that trundled around the sky, dropping blocks of sound. Vimes looked up and saw a horizon the colors of a bruise, while all round him the air was calm and warm and insects and other creatures that he couldn’t guess at were buzzing in the undergrowth. Satisfied that he need not look for cover yet, he turned his attention back to the squirming lawyer.
“May I suggest, Mr. Stoner, that you suddenly develop a pressing reason to go to the city and possibly talk to some of the senior lawyers there? I suggest that you describe yourself as foolish, and when they see your damp trousers, that will act as corroboration, believe me. If necessary, I might find it in my heart to make a statement on your behalf, to the effect that I think you were silly and badly led rather than criminal.”
The look of gratitude read well, and so Vimes added, “Why don’t you try criminal law? It’s mostly grievous bodily harm and murderers these days. You could call it ointment for the soul. Just a couple of things, though: what do you know about goblins being sent downriver? And what do you know about the disappearance of Jefferson the blacksmith?”
It’s never nice to face a difficult question when you’re thinking about getting on a horse and travelling long distances at speed. “I can assure you, your grace,” replied the man, “that I know nothing about the disappearance of the smith, if indeed he hasn’t simply gone to work elsewhere. And goblins? Yes, I know that some were sent away some years ago, but I took up this post two years back and I cannot comment on those circumstances.” He added primly, “I have no knowledge whatsoever of any goblins being dispossessed of their accommodation lately, as the chief constable appears to believe.”
Turning his back so the craning crowd could not easily see what was happening, Vimes glared at him. “I congratulate you on your careful ignorance, Mr. Stoner.” He then grabbed the prim lawyer by the neck and said, “Listen to me, you little shit. What you tell me may strictly speaking be true, but you are a bloody stupid lawyer if you haven’t realized that a bunch of landowners cannot decide all by themselves that anything they want to do is the law. If you want to keep in with both sides, Mr. Stoner, and I imagine that you do, then you might find a moment in your busy schedule to tell your former employers that Commander Vimes knows all about them and Commander Vimes knows what to do about them. I know who they are, Mr. Stoner, because Chief Constable Upshot has given me a list of names.”
Vimes gently released the pressure and said quietly, “Very soon this will be an unfortunate place for you, Mr. Stoner.” Then, turning, so that the crowd could see, he took the bewildered lawyer’s hand, shook it lavishly and said loudly, “Thank you very much for such valuable information, sir. It’ll make my investigations a whole lot simpler, I can tell you! And I’m sure that Chief Constable Upshot will feel exactly the same way. It would be a much easier life for all of us if other upstanding folk were so quick to assist the police with their inquiries.” He looked at the stricken lawyer and said more quietly, “I am no judge, but some of those men have a certain look about them. I know the sort, probably got more teeth than brain cells, and now, Mr. Lawyer, they’re wondering how much you know and how much you’ve told me. I wouldn’t stop to pack if I was you, and I hope you’ve got a fast horse.”
The lawyer left at speed and, at a meaningful nod from Feeney, so did the mob, more or less evaporating into the scenery; and Vimes thought, another one snookered. Get the reds, get the colors, but sooner or later you’re after the black.
And now he was left with the company of only Willikins and the chief constable, who looked around like someone realizing that he might not only have bitten off more than he could chew, but also more than he could lift. He straightened up when he saw Vimes looking at him. It was time for a little reinforcement, so Vimes walked over and slapped the lad on the back. “Well, I don’t know, I’m sure! Well done, Chief Constable Upshot, and this time I’m not laughing at you, Feeney, I’m not making fun, I’m not talking you down, and I cannot believe that you are the lad I met only a few days ago! You stood up to them, right enough! A bunch of dangerous idiots! With a lawyer!”
“They shot an arrow at my old mum! Oh, they said they didn’t, ’cos they was hoping to frighten us off! They said they had no arrows! So I said, quick as a wink, well, you wouldn’t have any arrows now if you’d shot them at my old mum, would you? So that proves it, I told them, I said, that’s logic, and they didn’t know what to say!”
“Well, I’m at a loss for words myself, Feeney, because it seems to me that I heard you say some more goblins were sent downriver yesterday. How did you find that out?”
Feeney waved a thumb in the direction of the lockup and grinned. “Here’s the key, sir, just you go and talk to our prisoner. You’ll love it, sir, he was beside himself when he knew they were coming for him and he sang like a nightingale, didn’t he just!”
“Generally, we say that they sing like a canary,” said Vimes, turning toward the stubby little building.
“Yes, sir, but this is a rural police station, sir, and I know my birds, sir, and he sang like a nightingale, right enough! A beautiful watery cadence, sir, second only to the trill of the robin in my opinion, possibly occasioned by his being really, really scared, sir. I’ll have to slosh a bucket in there in a minute.”
“Well done again, Feeney! Might I suggest at this time that you go in and see to your old mum? She’ll be worried about you. Old mums do worry, you know.”
Wee Mad Arthur was impressed. Why hadn’t anybody told him about the craw step before? Well, it was only recently that he had learned that he was, by birth, a Nac mac Feegle instead of, as he had been given to understand, the child of peaceful, shoe-making gnomes. Feegles did not wear shoes and neither were they peaceful. Like many people before and after, Wee Mad Arthur had always thought that he was in the wrong life.
When the truth had fortuitously been uncovered, it all seemed to make sense. He could be proud of being a Nac mac Feegle, albeit one who enjoyed the occasional visit to the ballet and could read a menu in Quirmian and, for that matter, read at all.
He cruised above the warm blue skies of Howondaland in great circles and enjoying himself no end. The whole continent! There were people on it, so he understood, but mostly what he was seeing from the air was either desert, mountain or, most of all, green jungle. He allowed the albatross to drift on the thermals as his keen eyes searched for what he suspected might be there. It was, in fact, not a thing, as such, but a concept: rectangular. People who planted things liked rectangular. It was orderly. It made things easy.
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.”
Discworld 39 - Snuff Page 28