Thud!

by Terry Pratchett

  “Hmm,” said Vimes. “If you can say that without smiling, you might make a copper after all. Welcome to the job, lance constable. I hope you have—”

  The door slammed. Captain Carrot took two steps into the room, saw Sally, and hesitated.

  “Lance Constable von Humpeding has just joined us, Captain,” said Vimes.

  “Er…fine…hello, miss,” said Carrot quickly, and turned to Vimes. “Sir, someone’s killed Hamcrusher!”

  Ankh-Morpork’s Finest strolled back down toward the Yard.

  “What I’d do,” said Nobby, “is cut the painting up into little bits, like, oh, a few inches across?”

  “That’s diamonds, Nobby. It’s how you get rid of stolen diamonds.”

  “All right, then, how about this one? You cut the muriel up into bits the size of ordinary paintings, okay? Then you paint a painting on the other side of each one, an’ put ’em in frames, an’ leave ’em around the place. No one will notice extra paintings, right? An’ then you can go an’ pinch ’em when the fuss has died down.”

  “And how do you get them out, Nobby?”

  “Well, first you get some glue, and a really long stick, and—”

  Fred Colon shook his head. “Can’t see it happening, Nobby.”

  “All right, then, you get some paint that’s the same color as the walls, and you glue the painting to the wall somewhere it’ll fit, and you paint over it with your wall paint so it looks just like the wall.”

  “Got a convenient bit of wall in mind, then?”

  “How about inside the frame that’s there already, Sarge?”

  “Bloody hell, Nobby, that’s clever,” said Fred, stopping dead.

  “Thank you, Sarge. That means a lot, coming from you.”

  “But you’ve still got to get it out, Nobby.”

  “Remember all those dust sheets, Sarge? I bet in a few weeks’ time a couple of blokes in overalls will be able to walk out of the place with a big white roll under their arms and no one’d think twice about it, ’cos they’d, like, be thinkin’ the muriel had been pinched weeks before.”

  There were a few moments of silence before Sergeant Colon said, in a hushed voice: “That’s a very dangerous mind you got there, Nobby. Very dangerous indeed. How’d you get the new paint off, though?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” said Nobby. “And I know where to get some painters’ aprons, too.”

  “Nobby!” said Fred, shocked.

  “All right, Sarge. You can’t blame a man for dreaming, though.”

  “This could be a feather in our caps, Nobby. And we could do with one now.”

  “Your water playing up again, Sarge?”

  “You may laugh, Nobby, but you’ve only got to look around,” said Fred gloomily. “It’s just gang fights now, but it’s going to get worse, you mark my words. All this scrapping over something that happened thousands of years ago! I don’t know why they don’t get back to where they came from if they want to do that!”

  “Most of ’em come from here now,” observed Nobby.

  Fred grunted his disdain for a mere fact of geography.

  “War, Nobby. Huh! What is it good for?” he said.

  “Dunno, Sarge. Freeing slaves, maybe?”

  “Absol—well, okay.”

  “Defending yourself against a totalitarian aggressor?”

  “All right, I’ll grant you that, but—”

  “Saving civilization from a horde of—”

  “It doesn’t do any good in the long run is what I’m saying, Nobby, if you’d listen for five seconds together,” said Fred Colon sharply.

  “Yeah, but in the long run, what does, Sarge?”

  “Say that again, paying attention to every word, will you?” said Vimes.

  “He’s dead, sir. Hamcrusher is dead. The dwarfs are sure of it.”

  Vimes stared at his captain. Then he glanced at Sally and said: “I gave you an order, Lance Constable von Humpeding. Go and get joined up!”

  When the girl had hurried out, he said: “I hope you’re sure about it as well, Captain…”

  “It’s spreading through the dwarfs like, like—” Carrot began.

  “Alcohol?” Vimes suggested.

  “Very fast, anyway,” Carrot conceded. “Last night, they say. A troll got into his place in Treacle Street and beat him to death. I heard some of the lads talking about it.”

  “Carrot, wouldn’t we know if something like that had happened?” said Vimes, but in theater of his mind, Angua and Fred Colon uttered their cassandraic warnings again. The dwarfs knew something. The dwarfs were worried.

  “Don’t we, sir?” said Carrot. “I mean, I’ve just told you.”

  “Why aren’t his people shouting it in the streets? Political assassination and all that sort of thing? Shouldn’t they be screaming bloody murder? Who told you this?”

  “Constable Ironbender and Corporal Ringfounder, sir. They’re steady lads. Ringfounder’s up for sergeant soon. Er…there was something else, sir. I did ask them why we hadn’t heard officially, and Ironbender said…you won’t like this, sir…he said the Watch wasn’t to be told.” Carrot watched Vimes carefully. It was hard to see the change of expression on the commander’s face, but certain small muscles set firmly.

  “On whose orders?” said Vimes.

  “Someone called Ardent, apparently. He’s Hamcrusher’s…interpreter, I suppose you could say. He says it’s dwarf business.”

  “But this is Ankh-Morpork, Captain. And murder is Murder.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And we are the City Watch,” Vimes went on. “It says so on the door.”

  “Actually, it mostly says COPERS ARE BARSTUDS on the door at the moment, but I’ve got someone scrubbing it off,” said Carrot. “And I—”

  “That means if anyone gets murdered, we’re responsible,” said Vimes.

  “I know what you mean, sir,” said Carrot carefully.

  “Does Vetinari know?”

  “I can’t imagine that he doesn’t.”

  “Me neither.” Vimes thought for a moment. “What about the Times? There’s plenty of dwarfs working there.”

  “I’d be surprised if they passed it on to humans, sir. I only got to hear about it because I’m a dwarf, and Ironbender really wants to make sergeant, and, frankly, I overheard them, but I doubt if the printing dwarfs would mention it to the editor.”

  “Are you telling me, Captain, that dwarfs in the Watch would keep a murder secret?”

  Carrot looked shocked. “Oh no, sir!”

  “Good!”

  “They’d just keep it secret from humans. Sorry, sir.”

  The important thing is not to shout at this point, Vimes told himself. Do not…what do they call it…go postal? Treat this as a learning exercise. Find out why the world is not as you thought it was. Assemble the facts, digest the information, consider the implications. Then go postal. But with precision.

  “Dwarfs have always been law-abiding citizens, Captain,” he said. “They even pay their taxes. Suddenly they think it’s okay not to report a possible murder?”

  Carrot could see the steely glint in Vimes’s eyes.

  “Well, the fact is—” he began.

  “Yes?”

  “You see, Hamcrusher was a deep-down dwarf, sir. I mean really deep-down. Hates coming to the surface. They say he lived at sub-sub-basement level…”

  “I know all that. So?”

  “So how far down does our jurisdiction go, sir?” said Carrot.

  “What? As far down as we like!”

  “Er…Does it say that anywhere, sir? Most of the dwarfs here are from Copperhead and Llamedos and Uberwald,” said Carrot. “Those places have surface laws and underground laws. I know it’s not the same here but…well, it’s how they see the world. And, of course, Hamcrusher’s dwarfs are all deep-downers, and you know how ordinary dwarfs think about them.”

  They come bloody close to worshiping them, Vimes thought, pinching the bridge of his nose and shu
tting his eyes. It just gets worse and worse.

  “All right,” he said. “But this is Ankh-Morpork, and we have our own laws. There can be no harm in us just checking up on the health of Brother Hamcrusher, can there? We can knock on the door, can’t we? Say we’ve got good reason to ask? I know it’s only a rumor, but if enough people believe a rumor like that, we will not be able to keep a lid on it.”

  “Good idea, sir.”

  “Go and tell Angua I want her along. And…oh, Haddock. And Ringfounder, maybe. You come, too, of course.”

  “Er…not a good idea, sir. I happen to know most deep-downers are nervous about me. They believe I’m too human to be a dwarf.”

  “Really?”

  Six feet three inches in his stockinged feet, thought Vimes. Adopted and raised by dwarfs in a little dwarf mine in the mountains. His dwarfish name is Kzad-bhat, which means Head Banger. He coughed. “Why on earth should they think that, I wonder?” he said.

  “All right, I know I’m…technically human, sir, but size has traditionally never been a dwarfish definition of a dwarf. Hamcrusher’s group aren’t happy about me, though.”

  “Sorry to hear it. I’ll take Cheery, then.”

  “Are you mad, sir? You know what they think about female dwarfs who actually admit it!”

  “All right, then, I’ll take Sergeant Detritus. They’ll believe in him all right, won’t they?”

  “Could be said to be a bit provocative, sir—” Carrot began doubtfully.

  “Detritus is an Ankh-Morpork copper, Captain, just like you and me,” said Vimes. “I suppose I’m acceptable, am I?”

  “Yes, sir, of course. I think you worry them, though.”

  “I do? Oh.” Vimes hesitated. “Well, that’s good. And Detritus is an officer of the law. We’ve still got some law here. And as far as I’m concerned, it goes deep. All the way down.”

  Bloody stupid thing to say, Vimes thought five minutes later, as he walked through the streets at the head of the little squad. He cursed himself for saying it.

  Coppers stayed alive by trickery. That’s how it worked. You had your Watch Houses with the big blue lights outside, and you made certain there were always burly watchmen visible in the big public places, and you swanked around like you owned the place. But you didn’t own it. It was all smoke and mirrors. You magicked a little policeman into everyone’s head. You relied on people giving in, knowing the rules. But in truth, a hundred well-armed people could wipe out the Watch, if they knew what they were doing. Once some madman finds out that a copper taken unawares dies just like anyone else, the spell is broken.

  Hamcrusher’s dwarfs don’t believe in the City Watch? That could turn out to be a problem. Maybe bringing a troll along was provocative, but Detritus was a citizen, gods damn it, just like everyone else. If you—

  “Duddle-dum-duddle-dum-duddle-dum!”

  Ah, yes. No matter how bad things were, there was always room for them to get just that little bit worse…

  Vimes pulled the smart brown box out of his pocket and flipped it open. The pointy-eared face of a small green imp stared up at him with that wistful, hopeless smile, which, in its various incarnations, he’d come to know and dread.

  “Good morning, Insert Name Here! I am the Dis-Organizer Mark Five, the GooseberrytM. How may I—” it began, speaking fast in order to get as much said as possible before the inevitable interruption.

  “I swear I switched you off,” said Vimes.

  “You threatened me with a hammer,” said the imp accusingly, and rattled the tiny bars. “He threatens state-of-the-Craft technomancy with a hammer, everybody!” it shouted. “He doesn’t even fill in the registration card! That’s why I have to call him Insert Nam—”

  “I thought you’d got rid of that thing, sir,” said Angua, as Vimes snapped the lid shut. “I thought it had had an…accident.”

  “Hah!” said a muffled voice from the box.

  “Sybil always gets me a new one,” said Vimes, making a face. “A better one. But I know this one was turned off.”

  The box’s lid thrust upwards.

  “I wake up for alarms!” the imp shrieked. “Ten colon forty-five colon Sit for Damn Portrait!”

  Vimes groaned. The portrait with Sir Joshua. He’d get into trouble for this. He’d already missed two sittings. But this dwarf thing was…important.

  “I won’t be able to make it,” he mumbled.

  “Then would you like to engage the handy-to-use BluenoseTM Integrated Messenger Service?”

  “What does that do?” said Vimes, with deep suspicion. The succession of Dis-Organizers he had owned had proved quite successful at very nearly sorting out all the problems that stemmed from owning them in the first place.

  “Er…basically, it means me running with a message to the nearest clacks tower really fast,” said the imp hopefully.

  “And do you come back?” said Vimes, hope also rising.

  “Absolutely!”

  “Thank you, no,” said Vimes.

  “How about a game of Splong!TM, specially devised for the Mark Five?” pleaded the imp. “I have the bats right here. No? Perhaps you would prefer the ever-popular ‘Guess My Weight in Pigs’? Or I could whistle one of your favorite tunes? My iHUMTM function enables me to remember up to one thousand five hundred of your all-time—”

  “You could try learning to use it, sir,” said Angua, as Vimes once again shut the lid on the protesting voice.

  “Did use one,” said Vimes.

  “Yup. As a doorstop,” rumbled Detritus, behind him.

  “I’m just not at home with technomancy, all right?” said Vimes. “End of discussion. Haddock, nip along to Moon Pond Lane, will you. Present my apologies to Lady Sybil, who will be at Sir Joshua’s studio there. Tell her I’m very sorry, but this has come up and it needs careful handling.”

  Well, it does, he thought, as they headed onwards. It probably needs more careful handling than I’m going to give it. Well, to hell with that. It comes to something if you have to tread carefully even to find out if there’s been a murder.

  Treacle Street was just the kind of area the dwarfs colonized—on the edge of the less pleasant parts of town, but not all the way there. You tended to notice the dwarf outposts. A patchwork of windows testified to a two-story house having been turned into a three-story house while remaining exactly the same height; there was an excess of small ponies pulling small carts; and, of course, all the really short people wearing beards and helmets was a definite clue.

  Dwarfs dug down, too. It was a dwarf thing. Up here, far from the river, they could probably get to sub-basement level without being up to their necks in water.

  There were a lot of them out and about this morning. They weren’t particularly angry, insofar as Vimes could tell when the available area of expression between eyebrows and mustache was a few square inches, but it wasn’t usual to see dwarfs just standing around. They tended to be somewhere, working hard, usually for one another. No, they weren’t angry, but they were worried. You didn’t need to see faces to sense that. Dwarfs as a whole weren’t happy about newspapers, regarding such news as a lover of fine grapes would regard raisins. They got their news from other dwarfs, to ensure that it was new and fresh and full of personality, and no doubt it grew all kinds of extras in the telling. This crowd was waiting uncertainly for news that it was going to become a riot.

  For now, it parted to let them through. The presence of Detritus caused a wake of muttering, which the troll cleverly decided not to hear.

  “Feel that?” said Angua, as they walked up the street. “Through your feet?”

  “I don’t have your senses, Sergeant,” said Vimes.

  “It’s a constant thud, thud, underground,” said Angua. “I can feel the street shaking. I think it’s a pump.”

  “Pumping out more cellars, maybe?” said Vimes. Sounded like a big undertaking. How far down could they go? he wondered. Ankh-Morpork is mostly built on Ankh-Morpork, after all. There’s been a c
ity here since forever.

  It wasn’t just a random crowd, when you looked closely. It was also a queue, along one side of the street, moving very slowly toward a side door. They were waiting to see the grags. Please come and say the death words over my father…please advise me on the sale of my shop…please guide me in my business…I am a long way from the bones of my grandfathers, please help me stay a dwarf…

  This was not the time to be D’rkza. Strictly speaking, most Ankh-Morpork dwarfs were D’rkza; it meant something like “not really a dwarf.” They didn’t live deep underground and only come out at night, they didn’t mine metal, they let their daughters show at least a few indications of femininity, they tended to be a little slipshod when it came to some of the ceremonies. But the whiff of Koom Valley was in the air, and this was no time to be mostly a dwarf. So you paid attention to the grags. They kept you on the straight seam.

  And, until now, that had been fine by Vimes. Up until now, though, the grags in the city has stopped short of advocating murder.

  He liked dwarfs. They made reliable officers, and dwarfs tended to be naturally law-abiding, at least in the absence of alcohol. But they were all watching him. He could feel the pressure of their gaze.

  Standing around watching people was, of course, Ankh-Morpork’s leading industry. The place was a net exporter of penetrating stares. But these were the wrong kind. The street felt not exactly hostile but alien. And yet it was an Ankh-Morpork street. How could he be a stranger here?

  Maybe I shouldn’t have brought a troll, he thought. But where does that lead? Pick your own copper from a chart?

  Two dwarfs were on guard outside Hamcrusher’s house; they were more heavily armed than the average dwarf, insofar as that was possible, but it was probably the black-leather sashes they wore that were doing the trick of keeping the mood subdued. These declared to all who recognized them that they were working for deep-down dwarfs and, as such, partook a little of the magic, mana, awe, or fear that they engendered in the average, backsliding dwarf.

  They started to give Vimes the look of all guards everywhere, which, in summary, is this: The default position is that you’re dead; only my patience stands in the way. But Vimes was ready for it. Any five hells you cared to name knew that he’d used it himself often enough. He countered with the aloof expression of someone who didn’t notice guards.