Thud!

by Terry Pratchett

  Time for a long shot…

  “Corporal Nobbs, come here!” he said. “Let him through, Captain. I insist!”

  Gud didn’t protest. His spirit was broken. A reluctant Nobby was produced.

  “Yes, Mister Vimes?” he said.

  “Corporal Nobbs, did you obtain that precious thing I asked you to acquire?” said Vimes.

  “Er…what would that be, sir?” said Nobby. Vimes’s heart leapt. Nobby’s face was an open book, albeit the kind that got banned in some countries.

  “Nobby, there are times when I’ll put up with you mucking about. This isn’t one of those,” he said. “Did you find the thing I asked you to look for?”

  Nobby looked into his eyes. “I…Oh? Oh. Oh, yes, sir,” he said. “I…yes…we rushed in, you see, you see, you see, and people were running everywhere and there was, like, smoke…” Nobby’s face glazed and his lips moved soundlessly in an agony of creation, “…an’, an’ I was bravely fightin’ when what did I see but a sparkly thing rollin’ and bein’ kicked about, an’ I thought, I jus’ bet that’s the very same sparkly thing Mister Vimes very specific’ly told me to be lookin’ out for…an’ here it is, all safe…”

  He pulled a small, glittering cube out of his pocket and held it out.

  Vimes was faster than the king. His hand shot forward, closed over the cube, and was locked in a fist in the skin of a second.

  “Well done, Corporal Nobbs, for obeying my orders so concisely,” he said and stifled a grin at Nobby’s impeccably dreadful salute.

  “I believe that is dwarf property, Commander Vimes,” said the king calmly.

  Vimes opened his hand, palm up. The cube, only a couple of inches across, gave off little blue and green glints. The metal looked like bronze that had been corroded by time into a beautiful pattern of greens, blues, and browns. It was a jewel.

  He’s a king, thought Vimes. A king on a throne as wobbly as a rocking horse. And he’s not nice. It’s not a job where the nice last long. He even got a spy into my Watch! I will not put my faith in kings. Right now, who do I trust?

  Me.

  One thing I do know it that no damn demon got inside my head, no matter what they say. I wouldn’t buy that even if they threw in a lifetime supply of cabbage! No one gets into my head but me! This damn…burn is just a…coincidence. It doesn’t mean anything! But you play the hand you’re dealt…“Take it,” he said, opening his hand. On his wrist, the Summoning Dark glowed.

  “I ask you to give it to me, Commander,” said Rhys.

  “Take it,” Vimes repeated. And he thought: Let’s see what you believe, shall we?

  The king reached out, hesitated, and then slowly withdrew his hand.

  “Or, perhaps,” he said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “it might be best to leave it in your celebrated custody, Commander Vimes.”

  “Yes. I want to hear what it has to say,” said Vimes, closing his fist again. “I want to know what was too dangerous to know.”

  “Indeed, so do I,” said the king of the dwarfs. “We will take it to a place that can—”

  “Look around you, sire!” snapped Vimes. “Dwarfs and trolls died here! They weren’t fighting, they were standing together! Look around you, the place looks like a godsdamn game board! Was this their testament? Then we listen to it here! In this place! At this time!”

  “And supposing what it has to say is dreadful?” said the king.

  “Then we listen!”

  “I am the king, Vimes! You have no authority here! This is not your city! You stand here defying me with a handful of men and your wife and child not ten miles away—”

  Rhys stopped, and the echoes bounced back from distant caves, tumbling over themselves and dying into a silence that rang like iron.

  Out of the corner of his ear, Vimes heard Sally say: “Oops…”

  Bashfullsson hurried forward and whispered something in the king’s ear. The king’s expression changed, as only a politician’s face can, into careful amity.

  I’m not going to do a thing, Vimes told himself. I’m just going to stand here.

  “I do look forward to seeing Lady Sibyl again,” said Rhys. “And your son, of course…”

  “Good. They’re staying in a house not ten miles away,” said Vimes. “Sergeant Littlebottom?”

  “Sir?” said Cheery.

  “Please take Lance Constable von Humpeding with you and go down to the town, will you? Tell Lady Sybil I’m fine,” Vimes added, not taking his eyes off the king. “Off you go, right now.”

  As they hurried away, the king smiled, and looked around the cavern. Then he sighed.

  “Well, I cannot afford a row with Ankh-Morpork, not at the moment. Very well, Commander. Do you know how to make it speak?”

  “No. Don’t you?” This is a game, right? Vimes thought. A king wouldn’t take this kind of gobbyness from anyone, especially when you outnumber them ten to one. A row? You’d just have to say we got caught in a storm in Koom Valley, which is such a treacherous place, as everyone agrees. He will be greatly missed and we will certainly hand over his body if it ever turns up…But you’re not going to try that, are you, because you need me. You know something about this cavern, yes? And whatever’s going to happen, you want good ol’ not-sharp-but-by-gods-he’s-straight Sam Vimes to tell the world…

  “No two cubes are alike,” said Rhys. “It is usually a word, but sometimes a breath, a sound, a temperature, a point in the world, the smell of rain. Anything. I understand that there are many cubes that have never spoken.”

  “Really?” said Vimes. “But this thing damn well gabbled. And whoever sent it out of the valley wanted it to be heard, so I doubt it only starts talking when a virgin’s tear falls on it on a warm Tuesday in February. And this one started chatting very smartly to a man who didn’t know a word of Dwarfish, too.”

  “But the speaker would want dwarfs to hear it, surely!” the king protested.

  “It’s a two-thousand-year-old legend! Who knows who wanted what?” said Vimes. “What do you want?”

  This was to Nobby, who had appeared beside him, looking with interest at the cube.

  “How did tha—he get past my guards?” said the king.

  “The Nobbs sidle,” said Vimes, and, as a couple of embarrassed guards dropped heavy hands on Nobby’s frail shoulders, he added: “No. Leave him. Come on, Nobby, you say something to make this thing start speaking.”

  “Er…‘say something or it’ll be the worse for you’?” Nobby suggested.

  “Not a bad try,” Vimes conceded. “A hundred years ago, sire, I doubt if anyone in Ankh-Morpork knew many words of Dwarf or Troll. Perhaps the message was intended for humans? There must have been a settlement down on the plain, with all those birds and fish to eat.”

  “Perhaps some more human words, then, er, Nobby?” said the king.

  “Okay. Open, speak, say something, talk, spill the beans, play—”

  “No, no, Mister Vimes, he’s doing it wrong!” Fred Colon shouted. “It was in the olden days, right? So it’d be old words, like…er…openeth!”

  Vimes laughed as a thought struck. I wonder, he thought. It could be. This is not really about words, it’s about sounds. Noises…

  Bashfullsson was watching the attempt with a puzzled expression.

  “What is the dwarf word for ‘open,’ Mr. Bashfullsson?” said Vimes.

  “In the sense of ‘open a book?’ That would be dhwe, Commander.”

  “Hmm. That won’t do. How about…‘say’?”

  “Why, that would be aargk, or, in the preemptive form, aork!, Commander. You know, I don’t think—”

  “Excuse me!” said Vimes loudly. The babble of voices stopped. He moved the cube close to his mouth.

  “Awk!” he said.

  The blue and green lights ceased their sparkle and, instead, began to form across the metal a pattern of blue and green squares.

  “I thought the artist knew no Dwarfish,” said the king.


  “He didn’t, but he spoke fluent Chicken,” said Vimes. “I’ll explain later…”

  “Captain, fetch the grags,” the king snapped. “The prisoners, too, even the trolls. All shall hear this!”

  The metal seemed to be moving over Vimes’s skin. Some of the green and blue squares rose slightly proud of the rest of the metal.

  The box began to speak. There was a crackle that sounded like Dwarfish, although Vimes couldn’t make out a single word. It was followed by a couple of loud knocking noises.

  “Second Convocation Hubland Dwarfish,” said Bashfullsson. “That would be right for the time. Whoever is speaking has just said: ‘Art thys thyng workyng?’ ”

  The voice spoke again. As the cracked, old syllables unrolled, Bashfullsson went on: “ ‘The first thyng Tak did, he wroten hymself; the second thyng Tak did, he wroten the Laws; the thyrd thyng Tak did, he wroten the World; the fourth thyng Tak did, he wroten ay cave; the fyfth thyng Tak did, he wroten a geode, ay egge of stone; and in the gloamyn of the mouth of the cave, the geode hatched and the Brothers were born; the first Brother walked toward the light, and stood under the open sky—’ ”

  “This is just the story of the Things Tak Wrote,” Cheery whispered to Vimes. Vimes shrugged, and watched as some of the bodyguards hustled the old grags in the circle, Ardent among them.

  “It’s not new or anything?” Vimes said, disappointed.

  “Every dwarf knows it, sir.”

  “‘—He was the first Dwarf,’” Bashfullsson translated. “‘He found the Laws Tak had wrytten, and he was endarkened—’”

  The crackling voice went on, and then Bashfullsson, who had his eyes closed in concentration, opened them in shock. This time, he didn’t bother with olde-world language.

  “…uh…‘Then Tak looked upon the stone and it was trying to come alive, and Tak smiled and wroten: “all thyngs strive,”’” said the dwarf, raising his voice above the growing commotion around him. “ ‘And for the service the stone had given, he fashioned it into the first Troll, and delighted in the life that came unbidden. These are the thyngs that Tak Wroten!’ ” He was shouting now, because of the noise level.

  Vimes felt like an outsider. It seemed that everyone except him was arguing. Axes were being flourished.

  “‘I WHO SPEAK TO YOU NOW AM B’HRIAN BLOOD-AXE, BY RIGHT OF THE SCONE THE TRUE KING OF THE DWARFS!’” Bashfullsson screamed.

  The cave went silent, except for the echoing scream returning from distant darkness.

  “‘We were washed into the caves by the flood. We sought one another, voices in the dark. We are dying. Our bodies are broken by the terrible water with teeth…of stone. We are too weak to climb. Water surrounds all. This testament we will entrust to young Stronginthearm, who is still nimble, in the hope that it will reach the daylight. For the story of this day must not be forgotten. This outcome was not meant! We came to sign a treaty! It was the secret, careful work of many years!’”

  The box stopped speaking. But there were faint groans, and the rush of water somewhere.

  “Sire, I demand that this should not be heard!” shouted Ardent among the grags. “It is nothing but lies upon lies. There is no truth in it! What proof is there that this is the voice of Bloodaxe?”

  Captain Gud is looking a bit uncertain, Vimes thought. The king’s bodyguard? Well, they mostly looked like the stolid kind who stayed loyal and didn’t pay much attention to politics. The miners? Angry and confused because the old grags are yelling. This is going to go bad really fast.

  “City Watch, to me!” he shouted.

  The background noises from the cube died, and another voice started to speak. Detritus looked up quickly.

  “Dat’s Old Troll!” he said.

  Bashfullsson hesitated for a moment. “‘…er…I am Diamond King of Trolls,’” he said, looking desperately at Vimes. “ ‘Indeed, we came to make peace. But the mist came down upon us and when it rose, some trolls and dwarfs cried, “Ambush!” They fell to fighting and would not hear our commands. So troll fought troll, and dwarf fought dwarf, and fools made fools of all of us as we fought to stop a war, until the disgusted sky washed us away.

  “‘And yet we say this. Here, in this cave at the end of the world, peace is made between dwarf and troll, and we will march beyond the hand of Death together. For the enemy is not Troll, nor it is Dwarf, but it is the baleful, the malign, the cowardly, the vessels of hatred, those who do a bad thing and call it good. Those we fought today, but the willful fool is eternal and will say—’”

  “This is just a trick!” Ardent shouted.

  “‘—say this is a trick,’” Bashfullsson continued, “‘and so we implore: come to the caves under this valley, where you will find us sharing the peace that cannot be braken.’”

  The rumbling voice from the box stopped speaking. There was, once again, a rustle of half-heard voices, and then silence.

  The litle squares moved about for a moment like a sliding puzzle, and the sound came back. Now what issued from it was shouts and screams, and the clash of steel…

  Vimes was watching the king’s face. Some of this you knew, right? Not all of it, but you didn’t look surprised that it was Bloodaxe speaking. Rumors? Old stories? Something in the records? You’ll never tell me.

  “Had’ra,” said Bashfullsson, and the cube fell silent. “That means ‘stop,’ Mister Vimes,” the grag added.

  “And so we are under Koom Valley,” sneered Ardent. “And what do we find?”

  “We find you,” said Bashfullsson. “We always find you.”

  “Dead trolls. Dead dwarfs. And nothing more than a voice,” said Ardent. “Ankh-Morpork is here. They are devious. These words could have been spoken yesterday!”

  The king was watching Ardent and Bashfullsson. So was every other dwarf. You don’t have to stand and argue! Vimes wanted to shout. Just chain the bastards up and we can sort it out later!

  But being a dwarf was all about words and laws…

  “These are venerable grags,” said Ardent, indicating the robed figures behind him. “They have studied the Histories! They have studied the Devices! Thousands of years of knowledge stand before you. And you? What do you know?”

  “That you came to destroy the truth,” said Bashfullsson. “You dared not trust it. A voice is just a voice, but these bodies are proof. You came here to destroy them.”

  Ardent snatched the axe from a miner and was flourishing it before any of the bodyguards could react. When realization caught up with them, there was a massed move forward.

  “No!” said Bashfullsson, holding up his hands. “Sire, please! This is an argument between grags!”

  “Why do you carry no axe?” Ardent snarled.

  “I need no axe to be a dwarf,” said Bashfullsson. “Nor do I need to hate trolls. What kind of creature defines itself by hatred?”

  “You strike at the very root of us!” said Ardent. “At the root!”

  “Then strike back,” said Bashfullsson, holding out his empty hands. “And put your sword away, Commander Vimes,” he added, without turning his head. “This is dwarf business. Ardent? I’m still standing. What do you believe in? Ha’ak! Ga strak ja’ada!”

  Ardent jerked forward, axe raised. Bashfullsson moved quickly, there was the thud of something hitting flesh, and then a tableau as motionless as the brooding figures around the cavern. There was Ardent, axe raised overhead. There was Bashfullsson, down on one knee, with his head resting almost companionably against the dwarf’s chest and the edge of one hand pressed hard against Ardent’s throat.

  Ardent’s mouth opened, but all that came out was a croak and a trickle of blood.

  He took a few steps back, and fell over backwards. The axe struck the white, wet, stony waterfall, and smashed through the drip of millennia. Time fell in shards around.

  Bashfullsson rose, looking shocked and massaging his hand.

  “It is like using an axe,” he said, to no one in particular, “but without the axe…”
<
br />   The uproar began again, but a dwarf, dripping with water, pushed through the mob.

  “Sire, there’s a band of trolls coming up the valley! They asked for you! They say they want to parley!”

  Rhys stepped over the gurgling body of Ardent, looking intently at the hole in the waterfall of stone. Another piece fell down as he touched it.

  “Is there something unusual about their leader?” he said in a preoccupied voice, still staring into the new darkness.

  “Yes, sire! He’s all…sparkly!”

  “Ah. Good,” said the king. “He has his parley. Bring him down here.”

  “Could that be a troll who knows some very powerful dwarfs?” said Vimes.

  The Low King met his eyes for a moment. “Yes, I imagine it is,” he said. Then he raised his voice. “Someone fetch me a torch! Commander Vimes, could you just…look at this, please?”

  In the depths of the revealed cave, something shone.

  On this day in 1802, the painter Methodia Rascal dropped the glittering thing in the deepest well he knew. No one would ever hear it down there.The Chicken chased him home.

  It would be a lot simpler, Vimes thought, if this was a story. A sword is pulled out of a stone, or a magic ring is flung into the depths of the sea, and with general rejoicing, the world turns.

  But this was real life. The world didn’t turn, it just went into a spin. It was Koom Valley Day, and there wasn’t a battle going on in Koom Valley. But what was going on here wasn’t peace, either. What was going on…well, what was going on was committees. It was negotiation. Actually, as far as he could tell, it hadn’t even got as far as negotiation yet.

  It hadn’t got past talks about meetings about delegations. On the other hand, no one had died, except maybe of boredom.

  There was a lot of history to be unpicked, and, for those who weren’t actually engaged in that delicate activity, there was Koom Valley to tame. Two cultural heroes were down there in the cavern, and all it needed was one good storm and a few misplaced blockages for a white flood laden with grinding boulders to wipe the whole place away. It hadn’t happened yet, but sooner or later the dynamic geography would get around to it. Koom Valley couldn’t be left to its own devices, not anymore.