Thud! - A Novel Of Discworld Part 20

"I think we should get out of here right now," said Sally, backing away. "Do you know what that sign means?"

"I know it's mine sign, that's all. Do you you know what it means?" know what it means?"

"No, but I know it's one of the really really bad ones. It's not good seeing it here. What are you doing with that body?" Sally backed away further. bad ones. It's not good seeing it here. What are you doing with that body?" Sally backed away further.

"Trying to find out who he was," said Angua, searching the dwarf's clothing. "It's the sort of thing we do in the Watch. We don't stand around getting worried about drawings on the wall. What's the problem?"

"Right now?" said the vampire. "He's...oozing a bit..."

"If I can stand it, so can you. You see a lot of blood in this job. Don't attempt to drink it, that's my advice," said Angua, still rummaging. "Ah...he's got a rune necklace. And..." she pulled a hand out of the dead dwarf's jerkin, "can't make this out very well, but I can smell ink, so it may be a letter. Okay. Let's get out of here." She stood up. "Did you hear me?"

"The sign was written by someone dying," said Sally, still keeping her distance.

"Well?"

"It's probably a curse."

"So? We didn't kill him," said Angua, getting to her feet with some difficulty.

They looked down at the liquid mud now rising to their knees.

"Do you think it cares?" said Sally matter-of-factly.

"No, but I think there may be another way out in that last tunnel we pa.s.sed," said Angua, looking back along the tunnel.

She pointed. Scuttling along with blind determination, a line of vurms marched along the dripping roof almost as fast as the mud flowed down below. They were heading into the side tunnel in a glowing stream.

Sally shrugged. "It's worth a try, yes?"

They left, and the sound of their splashing soon died away.

Slowly the mud rose, rustling in the gloom. The trail of vurms gradually disappeared overhead. The vurms that made the sign remained though, because such a feast as this was worth dying for.

Their glow winked out, one insect at a time.

The darkness beneath the world caressed the sign, which flamed red and died.

Darkness remained.

On this day in 1802, the painter Methodia Rascal tried putting the thing under a heap of old sacks, in case it woke up the Chicken, and finished the last troll, using his smallest brush to paint the eyeb.a.l.l.s. the thing under a heap of old sacks, in case it woke up the Chicken, and finished the last troll, using his smallest brush to paint the eyeb.a.l.l.s.

It was five a.m. Rain rustled out the sky, not hard, but with a Rain rustled out the sky, not hard, but with a gentle persistence. gentle persistence.

In Sator Square, and in the Plaza of Broken Moons, it hissed on the white ash of the bonfires, occasionally exposing the orange glow, which would briefly sizzle and spit.

A family of gnolls were sniffing around, each one dragging his or her little cart. A few officers were keeping an eye on them. Gnolls weren't choosy about what they collected, provided it didn't actually struggle, and even then there were rumors.

But they were tolerated. Nothing cleaned up the place like a gnoll.

From here, they looked like little trolls, each with a huge compost heap on its back. That represented everything it owned, and mostly what it owned was rotten.

Sam Vimes winced at the pain in his side. Just his luck. Two coppers injured in the entire d.a.m.n affair, and he had to be one of them? Igor had done his best, but broken ribs were broken ribs, and it'd be a week or two before the suspicious green ointment made much difference. His hand twinged in sympathy with them, too.

Still, he enjoyed a bit of a warm glow about the whole thing. They had had used good, old-fashioned policing, and since good, old-fashioned policemen are invariably outnumbered, he'd employed the good, old-fashioned police methods of cunning, deceit, and any d.a.m.n weapon you could lay your hands on. used good, old-fashioned policing, and since good, old-fashioned policemen are invariably outnumbered, he'd employed the good, old-fashioned police methods of cunning, deceit, and any d.a.m.n weapon you could lay your hands on.

It had hardly been a fight at all. The dwarfs had mostly been sitting and singing gloomy songs, because they fell over when they tried to stand up, or had tried to stand up and were now lying down and snoring. The trolls were, on the other hand, mostly upright, but went over when you pushed them. One or two, a little clearer in the head than the others, had put up a ponderous and laughable fight but had fallen to that most old-fashioned of police methods: the well-placed boot. Well, most of them had. Vimes shifted to ease the aching in his side; he should have seen that one coming.

But all's well that ends well, eh? No deaths at all, and just to put a little cherry on the morning cake, he had in his hand an early-morning edition of the Times Times, in which a leading article deplored the gangs stalking the city and wondered if the Watch was "up to the job" of cleaning up the streets.

Well, yes, I think we are, you pompous twerp. Vimes struck a match on a plinth and lit a cigar in recognition of a petty but darkly satisfying triumph. G.o.ds knew they needed one. The Watch had taken a pounding over the whole d.a.m.n Koom Valley thing, and it was good to hand the lads something to be proud of for a change. All in all, it was definitely a Result- Vimes struck a match on a plinth and lit a cigar in recognition of a petty but darkly satisfying triumph. G.o.ds knew they needed one. The Watch had taken a pounding over the whole d.a.m.n Koom Valley thing, and it was good to hand the lads something to be proud of for a change. All in all, it was definitely a Result- He stared at the plinth. He didn't remember what statue had once been there. It celebrated generations of graffiti artists now.

A piece of troll graffiti adorned it now, obliterating everything done by the artists who used mere paint. He read: MR. SHINE SHINE!.

HIM DIAMOND!.

Mine sign, city scrawl, he thought. Thing go bad, and people are moved to write on the walls..."Commander!"

He turned. Captain Carrot, armor gleaming, was hurrying toward him, his face, as usual, radiating an expression of a hundred percent pure Keen.

"I thought I told everyone not on prisoner duty to get some sleep, Captain?" said Vimes.

"Just clearing up a few things, sir," said Carrot. "Lord Vetinari sent a message down to the Yard. He wants a report. I thought I'd better tell you, sir."

"I was just thinking, Captain," said Vimes expansively. "Should we put up a little plaque? Something simple? It could say something like BATTLE OF KOOM VALLEY NOT FOUGHT HERE BATTLE OF KOOM VALLEY NOT FOUGHT HERE, GRUNE THE GRUNE THE 5 5TH, YEAR OF THE PRAWN YEAR OF THE PRAWN. Could we get them to do a b.l.o.o.d.y stamp? What do you think?"

"I think you need to get some sleep yourself, Commander," said Carrot. "And technically, it isn't Koom Valley until Sat.u.r.day."

"Of course, monuments to battles that didn't take place might be stretching things a bit, but a stamp-"

"Lady Sybil really worries about you, sir." Carrot broadcast concern.

The fizz in Vimes's head subsided. As if awakened by the reference to Sybil, the debtors of his body queued up to wave their overdue IOUs: feet-dead tired and in need of a bath; stomach-gurgling; ribs-on fire; back-aching; brain-drunk on its own poisons. Bath, sleep, eat...good ideas. But still must do things...

"How's our Mr. Pessimal?" he said.

"Igor's fixed him up, sir. He's a bit amazed at all the fuss. Now, I know I can't order you to go and see his lordship-"

"No, you can't, because I am a commander commander, Captain," said Vimes, still fuzzily intoxicated on exhaustion.

"-but he he can and he can and he has has, sir. And your coach will be waiting for you outside the palace when you come out. That's Lady Sybil's Lady Sybil's orders, sir," said Carrot, appealing to higher authority. orders, sir," said Carrot, appealing to higher authority.

Vimes looked up at the ugly bulk of the palace. Suddenly, clean sheets seemed such a sweet idea.

"Can't face him like this," he murmured.

"I had a word with Secretary Drumknott, sir. Hot water, a razor, and a big cup of coffee will be waiting in the palace."

"You thought of everything, Carrot..."

"I hope so, sir. Now off you-"

"But I thought of something something, eh?" said Vimes, swaying cheerfully. "Better dead drunk than just dead, eh?"

"It was a cla.s.sic ruse, sir," said Carrot rea.s.suringly. "One for the history books. Now, off you go, sir. I'm going to have a look for Angua. She hasn't slept in her bed."

"But at this time of the month-"

"I know, sir. She hasn't slept in her basket, either."

In a dank cellar that once was an attic and was now half-full of that once was an attic and was now half-full of mud, the vurms poured out of a small hole where wooden planks had long since worn away. mud, the vurms poured out of a small hole where wooden planks had long since worn away.

A fist punched up. Soggy timber split and crumbled.

Angua pulled herself up into this new darkness, then reached down to help Sally, who said: "Well, here's another fine mess."

"Let's hope so," said Angua. "I think we need to go up at least one more level. There's an archway here. Come on."

There had been too many dead ends, forgotten stinking rooms and false hopes, and altogether too much slime.

After a while, the smell became almost tangible, and then it managed to become just another part of the darkness. The women wandered and scrambled from one dripping, fetid room to another, testing the muddy walls for hidden doors, searching for even a pinp.r.i.c.k of light in the ceilings hanging with interesting but horrible growths.

Now they heard music. Five minutes wading and slithering brought them to a blocked-in doorway, but since it had been filled by the more modern Ankh-Morpork mortar of sand, horse dung, and vegetable peelings, several bricks had already fallen out. Sally removed most of the rest with one punch.

"Sorry about that," she said. "It's a vampire thing."

The cellar behind the demolished wall had some barrels in it, and looked as though it was regularly used. There was a proper door, too. Rather dull, repet.i.tive music filtered down from between the boards. There was a trapdoor in them.

"O-kay," said Angua. "There's people up there, I can smell them-"

"I count fifty-seven hearts beating," said Sally. Angua gave her a Look.

"You know, that's one particular talent I'd keep to myself, if I was you," she said.

"Sorry, Sergeant."

"It's not the sort of thing people want to hear," Angua went on. "I mean, I personally am quite capable of crushing a man's skull in my jaws, but I don't go around telling everyone."

"I shall make a note of it, Sergeant," said Sally, with a meekness that was quite possibly feigned.

"Good. Now...what do we look like? Swamp monsters?"

"Yes, Sergeant. Your hair looks dreadful. Just like a great lump of green slime."

"Green?"

"I'm afraid so."

"And my emergency dress is back down there somewhere," said Angua. "It's past dawn, too. Can you, er, go bats now?"

"In daylight? One hundred and fifty disoriented bits of me? No! But you could get out as a wolf, couldn't you?"

"I'd kind of prefer not to be a slime monster coming through the floor, if it's all the same to you," said Angua.

"Yes, I can see that. It does not pay to advertise." Sally flicked away a lump of nameless ooze. "Ugh, this stuff is foul foul."

"So, the best we can hope for is that when we make a run for it, no one will recognize us," said Angua, pulling a lump of wobbly green stuff from her hair. "At least we-oh, no..."

"What's wrong?" said Sally.

"n.o.bby n.o.bbs! He's up there! I can smell smell him!" She pointed urgently at the boards overhead. him!" She pointed urgently at the boards overhead.

"You mean Corporal n.o.bbs? The little...man with the spots?" said Sally.

"We're not under a Watch house, are we?" said Angua, looking around in panic.

"I don't think so. Someone's dancing, by the sound of it. But look, how can you smell one human in the middle of all...this?"

"It never leaves you, believe me." The smell of old cabbage, acne ointment, and nonmalignant skin disease became trans.m.u.ted, in Corporal n.o.bbs, into a strange odor that lay across the nose like a saw blade on a harp. It wasn't bad, bad, as such, but it was like its host: strange, ubiquitous, and h.e.l.lishly difficult to forget. as such, but it was like its host: strange, ubiquitous, and h.e.l.lishly difficult to forget.

"Well, he's a fellow officer, isn't he? Won't he help us?" said Sally.

"We are naked naked, Lance Constable!"

"Only technically. This mud really sticks."

"I mean underneath underneath the mud!" said Angua. the mud!" said Angua.

"Yes, but if we had clothes on we're be naked underneath them, them, too!" Sally pointed out. too!" Sally pointed out.

"This is not the time for logic! This is the time for not seeing n.o.bby grinning at me!"

"But he's seen you when you're wolf-shaped, hasn't he?" said Sally.

"So?" snapped Angua.

"Well, technically you're naked then, aren't you?"