them.”
“Yes, sir. It’s a hundred-pound draw. I doubt if he could even pull the string back.”
“I’d hate to watch him try. Good grief…the only thing he could be sure of hitting with a bow like that would be his foot. By the way, do you think anyone saw you up there?”
“I doubt it, sir. I was right in among the chimneys and the air vents.”
Vimes sighed. “Captain, I expect if you’d done it in a cellar at midnight his lordship would have said ‘Wasn’t it rather dark down there?’ next morning.”
He took out the by now rather creased picture. There was Carrot—or at least Carrot’s arm and ear—as he ran toward the procession. And there, among the people in the procession turning to lookat him, was the face of the Prince. There was no sign of 71-hour Ahmed. He’d been at the soirée, hadn’t he? But then there’d been all that milling around at the door, people changing places, treading on one another’s robes, nipping back to the privy, walking into one another…He could have gone anywhere .
“And the Prince fell as you got to him? With the arrow in his back? He was still facing you?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure of that. Everyone else was milling around, of course…”
“So he was shot in the back by a man in front of him who could not possibly have used the bow that he didn’t shoot him with from the wrong direction…”
There was a tapping at the window.
“That’ll be Downspout,” said Vimes, without looking around. “I sent him on an errand…”
Downspout never quite fitted in. It wasn’t that he didn’t get on with people, because he hardly ever met people, except those whose activities took them above, say, second-floor level. Constable Downspout’s beat was the rooftops. Very slowly. He’d come down for the Watch’s Hogswatch party and had poured gravy in his ears to show willing, but gargoyles got very nervy indoors at ground level and he had soon exited via the chimney and his paper squeaker had echoed out forlornly amongst the snowy rooftops all night.
But gargoyles were good at watching, and good at remembering, and very, very good at being patient.
Vimes opened the window. Moving jerkily, Downspout unfolded himself into the room and then quickly scrambled up on to a corner of Vimes’s desk, for the comfort that it brought.
Angua and Carrot stared at the arrow the gargoyle held in his hand.
“Ah, well done,” said Vimes, in the same even voice. “Where did you find it, Downspout?”
Downspout spluttered a series of guttural syllables only pronounceable by someone with a mouth shaped like a pipe.
“In the wall on the second floor of the dress shop in the Plaza of Broken Moons,” Carrot translated.
“eshk,” said Downspout.
“That’s barely halfway to Sator Square, sir.”
“Yes,” said Vimes. “A small weak man trying to pull a heavy bow, the arrow wobbling all over the place…Thank you very much, Downspout. There will be an extra pigeon for you this week.”
“nkorr,” said Downspout, and clambered back out of the window.
“Excuse me, sir?” said Angua. She took the arrow from Vimes and, closing her eyes, sniffed at it gingerly.
“Oh, yes…Ossie,” she said. “All over it…”
“Thank you, corporal. It’s as well to be sure.”
Carrot took the arrow from the werewolf and looked at it critically. “Huh. Peacock feathers and a plated point. It’s the sort of thing an amateur buys because he thinks it’ll magically improve his shot. Showy.”
“Right,” said Vimes. “You, Carrot, and you, Angua…you’re on the case.”
“Sir, I don’t understand,” said Carrot. “I am perplexed. I thought you said Fred and Nobby were investigating this?”
“Yes,” said Vimes.
“But—”
“Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs are investigating why the late Ossie tried to kill the Prince. And do you know what? They’re going to find lots of clues. I just know it. I can feel it in my water.”
“But we know he couldn’t
“Yes, sir. It’s a hundred-pound draw. I doubt if he could even pull the string back.”
“I’d hate to watch him try. Good grief…the only thing he could be sure of hitting with a bow like that would be his foot. By the way, do you think anyone saw you up there?”
“I doubt it, sir. I was right in among the chimneys and the air vents.”
Vimes sighed. “Captain, I expect if you’d done it in a cellar at midnight his lordship would have said ‘Wasn’t it rather dark down there?’ next morning.”
He took out the by now rather creased picture. There was Carrot—or at least Carrot’s arm and ear—as he ran toward the procession. And there, among the people in the procession turning to lookat him, was the face of the Prince. There was no sign of 71-hour Ahmed. He’d been at the soirée, hadn’t he? But then there’d been all that milling around at the door, people changing places, treading on one another’s robes, nipping back to the privy, walking into one another…He could have gone anywhere .
“And the Prince fell as you got to him? With the arrow in his back? He was still facing you?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure of that. Everyone else was milling around, of course…”
“So he was shot in the back by a man in front of him who could not possibly have used the bow that he didn’t shoot him with from the wrong direction…”
There was a tapping at the window.
“That’ll be Downspout,” said Vimes, without looking around. “I sent him on an errand…”
Downspout never quite fitted in. It wasn’t that he didn’t get on with people, because he hardly ever met people, except those whose activities took them above, say, second-floor level. Constable Downspout’s beat was the rooftops. Very slowly. He’d come down for the Watch’s Hogswatch party and had poured gravy in his ears to show willing, but gargoyles got very nervy indoors at ground level and he had soon exited via the chimney and his paper squeaker had echoed out forlornly amongst the snowy rooftops all night.
But gargoyles were good at watching, and good at remembering, and very, very good at being patient.
Vimes opened the window. Moving jerkily, Downspout unfolded himself into the room and then quickly scrambled up on to a corner of Vimes’s desk, for the comfort that it brought.
Angua and Carrot stared at the arrow the gargoyle held in his hand.
“Ah, well done,” said Vimes, in the same even voice. “Where did you find it, Downspout?”
Downspout spluttered a series of guttural syllables only pronounceable by someone with a mouth shaped like a pipe.
“In the wall on the second floor of the dress shop in the Plaza of Broken Moons,” Carrot translated.
“eshk,” said Downspout.
“That’s barely halfway to Sator Square, sir.”
“Yes,” said Vimes. “A small weak man trying to pull a heavy bow, the arrow wobbling all over the place…Thank you very much, Downspout. There will be an extra pigeon for you this week.”
“nkorr,” said Downspout, and clambered back out of the window.
“Excuse me, sir?” said Angua. She took the arrow from Vimes and, closing her eyes, sniffed at it gingerly.
“Oh, yes…Ossie,” she said. “All over it…”
“Thank you, corporal. It’s as well to be sure.”
Carrot took the arrow from the werewolf and looked at it critically. “Huh. Peacock feathers and a plated point. It’s the sort of thing an amateur buys because he thinks it’ll magically improve his shot. Showy.”
“Right,” said Vimes. “You, Carrot, and you, Angua…you’re on the case.”
“Sir, I don’t understand,” said Carrot. “I am perplexed. I thought you said Fred and Nobby were investigating this?”
“Yes,” said Vimes.
“But—”
“Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs are investigating why the late Ossie tried to kill the Prince. And do you know what? They’re going to find lots of clues. I just know it. I can feel it in my water.”
“But we know he couldn’t
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