they have done if the dwarf had shaken his head?
He landed in his chair so hard that it rolled back a foot.
He’d met deep-down dwarfs before. They’d been weird, but he’d been able to deal with them. The Low King was a deep-downer, and Vimes had got on with him well enough, once you accepted that the fairy-tale dwarf in the Hogfather beard was an astute politician. He was a dwarf with a vision. He dealt with the world. Ha, “he’d seen the light.” But those in the new mine…
He hadn’t seen them, even though they were sitting in a room made brilliant with the light of hundreds of candles. That seemed odd, since the grags themselves were completely shrouded in their pointy black leather. But maybe it was some mystic ceremony, and who’d look for sense there? Maybe you got a more holy dark in the midst of light? The brighter the light the blacker the shadow?
Ardent had spoken in a language that sounded like dwarfish, and out of the dark hoods had come answers and questions, all barked out in the same harsh, brief syllables.
At one point, Vimes was asked to repeat the meat of his statement made up above, which had seemed too far away now. He’d done so, and there’d been a long-drawn-out discussion in what he’d come to think of as Deep Dwarf. And all the time he felt that eyes he could not see were watching him very hard indeed. It didn’t help that his head had been aching like mad and there were shooting pains going up and down his arm.
And that was it. Had they understood him? He didn’t know. Ardent had said that they agreed with considerable reluctance. Had they? He hadn’t a clue, not a clue, to what had really been said. Would Carrot be given access to a crime scene that had not been interfered with in any way? Vimes grunted. Huh. What do you think, boys and girls?
He pinched the bridge of his nose, and then stared at his right hand. Igor had gone on at length about “tiny invithible biting creatureth” and used some vicious ointment that probably killed anything of any size or visibility. It had stung like seven hells for five minutes, but the sting had gone and seemed to have taken the pain with it. Anyway…what mattered was that the Watch was officially on this case.
His eye was caught by the top sheet of paperwork in his in-tray. * He groaned as he picked it up.
T o: H is G race S ir Samuel V imes, C ommander of the W atch
F rom: M r. A . E . P essimal, I nspector of the W atch
Y our G race:
I hope you will not mind giving me as soon as possible the answers to the following questions:
1) W hat is Corporal “Nobby” Nobbs for? Why do you employ a known petty thief?
2) I timed two officers in Broad Way earlier, and in the space of one hour they made no arrests. Why was this an economic use of their time?
3) T he level of violence used by troll officers against troll prisoners appears excessive. Could you please comment upon this?
…and so on. Vimes read on with his mouth open. All right, the man wasn’t a copper—definitely not—but surely he had a fully functional brain? Oh, good grief, he’d even spotted the monthly discrepancy in the petty-cash box! Would A. E. Pessimal understand if Vimes explained that Nobby’s services over the years more than made up for the casual petty theft, which you accepted as a kind of mild nuisance?
Would that be an economic use of my time? I think not.
As he put the paper back in the tray, he spotted a sheet underneath, in Cheery’s handwriting. He picked it up and read it.
Two dwarfs and one troll had handed in their badges this morning, citing “family reasons.” Damn. That was seven officers lost this week. Bloody Koom Valley, it got everywhere. Oh, it couldn’t be fun, heavens knew, being a troll holding the line against a bunch of your fellow trolls and defending a dwarf like the late Hamcrusher. It probably wasn’t any funner being a dwarf hearing that some troll street gang beat up your brother because of what that idiot had
He landed in his chair so hard that it rolled back a foot.
He’d met deep-down dwarfs before. They’d been weird, but he’d been able to deal with them. The Low King was a deep-downer, and Vimes had got on with him well enough, once you accepted that the fairy-tale dwarf in the Hogfather beard was an astute politician. He was a dwarf with a vision. He dealt with the world. Ha, “he’d seen the light.” But those in the new mine…
He hadn’t seen them, even though they were sitting in a room made brilliant with the light of hundreds of candles. That seemed odd, since the grags themselves were completely shrouded in their pointy black leather. But maybe it was some mystic ceremony, and who’d look for sense there? Maybe you got a more holy dark in the midst of light? The brighter the light the blacker the shadow?
Ardent had spoken in a language that sounded like dwarfish, and out of the dark hoods had come answers and questions, all barked out in the same harsh, brief syllables.
At one point, Vimes was asked to repeat the meat of his statement made up above, which had seemed too far away now. He’d done so, and there’d been a long-drawn-out discussion in what he’d come to think of as Deep Dwarf. And all the time he felt that eyes he could not see were watching him very hard indeed. It didn’t help that his head had been aching like mad and there were shooting pains going up and down his arm.
And that was it. Had they understood him? He didn’t know. Ardent had said that they agreed with considerable reluctance. Had they? He hadn’t a clue, not a clue, to what had really been said. Would Carrot be given access to a crime scene that had not been interfered with in any way? Vimes grunted. Huh. What do you think, boys and girls?
He pinched the bridge of his nose, and then stared at his right hand. Igor had gone on at length about “tiny invithible biting creatureth” and used some vicious ointment that probably killed anything of any size or visibility. It had stung like seven hells for five minutes, but the sting had gone and seemed to have taken the pain with it. Anyway…what mattered was that the Watch was officially on this case.
His eye was caught by the top sheet of paperwork in his in-tray. * He groaned as he picked it up.
T o: H is G race S ir Samuel V imes, C ommander of the W atch
F rom: M r. A . E . P essimal, I nspector of the W atch
Y our G race:
I hope you will not mind giving me as soon as possible the answers to the following questions:
1) W hat is Corporal “Nobby” Nobbs for? Why do you employ a known petty thief?
2) I timed two officers in Broad Way earlier, and in the space of one hour they made no arrests. Why was this an economic use of their time?
3) T he level of violence used by troll officers against troll prisoners appears excessive. Could you please comment upon this?
…and so on. Vimes read on with his mouth open. All right, the man wasn’t a copper—definitely not—but surely he had a fully functional brain? Oh, good grief, he’d even spotted the monthly discrepancy in the petty-cash box! Would A. E. Pessimal understand if Vimes explained that Nobby’s services over the years more than made up for the casual petty theft, which you accepted as a kind of mild nuisance?
Would that be an economic use of my time? I think not.
As he put the paper back in the tray, he spotted a sheet underneath, in Cheery’s handwriting. He picked it up and read it.
Two dwarfs and one troll had handed in their badges this morning, citing “family reasons.” Damn. That was seven officers lost this week. Bloody Koom Valley, it got everywhere. Oh, it couldn’t be fun, heavens knew, being a troll holding the line against a bunch of your fellow trolls and defending a dwarf like the late Hamcrusher. It probably wasn’t any funner being a dwarf hearing that some troll street gang beat up your brother because of what that idiot had
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