Such grags as were alive or weren’t definitely dead were trussed up before being taken to the guard’s van, where, Moist suspected, Commander Vimes would have a little talk with them about this and that and names and places and who and when and what dreadful manners they had. Lovely.
And now a figure leaned out of the armoured carriage. It was Aeron.
‘The King is safe! Thank you all! Iron Girder came in for a hammering but the grags that managed to get on to the footplate were shown the furnace by Stoker Blake.’ Moist winced at that. He had been close to the furnace a great many times when it had been opened by the stoker and it was instant suntan time, but if you were standing in the wrong place at the critical moment it was instant fiery death.
The journey onward, with the couplings once more in place, was altogether a sombre ride, for the victors as well as for the surviving dwarfs awaiting their dreaded conversation with the Blackboard Monitor who, it was believed, could cause you and your family never to have existed. Rubbed away, as it were, in the chalk dust of the blackboard.
A little later Iron Girder gently kissed the buffers at the Bonk rail-head, and the first person to step down on to the hastily erected platform was Rhys Rhysson. He was greeted by a very large and extremely agitated rotund man, who had the word ‘burgomaster’ stamped firmly into his demeanour. He was sweating cobs and a fat man can sweat just as much as an engine. He genuflected to the King, an achievement considering his shape which was, not to put too fine a point on it, a globe.
‘Welcome back, sire,’ he said, panting. ‘The humans of Bonk have always had a good relationship with your countrymen and I sincerely hope that this amicable arrangement is going to continue.’
This invitation was uttered at a very high speed and Moist saw it for what it was: a plea saying, please don’t hurt us, we are fairly decent people and have always accepted your highness’s claim to the Scone of Stone. The unsaid codicil being, please don’t hurt us and above all, don’t interfere with the running of our mercantile activities. Please. Please?
Rhys gripped the proffered and rather sweaty hand and said, ‘I’m so sorry if you have been inconvenienced by the recent unpleasantness, Humphrey.’ A gesture which left the burgomaster all smiles.
‘Oh, it wasn’t too bad, Your Majesty. It was a bit of a nuisance when you … I mean the others started knocking down the clacks and all that. But you know how it is, it’s like a family squabble in the house next door where you know it’s not your business so you’re ready with tea, sympathy and possibly bandages and medicaments. And next time you meet the couple next door you don’t look too hard and mind your business and are still friends on the morrow.
‘And anyway, her ladyship got involved, and once she’d made a couple of examples … Well, thank goodness, we had our clacks back. She’s firm but fair is Lady Margolotta, and remarkably swift.’
The sweating Humphrey knew full well he was talking about the most influential vampire in the world whilst at the same time giving her the appearance of an elderly lady who only had to bang her walking stick on the floor to get total respect.
‘Of course all families have their ups and downs,’ Humphrey continued, ‘those little spats so easily started and so quickly left behind with no real damage done.’
Behind the burgomaster the train was unloading its passengers while Iron Girder occasionally hissed or spat in the way a locomotive has of making it clear it is not entirely quiescent.
Moist could hear Vimes debriefing Captain Sally von Humpeding, the Watch’s only vampire member, who had been seconded to the Bonk Watch. They came over to report.
‘Sally tells me that even though all communication from within Schmaltzberg has been cut off, reports have been reaching the Watch that all is not well with the conspirators,’ said Vimes. He looked to Sally for confirmation.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘our sources indicate that the grag known as Ardent—’
She was interrupted by a snort of rage from Rhys and a rattle of axes from his assembled compatriots.
‘Him again!’ snarled Rhys.
‘Yes,’ said Sally. ‘Him and a few others we’d been trying to locate after the massacre in Quirm. Well, it seems that Ardent and his followers are losing support; they’re not having it all their way. There is unrest—’
‘Good,’ said Rhys. ‘We can use that.’
‘And Albrechtson?’ asked Aeron.
‘Well,’ Sally smiled, showing a hint of fang, this being the most appropriate place in the world to let them get some air. ‘Well. And loyal to you, sire.’
A rather smart goblin messenger insinuated his way through the crowd and passed a message to Sally, who read it. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘It’s a message from Albrechtson. It seems the opposition know you’ve arrived, sire. Albrechtson would like you to know that he’s being well treated and has been able to follow the progress of Iron Girder, thanks to the goblins.’
Rhys turned and looked at Simnel and Moist and said, ‘Thank you, and Sir Harry, for getting me here safely. And Iron Girder, too. At the appropriate time you will know my generosity and I’d like to talk to you further. But do excuse me. I have a kingdom to reclaim.’
Addressing the company of dwarfs now fully assembled on the platform and armed to the teeth, he proclaimed, ‘Let it be known that the Low King has arrived and will take his place on the Scone of Stone. Anyone wishing to deny him that trivial pleasure should be prepared to back up their coherent and well-founded objections with weaponry. It really is quite as simple as that. This message will be carried into Schmaltzberg by Bashfull Bashfullsson, a highly respected and knowledgeable dwarf known to all, accompanied by my trusted secretary, Aeron. We should also include Commander Vimes, the Blackboard Monitor, and one-time Ambassador, to see fair play. Remember that at all times tampering with the King’s Messengers is a matter of treason. Be aware, I’m not going to be a nanny about this. Insurgent dwarfs will get their just deserts.’
The sound of Vimes loudly lighting his cigar broke the silence.
‘Let the others go first, I’ll go along in a minute or two,’ he said.
Moist, of course, hadn’t been at Koom Valley but right now he wondered if he was about to see the ghost of Koom Valley’s second incarnation — except it would be dwarf against dwarf. He wanted to shout out ‘This is nuts!’, and realized that in fact he had said it aloud.
To his surprise, the King said, ‘Certainly so, Mister Lipwig. It beggars all reason, doesn’t it? But sooner or later there comes a time when you have to take names and crack skulls. I’m sorry, it’s at the other end of the spectrum from the little chat and it’s what happens when reason no longer holds sway.’
‘But you’re all dwarfs. What can you possibly achieve?’ groaned Moist, who for the rest of his life would always remember the tone of the King’s voice …
‘Tomorrow. That, Mister Lipwig, is what we can achieve. Tomorrow.’
The arrival of the messengers sent an immediate buzz around the multiple caverns of Schmaltzberg, somehow the centre of the galaxy when it came to hubbub of all sizes and rumour mills that turned faster than the mills of the gods. Rumour flowed like quicksilver. The phenomenon might be called the dwarf clacks were it not for the fact that the clacks didn’t scramble the messages on a whim, thought Moist as he followed Rhys and the main band of dwarfs down into the honeycomb that was Schmaltzberg. The myriad noises flowing up from below through every tunnel and cavern were merging into a kind of audible mist or, he thought, fog. It simmered around the earlobe. The terrible sounds and confusions of war.