‘Moreover, sir,’ Willikins went on, ‘her ladyship desired me to remind you that she and Young Sam will meet you at the studio of Sir Joshua at eleven sharp, sir. The painting is at an important stage, I gather.’
‘But I—’
‘She was very specific, sir. She said if a commander of police cannot take time off, who can?’
On this day in 1802, the painter Methodia Rascal woke up in the night because the sounds of warfare were coming from a drawer in his bedside table.
Again.
One little light illuminated the cellar, which is to say that it lent different textures to the darkness and divided shadow from darker shadow.
The figures barely showed up at all. It was quite impossible, with normal eyes, to tell who was talking.
‘This is not to be talked about, do you understand?’
‘Not talked about? He’s dead!’
‘This is dwarf business! It’s not to come to the ears of the City Watch! They have no place here! Do any of us want them down here?’
‘They do have dwarf officers—’
‘Hah. D’rkza. Too much time in the sun. They’re just short humans now. Do they think dwarf? And Vimes will dig and dig and wave the silly rags and tatters they call laws. Why should we allow such a violation? Besides, this is hardly a mystery. Only a troll could have done it, agreed? I said: Are we agreed? ’
‘That is what happened,’ said a figure. The voice was thin and old and, in truth, uncertain.
‘Indeed, it was a troll,’ said another voice, almost the twin of that one, but with a little more assurance.
The subsequent pause was underlined by the ever-present sound of the pumps.
‘It could only have been a troll,’ said the first voice. ‘And is it not said that behind every crime you will find the troll?’
There was a small crowd outside the Watch House in Pseudopolis Yard when Commander Sam Vimes arrived at work. It had been a fine sunny morning up until then. Now it was still sunny, but nothing like as fine.
The crowd had placards. ‘Bloodsuckers out!!’, Vimes read, and ‘No Fangs!’ Faces turned towards him with a sullen, half-frightened defiance.
He uttered a bad word under his breath, but only just.
Otto Chriek, the Times iconographer, was standing near by, holding a sunshade and looking dejected. He caught Vimes’s eye and trudged over.
‘What’s in this for you, Otto?’ said Vimes. ‘Come to get a picture of a jolly good riot, have you?’
‘It’s news, commander,’ said Otto, looking down at his very shiny shoes.
‘Who tipped you off? ’
‘I just do zer pictures, commander,’ said Otto, looking up with a hurt expression. ‘Anyvay, I couldn’t tell you even if I knew, because of zer Freedom of zer Press.’
‘Freedom to pour oil on a flame, d’you mean?’ Vimes demanded.
‘That’s freedom for you,’ said Otto. ‘No vun said it vas nice.’
‘But… well, you’re a vampire, too!’ said Vimes, waving a hand towards the protesters. ‘Do you like what’s been stirred up?’
‘It’s still news, commander,’ said Otto meekly.
Vimes glared at the crowd again. It was mostly human. There was one troll, although admittedly the troll had probably joined in on general principles, simply because something was happening. A vampire would need a masonry drill and a lot of patience before it could put a troll to any trouble. Still, there was one good thing, if you could call it that: this little sideshow took people’s minds off Koom Valley. ‘It’s strange that they don’t seem to mind you, Otto,’ he said, calming down a little.
‘Vell, I’m not official,’ said Otto. ‘I do not haf zer sword und zer badge. I do not threaten. I am just a vorking stiff. And I make zem laff.’
Vimes stared at the man. He’d never thought about that before. But yes… Little fussy Otto, in his red-lined black opera cloak with pockets for all his gear, his shiny black shoes, his carefully cut widow’s peak and, not least, his ridiculous accent that grew thicker or thinner depending on who he was talking to, did not look like a threat. He looked funny, a joke, a music-hall vampire. It had never previously occurred to Vimes that, just possibly, the joke was on other people. Make them laugh, and they’re not afraid.
He nodded to Otto and went inside, where Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom was standing — on a box — at the too high duty officer’s desk, her chevrons all shiny and new on her sleeve. Vimes made a mental note to do something about the box. Some of the dwarf officers were getting sensitive about having to use it.
‘I think we could do with a couple of lads standing outside, Cheery,’ he said. ‘Nothing provocative, just a little reminder to people that we keep the peace.’
‘I don’t think we’ll need that, Mister Vimes,’ said the dwarf.
‘I’m not interested in seeing a picture in the Times showing the Watch’s first vampire recruit being mobbed by protesters, corp— sergeant,’ said Vimes severely.
‘I thought you wouldn’t be, sir,’ said Cheery. ‘So I asked Sergeant Angua to fetch her. They came in the back way half an hour ago. She’s showing her the building. I think they’re down in the locker room.’
‘You asked Angua to do it?’ said Vimes, his heart sinking.
‘Yessir?’ said Cheery, suddenly looking worried. ‘Er… is there a problem?’
Vimes stared at her. She’s a good orderly officer, he thought. I wish I had two more like her. And she deserved the promotion, heavens know, but, he reminded himself, she’s from Uberwald, isn’t she? She should have remembered about the… thing between them and werewolves. Maybe it’s my fault. I tell ’em that all coppers are just coppers.
‘What? Oh, no,’ he said. ‘Probably not.’
A vampire and a werewolf in one room, he thought, as he headed on up the stairs to his office. Well, they’ll just have to deal with it. And that’ll be only the first of our problems.
‘And I took Mr Pessimal up to the interview room,’ Cheery called after him.
Vimes stopped mid-stair.
‘Pessimal?’ he said.
‘The government inspector, sir?’ said Cheery. ‘The one you told me about?’
Oh yes, thought Vimes. The second of our problems.
It was politics. Vimes could never get a handle on politics, which was full of traps for honest men. This one had been sprung last week, in Lord Vetinari’s office, at the normal daily meeting…
‘Ah, Vimes,’ said his lordship as Vimes entered. ‘So kind of you to come. Isn’t it a beautiful day?’
Up until now, Vimes thought, when he spotted the two other people in the room.
‘You wanted me, sir?’ he said, turning to Vetinari again. ‘There’s a Silicon Anti-Defamation League march in Water Street and I’ve got traffic backed up all the way to Least Gate—’
‘I’m sure it can wait, commander.’
‘Yes, sir. That’s the trouble, sir. That’s what it’s doing.’
Vetinari waved a languid hand. ‘But full carts congesting the street, Vimes, is a sign of progress,’ he declared.
‘Only in the figurative sense, sir,’ said Vimes.
‘Well, at any rate I’m sure your men can deal with it,’ said Vetinari, nodding to an empty chair. ‘You have so many of them now. Such an expense. Do sit down, commander. Do you know Mr John Smith?’