Carrot stared at her. “I didn’t think there were goblins in Howondaland? All Jolson’s family come from there.” He snapped his fingers. “Hang on one moment.” He ran down the corridor to the canteen and came back followed by Constable Precious Jolson, a lady for whom the word large simply would not do. Everything about her was, as it were, family-sized, including her good nature. Everybody liked Precious. She seemed to be a fountainhead of jolliness with always a cheerful word for anybody, even when she was picking up a brace of drunks and throwing them into the hurry-up wagon.
After brief questioning Precious said, “Dad sent me over there last year, remember, wanted me to find my roots. Can’t say I took to it, really. Nice weather. Not much to do. Not very exciting really, unless you try to stroke one of the cats, they get kind of stroppy. Never heard of goblins there, not the sort of place for them, I suspect. Excuse me, captain, can I get back to my tea now?”
The silence that followed was broken by Carrot, who said, “Howondaland is months away by boat, and broomsticks don’t work very well over water, even if we could persuade the wizards to lend us one. Any ideas?”
“Crivens!” said Wee Mad Arthur. “No problemo! I reckon I could get there in less than a day, ye ken.”
They stared at him. Wee Mad Arthur was small enough to ride on the back of any bird larger than a medium-sized hawk—his aerial broadcasts from the sky concerning traffic hold-ups in the city* were a regular feature of Ankh-Morpork street life—but all the way to another continent?
He grinned. “As ye ken, I was away for a wee while lately, making the acquaintance o’ my brothers, the Nac mac Feegle? Weel, they fly the birds a lot, and there’s a thing they have called the craw step, ye ken? And I reckon I’m canny enough to use it, ye ken.”
“That’s three kens in one speech, Wee Mad Arthur,” said Angua, to laughter from the rest of the watchmen. “You really got into the Feegle thing, didn’t you!”
“Oh, ye may scoff, but I’m the only one of ye scunners who knows why we get so many big birds flying over the city at this time o’ year. Ankh-Morpork is hot! See the big plume of smoke and fumes? That’s all heat. It lifts ye up, a free ride that puts the wind under your wings. Have ye heard of the surreptitious albatross? No, because only me and the Professor of Ornithology at the university know about it, and he only knows because I told the scunner. Outside the mating season it never touches ground. That’s not the only thing that’s odd. It’s an eagle masquerading as a type of albatross. Ye could call it a shark o’ the sky, and I reckon one of them will do me nicely. They like the city. They hover up where you’ll never see them unless you really know how to look. There’s always one about, and I could leave today. What you say?”
“But, constable,” said Carrot, “you’ll freeze that high up in the sky, won’t you?”
“Oh aye, I ken my thermal drawers may not be sufficient, which is why the word ‘brandy’ is about to enter this conversation. Trust me on this, captain. I reckon I can be back within twa days.”
“How many is that?” said Angua.
Wee Mad Arthur rolled his eyes. “Two, captain, for the likes o’ you.”
In fact it took Wee Mad Arthur only an hour to identify the peaceful-looking bird drifting happily high above the city with the meal it had just had courtesy of a seagull, the feathers of which were even now drifting gently toward the cityscape below. The surreptitious albatross had no enemies that it couldn’t easily digest, and paid little attention to the nondescript and relatively harmless hawk soaring toward it, right up until it found Wee Mad Arthur landing on its back. It struggled but was unable to reach the Feegle, because he was sitting comfortably and had his hands around its neck; Wee Mad Arthur tended toward the swift methods of domesticating wildlife.
The surreptitious albatross fought for yet more height by constantly spiraling up on the huge wide pillar of free lift—as Ankh-Morpork was known and understood by the avian community—and Wee Mad Arthur passed the time by memorizing a tiny penciled map of the world. Really, it wasn’t difficult. On the whole, continents aren’t hard to find, and neither are the edges of continents, where by general consensus, you tended to find ships moored. Wee Mad Arthur was the world expert at looking for things from above, which amused him, given that most people who wanted to see Wee Mad Arthur had to look down.
Oh well, he thought, let’s go!
It was called the craw step, and the Nac mac Feegle of the chalk country had carefully shown their brother how it works when you are sitting on top of a large bird.
People in Ankh-Morpork looked up at the bang high above and then, given that the sky was still clear, lost interest. Meanwhile, on one astonished surreptitious albatross sat one hugely satisfied Feegle, who settled down in the feathers and began to eat a piece of the single hardboiled egg and two-inch slice of bread that were his rations for the trip,* while the universe rushed past them making a noise like weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Darkness had lasted about four hours when Vimes was woken by a small boy bouncing up and down on the bed, and therefore on Sam Vimes, and saying, “Willikins has found a bird that just died. Dad! Mum says I can di…ssect it if you say it’s all right, Dad!”
Vimes managed a mumbled, “Yes, all right, if your mother says so,” before slipping back into the black. And the black spread around him. He heard himself thinking: the Summoning Dark could tell me everything I need to know, and that is the truth. But would the truth that it told me be the truth, and how would I know that? If I rely on it then in some way I become its creature. Or perhaps it becomes mine? Perhaps we have an accord and it helped me under Koom Valley and because of that the world is a better place? Surely the darkness has no reason to lie? I’ve always liked the night, the dead of night, those nights that are sheer blackness, making dogs nervous and causing sheep to leap their hurdles out of terror. Darkness has always been my friend, but I cannot let it be my master, though sooner or later I will have to take an oath, and if I lie, me, the chief policeman, then what am I? How could I ever again rebuke a copper for looking the other way?
He turned over among the pillows. And yet the cause is good. It is a good cause! The man Stratford did kill the goblin girl, I have the evidence of his associate and the word of a being whose assistance has been of material use to society. Admittedly, I have put a man in fear, but then, people like Flutter are always in fear, and better that he fears me than Stratford, because I at least know when to stop. He’s just another red ball on the baize, and for that matter, I suppose, so is Stratford. He’ll have a boss. They always have a nobby boss because nearly everybody around here is either a worker or nobby, and as far as I know practically everybody doesn’t have a good word to say for goblins. It’s a target-rich environment, and the trouble with a target-rich environment is that it is useless if you don’t know which target you have to aim at.
Vimes dropped back into deep sleep, and was almost instantly shaken awake by the best efforts of his son, industriously pounding on the heap that was Vimes in slumber. “Mum says to come, Dad. She says there’s a man.”
Vimes wasn’t a dressing-gown type of person, so he struggled back into his clothing and made himself as presentable as a man could who needed a shave and didn’t appear to have the time to get one.
There was a man sitting in the lounge, wearing a fantailer hat, jodhpurs and a nervous smile, three things that mildly annoyed Vimes. A nervous smile generally meant that somebody was after something they shouldn’t have; he personally thought a fantailer looked silly; and as for the jodhpurs, no man should meet a copper if he is wearing trousers that make his legs look as though he has just burgled a house full of silverware and shoved it hastily down his trousers. In fact, Vimes thought he could see the outline of a teapot, but possibly that was his eyes playing mischievous tricks on him.
The wearer of this presumably self-inflicted triple misfortune stood up as Vimes entered. “Your grace?”
“Sometimes,” said Vimes. “What can I do for you?”
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The man looked apprehensively at Lady Sybil, who was sitting comfortably in the corner with a little smile on her face, and said, “Your grace, I’m afraid I must serve you with this Cease and Desist order, on behalf of the board of magistrates for this county. I am very sorry about this, your grace, and I hope you will understand that it does go against the grain to have to do this to a gentleman, but no one is above the law and the law must be obeyed. I myself am William Stoner, clerk to said justices—” Mr. Stoner hesitated because Vimes had strolled over to the door.
“Just making sure you don’t leave in a hurry,” said Vimes, as he locked the door. “Do sit down, Mr. Stoner, because you’re just the man I want to talk to.”
The clerk sat down carefully, clearly not wanting to be that man. He held in front of him a scroll with a red wax seal affixed, the kind of thing believed to make a document official—or at least expensive and difficult to understand, which, in fact, amounts to the same thing.
Suddenly, Vimes realized that all those years being confronted by Lord Vetinari had in fact been a masterclass, had he but known. Well, it was time for the examination. He went back to his chair, sat back comfortably, steepled his fingers together and frowned at the clerk over the top of them for ten whole seconds, a length of time that used to unnerve him every time it happened, and so should surely work on this little tit.
Then he cracked the silence with, “Mr. Stoner, several nights ago murder was committed on my land. Landownership means something around here, doesn’t it, Mr. Stoner? It appears that this was done to implicate me in the disappearance of one Jethro Jefferson, a blacksmith. You may consider me somewhat offended, but that was nothing like the amount of offense I experienced when I met Constable Feeney Upshot, our local copper, a decent lad, kind to his old mum, who nevertheless seemed to feel that he answered to a mysterious board of magistrates, rather than to the law. The magistrates? Who are the magistrates? Some kind of local body? There appears to be no oversight on these people, no circuit judge and— I haven’t finished talking yet!”
Mr. Stoner, his face gray, sank back into his seat. So did Vimes, trying not to catch Sybil’s eye in case she laughed. He made his face a mask of calm again and continued, “And it appears, Mr. Stoner, that officially, in this parish, goblins are vermin. Rats are vermin, so are mice, and I believe that pigeons and crows may be also. But they don’t play the harp, Mr. Stoner, they don’t make exquisitely configured pots, and, Mr. Stoner, they do not beg for mercy, although I must say I’ve seen the occasional mouse attempt it by wriggling its nose winsomely, which did indeed lead me to put the hammer down. But I digress. Goblins may be wretched, unhygienic and badly fed, and in that they are pretty much like the commonality of most of mankind. Where will your magistrates put the ruler, Mr. Stoner? Then again we don’t use a ruler in Ankh-Morpork, because once the goblins are vermin, then the poor are vermin, and the dwarfs are vermin, and the trolls are vermin. She wasn’t vermin and she pleaded not to die.”
He leaned back and waited for Mr. Stoner to realize that he did in fact have the power of speech. When he did so, the clerk dealt with his situation in true clerkly fashion, by ignoring it. “Nevertheless, Mr. Vimes, you are out of your jurisdiction and, I may say, encouraging Constable Upshot in ways of thinking and, I might say, behavior that will bode ill for him in his career—”
The clerk got no further than that because Vimes interrupted with, “What career? He has no career! He’s a copper all by himself, except maybe for some pigs. He’s a good lad at heart, doesn’t scare easy, and he writes with a clear, round hand and can spell, too, which in my book makes him automatically sergeant material. As for bloody jurisdiction, murder is the crime of crimes. According to the Omnians it was the third crime ever committed!* I know of no society anywhere in the world that doesn’t consider it a crime to be pursued with vigor, understand? And as for the law, don’t try to talk to me about the law. I am not above the law, but I stand right underneath it, and I hold it up! And currently I work with Mr. Feeney, and we have an accessory to murder in his cell, and justice, not convenience, will be served.”
“Well done, Sam,” said Sybil loyally, giving the small but distinctive clap that people give when they want other people to join in.
Mr. Stoner, on the other hand, simply said, “Well done, sir, but nevertheless my instructions are to arrest you. The magistrates have sworn me in as a policeman, you see, and young Upshot has been relieved of his duties.” He winced, because of the sudden freeze.
Vimes stood up and said, “I don’t think I’m going to allow you to arrest me today, Mr. Stoner! I dare say Sybil will allow you a cup of tea, should you want it, but I’m going to see Chief Constable Upshot.” And he stood up, unlocked the door and walked out of the room, out of the Hall and, at a reasonable speed, headed down to the lockup.
Halfway down, Willikins overtook him, saying, “I couldn’t help hearing all that garbage, commander, on account of how I was listening at the door as per section five of the gentleman’s gentleman’s code. What a nerve! You’ll need me to watch your back!”
Vimes shook his head. “I don’t think a civilian should get involved, Willikins.”
Willikins had to run faster, because Vimes was speeding up, but he managed to gasp out, “That is a hell of a thing for you to say to me, commander.” And hurried on regardless.
Something was going on at the lockup—it looked to Vimes as though it might be a domestic disturbance, a ruckus, possibly a fracas or even a free-for-all, in which case it was definitely unlucky for some. A happy thought occurred: yes, maybe it was an affray, always a useful word because nobody is quite certain what it means, but it sounds dangerous.
Vimes burst out laughing as soon as he saw what was going on. Feeney was standing in front of the lockup, his face beetroot red and his ancestral truncheon in his hands. Quite possibly it had already been used on the small mob trying to assault the lockup, because there was a man lying on the floor clutching his groin and groaning. However, Vimes’s lengthy experience told him that the man’s carefully targeted misfortune had a lot to do with Mrs. Upshot, who was in a semicircle of men, all of them ready to jump back as soon as she waved her broomstick at them. “Don’t you dare say my lad Feeney ain’t a copper! He is a copper, and so was his dad, and his granddad and his great-granddad before him.” She paused for a moment and went on, grudgingly, “Pardon me, I tell a lie, he was a criminal, but anyway that’s nearly like being a copper!”
The broomstick made a whooshing sound as she swung it backward and forward. “I know you lot! Some of you is gamekeepers, and some of you is smugglers, and a few of you is bastards, excuse my Klatchian!” By now she had caught sight of Vimes, and pausing only to bring her broomstick down like a mallet on the foot of a man who made a step in the wrong direction, she pointed her finger at Vimes and yelled, “See him? Now he is a gentleman, and also a great copper! You can tell a real copper, like my Henry, gods bless his soul, and Commander Vimes too, ’cos they’ve got proper badges what have been used to open thousands of beer bottles, I dare say, and believe me one of them would hurt you if they tried to stick it up your nose. The flimsy bits of cardboard you boys is waving makes me laugh! Come any further, Davey Hackett,” she said to the nearest man, “and I will shove this broomstick in your ear, trust me, I will!”
Vimes scanned the mob, trying to sort out the vile and dangerous from the innocent and stupid, and was about to brush off a fly from his head when he heard the gasp from the crowd, and saw the arrow on the cobbles and Mrs. Upshot looking at her broom falling into two pieces.
In theory, Mrs. Upshot should have screamed, but she had been around coppers for a long time, and so, face red, she pointed at the broken broom and said, as only an old mum could say, “That cost half a dollar! They don’t grow on trees, you know! It wants paying for!”
Instantly there was the jingle of frantic hands in pockets. One man with great presence of mind removed his hat and coins showered into it. Since ma
ny of these coins were dollars and half-dollars snatched in haste, Mrs. Upshot would clearly be self-sufficient in broomsticks for life.
But Feeney, who had been simmering, smacked the hat to the ground just as it was proffered. “No! That’s like a bribe, Ma! Someone shot at you. I saw the arrow, it came straight out of this lot, right out the middle! Now I want you to go inside, Ma, ’cos I’m not going to lose you as well as Dad, understand? Damn well get inside the house, Ma, the reason being, the moment you shut the door I intend to show these gentlemen their manners!”
Feeney was on fire. If a chestnut had fallen on his head it would have exploded, and his rage, pure righteous rage—the kind of rage in which a man might find the idea and the inclination and, above all, the stamina to beat to death everyone around him—was a pant-wetting concern to the befuddled citizens quite outweighing the secondary one, which was that there was at least six dollars of anybody’s money lying there on the cobbles, and how much of it could they get away with reclaiming?
Vimes did not say a word. There was no room to say a word. A word might dislodge the brake that held retribution in check. Feeney’s ancestral club over his shoulder looked like a warning from the gods. In his hands it would be sudden death. No one dared run; of a certainty, to run would be to make yourself a candidate for whistling oaken crushing.
Now, perhaps, was the time. “Chief Constable Upshot, may I have a word, as one policeman to another?”
Feeney turned on Vimes a bleary look, like a man trying to focus from the other end of the universe. One of the outlying men took this as a cue to leg it, and behind the crowd there was a thump and the voice of Willikins, saying, “Oh, I do beg your pardon, your grace, but this gentleman stumbled over my feet. Regrettably, I have very large feet.” And, to accompany the apology, Willikins held up a man whose nose would probably look a lot better by the end of next week.