“Rip off your head, grind you to mince, and make soup from your bones, sir,” said Detritus promptly. “An’ if you was a troll, he’d have all your teeth knocked out an’ make cuff links out of ’em.”
“Why’d he choose to do that now? Do you think he’s looking for a war with us? That’s not his way. He’s hardly going to kill me by appointment, is he? He wants to talk to me. It’s got to be to do with the case. He might know something. I don’t dare not go. But I want you along. Scrounge up a squad, will you?”
A squad would be sensible, he admitted to himself. The streets were just too…nervous at the moment. He compromised with Detritus and a scratch band of whoever was doing nothing at the moment. That was one thing you could say about the Watch, it was representative. If you based your politics on what other people looked like, then you couldn’t claim the Watch was on the side of any shape. That was worth hanging on to.
It seemed quieter outside, not so many people on the streets as usual. That wasn’t a good sign. Ankh-Morpork could feel trouble ahead like spiders could feel tomorrow’s rain.
What was this?
The creature swam through a mind. It had seen thousands of minds since the universe began, but there was something strange about this one.
It looked like a city. Ghostly, wavering buildings appeared through a drizzle of midnight rain. Of course, no two minds were alike…
The creature was old, although it would be more accurate to say that it had existed for a long time. When, at the start of all things, the primordial clouds of mind had collapsed into gods and demons and souls of all levels, it had been among those who had never drifted close to a major accretion. So it had entered the universe aimlessly, without task or affiliation, a scrap of being blowing free, fitting in wherever it could, a sort of complicated thought looking for the right kind of mind. Currently—that is to say, for the past ten thousand years, it had found work as a superstition.
And now it was in this strange, dark city. There was movement around it. The place was alive. And it rained.
For a moment, just then, it had sensed an open door, a spasm of rage it could use. But just as it leapt to take advantage, something invisible and strong had grabbed it and flung it away.
Strange.
With a flick of its tail, it disappeared into an alley.
The Pork Futures Warehouse was…one of those things, the sort that you get in a city that has lived with magic for too long. The occult reasoning, if such it could be called, was this: pork was an important commodity in the city. Future pork, possibly even pork as yet unborn, was routinely traded by the merchants. Therefore, it had to exist somewhere. And the Pork Futures Warehouse came into existence, icy cold within as the pork drifted backwards in time. It was a popular place for cold storage—and for trolls who wanted to think quickly.
Even here, away from the more troubled areas of the city, the people on the streets were…watchful.
And now they watched Vimes and his motley squad pull up outside of the warehouse doors.
“I reckon at least one of us should go in wid you,” Detritus rumbled, as protective as a mother hen. “Chrysophrase won’t be alone, you can bet on dat.” He unslung the Piecemaker, the crossbow he had personally built from a converted siege weapon, the multiple bolts of which tended to shatter in the air from the sheer stress of acceleration. They could remove a door not simply from its frame but also from the world of objects bigger than a match-stick. Its incredible inaccuracy was part of its charm. The rest of the squad very quickly got behind him.
“Only you, then, Sergeant,” said Vimes. “The rest of you, come in only if you hear screaming. Me screaming, that is.” He hesitated, and then pulled out the Gooseberry, which was still humming to itself. “And no interruptions, understand?”
“Yes, Insert Name Here! Hmm hum hmm…”
Vimes pulled open the door. Dead, freezing air poured out around him. Thick frost crackled under his feet. Instantly, his breath twinkled in clouds.
He hated the Pork Futures Warehouse. The semitransparent slabs of yet-to-be-meat hanging in the air, accumulating reality every day, made him shiver for reasons that had nothing to to with temperature. Sam Vimes considered crispy bacon to be a food group in its own right, and the sight of it traveling backwards in time turned his stomach the wrong way.
He took a few steps inside and looked around in the dank, chilly grayness.
“Commander Vimes,” he announced, feeling a bit of a fool.
Here, away from the doors, freezing mist lay knee-high on the floor. Two trolls waded through it toward him. More lichen, he saw. More clan graffiti. More sheep skulls.
“Leave weapons here,” one rumbled.
“Baaa!” said Vimes, striding between them.
There was a click behind him, and the faint song of steel wires—under tension yet yearning to be free. Detritus had shouldered his bow.
“You can try takin’ dis one off’f me if you like,” he volunteered.
Vimes saw, further into the mist, a group of trolls. One or two of them looked like hired grunt. The others though…he sighed. All Detritus needed to do was fire that thing in this direction and quite a lot of the organized crime in the city would suddenly be very disorganized, as would be Vimes if he didn’t hit the floor in time. But he couldn’t allow that. There were rules here that went deeper than the law. Besides, a forty-foot hole in the warehouse wall would take some explaining.
Chrysophrase was sitting on a frost-crusted crate. You could always tell him in a crowd. He wore suits, when few trolls aspired to more that a few scraps of leather.
He even wore a tie, with a diamond pin. And today he had a fur coat around his shoulders. That had to be for show. Trolls liked low temperatures. They could think faster when their brains were cool. That’s why the meeting had been called here. Right, Vimes thought, trying to stop his teeth from chattering, when it’s my turn it’s going to be in a sauna.
“Mr. Vimes! Good o’ you to be comin’,” said Chrysophrase jovially. “Dese gentlemen are all high-toned businessmen of my acquaintance. I ’spect you can put names to faces…”
“Yeah, the Breccia,” said Vimes.
“Now den, Mr. Vimes, you know dat don’t exist,” said Chrysophrase innocently. “We just band togeder to furder troll interests in der city via many charitable concerns. You could say we are community leaders. Dere’s no call for name-callin’.”
Community leaders, Vimes thought. There’d been a lot of talk about community leaders lately, as in “community leaders appealed for calm,” a phrase the Times used so often that the printers probably left it set in type. Vimes wondered who they were and how they were appointed, and, sometimes, if “appealing for calm” meant winking and saying “do not use those shiny new battle-axes in that cupboard over there…no, not that one, the other one.” Hamcrusher had been a community leader.
“You said you wanted to talk to me alone,” he said, nodding toward the shadowy figures. Some of them were hiding their faces.
“Dat is so. Oh, dese gennlemen behind me? Dey will be leaving us now,” said Chrysophrase, waving a hand at them. “Dey’re just here so’ you understand dat one troll, dat is yours truly, is speakin’ for der many. An,’ at de same time, your good sergeant dere, my ol’ frien’ Detritus, is goin’ outside for a smoke, would dat be der case? Dis conversation is between you an’ me or it don’t happen.”
Vimes turned and nodded to Detritus. Reluctantly, with a scowl at Chrysophrase, the sergeant withdrew. So did the trolls. Boots crunched over the frost, and then doors slammed shut.
Vimes and Chrysophrase looked at each other in literally frozen silence.
“I can hear you teeth chattin’,” said Chrysophrase. “Dis place jus’ right for troll, but for you it freezes der brass monkey, right? Dat why I bringed dis fur coat.” He shrugged it off and held it out. “Dere jus’ you and me here, okay?”
Pride was one thing; not being able to feel your fingers was another. Vimes wrapp
ed himself in the fine, warm fur.
“Good. Can’t talk to a man whose ears are froze, eh?” said Chrysophrase, pulling out a big cigar case. “Firstly, I am hearin’ where one of my boys was disrespectful to you. I am hearin’ how him suggestin’ I am de kind of troll dat would get pers’nal, dat would raise a hand to your lovely lady an’ your liddle boy who is growin’ up so fine. Sometimes I am despairin’ o’ young trolls today. Dey show no respec’. Dey have no style. Dey lack finesse. If you are wanting a new rockery in your garden, just say der word.”
“What? Just make sure I never clap eyes on him again,” said Vimes shortly.
“Dat will not be a problem,” said the troll. He indicated a small box, about a foot square, beside the crate. It was far too small to contain a whole troll.
Vimes tried to ignore it, but found this hard.
“Was that all you wanted to see me for?” he said, trying to stop his imagination playing its homemade horrors across his inner eyeballs.
“Smokin’, Mr. Vimes?” Chrysophrase said, flipping open the case. “Der ones on der left is okay for humans. Finest kind.”
“I’ve got my own,” said Vimes, pulling out a battered packet. “What is this about? I’m a busy man.”
Chrysophrase lit a silvery troll cigar and took a long pull. There was a smell like burning tin.
“Yeah, busy because dat ol’ dwarf dies,” he said, not looking at Vimes.
“Well?”
“It was no troll done it,” said Chrysophrase.
“How do you know?”
Now the troll looked directly at Vimes. “If it was, I would have foun’ out by now. I bin askin’ questions.”
“So are we.”
“I bin askin’ questions more louder,” said the troll. “I get lotsa answers. Sometimes I am gettin’ answers to questions I ain’t even asked yet.”
I bet you are, Vimes thought. I have to obey rules.
“Why should you care who kills a dwarf?” he said.
“Mister Vimes! I am a honest citizen! It my public duty to care!” Chrysophrase watched Vimes’s face to see how this was playing, and grinned. “All dis stoopid Koom Valley t’ing is bad for bidness. People are getting edgy, pokin’ around, askin’ questions. I am sittin’ dere gettin’ nervous. An’ den I hear my ol’ friend Mister Vimes is on der case and I am thinkin’, dat Mister Vimes, he may be very insensitive to de nu-unces of troll culture sometimes, but der man is straight as a arrow and der are on him no flies. He will see where dis so-called troll left his club behind an’ he is laughin’ his head off, it is so see-through like glass! Some dwarf did it an’ want to make de trolls look bad, Kew Eee Dee.”
He sat back.
“What club?” said Vimes quietly.
“What’s dat?”
“I haven’t mentioned a club. There was nothing in the paper about a troll club.”
“Dear Mister Vimes, dat’s what der lawn ornaments is sayin’,” said Chrysophrase.
“And dwarfs talk to you, do they?” said Vimes.
The troll looked thoughtfully at the roof, and blew out more smoke.
“Eventually,” he said. “But dat’s jus’ detail. Jus’ between you an’ me, here an’ now. We unnerstan’ dese t’ings. It is clear as anyt’ing dat der crazy dwarfs had a fight, or der ol’ dwarf died o’ bein alive too long, or—”
“—or you asked him a few questions?”
“No callin’ for dat, Mister Vimes. Dat club is nothin’ but a red dried swimmin’ thing. Der dwarfs put it dere.”
“Or a troll did the murder, dropped his club, and ran,” said Vimes. “Or he was clever, and thought ‘No one would believe a troll would be so stupid as to leave his club, so if I do leave it, the dwarfs will get the blame.’ ”
“Hey, good job it so cold in here or I wouldn’t be followin’ you!” Chrysophrase laughed. “But den I ask, a troll gets into a nest o’ dem lousy deep-downers and lays out jus’ one? No way, Hose, eh! He’d whack as many of ’em as he could, thud, thud!”
He looked at Vimes’s puzzlement and sighed.
“See, any troll gettin’ in dere, he’d be a mad troll to start wid. You know how der kids are all wound up? People bin feeding dem dat honor an’ glory an’ destiny stuff, dat coprolite rots your brain faster’n Slab, faster even dan Slide. From what I am hearin’, der dwarf got knocked off for-rensic, all slick an’ quiet. We don’t do dat, Mister Vimes. You played der game, you know it. Get a troll in der middle o’ a load of dwarfs, he is like a fox in der…dem fings wi’ wings, layin’ dem egg fings…”
“Fox in a henhouse?”
“Dat’s der—you know, fur, big ears—”
“Bunny?!”
“Right! Bash one dwarf an’ sneak out? No troll’d stop at one, Mister Vimes. It’s like you people an’ peanuts. Der game got dat right.”
“What’s this game?”
“You never played Thud?” Chrysophrase looked surprised.
“Oh, that. I don’t play games,” said Vimes. “And on the subject of Slab, you do run the biggest pipeline. Just between you and me, here and now.”
“Nah, I’m out o’ dat whole thing,” said Chrysophrase, waving his cigar dismissively. “You could say I am seein’ der error o’ my ways. From now on it’s clean livin’ straight down der middle. Property an’ financial services, dat is der way forward.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Besides, der kids are movin’ in,” Chrysophrase went on. “Sediment’ry trash. And dey cuts Slab w’ bad sulfides an’ cooks it up wi’ ferric chloride an’ crap like dat. You thought Slab was bad? You wait ’til you see Slide. Slab makes a troll go an’ sit down to watch all der pretty colors, be no trouble to no one, nice and quiet. But Slide make him feel like him der biggest, strongest troll in der worl,’ don’t need sleep, don’t need food. After a few weeks, don’t need life. Dat ain’t for me.”
“Yes, why kill your customers?” said Vimes.
“Low blow, Mister Vimes, low blow. Nah, der new kids, half der time dey on Slide deyselves. Too much fightin,’ too much of no respec’.” He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “I know names and places.”
“It’s your duty as a good citizen to tell me, then,” said Vimes. Ye gods, what does he think I am? But I want those names. Slide sounds nasty. Right now we need battle-crazy trolls like we need a hole in the head, which we’ll probably end up getting.
“Can’t tell you. Dat der problem,” said Chrysophrase. “Dis ain’t der time. You know what’s happening out dere. If der stupid dwarfs want to fight, we’ll need every troll. Dat’s what I sayin.’ I tellin’ my people, give Vimes a chance. Be good citizens, not rockin’ around der boat. People still listenin’ to me an’ my…associates. But not for much longer. I hope you on der case, Mister Vimes?”
“Captain Carrot is investigating right now,” said Vimes.
Chrysophrase’s eyes narrowed again.
“Carrot Ironfoundersson?” he said. “Der big dwarf? He a lovely boy, bright as a button, but to trolls dat won’t look so good, I tell you flat.”
“It doesn’t look that good to dwarfs, if it come to that,” said Vimes. “But it’s my Watch. I’ll not be told who I put on what case.”
“You trust him?” said Chrysophrase.
“Yes!”
“Okay, he a finker, he shiny. But…Ironfoundersson? Dwarf name. Dat a problem right dere. But der name Vimes…dat name means a lot. Can’t be bribed, he once arrested der Patrician, not der sharpest knife in der drawer but honest like anything and he don’t stop digging.” Chrysophrase caught Vimes’s expression. “Dat’s what dey say. I wishin’ Vimes was on dis case, ’cos him like me, bare-knuckle boy, he get at der truth soon enough. And to him I say: no troll did dat t’ing, not like dat.”
Forget that he’s talking street troll, Vimes told himself. That’s just to seem like a good ol’ troll. This is Chrysophrase. He beat out most of the old-style mobsters, who were pretty sharp players themselves, and he holds off the Thieves’ G
uild with one hand. And that’s without sitting in a pile of snow. You know he’s right. But…not the sharpest knife in the drawer? Thank you so very much!
But Captain Carrot was shiny, was he? Vimes’s mind always looked for connections, and came up with: “Who is Mr. Shine?”
Chrysophrase was absolutely still, apart from the greenish smoke spiraling up from the cigar. Then, when he spoke, his air was uncharacteristically jovial.
“Him? Oh, a story for kids. Kinda like a troll legend from der far-off days o’ long ahead,” he said.*
“Like a folk hero?”
“Yeah, dat kinda t’ing. Kinda silly t’ing people talk about when times is tricky. Just a willie der wisp, not real. Dis is modern times.”
And that seemed to be that.
Vimes stood up.
“All right, I’ve heard what you say,” he said. “And now I’ve got a Watch to run.”
Chrysophrase puffed his cigar and flicked the ash into the frost, where it sizzled.
“You going back to der Watch house by way o’ Turn Again Lane?” he said.
“No, that’s well out of—” Vimes stopped. There had been a hint of suggestion in the troll’s voice.
“Give my regard to der ol’ lady at next door to der cake shop,” said the troll.
“Er…I will, will I?” said Vimes, nonplussed. “Sergeant!”
The door at the far end opened with a bang, and Detritus ran in, crossbow at the ready. Vimes, aware that one of the troll’s few faults was an inability to understand all the implications of the term “safety catch,” fought down a dreadful urge to dive for the ground.
“Time’s comin’ when we all got to know where we standin’,” mused Chrysophrase, as if talking to the audience of ghostly pork. “An’ who is standin’ next to us.”
As Vimes headed to the door, the troll added: “Give der coat to your lady, Mister Vimes. Wi’ my compliments.”
Vimes stopped dead, and looked down at the coat over his shoulders. It was of some silvery fur, beautifully warm, but not as warm as the rage rising within him. He’d nearly walked out wearing it. He’d come that close.