“Certainly we need to talk to you,” said Carrot. “Do you want a lawyer?”
“No, I ate already.”
“You eat lawyers?” said Carrot.
Brick gave him an empty stare until sufficient brain had been mustered.
“What d’y’call dem fings, dey kinda crumble when you eat dem?” he ventured.
Carrot looked at Detritus and Angua, to see if there was going to be any help there.
“Could be lawyers,” he conceded.
“Dey go soggy if you dips ’em in somfing,” said Brick, as if undertaking a forensic examination.
“More likely to be biscuits, then?” Carrot suggested.
“Could be. Inna packet wi’ all paper on. Yeah, biscuits.”
“What I meant,” said Carrot, “was when we talk to you, do you want someone to be on your side?”
“Yes please. Everyone,” said Brick promptly. To be the center of attention in a room full of watchmen was his worst nightmare. No, hold on, what about dat time when he had dat bad Slab wot had bin cut wi’ ammonium nitrate? Whooo! Good-bye lobes! Yep! Den dis was his second worst nightmar—no, come to fink of it, dere was dis time when he had dat stuff wot Hardcore jacked off’f One-Eyed Goddam, whee, yes! Who knows where dat has bin! All dem dancin’ teef! So dis was his—hey, wait, remember dat time you got lunched on Scrape an’ your arms flew away? Okay, dat was bad, so maybe dis was his…wait, wait, of course, can’t be forgetting der day when you got baked on Sliver and blew powdered zinc up you nose an’ thought you’d thrown up your feet? Aargh, here come dat time again when you’d, aargh no, when you’d, aargh—
Brick had got as far as his nineteenth worst nightmare before Carrot’s voice cut through the snakes.
“Mr. Brick?”
“Er…is dat still me?” said Brick nervously. He could really, really do some Slab right now…
“Generally your advocate is one person,” said Carrot. “We’re going to have to ask you some difficult questions. You’re allowed to have someone to help you. Perhaps you have a friend we could fetch?”
Brick pondered this. The only people he could think of in this context were Totally Slag and Big Marble, although more correctly they fell into the category of “people dat don’t fro fings at me much and let me glom a bit o’ Slab sometimes” Right now, these did not seem ideal qualifications.
He pointed to Sergeant Detritus.
“Him,” he said. “He helped me find my teef.”
“I’m not sure a serving officer is—” Carrot began.
“I’ll volunteer for the role, Captain,” said a little voice. Carrot peered over the edge of the desk.
“Mr. Pessimal? I don’t think you should be out of bed.”
“Uh…I am, in fact, acting lance constable, Captain,” said A.E. Pessimal, politely yet firmly. He was on crutches.
“Oh? Er…right,” said Carrot. “But, I still think you shouldn’t be out of bed.”
“Nevertheless, justice must be served,” said A. E. Pessimal.
Brick bent down and peered closely at the inspector. “It’s dat gnome from last night,” he said. “Don’t want him!”
“You can’t think of anyone?” said Carrot.
Brick thought again, and at last brightened up.
“Yeah, I can,” he said. “Easy. Someone to help me answer der questions, right.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, easy peas. If you can fetch that dwarf I saw down in dat new dwarf mine last night, he’d help me.”
The room went deadly quiet.
“And why would he do that?” said Carrot carefully.
“He could tell you why he was hitting dat other dwarf onna head,” said Brick. “I mean, I don’t know. But I ’spect he won’t wanna come on account of me bein’ a troll, so I’ll stick with the sergeant, if it’ all der same to you.”
“I think this is going too far, Captain!” said A. E. Pessimal.
In the silence that followed this, Carrot’s voice sounded very loud.
“I think this, Mr. Pessimal, is the point where we wake up Commander Vimes.”
There was an old military saying that Fred Colon used to describe total bewilderment and confusion. An individual in that state, according to Fred, “couldn’t tell if it was arsehole or breakfast time.”
This had always puzzled Vimes. He wondered what research had been done. Even now, with his mouth tasting of warmed-over yesterday and everything curiously sharp in his vision, he thought he’d be able to tell the difference. Only one was likely to include a cup of coffee, for a start.
He had one now, ergo, it was breakfast time. Actually, it was near lunchtime, but that would have to do.
The troll known to everyone else and occasionally to himself as Brick was seated in one of the big troll cells, but in deference to the fact that no one could decide if he was a prisoner or not, the door had been left unlocked. The understanding was that, provided he didn’t try to leave, no one would stop him leaving. Brick was engulfing his third bowl of mineral-rich mud that, to a troll, was nourishing soup.
“What is Scrape?” Vimes said, leaning back in the room’s one spare chair and staring at Brick as a zoologolist might eye a fascinating but highly unpredictable new species. He’d put the stone book from the mysterious Mr. Shine on the table by the bowl, to see if it got any reaction, but the troll paid it no attention.
“Scrape? You don’t see it much dese days now dat Slab’s so damn cheap,” rumbled Detritus, who was watching his new find with a proprietorial air, like a mother hen watching a chick who was about to leave the nest. “It what you ‘scrape up,’ see? It few bits o’ drain-grade Slab boiled up in a tin wi’ alcohol and pigeon droppin’s. It what der street trolls make when dey is short o’ cash an’…what is it dey’s short of, Brick?”
The moving spoon paused. “Dey is short o’ self-respec’, Sergeant,” he said, as one might who’d had the lesson shouted into his ear for twenty minutes.
“By Io, he got it!” said Detritus, slapping the skinny Brick on the back so hard that the young troll dropped his spoon into the steaming gloop. “But dis lad has promised me all dat is behind him and he is damn straight now, on account o’ havin’ joined my One-Step Program! Ain’t dat so, Brick? No more Slab, Scrape, Slice, Slide, Slunkie, Slurp, or Sliver for dis boy, right?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” said Brick obediently.
“Sergeant, why do the names of all troll drugs start with s?” said Vimes.
“Ah, it make dem easier to remember, sir,” said Detritus, nodding sagely.
“Ah, of course. I hadn’t spotted that,” said Vimes. “Has Sergeant Detritus explained to you why he calls it a one-step program, Brick?”
“Er…’cos he won’t let me put a foot wrong, sir?” said Brick, as if reading it off a card.
“An’ Brick here’s got something else to say to you, haven’t you, Brick?” said the maternal Detritus. “Go on, tell Mister Vimes.”
Brick looked down at the table. “Sorry I tried to kill you, Mister Vimes,” he whispered.
“Well, we’ll see about that, shall we?” said Vimes, for something better to say. “By the way, I think you meant Mister Vimes, and I prefer it if only people who’ve fought alongside me call me Mister Vimes.”
“Well, technic’ly Brick has fought—” Detritus began, but Vimes put down his coffee mug firmly. His ribs were aching.
“No, ‘in front of’ is not the same thing as ‘alongside,’ Sergeant,” he said. “It really isn’t.”
“Not really his fault, sir, it was more a case o’ mis-taken identity,” Detritus protested.
“You mean he didn’t know who I was?” said Vimes. “That didn’t seem to—”
“Nosir. He didn’t know who he was, sir. He thought he was a bunch o’ lights and fireworks. Trust me, sir, I reckon I can make something o’ this one. Please? Sir, he was out o’ his brain on Big Hammer and still he was walkin’ about!”
Vimes stared at Detritus a moment, and t
hen looked back at Brick.
“Mr. Brick, tell me how you got into the mine, will you?” he said.
“I told the other polisman—” Brick began.
“Now you tell Mister Vimes!” growled Detritus. “Right now!”
It took a little while, with pauses for bits of Brick’s mind to shunt into position, but Vimes assembled it like this:
The wretched Brick had been cooking up Scrape with some fellow gutter trolls in an old warehouse in the maze of streets behind Park Lane, had blundered down into the cellar looking for a cool place to watch the display, and the floor had given way under him. By the sound of it, he’d fallen a long way, but to judge by the troll’s natural state, he probably floated down like a butterfly. He’d ended up in a tunnel, “like a mine, y’know, wi’ alI wood holdin’ der roof up,” and had wandered along it in the hope that it led back to the surface or something to eat.
He didn’t start to worry until he came out into a far grander tunnel, and the words “dwarfs” finally reached a bit of his brain with nothing to do but listen.
A troll in a dwarf mine goes on the rampage. It was one of those givens, like a bull in a china shop. But Brick seemed refreshingly free of hatred toward anyone. Provided the world supplied enough things beginning with s to make his head go “bzzz!,” and the city had no shortage of these, he didn’t much care about what else it did. Brick, down in the gutter, had even dropped below that horizon. No wonder Chrysophrase’s shakedown hadn’t corralled him. Brick was something you stepped over.
It might even have occurred to Brick, standing there in the dark with the sound of dwarf voices in the distance, to be afraid. And then he’d seen, through a big round doorway, one dwarf hold up another and hit it over the head. It was cave-gloomy, but trolls had good night vision, and there were always the vurms. The troll hadn’t made out details and was not particularly interested in seeing any. Who cared what dwarfs did to one another? So long as they didn’t do it to him, he didn’t see a problem. But when the dwarf that had done the bashing started to shout, then there was a problem, large as life.
A big metal door right by him had slammed open and hit him in the face. When he peered out from behind it, it was to see several armed dwarfs running past. They weren’t interested in what might be behind the door, not yet. They were doing what people do, which is run toward the source of the shouting. Brick, on the other hand, was only interested in getting as far away from the shouting as possible, and, right here, was an open door. He took it and ran, not stopping until he was out in the fresh night air.
There had been no pursuit. Vimes wasn’t surprised. You needed a special kind of mind to be a guard. It was one that was prepared to be in a body that stood and looked at nothing very much for hours on end. Such a mind did not command high wages. Such a mind, too, would not be likely to start a search by looking in the tunnel it just arrived by. It would not be the sharpest knife in the drawer.
And so, aimlessly, without intent, malice, or even curiosity, a wandering troll had wandered into a dwarf mine, spotted a murder through a drug-addled perception, and wandered out again. Who could plan for anything like that? Where was the logic? Where was the sense?
Vimes looked at the watery, fried-egg eyes, the emaciated frame, the thin dribble of gods-knew-what from a crusted nostril. Brick wasn’t telling lies. Brick had enough trouble dealing with things that weren’t made up.
“Tell Mister Vimes about the big wukwuk,” Detritus prompted.
“Oh, yeah,” said Brick. “Dere was dis big wukwuk in der cave.”
“I think I’m missing a vital point here,” said Vimes.
“A wukwuk is what you make wi’ charcoal an’ niter an’ Slab,” said the sergeant. “All rolled up in paper, like a cigar, you know? He said it was—”
“We call dem wukwuks ’cos dey looks like…you know, a wukwuk,” said Brick, with an embarrassed grin.
“Yes, I’m getting the picture,” said Vimes wearily. “And did you try to smoke it?”
“Nosir. It was big,” said Brick. “All rolled up in their cave, jus’ by the manky ol’ tunnel I fell into.”
Vimes tried to fit this into his thinking, and left it out for now. So…a dwarf did it? Right. And right now he believed Brick, although a bucket of frogs would make a better witness. No sense in pushing him further right now, anyway
“Okay,” he said. He reached down and came up with the mysterious stone that had been left on the floor of the office. It was about eight inches across, but curiously light. “Tell me about Mr. Shine, Brick. Friend of yours?”
“Mr. Shine is everywhere!” said Brick fervently. “Him diamond!”
“Well, half an hour ago he was in this building,” said Vimes. “Detritus?”
“Sir?” said the sergeant, a guilty look spreading across his face.
“What do you know about Mr. Shine?” said Vimes.
“Er…he a bit like a troll god…” Detritus muttered.
“Don’t get many gods in here, as a rule,” said Vimes. “Someone’s pinched the secret of fire, have you seen my golden apple? It’s amazing how often we don’t get that sort of thing in the crime book. He’s a troll, is he?”
“Kinda like a…a king,” said Detritus, as if every word was being dragged from him.
“I thought trolls didn’t have kings these days,” said Vimes. “I thought every clan ruled itself.”
“Right, right,” said Detritus. “Look, Mister Vimes, he Mr. Shine, okay? We don’t talk about him much.” The troll’s expression was a mixture of misery and defiance. Vimes decided to go for a weaker target.
“Where did you find him, Brick? I just want to—”
“He came callin’ to help you!” snarled Detritus. “What you doin,’ Mister Vimes? Why you go on askin’ questions? Wi’ the dwarfs you have pussy feet, must not upset ’em, oh no, but what you do if dey was trolls, eh? Kick down der door, no problem! Mr. Shine bring you Brick, give you good advice, an’ you talk like he bein’ a bad troll! I’m hearin’ now where Captain Carrot, he tellin’ the dwarfs he the Two Brothers. You fink that make me happy? We know dat lyin’ ol’ dwarf lie, yes! We groan at it lyin,’ yes! You want to see Mr. Shine, you show humble, you show respec,’ yes!”
This is Koom Valley again, thought Vimes. He’s never seen Detritus this angry, at least at him. The troll was just there, reliable and dependable. At Koom Valley, two tribes had met, and no one blinked.
“I apologize,” he said, blinking. “I didn’t know. No offense was meant.”
“Right!” said Detritus, his huge hand thumping on the table.
The spoon jumped out of Brick’s empty soup bowl. The mysterious rock ball rolled across the table, with an inevitable little trundling noise, and cracked open on the floor.
Vimes looked down at two neat halves.
“It’s full of crystals,” he said. Then he looked closer. There was a piece of paper in one broken, glittering hemisphere.
He picked it up and read: Pointer & Pickles, Crystals, Minerals & Tumbling Supplies, No. 3 Tenth Egg Street, Ankh-Morpork.
Vimes put this down carefully, and picked up the two pieces of the stone. He pushed them together, and they fitted with the merest hairline crack. There was no sign that any glue had ever been used.
He looked up at Detritus.
“Did you know that was going to happen?” he said.
“No,” said the troll. “But I fink Mr. Shine did.”
“He’s given me his address, Sergeant.”
“Yeah. So maybe he want you to visit,” Detritus conceded. “Dat is a honor, all right. You don’t find Mr. Shine, Mr. Shine find you.”
“How did he find you, Mr. Brick?” said Vimes.
Brick gave Detritus a panicky look. The sergeant shrugged.
“He pick me up one day. Gimme food,” Brick mumbled. “He show me where to come for more. He tole me t’keep off’f the stuff, too. But…”
“Yes…?” Vimes prompted.
Brick waved a pair o
f scarred, knobbly arms in a gesture that said, far more coherently than he could, that there was the whole universe on one side and Brick on the other, and what could anyone do against odds like that?
And so, he’d been handed over to Detritus, Vimes thought. That evened the odds somewhat.
He stood up, and nodded to Detritus.
“Should I take anything, Sergeant?”
The troll thought about this. “No,” he said, “but maybe dere’s some finkin’ you could leave behind.”
I should be in charge of the mine raid, thought Vimes. We might be starting a war, after all, so I’m sure people would like to think that someone high up was there when it happened. So, why do I think it’s more important that I see the mysterious Mr. Shine?
Captain Carrot had been busy. The city dwarfs liked him. So he’d done what Vimes could not have done, or at least have done well, which was take a muddy dwarf necklace to a dwarf home down in New Cobblers and explain to two dwarf parents how it had been found. Things had happened quite fast after that, and one other reason for the speed was that the mine was shut. Guards and workers and dwarfs seeking guidance on the path of dwarfdom had turned up, to be met with locked doors. Money was owing, and dwarfs got very definite about things like that. A lot of the huge body of dwarf lore was about contracts. You were supposed to get paid.
No more politics, Vimes told himself. Someone killed four of our dwarfs, not some crazy rabble-rouser, and left them down there in the dark. I don’t care who they are, they’re going to be dragged into the light. It’s the law. All the way to the bottom, all the way to the top.
But it’s going to be done by dwarfs. Dwarfs will go to that well, and dig out that mud again, and bring up the proof.
He walked into the main office. Carrot was there, along with half a dozen dwarf officers. They looked grim.
“All set?” said Vimes.
“Yes, sir. We’ll meet the others at Empirical Crescent.”
“You’ve got enough diggers?”
“All dwarfs are diggers, sir,” said Carrot solemnly. “There’s timber on the way, and winching gear, too. Some of the miners joining us helped dig that tunnel, sir. They knew those lads. They’re a bit bewildered and angry.”