Snuff (14 page)

S
ometimes people asked Commander Vimes why Sergeant Colon
and Corporal Nobbs were still on the strength, such as it was, of the modern
Ankh-Morpork City Watch, given that Nobby occasionally had to be held upside
down and shaken to reclaim small items belonging to other people, while Fred
Colon had actually cultivated the ability to walk his beat with his eyes closed,
and end up, still snoring, back at Pseudopolis Yard, sometimes with graffiti on
his breastplate.

To Lord Vetinari, Commander Vimes had put forward
three defenses. The first was that both of them had an enviable knowledge of the
city and its inhabitants, official and otherwise, that rivaled Vimes's
own.

The second was the traditional urinary argument. It
was better to have them inside pissing out than outside pissing in. It was at
least easy to keep an eye on them.

And not least, oh my word not least, they were
lucky. Many a crime had been solved because of things that had fallen on them,
tried to kill them, tripped one of them up, been found floating in their lunch,
and in one case had tried to lay its eggs up Nobby's nose.

And so it was that, today, whatever god or other
force it might be that regarded them as its playthings directed their steps to
the corner of Cheapside and Rhyme Street, and the fragrant Emporium of
Bewilderforce Gumption.
*

Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs, as is the way
with policemen, entered the building by the back door and were greeted by Mr.
Gumption with that happy but somewhat glassy smile with which a trader greets an
old acquaintance who he knows will end up getting merchandise with a discount of
one hundred per cent.

“Why, Fred, how nice to see you again!” he said,
while awakening the mystic third eye developed by all small shopkeepers,
especially those who see Nobby Nobbs coming into the shop.

“We were patrolling in the area, Bewilderforce, and
I thought I'd drop in to get my tobacco and see how you were managing, with all
this fuss about the tax and everything?”

The sergeant had to speak up to be heard above the
rumbling of the snuff mill, and the carts that were moving across the factory
floor in a stream. Rows of women at tables were packing snuff and—here, he
leaned sideways to get a better view—the cigarette production line was also
a-bustle.

Sergeant Colon looked around. Policemen always look,
on the basis that there is always something to see. Of course, sometimes they
may find it sensible to forget that they have seen anything, at least
officially. Mr. Gumption had a new tie pin, in which a diamond flashed. His
shoes were also clearly new—bespoke, if Fred Colon was any judge—and a barely
noticeable sniff suggested the wearing of, let's see now, oh yes, Cedar
Fragrance Pour Hommes, from Quirm at $15 a pop.

He said, “How's business doing? Is the new tax
hitting you at all?”

Mr. Gumption's visage flew into the expression of a
hard-working man sorely pressed by the machinations of politics and fate. He
shook his head sadly. “We're barely making ends meet, Fred. Lucky to break even
at the end of the day.”

Oh, and a gold tooth, too, thought Sergeant Colon. I
nearly missed that. Out loud he said, “I'm very sorry to hear that,
Bewilderforce, I really am. Allow me to raise your profits by expending two
dollars in the purchase of my usual three ounces of twist tobacco.”

Fred Colon proffered his wallet and Mr. Gumption,
with a scolding noise, waved it away. It was a ritual as old as merchants and
policemen, and it allowed the world to keep on turning. He cut a length of
tobacco from the coil on the marble counter, wrapped it quickly and expertly,
and as an afterthought reached down and came up with a large cigar, which he
handed to the sergeant.

“Try one of these handsome smokes, Fred, just in,
not local, made on the plantation for our valued customers. No no, my pleasure,
I insist,” he added, as Fred made grateful noises. “Always nice to see the Watch
in here, you know that.”

Actually, Mr. Gumption thought, as he watched the
departing policemen, that was pretty mild: all that the Nobbs creature had done
was stare around.

“They must be coining it,” said Nobby Nobbs as they
ambled onward. “Did you see the ‘staff wanted' note in their window? And he was
writing out a list of prices on the counter. He's lowering them! He must have a
good deal going on with the plantation people, that's all I can say.”

Sergeant Colon sniffed the big fat cigar, the
fattest he had ever seen, which smelled so good it was probably illegal, and he
felt the tingle, the feeling that he had walked into something that was a lot
bigger than it seemed, the feeling that if you pulled a thread something large
would unravel. He rolled the cigar between his fingers the way he had seen
connoisseurs do. In truth, Sergeant Colon was, when it came to tobacco products,
something of a bottom-feeder, cheapness being the overriding consideration, and
the protocol of cigars was unfamiliar to a man who very much enjoyed a good
length of chewing tobacco. What was the other thing he had seen posh types do?
Oh yes, you had to roll it in your fingers and hold it up to your ear. He had no
idea why this had to be done, but he did it anyway.

And swore.

And dropped it on the ground…

T
he track from the top of Hangman's Hill went beyond the trees and down, mostly through furze bushes and rocky outcrops, with the occasional patch of raw and useless soil, all substance eroded away. Wild land, wasteland, home to skinny rabbits, hopeless mice, the occasional concussed rat, and goblins.

And there among the bushes was the entrance to a cave. A human would have to bend double to get into that fetid hole and would be an easy target. But Vimes knew, as he ducked through, that he was safe. He knew that. He had suspected it out in the daylight, and down in the darkness he
knew
. The knowledge was almost physical as wings of darkness spread over him, and he heard the sounds of the cave, every sound.

He suddenly
knew
the cave, all the way down to the place where water could be found, the fungus and mushroom gardens, the pathetically empty storerooms, and the kitchen. These were human translations, of course. Goblins generally ate where they could and slept where they fell asleep; they had no real concept of a room with one particular purpose. He knew this now as if he had known it all his life, and he had never before been in any place that a goblin would call home.

But this was the dark, and Vimes and the dark had an…understanding, didn't they? At least, that's what the dark thought. What Vimes thought, unprosaically, was
Damn, here we go again
.

He was prodded in the small of his back, and he heard Feeney gasp. Vimes turned to a grinning goblin and said, “Try that one more time, sunshine, and I'll give you a smack around the head, understand?” And that was what he said, and that was what he heard himself say…Except that something, not exactly another voice, climbed along his words like a snake coiling itself around a tree, and both his guards dropped their weapons and bolted back into the daylight. It was instant. They didn't yelp or shout. They wanted to save their breath for running.

“Great hells, Commander Vimes! That was bloody magical!” said Feeney, as he bent to grope for the fallen axes. Vimes watched in the thick darkness as he saw the boy's hands scrabbling and, by luck, find them.

“Drop them! I said drop them right now!”

“But we're unarmed!”

“Don't you bloody argue with me, boy!” There were a couple of thumps as the axes hit the ground.

Vimes breathed again. “Now, we're going to see that nice senior goblin, you understand, and we walk without fear because we
are
the law, you understand? And the law can go everywhere in pursuit of its inquiries.”

The headroom increased as they walked onward, until Vimes was able to stand fully upright. Feeney, on the other hand, was having difficulties. Behind Vimes there was a chorus of thumps, scrapes and words that dear old mums should not know about, let alone hear. Vimes had to stop and wait for the boy to catch up, stubbing his feet on easily avoidable outcrops and banging his head where the ceiling dipped briefly.

“Come on, chief constable!” Vimes shouted. “A copper should have good night vision! You should eat more carrots with your Bang Sung Suck Dog or whatever!”

“It's pitch black, sir! I can't see my hand in front of my face— Ouch!” Feeney had walked directly into Vimes. Light dawned, although not on Feeney.

Vimes looked around the meandering cave. It was lit as if by daylight. There were no torches, no candles, just a pervading, moderately bright light—the light he had seen before, years ago now, in a cave, a big cave, far away, and he knew what it meant: he was seeing darkness, probably better than the goblins did. The dark had become incredibly light on that day when Vimes underground, had fought creatures—walking, speaking creatures—that made their home away from the light, and had hatched dark plans. But Vimes had fought them, and he had won, and because of that, the Koom Valley Accord had been written and signed, and the oldest war in the world had ended in, if not peace, then a place where the seeds of peace could hopefully be planted. It was good to know that, because out of the darkness Vimes had acquired…a companion. The dwarfs had one name for it: the Summoning Dark. And they had any amount of explanations for what it was: a demon, a lost god, a curse, a blessing, vengeance made flesh, except that it had no flesh other than the flesh it borrowed, a law unto itself, a killer but sometimes a protector, or something that no one could find the right words for. It could travel through rock, water, air and flesh and, for all Vimes knew, through time. After all, what limits can you put on a creature made of nothing? Yes, he had met it and when they parted, for amusement, playfulness, mischief or simply reward the Summoning Dark had put its mark on him, drifting through him and leaving that little glowing tattoo.

Vimes pulled up his shirt sleeve and there it was, and it seemed to be brighter. Sometimes he met it in dreams, where they nodded at one another in respect and then went their separate ways. Months, even years might pass between meetings and he might think it had gone for good, but its mark was on his forearm. Sometimes it itched. All in all, it was like having a nightmare on a leash. And now it was giving him sight in the darkness. But hold on, this was a goblin burrow, not a dwarf cave! And his own thoughts came right back at him with that slight overtone, as if they were a duet: “Yes, but goblins steal
everything
, commander.”

Right here and now, it appeared that goblins had stolen away. The floor of the cave was covered with debris, rubbish and things that presumably goblins thought were important, which would probably mean everything, bearing in mind they religiously collected their own snot. He could see the old goblin beckoning him to follow before disappearing. There was a door ahead of him, of goblin manufacture, as was borne out by its look of rottenness and the fact that it was hanging by one hinge, which broke when Vimes gave the door a push. Behind him Feeney said, “What was that? Please, sir, I can't see a thing!”

Vimes walked across to the boy and tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to jump.

“Mr. Upshot, I'll take you up to the entrance so that you can go home, okay?”

He felt the boy shudder. “No, sir! I'd rather stay with you, if it's all the same to you…Please?”

“But you can't see in the dark, lad!”

“I know, sir. I've got some string in my pocket. My granddad said a good copper should always have a piece of string.” His voice was trembling.

“It
is
generally useful, yes,” said Vimes, carefully picking it out of the boy's pocket. “It's amazing how helpless a suspect can be with his thumbs tied together. Are you sure you wouldn't feel better up in the fresh air?”

“Sorry, sir, but if it's all the same to you I think the safest place to be right now is behind you, sir.”

“You really can't see a thing, lad?”

“Not a blessed thing, sir. It's like I've gone blind, sir.”

In Vimes's opinion the young man was about to go postal, and maybe tethering him to Vimes was better than hearing him knock himself out in an attempt to flee.

“You're not blind, lad, it's just that all that night duty I've done…well, it looks as if I'm better than I thought at seeing in the dark.”

Feeney shuddered again at Vimes's touch, but together they succeeded in linking Chief Constable Upshot to Vimes with about six feet of hairy string, which smelled of pig.

There were no goblins behind the broken door, but a fire was smouldering fitfully, with a piece of blessedly unrecognizable meat on a spit above it. A man might think that a goblin had found a reason to leave his tea behind in a hurry. And talking of tea, there was a pot, which was to say a rusty tin can, bubbling in the embers of the fire. Vimes sniffed at it, and was surprised that it smelled of bergamot, and somehow the idea of a goblin drinking posh tea with his pinkie extended managed, temporarily, to overwhelm his incongruity functions. Well, it grew, didn't it? And goblins probably got thirsty, didn't they? Nothing to worry about. Although if he found a plate of delicate biscuits he would definitely have to sit down and rest.

He walked on, the light never failing, goblins never appearing. The cave complex certainly sloped downward, and there were still signs of goblins everywhere, but of goblins themselves no sign, which in theory should be a good thing, given that generally the first sign of a goblin would be one landing on your head and trying to turn it into a bowling ball. And then there was a flash of color in this drab subterranean landscape of ices and browns: it was a bunch of flowers, or what had been a bunch before it had been dropped. Vimes wasn't an expert on flowers, and when he bought them for Sybil, at maritally advisable intervals, he generally stuck to a bunch of roses, or its seemingly acceptable equivalent, one single orchid. He was vaguely aware of the existence of other flowers, of course, which brightened up the place, to be sure, but he had never been one for the names.

There were no roses here, no orchids either. These flowers had been plucked from hedgerows and meadows and even included the scrawny plants that managed to hang on and flower in the wilderness up above. Someone had carried them. Someone had dropped them. Someone had been in a hurry. Vimes could read it in the flowers. They had fallen from somebody's open hand, so that they spread back along their path like a comet tail. And then more than one person had trampled them underfoot, but probably not because they were chasing the aforesaid bouquet carrier, but by the look of it because they wanted to go the way that he or she had run, and even faster than he or she did.

There had been a stampede, in fact. Scared people running away. But running away from what?

“You, Commander Vimes, you, the majesty of the law. See how I help you, commander?” The familiarity of the voice annoyed him; it sounded too much like his own voice. “But I'm here because they wanted me to come!” he said to the cave in general. “I wasn't intending to fight anybody!” And in his head his own voice told him, “Oh my little ragtag, rubbish people, who do not trust and are not trusted! Tread with care, Mr. Policeman; the hated have no reason to love! Oh, the strange and secret people, last and worst, born of rubbish, hopeless, bereft of god. The best of luck to you, my brother…my brother in darkness…Do what you can for them, Mr. Po-leess-maan.”

On Vimes's wrist the sigil of the Summoning Dark glowed for a moment.

“I'm not your brother!” Vimes shouted.
“I'm not a killer!”
The words echoed around the caves, but under them Vimes thought he felt something slithering away. Could something with no body slither? Gods damn the dwarfs and their subterranean folklore!

“Are you, er, all right, sir?” came the nervous voice of Feeney behind him. “Er, you were shouting, sir.”

“I was just cussing because I banged my head on the ceiling, lad,” Vimes lied. He had to deliver reassurance quickly before Feeney got so unnerved that he might try to make a break for the exit out of panic. “You're doing very well, chief constable!”

“Only, I don't like the dark, sir, never have…Er, do you think anyone'll worry if I have a wee up against the wall?”

“I should go ahead if I was you, lad. I don't think anything could make this place smell worse.”

Vimes heard some vague sounds behind him, and then Feeney said, in a damp little voice, “Er, nature has taken its course, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Vimes smiled to himself. “Don't worry, lad, you won't be the first copper to have to wring out his socks, and you won't be the last, either. I remember the first time I had to arrest a troll. Big fellow, he was, a very nasty character. I was a bit damp around the socks that day, and I don't mind admitting it. Think of it as a kind of baptism!” Keep it jolly, he thought, make a joke of it. Don't let him dwell on the fact that we're walking into the scene of a crime that he can't see. “Funny thing—that troll is now my best sergeant, and I've relied on him for my life quite a few times. That just goes to show that you never know, although what it is we never know I suspect we'll never know.”

Vimes turned a corner and there were the goblins. He was glad that young Feeney couldn't see them. Strictly speaking, Vimes wished he couldn't see them either. There must have been a hundred of them, many of them holding weapons. They were crude weapons, to be sure, but a flint ax hitting your head does not need a degree in physics.

“Have we got somewhere, sir?” said Feeney behind him. “You've stopped walking.”

They're just standing there, Vimes thought, as if they're on parade. Just watching in silence, waiting for that silence to break.

“There are a few
goblins
in this cave, lad, and they're watching us.”

After a few seconds of silence Feeney said, “Could you tell me exactly what a ‘few' means, sir?”

Dozens and dozens of owlish faces stared at Vimes without expression. If the silence was going to be broken by the word “charge” then he and Feeney would be smears on the floor, which was pretty smeared as it was. Why did I come in here? Why did I think it was a good thing to do? Oh well, the lad is a policeman, after all, and it isn't as if he doesn't already have a clothing problem. He said, “I would say there are about a hundred, lad, all heavily armed, as far as I can see, except for a couple of broken-down ones right at the front; could be chieftains, I suppose. Beards you could keep a rabbit in, and, by the look of it, may have. It looks as if they are waiting for something.”