The 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 gob
lins 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.”
There was a pause before Feeney said, “It’s been an education, working with you, sir.”
“Look,” said Vimes, “if I have to turn and run, just hang on, okay? Running is another skill a policeman sometimes needs.”
He turned to the crowd of impassive goblins and said, “I am Commander Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch! How can I help you?”
“Just ice!” The cry caused things to drop from the ceiling. It echoed around the cave and echoed again, as cavern after cavern picked up the shout, spun it around, and sent it back. Light rose as torches were kindled. It took Vimes a few moments to realize this, because the light he had seen, some curious artificial light that was probably in his head, had been brighter, and mixed strangely with the smoky orange that was now filling the cave.
“Well, sir, it looks as though they’re pleased to see us, yes?”
Feeney’s relief and hope should have been bottled and sold to despairing people everywhere. Vimes just nodded, because the ranks were pulling apart, leaving a pathway of sorts, at the end of which there was, inarguably, a corpse. It was a mild relief to see that it was a goblin corpse, but no corpse is good news, particularly when seen in a grimy low light and especially for the corpse. And yet something inside him exulted and cried Hallelujah!, because here was a corpse and he was a copper and this was a crime and this place was smoky and dirty and full of suspicious-looking goblins and here was a crime. His world. Yes, here was his world.
In the Ankh-Morpork City Watch forensic laboratory Igor was brewing coffee, to the accompaniment of distant rumblings, strange flashes of light and the smell of electricity. At last he pulled the big red lever and frothing brown liquid gurgled into a pot, to be subsequently delivered into two mugs, one of which carried the slogan “Igorth htitch you up,” while the other was emblazoned with “Dwarfs do it slightly lower down.” He handed that one to Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom, whose previous experience as an alchemist meant that she sometimes did duty in the lab. But at this point the cosiness of morning coffee was interrupted by Nobby Nobbs, towing Sergeant Colon behind him. “The sergeant has had a bit of a shock, Igor, so I thought you might be able to help him.”
“Well, I could give him another one,” Igor volunteered, as Fred Colon slumped into a chair, which creaked ominously under his weight. The chair had straps on it.
“Look,” said Nobby, “I’m not mucking about! You’ve heard of the tobacco that counts? Well, he just had a cigar that cries. I’ve put it in this ’ere evidence bag, as per standing instructions.”
Cheery took the bag and peered inside. “It’s got egg sandwiches in it! Honestly, Nobby, has anyone explained to you what forensic means?” On the basis that she probably couldn’t make things actually worse, Cheery emptied the sandwiches on to the table, where they were joined by one cigar with mayonnaise. She wiped this down with some care and looked at it. �
��Well, Nobby? I don’t smoke and I don’t know much about cigars, but this one appears to be quite happy at the moment.”
“You have to hold it to your ear,” said Nobby helpfully.
Cheery did so, and said, “All I can hear is the crinkling of the tobacco, which I suspect hasn’t been properly kept.” The dwarf held the cigar away from her face and looked at it suspiciously, and then wordlessly she handed it to Igor, who put it to his ear, or at least the one that he was currently using, because you never know with Igors. They looked at one another and Igor broke the silence. “There are such things, I believe, as tobacco weevils?”
“I’m sure there are,” said Cheery, “but I doubt very much if they…chuckle?”
“Chuckle? It sounded to me like somebody crying,” said Igor, as he squinted at the bulging cigar, and added, “We should wash down the table and clean a scalpel and use the number-two tweezers and two, no, make that four sterilized surgical masks and gloves. It may be some kind of unusual insect in there.”
“I held that cigar up to my ear,” said Nobby. “What kind of insect are we talking about?”
“I’m not sure,” said Igor, “but generally the places in the world where tobacco is cultivated are known for some remarkably dangerous ones. For example, the yellow grass weevil of Howondaland has been known to enter the skull via the ears, lay its eggs in the victim’s brain and leave the poor victim hallucinating continuously until it has exited via the nostrils. Death inevitably ensues. My cousin Igor has a tank full of them. They’re very good at getting skulls scrupulously clean.” Igor paused. “So I’m told, that is, although I personally cannot confirm that.” He paused again, then added, “Of course.”
Nobby Nobbs headed for the door, but, unusually, Sergeant Colon did not follow his friend. Instead, he said, “I’ll just stay with my fingers in my ears, if it’s all the same to you?”
He craned his head to watch as Igor carefully pulled the cigar apart, and said conversationally, “They say that the cigars made in foreign parts are rolled on the thighs of young women. Personally I call that disgusting.”
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