Vimes nodded at this. “One last thing, Ted. Remind me again …What exactly does Mr. Stratford look like?”
“Oh, you know the type, sir, sort of average. Dunno how old he is. Maybe twenty-five. Maybe twenty. Sort of mousy hair. No scars that show, amazingly.” Ted looked embarrassed at this paucity of information and shrugged. “Sort of average height, sir.” He scrabbled for details and gave up. “To tell you the truth, he sort of looks like everyone else, sir, that is until he gets angry”—Ted’s face lit up—“and that, sir, is when he looks like Stratford.”
Willikins was sitting on the bench under the chestnut tree with his hands resting peacefully on his knees. He was good at it. He had a talent for resting that had escaped Vimes. It must be a servant thing, Vimes thought: if you don’t have anything to do, don’t do anything. And right now he could do with a rest. Maybe evidence was going downstream even as he stood there, but by the sound of it at a speed that could almost be overtaken on foot. Regrettably Sybil was right. At his age you had to be sensible. You sometimes had to catch your breath, while you still had some. He sat down beside the man, and said, “An interesting day, Willikins.”
“Indeed, yes, commander, and may I say that young Constable Upshot handled his responsibilities with great aplomb. You have a talent for inspiring people, sir, if I may say so.”
There was silence for a while, and then Vimes said, “Well, of course, we were helped by the fact that some bloody fool actually let an arrow go! You could see them thinking about what might happen if you’re one of the gang that killed a dear old lady. That’s a kind of trouble you don’t get out of easily. That opened them up! And it was obviously a real stroke of luck for us,” Vimes added, without turning his head. He let the silence continue as the storm raged in the distance, while, nearby, whatever it was that was chirruping in the bushes carried on doing so in the warm, sultry afternoon.
“It puzzles me, though,” he went on, as if a thought had only just crossed his mind. “If it was someone in the front of the crowd who had loosed his crossbow then surely I would have seen it, and if it was one toward the back then he would have to have been clever and skilful enough to sight through maybe a very narrow space. That would be very clever shooting, Willikins.”
Willikins was still staring placidly ahead. Vimes’s sideways glance spotted no hint of moisture on his brow. Then the gentleman’s gentleman said, “I expect these country lads excel at trick shooting, commander.”
Vimes slapped him on the back and laughed. “Well, that’s the funny thing, don’t you think? I mean, did you see their gear? It was low-grade stuff, in my opinion, not well maintained, the kind of stuff that granddad brought back from some war, whereas that arrow, I recognized that evil little package as a custom-made bolt for the Burleigh and Stronginthearm Piecemaker Mark IX, you remember?”
“I am afraid you will have to refresh my memory, commander.”
Vimes was beginning to enjoy himself and said, “Oh, you must! Only three of them were made, and two of them are still under wizard-assisted lock and key in the company vaults and the other—surely you remember this?—is locked safely in that little vault that we made in the cellar in Scoone Avenue last year? You and I poured concrete while Sybil and the lad were out, and rubbed dirt all over the floor so that you had to know it was there in order to find it. It’s a hanging matter for anyone to be found with one of them, according to Vetinari, and the Assassins’ Guild told the Times that hanging would be a picnic compared with what would happen to anyone they found in possession of one of those. I mean, think about it: can’t hardly tell it’s a crossbow. Silent, folds up and fits in a pocket in an instant, easily concealed and deadly in the hands of a skilled man, such as you or I.” Vimes laughed again. “Don’t be surprised, Willikins, I recall your prowess with even a standard military bow during the war. Heavens know what someone like you could manage with the damn Piecemaker. I just wonder how one turned up out here in the country. After all, Feeney confiscated all the weapons he found, but maybe one of those chaps had hidden it in his boot. What do you think?”
Willikins cleared his throat. “Well, commander, if I may speak freely, I might surmise that there are many workers at Burleigh and Stronginthearm, which is one factor, and, of course, the directors of the most famous weapons producer on the Plains might also have decided to hide away a few souvenirs before the range was banned, and who knows where they might have got to. I can think of no other explanation.”
“Well, of course you may be right,” said Vimes. “And while it’s a terrifying thought that one of these things might be out on the streets somewhere, I must admit that the idiot who used it really helped us out of a difficult situation.” He paused for a while and then said, “Have you had a pay rise lately, Willikins?”
“I am entirely satisfied with my remuneration, commander.”
“It is entirely deserved, but to be on the safe side, I’d like you, as soon as we are back home, to check in the cellar just in case, will you? Because obviously, if there are more of those bloody things out there, I want to make certain that I’ve still got one too.” And as Willikins turned away Vimes continued, “Oh, and Willikins, it’s a damn good job for you that Feeney cannot put two and two together.”
Was that the faintest sigh of relief? Surely not. “I will expedite that as soon as we enter the building, commander, and I am certain that should you yourself want to go down there some time later to make a personal check, you will find it resting where it has always been.”
“I’m sure I shall, Willikins; but I wonder if you could solve a problem for me? I have to catch the Wonderful Fanny.”
He added hurriedly, “Which is a boat, of course.”
“Yes, sir, I am aware of the vessel in question. Remember that I’d already been here for some time before you and her ladyship arrived, and I happened to be near the river when she went upstream. I recall the people pointed her out to me. I was given to understand that she was going up to Overhang to load up, probably with iron ore brought down from the dwarf mine, which rather surprised me, given that normally they smelt directly at their mines and export the bar-stock, this being a more economical method, sir.”
“Fascinating,” said Vimes, “but I think that however slow it goes, I ought to get after her.”
Feeney was just emerging from the cottage.
“I’ve heard about the …the boat, lad. We should get going while it’s still light.”
Feeney actually saluted. “Yes, I have that in hand, sir, but what about my prisoner? I mean, my old mum could give him his meals and empty his bucket for him, won’t be the first time she’s had to do that sort of thing, but I don’t like leaving her by herself, right now, if you get my thinking?”
Vimes nodded. Back home he only had to snap his fingers for a watchman to become immediately available, but now …Well, he had no choice. “Willikins!”
“Yes, commander?”
“Willikins, against my better judgement and I dare say yours, I hereby appoint you to the rank of Special Constable and I command you to take the prisoner back to the Hall and keep him under lock and key there. Even a bloody army would be mad to attack the Hall with Sybil in it. But just in case, Willikins, I can think of no man better suited to guard my family.”
Willikins beamed and saluted. “Yes, sir, orders received and understood, sir. You can depend on me, sir, only …er, well, when we get back to the city could you, er, please not let anyone know that I was a copper for a while? I have friends, sir, dear friends who have known me for a long time and they would cut my ears off if they heard I was a copper.”
“Well, far be it from me to whiten a man’s name against his will,” said Vimes. “Do we have an understanding? I’d be grateful if you could refrain from too much adventureishness. Just guard the prisoner and ensure that no harm comes to him. If this means a little judicious harm has to come to s
omeone else, I will regretfully accept the fact.”
Willikins looked solemn. “Yes, sir, fully understood, sir. My comb will not leave my pocket.”
Vimes sighed. “You have a great many things in your pockets, Willikins. Ration their usage, man. And by the way, please tell Sybil and Young Sam that Daddy is chasing the bad men and will see them again soon.”
Feeney looked from Vimes to Willikins. “Glad that’s sorted out, gentlemen,” he said, and smiled nervously. “Now, if you’re ready, commander, we’ll just go along to the livery stable and pick up a couple of horses.” With that he began to walk smartly down to the village, leaving Sam Vimes no alternative but to follow.
Vimes said, “Horses?”
“Absolutely, commander. From what I hear we should catch up with the Fanny in an hour. To tell you the truth, we could probably outrun it, but it’s best to be on the safe side, don’t you think?”
Feeney looked sheepish for a moment and then added, “I don’t usually ride much, sir, but I’ll try not to disgrace myself in front of you.”
Vimes opened his mouth. Then Vimes shut his mouth, trapping the words: Lad, I’d rather ride a pig than horse, if it’s all the same to you? I mean, pigs just run along, but horses? Most of the time I’ve got nothing against horses, and then I come down very firmly against horses, and then I’m shot up in the air again so that once more I have nothing against horses, but I know that in half a second the whole damn thing starts again, and yes before you come out with the whole business of “It’s all right if you rise up when they go down” let me say that has never ever worked for me, because then I’m either above and a little behind the horse or against the horse so firmly that I’m really glad that Sybil and I have decided to have only one child …
Feeney was, however, in keen and chattering form. “I expect there were a lot of horses at Koom Valley, eh, sir?”
And Vimes was stuck. “Actually, lad, the trolls have no use for them and the dwarfs are said to eat them, on the quiet.”
“Gosh, that must’ve been a blow to a fighting man like yourself, commander?”
Fighting man? Maybe, Vimes thought, at least when no alternative presents itself, but how in the seven hells did you get the idea that I’m comfortable even looking at horses? And why are we still walking toward some barn that is going to be full of the wretched things, stamping and snorting and dribbling and rolling their eyes backward like they do? Well, I’ll tell you why. It’s because I’m too damn scared to tell Feeney that I’m too damn scared. Hah, the story of my life, too much of a damn coward to be a coward!
Now Feeney pushed aside a heavy wooden gate, which, to Vimes’s susceptible ear, creaked like a fresh gallows, and he groaned as they stepped through. Yes, it was a livery stable, and it made Vimes liverish. And there they were, the inevitable hangers-on: bandy-legged, no more than one button on their coats, and a certain suggestion of rat about the nose and wishbone about the legs. You could have played crockett with them. Every one of them would have a straw in his mouth, presumably because that’s what they lived on. And, helplessly, Vimes was introduced to men who knew they had heard of him, very big policeman certainly, while Feeney painted a picture of him as just the sort of man who would insist on riding the swiftest beast that they had installed in the stalls.
Two evil-looking mounts were led out, and Feeney generously brought the larger over to Vimes. “There you go, sir. Back in the saddle again, eh?” he said, and handed the reins to Vimes.
While Feeney was negotiating the hire, Vimes felt something tug at his leg and he looked down into the grinning face of Special Constable Stinky, who hissed, “Big trouble, fellow po-leess-maan colleague? Big trouble for a man scared of horses. Damn right!? Hate horse, can smell fear. You take me, po-leess-maan. I fix. No worry. You need Stinky anyway, yes? You find frightened goblin? Panic panic panic! But Stinky say shut gob goblins, this man despite appearances not too much of an arsehole, yes indeed!”
The wretched little goblin lowered his cracked voice still further, and added, so that Vimes could barely hear it, “And Stinky never ever said anything about po-leess-maan’s shirt-washing man and very cross bow, hey? Mr. Vimes? There is no race so wretched that there is not something out there that cares for them, Mr. Vimes.”
The words hit Vimes like a slap in the face. Had the little bugger said that? Had Vimes really heard it? The words had dropped into the conversation as if from somewhere else, somewhere very elsewhere. He stared at Stinky, who rattled his teeth at him cheerfully and swung himself dreadfully under the horse just as, on the other side of the yard, the brains trust of debating equestrian experts settled the negotiations with Feeney. The apparent boss spat on his hand and Feeney, against all public safety procedures, spat on his hand and then shook hands and then money changed hands, and Vimes hoped that it washed its hands.
Then, in front of Vimes, possibly to its own amazement, the horse knelt down. Vimes had only seen that in a circus, and everyone else acted as if they’d never seen it at all.
Stinky had miraculously disappeared, but when incredulous eyes are watching, as the venerable philosopher Ly Tin Weedle says, you have to do something or be considered, in the great scheme of things, a tit. And so Vimes went bowlegged and shuffled along the horse as nonchalantly as he could, and made the strange clicking noise that he’d heard ostlers use for every command, and the horse got to its hooves, raising Vimes as gently as a cradle to the astonishment and subsequent wild applause of the bandy-legged throng, who clapped and said things like, bless you, sir, you ought to get a job in a circus! And at the same time Feeney was all admiration, unfortunately.
The wind was blowing up, but there was still some daylight left, and Vimes let the constable lead the way at a gentle trot, which indeed turned out to be gentle.
“Looks like rain coming in, commander, so I reckon we’ll take it a little gently until we get down past Piper’s Holding, and then round by the shallows at Johnson’s Neck, where we can canter around the melon plantation, and by then we should be able to see the Fanny. Is that all right by you, sir?”
Sam Vimes solemnly waited for a few seconds to give the impression that he had the faintest idea about the local landscape, and then said, “Well, yes, I think that should be about right, Feeney.”
Stinky dragged himself up the horse’s mane, grinning again, and held up a large thumb, fortunately his own.
Feeney gathered up the reins. “Good, sir, then I think we’d better bustle!”
It took Vimes a little while to fully understand what was going on. There was Feeney, on his horse, there was the statutory clicking noise, and then no Feeney, no horse, but quite a lot of dust in the distance and the cracked voice of Stinky saying, “Hold on tight, Mr. Po-leess-maan!” And then the horizon jumped toward him. Galloping was somehow not as bad as trotting, and he managed to more or less lie on the horse and hope that somebody knew what was going on. Stinky appeared to be in charge.
The track was quite wide and they thundered along it, trailing white dust; and then suddenly they were heading downward while the land on Vimes’s right was going up and the river was appearing behind some trees. He knew already that it was a river that saw no point in hurrying. After all, it was made up of water, and it is generally agreed that water has memory. It knew the score: you evaporated, you floated around in a cloud until somebody organized everybody, and then you all fell down as rain. It happened all the time. There was no point in hurrying. After your first splash, you’d seen it all before.
And so the river meandered. Even the Ankh was faster—and while the Ankh stank like a drain, it didn’t wobble slowly backward and forward, from one bank to the other, as Old Treachery did, as if uncertain about the whole water cycle business. And as the river wiggled like a snake, so did the banks, which, in accordance with the general placid and unhurried landscape, were overgrown and thick with vegetation.
<
br /> Nevertheless, Feeney kept up the pace, and Vimes simply clung on, on the basis that horses probably didn’t willfully try falling into water of their own accord. He remained lying flat because the increasingly low branches and tangled foliage otherwise threatened to smite him off his mount like a fly.
Ah yes, the flies. The riverside bred them by the million. He could feel them crawling over his hair until some leaf or twig swatted them off. The likelihood of spotting the Wonderful— boat without having one’s head smacked off seemed extremely little.
And yet here, suddenly, was a respite for Vimes’s aching backside, the sand bar with a few logs marooned on it, and Feeney just reining his horse to a stop. Vimes managed to get upright again, just in time, and both men slid to the ground.
“Very well done, commander! You were born in the saddle, obviously! Good news! Can you smell that?”
Vimes sniffed, giving himself a noseful of flies and a very heavy stink of cattle dung. “Hangs in the air, don’t it?” said Feeney. “That’s the smell of a two-oxen boat, right enough! They muck out as they go, you know.”
Vimes looked at the turgid water. “I’m not surprised.” Perhaps, he thought, this might be the time to have a little discussion with the kid. He cleared his throat and looked blankly at the mud as he got his thoughts in order; a little trickle of water dribbled over the bar, and the horses shifted uneasily.
“Feeney, I don’t know what we’ll be getting into when we catch up with the boat, understand? I don’t know if we can turn it round, or get the goblins out and then get them home overland, or if we’ll even have to ride it down all the way to the coast, but I’m in charge, do you understand? I’m in charge because I am very used to people not wanting to see me in front of them, or even alive.”
Discworld 39 - Snuff Page 29
