Terry Pratchett - Thud

They come bloody close to worshipping them, Vimes thought, pinching the bridge of his nose and shutting his eyes. It just gets worse and worse.

`All right,' he said. `But this is Ankh-Morpork and we have our own laws. There can be no harm in us just checking up on the health of brother Hamcrusher, can there? We can knock on the door, can't we? Say we've got good reason to ask? I know it's only a rumour, but if enough people believe a rumour like that we will not be able to keep a lid on it.'

`Good idea, sir.'

`Go and tell Angua I want her along. And ... oh, Haddock. And Ringfounder, maybe. You come too, of course.' `Er, not a good idea, sir. I happen to know most deep-downers

are nervous about me. They believe I'm too human to be a dwarf.'

`Really?'

Six feet three inches in his stockinged feet, thought Vimes. Adopted and raised by dwarfs in a little dwarf mine in the mountains. His dwarfish name is Kzad-bhat, which means Head Banger. He coughed. `Why on earth should they think that, I wonder?' he said.

`All right, I know I'm ... technically human, sir, but size has traditionally never been a dwarfish definition of a dwarf. Hamcrusher's group aren't happy about me, though.'

`Sorry to hear it. I'll take Cheery, then.'

`Are you mad, sir? You know what they think about female dwarfs who actually admit it!'

`All right, then, I'll take Sergeant Detritus. They'll believe in him all right, won't they?'

`Could be said to be a bit provocative, sir-' Carrot began doubtfully.

`Detritus is an Ankh-Morpork copper, captain, just like you and me,' said Vimes. `I suppose I'm acceptable, am I?

'Yes, sir, of course. I think you worry them, though.'

`I do? Oh: Vimes hesitated. `Well, that's good. And Detritus is an officer of the law. We've still got some law here. And as far as I'm concerned, it goes deep. All the way down.'

Bloody stupid thing to say, Vimes thought five minutes later as he walked through the streets at the head of the little squad. He cursed himself for saying it.

Coppers stayed alive by trickery. That's how it worked. You had your Watch Houses with the big blue lights outside, and you made certain there were always burly watchmen visible in the big public places, and you swanked around like you owned the place. But you didn't own it. It was all smoke and mirrors. You magicked a little policeman into everyone's head. You relied on people giving in, knowing the rules. But in truth a hundred well-armed people could wipe out the Watch, if they knew what they were doing. Once some madman finds out that a copper taken unawares dies just like anyone else, the spell is broken.

Hamcrusher's dwarfs don't believe in the City Watch? That could turn out to be a problem. Maybe bringing a troll along was provocative, but Detritus was a citizen, gods damn it, just like everyone else. If you-

'Duddle-dum-duddle-dum-duddle-dum!'

Ah, yes. No matter how bad things were, there was always room for them to get just that little bit worse ...

He pulled the smart brown box out of his pocket and flipped it open. The pointy-eared face of a small green imp stared up at him with that wistful, hopeless smile which, in its various incarnations, he'd come to know and dread.

`Good Morning, Insert Name Here! I am the Dis-Organizer Mark Five, "The Gooseberry"TM. How may I-' it began, speaking fast in order to get as much said as possible before the inevitable interruption.

`I swear I switched you off,' said Vimes.

`You threatened me with a hammer,' said the imp accusingly, and rattled the tiny bars. `He threatens state-of-the-Craft technomancy with a hammer, everybody!' it shouted. `He doesn't even fill in the registration card! That's why I have to call him Insert Nam-'

`I thought you'd got rid of that thing, sir,' said Angua as Vimes snapped the lid shut. `I thought it had had an ... accident.' 'Hah!' said a muffled voice from the box.

'Sybil always gets me a new one,' said Vimes, making a face. `A better one. But I know this one was turned off.'

The box's lid thrust upwards.

`I wake up for alarms!' the imp shrieked. `Ten colon Forty-Five Sit

for Damn Portrait!'

Vimes groaned. The portrait with Sir Joshua. He'd get into

trouble for this. He'd already missed two sittings. But this dwarf

thing was ... important.

`I won't be able to make it,' he mumbled.

`Then would you like to engage the handy-to-use Bluenose tm

Integrated Messenger Service?'

`What does that do?' said Vimes with deep suspicion. The

succession of Dis-Organizers he had owned had proved quite

successful at very nearly sorting out all the problems that stemmed

from owning them in the first place.

`Er, basically, it means me running with a message to the nearest

clacks tower really fast,' said the imp hopefully.

`And do you come back?' said Vimes, hope also rising.

`Absolutely!'

`Thank you, no,' said Vimes.

`How about a game of Splong!TM, specially devised for the Mark

Five?' pleaded the imp. `I have the bats right here. No? Perhaps you

would prefer the ever-popular Guess My Weight in Pigs? Or I could

whistle one of your favourite tunes? My iHUM tm function enables

me to remember up to one thousand five hundred of your

all-time-'

`You could try learning to use it, sir,' said Angua, as Vimes once

again shut the lid on the protesting voice.

`Did use one,' said Vimes.

'Yup. As a doorstop,' rumbled Detritus, behind him.

`I'm just not at home with technomancy, all right?' said Vimes.

`End of discussion. Haddock, nip along to Moon Pond Lane, will

you? Present my apologies to Lady Sybil, who will be at Sir Joshua's

studio there. Tell her I'm very sorry, but this has come up and it needs careful handling.'

Well, it does, he thought, as they headed onward. It probably needs more careful handling than I'm going to give it. Well, to hell with that. It comes to something if you have to tread carefully even to find out if there's been a murder.

Treacle Street was just the kind of area the dwarfs colonized - on the edge of the less pleasant parts of town, but not all the way there. You tended to notice the dwarf outposts: a patchwork of windows testified to a two-storey house having been turned into a threestorey house while remaining exactly the same height; an excess of small ponies pulling small carts; and, of course, all the really short people wearing beards and helmets was a definite clue.

Dwarfs dug down, too. It was a dwarf thing. Up here, far from the river, they could probably get to sub-basement level without being up to their necks in water.

There were a lot of them out and about this morning. They weren't particularly angry, insofar as Vimes could tell when the available area of expression between eyebrows and moustache was a few square inches, but it wasn't usual to see dwarfs just standing around. They tended to be somewhere working hard, usually for one another. No, they weren't angry, but they were worried. You didn't need to see faces to sense that. Dwarfs as a whole weren't happy about newspapers, regarding such news as a lover of fine grapes would regard raisins. They got their news from other dwarfs, to ensure that it was new and fresh and full of personality, and no doubt it grew all kinds of extras in the telling. This crowd was waiting uncertainly for news that it was going to become a riot.

For now, the crowd parted to let them through. The presence of Detritus caused a wake of muttering, which the troll cleverly decided not to hear.

`Feel that?' said Angua, as they walked up the street. `Through your feet?'

`I don't have your senses, sergeant,' said Vimes.

`It's a constant thud, thud, underground,' said Angua. `I can feel the street shaking. I think it's a pump.'