Terry Pratchett: Thud

`Yes, we were thinking "I wish the odds were on our side, just for once", Fred,' said Vimes. `Look, I know this is getting us all down, right? But I need you senior officers to tough it out, okay? How do you like your new office?'

Colon brightened up. `Very nice, sir. Shame about the door, o course.

Finding a niche for Fred Colon had been a problem. To look at him, you'd see a man who might well, if he fell over a cliff, have to stop and ask directions on the way down. You had to know Fred Colon. The newer coppers didn't. They just saw a cowardly, stupid fat man, which, to tell the truth, was pretty much what was there. But it wasn't all that was there.

Fred had looked retirement in the face, and didn't want any. Vimes had got around the problem by giving him the post of Custody Officer, to the amusement of all, [1] and an office in the Watch Training School across the alley, which was much better known as, and probably would for ever be known as, the old lemonade factory. Vimes had thrown in the job of Watch Liaison Officer, because it sounded good and no one knew what it meant. He'd also given him Corporal Nobbs, who was another awkward dinosaur in today's Watch.

It was working, too. Nobby and Colon had a street-level knowledge of the city that rivalled Vimes's own. They ambled about,

[1] As in `Ol' Fred thought he said custard officer and volunteered!' Since this is an example of office humour, it doesn't actually have to be funny.

apparently aimless and completely unthreatening, and they watched and they listened to the urban equivalent of the jungle drums. And sometimes the drums came to them. Once, Fred's sweaty little office had been the place where bare-armed ladies had mixed up great batches of Sarsaparilla and Raspberry Lava and Ginger Pop. Now the kettle was always on and it was open house for all his old mates, ex-watchmen and old cons - sometimes the same individual - and Vimes happily signed the bill for the doughnuts consumed when they dropped by to get out from under their wives' feet. It was worth it. Old coppers kept their eyes open, and gossiped like washerwomen.

In theory, the only problem in Fred's life now was his door.

`The Historians' Guild say we've got to preserve as much of the old fabric as possible, Fred,' said Vimes.

`I know that, sir, but ... well, "The Twaddle Room" sir? I mean, really!'

`Nice brass plate, though, Fred,' said Vimes. `It's what they called the basic soft-drink syrup, I'm told. Important historical fact. You could stick a piece of paper over the top of it.'

`We do that, sir, but the lads pull it off and snigger.'

Vimes sighed. `Sort it out, Fred. If an old sergeant can't sort out that kind of thing, the world has become a very strange place. Is that all?'

`Well, yes, sir, really. But-'

'C'mon, Fred. It's going to be a busy day.'

`Have you heard of Mr Shine, sir?'

`Do you clean stubborn surfaces with it?' said Vimes.

'Er ... what, sir?' said Fred. No one did perplexed better than

Fred Colon. Vimes felt ashamed of himself.

`Sorry, Fred. No, I haven't heard of Mr Shine. Why?'

`Oh ... nothing, really. "Mr Shine, him Diamond!" Seen it on

walls a few times lately. Troll graffiti; you know, carved in deep.

Seems to be causing a buzz among the trolls. Important, maybe?'

Vimes nodded. You ignored the writing on the walls at your peril. Sometimes it was the city's way of telling you, if not what was on its bubbling mind, then at least what was in its creaking heart.

`Well, keep listening, Fred. I'm relying on you not to let a buzz become a sting,' said Vimes, with extra cheerfulness to keep the man's spirits up. `And now I've got to see our vampire.)

'Best of luck, Sam. I think it's going to be a long day.'

Sam, thought Vimes, as the old sergeant went out. Gods know he's earned it, but he only calls me Sam when he's really worried. Well, we all are.

We're waiting for the first shoe to drop.

Vimes unfolded the copy of the Times that Cheery had left on his desk. He always read it at work, to catch up on the news that Willikins had thought it unsafe for him to hear whilst shaving.

Koom Valley, Koom Valley . Vimes shook out the paper and saw Koom Valley everywhere. Bloody, bloody Koom Valley . Gods damn the wretched place, although obviously they had already done so - damned it and then forsaken it. Up close it was just another rocky wasteland in the mountains. In theory it was a long way away, but lately it seemed to be getting a lot closer. Koom Valley wasn't really a place now, not any more. It was a state of mind.

If you wanted the bare facts, it was where the dwarfs had ambushed the trolls and/or the trolls had ambushed the dwarfs, one ill-famed day under unkind stars. Oh, they'd fought one another since Creation, as far as Vimes understood it, but at the Battle of Koom Valley that mutual hatred became, as it were, Official, and as such had developed a kind of mobile geography. Where any dwarf fought any troll, there was Koom Valley. Even if it was a punch-up in a pub, it was Koom Valley. It was part of the mythology of both races, a rallying cry, the ancestral reason why you couldn't trust those short, bearded/big, rocky bastards.

There had been plenty of such Koom Valleys since that first one. The war between the dwarfs and the trolls was a battle of natural

forces, like the war between the wind and the waves. It had a momentum of its own.

Saturday was Koom Valley Day and Ankh-Morpork was full of trolls and dwarfs, and you know what? The further trolls and dwarfs got from the mountains, the more that bloody, bloody Koom Valley mattered. The parades were okay; the Watch had got good at keeping them apart, and anyway they were in the morning when everyone was still mostly sober. But when the dwarf bars and the troll bars emptied out in the evening, hell went for a stroll with its sleeves rolled up.

In the bad old days the Watch would find business elsewhere, and turned up only when stewed tempers had run their course. Then they'd bring out the hurry-up wagon and arrest every troll and dwarf too drunk, dazed or dead to move. It was simple.

That was then. Now, there were too many dwarfs and trolls - no, mental correction, the city had been enriched by vibrant, growing communities of dwarfs and trolls - and there was more ... yes, call it venom in the air. Too much ancient politics, too many chips handed down from shoulder to shoulder. Too much boozing, too.

And then, just when you thought it was as bad as it could be, up popped Grag Hamcrusher and his chums. Deep-downers, they were called, dwarfs as fundamental as the bedrock. They'd turned up a month ago, occupied some old house in Treacle Street and had hired a bunch of local lads to open up the basements. They were grags'. Vimes knew just enough dwarfish to know that grag meant renowned master of dwarfish lore. Hamcrusher, however, had mastered it in his own special way. He preached the superiority of dwarf over troll, and that the duty of every dwarf was to follow in the footsteps of their forefathers and remove trollkind from the face of the world. It was written in some holy book, apparently, so that made it okay, and probably compulsory.

Young dwarfs listened to him, because he talked about history and destiny and all the other words that always got trotted out to put a gloss on slaughter. It was heady stuff, except that brains weren't involved. Malign idiots like him were the reason you saw dwarfs walking around now not just with the `cultural' battle-axe but heavy mail, chains, morningstars, broadswords ... all the dumb, in-your-face swaggering that was known as `clang.

Trolls listened too. You saw more lichen, more clan graffiti, more body-carving and much, much bigger clubs being dragged around.

It hadn't always been like this. Things had loosened up a lot in the last ten years or so. Dwarfs and trolls as races would never be chums, but the city stirred them together and it had seemed to Vimes that they had managed to get along with no more than surface abrasions.