Thud (10 page)

A desk was covered in paperwork. Beside it, on a small table, was an octagonal board covered in little playing pieces. Vimes sighed. He hated games. They made the world look too simple.

“Oh, do you play at all, Commander?” said Helmclever with the hungry look of a true enthusiast. Vimes knew the type, too. Show polite interest, and you’ll be there all night.

“Lord Vetinari does. It’s never interested me,” said Vimes.
*
“Hemclever’s not a common dwarf name. You’re not related to the Helmclevers in Tallow Lane, are you?”

He’d meant it as no more than a bit of noncontroversial ice-breaking, but he might as well have cursed. Helmclever looked down and mumbled: “Er, yes…but to a…grag, even a novice, all of dwarfdom is his…family. It would not be…really not be…” He faltered into silence, and then some other part of his brain took over. He looked up, brightly. “Some coffee, perhaps? I shall fetch some.”

Vimes opened his mouth to say no, but didn’t. Dwarfs made good coffee, and there was a smell of it wafting from the next room. Besides, the nervousness radiating off Helmclever suggested he’d been drinking a lot of it today. No harm in encouraging him to have more. It was something he told his officers: people got worried around coppers if the officer knew his stuff, and jittery people gave too much away.

While the dwarf was gone, he took in more of the room, and his eye spotted the words
The Koom Valley Codex
on the spine of a book half-concealed in the paperwork.

That bloody valley again, with added weirdness this time. Actually, Sybil had bought a copy, along with most of reading population of the city, and had dragged him along to look at that poor man’s wretched picture in the Royal Art Museum. A painting with secrets? Oh yes? And how come some mad young human artist a hundred years ago knew the secret of a battle fought thousands of years before? Sybil said that the book claimed he’d found something on the battlefield, but it was haunted, and voices drove him to believe he was a chicken. Or something.

When the mugs were brought in, with just a little spilled on Helmclever’s desk because his hand was shaking, Vimes said: “I must see Grag Hamcrusher, sir.”

“I’m sorry, that is not possible.”

The answer came out flat and level, as if the dwarf had been practicing. But there was a flicker in his eyes, and Vimes glanced up at a very large grille in the wall.

At this point, Angua gave a little cough. Okay, thought Vimes, someone’s listening.

“Mr. Helm…clever,” he said, “I have reason to suppose that a serious crime has been committed on Ankh-Morpork soil.” He added: “That is to say, under it. But Ankh-Morpork’s, anyway.”

Once again, Helmclever’s strange calm gave him away. There was a hunted look in his eyes.

“I am sorry to hear it. How may I assist you to solve it?”

Oh well, thought Vimes, I did say I don’t play games.

“By showing me the dead body you have downstairs,” he said.

He was obscenely pleased at the way Helmclever deflated. Time to press home…

He took out his badge.

“My authority, Mr. Helmclever. I
will
search this place. I would prefer to do so with your permission.”

The dwarf was trembling, with fear or anxiety or probably both.

“You will
invade
our premises? You cannot! Dwarf law—”

“This is Ankh-Morpork,” said Vimes. “All the way to the top, all the way to the bottom. Invasion is not the issue. Are you really telling me I cannot search a basement? Now take me to Grag Hamcrusher or whoever is in charge! Now!”

“I—I refuse your request!”

“It wasn’t a request!”

And now we reach our own little Koom Valley, Vimes thought, as he stared into Helmclever’s eyes. No backing down. We both think we’re right. But
he’s
wrong!

A movement made him glance down. Helmclever’s trembling finger had teased out the spilled coffee into a circle. As Vimes stared, the dwarf’s fingers drew two lines across the circle. He looked back up, his eyes bulging with anger, fear…and just a hint of something else…

“Ah. Commander Vimes, is it?” said a figure in the doorway.

It might have been Lord Vetinari speaking. It was that same level tone indicating that he had noticed you and you were, in some small way, a necessary chore. But it was coming from another dwarf, presumably, although he wore a rigid, pointed black hood, which brought him up to the height of the average human.

Elsewhere he was completely shrouded—and that was a well-chosen word—in overlapping black-leather scales, with just a narrow slit for the eyes. Were it not for the quiet authority of the voice, the figure in front of Vimes could be mistaken for a very somber Hogswatch decoration.

“And you are—?” said Vimes.

“My name is Ardent, Commander. Helmclever, go about your chores!”

As the “daylight face” scuttled off at speed, Vimes turned in his seat and allowed his hand to brush across the sticky symbol, wiping it out. “And do
you
want to be helpful, too?” he said.

“If I can be,” said the dwarf. “Please follow me. It would be preferable if the sergeant did not accompany you.”

“Why?”

“The obvious reason,” said Ardent. “She is openly female.”

“What? So? Sergeant Angua is very definitely not a dwarf,” said Vimes. “You can’t expect everyone to conform to
your
rules!”

“Why not?” said the dwarf. “You do. But could we just, together, for a moment, proceed to my office and discuss matters?”

“I’ll be fine, sir,” said Angua. “It’s probably the best way.”

Vimes tried to relax. He knew he was letting himself get steamed up. Those silent watchers in the street had got through to him, and the look he’d gotten from Helmclever needed some thinking about. But—

“No,” he said.

“You will not make that small concession?” said Ardent.

“I am already making several big ones, believe me,” said Vimes.

The hidden eyes under the pointy cowl stared at him for a few seconds.

“Very well,” said Ardent. “Please follow me.”

The dwarf turned and opened a door behind him, stepping into a small, square room. He beckoned them to follow and, when they were inside, pulled a lever.

The room shook gently, and the walls began to rise.

“This is—” Ardent began.

“—an elevator,” said Vimes. “Yes, I know. I saw them when I met the Low King in Uberwald.”

The dropping of the name did not work.

“The Low King is not…respected here,” said Ardent.

“I thought he was the ruler of all dwarfs?” said Vimes.

“A common misconception. Ah, we have arrived.”

The elevator stopped with barely a jerk.

Vimes stared.

Ankh-Morpork was built on Ankh-Morpork. Everyone knew that. They had been building with stone here ten thousand years ago. As the annual flooding of the Ankh brought more silt, so the city had risen on its wall until attics had become cellars. Even at basement level today, it was always said, a man with a pickaxe and a good sense of direction could cross the city by knocking his way through underground walls, provided he could also breathe mud.

What had this place been? A palace? The temple of a god who’d subsequently slipped everyone’s memory? It was a big space, dark as soot, but there was a glow that managed to show beautiful vaulting in the roof above. A strange glow.

“Vurms,” said Ardent. “From the deep caves in the mountains around Llamedos. We brought them with us, and they breed very fast here. They find your silt quite nourishing. I’m sure they shine more, too.”

The glow moved. It did not illuminate much, but it showed the shape of things, and it was heading toward the elevator, flowing over the wonderful ceiling.

“They head for heat and movement, even now,” said the hooded dwarf.

“Er…why?”

Ardent gave a little laugh.

“In case you die, Commander. They think you are some rat or small deer that has tumbled into their cave. Nourishment is rare in the Deeps. Every breath you exhale is food. And when eventually you expire, they will…descend. They are very patient. They will leave nothing but bones.”

“I was not
intending
to expire here,” said Vimes.

“Of course not. Follow me, please,” said Ardent, leading them past a big, round door. There were more doors on the other side of the room, and several gaping tunnel mouths.

“How far down are we?”

“Not far. About forty feet. We are good at digging.”

“In this city?” said Vimes. “Why aren’t we trying to breathe underwater? And calling it water is giving it the best of it.”

“We are very good at keeping water out, too. Alas, it appears we are less good at keeping out Samuel Vimes.” The dwarf stepped into a smaller room, its ceiling thick with brilliant vurms, and motioned to a couple of dwarf-sized chairs. “Do sit down. Can I offer you refreshment?”

“No, thank you,” said Vimes. He sat down gingerly on a chair that brought his knees up almost to his chin. Ardent sat down behind a small desk made of stone slabs and, to Vimes’s amazement, took off his headgear. He looked quite young, with a beard that was actually trimmed. Angua watched him, breathing slowly.

“How far do all these tunnels run?” Vimes said.

“I don’t propose to tell you,” said Ardent levelly.

“So you’re undermining my city?”

“Oh, Commander! You’ve been to the caves in Uberwald. You’ve seen how dwarfs can build? We are craftsmen. Do not think that your house is about to collapse.”

“But you’re not just building basements! You’re mining!” said Vimes.

“In a sense. We would say we are mining for holes. Space, Commander, that is what we are digging for. Yes, we are mining for holes. Although our bores have found deep treacle, you will be interested to hear—”

“You can’t do this!”

“Can we not? But we are doing it nevertheless,” said Ardent calmly.

“You are burrowing under other people’s property?”

“Rabbits burrow, Commander.
We
dig. And, yes, we are. How far down does ownership go, after all? And how far up?”

Vimes looked at the dwarf. Calm down, he thought. You can’t deal with this. This is too big. It’s something for Vetinari to decide. Stick to what you know. Stick to what you
can
deal with.

“I’m investigating reports of a death,” he said.

“Yes. Grag Hamcrusher. A terrible misfortune,” said Ardent, with a calmness that was enraging.

“I’ve heard it was a vicious murder.”

“That would be a fair description.”

“You admit it?” said Vimes.

“I’ll choose to assume that by that you mean ‘do I admit there has been a murder,’ Commander. Yes. There has. And we are dealing with it.”

“How?”

“We are discussing the appointment of a
zadkrdga
,” said

Ardent, folding his hands. “That is ‘one who smelts.’ One who finds the pure ore of truth in the dross of confusion.”

“
Discussing?
Have you sealed off the scene of the crime yet?”

“The smelter may order that, Commander, but we already know that the crime was committed by a troll.”

Ardent’s face now bore an expression of amused contempt that Vimes longed to remove.

He said: “How do you know this? Was it witnessed?”

“Not as such. But a troll’s club was found beside the body,” said the dwarf.

“And that’s all you have to go on?” Vimes stood up. “I’ve had enough of this. Sergeant Angua!”

“Sir?” said Angua, beside him.

“Let’s go. We’re going to find the murder scene while there’s still any clues left to find!”

“You have no business in the lower areas!” snapped Ardent, standing up.

“How are you going to stop me?”

“How are you going to get past locked doors?”

“How are
you
going to find out who murdered Hamcrusher?”

“I told you, a troll’s club was found!”

“And that’s
it
? ‘We found a club, so a troll did it?’ Is anyone going to believe that? You’re prepared to start a war in my city with a piece of flimflam like that? Because, believe me, that’s what’s going to happen when this gets out. Try it and I’ll arrest you!”

“And start a war in your city?” said Ardent.

Dwarf and man glared at each other while they caught their breath. On the ceiling above them, vurms congregated, feasting on spittle and rage.

“Why would anyone but a troll strike down the grag?” said Ardent.

“Good! You’re asking questions!” Vimes leaned across the desk. “If you really want answers, unlock those doors!”

“No! You cannot go down there, Blackboard Monitor Vimes!”

The dwarf could not have put more venom in the words “child murderer.”

Vimes stared.

Blackboard monitor.
Well, he had been, in that little street school, more than forty-five years ago. Mum had insisted. Gods knew where she’d sprung the penny a day it cost, although most of the time Dame Slightly had been happy to accept payment in old clothes and firewood, or, preferably, gin. Numbers, Letters, Weights, Measures; it was not what you’d call a rich curriculum. Vimes had attended for nine months or so, until the streets demanded he learn much harder and sharper lessons. But, for a while, he’d been trusted to hand out the slates and clean the blackboard. Oh, the heady, strutting power of it, when you’re six years old!

“Do you deny it?” said Ardent. “You destroy written words? You admitted as much to the Low King in Uberwald.”

“It was a joke!” said Vimes.

“Oh? Then you
do
deny it?”

“What? No! He was impressed by my titles, and I just threw that one in for…fun.”

“Then you deny the crime?” Ardent persisted.

“Crime? I cleaned the blackboard so that new things could be written on it! How is that a crime?”

“You did not care where those words went?” said Ardent.

“Care? They were just chalk dust!”