“Our kings are…working kings,” said Cheery, and Vimes detected a dash of pride in her voice. “But now is the time when the king awards favors.”
A dwarf caught up with Vimes and tugged his cloak respectfully.
“The king wishes to see you now, Your Excellency,” he said.
“There’s an almighty queue!”
“Nevertheless,” the dwarf gave a polite cough, “the king wishes to see you now. All of you.”
They were led to the front of the queue. Vimes felt many eyes boring into the small of his back.
The king dismissed the previous supplicant with a regal nod as the Ankh-Morpork party was deftly inserted at the top of the line, supplanting a dwarf whose beard went down to his knees.
He looked at them for a moment, and then the internal filing system threw up a card.
“Ah, it’s yourselves, good as new,” he said. “Now, what was it I was going to do? Oh, I remember…Lady Sybil?”
She curtsied.
“Classically, we give rings at this time,” said the king. “Between ourselves, many dwarfs consider this a bit…well, bath salts, see. But I believe they are still welcome and so this, Lady Sybil, is, perhaps, a token of things to come.”
It was a thin silver ring. Vimes was taken aback at this parsimony, but Sybil could graciously accept a bunch of rats.
“Oh, how wond—”
“We normally give gold,” the king went on. “Very popular, and of course you can sing about it. But this has…rarity value, see. It is the first silver that had been mined in Uberwald in hundreds of years.”
“I thought there was a rule that—” Vimes began.
“I ordered the mines reopened last night,” said the king, pleasantly. “It seemed…an auspicious time. We shall soon have silver for sale, Your Excellency, but if Lady Sybil doesn’t get involved in the negotiations and bankrupt us, I for one shall be very grateful,” the king added. “Miss Littlebottom, I see, has not graced us with a sartorial extravaganza today?”
Cheery stared.
“You’re not wearing a dress,” prompted the king.
“No, sire.”
“Although I do notice a few unobtrusive touches of mascara and lipstick.”
“Yes, sire,” squeaked Cheery, on the point of death through shock.
“There’s nice. Do be sure to let me know the name of your dressmaker,” the king went on pleasantly. “I may have some custom for her in the fullness of time. I’ve thought long and hard—”
Vimes blinked. Cheery had gone pale. Had anyone else heard that? Had he?
Sybil nudged him in the ribs.
“Your mouth’s open, Sam,” she whispered.
So he had heard it…
He heard the king’s voice again.
“—and a bag of gold is always acceptable.”
Cheery was still staring.
Vimes shook her gently by the shoulder.
“Th—thank you, sire.”
The king held out his hand. Vimes wobbled Cheery again. Completely hypnotized, she extended her hand. The king took it and shook it.
Shocked whispers were spreading, behind Vimes. The king had shaken the hand of a self-declared female…
“And that leaves…Detritus,” said the king. “What a dwarf should give a troll is of course a bit of a puzzle, but it occurs to me that what I should give you is what I would give a dwarf. A bag of gold, then, for whatever purpose you choose to put it, and—”
He stood up. He held out his hand.
Dwarfs and trolls were still fighting in the farther regions of Uberwald, Vimes knew. Elsewhere, there was at best the sort of peace you got when both sides were busy rearming.
The whispering stopped. Silence spread out in a widening circle, all across the floor of the cave.
Detritus blinked. Then he took the hand very carefully, trying not to crush it.
The whispering started again. And this time, Vimes knew, it’d go for miles.
It occurred to him that in two handshakes the white-bearded, elderly dwarf had done more than a dozen devious plots could have achieved. By the time those ripples reached the edge of Uberwald, they would be tidal waves. Thirty men and a dog would be nothing by comparison.
“Hmm?”
“I said, what can a king give a Vimes?” said the king.
“Er…nothing, I think,” said Vimes absently. Two handshakes! And very quietly, smiling, the king had turned the customs of the dwarfs upside down. And so gently, too, that they’d spend years arguing about it.
“Sam!” snapped Sybil.
“Well, then, I shall give something to your descendants,” said the king, apparently unperturbed. A long flat box was brought to him. He opened it to reveal a dwarf ax, the new metal glinting on its nest of black cloth.
“This will become, in time, the ax of someone’s grandfather,” said the king, lifting it out. “And no doubt over the years it will need a new handle or a new blade and over the centuries the shape will change in line with fashion, but it will always be, in every detail and respect, the ax I give you today. And because it’ll change with the times, it’ll always be sharp. There’s a grain of Truth in that, see. So nice to have met you. Do enjoy your journey home, Your Excellency.”
The four were silent in the coach back to the embassy. Then Cheery said: “The king said—”
“I heard,” said Vimes.
“That was as good as saying that he is a sh—”
“Things are going to change,” said Lady Sybil. “That’s what the king was saying.”
“I never shook hands with no king before,” said Detritus. “No dwarf, either, come to that.”
“You shook hands with me once,” said Cheery.
“Watchmen don’t count,” said Detritus firmly. “Watchmen is watchmen.”
“I wonder if it’ll change anything?” said Lady Sybil.
Vimes stared out of the window. It’d probably make people feel good, he thought. But trolls and dwarfs had been fighting for centuries. Ending that sort of thing took more than a handshake. It was just a symbol.
On the other hand…the world wasn’t moved by heroes or villains or even by policemen. It might as well be moved by symbols. All he knew was that you couldn’t hope to try for the big stuff, like world peace and happiness, but you might just about be able to achieve some tiny deed that’d make the world, in a small way, a better place.
Like shooting someone.
“I forgot to say that I thought it was very kind of you, Cheery,” said Lady Sybil, “yesterday, when you comforted Dee.”
“She would have had me killed by the werewolves,” said Vimes. He felt this was a point worth making.
“Yes, of course. But…it was kind, anyway,” said Sybil.
Cheery looked at her feet, avoiding Lady Sybil’s gaze. Then she coughed nervously and pulled a small piece of paper out of her sleeve, which she handed wordlessly to Vimes.
He unfolded it, and read it. It was a list of names and addresses.
“She gave you these?” he said. “Some of these are very senior dwarfs in Ankh-Morpork…”
“Yes, sir,” said Cheery, she coughed again. “I knew she wanted someone to talk to, and…er…I suggested a few things she might like to talk about. Sorry, Lady Sybil. It’s very hard to stop being a copper.”
“I worked that one out a long time ago,” said Sybil.
“You know,” said Vimes, to break the silence, “if we leave at first light tomorrow, we could be through the pass before sundown…”
And it was a comfortable night, somewhere in the depths of the feather mattress. Vimes awoke a couple of times, and thought he could hear voices. Then he’d sink back into the softness, and dream of warm snow.
He was shaken awake by Detritus.
“It’s gettin’ light, sir.”
“Mm?”
“And dere’s a Igor an’ a…a young man out in der hall,” said Detritus. “He got a big jar full of noses and a rabbit covered in ears.”
r /> Vimes tried to get back to sleep, Then he sat bolt upright.
“What?”
“It’s all covered in ears, sir.”
“You mean one of those rabbits with big floppy ears?”
“You better come and see dis rabbit,” sniffed the troll.
Vimes left Sybil wallowing in sleep, pulled on his dressing gown, and pattered barefoot down to the freezing hall.
An Igor was waiting anxiously in the middle of the floor. Vimes was getting the hang of Igor-recognition,* and this was a new one. He was with a much younger…er…man, probably barely out of his teens, at least in places, but already the scars and stitching indicated that relentless urge toward self-improvement that was the hallmark of a good Igor. They just never seemed to be able to get the eyes level.
“Your Exthelenthy?”
“You’re…Igor, right?”
“Amathing guethth, thir. We haven’t met before, but I work for Dr. Thaumic on the other thide of the mountain, and thith is my thon, Igor.” He smacked the young man around the back of his head. “Thay hello to Hith Grathe, Igor!”
“I don’t believe in the peerage,” said young Igor, sulkily. “Nor shall I call any man marthter.”
“Thee?” said his father. “Thorry about this, Your Grathe, but thith is the younger generation for you. I hope you can find a job for him in the big thity, ’coth he’th totally unemployable in Uberwald. But he’th a very good thurgeon, even if he doeth have funny ideaths. He’th got his grandfather’s handth, you know.”
“I can see the scars,” said Vimes.
“Lucky little devil, they thould have been mine by rightth, but he wath old enough to go into the lottery.”
“You want to join the Watch, Igor?” said Vimes.
“Yes, sir. I believe Ankh-Morpork is where the future lies, thir.”
His father leaned closer to Vimes. “We don’t menthion hith thlight thpeech impedient, marthter,” he whispered. “Of courthe, it counth againtht him here, you know, in the Igor buthinethth, but I’m thure people will be kind to him in Ankh-Morpork.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Vimes, removing his handkerchief and absentmindedly dabbing his ear. “And…er…this rabbit?”
“He’s Eerie, thir,” said young Igor.
“Good name. Good name. Er…is that why he’s got human ears all over his back?”
“Early experiment, thir.”
“And…er…the noses?”
There were about a dozen of them, in a large screw-top pickle jar. And they were…just noses. Not cut off of anyone, as far as Vimes could see. They had little legs, and were jumping hopefully up and down against the glass, like puppies in a pet shop window. He thought he would hear faint “whee!” noises.
“The wave of the future, thir,” said young Igor. “I grow them in special vats. I can do eyes and fingers, too!”
“But they’ve got little legs!”
“Oh, they wither off in a few hours after they’re attached, thir. And they want to be useful, my little noses. Bio-artificing for the nexth century, thir. None of that outmoded cutting-up of old bodies—”
His father smacked his head again. “You thee? You thee? Where’th the point in that? Wathtrel! I hope you can do thomething with him, marthter, becauthe I’ve justht about given up! Not worth breaking down for thpareth, ath we thay!”
Vimes sighed. Still, losing small extremities was a daily hazard in the Watch and the lad was, after all, an Igor. It wasn’t as if there were any normal people in the Watch. He could afford to put up with a nose breeder in exchange for surgery that didn’t involve screaming and buckets of boiling pitch.
He indicated a box beside the young man. It was growling, and rocking from side to side.
“You haven’t got a dog too, have you?” he said, trying to make it sound like a joke.
“That’s my tomatoes,” said young Igor. “A triumph of modern igoring. They grow enormously.”
“Only becauthe they vithiouthly attack all other vegetableth!” said his father. “But I’ll thay thith for the lad, marthter, I’ve never known anyone like him for really tiny stitching.”
“All right, all right, he sounds like the man I’m looking for,” said Vimes. “Or close, at least. Take a seat, young man. I just hope there’s going to be room in the coaches…”
The door to the yard swung open, blowing in a few snowflakes and Carrot, who stamped his feet.
“A bit of snow overnight, but the road looks open,” he said. “They says there’s a really big one due tonight, though, so we—Oh, good morning, sir.”
“You’re fit enough to travel?” said Vimes.
“We both are,” said Angua. She crossed the hall and stood next to Carrot.
Once again, Vimes was aware of a lot of words that he hadn’t heard. A wise man didn’t make inquiries at a time like this. Besides, Vimes could feel the cold coming up through his feet.
He reached a decision.
“Give me your notebook, Captain,” he said.
They watched him scribble a few lines.
“Stop at the clacks tower and send a message on to the Yard,” he said, handing it back to Carrot. “Tell them you’re on the way. Take young Igor here with you and get him settled in, okay? And make a report to His Lordship.”
“Er…you’re not coming?” said Carrot.
“Her Ladyship and I will take the other coach,” said Vimes. “Or buy a sleigh. Very comfy things, sleighs. And we’ll…we’ll just take it a little easier. We’ll see the sights. We’ll dawdle along the way. Understand?”
He saw Angua smile, and wondered if Sybil had confided in her.
“Absolutely, sir,” said Carrot.
“Oh, and…er…go along to Burleigh and Stronginthearm’s, order a couple of dozen of everything off the top of their small arms catalogue, and get them onto the next mailcoach due to Bonk for the personal attention of Captain Tantony.”
“The mail coach rate will be very expensive, sir…” Carrot began.
“I didn’t want you to tell me that, Captain. I wanted you to say ‘Yes, sir.’”
“Yes, sir.”
“And ask at the gate about…three gloomy biddies who live in a big house near here. It’s got a cherry orchard. Find out the address and when you get back send them three coach tickets to Ankh-Morpork.”
“Right, sir.”
“Well done. Travel safely. I’ll see you in a week. Or two. Three at the outside. All right?”
A few minutes later he stood shivering on the steps, watching the coach disappear into the crisp morning.
He felt a pang of guilt, but it was only a little pang. He gave every day to the Watch and it was time, he thought, for it to give him a week. Or two. Three at the outside.
In fact, he realized, as pangs went it was barely a ping which was, he recalled, a dialect word for watermeadow. Right now he could see a future, which was more than he’d ever had before.
He locked the door and went back to bed.
On a clear day, from the right vantage point on the Ramtops, a watcher could see a very long way across the plains.
The dwarfs had harnessed mountain streams and built a staircase of locks that rose a mile up from the rolling grasslands, for the use of which they charged not just a pretty penny but a very handsome dollar. Barges were always ascending or descending, making their way down to the river Smarl and the cities of the plain. They carried coal, iron, fireclay, pig treacle* and fat, the dull ingredients of the pudding of civilization.
In the sharp, thin air they took several days to get out of sight. On a clear day, you could see next Wednesday.
The captain of one of the barges waiting for the top lock went to tip the dregs of his teapot over the side and saw a small dog sitting on the snowy bank. It sat up and begged, hopefully.
He turned to go back into the cabin when he thought: What a nice little doggie.
It was such a clear thought that it almost seemed to him that he was hearing it, but he looked around and t
here was no one else near him. And dogs certainly couldn’t talk.
He heard himself think: “This little doggie would be very useful keepin’ down rats that might attack the cargo, sort of fing.”
It must have been him that thought it, he decided. There was no one else nearby, and everyone knew dogs didn’t talk.
He said aloud, “But rats don’t eat coal, do they?”
He thought, clear as day: “Ah, well, you never know when they might try, right? Anyway, it’s such a sweet looking little doggie that’s been strugglin’ for days through deep snow, huh, not that anyone cares.”
The bargeman gave up. There’s only so long you can argue with yourself.
Ten minutes later the barge was on the long drop to the plains, with a small dog sitting at the prow, enjoying the breeze.
On the whole, thought Gaspode, it was always best to look to the future.
Nobby Nobbs had made himself a shelter up against the wall of the Watch House, and was gloomily warming his hands when a shadow loomed over him.
“What are you doing, Nobby?” said Carrot.
“Huh? Captain?”
“There’s no one on the gates, there’s no one on patrol…Didn’t anyone get my message? What’s happening?”
Nobby licked his lips.
“We-ell,” he said. “There isn’t…well, there isn’t a Watch at the moment. Not per say.” He flinched. He saw Angua behind Carrot. “Er…Mister Vimes with you, at all?”
“What is happening, Nobby?”
“Well…you see…Fred kind of…and then he got all sort of…then next thing you know he was setting for to…and then we…and then he wouldn’t come out…and then we…and he nailed up the door…and Mrs. Fred came and shouted at him through the letter box…and most of the lads have gone off and got other jobs…and now there’s just me and Dorfl and Reg and Washpot, and we come here turn and turn about and we shove food through the letter box for him…and…that’s it, really…”
“Can we have that again with the gaps filled in?” said Carrot.
This took considerably longer. There were still gaps. Carrot forced them open.
“I see,” he said at last.
“Mister Vimes is going to go spare, isn’t he,” said Nobby miserably.