“I’ll bet. They believe us, then, do they?” said Vimes.
“Er…more or less, sir. If the bodies aren’t there, though, we’re going to have some explaining to do.”
“Very true. Didn’t your lads know what they were digging for?”
“No, sir. They just got orders from the dark dwarfs. And different squads dug in different directions. A long way in different directions. As far as Money Trap Lane and Ettercap Street, they think.”
“That’s a big slice of the city!”
“Yessir. But there was something odd.”
“Do go on, Captain,” said Vimes. “We’re good at odd.”
“Every so often everyone had to stop work, and the foreign dwarfs listened at the walls with a big, er, thing, like an ear trumpet. Sally found something like that when she was down there.”
“They were listening? In soggy mud? Listening for what? Singing worms?”
“The dwarfs don’t know, sir. Trapped miners, they thought. I suppose it makes sense. A lot of the digging is through old stonework, so I suppose it’s possible that other miners could be trapped somewhere that’s got air.”
“Not to last for weeks, though, surely? And why dig in different directions?”
“It’s a puzzle, sir, there’s no doubt about it. But we’ll get to the bottom of it soon enough. Everyone’s very keen.”
“Good. But play down the Watch side, will you? This is a bunch of concerned citizens trying to find their loved ones after a reported mining disaster, okay? The watchmen are just helping them out.”
“You mean ‘remember I’m a dwarf,’ sir?”
“Thank you for that, Carrot. Yes, exactly,” said Vimes. “And now I’m off to see a legend with a name like a can of polish.”
As he went out, he noticed the Summoning Dark symbol. The PussyCat Club drinks menu had been put with some care on a shelf by the window, where it got maximum light. It glowed. Maybe this was because Frosted Hot Lips Rose had been designed to be seen across a crowded bar in poor light, but it seemed to float above the oh-so-funny sticky cocktail names like Just Sex, Pussy Galore, and No Brainer, making them look faded and unreal.
Someone—several ones, by the look of it—had lit candles in front of it, for when night came.
It mustn’t be kept in the dark, Vimes thought. I wish I wasn’t.
Pointer and Pickles was dusty. Dust was the keynote of the shop. Vimes must have passed it a thousand times; it was that kind of shop, the kind you walked past. Dust and dead flies filled the little window, which nevertheless offered dim views of large lumps of rock, covered with dust, beyond.
The bell over the door gave a dusty jangle as Vimes entered the gloomy interior. The noise died away, and there was a definite feeling that this marked the end of the entertainment for today.
Then a distant shuffling was born in the heavy silence. It turned out to belong to a very old woman who appeared, at first sight, to be as dusty as the rocks she, presumably, sold. Vimes had his doubts even about that. Shops like this one often looked upon the selling of merchandise as, in some way, a betrayal of a sacred trust. As if to underline this, she was carrying a club with a nail in it.
When she was close enough for conversation, Vimes said: “I’ve come here to—”
“Do you believe in the healing power of crystals, young man?” snapped the woman, raising the club threateningly.
“What? What healing power?” said Vimes.
The old woman gave him a cracked smile, and dropped the club.
“Good,” she said. “We like our customers to take their geology seriously. We’ve got some trollite in this week.”
“Good, but, in fact, I—”
“It’s the only mineral that travels backwards in time, you know.”
“I’m here to see Mr. Shine,” Vimes managed.
“Mr. who?” said the old woman, putting a hand to her ear.
“Mr. Shine?” said Vimes, confidence already draining out of him.
“Never heard of him, dear.”
“He, er, gave me this,” said Vimes, showing her the two pieces of stone egg.
“Amethyst geode, very nice specimen, I’ll give you seven dollars,” said the old woman.
“Are you, er, Pickles or Pointer?” said Vimes, as a last resort.
“I’m Miss Pickles, dear. Miss Point—”
She stopped. Her expression changed, became slightly younger and considerably more alert.
“And I’m Miss Pointer, dear,” she said. “Don’t worry about Pickles, she just runs the body when I’ve got other things to do. Are you Commander Vimes?”
Vimes stared. “Are you telling me you’re two people? With one body?”
“Yes, dear. It’s supposed to be an illness, but all I can say is we’ve always got along well. I’ve never told her about Mr. Shine. Can’t be too careful. Come this way, do.”
She led the way through the dusty crystals and slabs into the back of the shop, where there was a wide corridor lined with shelves. Crystals of all sizes sparkled down at him.
“Of course, trolls have always been of interest to geologists, being made of metamorphorical rock,” said Miss Pointer/Miss Pickles conversationally. “You’re not a rock hound yourself, Commander?”
“I’ve had the occasional stone thrown at me,” said Vimes. “I’ve never bothered to check what kind it was.”
“Ha. Such a shame we’re on loam here,” said the woman as the sound of quiet voices drew nearer. She opened a door and stood aside. “I rent them the room,” she said. “Do go in.”
Vimes looked at the top few treads of a flight of stairs, heading down. Oh goody, he thought. We’re going underground again. But there was warm light coming up, and the voices were louder.
The cellar was large and cool. There were tables everywhere, with a couple of people at each one, bent over a checkered board. A games room? The players were dwarfs, trolls, and humans, but what they had in common was concentration. Unconcerned faces glanced toward Vimes, who had paused, halfway down the stairs, and then looked back to the game at hand.
Vimes continued down to floor level. This had to be important, right? Mr. Shine had wanted him to see it. People—men, trolls, dwarfs—playing games. Occasionally, a couple of players would look up at each other, share a glance, and shake hands. Then one of them would go off to a new table.
“What do you notice, Mister Vimes?” said a deep voice behind him. Vimes forced himself to turn slowly.
The figure sitting in the shadows beside the stairway was shrouded entirely in black. He looked a good head taller than Vimes.
“They’re all young?” he ventured, and added: “Mr. Shine?”
“Exactly! More youngsters tend to come along in the evenings, too. Do take a seat, sir.”
“Why have I come to see you, Mr. Shine?” said Vimes, sitting down.
“Because you want to find out why you have come to see me,” said the dark figure. “Because you’re wandering in the dark. Because Mister Vimes, with his badge and his truncheon, is full of rage. More full than usual. Take care of that rage, Mister Vimes.”
Mystic, thought Vimes. “I like to see whom I’m talking to,” he said. “What are you?”
“You would not see me if I removed this hood,” said Mr. Shine. “As for what I am, I’ll ask you this: would it be true to say that Captain Carrot, while very happy to be a Watch officer, is the rightful king of Ankh-Morpork?”
“I have trouble with the term ‘rightful,’ ” said Vimes.
“So I understand. It may well be that this is one reason why he hasn’t yet chosen to declare himself,” said Mr. Shine. “But no matter. Well, I am the rightful—excuse me—and indisputable king of the trolls.”
“Really?” said Vimes. It wasn’t much of a reply, but his options at this point were limited.
“Yes. And when I say’indisputable,’ I mean what I say, Mister Vimes. Hidden human kings have to resort to magic swords or legendary feats to reclaim their birthright
. I do not. I just have to be. You are aware of the concept of metamorphorical rock?”
“You mean the way trolls look like certain types of rock?”
“Indeed. Schist, Mica, Shale, and so on. Even Brick, poor young Brick. No one knows why this is, and they have expended thousands of words in saying so. Oh, to hell with it, as you would say. You deserve a glimpse. Protect your eyes. I, Mister Vimes—”
A black-robed arm was extended, a black-velvet glove removed. Vimes shut his eyes in time, but the inside of his lids blazed red.
“—am diamond,” said Mr. Shine.
The glare faded a little. Vimes risked opening his eyes a bit, and made out a hand, every flexing finger sparkling like a prism. The players glanced up, but they’d seen this before.
“Frost forms quite quickly,” said Mr. Shine. When Vimes dared to peek, the hand glittered like the heart of winter.
“You’re hiding out from jewelers?” he managed, taken aback.
“Hah! In fact, this city is indeed a very good place for people who don’t wish to be seen, Mister Vimes. I have friends here. And I have talents. You’d find me quite hard to see if I wished to be unseen. I am also, frankly, intelligent, and intelligent all the time. I don’t need the Pork Futures Warehouse. I can regulate the temperature of my brain by reflecting all heat. Diamond trolls are very rare, and when we do appear, kingship is our destiny.”
Vimes waited. Mr. Shine, who was now pulling his glove back on, appeared to have an agenda. The wisest thing was to let him talk until it all made sense.
“And do you know what happens when we become kings?” said Mr. Shine, now safely shrouded once more.
“Koom Valley?” Vimes suggested.
“Well done. The trolls unite, and we have the same tired old war, followed by centuries of skirmishing. That is the sad, stupid history of the trolls and the dwarfs. And this time, Ankh-Morpork will be caught up in it. You know that the troll and dwarf population here has grown enormously under Vetinari.”
“All right, but if you’re king, can’t you just make peace?”
“Just like that? It’ll need much more than that.” The hood of the robe shook sadly. “You really know very little about us, Mister Vimes. You see us down on the plains, shambling around, talkin’ like dis. You don’t know about the history chant, or the Long Dance, or stone music. You see the hunched troll dragging his club. That’s what the dwarfs did for us, long ago. They turned us, in your minds, into sad, brainless monsters.”
“Don’t look at me when you say that,” said Vimes. “Detritus is one of my best officers!”
There was silence. The Mr. Shine said: “Shall I tell you what I think the dwarfs were looking for, Mister Vimes? Something of theirs. It is a thing that talks. And they found it, and I think what it had to say directly caused five deaths. I believe I know how to find the secret of Koom Valley. In a few weeks, everyone will be able to. But by then, I think, it will be too late. You must solve it, too, before the war sweeps up all of us.”
“How do you know all this?” said Vimes.
“Because I’m magical,” said the voice from the hood.
“Oh, well, if that’s the way you’re—” Vimes began.
“Patience, Commander,” said Mr. Shine. “I just…simplified. Accept, instead, that I am very…smart. I have an analytical mind. I’ve studied the histories and lore of my hereditary enemy. I have friends who are dwarfs. Quite knowledgeable dwarfs. Quite…powerful dwarfs, who wish for an end to this stupid feud as much as I do. And I have a love of games and puzzles. The Codex was not a terrible challenge.”
“If it’s going to help me find the murderers of those dwarfs in the mine then you should tell me what you know!”
“Why trust what I say? I am a troll, I’m partisan, I might wish to direct your thoughts down the wrong path.”
“Maybe you’ve already!” said Vimes hotly. He knew he was making a fool of himself; it only made him angrier.
“Good, that’s the spirit!” said Mr. Shine. “Test all that I’ve told you! Where would we be if Commander Vimes relied on magic, eh? No, the secret of Koom Valley must be found by observation and questioning and facts, facts, facts. Possibly I’m helping you find them a little quicker than you might otherwise do. You just have to think about what you know, Commander. And, in the meantime, shall we play a little game?”
Mr. Shine picked up a box by his chair and upended it over the table.
“This is Thud, Mister Vimes,” he said, as little stone figures bounced over the board. “Dwarfs versus trolls. Eight trolls and thirty-two dwarfs, forever fighting their little battles on a cardboard Koom Valley.” He began to place the pieces, black-gloved hands moving with un-trollish speed.
Vimes pushed back his chair. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Shine, but all you are giving me is riddles and—”
“Sit down, Commander.” The quite voice had a schoolteacher harmonic to it that folded Vimes’s legs under him. “Good,” said Mr. Shine. “Eight trolls, thirty-two dwarfs. Dwarfs always start. A dwarf is small and fast and can run as many squares as possible in any direction. A troll—because we’re stupid and drag our clubs, as everyone knows—can only move one square in any direction. There are other types of moving, but what do you see so far?”
Vimes tried to concentrate. It was hard. This was a game, it wasn’t real. Besides, the answer was so obvious that it couldn’t be the right one.
“It looks like the dwarfs must win every time,” he ventured.
“Ah, natural suspicion, I like that. In fact, among the best players, the bias is slightly in favor of the trolls,” said Mr. Shine. “This is largely because a troll can, in the right circumstances, do a lot of damage. How are your ribs, by the way?”
“All the better for you asking,” said Vimes sourly. He’d forgotten them for twenty blessed minutes; now they ached again.
“Good. I’m glad Brick has found Detritus. He has a good brain if he can be persuaded to stop frying it every half an hour. Back to our game…advantages to either side do not matter, in fact, because a complete game consists of two battles. In one, you must play the dwarfs. In the other, you must play the trolls. As you may expect, dwarfs find it easy to play the dwarf side, which needs a strategy and mode of attack that comes easy to a dwarf. Something similar applies to the trolls. But to win, you must play both sides. You must, in fact, be able to think like your ancient enemy. A really skilled player—well, take a look, Commander. Look toward the back of the room, where my friend Phyllite is playing against Nils Mousehammer.”
Vimes turned.
“What am I looking for?” he said.
“Whatever you see.”
“Well, that troll over there is wearing what looks like a large dwarf helmet…”
“Yes, one of the dwarf players made it for him. And he speaks quite passable dwarfish.”
“He’s drinking out of a horn, like the dwarfs do…”
“He had to have one made in metal! Troll beer would melt ordinary horn. Nils can sing quite a lot of the troll history chant. Look at Gabbro, over there. Good troll boy, but he knows all there is to know about dwarf battle bread. In fact, I believe that’s a boomerang croissant on the table next to him. Purely for ceremonial purposes, of course. Commander?”
“Hmm?” said Vimes, turning his head. “What?” A slightly built dwarf at one of the tables was watching him with interest, as though he was some kind of fascinating monster.
Mr. Shine chuckled. “To study the enemy, you have to get under his skin. When you’re under his skin, you start to see the world through his eyes. Gabbro is so good at playing from the dwarf viewpoint that his troll game is suffering, and he wants to go to Copperhead to learn from some of the dwarf thudmeisters there. I hope he does; they’ll teach him how to play like a troll. None of these lads here were out getting fighting drunk last night. And thus we wear down mountains. Water dripping on a stone, dissolving and removing. Changing the shape of the world, one drop at a time. Water dripping on a st
one, Commander. Water flowing underground, bubbling up in unexpected places.”
“I think you’re going to need a bit more of a gush,” said Vimes. “I don’t think a bunch of people playing games is going to break down a mountain anytime soon.”
“It depends on where the drops fall,” said Mr. Shine. “In time, they may wash away a valley, at least. You should ask yourself: why was I so keen to get into that mine?”
“Because there had been a murder!”
“And that was the only reason?” said the shrouded Mr. Shine.
“Of course!”
“And everyone knows what gossips dwarfs are,” said Mr. Shine. “Well, I am sure you will do your best, Commander. I hope you find the murderer before the Dark catches up with them.”
“Mr. Shine, some of my officers have lit candles around that damn symbol!”
“Good thinking, I’d say.”
“So you really believe that it’s some kind of a threat? How come you know so much about dwarf signs, anyway?”
“I have studied them. I accept the fact of their existence. Some of your officers believe. Most dwarfs do, somewhere in their gnarly little souls. I respect that. You can take a dwarf out of the Dark, but you can’t take the Dark out of a dwarf. Those symbols are very old. They have real power. Who knows what old evil lurks in the deep darkness under the mountains? There’s no darkness like it.”
“You can take the mickey out of a copper, too,” said Vimes.
“Ah, Mister Vimes, you have had a busy day. So much happening, so little time to think. Take time to reflect on all you know, sir. I am a reflecting kind of person.”
“Commander Vimes?” The voice came from Miss Pointer/Miss Pickles, halfway up the stairs. “There is a big troll asking after you.”
“What a shame,” said Mr. Shine. “That will be Sergeant Detritus. Not good news, I suspect. If I had to guess, I’d say that the trolls have sent around the taka-taka. You must go, Mister Vimes. I’ll be seeing you again.”
“I don’t think I’ll see you,” said Vimes. He stood up, and then hesitated.