Thud! - A Novel Of Discworld Part 33

"And a sparkler..."

"Is that you, Sergeant Angua?" said a voice in the gloom. A lantern was opened, and lit the approaching face of Constable Visit. As he approached, she could just make out the thick wad of pamphlets under his other arm.

"h.e.l.lo, Washpot," she said. "What's up?"

"...looks like a twist of lemon..." said a damp voice from the shadows.

"Mister Vimes sent me to search the dens of iniquity and low places of sin for you," said Visit.

"And the literature?" said Angua. "By the way, the words 'nothing personal' could have so easily been added to that last sentence."

"Since I was having to tour the temples of vice, Sergeant, I thought I could do Om's holy work at the same time," said Visit, whose indefatigable evangelical zeal triumphed over all adversity.* Sometimes whole bars full of people would lie down on the floor with the lights out when they heard he was coming down the street. Sometimes whole bars full of people would lie down on the floor with the lights out when they heard he was coming down the street.

There were sounds of retching from the darkness.

" 'Woe unto those who abuseth the vine,' " said Constable Visit. He caught the expression on Angua's face and added "no offense meant."

"We've been through all that," moaned Sally.

"What does he want, Washpot?" said Angua.

"It's about Koom Valley again. He wants you back at the Yard."

"But we were stood down!" Sally complained.

"Sorry," said Visit cheerfully, "I reckon you've been stood up again."

"The story of my life," said Cheery.

"Oh, well, I suppose we'd better go," said Angua, trying to disguise her relief.

"When I say 'the story of my life,' obviously I don't mean the whole whole story," mumbled Cheery, apparently to herself, as she trailed behind them into a world blessedly without fun. story," mumbled Cheery, apparently to herself, as she trailed behind them into a world blessedly without fun.

The Ramkins never threw anything away. There was something never threw anything away. There was something worrying about their attics, and it wasn't just that they had a faint aroma of long-dead pigeons. worrying about their attics, and it wasn't just that they had a faint aroma of long-dead pigeons.

The Ramkins labeled labeled things. Vimes have been into the big attics in Sc.o.o.ne Avenue to fetch down the rocking horse and the cot and a whole box of elderly but much-loved soft toys smelling of mothb.a.l.l.s. Nothing that might ever be useful again was thrown away. It was carefully labeled and put in the attic. things. Vimes have been into the big attics in Sc.o.o.ne Avenue to fetch down the rocking horse and the cot and a whole box of elderly but much-loved soft toys smelling of mothb.a.l.l.s. Nothing that might ever be useful again was thrown away. It was carefully labeled and put in the attic.

Brus.h.i.+ng aside cobwebs with one hand and holding up a lantern with the other, Sybil led the way past boxes of MEN MEN'S BOOTS, VARIOUS VARIOUS; RISIBLE PUPPETS RISIBLE PUPPETS, STRING STRING & & GLOVE GLOVE; MODEL THE MODEL THE-ATER AND SCENERY. Maybe that was the reason for their wealth: they had bought things that were built to last, and now they seldom had to buy anything at all. Except food, of course, and even then Vimes would not have been surprised to see boxes labeled APPLE CORES APPLE CORES, VARIOUS VARIOUS, or LEFTOVERS LEFTOVERS, NEED EATING UP NEED EATING UP.*

"Ah, here we are," said Sybil, lifting aside a bundle of fencing foils and lacrosse sticks. She pulled a long, thick tube out into the light.

"I didn't color it in, of course," she said as it was manhandled back to the stairs. "That would have taken forever."

Getting the heavy bundle down to the canteen took some effort and a certain amount of shoving, but eventually it was lifted onto the table and the crackling scroll removed.

While Sir Reynold unrolled the big ten-foot squares and enthused, Vimes pulled out the small-scale copy that Sybil had created. It was just small enough to fit on the table; he weighed down one end with a crusted mug and put a saltcellar on the other.

Methodia's notes made sad reading. Difficult reading, too, because a lot of them were half-burned, and in any case Rascal's handwriting was what might have been achieved by a spider on a trampoline during an earthquake.

The man was clearly as mad as a spoon, writing notes that he wanted to keep secret from the Chicken; sometimes he'd stop writing in mid-note if he thought the Chicken was watching. Apparently, he was a very sad sight to see until he picked up a brush, whereupon he would work quite quietly and with a strange glow to his features. And that was his life: one huge oblong of canvas. Methodia Rascal: born, painted famous picture, thought he was a chicken, died.

Given that the man couldn't touch bottom with a long stick, how could you make sense out of anything he wrote? The only note that seemed concise, if horrible, was the one generally accepted as his last, since it was found under his slumped body. It read:

Awk! Awk! It comes! IT COMES!

He'd choked on a throatful of feathers. And on the canvas, the last of the paint was still drying.

Vimes's eye was caught by the message numbered, arbitrarily, #39:

I thought it was a guiding omen, but it screams in the night.

An omen of what? And what about #143?

The dark, in the dark, like a star in chains.

Vimes had made a note of that one. He'd made a note of many others, too. But the worst thing about them-or the best, if you were keen on mysteries-was that they could mean anything anything. You could pick your own theory. The man was half-starved and in mortal dread of a chicken that lived in his head. You might as well try to make sense of raindrops.

Vimes pushed them aside and stared at the careful pencil drawing. Even at this size, it was confusing. Up front, faces were so large that you could see the pores on a dwarf's nose. In the distance, Sybil had meticulously copied figures that were a quarter of an inch high.

Axes and clubs were being waved, spears were being pointed, there were charges and countercharges and single combats. Across the whole length of the picture, dwarfs and trolls were locked in ferocious battle, hacking and smas.h.i.+ng- He thought: Who's missing?

"Sir Reynold, could you help me?" he said quietly, lest the nascent thought turn tail and run.

"Yes, Commander?" said the curator, hurrying over. "Doesn't Ladeah Sybil do the most exquisite exquisite-"

"She's very good, yes," said Vimes. "Tell me...how did Rascal know know all this stuff?" all this stuff?"

"There were many dwarf songs about it, and some troll stories. Oh, and some humans hwitnessed it."

"So Rascal could have read about it?"

"Oh, yes. Apart from the fact that he put it in the wrong part of the valley, he'd got it down quite accurately."

Vimes didn't take his gaze off the paper battle.

"Does anyone know why he put it in the wrong place, then?" he said.

"There are several theories. One is that he hwas deceived by the fact that the dead dwarfs hwere cremated at that end of the valley, but after the storm that hwas hwhere many of the bodies ended up. There was also a great deal of dead hwood for bonfires. But I I believe he chose that end because the view is so much better. The mountains are so dramatic." believe he chose that end because the view is so much better. The mountains are so dramatic."

Vimes sat down, staring at the sketch, willing it to yield its secret.

Everyone will know the secret in a few weeks, Mr. s.h.i.+ne had said. Why?

"Sir Reynold, was anything going to happen to the painting in the next couple of weeks?" he said.

"Oh, yes," said the curator. "Hwe hwould have installed it in its new room."

"Anything special about that?"

"I did tell your sergeant, Commander," said the curator a little reproachfully. "It is circular. Rascal always intended it to be seen in the round, as it hwere. So that the viewer could be there."

And I'm nearly there, too, Vimes thought.

"I think the cube told the dwarfs something about Koom Valley," he said, in a faraway voice, because he felt as though he was already in the valley. "It told them that the place where it was found was important. Even Rascal thought it was important. They needed a map, and Rascal painted one, even if he didn't know it. Fred?"

"Yessir?"

"The dwarfs weren't bothered about damaging the bottom of the painting because it doesn't contain anything important. It's just people. People move around."

"But, hwith respect, Commander, so do all those boulders," said Sir Reynold.

"They don't matter. No matter how much the valley has changed, this picture will work," said Vimes. The glow of understanding lit his brain.

"But even the rivers moved over the years, and any amount of boulders have rolled down from the mountains," said Sir Reynold. "I'm told the area looks nothing like that now."

"Even so," said Vimes, in the same dreamy voice, "this map will work for thousands of years. It doesn't mark a rock or a hollow or a cave, it just marks a spot. I can pinpoint it. That is, if I had a pin."

"I have one!" Sir Reynold said triumphantly, reaching to his lapel. "I spotted it in the street yesterday, and of course hwe all know the old saying: 'See a pin and pick it up, and all day long-' "

"Yes, thank you," said Vimes, taking it. He walked to the end of the table and picked up one end of the painting, and dragged it back down the length of the table, the heavy paper flapping after him.

He pinned the two ends together, held up the circle he had made, and lowered it over his head.

"The truth is in the mountains," he said. "For years you've been looking at a line of mountains. It's really a circle of mountains."

"But I knew that!" said Sir Reynold.

"In a way, sir, but you probably didn't understand understand it until now, yes? Rascal was standing somewhere it until now, yes? Rascal was standing somewhere important. important."

"hWell, yes. But it hwas a cave, Commander. He specifically mentions a cave. That's hwhy people have searched along the valley hwalls. The painting's set right in the middle, near the river."

"Then there's something we still don't know!" said Vimes, annoyed that a big moment had so quickly become a small one. "I'll find out what it is when I get there!"

There. He'd said it. But he'd known that he was going to go, known for...how long? It seemed like forever, but had it seemed like forever yesterday? This afternoon? He could see the place in his mind's eye. Vimes at Koom Valley! He could practically taste the air! He could hear the roaring of the river, which ran as cold as ice!

"Sam-" Sybil began.

"No, this has got to be sorted out," Vimes said quickly. "I don't care about the stupid secret! Those deep-downers murdered our dwarfs, remember? They They think the painting is a map they can use, and that's why they're going there. I've got to go after them." think the painting is a map they can use, and that's why they're going there. I've got to go after them."

"Look, Sam, if-" Sybil tried.

"We can't afford a war between the trolls and the dwarfs, dear. That business the other night was just a dumb gang fight. A real war in Ankh-Morpork would wreck the place! And somehow it's all tied up with this!"

"I agree! I want to come, too!" Sybil screamed.

"Besides, I'll be perfectly safe if-what?" Vimes gaped at his wife while his mental gears ripped into reverse. "No, it's too dangerous!"

"Sam Vimes, I've dreamed of visiting Koom Valley all my life, so don't you think for one moment you're gallivanting off to see it and leave me at home!"

"I don't gallivant! I've never gallivanted. I don't know how how to vant! I don't even have a galli! But there's going to be a war there soon!" to vant! I don't even have a galli! But there's going to be a war there soon!"

"Then I shall tell them we're not involved!" said Sybil calmly.

"That won't work!"

"Then it won't work in Ankh-Morpork, either," said Sybil, with the air of some player cunningly knocking out four dwarfs in one go. "Sam, you know know you're going to lose this. There's no point in arguing. Besides, I speak dwarfish. We'll take Young Sam, too." you're going to lose this. There's no point in arguing. Besides, I speak dwarfish. We'll take Young Sam, too."

"No!"

"So that's all sorted, then," said Sybil, apparently struck by sudden deafness. "If you want to catch up with the dwarfs, I suggest we we leave as soon as possible." leave as soon as possible."

Sir Reynold turned to her with his mouth open.

"But, Ladeah Sybil, armies are already ma.s.sing there. It's no place for a ladeah!"

Vimes winced. Sybil had made up her mind. This was going to be like watching that dwarf being flamed by dragons, all over again.

Lady Sybil's bosom, which she was allowed to have, expanded as she took a deep breath; it seemed to lift her slightly off the ground.

"Sir Reynold," she said, with a side order of ice. "In the Year of the Lice, my great-grandmother once cooked, personally personally, a full dinner for eighteen in a military redoubt that was entirely surrounded by bloodthirsty Klatchians, and and she felt able to include sorbet and nuts. My grandmother, in the Year of the Quiet Monkey, defended our emba.s.sy in Pseudopolis against a mob, with no a.s.sistance but that offered by a gardener, a trained parrot, and a pan of hot cooking fat. My late aunt, when our coach was once held up at bowpoint by two desperate highwaymen, gave them such a talking-to that they actually ran away crying for their mothers, Sir Reynold, their she felt able to include sorbet and nuts. My grandmother, in the Year of the Quiet Monkey, defended our emba.s.sy in Pseudopolis against a mob, with no a.s.sistance but that offered by a gardener, a trained parrot, and a pan of hot cooking fat. My late aunt, when our coach was once held up at bowpoint by two desperate highwaymen, gave them such a talking-to that they actually ran away crying for their mothers, Sir Reynold, their mothers mothers. We are no strangers to danger, Sir Reynold. May I also remind you that quite probably half the dwarfs who fought at Koom Valley were were ladies? No one told ladies? No one told them them to stay at home!" to stay at home!"