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Vimes rolled his eyes and sneered, “You think so, do you? I thought it was probably an invitation to a magical show featuring the Amazing Bonko and Doris and the Collapsing Unicycle Brothers with Fido the Cat. What’s this yellow rope all about, Mr. Upshot?”
“Police cordon, sir. My mum knitted it for me.”
“Oh yes, I can see she’s managed to work the word PLICE in black in there several times, too.”
“Yes, sir, sorry about the spelling, sir,” said Feeney, clearly spooked by the stares. He went on, “There was blood all over the ground, sir, so I scraped some into a clean jam jar, just in case.”
Vimes paid that no attention, because the two goblin guards had unfolded and were standing up. Stinky beckoned Vimes to walk ahead of them. Vimes shook his head, folded his arms and turned to Feeney.
“Let me tell you what you thought, Mr. Upshot. You acted on information received, didn’t you? And you heard that the blacksmith and I indulged in a bout of fisticuffs outside the pub the other night, and that is true. No doubt you were also told that at some time later someone heard a conversation in which he arranged to meet me up at this place, yes? Don’t bother to answer, I can see it in your face—you haven’t quite got the copper’s deadpan yet. Has Mr. Jefferson gone missing?”
Feeney gave up. “Yes, Mr. Vimes.”
He didn’t deserve or perhaps he did deserve, the force with which Vimes turned on him.
“You will not call me Mr. Vimes, lad, you ain’t earned the right. You call me ‘Sir’ or ‘Commander,’ or even ‘Your grace’ if you’re dumb enough to do so, understand? I could have sent the blacksmith home walking very strangely if I’d had a mind to do so the other night. He’s a big man but no street hero. But I let him get the steam out of his tubes and calm down without losing face. Yes, he did say he wanted to meet me up here last night. When I came up here, with a witness, there was blood on the ground which I will warrant is goblin blood, and certainly no sign of any blacksmith. You had a bloody stupid case against me when you came up to my house and it’s still a bloody stupid case. Any questions?”
Feeney looked down at his feet. “No, sir, sorry, sir.”
“Good, I’m glad. Think of this as a training experience, my lad, and it won’t cost you a penny. Now, these goblins seem to want us to follow them and I intend to do so, and I also intend that you will come with me, understood?”
Vimes looked at the two goblin guards. An ax was waved in a half-hearted sort of way, indicating that they should indeed be traveling. They set off and he could hear sorrowful Feeney trying to be brave, but broadcasting anxiety.
“They’re not going to touch us, kid, first because if they had intended to do that they’d have done it already, and second, they want something from me.”
Feeney moved a little closer. “And what would that be, sir?”
“Justice,” said Vimes. “And I think I have a premonition about what that is going to mean…”
Sometimes people asked Commander Vimes why Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs were still on the strength, such as it was, of the modern Ankh-Morpork City Watch, given that Nobby occasionally had to be held upside down and shaken to reclaim small items belonging to other people, while Fred Colon had actually cultivated the ability to walk his beat with his eyes closed, and end up, still snoring, back at Pseudopolis Yard, sometimes with graffiti on his breastplate.
To Lord Vetinari, Commander Vimes had put forward three defenses. The first was that both of them had an enviable knowledge of the city and its inhabitants, official and otherwise, that rivaled Vimes’s own.
The second was the traditional urinary argument. It was better to have them inside pissing out than outside pissing in. It was at least easy to keep an eye on them.
And not least, oh my word not least, they were lucky. Many a crime had been solved because of things that had fallen on them, tried to kill them, tripped one of them up, been found floating in their lunch, and in one case had tried to lay its eggs up Nobby’s nose.
And so it was that, today, whatever god or other force it might be that regarded them as its playthings directed their steps to the corner of Cheapside and Rhyme Street, and the fragrant Emporium of Bewilderforce Gumption.*
Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs, as is the way with policemen, entered the building by the back door and were greeted by Mr. Gumption with that happy but somewhat glassy smile with which a trader greets an old acquaintance who he knows will end up getting merchandise with a discount of one hundred per cent.
“Why, Fred, how nice to see you again!” he said, while awakening the mystic third eye developed by all small shopkeepers, especially those who see Nobby Nobbs coming into the shop.
“We were patrolling in the area, Bewilderforce, and I thought I’d drop in to get my tobacco and see how you were managing, with all this fuss about the tax and everything?”
The sergeant had to speak up to be heard above the rumbling of the snuff mill, and the carts that were moving across the factory floor in a stream. Rows of women at tables were packing snuff and—here, he leaned sideways to get a better view—the cigarette production line was also a-bustle.
Sergeant Colon looked around. Policemen always look, on the basis that there is always something to see. Of course, sometimes they may find it sensible to forget that they have seen anything, at least officially. Mr. Gumption had a new tie pin, in which a diamond flashed. His shoes were also clearly new—bespoke, if Fred Colon was any judge—and a barely noticeable sniff suggested the wearing of, let’s see now, oh yes, Cedar Fragrance Pour Hommes, from Quirm at $15 a pop.
He said, “How’s business doing? Is the new tax hitting you at all?”
Mr. Gumption’s visage flew into the expression of a hard-working man sorely pressed by the machinations of politics and fate. He shook his head sadly. “We’re barely making ends meet, Fred. Lucky to break even at the end of the day.”
Oh, and a gold tooth, too, thought Sergeant Colon. I nearly missed that. Out loud he said, “I’m very sorry to hear that, Bewilderforce, I really am. Allow me to raise your profits by expending two dollars in the purchase of my usual three ounces of twist tobacco.”
Fred Colon proffered his wallet and Mr. Gumption, with a scolding noise, waved it away. It was a ritual as old as merchants and policemen, and it allowed the world to keep on turning. He cut a length of tobacco from the coil on the marble counter, wrapped it quickly and expertly, and as an afterthought reached down and came up with a large cigar, which he handed to the sergeant.
“Try one of these handsome smokes, Fred, just in, not local
