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Willikins beamed and saluted. “Yes, sir, orders received and understood, sir. You can depend on me, sir, only…er, well, when we get back to the city could you, er, please not let anyone know that I was a copper for a while? I have friends, sir, dear friends who have known me for a long time and they would cut my ears off if they heard I was a copper.”
“Well, far be it from me to whiten a man’s name against his will,” said Vimes. “Do we have an understanding? I’d be grateful if you could refrain from too much adventureishness. Just guard the prisoner and ensure that no harm comes to him. If this means a little judicious harm has to come to someone else, I will regretfully accept the fact.”
Willikins looked solemn. “Yes, sir, fully understood, sir. My comb will not leave my pocket.”
Vimes sighed. “You have a great many things in your pockets, Willikins. Ration their usage, ma
n. And by the way, please tell Sybil and Young Sam that Daddy is chasing the bad men and will see them again soon.”
Feeney looked from Vimes to Willikins. “Glad that’s sorted out, gentlemen,” he said, and smiled nervously. “Now, if you’re ready, commander, we’ll just go along to the livery stable and pick up a couple of horses.” With that he began to walk smartly down to the village, leaving Sam Vimes no alternative but to follow.
Vimes said, “Horses?”
“Absolutely, commander. From what I hear we should catch up with the Fanny in an hour. To tell you the truth, we could probably outrun it, but it’s best to be on the safe side, don’t you think?”
Feeney looked sheepish for a moment and then added, “I don’t usually ride much, sir, but I’ll try not to disgrace myself in front of you.”
Vimes opened his mouth. Then Vimes shut his mouth, trapping the words: Lad, I’d rather ride a pig than a horse, if it’s all the same to you? I mean, pigs just run along, but horses? Most of the time I’ve got nothing against horses, and then I come down very firmly against horses, and then I’m shot up in the air again so that once more I have nothing against horses, but I know that in half a second the whole damn thing starts again, and yes before you come out with the whole business of “It’s all right if you rise up when they go down” let me say that has never ever worked for me, because then I’m either above and a little behind the horse or against the horse so firmly that I’m really glad that Sybil and I have decided to have only one child…
Feeney was, however, in keen and chattering form. “I expect there were a lot of horses at Koom Valley, eh, sir?”
And Vimes was stuck. “Actually, lad, the trolls have no use for them and the dwarfs are said to eat them, on the quiet.”
“Gosh, that must’ve been a blow to a fighting man like yourself, commander?”
Fighting man? Maybe, Vimes thought, at least when no alternative presents itself, but how in the seven hells did you get the idea that I’m comfortable even looking at horses? And why are we still walking toward some barn that is going to be full of the wretched things, stamping and snorting and dribbling and rolling their eyes backward like they do? Well, I’ll tell you why. It’s because I’m too damn scared to tell Feeney that I’m too damn scared. Hah, the story of my life, too much of a damn coward to be a coward!
Now Feeney pushed aside a heavy wooden gate, which, to Vimes’s susceptible ear, creaked like a fresh gallows, and he groaned as they stepped through. Yes, it was a livery stable, and it made Vimes liverish. And there they were, the inevitable hangers-on: bandy-legged, no more than one button on their coats, and a certain suggestion of rat about the nose and wishbone about the legs. You could have played crockett with them. Every one of them would have a straw in his mouth, presumably because that’s what they lived on. And, helplessly, Vimes was introduced to men who knew they had heard of him, very big policeman certainly, while Feeney painted a picture of him as just the sort of man who would insist on riding the swiftest beast that they had installed in the stalls.
Two evil-looking mounts were led out, and Feeney generously brought the larger over to Vimes. “There you go, sir. Back in the saddle again, eh?” he said, and handed the reins to Vimes.
While Feeney was negotiating the hire, Vimes felt something tug at his leg and he looked down into the grinning face of Special Constable Stinky, who hissed, “Big trouble, fellow po-leess-maan colleague? Big trouble for a man scared of horses. Damn right!? Hate horse, can smell fear. You take me, po-leess-maan. I fix. No worry. You need Stinky anyway, yes? You find frightened goblin? Panic panic panic! But Stinky say shut gob goblins, this man despite appearances not too much of an arsehole, yes indeed!”
The wretched little goblin lowered his cracked voice still further, and added, so that Vimes could barely hear it, “And Stinky never ever said anything about po-leess-maan’s shirt-washing man and very cross bow, hey? Mr. Vimes? There is no race so wretched that there is not something out there that cares for them, Mr. Vimes.”
The words hit Vimes like a slap in the face. Had the little bugger said that? Had Vimes really heard it? The words had dropped into the conversation as if from somewhere else, somewhere very elsewhere. He stared at Stinky, who rattled his teeth at him cheerfully and swung himself dreadfully under the horse just as, on the other side of the yard, the brains trust of debating equestrian experts settled the negotiations with Feeney. The apparent boss spat on his hand and Feeney, against all public safety procedures, spat on his hand and then shook hands and then money changed hands, and Vimes hoped that it washed its hands.
Then, in front of Vimes, possibly to its own amazement, the horse knelt down. Vimes had only seen that in a circus, and everyone else acted as if they’d never seen it at all.
Stinky had miraculously disappeared, but when incredulous eyes are watching, as the venerable philosopher Ly Tin Weedle says, you have to do something or be considered, in the great scheme of things, a tit. And so Vimes went bowlegged and shuffled along the horse as nonchalantly as he could, and made the strange clicking noise that he’d heard ostlers use for every command, and the horse got to its hooves, raising Vimes as gently as a cradle to the astonishment and subsequent wild applause of the bandy-legged throng, who clapped and said things like, bless you, sir, you ought to get a job in a circus! And at the same time Feeney was all admiration, unfortunately.
The wind was blowing up, but there was still some daylight left, and Vimes let the constable lead the way at a gentle trot, which indeed turned out to be gentle.
“Looks like rain coming in, commander, so I reckon we’ll take it a little gently until we get down past Piper’s Holding, and then round by the shallows at Johnson’s Neck, where we can canter around the melon plantation, and by then we should be able to see the Fanny. Is that all right by you, sir?”
Sam Vimes solemnly waited for a few seconds to give the impression that he had the faintest idea about the local landscape, and then said, “Well, yes, I think that should be about right, Feeney.”
Stinky dragged himself up the horse’s mane, grinning again, and held up a large thumb, fortunately his own.
Feeney gathered up the reins. “Good, sir, then I think we’d better bustle!”
It took Vimes a little while to fully understand what was going on. There was Feeney, on his horse, there was the statutory clicking noise, and then no Feeney, no horse, but quite a lot of dust in the distance and the cracked voice of Stinky saying, “Hold on tight, Mr. Po-leess-maan!” And then the horizon jumped toward him. Galloping was somehow not as bad as trotting, and he managed to more or less lie on the horse and hope that somebody knew what was going on. Stinky appeared to be in charge.
The track was quite wide and they thundered along it, trailing white dust; and then suddenly they were heading downward while the land on Vimes’s right was going up and the river was appearing behind some trees. He knew already that it was a river that saw no point in hurrying. After all, it was made up of water, and it is generally agreed that water has memory. It knew the score: you evaporated, you floated around in a cloud until somebody organized everybody, and then you all fell down as rain. It happened all the time. There was no point in hurrying. After your first splash, you’d seen it all before.
And so the river meandered. Even the Ankh was faster—and while the Ankh stank like a drain, it didn’t wobble slowly backward and forward, from one bank to the other, as Old Treachery did, as if uncertain about the whole water cycle business. And as the river wiggled like a snake, so did the banks, which, in accordance with the general placid and unhurried landscape, were overgrown and thick with vegetation.
Nevertheless, Feeney kept up the pace, and Vimes simply clung on, on the basis that horses probably didn’t willfully try falling into water of their own accord. He remained lying flat because the increasingly low branches and tangled foliage otherwise threatened to smite him off his mount like a fly.
