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‘She did, did she?’ said the King. ‘Well, none of us know what the future holds, but if my backside is still on the Scone when all of this is over then Sergeant Littlebottom and her colleagues will have earned any favours they want from me. A king’s gratitude has to be worth something, wouldn’t you say, Blackboard Monitor Vimes?’
Vimes smiled as if remembering an old joke and said, ‘Well, I hope she does, because she’s one of the best officers I’ve got.’
‘How many Cheery Littlebottoms can you afford?’ The King looked sombre. ‘I’d hate for someone to die, just to see that I don’t. Now, if I am to get to Uberwald with all due speed, we should be leaving very soon, yes?’
‘Soon, your majesty,’ Vimes agreed. ‘The rail traffic between here and Sto Lat runs throughout the night. At present it’s mostly freight and perishables for the market and the Post Office parcel business, but people are always coming and going at the terminus. Nobody could keep track of everyone. We’ve set it up so that you’ll be just another anonymous traveller on the platform, looking like any one of the Third Class passengers, although, should the need arise, you and your travelling companions would be found to be carrying an inordinately large amount of d
eadly weaponry. And that, your majesty, includes fangs.
‘The Watch is not going to be outdone on this one, sire. If the sh— excrement hits the wossname, nearly every place you go we’ll have people watching you. Now, if you and Mister Lipwig will accompany me to the side room over there, we’ll make sure that neither of you looks like either of you by the time we’ve finished.’
Turning to Harry, the commander said, ‘Harry, are you sure you can vouch for the discretion of all your people, even those in the kitchens?’
Harry almost saluted. ‘Yes, commander. Some of them are scoundrels – well, you know – but they’re my kind of scoundrel.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said the King. ‘I’m used to that sort of scoundrel. They are all so very … useful.’
Moist knew a lot about the tricks of disguise, although he never bothered with makeup as such. Becoming another person was a subtle matter that was probably only understood by those wrinkled old men up in the very high mountains around Oi Dong who knew the secrets of the known universe, one of them being how to kick your enemy’s spine all the way out of their body. They certainly knew that true camouflage came from within. And, oh yes, an occasional change of clothes was warranted, but mostly Moist just thought about the type of person he wanted to be seen as and it all came into focus. A false nose was definitely a no-no – inevitably, any nose designed to make you look like a stranger would be noticeably strange. And why risk it when his own features were so unmemorable that no one recalled their shape in any case? Of course, trying to look female had some built-in snags, but he’d managed it on a few occasions, back in the bad old days which were, in retrospect, so damn good. And he had lost track of all the clergymen he had been. If there was ever such a thing as redemption, they would have to open a magnum of the stuff for Moist. No, a brewery.
The King’s party split up when they arrived at the station. Rhys, now disguised as a rather disorientated, elderly dwarf, was accompanied at a distance by three other disreputable-looking characters, while the rest of his party disposed themselves in small, innocuous-looking groups along the platform.
Bashfull Bashfullsson had gallantly volunteered as another bodyguard, but both Moist and Commander Vimes had considered him too recognizable to other dwarfs, here in his native Ankh-Morpork, and suggested his special skills could be made better use of elsewhere. The dark clerks, however, had been trained by Vetinari who, as he had so recently proved, could stand in a room full of people without being seen: it was a technique. And there were others. Quite probably overhead. Whatever happened, Commander Vimes was not going to have the Low King of the Dwarfs killed on his watch.
Moist sighed as he walked, dragging one leg pitifully, but not too pitifully, to the rear of the train. There he found a station guard berating a well-dressed man who had sat down firmly in the Third Class carriage among sleepy workers with greasy hands and bags of tools, and chimney sweeps with, of course, their sacks of soot, inevitably leaking. Moist was all for the common man, and most especially the common man who could have afforded at least one bar of soap over a lifetime, and possibly didn’t spit all the time, great hawking globs of spit, the ones with a personality of their own. And the toff, who reeked and dribbled best brandy, was holding up the train while the guard was dithering, derailed by a haughty voice.
And so Moist put an arm around the wretched man and went straight into his infuriating-drunk routine, complete with explosive belches, a surefire winner guaranteed to work every time. First there was the spittle in the corner of the mouth, and a nasty smell, which Moist was king of, and the conversation in which every word was shredded and mistreated and misapplied unto death while Moist leaned inappropriately and spat and dribbled.
The wretch hurried for the sole First Class compartment at the front of the train after less than a minute. A personal best for Moist, who, still in dribbling and stinking character, staggered and weaved his way to a seat just before the whistle was blown and the train moved in the half-hearted way trains always did as the engine got its act together. He was very proud of it and he’d only used up half of his Boffo’s best artificial vomit with lingering smell.
It was a cold night for travelling. The King was on board somewhere, but this wasn’t the time to show any interest in him. Moist’s ragged clothes had been, well, adequate, and everybody in the compartment with the wind whistling underneath them had wrapped themselves up and tried not to exist until the train had reached its destination. Somewhere, he thought, there should be a statue erected to Effie, who had clearly tongue-lashed her husband into making the lower class coaches at least waterproof.fn67
The leader of the delvers watching one of the main routes out of Ankh-Morpork smiled as the large coach bearing the Low King’s insignia came into view. Rain splashed over the coach as the horses galloped hubwards and the leader of the delvers smiled at the raindrops. How easy it was going to be. He gave the signal to the waiting dwarfs and within minutes they were grabbing harnesses and bridles and bringing the coach to a shuddering halt. He kicked the coach door open.
‘Bring out the King and you will not be harmed,’ he commanded.
There was silence inside the coach and then he heard a voice say, ‘We ain’t got no king apart from Harry King and we ain’t the ones that are going to get harmed. Consider us as the King Preservation Society, and Sir Harry King don’t like his friends being put to any trouble. And you, my son, you are a lot of trouble, but thankfully not as much as we are. Come on, lads!’
The fight was fast and methodical and the coach drove away with the victors singing and drinking in the storm and the water on the cobbles was tinged with red.
Meanwhile, a few miles away, another group of delvers was having a remarkably similar experience with a remarkably similar coach, which had turned out to contain amongst other horrors a very fierce, very female dwarf in a watchman’s helmet …
The train pulled in to the station at Sto Lat Junction, and Moist watched as the guard helped a grubby and pitiful old dwarf down from his carriage. The Low King clearly had some skill as an actor. Moist noticed one of the old dwarf’s equally decrepit companions in adversity take pity on him and give him a piece of dwarf bread, breaking it in half with his axe. To his horror, Moist saw the King dribbling his thanks to the bread giver.
As he came up to the King, Moist whispered, ‘Excellent … Where did you get that stink? It’s got a life of its own.’
The King put a finger to his lips and said, ‘Not me, it leaked from the man in front. I don’t think he could have washed for years. But remember, a king has to cope with a lot worse than a little stink.’
There were a few hours to kill before the fast train left Sto Lat for Zemphis, as yet the furthest point hubwards to enjoy a Hygienic Railway service. Getting the Low King out of sight was a priority; even in disguise, there was a risk.
Leaving Simnel and Vimes in charge at the station, Moist and the Low King limped their way outside. Moist looked around for people he knew had to be there because he couldn’t see them. Suddenly one of them was right in front of him, so close that they were almost touching. He hadn’t seen him until that moment. It was as if he had shot up from below.
‘Godfrey, Mister Lipwig – dark clerk. Lord Vetinari has arranged for a safe house to be available to your party. Mister Simnel suggested his mother’s house, which isn’t far away. We’ve met the lady and she is a royalist through and through. Any royalty, and sensible, too. Nothing to worry about there. Clerk Mavis says the old girl is quick on the uptake and understands the position. She is a good cook and there will be clean sheets.’
Moist looked at the dripping King, who smiled and said, ‘It sounds like a gift from Tak on a night like this.’
As they walked the short distance through the rain-drenched and deserted streets to Mrs Simnel’s house, Moist was always aware of their escorts because the little hairs on the back of his neck were telling him they were there, showing them the way. Before long, they reached a cheerful little house near the centre of town, the kind that was always referred to as a ‘little palace’, the kind a lad might buy for his widowed mother so she could be close for doing the shopping.
A discreet knock at the door caused some shuffling within before a lady who could only be Mr Simnel’s mother stood in the doorway quietly ushering them inside. Once they were in her small but immaculate house, she paused and looked down at the Low King, then curtsied.
