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The sweating Humphrey knew full well he was talking about the most influential vampire in the world whilst at the same time giving her the appearance of an elderly lady who only had to bang her walking stick on the floor to get total respect.
‘Of course all families have their ups and downs,’ Humphrey continued, ‘those little spats so easily started and so quickly left behind with no real damage done.’
Behind the burgomaster the train was unloading its passengers while Iron Girder occasionally hissed or spat in the way a locomotive has of making it clear it is not entirely quiescent.
Moist could hear Vimes debriefing Captain Sally von Humpeding, the Watch’s only vampire member, who had been seconded to the Bonk Watch. They came over to report.
‘Sally tells me that even though all communication from within Schmaltzberg has been cut off, reports have been reaching the Watch that all is not well with the conspirators,’ said Vimes. He looked to Sally for confirmation.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘our sources indicate that the grag known as Ardent—’
She was interrupted by a snort of rage from Rhys and a rattle of axes from his assembled compatriots.
‘Him again!’ snarled Rhys.
‘Yes,’ said Sally. ‘Him and a few others we’d been trying to locate after the massacre in Quirm. Well, it seems that Ardent and his followers are losing support; they’re not having it all their way. There is unrest—’
‘Good,’ said Rhys. ‘We can use that.’
‘And Albrechtson?’ asked Aeron.
‘Well,’ Sally smiled, showing a hint of fang, this being the most appropriate place in the world to let them get some air. ‘Well. And loyal to you, sire.’
A rather smart goblin messenger insinuated his way through the crowd and passed a message to Sally, who read it. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘It’s a message from Albrechtson. It seems the opposition know you’ve arrived, sire. Albrechtson would like you to know that he’s being well treated and has been able to follow the progress of Iron Girder, thanks to the goblins.’
Rhys turned and looked at Simnel and Moist and said, ‘Thank you, and Sir Harry, for getting me here safely. And Iron Girder, too. At the appropriate time you will know my generosity and I’d like to talk to you further. But do excuse me. I have a kingdom to reclaim.’
Addressing the company of dwarfs now fully assembled on the platform and armed to the teeth, he proclaimed, ‘Let it be known that the Low King has arrived and will take his place on the Scone of Stone. Anyone wishing to deny him that trivial pleasure should be prepared to back up their coherent and well-founded objections with weaponry. It really is quite as simple as that. This message will be carried into Schmaltzberg by Bashfull Bashfullsson, a highly respected and knowledgeable dwarf known to all, accompanied by my trusted secretary, Aeron. We should also include Commander Vimes, the Blackboard Monitor, and one-time Ambassador, to see fair play. Remember that at all times tampering with the King’s Messengers is a matter of treason. Be aware, I’m not going to be a nanny about this. Insurgent dwarfs will get their just deserts.’
The sound of Vimes loudly lighting his cigar broke the silence.
‘Let the others go first, I’ll go along in a minute or two,’ he said.
Moist, of course, hadn’t been at Koom Valley but right now he wondered if he was about to see the ghost of Koom Valley’s second incarnation – except it would be dwarf against dwarf. He wanted to shout out ‘This is nuts!’, and realized that in fact he had said it aloud.
To his surprise, the King said, ‘Certainly so, Mister Lipwig. It beggars all reason, doesn’t it? But sooner or later there comes a time when you have to take names and crack skulls. I’m sorry, it’s at the other end of the spectrum from the little chat and it’s what happens when reason no longer holds sway.’
‘But you’re all dwarfs. What can you possibly achieve?’ groaned Moist, who for the rest of his life would always remember the tone of the King’s voice …
‘Tomorrow. That, Mister Lipwig, is what we can achieve. Tomorrow.’
The arrival of the messengers sent an immediate buzz around the multiple caverns of Schmaltzberg, somehow the centre of the galaxy when it came to hubbub of all sizes and rumour mills that turned faster than the mills of the gods. Rumour flowed like quicksilver. The phenomenon might be called the dwarf clacks were it not for the fact that the clacks didn’t scramble the messages on a whim, thought Moist as he followed Rhys and the main band of dwarfs down into the honeycomb that was Schmaltzberg. The myriad noises flowing up from below through every tunnel and cavern were merging into a kind of audible mist or, he thought, fog. It simmered around the earlobe. The terrible sounds and confusions of war.
But now individual sounds were getting through. Raised voices, screams and the clatter of weaponry, punctuated with the occasional yell and dwarfish curses, which are known to have a life all of their very own. Further down, they came across Aeron, who was waiting with blood dripping from his sword. He noticed Moist’s look and shrugged.
‘There was a grag. He fought hard but would not submit, preferring death to ignominy … and so I accommodated him.’ That last phrase contained more emphasis than Moist had heard for a very long time. Aeron turned to Rhys and reported.
‘There have been certain clashes of opinion, your majesty,’ he said, pointing to several dwarfs being treated in what would have been an impromptu field hospital had it been in a field.
Swords, hammers and axes were being deployed below as the King carried on marching, until they came to what must be the great hall, the largest cavern of them all.
As they passed through the portal, Moist came to a halt, trying to get a grip on this subterranean landscape, lit by the enormous chandeliers of dribbling candles along with cressets and great vats of squirming vurmsfn79 writhing in the corners; so there was light, he thought, but a strange light that was somehow negotiating with the eyes. You could see but what you saw was the darkness.
‘Well, it’s not a war any more,’ said Vimes, suddenly there beside him. ‘And not too many serious outcomes, except for the grags. That’s dwarf-on-dwarf war: a hell of a lot of shouting and accusing and spitting, a lot like cats really, but that’s dwarfs for you. They’re not that stupid. Bags of bravado and sabre-rattling, but no one really wants to get hurt. You fight hoping for a small wound that looks good afterwards. Something to show the grandchildren, but really, when it comes to it, dwarf against dwarf, it generally settles down.’
Vimes puffed his cigar and continued, ‘Mind you, if it were dwarf against troll this place would be running with blood. On the whole, it’s like the taverns in Ankh-Morpork on a Saturday night. Everyone is full of gumption and pissy bravery and beer. Much too much beer. And then afterwards it’s just a lot of groaning until they see the light.’
In fact, what Moist could see near by was dwarfs in small groups, some of them bandaged, in positions which suggested that war as such, if not over, had been set aside for a breather and maybe a decent quaff. And younger dwarfs were going between the hurt and wounded with flagons. And one by one the dwarfs got up, shook hands with the nearest dwarf and walked haphazardly to the next group, where perhaps they would sit and chat and make up stories of near misses and clever parries and similar boozy boastings. Little by little, dwarf normality was flowing through Schmaltzberg once again.
