Jingo. Part 16

"What?"

"Really bad dandruff?" bad dandruff?"

"Oh, yes, it-"

"That's why they call him Snowy," said Carrot. "Daceyville Slopes, the man with the reinforced comb. But I'd heard he'd moved to Sto Lat-"

In unison they said: "-where the dye comes from-"

"Is he good with a bow?" said Angua.

"Very good. He's good at killing people he never met, too."

"He's an a.s.sa.s.sin, is he?"

"Oh, no. He just kills people for money. No style. Snowy can barely read and write."

Carrot scratched his head in sympathetic recollection. "He doesn't even look at complicated pictures. We'd have got him last year, but he shook his head fast and got away while we were trying to dig out n.o.bby. Well, well. I wonder where he's staying?"

"Don't ask me to follow him in these streets. Thousands of people will have walked over the trail."

"Oh, there's people who will know. Someone sees everything in this town."

MR. SLOPES?.

Snowy Slopes gingerly felt his neck, or at least the neck of his soul. The human soul tends to keep to the shape of the original body for some time after death. Habit is a wonderful thing.

"Who the h.e.l.l h.e.l.l was was he he?" he said.

NOT SOMEONE YOU KNOW? said Death.

"Well, no! I don't know many people who cut my head off!"

Snowy Slopes's body had knocked against the table as it fell. Several bottles of medicated shampoo now dripped and mixed their contents into the other more intimate fluids from the Slopes corpse.

"That stuff with the special oil in it cost me nearly four dollars," said Snowy. Yet, somehow, it all seemed slightly...irrelevant now. Death happens to other people. The other person in this case had been him. That is, the one down there. Not the one standing here looking at it. In life, Snowy hadn't even been able to spell spell "metaphysical," but he was already beginning to view life in a different way. From the outside, for a start. "metaphysical," but he was already beginning to view life in a different way. From the outside, for a start.

"Four dollars," he repeated. "I never even had time to try it!"

IT WOULDN'T HAVE WORKED, said Death, patting the man on a fading shoulder. BUT, IF I I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT YOU LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, IT WILL NO LONGER BE NECESSARY MIGHT SUGGEST THAT YOU LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, IT WILL NO LONGER BE NECESSARY.

"No more dandruff?" said Snowy, now quite transparent and fading fast.

EVER, said Death. TRUST ME ON THIS.

Commander Vimes ran down darkened streets, trying to buckle on his breastplate as he ran.

"All right, Cheery, what's happening?"

"They say a Klatchian killed someone, sir. There's a mob up in Scandal Alley and it's looking bad. I was on the desk and I thought you ought to be told, sir."

"Right!"

"And anyway I couldn't find Captain Carrot, sir."

A little bit of acid ink scribbled its subtle entry on the ledger of Vimes's soul.

"Oh, G.o.ds...so who's the officer in charge?"

"Sergeant Detritus, sir."

It seemed to the dwarf that she was suddenly standing still. Commander Vimes had become a rapidly disappearing blur.

With the calm expression of someone who was methodically doing his duty, Detritus picked up a man and used him to hit some other men. When he had a clear area around him and a groaning heap of former rioters, he climbed the heap and cupped his hands round his mouth.

"Listen to me, youse people!"

A troll shouting at the top of his voice could easily be heard above a riot. When he seemed to have their attention he pulled a scroll out of his breastplate and waved it over his head.

"Dis is der Riot Act," he said. "You know what dat means? It means if'n I reads it out and youse don't disb...disp...go away, der Watch can use deadly force, you unnerstand?"

"What did you just use, then?" moaned someone from underneath his feet.

"Dat was you helpin' der Watch," said Detritus, s.h.i.+fting his weight.

He unrolled the scroll.

Although there was some scuffling in alleyways and shouts from the next street, a ring of silence expanded outward from the troll. An almost genetic component of the citizens of Ankh-Morpork was their ability to spot an opportunity for amus.e.m.e.nt.

Detritus held the doc.u.ment at arm's length. And then a few inches from his face. He tried turning it round a few times.

His lips moved uneasily.

Finally, he leaned down and showed it to Constable Visit.

"What dis word?"

"That's 'Whereby,' sergeant."

"I knew dat."

He straightened up again.

"'Whereby...it is...'" Beads of the troll equivalent of sweat began to form on Detritus's forehead. "'Whereby it is...ack-no-legg-ed...'"

"Acknowledged," whispered Constable Visit.

"I knew dat." Detritus stared at the paper again, and then gave up. "Youse don't want to stand here listenin' to me all day!" he bellowed. "Dis is der Riot Act and you've all got to read it, right? Pa.s.s it round."

"What if we don't read it?" said a voice in the crowd.

"You got to read it. It legal legal."

"And then what happens?"

"Den I shoot you," said Detritus.

"That's not allowed!" said another voice. "You've got to shout 'Stop! Armed watchman!' first."

"Sure, dat suits me," said Detritus. He shrugged one huge shoulder to bring his crossbow under his arm. It was a siege bow, intended to be mounted on the cart. The bolt was six feet long. "It harder to hit runnin' targets."

He released the safety catch.

"Anyone finis.h.i.+ng readin' dat thing yet?"

"Sergeant!"

Vimes pushed his way through the crowd. And it was was a crowd now. Ankh-Morpork was always a good audience. a crowd now. Ankh-Morpork was always a good audience.

There was a clang as Detritus saluted.

"Were you proposing to shoot these people in cold blood, sergeant?"

"Nossir. Just a warning shot inna head, sir."

"Really? Just give me a moment to talk to them, then."

Vimes looked at the man next to him. He was holding a flaming torch in one hand and a long length of wood in the other. He gave Vimes the nervously defiant stare of someone who has just felt the ground s.h.i.+ft under his feet.

Vimes pulled the torch toward him and lit a cigar. "What's happening here, friend?"

"The Klatchians have been shooting people, Mr. Vimes! Unprovoked attack!"

"Really?"

"People have been killed!"

"Who?"

"I...there were...everyone knows knows they've been killing people!" The man's mental footsteps found safer ground. "Who do they think they are, coming over-" they've been killing people!" The man's mental footsteps found safer ground. "Who do they think they are, coming over-"

"That's enough," said Vimes. He stood back and raised his voice.

"I recognize a lot of you," he said. "And I know you've got homes to go to. See this?" He pulled his baton of office out of his pocket. "This says I've got to keep the peace. So in ten seconds I'm going somewhere else to find some peace to keep, but Detritus is going to stay here. And I just hope he doesn't do anything to disgrace the uniform. Or get it very dirty, at least."

Irony was not a degree-level subject among the listeners, but the brighter ones recognized Vimes's expression. It said that here was a man hanging on to his patience by his teeth.

The mob dispersed, going ragged at the edges as people legged it down side alleys, threw away their makes.h.i.+ft weapons and emerged at the other end walking the grave, thoughtful walk of honest citizens.

"All right, what happened happened?" said Vimes, turning to the troll.

"We're hearing where dis boy shot dis man," said Detritus. "We got here, next minute it rainin' people from everywhere, shoutin'."

"He smote him as Hudrun smote the fleshpots of Ur," said Constable Visit.*

"Smote?" said Vimes, bewildered. "He killed someone?"

"Not by der way der man was cussing, sir," said Detritus. "Hit him in der arm. His friends brought him round der Watch House to complain. He a baker on der night s.h.i.+ft. He said he was late for work, he come runnin' in to pick up his dinner, next minute he flat on der floor."

Vimes walked across the street and tried the door of the shop. It opened a little way, and then fetched up against what seemed to be a barricade. Furniture had been piled up against the window as well.

"How many people were there, constable?"

"A mult.i.tude thereof, sir."

And four people in here, thought Vimes. A family. The door moved a fraction and Vimes realized he was ducking even before the crossbow protruded.

There was the thung thung of the string. The bolt tumbled rather than sped. It corkscrewed wildly across the alley and was almost moving sideways when it hit the opposite wall. of the string. The bolt tumbled rather than sped. It corkscrewed wildly across the alley and was almost moving sideways when it hit the opposite wall.

"Look," said Vimes, keeping his body down but raising his voice. "Anyone who got hit with that that, it must have been an accident. This is the Watch. Open the door. Otherwise Detritus will open it. And when he opens a door, it stays open. You know what I mean?"

There was no reply.

"All right. Detritus, just step over here-"

There was a hissed argument inside, and then the sound of sc.r.a.ping as furniture was moved.

He tried the door. It swung inward.

The family were at the far end of the room. Vimes felt eight eyes on him. The atmosphere had a hot, worrying feel, spiced with the smell of burnt food.

Mr. Goriff was holding the crossbow gingerly, and the expression on his son's face told Vimes a lot of what he needed to know.

"All right right," he said. "Now you all listen to me. I'm not arresting anyone right now, you hear? This sounds like one of those things that make his lords.h.i.+p yawn. But you'd do better spending the rest of the night in the Watch House. I can't spare the men to stand guard here. Do you understand? I could could arrest you. But this is just a request." arrest you. But this is just a request."

Mr. Goriff cleared his throat.