Jingo. Part 18

"It smells newer," said Angua. "I'd say he was here last night."

"After Ossie was dead?" Ossie was dead?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"How should I know? What kind of name is 71-hour Ahmed?" said Angua.

Carrot shrugged. "I don't know. I think think Mr. Vimes thinks that someone in Ankh-Morpork wants us to believe that Klatchians paid to have the Prince killed. That sounds...nasty but logical. But I don't understand why a Mr. Vimes thinks that someone in Ankh-Morpork wants us to believe that Klatchians paid to have the Prince killed. That sounds...nasty but logical. But I don't understand why a real real Klatchian would get involved..." Klatchian would get involved..."

Their eyes met.

"Politics?" they said together.

"For enough money, a lot of people would do anything anything," said Angua.

There was a sudden and ferocious knocking at the door.

"Have you got someone in there?" said Mrs. Spent.

"Out of the window!" said Carrot.

"Why don't I just stay and rip her throat out?" said Angua. "All right, all right, it was a joke joke, all right?" she said, swinging her legs over the sill.

Ankh-Morpork no longer had a fire brigade. The citizens had a rather disturbingly direct way of thinking at times, and it did not take long for people to see the rather obvious flaw in paying a group of people by the number of fires they put out. The penny really dropped shortly after Charcoal Tuesday.

Since then they had relied on the good old principle of enlightened self-interest. People living close to a burning building did their best to douse the fire, because the thatch they saved might be their own.

But the crowd watching the burning emba.s.sy were doing so in a hollow-eyed, distant way, as if it was all taking place on some distant planet.

They moved aside automatically as Vimes elbowed his way through to the s.p.a.ce in front of the gates. Flames were already licking from every ground-floor window, and they could make out scurrying silhouettes in the flickering light.

He turned to the crowd. "Come on! What's up with you? Get a bucket chain going!"

"It's their their b.l.o.o.d.y emba.s.sy," said a voice. b.l.o.o.d.y emba.s.sy," said a voice.

"Yeah. 's Klatchian soil, right?"

"Can't go on Klatchian soil."

"That'd be an invasion invasion, that would."

"They wouldn't let us," said a small boy holding a bucket.

Vimes looked at the emba.s.sy gateway. There were a couple of guards. Their worried glances kept going back from the fire behind them to the crowd in front. They were nervous men, but it was much worse than that, because they were nervous men holding big swords.

He advanced on them, trying to smile and holding his badge out in front of him. It had a s.h.i.+eld on it. It was not a very big s.h.i.+eld.

"Commander Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch," he said, in what he hoped was a helpful and friendly voice.

A guard waved him away. "Hyou be off!"

"Ah..." said Vimes. He looked down at the cobbles of the gateway and then back up at the guard. Somewhere in the flames someone was screaming.

"You! Come here! You see this?" he shouted at the guard, pointing down. The man took a hesitant step forward.

"That's Ankh-Morpork soil down there, my friend," said Vimes. "And you're standing on it and you're obstructing me in my-" he rammed his fist as hard as he could into the guard's stomach "-duty!"

He was already kicking out as the other guard rushed him. He caught him on the knee. Something went click. It felt like Vimes's own ankle.

Cursing and limping slightly, he ran on into the emba.s.sy and caught a scurrying man by his robe.

"Are there people still in there? Are there people people in there?" in there?"

The man gave Vimes a panicky look. The armfuls of paper he'd been carrying spilled on to the ground.

Someone else grabbed his shoulder. "Can you climb, Mr. Vimes?"

"Who're-"

The newcomer turned to the cowering paper-carrier and struck him heavily across the face. "Rescuer of paper!"

As the man fell back his turban was s.n.a.t.c.hed from his head.

"This way!" The figure plunged off through the smoke. Vimes hurried after him until they reached a wall, with a drainpipe attached.

"How did you-?"

"Up! Up!"

Vimes put one foot in the man's cupped hands, managed to get the other one on a bracket, and forced himself upward.

"Hurry!"

He managed to half climb, half pull himself up the pipe, little fireworks of pain exploding up and down his legs as he reached a parapet and hauled himself over. The other man rose behind him as if he'd run up the wall.

There was a strip of cloth hiding the lower half of his face. He thrust another strip toward Vimes.

"Across your nose and mouth!" he commanded. "For the smoke!"

It was boiling across the roof. Beside Vimes a chimneypot gushed a roaring tongue of flame.

The rest of the unwound turban was thrust into his hands.

"You take this side, I'll take the other," said the apparition, and darted away again into the smoke.

"But wh-"

Vimes could feel the heat through his boots. He edged away across the roof, and heard the shouting coming from below.

When he leaned over the edge here he could see the window some way below him. Someone had smashed a pane, because a hand was waving.

There was more commotion down in the courtyard. Amid a press of figures he could make out the huge shape of Constable Dorfl, a golem and quite definitely fireproof. But Dorfl was bad enough at stairs as it was. There weren't many that could take the weight.

The hand in the smoke stopped waving.

Vimes looked down again.

Can you fly, Mr. Vimes?

He looked at the chimney, belching flame.

He looked at the unwound turban.

A lot of Sam Vimes's brain had shut down, although the bits relaying the twinges of pain from his legs were operating with distressing efficiency. But there were still some thoughts operating down around the core, and they delivered for his consideration the insight: ...tough-looking cloth...

He looked back at the chimney. It looked stout enough.

The window was about six feet below.

Vimes began to move automatically.

So, purely theoretically, if a man were to wrap one end of the cloth round the belching stack like this this and pay it out like and pay it out like this this and lower himself over the parapet like and lower himself over the parapet like this this and kick himself away from the wall like and kick himself away from the wall like this this, then when he swung back again his feet ought to be able to smash his way through the other panes of the window, like this this-

A cart squeaked along the wet street. Its progress was erratic because no two of its wheels were the same size, so it rocked and wobbled and skidded and probably involved more effort to pull than it saved overall, especially since its contents appeared to be rubbish. But then, so did its owner.

Who was about the size of a man, but bent almost double, and was covered with hair or rags or quite possibly a matted mixture of both that was so felted and unwashed that small plants had taken root on it. If the thing had stopped walking and crouched down, it would have given an astonis.h.i.+ngly good impression of a long-neglected compost heap. As it walked along, it snuffled.

A foot was stuck out to impede its progress.

"Good evening, Stoolie," said Carrot as the cart halted.

The heap stopped. Part of it tilted upward.

"Geroff," it muttered, from somewhere in the thatch.

"Now, now, Stoolie, let's help one another, shall we? You help me, and I'll help you."

"B'g'r' 'ff, c'p'r."

"Well, you tell me me things I want to know," said Carrot, "and I won't search your cart." things I want to know," said Carrot, "and I won't search your cart."

"I hate gnolls," said Angua. "They smell awful awful."

"Oh, that's hardly fair. The streets'd be a lot dirtier without you and yours, eh, Stoolie?" said Carrot, still speaking quite pleasantly. "You pick up this, you pick up that, maybe bash it against a wall until it stops struggling-"

"'s a vile accur'cy," said the gnoll. There was a bubbling noise that might have been a chuckle.

"So I'm hearing you might know where Snowy Slopes is these days," said Carrot.

"D'nno n'thin'."

"Fine." Carrot produced a three-tined garden fork and walked round to the cart, which dripped.

"D'nno n'thin' ab't ab't-" said the gnoll quickly.

"Yes?" said Carrot, fork poised.

"D'nno n'thin' ab't t' sweetsh'p 'n M'ney Tr'p L'ne."

"The one with the Rooms To Let sign?"

"R't."

"Well done. Thank you for being a good citizen," said Carrot. "Incidentally, we pa.s.sed a dead seagull on the way here. It's in Brewer Street. I bet if you hurried you could beat the rush."

"H't d'gg'ty," snuffled the gnoll. The cart started to judder forward. The watchmen watched it lurch and sc.r.a.pe around the corner.

"They're good fellows at heart," said Carrot. "I think it says a lot for the spirit of tolerance in this city that even gnolls can call it home."

"They turn my stomach," said Angua, as they set off again. "That one had plants growing on him!"

"Mr. Vimes says we ought to do something for them," said Carrot.

"All heart, that man."

"With a flamethrower, he says."

"Wouldn't work. Too soggy. Has anyone ever really really found out what they eat?" found out what they eat?"

"It's better to think of them as...cleaners. You certainly don't see as much rubbish and dead animals on the streets as you used to."

"Yes, but have you ever seen a gnoll with a brush and shovel?"

"Well, that's society for you, I'm afraid," said Carrot. "Everything is dumped on the people below until you find someone who's prepared to eat it. That's what Mr. Vimes says."

"Yes," said Angua. They walked in silence for a while, and then she said, "You care a lot about what Mr. Vimes says, don't you...?"

"He is a fine officer and an example to us all."