Chapter Text
The reception was in full swing, and Lancre castle was heaving with bodies. Commander Vimes sighed, and watched from a turret window as a huge boar was rotated on a spit in the centre of the courtyard below.
People seemed to be having fun, out there. Inside, where the nobles congregated, things were more…sedate. Which was perfectly fine for Sam Vimes, who was long past the point of his life in which he had done anything more than tolerate these sorts of things. At least in here he could keep an eye on Vetinari without too much trouble.
He glanced down at his pocket watch, wondering how much longer His Lordship would feel the need to hang around before Vimes could wave him off to bed and then crash himself. As if reading his mind, the Patrician appeared beside him, carrying a plate of untouched food and a suspiciously full glass of wine.
He raised an eyebrow at Vimes. “If you would prefer to join the festivities outside, Commander, please feel free.”
“Nope. I’m fine in here.” Vimes scowled. “I still don’t see why I had to come.”
He fancied he saw Vetinari suppress an eye roll, because this was not the first conversation they had had on the matter; when the idea was first mooted Vimes had argued he had too much work to do in the city, and so couldn’t justify spending weeks travelling to some backwater little country for a glorified party.
Vetinari had explained to Vimes that, on the contrary, this was work; one of his ducal obligations was to represent the city when invited to civic functions in neighbouring countries.
Vimes had argued that Lancre barely counted as a neighbouring country, and in fact barely counted as a country at all, given that its entire population could fit inside the Unseen University library with room to spare.
Vetinari had pointed out that the entire population of the Disc could fit in the library, on account of the pan-dimensional nature of L-Space, so that was hardly an argument. And besides, he had said; it was important to show respect to other heads of state.
Vimes had said he didn’t respect any head of state that wore a bloody crown, as Vetinari was well aware.
Vetinari had replied that King Verence was a very modern monarch who had, in fact, recently introduced a parliament and was looking forward to educating the populace in the concept of democracy.
Vimes had said in that case, he’d wait for the next party, which – if the parliament had any damned sense – would be to vote on the execution of King Verence and the abolition of the monarchy.
At that point Vetinari had reached the limits of his patience and explained that another of his ducal obligations was to do as he was told, and had further suggested that if Vimes continued to argue, then he, Vetinari, would remind Lady Sybil that Vimes had not yet replaced the tights that had ripped at the Hogswatch gala. And then not only would he still have to go to Lancre, but would also need to do so whilst wearing bright red tights.
Vimes had reluctantly conceded that he had lost, at that point, and shut up. The trip up had been somewhat tense.
Beside him now, Vetinari sighed. “We have discussed this. Ankh-Morpork has…future interests in the Ramtops. It behoves us to maintain cordial relations with the kingdoms up here.” He paused. “In any event, regicide is practically their national pastime, Vimes. You should feel right at home.”
Vimes grunted. Vetinari gave up, and wandered off to talk to the Duke of Sto Helit.
A youth in a guard uniform appeared in front of him, proffering a fancy-looking drink on a tray. Vimes gave it a distracted glance.
“No thanks. I don’t drink.”
The youth looked at him curiously. “Really? How is it you don’t die, then, sir?”
Vimes dragged his attention away from the revolving pig and frowned slightly at him. “What? No. I mean, I do drink. I just don’t drink alcohol.”
“Oh. Right. Um. This isn’t alcohol. This is fruit juice and things. The Queen had it made special for you, Commander Vimes.”
Vimes turned, and spotted Queen Magrat talking to someone Vimes was sure had been introduced as an Earl, or possibly a Viscount, although he suspected he’d have remembered if it was the latter because the bloody stupid title always made him think of biscuits. She noticed him looking, so he picked up the drink and tipped it in a cautious thank you. He’d heard she used to be a witch, so he sipped it warily, but it was surprisingly pleasant. She gave him a smile and turned her attention back to the probably-Earl, who didn’t appear to have stopped talking at all while she was distracted.
He took another mouthful of the fruity liquid, which seemed to have some sort of herbs floating in it, and looked back out of the window to where long tables were bowing under the weight of food.
He frowned. “That woman just shoved a whole salmon down her…er, undergarments.”
The youth followed his gaze. “Oh, that’s our mum.”
“Doesn’t anyone mind that she’s nicking half the buffet?”
“Oh, no, sir. She’s a witch,” Shawn Ogg said, proudly.
Vimes narrowed his eyes. “And witches are allowed to steal stuff, are they?”
Shawn shifted awkwardly. “It’s not stealing, much, sir. It’s more like…perks. Everyone knows you got to keep witches happy.”
“Oh? Sounds like bribery to me, son.”
Shawn frowned. “I s’pose it’s more like…paying for stuff up front?”
Vimes raised an eyebrow. “And what happens if you don’t pay?”
The youth shrugged. “Nothin’ much, sir. Witches help even when you don’t deserve it, my mum says. But everyone’ll know.”
Vimes was reminded of Cockbill Street, and the informal network of gossip that maintained the social order between the families. He felt a brief pang at being so far from home, and turned back to the view from the window, just in time to see a whole roast chicken vanish down the other leg.
“You don’t have a Watch, here, do you? What happens if there’s an actual crime?”
Shawn relaxed a bit. “Oh, usually mum goes and has a word, and then they says sorry and promises not to do it again.”
“What? Even for murder?”
Shawn looked shocked. “Oh, no sir. Ha! Mum isn’t going to talk to murderers.”
Vimes looked slightly mollified. “Right.”
The youth continued. “Mistress Weatherwax goes and talks to them.” He nodded to a dim spot in the corner of the courtyard.
Vimes looked down to where a severe looking woman in a tall black hat was practically disappearing into the shadows. As he watched, she turned slowly, looked up, and gave him a stare that he could have used to cut diamond. He stared back for a minute, then realised he was very much outmatched and turned back to look at Shawn.
“And then what?”
“Well, sir.” He turned to look at Vimes. “Then she tells us if they done it, and usually we hang ‘em.”
“No trial?”
“Trial, sir?”
“You know, lad. Evidence put in front of a judge.” Well, he thought; Vetinari, at least.
“Ah, right. No, sir. I mean, I suppose the king would be judge if he needed to, but usually it’s just Mistress Weatherwax.”
“She’s never wrong?”
Shawn shrugged. “Not according to our mum.”
“And people just…believe her?”
Shawn glanced around nervously. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, son, what if she lies?”
“Um.” Shawn looked suddenly like a man who had wandered into the Shades after dark and was desperately trying to find the way out before he was spotted. “That’s not…she wouldn’t…Mistress Weatherwax is very…um…” A small droplet of sweat trickled down the side of his forehead.
Vimes took pity on him. “Alright, alright. Settle down. It was just a question.”
Shawn looked pale. “Erm. Right. Sorry, sir. Look, I should probably…” He started to edge away from Vimes.
Vimes sighed and gestured for him to leave with a jerk of his head, and the boy fled.
He sipped his juice, and wondered if he could slink away without Vetinari pointedly noticing. Turning back to peer out into the night, he noticed the staring witch appeared to have melted away into the shadows.
He gave a small and completely involuntary shiver, then decided to go and take his chances with Vetinari.
oOo
Vimes woke early the next morning and burrowed down further under the covers as a chilly breeze whistled through the gaps in the castle walls. It was the only building he’d ever experienced in which each room had its own prevailing wind.
He had been trying to work up the courage to get out from the cosy cocoon for half an hour when there was a knock at the door.
“Yes?”
The big, round face of Shawn Ogg peered around the door. “Morning, sir. Lord Vetinari has asked you to report to him as soon as you’re up, please, sir.”
Vimes grunted, and tried to recall if he’d done anything last night to warrant an early morning summons. “What kind of mood was he in?”
Shawn hesitated. “Does he have different moods, sir?”
Vimes conceded that to most people, Vetinari’s moods probably all looked rather similar. Only when you knew him well could you successfully interpret the tiny signs that indicated how the tyrant was really feeling.
“Did he use my name, or was I ‘His Grace’?”
Shawn frowned. “Um. I think he said, ‘the Commander’, sir.”
Okay; probably fine.
“Thank you…Shawn, wasn’t it?” He paused. “Are you the only one who works here?”
Shawn looked surprised. “Mostly, sir. Apart from the maid and the cook and the bird man and whatnot. I do most everything else.” The pride had returned to his voice.
“Ah. Right.” He’d have to try and have a chat with the lad about the concept of labour rights before he left. He waved Shawn away, then dragged himself out of the bed and quickly pulled on some clothes.
Vetinari was standing at a small table shaving himself when Vimes reported in, and he stared at the man’s reflection in the mirror.
“Ah. Good morning, Commander.”
“Morning, sir.” He hesitated as he watched the Patrician slide the razor through the lather of soap. “I can come back later…?”
Vetinari navigated the blade deftly over a cheekbone, then wiped it on a towel around his neck.
“That won’t be necessary, Vimes. I wanted to let you know that we will be remaining a little longer.”
Vimes frowned slightly. “Why?”
Vetinari met his eyes in the mirror. “There has been a crime, overnight, and I have offered the king our assistance in finding the perpetrator.”
“Our assistance…?” Vimes asked, with as much sarcasm as he felt he could safely get away with while the man was holding a blade.
Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “Your assistance.”
“Ah. And why would they need my assistance? It sounds like the locals have their own methods of policing. Trial by witch.”
Vetinari sighed. “As I believe I mentioned, King Verence is a forward-thinking monarch, who is keen to drag Lancre into the Century of the Anchovy. I believe he sees this as an opportunity to persuade his subjects that there is value in having a watch. In addition to a witch.”
Vimes frowned. “Is there, though? There’s only five hundred people live here. How much crime can there be?”
“I’m sure you once told me that everyone was guilty of something, Vimes.”
“Right, but we don’t lock ‘em all up for it. They start turning over that rock here and they’ll have the whole country in the dungeons before you can say drunk and disorderly.”
“Well, in any case, Commander, I assured the king you would be along to look at the body before breakfast.”
Vimes blinked. “Body? Wait; this is a murder?”
Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, Vimes. That is what you are to investigate.”
“But someone’s dead?”
“Yes. Very. Found at the bottom of the back stairs this morning.”
“And you didn’t think to lead with that, sir?!”
“And risk missing out on the rest of this scintillating discussion…?”
If that tone gets any drier, he could use it as a towel, Vimes thought. He scowled. “Are we sure they didn’t just fall down the stairs? This lot could drink the city under the table, and the whole castle’s a deathtrap. I swear every flagstone’s laid to a different height, and the bastards keep jumping up to trip me.”
Vetinari inclined his head. “I had the displeasure of being the one to find him this morning. To my eye, the death appears suspicious. But I will of course cede to your expertise in this area.”
Vimes stared at him. If a trained assassin suggested a death was suspicious, it paid to listen. And besides; he wouldn’t be a copper if he wasn’t intrigued.
First things first, though. “Just to make absolutely sure; you didn’t kill him, did you, sir?”
Vetinari gave him a withering look in the mirror.
“No, Commander.”
Vimes grinned. “Alright. You can’t blame me for checkin’, though. So where’s the body?”
“I believe the queen had him taken to the cellars for now. After you have examined him, he will be returned to his family.” Vetinari wiped away the last traces of foam and patted his face dry, then turned to face Vimes. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that we are guests here, and you are outside your jurisdiction. You will need to work with the locals, please, Commander.”
Vimes narrowed his eyes. “No, you didn’t need to remind me. But since you did anyway, I’ll remind you that you’re the one who’s offered my help. So, it might not be my jurisdiction, but apparently it’s my bloody problem.”
Vetinari looked at him for a moment, then gave a sharp smile. “Precisely, Your Grace. And now, would you excuse me? I have an appointment with the king.”
He turned his back to Vimes, who realised he’d been dismissed and grudgingly stormed off in search of the corpse.
oOo
He had somehow managed to get lost in the castle, but after twenty minutes of traipsing up and down freezing corridors while the flagstones tried to murder him, he’d been standing in front of the fairly non-descript body of a man in his late twenties.
Well, it was definitely murder, he thought. People who fall down the stairs don’t usually stab themselves repeatedly in the chest on the way down.
He shifted uncomfortably. Dead bodies didn’t tend to unsettle him; after you’d pulled a few off the surface of the Ankh in high summer, you quickly learned just to be grateful when they were still mostly solid. But the queen was watching him from across the table, and proximity to royalty had kicked his instincts into confused overdrive; his proletarian legs wanted to fold at the knees even as his republican hands fought the urge to reach for an axe.
When Vetinari had said she’d had the body taken to the cellar, he didn’t realise the queen would be down there laying the man out as well. She’d even helped Vimes roll the figure over so he could check for other injuries. That didn’t seem particularly regal, to him.
Now he gently rolled the dead man back over, and took a long look at him. The injuries were all clustered around the chest, and seemed to have been made with a blade that was at least partly serrated, judging by the mess. There was an empty knife sheath attached to the man’s belt, which suggested there was a strong possibility that he’d been killed with his own missing weapon. Vimes cleared his throat. “Right. Seems like the stab wounds probably did for him. So who is he?”
Magrat sighed. “Andrew Scrope. He lived alone in the town.” She frowned slightly. “His father was killed by a unicorn a few years ago and he’s never really been the same since.”
Vimes looked at her sharply, trying to figure out if she was joking, but she looked deadly serious. “A…unicorn…?”
The queen detected his tone, and tilted her head as she looked at him. “Yes, Commander. I know how it sounds. But things are different, up here.”
He grunted. “So I’m learning. What did he do? For a living, I mean?”
She shrugged. “Not much. Odd jobs. Helped with the farms, mostly.” She frowned a little. “He wasn’t a very nice man, I’m afraid.”
“What do you mean, ‘not very nice’?”
She seemed to think about it for a moment. “He was a terror in drink. Pestered the local girls something rotten. He was on the losing end of quite a few fights about it, over the years.”
“Sounds like motive?”
“Perhaps. Although he had settled a bit, recently. Granny had had a word with him after the last time, so he’d been behaving himself.”
“Sorry, who’s Granny…?” he asked, although suspicion had dawned before he’d even finished the sentence.
Magrat tried to hide a smile. “Esme Weatherwax. Though it’s Mistress Weatherwax to you, Commander, if you know what’s good for you.”
Vimes recalled the figure staring up at him from the courtyard. “Right. The witch? What’s she going to do, turn me into a frog?”
A glint appeared in Magrat’s eye. “Oh, no. She doesn’t do that sort of thing anymore. But she might make you wish you were one.”
Vimes scowled. “And she talked to him, did she? Did she threaten him?”
Magrat laughed. “Of course not. Witches don’t threaten people, Commander. And we certainly don’t stab people, if that’s what you were thinking.”
Hmm. Vetinari didn’t threaten people either, and yet he was the most threatening person Vimes had ever met. He simply believed actions spoke louder than words.
Still, Vimes couldn’t picture the old woman lurking on the stairs with a dagger, either.
“Fine. I’ll go and see her, anyway. Has he got any friends or family I could talk to?”
The queen shrugged. “Friends…maybe Dependability Burns? I’ve heard they drink together, sometimes.” She paused, and looked down at the body. “His mother’s been dead twenty years. His uncle lives on the outskirts of town, but he keeps to himself. Shawn has gone to let him know, though I dare say word will have reached him by now.”
“Right. And how many people were here last night?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Around two hundred, I’m afraid. Two thirds of them local, the rest visiting guests, like you.”
Vimes sighed. “Great.”
She gave him a reassuring smile. “Lord Vetinari seems to think you’ll have it solved by teatime.”
“He does, does he…?” Vimes rubbed a hand across his face tiredly. “I’d better get started, then.” He paused. “Thank you. Your, er, majesty.”
She waved a hand at him. “Call me Magrat. Everyone else does.”
He cleared his throat awkwardly as his inner republican screamed at him not to fall for it. “Right. Thanks.”
The queen watched amusedly as he backed away into the corridor – glaring suspiciously at the flagstones as he went – then disappeared round the corner.
oOo
By lunchtime Vimes had traipsed the length of the town several times, and gotten absolutely nowhere.
He’d started with a call to the dead man’s uncle, but all he’d learned there was that Douglas Scrope was an angry man with a strong dislike of authority. He’d said a grand total of two words to Vimes, and one of those had been ‘off’. Vimes – painfully aware of his lack of back up – had done as instructed.
After that he’d tried the man’s alleged friend with the unfortunate name. Dependability Burns had apparently heard the news shortly after it had left the castle, and had seemingly been drinking since. From what Vimes could understand from his somewhat inebriated statement, he claimed to have last seen Scrope about 3am, which was about an hour before Vetinari had found him at the bottom of the isolated back staircase. He had insisted he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary with the man. Then, to Vimes' intense discomfort, Burns had started crying. When he’d reached the point of blowing his nose noisily on his sleeve, Vimes had awkwardly excused himself.
He'd ended up back in the town and tried a few houses at random. By this point he had a small entourage; four children of indeterminate age and sex had started following him as he’d gone door-to-door, narrating his lack of progress aloud. Threats and bribery had both failed at getting rid of them, and Vimes was beginning to understand what it might be like to be one of those people who was continuously bothered by invisible voices.
No one had yet been willing to talk to him, and now he knocked on the door of a neat house at the centre of the town square. The assorted children had gone quiet, then one of the smaller ones said, “A witch lives there, mister. She’ll put a spell on you if you’re not careful. She doesn’t like coppers.”
Vimes ignored them.
Finally, the door was opened by a harried looking woman, and Vimes would swear a glint appeared in her eye when he explained who he was. It pricked his suspicious bastard instinct, and he grew even more wary when she waved him into a room filled to the brim with knick-knacks and ornaments, then disappeared.
“Visitor for you, Mother!”
Vimes stood around awkwardly for a moment, looking at some of the figurines on the mantle for something to do. After a minute he blinked when it became apparent that they were of a style that might be described, somewhat euphemistically, as bawdy. He turned away, feeling heat rise in his cheeks as a woman with a face like a pickled onion – one of the soft, squishy ones that has spent too many years at the bottom of the jar – appeared in the doorway. Vimes took in the black clothes and remembered the sight of the salmon vanishing into a knicker-leg the night before.
“Ah. Mrs Ogg…?”
Nanny was sucking on a pipe, and she looked Vimes up and down grumpily. She sat herself in large armchair and threw a dirty glance after the woman who had fled.
“Hmph. I’ll be having words with her. Letting the bloody Watch in without warning a woman.”
Vimes followed her gaze. “Is she your daughter?”
The pickled onion scowled. “Ha! No. Daughter-in-Law. One of ‘em, anyway.” She puffed on the pipe and put her feet up on a stuffed donkey that appeared to be used as a footstool. She sighed as she settled back. “You here about the Scrope boy?”
“Yes. I’m Commander Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork city watch. King Verence has asked me to look into it.” He paused, but she didn’t volunteer anything more; just watched him carefully. He pressed on. “You were at the castle last night, weren’t you?”
Nanny peered at him. “Aye. I saw you there, too. Up with the nobs. Our Shawn says you’re a duke?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman puffed the pipe thoughtfully. “What’s a duke doing in the Watch? That’s no job for a gentleman.”
Vimes shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that. Never been much of a gentleman. I was a watchman first.” He paused, and tried to get back on track, although she was still frowning. “Did you see anything suspicious last night, ma’am?”
“Suspicious…? Like someone being stabbed and pushed down the stairs, you mean?” She grinned gummily. “Nope. I ain’t seen nothing like that. And I wouldn’t be telling you if I ‘ad, Your Dukeness. This is Lancre stuff. Not Ankh-Morpork business.”
Vimes sighed. “You know what, Mrs Ogg? I can’t argue with you there.” He looked out of the window, to where the kids were now kicking stones at each other further down the street. He thought for a second, then said, “I heard he wasn’t the type of fella who’s likely to be missed, anyway. So I don’t suppose it matters if the killer gets away with it. Does it?”
Nanny narrowed her eyes. “I din’t say that, now, did I? Whoever done it will get found. Just not by you.”
He looked back at her. “By who, then, ma’am? You?”
“Maybe.”
“And will he be punished by you?”
“If needs be.”
Vimes paused. “Or will it be the other one? Mistress Weatherwax…? I heard she’s the one you’ve got to watch out for, round here.”
“Oh, you heard that, did you?” Nanny grinned again. “I dare say that’s what most folks think, yes.” She paused. “You been to see her yet? Or you still working up to that?”
“She’s next on my list.”
She cackled. “Ha! Can I come and watch?”
A sense of irritation, which had been nipping at his ankles, now sank its teeth into his leg proper and he fought to keep an answering bark out of his tone. “Look, Mrs Ogg. I know you don’t want me here. But the king and queen asked me to help, so I’m doing what I’ve been told. I just want to figure out who killed the boy.” He paused, looking around at the family pictures that covered every available wall, then thought for a moment as she watched him.
Finally, he said, “Your Shawn’s a good lad, isn’t he? Keeps things running up the castle, I hear.” He watched her eyes narrow, and carried on. “Are you saying if this happened to him, you’d push away someone who tried to catch the bastard that did it? Someone who knew what they were doing? Because they were the wrong sort of person? And I do know what I’m doing, Mrs Ogg. I’m good at my job. Vetinari wouldn’t have given me it otherwise.”
Nanny frowned and tapped a finger on the arm of the chair as she stared at him for a long moment. She appeared to be weighing something up. Eventually, she said, “I might have heard he was stepping out with Millie Chillum. From up the castle?”
Vimes strained to remember who he’d been introduced to when they’d arrived, and recalled a quiet, shy girl bobbing nervously around the queen. “The maid? Isn’t she a bit young for him?”
Nanny shrugged. “Girls don’t have many options round these parts. I dare say her father wasn’t too thrilled about it though.” She gave him a piercing stare that was all the more disconcerting coming from such an otherwise good-natured face. “But you’ll want to be careful, there. Arlo Chillum’s well liked.”
Great. The duke from the city versus a local lad, Vimes thought. What could go wrong?
Out loud he said, “Right. Thanks for the tip.” He moved towards the door. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
Nanny didn’t get up. “Mister Vimes?”
He turned back and raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
Her eyes were dark. “I don’t like bein’ manipulated, especially. But if you try that with Esme there won’t be anything left of you worth sending back to your boss. Right? Just a friendly warning, for you.”
Vimes gave her a nod, then let himself out as she returned to puffing away thoughtfully on the pipe.
Back outside, the sun was being covered by a gathering of storm clouds, and the air was close and heavy. The group of children saw him emerge, and ran up to him. “Did she do any magic on you, mister?”
“Yeah. She turned me into a right nasty bastard.”
The children cackled delightedly. Vimes cast an eye around the town square, then pulled out a cigar and lit it. He flicked his lighter closed and puffed a smoke ring into the air.
“Right. Do any of you know where a witch called Esme Weatherwax lives…?”
They looked at each other in some sort of silent communication, then one of them spoke up. “I know. She’s over Bad Ass way, at the other edge of the forest. We don’t go there, though.” The speaker looked to be older than the rest by a year or two, and if pressed Vimes would have given odds on him being male.
“Oh, aye? Scared, are you?”
The older boy shrugged. “Yeah.”
Vimes blinked in surprise at the honesty. “Ah. Right.” He puffed the cigar thoughtfully. “Could you show me to the forest, at least?”
There was a brief huddle, then they turned back to him. “Can we take your stuff if she turns you into a lizard…?” the spokesboy asked.
He looked at them blankly. “I suppose.”
There was another huddled conversation, interspersed with many appraising glances at an increasingly uncomfortable Vimes. Finally, they turned back to him and the boy said, “Okay, then. But you ‘ave to come and find us when you’re a lizard, right?”
Vimes promised he would indeed attempt to do so, and the troupe set off for the forest.
oOo
The heavens had opened just as he’d reached the edge of the woods, and as his youthful entourage had deserted him, he’d ducked quickly onto the path in the vague hope the trees would provide some shelter. Unfortunately it was the type of rain that found its way in through every nook and cranny, and after a few minutes walking he was starting to squelch.
Overhead, thunder rolled ominously.
The boy had suggested the path was fairly clear and should have taken him no more than fifteen minutes to follow before arriving at the cottage. Thirty minutes later, however, Vimes was beginning to doubt he’d had any clue what he was talking about, because he was still walking and he was now reasonably sure he’d somehow passed the same tree three times.
He also had an insistent sensation of being watched, although all he’d seen were birds and the occasional hare ducking into the undergrowth.
He cursed to himself under his breath.
By the time he came to a small clearing he was drenched and freezing and angry with the world in general and Vetinari in particular. The cottage at the centre of the space looked deserted, with no smoke issuing from the chimney. There was the smell of goats in the air. Vimes had never smelled goats before, but it was so distinctive his brain appeared to have recognised it anyway via some sort of primordial instinct.
He walked soggily around the squat building, then knocked on the cottage door rather more forcefully than was generally considered polite.
There was no response. From the sky overhead came a flash of lightening that was accompanied almost immediately by a loud crack of thunder. The rain intensified. Vimes wiped a hand across his eyes to clear the water from them, and hammered on the door again.
There was still no answer, but the weight of his fist jarred the door, and he felt it open slightly as the latch inside unsnicked.
Lightning struck a tree somewhere nearby in the forest, and Vimes jumped at the sound of the wood exploding. Without thinking, he pushed open the door and stepped inside the cottage, closing it tightly behind him against the horizontal rain. He stood for a minute, waiting for his hammering heart to calm.
“Er. Hello?” he called awkwardly, once he’d regained his composure. He was in a short hallway, and he stood and dripped onto the flagstones for a minute as he waited for a response, but there was silence except for the sound of the rain beating against the door and the loud ticking of a clock coming from the room nearby. He walked carefully towards the ticking and peered into a neat kitchen.
“Mistress Weatherwax…?” He hesitated at the door and listened again. From somewhere upstairs there came a sharp, rhythmic tapping sound.
Figuring he was probably in trouble already simply for being inside, he decided to go and investigate; after all, she was an old woman living on her own, and he was a copper hearing some suspicious noises…
He knew damned well it wouldn’t fly as an excuse even as he thought it, but by then his feet were carrying him up the tight stairs.
He emerged into a bedroom, and the noise was forgotten as he saw the body on the bed. He squelched across the wooden floor, a feeling of dread settling in the pit of his belly. The woman from the shadows last night was laid flat on her back, looking pale and waxy beneath her black dress and not making any of the noises one usually associated with living bodies.
Vimes reached out a tentative hand, thinking to check the thin wrist for a pulse, and then spotted the sign laid across the woman’s chest.
I ATEN’T DEAD
He frowned.
You bloody sure about that, missus…?
He pulled his hand back anyway, and drummed his fingers on the bedside table instead while he thought.
As he did, he became aware of the tapping again, which seemed to have become more insistent. He peered around the sparse room.
A large crow was perched outside the window, looking very soggy, tapping against the glass with its beak. Vimes blinked. On the ledge inside was a piece of wood that looked like it had been propping open the window at some point, but was now laid on its side.
He moved to the window. “You want to come in…?” he asked the bird, then felt like an idiot. But the crow gave him a look that was far more intelligent than some of the humans he’d met and, on occasion, worked with.
Maybe it’s some sort of pet…?
He glanced back at the body on the bed. “Alright. Tap twice if I should let you in.”
Tap. Tap.
He blinked. Overhead the thunder crashed again.
What the hell…?
The crow tilted its head and peered at him with one dark brown eye.
“Fine.” Vimes tugged the window up and stood back as the crow hopped inside and shook itself, then flew across to the bed and landed on the headboard.
Vimes propped the window back open with the wood, then watched with fascination as the life returned to the woman on the bed and she sucked in a deep breath. The crow staggered slightly, flapped its wings, then turned and flew back out of the window.
Esme Weatherwax sat up and stared at him. Vimes had thought Vetinari had a penetrating gaze, but it was like being stabbed with a toothpick in comparison to the look the woman was giving him.
He’d never felt so naked with all his clothes on.
“Erm. I’m…” he started, hesitantly.
“I knows who you are, Mister Vimes.” The witch scowled. “I ain’t sure why you’re in my bedroom, mind.”
Vimes didn’t have a good answer for that, and it struck him that lying would be an absolutely terrible idea, because he was absolutely, one hundred percent sure the woman would see right through it immediately.
He shrugged sheepishly. “Your door opened when I knocked, so I came in out the rain, then I heard the crow tapping so I came up. Sorry.”
She put her head to the side - birdlike, his brain supplied - and stared at him. “And why are you here at all? I don’t have any business with watchmen.”
He tried to get a grip of himself. “I’m investigating the Scrope murder. The queen mentioned you’d spoken with him, recently.”
“Oh, she did, did she?!” Granny pulled a sour face. “She thinks just because she’s queen it gives her the right to interfere in everything.”
Vimes suddenly found himself feeling far more sympathetic to the royal family than he’d ever previously thought possible.
His gaze was drawn back to the window again, and he realised he had to ask. “Were you…somehow…in the bird…?”
Granny snorted. “And what makes you say that?”
He thought about it. “Well. You were laid there all…empty. And then I let the crow in and you kind of…filled up again…” He trailed off as he realised how ridiculous it sounded, but she was watching him closely, so he pushed on. “It was like the golems, when you take their words out of their head. Like you just…weren’t in there.”
She narrowed her eyes at that, and he started to feel itchy under her stare. Finally, she said, “Sharper than you look, ain’t you?”
He looked at her blankly. “Am I?” He shrugged again. “I’ve been lost in the woods for an hour and now I’m sopping wet in a witch’s bloody bedroom. Doesn’t sound too smart to me.”
“Ha!” She nodded at the stairs. “Make yourself useful and get a fire started in the grate. I needs to find my legs again. Birds play havoc with your balance.”
He headed back down the stairs and did as he was told. By the time the woman had come down there was a small blaze going, and Vimes stood over it, shivering, as he warmed his hands.
She cast the fire a disdainful look – although to be fair, all of her looks had been disdainful, so far – and filled a bowl with some scraps from the pantry. She opened the door and placed the bowl down outside, then shut it tight against the rain again.
Vimes watched curiously, but didn’t say anything and the woman didn’t volunteer an explanation. She filled a kettle and put it on the stovetop, then set out two cups.
“You might as well sit down, when you’ve stopped shiverin’.”
After a minute the kettle whistled and Vimes shuffled over and sat in one of the kitchen chairs. He watched as she poured the tea. She dumped half a bowl of sugar in one, then glanced back at him. “Sugar?”
“Please. Three.”
She heaped three spoons in, and then threw him another look, and added a fourth.
He took the cup as she passed it over, then watched her sit delicately in the chair opposite. He sipped the tea and felt it warm his insides as his outsides steamed gently.
“How did you know I take four…?”
She sniffed. “Never known a working man take less than four, and I reckon you’re not that far from where you started yet. Though you’re tryin’ hard, I’ll give you that.”
He frowned. “I’m not trying to get away from anything.” He paused. “It’s the bloody opposite.”
“Really…? How many sugars do you take when your wife’s pouring, then...?”
He felt his cheeks redden, and scowled. “Can we talk about Andrew Scrope?”
She smiled, and he couldn’t help but think of it as a nasty smile. “I s’pose so, since you’ve come all this way. I don’t have much to say on the matter, though.”
“The queen said you’d talked to him, recently. What was the conversation about?”
She raised an eyebrow. “He was ‘aving difficulty understanding the word no.”
Vimes looked at her evenly. “And you gave him the dictionary definition, did you?”
“No. I told him to keep his hands to himself or he’d ‘ave me to deal with.”
“Who was he putting hands on?”
The witch shrugged. “Whoever was nearest when he was in his cups.” She paused, then carried on. “That means –”
He interrupted. “I know what it means. Liked a drink, did he?”
She narrowed her eyes. “They all do, round here. Not much else to do, of an evening.”
“And did your little chat stop him?”
There was a brief moment of hesitancy in the woman’s voice.
“…yes.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
She looked at him sharply. “He cut down on the drink. Next I saw him, he was behavin’ himself. He started seeing the maid at the castle. The Chillum girl. Seemed to have calmed down.”
Vimes heard the unspoken word. “But…?”
Granny frowned. “But nothin’. I’ll not have you interferin’ in this. You don’t know how things are done round here.”
Vimes bit back a frustrated noise. “Look. Like I told Mrs Ogg; your king and queen want me to look into this. I’m not doing all this because I want to.”
“Don’t lie to me, Mister Vimes. I know what’s goin’ on in that head. You think we’re idiots, out here. You don’t think we’ll get to the truth of it, and you want to see someone punished for it.”
Vimes blinked. “Don’t you? Don’t you want to see justice done?”
“Justice? What would that be, then, here? You hang whoever did it and that makes everything square away? All’s fair, then? Tell me, Your Grace; how much does a life weigh against a death?” She paused, watching him frown. “You’re thinking that I’ve had people put to the rope. And you’re right; I have. And they all of ‘em deserved it. But that was nothing but punishment. You can want to see someone punished for it; I dare say that’s human. But don’t call it justice, because the universe don’t care.”
He grimaced. “Fine. Call it what you like. But I’m seeing that the witches have got an awful lot of power, here, Mistress Weatherwax. It all comes down to you, doesn’t it? You’re the law, here. Not Verence.”
Granny gave Vimes a look that might have withered him, if he’d been less used to receiving them from Vetinari. As it was, he felt a familiar itch start between his shoulder blades, and assumed his most neutral expression in lieu of the reaction he assumed she wanted.
After a second she grunted. “I’ve bin to your city, Mister Vimes. I saw the Assassin’s guild, and the Thieves’ guild. You took the crime that pays, and you gave it real power. And you dare talk to me about the law? You judge us?”
Vimes sat in silence for a minute, tapping a finger slowly on the kitchen table. “Look. I don’t like that either. Everyone knows I bloody hate assassins…”
She put her head to one side. “Vetinari’s an assassin, ain’t he? Your boss. You’re ruled by a man who can put a cash value on a life and give you a receipt once he’s taken it.”
Vimes bristled at that. “Vetinari has his faults, I’ll grant you. But the city works. I’d rather have him in charge than someone who thought he had the divine right to absolute power because his great- great- grandaddy killed the last bloke to think that, three hundred years ago.”
“You’ve met Verence, ‘aven’t you?” She raised an eyebrow.
Vimes followed the implication. “Fine. He might be different.” He ground his teeth. “But better led by an assassin than a bloody fool.”
He knew as soon as the words left his mouth that he’d lost, and the worst part was he could feel her eyes on him as she watched him realise. He took a breath, forcing himself to calm down, and ignored the stare.
When he trusted himself to speak again, he said, “We’re not going to get anywhere, here, are we?”
“I dare say we’re not, no.” The witch sounded infuriatingly cool, but there was a definite undercurrent of tension sloshing about the room.
Vimes shook his head, and stood. He was still damp, but the rain seemed to have relented outside, and it seemed that the weather was less hostile than the atmosphere in the cottage. “Well. Thank you for talking to me,” he said with icy politeness. “I’ll get out of your way.”
Granny remained seated and watched him leave with a glint in her eye.
He had reached the door when he heard her call out, “See that you do, Mister Vimes.”
Vimes scowled, knowing he wasn’t likely to be allowed the last word so his only reply was to let the door to slam behind him.
oOo
The rain had stopped, but the air still felt heavy and humid as he walked back through the forest. He wondered how he’d ever managed to get lost in the first place; the path was practically a straight line, and clear of trees and bushes.
Had the woman somehow gotten into his head? Was that even possible…?
Bloody witches! Give him wizards any day, he thought; you knew where you stood with those pointy-hatted bastards. Even if it was in a melted puddle of cobblestones when they lost control of a fireball.
Still, the walk calmed him. As he reached the edge of the town the eldest member of his former entourage materialised from somewhere and fell back in step with him. Vimes noticed the boy casting him a disappointed look and gave him a tight grin. “Still got all my legs, I’m afraid.”
“Did she not even try to turn you into a lizard?”
“Nope.”
“Huh.” The boy sniffed and wiped a hand across his nose. “She must like you, then.”
Ha, Vimes thought. Not convinced about that. He was beginning to suspect he just hadn’t been worth the waste of magic. He stopped for a moment, sweating with the heavy air, and looked around. “Do you know where Millie Chillum lives?”
The boy looked at him suspiciously. “Maybe. Why?”
“I need to talk to her. She’s not in any trouble.” Unless she’s involved, somehow. Maybe Mister Handsy-When-Drunk stepped out of line with her, and she fought back…?
Gods, he really hoped it wasn’t that.
The boy seemed to be thinking about it. “You swear?”
“I just want to have a chat with her.” Well; that wasn’t entirely a lie.
The boy frowned. “You still got that coin from before?”
Vimes pulled out the dollar he’d tried unsuccessfully to bribe them with earlier. “This one? Yep.”
The boy looked around, and Vimes suspected he was checking to see if any of his friends were watching. “Can I still have it?” he said, when satisfied he wouldn’t be seen siding with the enemy.
Vimes shrugged. “Sure. You help me, I’ll help you.”
The kid stared at it for a minute, then finally said, “Last farm on the road out of town, past the Smithy’s. It’s a pig farm so you’ll smell it afore you see it, most likely.” The boy shrugged. “She’s got the day off, so she should be there.”
Vimes nodded. “Thanks, kid.” He flicked the coin into the air and watched as the boy caught it and made it vanish into a pocket. “What’s your name?”
The boy wrinkled his nose. “Danny. But don’t tell ‘er I told you where to find ‘er, will you, mister?”
“Don’t worry, Danny. I protect my sources.”
Danny looked at him blankly. “Yeah, whatever, copper.” There was a shout from across the street, and the rest of the gang appeared. Danny waved at them, then turned back to Vimes, looking shifty. “You wanna watch out, though, mister. Her Da’s got a real temper.”
The boy didn’t wait for a response before darting off towards the rest of the group, who were now making humorous gestures at Vimes.
Vimes sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, then set off to find the blacksmiths.
oOo
The boy had been right; Vimes reckoned you could have smelled the farm from Cori Celesti, so for the last half-mile he simply followed his nose.
As he approached, he could see a young woman tipping slops into a trough in a pig enclosure some fifty yards from the farmhouse. He cleared his throat in an attempt to avoid startling her, but she jumped anyway and clasped a hand to her chest.
“Oh! Your Grace!” She moved like a skittish deer.
Vimes tried to ignore the stench of the pigs, which this close was making his eyes water and his throat try to close in self-preservation.
“Afternoon, Miss Chillum. Sorry to make you jump. I had a few questions about Andrew Scrope, if that’s okay? I understand you might have been friendly with him.” He paused, and watched her face fall, and added, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Millie’s eyes filled with tears, and she looked quickly back to the farmhouse. “I’d really rather not talk about it, sir. If it’s all the same to you.”
Vimes followed her gaze, then sighed and pulled out a cigar. He looked back at her.
“I’m afraid, miss, that the King and Queen have asked me to investigate his death.” He lit the cigar and took a puff as an expression of dismay crossed her face. “So I do need to ask. We’re you steppin’ out with him?”
Millie blinked and quickly wiped the tears away with the heel of her hand. She set her jaw instead. “And what of it, if I were?”
Vimes shrugged. “Nothing, particularly. I just wanted to know how he’d been, recently, from someone who knew him well. I heard he’d been a bit of a scrapper, in the past. Fighting and whatnot. Did you see any of that?”
She straightened her shoulders. “No. He never done any of that while he was with me.”
One of the pigs let out an impatient squeal and she turned back and emptied the rest of the bucket into the trough. As she moved, the high collar of her dress shifted, and Vimes made out a faint line of bruises around her throat.
“So he never raised a fist to anyone while you were with him?”
She put the empty bucket down and wiped her hands on a cloth pulled from her pocket, which incidentally meant she avoided Vimes’ gaze as she answered.
“No, sir.”
Is she covering for him…? Why?
He paused for a second, and she looked everywhere but at him. Softly, he said, “Miss, I can see those bruises on your neck. Did he leave those?”
Now she whipped her head round, and glared at him. “No. He didn’t. I slipped and fell and banged myself against the trough, not that it’s any concern of yours, Your Grace.”
Vimes shrugged easily. “I had to ask, Miss. I want to find out what happened to him. Don’t you?”
Or do you already know?
She didn’t look much like a killer to Vimes, but he’d seen a few women snap before, when the violence became too much and they didn’t see any other way out; it came down to life or death or, at times, something even worse than that. None of them had looked like killers, either, else the men would presumably have thought twice before using their fists over a burnt tea.
Still; the girl threw another of those unconscious glances at the farmhouse behind him and Vimes suspected he was right this time.
“It don’t matter what happened to him. He’s dead.” She twisted the cloth nervously in her hands. “Believe me, Your Grace. Nothing good will come of this.”
Vimes opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by a booming voice from behind him.
“You alright, Millie?”
He turned, as a man almost as tall as Vetinari but three times as wide strode over to the pair. Vimes felt his heart sink, but plastered what he hoped was his most reassuring expression onto his face.
“Mister Chillum, I presume?”
The huge man crossed to stand beside Millie, who shuffled back a step to place herself behind him. “Depends. Who the bloody hell are you, and why are you talking to my girl?”
Vimes put out a hand. “Commander Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch. Apologies, sir. I’ve been asked to look into the death of Andrew Scrope and I just had a few questions for your daughter.”
The man stared at the hand for a minute, then finally reached out and shook it, crushing it in a vicelike grip that made Vimes fight back a wince.
“Right, yeah. Arlo Chillum.” The man gave a final squeeze and stepped back. “You the duke?”
“Ah, yes, sir.”
Arlo nodded thoughtfully. “Millie’s mentioned you.”
Vimes glanced at the girl, who looked sheepish.
He decided to attempt to diffuse the remaining tension with Diplomacy. “Yes, we met when I arrived. She’s a credit to the castle, I hear.”
At that, Arlo’s face split into a beaming grin. “Too right she is.” He slung a heavy arm around his daughter’s shoulders, and she blushed. “Has she answered your questions?”
“Yes, sir. She has.” Vimes puffed his cigar, relaxing slightly. “Did you know Andrew, Mister Chillum?”
He watched Millie as he asked the question, and saw her eyes widen a fraction.
Arlo took his arm back from around her. “Aye. Some. He didn’t have the best reputation around town, right enough, but since he met Millie he seemed to have calmed down. Hadn’t he, love?”
Millie looked startled, but nodded.
She’s not as good an actor as her dad, Vimes thought.
“Were you both at the party last night?”
Arlo nodded. “Millie was working, and I went along for a while. Her mum stayed home with her brother. I left about midnight, I think, didn’t I, Mil?”
Millie nodded.
Vimes wondered if it was worth confirming with Mrs Chillum, but he’d had all morning to persuade her to provide an alibi, so probably not worth pushing, for now.
“Did either of you see Andrew there?”
Arlo looked like he was thinking. “Aye. I might have done. Early on, like. He was drinking with his mate. The Burns boy?” He narrowed his eyes. “Now that I think on it, it looked like they might have been arguing.”
Hmm.
Vimes raised an eyebrow. “Arguing? Did you see that, too, miss?”
Millie looked peaky, but said, “Yes, sir. I’m not sure what it was over but they was definitely cross. I was too busy to talk with him.”
“Okay. That’s interesting. Thank you.” Vimes paused, and turned. Apart from the farmhouse, there was a large barn set back away from the road. He stared at it for a moment, and then Arlo Chillum stepped smartly to block his gaze.
“Was that all you needed, Commander Vimes?”
Vimes flicked his eyes back to the pair. “Millie, did Andrew carry a knife, usually?”
She glanced at her father before answering. “Yes, sir.”
“What kind was it, please?”
“Erm. Half jagged, and half, like, smooth? A hunting knife, sir.”
“And did you notice if he still had it at the party?”
She blinked. “I didn’t see, sir. He kept it on his belt.”
“Right. Thanks. I think that’s all my questions. I mean, I’m assuming neither of you know why anyone would kill him?”
Arlo frowned. “No idea. I hope you catch whoever did it, though, Commander. Terrible to think there might be someone just wanderin’ around who could do something like that.”
Vimes gave him a bright grin. “Yes. It is, isn’t it? I’d best get back to it, then.” He glanced back at the barn again, and watched from the corner of his eye as Arlo tensed a fraction.
Alright. What’s in the barn…?
Vimes needed to think; preferably somewhere his brain wasn’t being turned into slurry by the overwhelming smell of pigshit.
“Thank you for your assistance. I’m sorry again for your loss, miss. You can be assured that I’m doing all I can to find his killer.”
He extended a hand again, and Arlo shook it with maybe a shade more reluctance.
It was late afternoon, and the shadows were beginning to shorten again as Vimes headed back to the castle to explain to Vetinari that there was no way the damned thing was going to be solved by bloody teatime.