Snuff

Sergeant Colon looked around. Policemen always look, on the basis that there is always something to see. Of course, sometimes they may find it sensible to forget that they have seen anything, at least officially. Mr Gumption had a new tie pin, in which a diamond flashed. His shoes were also clearly new – bespoke, if Fred Colon was any judge – and a barely noticeable sniff suggested the wearing of, let’s see now, oh yes, Cedar Fragrance Pour Hommes, from Quirm at AM$15 a pop.

He said, ‘How’s business doing? Is the new tax hitting you at all?’

Mr Gumption’s visage flew into the expression of a hardworking man sorely pressed by the machinations of politics and fate. He shook his head sadly. ‘We’re barely making ends meet, Fred. Lucky to break even at the end of the day.’

Oh, and a gold tooth, too, thought Sergeant Colon. I nearly missed that. Out loud he said, ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Bewilderforce, I really am. Allow me to raise your profits by expending two dollars in the purchase of my usual three ounces of twist tobacco.’

Fred Colon proffered his wallet and Mr Gumption, with a scolding noise, waved it away. It was a ritual as old as merchants and policemen, and it allowed the world to keep on turning. He cut a length of tobacco from the coil on the marble counter, wrapped it quickly and expertly, and as an afterthought reached down and came up with a large cigar, which he handed to the sergeant.

‘Try one of these handsome smokes, Fred, just in, not local, made on the plantation for our valued customers. No no, my pleasure, I insist,’ he added, as Fred made grateful noises. ‘Always nice to see the Watch in here, you know that.’

Actually, Mr Gumption thought, as he watched the departing policemen, that was pretty mild: all that the Nobbs creature had done was stare around.

‘They must be coining it,’ said Nobby Nobbs as they ambled onwards. ‘Did you see the “staff wanted” note in their window? And he was writing out a list of prices on the counter. He’s lowering them! He must have a good deal going on with the plantation people, that’s all I can say.’

Sergeant Colon sniffed the big fat cigar, the fattest he had ever seen, which smelled so good it was probably illegal, and he felt the tingle, the feeling that he had walked into something that was a lot bigger than it seemed, the feeling that if you pulled a thread something large would unravel. He rolled the cigar between his fingers the way he had seen connoisseurs do. In truth, Sergeant Colon was, when it came to tobacco products, something of a bottom-feeder, cheapness being the overriding consideration, and the protocol of cigars was unfamiliar to a man who very much enjoyed a good length of chewing tobacco. What was the other thing he had seen posh types do? Oh yes, you had to roll it in your fingers and hold it up to your ear. He had no idea why this had to be done, but he did it anyway.

And swore.

And dropped it on the ground …

The track from the top of Hangman’s Hill went beyond the trees and down, mostly through furze bushes and rocky outcrops, with the occasional patch of raw and useless soil, all substance eroded away. Wild land, wasteland, home to skinny rabbits, hopeless mice, the occasional concussed rat, and goblins.

And there among the bushes was the entrance to a cave. A human would have to bend double to get into that fetid hole and would be an easy target. But Vimes knew, as he ducked through, that he was safe. He knew that. He had suspected it out in the daylight, and down in the darkness he knew. The knowledge was almost physical as wings of darkness spread over him, and he heard the sounds of the cave, every sound.

He suddenly knew the cave, all the way down to the place where water could be found, the fungus and mushroom gardens, the pathetically empty storerooms, and the kitchen. These were human translations, of course. Goblins generally ate where they could and slept where they fell asleep; they had no real concept of a room with one particular purpose. He knew this now as if he had known it all his life, and he had never before been in any place that a goblin would call home.

But this was the dark, and Vimes and the dark had an … understanding, didn’t they? At least, that’s what the dark thought. What Vimes thought, unprosaically, was Damn, here we go again.

He was prodded in the small of his back, and he heard Feeney gasp. Vimes turned to a grinning goblin and said, ‘Try that one more time, sunshine, and I’ll give you a smack around the head, understand?’ And that was what he said, and that was what he heard himself say … Except that something, not exactly another voice, climbed along his words like a snake coiling itself around a tree, and both his guards dropped their weapons and bolted back into the daylight. It was instant. They didn’t yelp or shout. They wanted to save their breath for running.

‘Great hells, Commander Vimes! That was bloody magical!’ said Feeney, as he bent to grope for the fallen axes. Vimes watched in the thick darkness as he saw the boy’s hands scrabbling and, by luck, find them.

‘Drop them! I said drop them right now!’

‘But we’re unarmed!’

‘Don’t you bloody argue with me, boy!’ There were a couple of thumps as the axes hit the ground.

Vimes breathed again. ‘Now, we’re going to see that nice senior goblin, you understand, and we walk without fear because we are the law, you understand? And the law can go everywhere in pursuit of its inquiries.’

The headroom increased as they walked onwards, until Vimes was able to stand fully upright. Feeney, on the other hand, was having difficulties. Behind Vimes there was a chorus of thumps, scrapes and words that dear old mums should not know about, let alone hear. Vimes had to stop and wait for the boy to catch up, stubbing his feet on easily avoidable outcrops and banging his head where the ceiling dipped briefly.

‘Come on, chief constable!’ Vimes shouted. ‘A copper should have good night vision! You should eat more carrots with your Bang Sung Suck Dog or whatever!’

‘It’s pitch black, sir! I can’t see my hand in front of my face—Ouch!’ Feeney had walked directly into Vimes. Light dawned, although not on Feeney.

Vimes looked around the meandering cave. It was lit as if by daylight. There were no torches, no candles, just a pervading, moderately bright light – the light he had seen before, years ago now, in a cave, a big cave, far away, and he knew what it meant: he was seeing darkness, probably better than the goblins did. The dark had become incredibly light on that day when Vimes, underground, had fought creatures – walking, speaking creatures – that made their home away from the light, and had hatched dark plans. But Vimes had fought them, and he had won,