Snuff

only just begun. ‘Commander Vimes would like you to know, and so indeed would I, that the law applies to everybody, and that means it applies to goblins as well.’

There was a certain amount of nodding at that and Feeney continued, ‘But if the law applies to goblins then goblins have rights and if goblins have rights then it would be right to have a goblin policeman attached to the Shire force.’

Vimes looked at Feeney with amazement and a not inconsiderable amount of admiration. That had got them: they had all been nodding and he had led them by the nod and before they knew it they were nodding at a goblin officer.

‘Well, gentlemen, I am intending to make Stinky a probationary special constable, just so he can keep me up to date with what’s happening up on the hill. He’ll have a badge, and anyone giving him a kick from now on will be assaulting a police officer in the course of his duty. I think the penalty for doing that is not just being hanged, but also to let you bounce up and down for a bit afterwards. This is an internal force decision, which does not require the authority of any magistrate. Is that not so, Commander Vimes?’

Vimes was amazed at how his mouth responded without any reference to his brain. ‘Yes, Chief Constable Upshot, as per section 12, part 3 of the Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork, generally considered a model for police procedure,’ he added confidently, knowing that no one present would have ever clapped eyes on them and would quite likely not have been able to read them even if they had.

Inside Vimes winced. He’d got away with having dwarfs, trolls and finally even werewolves and vampires in the Watch, albeit on certain obvious conditions, but that had been the result of leverage over the years. Vetinari always said, ‘What is normal? Normal is yesterday and last week and last month taken together.’ And, Vimes supposed, they had slipped things in one at a time to allow normal to gradually evolve – although Mister Stinky, or rather Probationary Special Constable Stinky, had really better confine his policing activities to the cave. Yes, not such a bad idea at that, indeed if only he could get them to leave chickens alone maybe normal would have a chance. After all, people seemed quite easy about having their rights and liberties taken away by those they looked up to, but somehow a space on the perch was a slap in the face, and treated as such.

And now Feeney, getting out of breath, was nearly talked out. ‘I can’t force any of you to tell me anything, but is there any one of you anxious to help me with my inquiries?’

Vimes tried not to let anyone see his expression, least of all Feeney. Of course, Captain Carrot had once been like that and – was it possible? – maybe even young Sam Vimes had been like that too, but surely anyone could see that you never expect people who are part of a crowd to put up their hand and pipe up, ‘Yes, constable! I’d be very happy to tell you everything I know, and I’d like these fine gentlemen here to be my witnesses.’

What you did do after a performance like that was just wait, wait until somebody sidles up and whispers something when you are alone, or just tilts his head in the right direction, or, and this had happened to Vimes, writes three initials in the spilled beer on a bar top and industriously wipes it clean within two seconds. Some bright spark would think: you never know your luck; after all, Feeney could be a coming man, right? And a happy relationship might come in handy, one day.

Vimes blew away the pink cloud of embarrassment. ‘Well, gentlemen, speaking as Commander of the Ankh- Morpork City Watch, it seems to me that your senior police officer is being considerably lenient with you. I would not be, so be grateful for him. How many of these …’ and here Vimes inserted a sneer, ‘gentlemen do you really know, Chief Constable Upshot?’

‘Oh, about half of them, commander, that’s to say their names, families, home addresses and similar. The rest of them are from other places. I can’t say that they’re all angels, but they’re mostly not too bad.’

This sensible little speech in the circumstances earned Feeney a few smirks and a certain relieved look all round, and, happily, an opening for Vimes, who said, ‘So which one of them had an arrow ready in his crossbow, do you think, Mister Feeney?’

But before Feeney had time to open his mouth Vimes had spun round to confront the returning Mr Stoner, whose digestion had let him down. Willikins, whose instincts seldom failed, was still keeping an eye on him. Loudly and cheerfully Vimes said, ‘I see that my good friend Mister Stoner is back, and he’s a lawyer and I’m a policeman and we know how to talk to one another. Do come this way, Mister Stoner.’

He grabbed the unwilling lawyer gently but firmly by the arm and led him some way from the crowd, who watched, Vimes was pleased to see, with immediate deep suspicion.

‘You are a lawyer, are you not, Mister Stoner? Not a criminal lawyer by any chance?’

‘No, your grace, I specialize mostly in land and property matters.’

‘Ah, far less dangerous,’ said Vimes, ‘and I suppose you’re a member of the Ankh-Morpork bar, presided over by my old chum Mister Slant?’ He had said it convivially, but he knew that the name of the old zombie would strike terror into any lawyer’s heart – although whether Mr Slant still had one of his own was questionable. And now Mr Stoner must be thinking quite quickly. If he had any sense, and read his Law Journal between the lines, he would be aware that while Mr Slant would bow (rather stiffly) to the rich and influential, he did not like mistakes, and he did not like seeing the law being brought into disrepute by inept lawyers and laymen, believing that this particular duty should be left to senior lawyers, such as Mr Slant, who could do it with care and panache and AM$300 an hour. And Mr Stoner should be thinking that, since it appeared that landowners around here had made up the law to suit themselves, which was the prerogative of the legal profession as a whole, Mr Slant would not be a happy zombie; and, as custom and practice now dictated that he should no longer walk around groaning with his hands held out directly in front of him (one of them perhaps holding a severed head for effect), he was known to vent his still considerable spleen on snotty young lawyers with ideas above their station by talking to them for some time in a calm, low voice, causing them to say afterwards that the severed head was, by contrast, the vegetarian option.

Vimes watched the young man’s face as he considered his own meagre options and found that there was no plural.

‘I did endeavour to properly advise the justices as to their situation, of course,’ he said, like a man rehearsing a plea, ‘but I’m sorry to say that they took the view that since they own the land hereabouts, then they decide the law of said land. I have to say that they are, in themselves, quite decent people.’

Vimes was surprised at how well his temper was keeping these days. He said, ‘Land, I quite like land, it’s one of my favourite things for standing on. But land, and landlord, and law, well … A man might get quite confused, yes? Especially in the presence of a pretty good fee? And it’s quite easy for people to be jolly decent people when they can afford to hire thoroughly un-decent people, people who don’t even need orders, just a nod and a wink.’

At this point there was a roll of thunder, not really appropriate to the last comment, and therefore without occult significance. Nevertheless, it was a giant roll that trundled around the sky, dropping blocks of sound. Vimes