Jingo

“Sorry. Go on.”

“I'd say he was heavy-set, a bit bulky for his height. He doesn't wash a lot, but when he does he uses Windpike's Soap, the cheap brand. But expensive shampoo, which is odd. Quite new boots. And a green coat.”

“You can smell the colour?”

“No. The dye. It comes from Sto Lat, I think. And… I think he shot a bow. An expensive bow. There's a hint of silk in the air, and that's what the strongest bowstrings are made of, isn't it? And you wouldn't put one of those on a cheap bow.”

Carrot stood by the window. “He got a good view,” he said, and looked down at the floor. And then at the sill. And on the shelves nearby.

“How long was he here?”

“Two or three hours, I'd say.”

“He didn't move around much.”

“No.”

“Or smoke, or spit. He just stood and waited. A professional. Mr Vimes was right.”

“A lot more professional than Ossie,” said Angua.

“Green coat,” said Carrot, as if thinking aloud. “Green coat, green coat…”

“Oh… and bad dandruff,” said Angua, standing up.

“Snowy Slopes?!” shouted Carrot.

“What?”

“Really 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 Assassin, is he?”

“Oh, no. He just kills people for money. No style. Snowy can't read and write.” ^{42}

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 Nobby. 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 hell was 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 “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 MIGHT SUGGEST THAT YOU LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, IT WILL NO LONGER BE NECESSSARY.

“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, gods… 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,”^{43} 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, shifting his weight.

He unrolled the scroll.

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

Detritus held the document 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? Pass it round.”

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

“You got to read it. It legal.”

“And then what happens?”

“Den I shoot you,” said Detritus.