The hand in the smoke stopped waving.
Vimes looked down again.
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:
…
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
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 astonishingly 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,”{45} said Carrot as the cart halted.
The heap stopped. Part of it tilted upwards.
“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
“I hate gnolls,” said Angua. “They smell
“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 acur'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'
“Yes?” said Carrot, fork poised.
“D'nno n'thin' ab't t' sweetsp'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 passed a dead seagull the way here. Its 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 scrape 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!”{46}
“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
“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.”
“And… you've never thought of getting a job in Quirm or somewhere, have you? The other cities are headhunting Ankh-Morpork watchmen now.”
“What, leave Ankh-Morpork?” The tone of voice included the answer.
“No… I suppose not,” said Angua sadly.
“Anyway, I don't know what Mr Vimes would do without me running around all the time.”
“It's a point of view, certainly,” said Angua.
It wasn't far to Money Trap Lane. It was in a ghetto of what Lord Rust would probably call “skilled artisans”, the people too low down the social scale to be movers and shakers but slightly too high to be easily moved or shook. The sanders and polishers, generally.
The people who hadn't got very much but were proud even of that. There were little clues. Shiny house numbers, for a start. And, on the walls of houses that were effectively just one long continuous row, after centuries of building and inbuilding, very careful boundaries in the paint where people had brushed up to the very border of their property and not a gnat's blink to each side. Carrot always said it showed the people were the kind who instinctively realized that civilization was based on a shared respect for ownership; Angua thought they were just tight little bastards who'd sell you the time of day.
Carrot walked noiselessly down the alley beside the sweetshop. There was a rough wooden staircase going up to the first floor. He pointed silently to the midden below it.
It seemed to consist almost entirely of bottles.
“Big drinker?” Angua mouthed. Carrot shook his head.
She crouched down and looked at the labels, but her nose was already giving her a hint.
There were others. Herbs, she thought. Chuck a handful of weeds in the pot and you've got herbs…
Carrot was starting up the stairs when she put her hand on his shoulder. There was another smell. It was one that drove through all the other scents of the streets like a spear. It was one that a werewolf's nose is particularly attuned to.
He nodded and went carefully to the door. Then he pointed down. There was a stain under the gap.
Carrot drew his sword and kicked the door open.
Daceyville Slopes hadn't taken his condition lightly.
Bottles of all shapes and colours occupied most flat surfaces, giving testimony to the alchemist's art and humanity's optimism.
The suds of his latest experiment were still in a bowl on the table, and his body on the floor had a towel around his neck. The watchmen looked down at it. Snowy had cleaned, washed and gone.
