On the other hand, thieves, assassins and Swing's men, by all accounts, did a lot of creeping up on people and were probably pretty good at it, whereas the person tracking him was keeping their back so close to the wall he could hear the scraping. That meant they were probably just a member of the public with something on their mind and he was not inclined to add several ounces of lead shot simply for that reason (because he'd like to believe he wasn't that sort of copper).
He settled for stepping out into the alley and saying “Yeah?”
A boy stared up at him. It had to be a boy. Nature would not have been so cruel as to do that to a girl. No single feature in itself was more than passably ugly, but the combination was greater than the sum of the parts. There was also the smell. It wasn't bad, as such. It just wasn't entirely human. There was something feral about it.
“Er…” said its pinched-up face. “Look, tell you what, mister, you tell me where you're going and I'll stop following you, have we got a deal? Cost you no more'n a penny and that's a special price. Some people pay me a lot more'n that to stop following 'em.”
Vimes continued to stare. The creature was wearing an oversize evening dress jacket, shiny with grease and greenish with age, and a top hat that must once have been trodden on by a horse. But the bits that were visible between the two were regrettably familiar.
“Oh, no…” he moaned. “No, no, no…”
“You all right, mister?”
“No, no, no…oh, ye gods, it had to happen, didn't it…”
“You want I should go'n' fetch Mossy, mister?”
Vimes pointed an accusing finger.
“You're Nobby Nobbs, right?”
The urchin backed away.
“Could be. So what? Is that a crime?” He turned to run but Vimes's hand fell heavily on his shoulder.
“Some people might say so. You're Nobby Nobbs, son of Maisie Nobbs and Sconner Nobbs?”
“Prob'ly, prob'ly! But I ain't done nothin', mister!”
Vimes bent down to look into eyes that peered out at the world through a mask of grime.
“How about whizzing wipers, snitching tinklers, pulling wobblers, flogging tumblers and running rumbles?”
Nobby's brow creased in genuine puzzlement.
“What's pulling wobblers mean?” he said.
Vimes gave him a similar look. Street parly had changed a lot in thirty years.
“That's stealing trifles…small items. Isn't it?”
“Nah, nah, mister. That's ‘tottering nevils’,” said Nobby, relaxing. “But you ain't doin' badly, for someone who's new. What's ‘oil of angels’?”
Memory flicked a card.
“A bribe,” said Vimes.
“And a dimber?” said Nobby, grinning.
“Easy. Could be a head beggar, could be just a handsome man.”
“Well done. Bet you don't know how to fleague a jade, though.”
Once again, from a dusty recess, a memory unrolled. This one stuck in your mind.
“Dear me, do you know that? What a shame in one so young,” said Vimes. “That's when you want to sell a broken-down horse and have to make it a bit frisky in front of the punters, and so you take some fresh raw hot ginger, lift up its tail, and push the ginger—”
“Cor,” said Nobby, suddenly impressed. “Everyone says you're a real quick learner, and that's true enough. You could've been born here.”
“Why're you following me, Nobby Nobbs?” said Vimes.
The urchin held out a grubby hand. Some street language
Vimes pulled out sixpence. It shone in Nobby's palm like a diamond in a chimney-sweep's ear.
“One of 'em's a lady,” he said, and grinned. The hand stayed out.
“That was a bloody sixpence I just gave you, kid,” Vimes growled.
“Yeah, but I got to think of—”
Vimes grabbed the lapels of Nobby's greasy coat and lifted him up, and was mildly shocked to realize that there was practically no weight there.
Street urchin, he thought. Urchin sounds about right—spiky, slimy and smelling slightly of rotting seaweed. But there's hundreds of them round here, clawing a living off the very margins, and as I recall Nobby was one of the sharpest. And as trustworthy as a chocolate hammer. But that's okay. There's ways to deal with that.
“How much,” he said, “for you to work for
“I got customers to think of—” he began.
“Yeah, but I'm the one holding you up in one hand, right?” said Vimes.
With his oversized boots dangling a foot above the ground, Nobby considered his position.
“All the time?”
“Right!”
“Er…for something like that I've got to be looking at a lordship every day.”
“A dollar? Guess again!”
“Er…half a dollar?”
“Not a chance. A dollar a
Still dangling, Nobby tried to work all this out.
“So…I'll be kind of like a copper, right?” he said, grinning artfully.
“Kind of.”
“Number One Suspect says it's a good life being a copper, 'cos you can pinch stuff without getting nicked.”
“He's got that right,” said Vimes.
“An' he says if anyone gives you lip, you can bop 'em one and chuck them in the Tanty,” Nobby went on. “I'd like to be a copper one day.”
“Who's Number One Suspect?”
“That's what our mam calls Sconner, our dad. Er…payment up front, yeah?” Nobby added, hopefully.
“What do
“Ah. Right. No, eh?”
“Correct. But I'll tell you what…” He lowered Nobby to the ground. Light as a feather, he thought. “You come with me, kid.”
Ankh-Morpork was full of men living in lodgings. Anyone with a spare room rented it out. And, in addition to the darning and stitching that was turning Miss Battye into one of the highest earning seamstresses in the city, they needed something else that women were best able to supply. They needed feeding.
There were plenty of hot-chair eating places like the one Vimes headed for now. It sold plain food for plain men. There wasn't a menu. You ate what was put in front of you, you ate it quick, and you were glad to get it. If you didn't like it, there were plenty who did. The dishes had names like Slumgullet, Boiled Eels, Lob Scouse, Wet Nellies, Slumpie and Treacle Billy—good, solid stuff that stuck to the ribs and made it hard to get up out of the seat. They generally had a lot of turnip in, even if they weren't supposed to.
Vimes elbowed his way to the counter, dragging Nobby behind him. A chalked sign said “All You Can Eat In Ten Minutes For 10p”.
Beneath it, a large woman was standing bare-armed by a cauldron in which uncertain things bubbled in grey scum. She gave him an appraising look and then glanced at his sleeve.
“What can I do for you, sergeant?” she said. “What happened to Sergeant Knock?”
“Comes in here a lot, does he?” said Vimes.
“Dinner and supper.” Her look said it all: second helpings, too, and never pays.
