Men at Arms (Discworld #15)(17)

'We Shall be doing it right this minute, captain,' said Dr Cruces.

'Good. Good. Thank you very much.' Captain Vimes paused at the doorway, and then thumped the palm of his hand on his forehead. 'Sorry, excuse me – mind like a sieve these days – what was it you said was stolen?'

Not a muscle, not a sinew moved on Dr Cruces' face.

'I didn't say anything was stolen, Captain Vimes.'

Vimes gaped at him for a moment.

'Right! Sorry! Of course, you didn't. . . Apologies . . . Work getting on top of me, I expect. I'll be going, then.'

The door slammed in his face.

'Right,' said Vimes.

'Captain, why—?' Carrot began. Vimes held up a hand.

'That wraps it up, then,' he said, slightly louder than necessary. 'Nothing to worry about. Let's get back to the Yard. Where's Lance-Constable Whatshername?'

'Here, captain,' said Angua, stepping out of the alley.

'Hiding, eh? And what's that?'

'Woof woof whine whine.'

'It's a little dog, captain.'

'Good grief.'

The clang of the big corroded Inhumation Bell echoed through the Assassins' Guild. Black-clad figures came running from all directions, pushing and shoving in their haste to get to the courtyard.

The Guild council, assembled hurriedly outside Dr Cruces' office. His deputy, Mr Downey, knocked tentatively at the door.

'Come.'

The council filed in.

'Cruces' office was the biggest room in the building. It always seemed wrong to visitors that the Assassins' Guild had such light, airy, well-designed premises, more like the premises of a gentlemen's club than a building where death was plotted on a daily basis.

Cheery sporting prints lined the walls, although the quarry was not, when you looked closely, stags or foxes. There were also group etchings – and, more recently, new-fangled iconographs – of the Guild, rows of smiling faces on black-clad bodies and the youngest members sitting cross-legged in front, one of them making a face.[6]

Down one side of the room was the big mahogany table where the elders of the Guild sat in weekly session. The other side of the room held Cruces' private library, and a small workbench. Above the bench was an apothecary cabinet, made up of hundreds of little drawers. The names on the drawer labels were in Assassins' code, but visitors from outside the Guild were generally sufficiently unnerved not to accept a drink.

Four pillars of black granite held up the ceiling. They had been carved with the names of noted Assassins from history. Cruces had his desk foursquare between them. He was standing behind it, his expression almost as wooden as the desk.

'I want a roll-call,' he snapped. 'Has anyone left the Guild?'

'No, sir.'

'How can you be so sure?'

'The guards on the roofs in Filigree Street say no-one came in or went out, sir.'

And who's watching them?'

'They're watching one another, sir.'

'Very well. Listen carefully. I want the mess cleaned up. If anyone needs to go outside the building, I want everyone watched. And then the Guild is going to be searched from top to bottom, do you understand?'

'What for, doctor?' said a junior lecturer in poisons.

'For . . . anything that is hidden. If you find anything and you don't know what it is, send for a council member immediately. And don't touch it.'

'But doctor, all sorts of things are hidden—'

'This will be different, do you understand?'

'No, sir.'

'Good. And no-one is to speak to the wretched Watch about this. You, boy . . . bring me my hat.' Dr Cruces sighed. 'I suppose I shall have to go and tell the Patrician.'

'Hard luck, sir.'

The captain didn't say anything until they were crossing the Brass Bridge.

'Now then, Corporal Carrot,' he said, 'you know how I've always told you how observation is important?'

'Yes, captain. I have always paid careful attention to your remarks on the subject.'

'So what did you observe?'

'Someone'd smashed a mirror. Everyone knows Assassins like mirrors. But if it was a museum, why was there a mirror there?'

'Please, sir?'

'Who said that?'

'Down here, sir. Lance-Constable Cuddy.'

'Oh, yes. Yes?'

'I know a bit about fireworks, sir. There's a smell you get after fireworks. Didn't smell it, sir. Smelled something else.'

'Well . . . smelled, Cuddy.'

'And there were bits of burned rope and pulleys.'

'I smelled dragon,' said Vimes.

'Sure, captain?'

'Trust me.' Vimes grimaced. If you spent any time in Lady Ramkin's company, you soon found out what dragons smelled like. If something put its head in your lap while you were dining, you said nothing, you just kept passing it titbits and hoped like hell it didn't hiccup.

'There was a glass case in that room,' he said. 'It was smashed open. Hah! Something was stolen. There was a bit of card in the dust, but someone must have pinched it while old Cruces was talking to me. I'd give a hundred dollars to know what it said.'

'Why, captain?' said Corporal Carrot.