Men at Arms (Discworld #15)(32)

'Are we having one?'

'Well, yes . . . Look at Quarry Lane. There's fighting there every night!'

'And they have absolutely no concept of religion!'

Vimes examined the grape minutely. What he wanted to say was: Of course they fight. They're trolls. Of course they bash one another with clubs – trollish is basically body language and, well, they like to shout. In fact, the only one who ever gives anyone any real trouble is that bastard Chrysoprase, and that's only because he apes humans and is a quick learner. As tor religion, troll'gods were hitting one another with clubs ten thousand years before we'd even stopped trying to eat rocks.

But the memory of the dead dwarf stirred something perverse in his soul.

He put the grape back on his plate.

'Definitely,' he said. 'In my view, the godless bastards should be rounded up and marched out of the city at spearpoint.'

There was a moment's silence.

'It's no more than they deserve,' Vimes added.

'Exactly! They're barely more than animals,' said Lady Omnius. Vimes suspected her first name was Sara.

'Have you noticed how massive their heads are?' said Vimes. 'That's really just rock. Very small brains.'

'And morally, of course . . .' said Lord Eorle.

There was a murmur of vague agreement. Vimes reached for his glass.

'Willikins, I don't think Captain Vimes wants any wine,' said Lady Ramkin.

'Wrong!' said Vimes cheerfully. 'And while we're on the subject, how about the dwarfs?'

'I don't know if anyone's noticed,' said Lord Eorle, 'but you certainly don't see as many dogs about as you used to.'

Vimes stared. It was true about the dogs. There didn't seem to be quite so many mooching around these days, that was a fact. But he'd visited a few dwarf bars with Carrot, and knew that dwarfs would indeed eat dog, but only if they couldn't get rat. And ten thousand dwarfs eating continuously with knife, fork and shovel wouldn't make a dent in Ankh-Morpork's rat population. It was a major feature in dwarfish letters back home: come on, everyone, and bring the ketchup.

'Notice how small their heads are?' he managed. 'Very limited capacity, surely. Fact of measure-ment.'

'And you never see their women,' said Lady Sara Omnius. 'I find that very . . . suspicious. You know what they say about dwarfs,' she added darkly.

Vimes sighed. He was just about aware that you saw their women all the time, although they looked just like the male dwarfs. Surely everyone knew that, who knew anything about dwarfs?

'Cunning little devils too,' said Lady Selachii. 'Sharp as needles.'

'You know,' Vimes shook his head, 'you know, that's what's so damn annoying, isn't it? The way they can be so incapable of any rational thought and so bloody shrewd at the same time.'

Only Vimes saw the look Lady Ramkin flashed him. Lord Eorle stubbed out his cigar.

'They just move in and take over. And work away like ants all the time real people should be getting some sleep. It's not natural.'

Vimes' mind circled the comment and compared it to the earlier one about a decent day's work.

'Well, one of them won't be working so hard,' said Lady Omnius. 'My maid said one of them was found in the river this morning. Probably some tribal war or something.'

'Hah . . . it's a start, anyway,' said Lord Eorle, laughing. 'Not that anyone will notice one more or less.'

Vimes smiled brightly.

There was a wine bottle near his hand, despite Will-ikins' tactful best efforts to remove it. The neck looked invitingly grippable—


He was aware of eyes on him. He looked across the table into the face of a man who was watching him intently and whose last contribution to the conversation had been 'Could you be so kind as to pass me the seasonings, captain?' There was nothing remarkable about the face, except for the gaze – which was absolutely calm and mildly amused. It was Dr Cruces. Vimes had the strong impression that his thoughts were being read.

'Samuel!'

Vimes' hand stopped halfway to the bottle. Willikins was standing next to her ladyship.

'Apparently there's a young man at the door asking for you,' said Lady Ramkin. 'Corporal Carrot.'

'Gosh, this is exciting!' said Lord Eorle. 'Has he come to arrest us, do you think? Hahaha.'

'Ha,' said Vimes.

Lord Eorle nudged his partner.

'I expect that somewhere a crime is being committed,' he said.

'Yes,' said Vimes. 'Quite close, I think.'

Carrot was shown in, with his helmet under his arm at a respectful angle.

He gazed at the select company, licked his lips nervously, and saluted. Everyone was looking at him. It was hard not to notice Carrot in a room. There were bigger people than him in the city. He didn't loom. He just seemed, without trying, to distort things around him. Everything became background to Corporal Carrot.

'At ease, corporal,' said Vimes. 'What's up? I mean,' he added quickly, knowing Carrot's erratic approach to colourful language, 'what is the reason for you being here at this time?'

'Got something to show you, sir. Uh. Sir, I think it's from the Assass—'

'We'll just go and talk about it outside, shall we?' said Vimes. Dr Cruces hadn't twitched a muscle.