Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

'Ah.'

'Er. The inside of a dwarf's workshop is bike . . . well, it's like the inside of his clothes, if you know what I mean. They say you can look, if I'm with you. But you mustn't touch anything. Er. They're not very happy about this, captain.'

A dwarf who was possibly Mrs Hammerhock produced a bunch of keys.

'I've always got on well with dwarfs,' said Vimes.

'They're not happy, sir. Um. They don't think we'll do any good.'

'We'll do our best!'

'Um. I didn't translate that properly. Um. They don't think we're any good. They don't mean to be offensive, sir. They just don't think we'll be allowed to get anywhere, sir.'

'Ow!'

'Sorry about that, captain,' said Carrot, who was walking like an inverted L. 'After you. Mind your head on the—'

'Ow!'

'Perhaps it'd be best if you sat down and I'll look around.'

The workshop was long and, of course, low, with another small door at the far end. There was a big workbench under a skylight. On the opposite wall was a forge and a tool rack. And a hole.

A chunk of plaster had fallen away a few feet above the ground, and cracks radiated away from the shattered brickwork underneath.

Vimes pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn't found time to sleep today. That was another thing. He'd have to get used to sleeping when it was dark. He couldn't remember when he'd last slept at night.

He sniffed.

'I can smell fireworks,' he said.

'Could be from the forge,' said Carrot. 'Anyway, trolls and dwarfs have been letting fireworks off all over the city.'

Vimes nodded.

'All right,' he said, 'so what can we see?'

'Someone thumped the wall pretty hard just here,' said Carrot.

'Could have happened at any time,' said Vimes.

'No, sir, because there's the plaster dust underneath and a dwarf always keeps his workshop clean.'

'Really?'

There were various weapons, some of them half finished, on racks by the bench. Vimes picked up most of a crossbow.

'He did good work,' he said. 'Very good at mechanisms.'

'Well known for it,' said Carrot, poking around aimlessly on the bench. 'A very delicate hand. He made musical boxes for a hobby. Could never resist a mechanical challenge. Er. What are we looking for actually, sir?'

'Not sure. Now this is good . . .'

It was a war axe, and so heavy that Vimes' arm sagged. Intricate etched lines covered the blade. It must have represented weeks of work.

'Not your actual Saturday night special, eh?'

'Oh no,' said Carrot, 'that's a burial weapon.'