'Yes?' he said.
Cuddy let go.
Detritus'massive brows knitted.
'Er. You loony bastard, what you make of this?' he said.
Sendivoge stared from Detritus to the paper. Cuddy was struggling to get around the troll, who was almost completely blocking the doorway.
'What'd you go and call him that for?'
'Sergeant Colon, he said—'
'I could make a hat out of it,' said Sendivoge, 'or a string of dollies, if I could get some scissors—'
'What my . . . colleague means, sir, is can you help us in our inquiries in re the writing on this alleged piece of paper here?' said Cuddy. 'That bloody hurt!'
Sendivoge peered at him.
'Are you Watchmen?' he said.
'I'm Lance-Constable Cuddy and this,' said Cuddy, gesturing upwards, 'is Lance-trying-to-be-Constable Detritus – don't salu-oh . . .'
There was a thump, and Detritus slumped sideways.
'Suicide squad, is he?' said the alchemist.
'He'll come round in a minute,' said Cuddy. 'It's the saluting. It's too much for him. You know trolls.'
Sendivoge shrugged and stared at the writing.
'Looks . . . familiar,' he said. 'Seen it somewhere before. Here . . . you're a dwarf, aren't you?'
'It's the nose, isn't it?' said Cuddy. 'It always gives me away.'
'Well, I'm sure we always try to be of help to the community,' said Sendivoge. 'Do come in.'
Cuddy's steel-tipped boots kicked Detritus back into semi-sensibility, and he lumbered after them.
'Why the, er, why the crash helmet, mister?' said Cuddy, as they walked along the corridor. All around them was the sound of hammering. The Guild was usually being rebuilt.
Sendivoge rolled his eyes.
'Balls,' he said, 'billiard balls, in fact.'
'I knew a man who played like that,' said Cuddy.
'Oh, no. Mr Silverfish is a good shot. That tends rather to be the problem, in fact.'
Cuddy looked at the crash helmet again.
'It's the ivory, you see.'
'Ah,' said Cuddy, not seeing, 'elephants?'
'Ivory without elephants. Transmuted ivory. Sound commercial venture.'
'I thought you were working on gold.'