'Continue, sergeant.' Madam stood up. 'Do you mind if I have some champagne? I'd offer you some, but I understand that you don't drink.' Vimes glanced at the brimming whiskey glass beside him. 'We were just checking,' said Madam, hauling a large bottle out of an industrial-capacity ice bucket. 'You're not a sergeant. Rosie was right. You've been an officer. More than just any old officer, too. You're so composed, Sergeant Keel. Here you are, in a big house, in a lady's boudoir, with a woman of uneasy virtue,' Madam up-ended the bottle into what appeared to be a blue mug with a teddy bear on it, 'and you appear unfussed. Where are you from? You may smoke, by the way.'
What?'
'Oh, you'd like something simpler?' said Vimes, dragging the man out of the cell. 'Fred! Waddy! He wants to talk! Bring a notebook!' It took half an hour. Fred Colon wasn't a fast writer. And when the painful sound of his efforts concluded with the stab of his last full stop, Vimes said: 'Okay, sir. And now you write down at the end: I, Gerald Leastways, currently staying at the Young Men's Pagan Association, am making this statement of my own free will and not under duress. And then you sign it. Or else. Got it?'
'Yes, sir.' The initials GL had been inscribed on the dagger. Vimes believed them. He'd met plenty of Leastwayses in his career, and they tended to spill their guts at the mere thought of spilling their guts. And when they did, you got everything. Anyone who had seen the ginger beer trick used on someone else would confess to anything.
'Well, now,' he said cheerfully, standing up. Thank you for your co- operation. Want a lift to Cable Street?' Ferret's expression, if not his mouth, said 'huh?'
'We've got to drop off your friends,' Vimes went on, raising his voice slightly. Todzy and Muffer. We'll drop the dead one off at the mortuary. Just a bit of paperwork for you.' He nodded at Colon. 'One copy of your helpful statement. One certificate of death from the pox doctor for the late mystery man, and rest assured we'll try to track down his murderer. A chitty from Mossy about the ointment he put on Muffer's feet. Oh ... and a receipt for six bottles of ginger beer.' He put a hand on Ferret's shoulder and gently walked him round into the next cellar, where Todzy and Muffer were sitting gagged, bound and livid with rage. On a table near by was a box containing six flagons of ginger beer. The corks were heavily wired down. Ferret stared at Vimes, who inserted a finger in his mouth, blew up his cheeks and flicked out the finger with a loud pop. Waddy hissed between his teeth. Fred Colon opened his mouth but Vimes clamped his hand over it. 'No, don't,' he said. 'Funny thing, Gerald, but Fred here just screams out loud at times for no reason at all.'
'You tricked me!' Ferret wailed. Vimes patted him on the shoulder. 'Tricked?' he growled. 'How so, Gerald?'
'You made me think you were doing the ginger beer trick!'
'Ginger beer trick?' said Vimes, his brow wrinkling. 'What's that?'
'You know! You brought the stuff down here!'
'We don't drink alcohol on duty, Gerald,' said Vimes severely. 'What's wrong with a little ginger beer? We don't know any tricks with the stuff, Gerald. What tricks do you know? Seen any good tricks lately, Gerald? Do tell!' At last it dawned on Ferret that he should stop talking. It was about half an hour too late. The expressions on what could be seen of the faces of Todzy and Muffer suggested that they wanted a very personal word with him. 'I demand protective custody,' he managed. 'Just when I'm letting you go, Gerald?' said Vimes. 'As you said in your statement . . . what was it, Fred? Something about just obeying orders? All that stuff about mixing with the mobs and throwing things at coppers and soldiers, you didn't want to do that, I know. You didn't like being round in Cable Street watching people being beaten up and being told what
to confess to, 'cos it's plain to me that you're not that sort. You're small fry, I understand that. I say we call it quits, how about you?'
'Please! I'll tell you all I know!' Ferret squeaked. 'You mean you haven't?' Vimes roared. He spun round and grabbed a bottle. 'Yes! No! I mean, if I sit quiet I'm sure I'll remember some more!' Vimes held his gaze for a moment, and then dropped the bottle back in the crate. 'All right,' he said. 'It'll be a dollar a day, meals extra.'
'Right you are, sir!' Vimes watched Ferret scuttle back into his cell and shut the door behind him, then he turned to Fred and Waddy. 'Go and wake up Marilyn,' he said. 'Let's deliver the other three.' The rain was falling steadily and a thin mist filled Cable Street. The wagon came out of nowhere. Fred had urged Marilyn into something approaching a canter down the street, and when the horse came around the corner she was trying to keep ahead of the heavy, rumbling cart behind. As the hurry-up wagon passed the station the rear door was flung open and two bodies were tumbled out on to the wet cobbles. The guards rushed forward. One or two of them fired after the retreating cart but the arrows clattered harmlessly off the black iron strips. The other men approached the tied-up bodies with some care. There were groans, punctuated by swearwords. And, pinned to one man, some paperwork. They read the note. They did not laugh. Vimes unharnessed the old horse, rubbed her down and checked on her feed. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the feed bins seemed fuller than they had been. Guilty consciences were at work, maybe. Then he walked out into the cool night air. The lights were on in the Watch House. It was a beacon, now that the street lamps had been doused. Beyond the walls of the yard the real night had closed in, the old night with its tendrils of fog and crawling shadows. He relaxed, and wore it like an overcoat. A shadow near the gate was deeper than it ought to be. He felt for his cigar case again, cursed, and pulled a cigar out of his shirt sleeve. He cupped his hands when he lit it, but kept his eyes tight shut to hold the night vision. Then he looked up, and blew a smoke ring. Yes. Everyone thought black didn't show up at night. They were wrong. He walked over to shut the gate and then pulled out his sword in one fluid movement.
Sadie raised her head, revealing a pale oval of a face in the depths of her bonnet. 'Good morning, kind sir,' she said. 'Good morning, Sadie,' said Vimes wearily. To what do I owe this pleasure?'
'Madam wants to see you, kind sir.'
'If you mean Rosie, I've been a bit busy-' Dotsie's handbag hit him on the back of the head. 'Madam doesn't like waiting, dearie,' were the last words he heard before night closed in all the way. The Aunts were experts. Probably not even Mossy Lawn could turn someone off with such precision. Vimes drifted awake. He was in an armchair. It was extremely comfortable. And someone was shaking him. It was Sandra the Real Seamstress. She stared at him and said, 'He looks okay . . .' Then she stepped back, sat down in another chair, and aimed a crossbow at him. 'You know,' said Vimes - it really was a comfortable chair, and reminded him of the softness that had gone from his life in the past few days; it hadn't been all bad - 'if someone wants to talk to me, they only have to bloody well ask.'
'Sadie said you'd only be out for ten minutes, but then you started to snore so we thought we'd let you sleep for a while,' said Rosie Palm, stepping into view. She was wearing a red off-the-shoulder evening dress, an impressively large wig and quite a lot of jewellery. 'Yes, it costs a lot of money to look as cheap as this, sergeant,' she said, catching his expression. 'I can't stop, I must go and talk to people. Now, if you-'
'Snapcase has promised you ladies that you'll be allowed to form a Guild, right?' said Vimes. It was another cheating move, but he was fed up with waking up in odd places. 'Yes, I thought so. And you believe him? It's not going to happen. When he's the Patrician he'll look right through you.' He'll end up looking through everything, he added to himself. Mad Lord Snapcase. Just another Winder, but with fancier waistcoats and more chins. Same cronyism, same piggy ways, same stupid arrogance, one more leech in a line of leeches that'd make Vetinari seem like a breath of clean air. Ha ... Vetinari. Yes, he'd be around here somewhere too, no doubt, learning that little expression he had which never, ever gave you a clue what he was thinking ... But he'll be the one to give you the Guild you want so much. He's here somewhere. I know it. 'Don't expect anything from Snapcase,' he said aloud. 'Remember, there were people who thought Winder was the future, too.'
He derived some minor pleasure from seeing the look on Rosie Palm's face. At last she said: 'Give him a drink, Sandra. If he moves, shoot an eye out. I'll let Madam know.'
'Do you expect me to believe that she'll fire that?' said Vimes. 'Sandra has a very useful streak of belligerence,' said Rosie. 'A gentleman was being . . . impolite yesterday and she came running in and . . . you'll be surprised at what she did with her mushroom.' Vimes eyed the crossbow. The girl had a very steady hand. 'I don't think I quite under-' he began. 'It's a wooden thing to make it easier to darn socks,' said Sandra. 'I hit him behind the ear with it.' Vimes gave her a blank look for a while and then said: 'Fine. Fine. I'm sitting very still, believe me.'
'Good,' said Rosie. She swept out and it was a real sweep, the dress brushing the ground. There were big, expensive double doors. When she opened them, the noise of a meeting filled the room. There was conversation, the smell of cigar smoke and alcohol, and a voice said '-to change the dominant episteme-' before the doors breathed shut. Vimes stayed seated. He was getting attached to the chair and on current showing someone was likely to hit him again soon. Sandra, still holding the bow, placed a very large glass of whiskey beside him. 'You know,' he said, 'in times to come people will wonder how all those weapons got smuggled around the city.'
'I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about.'
'And it's because the lads in the Watch never bother about the seamstresses, curfew or no curfew,' said Vimes, staring at the whiskey. 'Or posh coaches,' he added. 'A watchman can get into real trouble if he tries that.' He could smell the stuff from here. It was the good stuff from the mountains, not the local rubbish. 'You didn't tell anyone about the basket,' said Sandra. 'Or hand us over to the Unmentionables. Are you one of us?'
'I doubt it.'
'But you don't know who we are!'
'I still doubt it.' And then he was aware of the doors opening and shutting, and the rustle of a long dress. 'Sergeant Keel? I've heard so much about you! Please leave us, Sandra. I'm sure the good sergeant can be trusted with a lady.'
Madam was only a little shorter than Vimes. Could be from Genua, he thought, or spent a lot of time there. Trace of it in the accent. Brown eyes, brown hair - but a woman's hair could be any colour tomorrow - and a purple dress that looked more expensive than most. And an expression that said quite clearly that the owner knew what was going to happen and was going along with things just to make sure- 'Don't forget the intricately painted fingernails,' she said. 'But if you're trying to guess my weight, don't expect to get any help from me. You can call me Madam.' She sat down in a chair opposite him, put her hands together and stared at him over the top of them. 'Who are you working for?' she said. 'I'm an officer of the City Watch,' said Vimes. 'Brought here under duress . . . madam.' The woman waved a hand. 'You're free to go whenever you wish.'
'It's a comfy chair,' said Vimes. He was damned if he'd be dismissed. 'Are you really from Genua?'