He"d scrumped plums in the gardens of Empirical Crescent with all the other kids. Half the houses were empty and no one cared much. Yes, there had been a well, but it had long been full up with garbage, even then. Grass was growing on the top. They only found the bricks because they looked for them.
So let"s say that anything buried right at the bottom, where the dwarfs had headed, had been dumped, oh, more than fifty, sixty years ago ...
You seldom saw a dwarf in Ankh-Morpork even forty years ago, and they weren"t anything like rich or powerful enough to own a cube. They were hard workers, seeking - just possibly - a better life. So what human would throw away a talking box worth a mountain of gold? He"d have to be bloody mad Vimes sat rigidly staring at the scrawls on the page. In the distance, Detritus was barking a command at someone.
He felt like a man crossing a river on stepping stones. He was nearly halfway across, but the next stone was just a bit too far and could only be reached with serious groinal stress. Nevertheless, his foot was waving in the air and it was that or a ducking ...
He wrote: "Rascal. Then he circled the word several times, the pencil biting into the cheap paper.
Rascal must have been to Koom Valley. Let"s say he found a cube there, who knows how. Just lying there? Anyway, he brings it home. He paints his picture and goes mad, but somewhere along the line the cube starts talking to him.
Vimes wrote "SPECIAL WORD?" He drew a circle round it so hard that his pencil broke.
Maybe he can"t find the word for "stop talking"? Anyway, he chucks it down a well ...
He tried to write "Did Rascal ever live in Empirical Crescent?; and then gave up and tried to remember it.
Anyway ... then he dies and, afterwards, this damn book is written. It doesn"t sell many copies, but recently it"s republished and ... ah, but now there"re lots of dwarfs in the city. Some of them read it and something tells them that the secret is in this cube. They want to find out where it is. How? Damn. Doesn"t the book say the secret of Koom Valley is in the painting? Okay. Maybe he ... somehow painted some kind of code into the painting to say where the cube
was? But so what? What was so bad to hear that you killed the poor devils who heard it?
I think I"m looking at this wrong. It"s not my cow. It"s a sheep with a pitchfork. Unfortunately, it goes quack.
He was getting lost now, going all over the place, but he"d got a toe on the opposite stone and he felt he"d made some progress. But to what, exactly?
I mean, what would really happen if there was proof that, say, the dwarfs ambushed the trolls? Nothing that isn"t happening already, that"s what. You can always find an excuse that your side will accept, and who cares what the enemy thinks? In the real world, it wouldn"t make any difference.
There was a faint knock at the door, the sort that you use if you secretly hope it won"t be answered. Vimes sprang from his chair and pulled the door open.
A. E. Pessimal stood there.
"Ah, A. E.," said Vimes, going back to his desk and laying down his pencil. "Come on in. What can I do for you? How"s the arm?"
"Er ... could you spare a moment of your time, your grace?" Your grace, thought Vimes. Well, he hadn"t the heart to object this time.
He sat down again. A. E. Pessimal was still wearing the chain mail shirt with the Specials badge on it. He didn"t look very shiny. Brick"s swipe had bowled him across the plaza like a ball.
"Er. .." A. E. Pessimal began.
"You"ll have to start as a lance-constable, but a man of your talents ought to make it to sergeant within a year. And you can have your own office," said Vimes.
A. E. Pessimal shut his eyes. "How did you know?" he breathed. "You attacked a boozed-up troll with your teeth," said Vimes.
"There"s a man born for the badge, I thought to myself." And that"s what you"ve always wanted, right? But you were always too small, too weak, too shy to be a watchman. I can buy big and strong anywhere. Right now I need a man who knows how to hold a pencil without breaking it.
"You"ll be my adjutant," he went on. "You"ll handle all my paperwork. You"ll read the reports, you"ll try to figure out what"s important. And so you can learn what is important, you"ll have to do at least two patrols a week."
A tear was running down A. E. Pessimal"s cheek. "Thank you, your grace," he said hoarsely.
If A. E. Pessimal had had enough chest to stick out, it would be sticking.
"Of course you"ll need to finish your report on the Watch first," Vimes added. "That is a matter between you and his lordship. And now, if you will excuse me, I really must get on. I look forward to seeing you working for me, Lance-Constable Pessimal."
"Thank you, your grace!"
"Oh, and you won"t call me "your grace"," said Vimes. He thought for a moment, and decided that the man had earned this, all in one go, and added: ""Mister Vimes" will do."
And so we make progress, he said to himself, after A. E. Pessimal had floated away. And his lordship won"t like it, so as far as I can see there"s no downside. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, er, qui custodes custodient? Was that right for "Who watches the watcher that watches the watchmen?"? Probably not. Still ... your move, my lord.