The Fifth Elephant (Discworld 24)

Down in the mines, all alone, he"d hear the knockers. Agi Hammerthief and all the other things that made noises, deep under the earth.

There could be no light, because light would mean sudden, roaring death. The knockerman would feel his way through the utter dark, far below the surface.

There was a type of cricket that lived in the mines. It chirruped loudly in the presence of firedamp. The knockerman would have one in a box, tied to his hat.

When it sang, a knockerman who was either very confident or extremely suicidal would step back, light the torch on the end of his pole and thrust it ahead of him. The more careful knockerman would step back rather more, and slingshot a ball of burning rags into the unseen death. Either way, he"d trust in his thick leather clothes to protect him from the worst of the blast.

Initially the dangerous trade did not run in families, because who"d marry a knockerman? They were dead dwarfs walking. But sometimes a young dwarf would ask to become one; his family would be proud, wave him goodbye, and then speak of him as if he was dead, because that made it easier.

Sometimes, though, knockermen came back. And the ones that survived went on to survive again, because surviving is a matter of practice. And sometimes they would talk a little of what they heard, all alone in the deep mines... the tap-tapping of dead dwarfs trying to get back into the world, the distant laughter of Agi Hammerthief, the heartbeat of the turtle that carried the world.

Knockermen became kings.

Vimes, listening with his mouth open,

wondered why the hell it was that dwarfs believed that they had no religion and no priests. Being a dwarf was a religion. People went into the dark for the good of the clan, and heard things, and were changed, and came back to tell...

And then, fifty years ago, a dwarf tinkering in Ankh-Morpork had found that if you put a simple fine mesh over your lantern flame it"d burn blue in the presence of the gas but wouldn"t explode. It was a discovery of immense value to the good of dwarfkind and, as so often happens with such discoveries, almost immediately led to a war.

"And afterwards there were two kinds of dwarf," said Cheery sadly. "There"s the Copperheads, who all use the lamp and the patent gas exploder, and the Schmaltzbergers, who stick to the old ways. Of course we"re all dwarfs," she said, "but relations are rather... strained."

"I bet they are."

"Oh, no, all dwarfs recognize the need for the Low King, it"s just that..."

"...hey don"t quite see why knockermen are still so powerful?"

"It"s all very sad," said Cheery. "Did I tell you my brother Snorey went off to be a knockerman?"

"I don"t think so."

"He died in an explosion somewhere under Borogravia. But he was doing what he wanted to do." After a moment she added, conscientiously, "Well, up to the moment when the blast hit him. After that, I don"t think so."

Now the coach was rumbling up the mountain on one side of the town. Vimes looked down at the little round helmet beside him. Funny how you think you know about people, he thought.

The wheels clattered over the wood of a drawbridge.

As castles went, this one looked as though it could be taken by a small squad of not very efficient soldiers. Its builder had not been thinking about fortifications. He"d been influenced by fairytales and possibly by some of the more ornamental sorts of cake. It was a castle for looking at. For defence, putting a blanket over your head might be marginally safer.

The coach stopped in the courtyard. To Vimes"s amazement, a familiar figure in a shabby black coat came shuffling up to open the door.

"Igor?"

"Yeth, marthter?"

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Er, I"m opening thith here door, marthter," said Igor.

"But why aren"t you - ?"

Then it stole over Vimes that Igor was different. This Igor had both eyes the same colour, and some of his scars were in different places.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I thought you were Igor."

"Oh, you mean my couthin Igor," said Igor. "He workth down at the embathy. How"th he getting on?"

"Er, he"s looking... well," said Vimes. "Pretty... well. Yes."