Bashfullsson gave him a cool look. "It could ... calm the situation, sir.
"I don"t habitually beat up prisoners, if that"s what you"re suggesting," said Vimes.
"And I am sure you would not wish to do so tonight."
Vimes opened his mouth to shout the grag out of the building, and stopped. Because the cheeky little sod had got it right slap bang on the money. Vimes had been on the edge since leaving the house. He"d felt a tingling across his skin and a tightness in his gut and a sharp, nasty little headache. Someone was going to pay for all this ... this ... this thisness, and it didn"t need to be a screwed-up bit-player like Helmclever.
And he was not certain, not certain at all, what he"d do if the prisoner gave him any lip or tried to be smart. Beating people up in little rooms ... he knew where that led. And if you did it for a good reason, you"d do it for a bad one. You couldn"t say "we"re the good guys" and do bad-guy things. Sometimes the watching watchman inside every copper"s head could use an extra pair of eyes.
Justice has to be seen to be done, so he"d see it done up good and proper.
"Gentlemen," he said, keeping his eye on the grag but talking to the room at large, "I know all of you, you all know me. You"re all respected dwarfs with a stake in this city. I want you to vouch for Mr Bashfullsson, because I"ve never met him before in my life. Come on, Setha, I"ve known you for years, what do you say?"
"They killed my son," said Ironcrust.
A knife dropped into Vimes"s head. It slipped down his windpipe, sliced his heart, cut through his stomach and disappeared. Where the rage had been, there was a chill.
"I"m sorry, commander," said Bashfullsson quietly. "It"s true. I don"t think Gunder Ironcrust was interested in the politics, you understand. He just took a job at the mine because he wanted to feel like a real dwarf and work with a shovel for a few days."
"They left him to the mud," said Ironcrust, in a voice that was eerily without emotion. "Any help you need, we will give. Any help. But when you find them, kill them all."
Vimes could think of nothing more to say than "I will catch them:
He didn"t say: Kill them? No. Not if they surrender, not if they don"t come at me armed. I know where that leads.
"Then we will leave and let you get about your business," said Stronginthearm. "Grag Bashfullsson is known to us, indeed. A little modern, perhaps. A little young. Not the kind of grag we grew up with, but ... yes, we"d vouch for him. Good night, commander."
Vimes stared at his desk as they filed out. When he looked up, the grag was still there, with a patient little smile.
"You don"t look like a grag. You look like just another dwarf," said Vimes. "Why haven"t I heard of you?"
"Because you are a policeman, perhaps?" said Bashfullsson meekly. "Okay, I take the point. But you"re not a deep-downer?" Bashfullsson shrugged. "I can think deep thoughts. I was born here, commander, just like Helmclever. I don"t believe I need a mountain over my head in order to be a dwarf."
Vimes nodded. A local lad, not some mountain greybeard. Got a quick brain, too. No wonder the leaders like him. "All right, Mr Bashfullsson, you can tag along," he said. "But it"s on two conditions, okay? Condition one: you"ve got five minutes to lay your hands on a Thud set. I think you can do that?
"I think I can, too," said the dwarf, smiling faintly. "And the other condition?"
"How long will it take you to teach me to play?" said Vimes. "You? You"ve never played it at all?"
"No. A certain troll showed me the game a little while ago, but I"ve never played games since I grew up. I used to be good at tiddley-rats [1] when I was a nipper, though:
"Well, a few hours should be-" Bashfullsson began.
"We don"t have time," said Vimes. "You"ve got ten minutes:
[1] A famous Ankh-Morpork gutter sport, second only to Dead Rat Conkers. Turd Races in the gutter appear to have died out, despite an attempt to take them upmarket with the name Poosticks.
The drinking had started in The Bucket, in Gleam Street. This was the coppers" pub. Mr Cheese, the owner, understood about coppers. They liked to drink somewhere where they wouldn"t see anything that reminded them they were a copper. Fun was not encouraged.
It was Tawneee who suggested that they move to Thank Gods It"s Open.
Angua wasn"t really in the mood, but she hadn"t the heart to say no. The plain fact was that while Tawneee had a body that every other woman should hate her for, she compounded the insult by actually being very likeable. This was because she had the selfesteem of a caterpillar and, as you found out in any kind of conversation with her, about the same amount of brain. Perhaps it all balanced out, perhaps some kindly god had said to her: "Sorry, kid, you are going to be thicker than a yard of lard, but the good news is, that"s not going to matter."
And she had a stomach made of iron, too. Angua found herself wondering how many hopeful men had died trying to drink her under the table. Alcohol didn"t seem to go to her head at all. Maybe it couldn"t find it. But she was pleasant, easygoing company, if you avoided allusion, irony, sarcasm, repartee, satire and words longer than "chicken:
Angua was tetchy because she was dying for a beer, but the young man behind the bar thought that "a pint of Winkles" was the name of a cocktail. Given the drinks on offer, perhaps this was not surprising.
"What," said Angua, reading the menu, "is a Screaming Orgasm?" "Ah," said Sally. "Looks like we got to you just in time, girl!"