Feet of Clay - Terry Pratchett [23]
The changed fortunes of the Watch had allowed Detritus to have a proper breastplate rather than a piece of elephant battle armor. As was normal practice for the uniform of a sergeant, the armorer had attempted to do a stylized representation of muscles on it. As far as Detritus was concerned, he hadn’t been able to get them all in.
“Is dere any trouble?” he said.
The crowd backed away.
“None at all, officer,” said Mr. Raddley. “You, er, just loomed suddenly, that’s all…”
“Dis is correct,” said Detritus. “I am a loomer. It often happen suddenly. So dere’s no trouble, den?”
“No trouble whatsoever, officer.”
“Amazing t’ing, trouble,” rumbled Detritus thoughtfully. “Always I go lookin’ for trouble, an’ when I find it people said it ain’t dere.”
Mr. Raddley drew himself up.
“But we want to take Father Tubelcek away to bury him,” he said.
Detritus turned to Cheery Littlebottom. “You done every’ting you need?”
“I suppose so…”
“He dead?”
“Oh, yes.”
“He gonna get any better?”
“Better than dead? I doubt it.”
“Okay, den you people can take him away.”
The two Watchmen stood aside as the body was carried down the stairs.
“Why you takin’ pictures of the dead man?” said Detritus.
“Well, er, it might be helpful to see how he was lying.”
Detritus nodded sagely. “Ah, he was lyin’, was he? An’ him a holy man, too.”
Littlebottom pulled out the picture and looked at it again. It was almost black. But…
A constable arrived at the bottom of the stairs. “Is there someone up there called”—there was a muffled snigger—“Cheery Littlebottom?”
“Yes,” said Littlebottom gloomily.
“Well, Commander Vimes says you’ve to come to the Patrician’s palace right now, all right?”
“Dat’s Corporal Littlebottom you’re talkin’ to,” said Detritus.
“It’s all right,” said Littlebottom. “Nothing could make it any worse.”
Rumor is information distilled so finely that it can filter through anything. It does not need doors and windows—sometimes it doesn’t even need people. It can exist free and wild, running from ear to ear without ever touching lips.
It had escaped already. From the high window of the Patrician’s bedroom, Sam Vimes could see people drifting towards the palace. There wasn’t a mob—there wasn’t even what you might call a crowd—but the Brownian motion of the streets was bouncing more and more people in his direction.
He relaxed slightly when he saw one or two guards come through the gates.
On the bed, Lord Vetinari opened his eyes.
“Ah…Commander Vimes,” he murmured.
“What’s been happening, sir?” said Vimes.
“I appear to be lying down, Vimes.”
“You were in your office, sir. Unconscious.”
“Dear me. I must have been…overdoing it. Well, thank you. If you would be kind enough to…help me up…”
Lord Vetinari tried to pull himself upright, swayed, and fell back again. His face was pale. Sweat beaded his forehead.
There was a knock at the door. Vimes opened it a fraction.
“It’s me, sir. Fred Colon. I got a message. What’s up?”
“Ah, Fred. Who’ve you got down there so far?”
“There’s me and Constable Flint and Constable Slapper, sir.”
“Right. Someone’s to go up to my place and get Willikins to bring me my street uniform. And my sword and crossbow. And an overnight bag. And some cigars. And tell Lady Sybil…tell Lady Sybil…well, they’ll just have to tell Lady Sybil I’ve got to deal with things down here, that’s all.”
“What’s happening, sir? Someone downstairs said Lord Vetinari’s dead!”
“Dead?” murmured the Patrician from his bed. “Nonsense!” He jerked himself upright, swung his legs off the bed, and folded up. It was a slow, terrible collapse. Lord Vetinari was a tall man, so there was a long way to fall. And he did it by folding up a joint at a time. His ankles gave way and he fell on his knees. His knees hit the ground with a bang and he bent at the waist. Finally his forehead bounced on the carpet.
“Oh,” he said.
“His Lordship’s just a bit…” Vimes began—then he grabbed Colon and dragged him out of the room. “I reckon he’s been poisoned, Fred, and that’s the truth of it.”
Colon looked horrified. “Ye gods! Do you want