• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Just a passing thought. Oh, ye gods…is that Igor’s parcel under the seat?”

“I think so, sir. But look, I know about Igors. If that’s a real hand, the original owner hasn’t got a use for it, believe me.”

“What? He cuts bits off dead people?”

“Better than live people, sir.”

“You know what I mean!”

“Sir, it’s considered good manners, if one of the Igors has helped you, to put it in your will that they can help themselves to any…bits of you that might help someone else. They never ask for any money. They’re very respected in Uberwald. Very good men with a scalpel and a needle. It’s a kind of vocation, really.”

“But they’re covered in scars and stitches!”

“They won’t do to anyone else what they are not prepared to try on themselves.”

Vimes decided to explore the full horror of this. It took his mind off the missing trophies.

“Are they any…Igorinas? Igorettes?”

“Well, any Igor is considered a good catch for a young lady…”

“He is?”

“And their daughters tend to be very attractive.”

“Eyes at the same height, that sort of thing?”

“Oh yes.”

But the door, when it was finally opened in response to impatient knocking, revealed not the switchback features of Igor but the business end of Detritus’s crossbow, which was marginally worse.

“It’s us, Sergeant,” said Vimes.

The crossbow was removed, and the door opened farther.

“Sorry, sir, but you said I was to be on guard,” said Detritus.

“There’s no need to—”

“Igor’s been hurt, sir.”

Igor was sitting in the huge kitchen, a bandage around his head. Lady Sybil was fussing over him.

“I went to look for him a couple of hours ago and there he was, flat on the snow,” she said. She leaned closer to Sam Vimes. “He doesn’t remember very much.”

“Can you recall what you were doing, old chap?” said Vimes, sitting down.

Igor gave him a bleary look.

“Well, thir, I went out to unpack the foodthtuffth from the other coach, and I’d just got hold of thomething and then all the lighth went out, thir. I reckon I mutht’ve thlipped.”

“Or someone hit you?”

Igor shrugged. For a moment, both of his shoulders were at the same level.

“There’s nothing on the coach worth stealing!” said Lady Sybil.

“Not unless someone was dying for a knuckle sandwich,” said Vimes. “Was anything taken?”

“I checked everything against der list Her Ladyship gave me, sir,” said Detritus, meeting Vimes’s gaze. “There wasn’t anything missing, sir.”

“I’ll just go and take a look for myself,” said Vimes.

When they were outside he walked over to the coach and looked at the snow around it. The cobbles were visible here and there. Then he looked up at the grating.

“All right, Detritus,” he said. “Talk to me.”

“Just a feelin’, sir,” rumbled the troll. “I know ‘fick’ is my middle name…”

“I didn’t know you had a first name, Sergeant.”

“I don’t fink this was one of dem accidents dat happens by accident.”

“He might have fallen off the coach when he was unloading it,” said Vimes.

“An’ I might be the Fairy Clinkerbell, sir.”

Vimes was impressed. This was low-temperature thinking from Detritus.

“Der street doors is open,” said Detritus. “I reckon Igor disturbed someone who was pinchin’ stuff.”

“But you said nothing was missing.”

“Maybe der thief took fright, sir.”

“What, at seeing Igor? Could be…”

Vimes looked at the bags and boxes. Then he looked again. Things had been thrown down any old how. That wasn’t how you unpacked a coach, unless you were looking for something in a real hurry. No one would go to these lengths to steal food.

“Nothing was missing…” He rubbed his chin. “Who packed the coach, Detritus?”

“Dunno, sir. I fink Her Ladyship just ordered a lot of stuff.”

“And we left in a bit of a rush, too…” Vimes stopped. Best to leave it there. He had an idea but…well, where was the evidence? You could say: Nothing that should have been there was missing, so what must have been taken was something that shouldn’t have been there. No. For now, it was just something to remember.

They walked into the hall, and Vimes’s eye fell