Thud! - Terry Pratchett [3]
The figures barely showed up at all. It was quite impossible, with normal eyes, to tell who was talking.
“This is not to be talked about, do you understand?”
“Not talked about? He’s dead!”
“This is dwarf business! It’s not to come to the ears of the City Watch! They have no place here! Do any of us want them down here?”
“They do have dwarf officers—”
“Hah. D’rkza. Too much time in the sun. They’re just short humans now. Do they think dwarf? And Vimes will dig and dig and wave the silly rags and tatters they call laws. Why should we allow such a violation? Besides, this is hardly a mystery. Only a troll could have done it, agreed? I said, are we agreed?”
“That is what happened,” said a figure; the voice was thin and old and, in truth, uncertain.
“Indeed, it was a troll,” said another voice, almost the twin of that one, but with a little more assurance.
The subsequent pause was underlined by the ever-present sound of the pumps.
“It could only have been a troll,” said the first voice. “And is it not said that behind every crime you will find the troll?”
There was a small crowdoutside the Watch House in Pseudopolis Yard when Commander Sam Vimes arrived at work. It had been a fine sunny morning up until then. Now it was still sunny, but nothing like as fine.
The crowd had placards. BLOODSUCKERS OUT!!, Vimes read, and NO FANGS! Faces turned toward him with a sullen, half-frightened defiance.
He uttered a bad word under his breath, but only just.
Otto Chriek, the Times iconographer, was standing nearby, holding a sunshade and looking dejected. He caught Vimes’s eye and trudged over.
“What’s in this for you, Otto?” said Vimes. “Come to get a picture of a jolly good riot, have you?”
“It’s news, Commander,” said Otto, looking down at his very shiny shoes.
“Who tipped you off?”
“I just do zer pictures, Commander,” said Otto, looking up with a hurt expression. “Anyvay, I couldn’t tell you even if I knew, because of zer Freedom of the Press.”
“Freedom to pour oil on a flame, d’you mean?” Vimes demanded.
“Zat’s freedom for you,” said Otto. “No-vun said it vas nice.”
“But…well, you’re a vampire, too!” said Vimes, waving a hand toward the protesters. “Do you like what’s been stirred up?”
“It’s still news, Commander,” said Otto meekly.
Vimes glared at the crowd again. It was mostly human. There was one troll, although, admittedly, the troll had probably joined in on general principle, simply because something was happening. A vampire would need a masonry drill and a lot of patience before it could put a troll to any trouble. Still, there was one good thing, if you could call it that—this little sideshow took people’s minds off Koom Valley.
“It’s strange that they don’t seem to mind you, Otto,” he said, calming down a little.
“Vell, I’m not official,” said Otto. “I do not haf zer sword und zer badge. I do not threaten. I am just a vorking stiff. And I make zem laff.”
Vimes stared at the man. He’s never thought about that before. But yes…Little fussy Otto, in his red-lined black opera cloak with pockets for all his gear, his shiny black shoes, his carefully cut widow’s peak and, not least, his ridiculous accent that grew thicker or thinner depending on whom he was talking to, did not look like a threat. He looked funny, a joke, a music-hall vampire. It had never previously occurred to Vimes that, just possibly, the joke was on other people. Make them laugh, and they’re not afraid.
He nodded to Otto and went inside, where Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom was standing—on a box—at the too-high duty officer’s desk, her chevrons all shiny and new on her sleeve. Vimes made a mental note to do something about the box. Some of the dwarf officers were getting sensitive about having to use it.
“I think we could do with a couple of lads standing outside, Cheery,” he said. “Nothing provocative, just a little reminder to people that we keep the peace.”
“I don’t think we’ll need that, Mister Vimes,” said the dwarf.
“I’m not interested