Thud! - Terry Pratchett [38]
The imp was a very pale green and translucent, little more than a creature made out of colored air, but it was able to grip the tiny pencil stub. It ran up and down the column of figures in the Petty Cash book and, Vimes was pleased to hear, it muttered to itself.
“It’s out by three dollars and five pence,” it reported after a few seconds.
“That’s fine, then,” said Vimes.
“But the money is not accounted for!”
“Oh yes it is,” said Vimes. “It was stolen by Nobby Nobbs. It always is. He never steals more than four dollars fifty.”
“Would you like me to make an appointment for a disciplinary interview?” said the imp hopefully.
“Of course not. I’m signing it off now. Er…thank you. Can you add up the other dockets?”
The imp beamed.
“Absolutely!”
Vimes left the imp scribbling happily and walked over to the window.
They don’t acknowledge our law and they undermine our city. That’s not just a bunch of deep-downers here to keep their fellow dwarfs on the straight seam. How far do those tunnels go? Dwarfs dig like crazy. But why here? What are they looking for? As sure as any hell you choose, there’s no treasure trove under this city, no sleeping dragon, no secret kingdom. There’s just water and mud and darkness.
How far do they go? How much—hold on, we know this, we know this, don’t we. We know about numbers and figures in today’s Watch…
“Imp?” he said, turning around.
“Yes, Insert Name Here?”
“You see that big pile of paper in the corner?” said Vimes, pointing. “Somewhere in there are the gate guard reports for the past six months. Can you compare them with last week’s? Can you compare the number of dunny wagons leaving the city?”
“Dunny Wagon not found in root dictionary. Searching slang dictionary…mip…mip…mip…Dunny Wagon, n.: cart for carrying night soil (see also Honey Wagon, Treacle Wagon, Midnight Special, Gong Wagon, and variants),” said the imp.
“That right,” said Vimes, who hadn’t heard the Midnight Special one before. “Can you?”
“Ooh, yes!” said the imp. “Thank you for using the Dis-Organizer Mark five, the Gooseberry, the most advanced—”
“Yeah, don’t mention it. Just look at the ones for the Hubwards Gate. That’s closest to Treacle Street.”
“Then I suggest you stand back, Insert Name Here,” said the imp.
“Why?”
The imp leapt into the pile. There was some rustling noises, a couple of mice scampered out—and the pile exploded. Vimes backed away hurriedly as papers fountained into the air, borne aloft on a very pale green cloud.
Vimes had instigated record keeping at the gates not because he had a huge interest in the results, but because it kept the lads on their toes. It wasn’t as if it was security duty. Ankh-Morpork was so wide open it was gaping. But the cart census was handy. It topped watchmen falling asleep at their posts, and it gave them an excuse to be nosy.
You had to move soil. That was it. This was a city. If you were a long way from the river, the only way to do that was on a cart. Blast it, he thought, I should have asked the thing to see if there’s been any increase in stone and timber loads, too. Once you’ve dug a hole in mud, you’ve got to keep it open—
The circling, swooping papers snapped back into piles. The green haze shrank with a faint zzzzp noise, and there was the little imp, ready to burst with pride.
“An extra one-point-one dunny carts a night over six months ago!” it announced. “Thank you, Insert Name Here! Cogito ergo sum, Insert Name Here. I exist, therefore I do sums!”
“Right, yes, thank you,” said Vimes. Hmm. A bit more than one cart a night? They held a couple of tons, maximum. You couldn’t make much of that. Maybe people living near that gate had been really ill lately. But…what would he do, in the dwarfs’ position?
He damn well wouldn’t send stuff out of the nearest gate, that’s what. Ye gods, if they were tunneling in enough places, they could dump it anywhere.
“Imp, could you…” Vimes paused. “Look, don’t you have some kind of a name?”
“Name, Insert Name Here?” said the imp, looking puzzled. “Oh, no. I am created by the dozen, Insert Name Here. A