Thud! - Terry Pratchett [43]
He even wore a tie, with a diamond pin. And today he had a fur coat around his shoulders. That had to be for show. Trolls liked low temperatures. They could think faster when their brains were cool. That’s why the meeting had been called here. Right, Vimes thought, trying to stop his teeth from chattering, when it’s my turn it’s going to be in a sauna.
“Mr. Vimes! Good o’ you to be comin’,” said Chrysophrase jovially. “Dese gentlemen are all high-toned businessmen of my acquaintance. I ’spect you can put names to faces…”
“Yeah, the Breccia,” said Vimes.
“Now den, Mr. Vimes, you know dat don’t exist,” said Chrysophrase innocently. “We just band togeder to furder troll interests in der city via many charitable concerns. You could say we are community leaders. Dere’s no call for name-callin’.”
Community leaders, Vimes thought. There’d been a lot of talk about community leaders lately, as in “community leaders appealed for calm,” a phrase the Times used so often that the printers probably left it set in type. Vimes wondered who they were and how they were appointed, and, sometimes, if “appealing for calm” meant winking and saying “do not use those shiny new battle-axes in that cupboard over there…no, not that one, the other one.” Hamcrusher had been a community leader.
“You said you wanted to talk to me alone,” he said, nodding toward the shadowy figures. Some of them were hiding their faces.
“Dat is so. Oh, dese gennlemen behind me? Dey will be leaving us now,” said Chrysophrase, waving a hand at them. “Dey’re just here so’ you understand dat one troll, dat is yours truly, is speakin’ for der many. An,’ at de same time, your good sergeant dere, my ol’ frien’ Detritus, is goin’ outside for a smoke, would dat be der case? Dis conversation is between you an’ me or it don’t happen.”
Vimes turned and nodded to Detritus. Reluctantly, with a scowl at Chrysophrase, the sergeant withdrew. So did the trolls. Boots crunched over the frost, and then doors slammed shut.
Vimes and Chrysophrase looked at each other in literally frozen silence.
“I can hear you teeth chattin’,” said Chrysophrase. “Dis place jus’ right for troll, but for you it freezes der brass monkey, right? Dat why I bringed dis fur coat.” He shrugged it off and held it out. “Dere jus’ you and me here, okay?”
Pride was one thing; not being able to feel your fingers was another. Vimes wrapped himself in the fine, warm fur.
“Good. Can’t talk to a man whose ears are froze, eh?” said Chrysophrase, pulling out a big cigar case. “Firstly, I am hearin’ where one of my boys was disrespectful to you. I am hearin’ how him suggestin’ I am de kind of troll dat would get pers’nal, dat would raise a hand to your lovely lady an’ your liddle boy who is growin’ up so fine. Sometimes I am despairin’ o’ young trolls today. Dey show no respec’. Dey have no style. Dey lack finesse. If you are wanting a new rockery in your garden, just say der word.”
“What? Just make sure I never clap eyes on him again,” said Vimes shortly.
“Dat will not be a problem,” said the troll. He indicated a small box, about a foot square, beside the crate. It was far too small to contain a whole troll.
Vimes tried to ignore it, but found this hard.
“Was that all you wanted to see me for?” he said, trying to stop his imagination playing its homemade horrors across his inner eyeballs.
“Smokin’, Mr. Vimes?” Chrysophrase said, flipping open the case. “Der ones on der left is okay for humans. Finest kind.”
“I’ve got my own,” said Vimes, pulling out a battered packet. “What is this about? I’m a busy man.”
Chrysophrase lit a silvery troll cigar and took a long pull. There was a smell like burning tin.
“Yeah, busy because dat ol’ dwarf dies,” he said, not looking at Vimes.
“Well?”
“It was no troll done it,” said Chrysophrase.
“How do you know?”
Now the troll looked directly at Vimes. “If it was, I would have foun’ out by now. I bin askin’ questions.”
“So are we.”
“I bin askin’ questions