Thud! - Terry Pratchett [45]
“It’s your duty as a good citizen to tell me, then,” said Vimes. Ye gods, what does he think I am? But I want those names. Slide sounds nasty. Right now we need battle-crazy trolls like we need a hole in the head, which we’ll probably end up getting.
“Can’t tell you. Dat der problem,” said Chrysophrase. “Dis ain’t der time. You know what’s happening out dere. If der stupid dwarfs want to fight, we’ll need every troll. Dat’s what I sayin.’ I tellin’ my people, give Vimes a chance. Be good citizens, not rockin’ around der boat. People still listenin’ to me an’ my…associates. But not for much longer. I hope you on der case, Mister Vimes?”
“Captain Carrot is investigating right now,” said Vimes.
Chrysophrase’s eyes narrowed again.
“Carrot Ironfoundersson?” he said. “Der big dwarf? He a lovely boy, bright as a button, but to trolls dat won’t look so good, I tell you flat.”
“It doesn’t look that good to dwarfs, if it come to that,” said Vimes. “But it’s my Watch. I’ll not be told who I put on what case.”
“You trust him?” said Chrysophrase.
“Yes!”
“Okay, he a finker, he shiny. But…Ironfoundersson? Dwarf name. Dat a problem right dere. But der name Vimes…dat name means a lot. Can’t be bribed, he once arrested der Patrician, not der sharpest knife in der drawer but honest like anything and he don’t stop digging.” Chrysophrase caught Vimes’s expression. “Dat’s what dey say. I wishin’ Vimes was on dis case, ’cos him like me, bare-knuckle boy, he get at der truth soon enough. And to him I say: no troll did dat t’ing, not like dat.”
Forget that he’s talking street troll, Vimes told himself. That’s just to seem like a good ol’ troll. This is Chrysophrase. He beat out most of the old-style mobsters, who were pretty sharp players themselves, and he holds off the Thieves’ Guild with one hand. And that’s without sitting in a pile of snow. You know he’s right. But…not the sharpest knife in the drawer? Thank you so very much!
But Captain Carrot was shiny, was he? Vimes’s mind always looked for connections, and came up with: “Who is Mr. Shine?”
Chrysophrase was absolutely still, apart from the greenish smoke spiraling up from the cigar. Then, when he spoke, his air was uncharacteristically jovial.
“Him? Oh, a story for kids. Kinda like a troll legend from der far-off days o’ long ahead,” he said.*
“Like a folk hero?”
“Yeah, dat kinda t’ing. Kinda silly t’ing people talk about when times is tricky. Just a willie der wisp, not real. Dis is modern times.”
And that seemed to be that.
Vimes stood up.
“All right, I’ve heard what you say,” he said. “And now I’ve got a Watch to run.”
Chrysophrase puffed his cigar and flicked the ash into the frost, where it sizzled.
“You going back to der Watch house by way o’ Turn Again Lane?” he said.
“No, that’s well out of—” Vimes stopped. There had been a hint of suggestion in the troll’s voice.
“Give my regard to der ol’ lady at next door to der cake shop,” said the troll.
“Er…I will, will I?” said Vimes, nonplussed. “Sergeant!”
The door at the far end opened with a bang, and Detritus ran in, crossbow at the ready. Vimes, aware that one of the troll’s few faults was an inability to understand all the implications of the term “safety catch,” fought down a dreadful urge to dive for the ground.
“Time’s comin’ when we all got to know where we standin’,” mused Chrysophrase, as if talking to the audience of ghostly pork. “An’ who is standin’ next to us.”
As Vimes headed to the door, the troll added: “Give der coat to your lady, Mister Vimes. Wi’ my compliments.”
Vimes stopped dead, and looked down at the coat over his shoulders. It was of some silvery fur, beautifully warm, but not as warm as the rage rising within him. He’d nearly walked out wearing it. He’d come that close.
He shrugged it off and wrapped it into a ball. Quite probably several dozen small rare squeaky things had died to make this, but he could see to it that their deaths were not, in some small way, in vain.
He threw the bundle high in the air, yelled “Sergeant!” and threw himself on the floor.