Thud! - Terry Pratchett [90]
There was the sound of tinkling glass from downstairs. Oh, someone’s dropped a glass, said his front brain. But his back brain, which had steered him safely through these mean streets for more than fifty years, whispered: Like hell they did!
Purity would be up in her room. Cook had the evening off. Sybil was out feeding the dragons. That left Willikins. Butlers didn’t drop things.
From below, there was a quiet “ugh,” and then the thud of something hitting meat.
And Vimes’s sword was on the hook at the other end of the hall, because Sybil didn’t like him wearing it in the house.
As quietly as possible, he sought around for something, anything, that could be turned into a weapon. Regrettably, they had, when choosing toys for Young Sam, completely neglected the whole area of hard things with sharp edges. Bunnies, chickies, and piggies there were in plenty, but—ah! Vimes spotted something that would do, and wrenched it free.
Moving soundlessly on thick, over-darned socks, he crept down the stairs.
The door to the wine cellar was open. Vimes didn’t drink these days, but guests did, and Willikins, in accordance with some butlerian duty to generations only just or as yet unborn, cared for it and bought the occasional promising vintage. Was there the crackle of glass being trodden on? Okay, did the stairs creak? He’d find out.
He reached the vaulted, damp cellar, and stepped carefully out of the light filtering down from the hall.
Now he could smell it…the faint reek of black oil.
The little bastards! And they could see in the dark, too, right?
He reached into his pocket and fumbled for his matches, while his heart thudded in his ears. His fingers closed over a match, he took a deep breath—
One hand grasped his wrist, and, as he swung madly at the darkness with the hind leg of a rocking horse, this, too, was wrested from him. Instinctively, he kicked out, and there was a grunt. His arms were released, and from somewhere near the floor, the voice of Willikins, rather strained, said: “Excuse me, sir, I appear to have walked into your foot.”
“Willikins? What the hell’s been happening?”
“Some dwarfish gentlemen called while you were upstairs, sir,” said the butler, unfolding slowly. “Through the cellar wall, in fact. I regret to say that I found it necessary to deal somewhat strictly with them. I fear one might be dead.”
Vimes peered around. “Might be dead? Is he still breathing?”
“I do not know, sir.” Willikins applied a match, with great care, to a stub of candle. “I heard him gurgling, but he appears to have stopped. I’m sorry to say that they came upon me when I was leaving the ice store, and I was forced to defend myself with the first thing that came to hand.”
“Which was…?”
“The ice knife, sir,” said Willikins levelly. He held up eighteen inches of sharp, serrated steel, designed to slice ice into convenient blocks. “The other gentleman I have lodged on a meat hook, sir.”
“You didn’t—” Vimes began, horrified.
“Only through his clothing, sir. I am sorry to have laid hands on you, but I feared the wretched oil might have been inflammable. I hope I got all of them. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for the mess—”
But Vimes was gone and already halfway up the cellar steps. In the hall, his heart stopped.
A short dark figure was at the top of the stairs and disappearing into the nursery.
The broad, stately staircase soared in front of him, a stairway to the top of the sky. He ran up it, hearing himself screaming—
“I’ll kill I’ll killyoukillyoukillyoukillkillkill I’ll kill you kill I’llkill you—” The terrible fury choked him, the rage and dreadful fear set his lungs on fire, and still the stairs unrolled. There was no end to them. They climbed forever, while he was falling backwards, into hell. But hell buoyed him up, gave wings to his rage, lifted him, sent him back…
And then, his breath now nothing more than one long, profane scream, he reached the top step—
The dwarf came out of the nursery doorway, backwards and fast. He hit the railings and crashed through