The explosion rocked the city, and for several moments after, as the debris rained down into the streets, nothing could be heard except for the tinkling of broken glass, the thump of stone and the occasional scream.
Commander Sam Vimes, the Duke of Ankh, nearly fell out of his bed as it vibrated across the floor. All the glass in the bedroom window shattered and a bookshelf collapsed and spilled several dragon breeding guides to the floor. In the nursery Sam Vimes Junior began to cry.
It had been a pleasant day up to this point. Vimes had been enjoying his day off, and today his son had taken his first, hesitant steps. Vimes had been trying to teach him to walk now for weeks, not put off by the seemingly endless amount of know-it-all visitors who informed him the chances of the boy walking before his first birthday were slight. Little Sam was ten months and two weeks old, and today he had managed eight steps from his mother to his father's arms. After his son had been put to bed Vimes had even found the time to share a rare intimate moment with his wife. It could have been the perfect evening... but as always something /had/ to happen.
"I've heard of the earth moving, but this is ridiculous," said Vimes, swinging his legs out of bed and grabbing his dressing gown.
"Mind that glass on the floor," said Lady Sybil, suppressing a laugh as she slipped her feet into her slippers. Vimes was already padding down the corridor to his son's room, counting the broken windows.
Sam Vimes Junior, despite his crying, was unharmed and Vimes picked him up with a slight groan. He was getting so /big/ in such a short space of time... he remembered when he could cradle the boy in one arm...
Vimes stared out of what remained of the window, expecting to see the dust rising over the Alchemist's Guild. It wasn't, in fact he couldn't see a cloud of debris at all from this room.
He started out of the nursery and nearly bumped into Lady Sybil who was coming the other way. She held out her arms expectantly for their son. "Go on then," she said.
Vimes sighed as he handed the boy over. "I'll try and be back as quickly as I can," he said.
She nodded. "I know. It sounded big. If you don't go Carrot will only come knocking in a minute."
Vimes kissed her cheek in thanks, ran back to his dressing room and hurriedly put on his street uniform, before dashing out of the front door. The night-time streets were still full of shocked noise, and he had barely reached the end of his road before Carrot loomed in front of him, partially obscured by the spring mists.
"What's happening Captain?" he said, striding on down the road as Carrot fell into pace.
"It's an explosion, sir. A dwarf deli, in Sheer Street," said Carrot, curiously dead voiced.
Vimes stopped. It was Saturday night, the busiest time for the all night Rat Pie shops, the time when the dwarf-food shops were at their most crowded; when the foundries kicked out and all the workers on the later shifts went to buy their Sunday rat-roast."How many dead?" he said.
"I don't know sir, it's impossible to say. There's just... rubble everywhere..."
Vimes broke into a run, the acrid smell of smoke assailing his lungs as he headed towards Sheer Street.
The dust fell from the air like snow and by the time Vimes reached the scene of the devastation he was covered in it, it settled in his hair making him look ten years older, and coated his armour.
Vimes stopped again as his eyes took in the carnage laid out before him. In his eventful lifetime he had seen many terrible things; blood, guts and gore, evil and death, these things no longer frightened him. But he staggered to a halt as he reached Sheer Street, mouth open in shock and horror. In over forty years he'd never seen anything like this...
There was rubble strewn all over the streets, but worse than the smashed stone an scorched timber was the... bits...
They weren't particularly soot blackened body parts, they were just lying as if forgotten all over the place, and somehow that was worse than seeing gushing blood spilling onto the street. There were a few Watchmen dotted around all over the place and they headed over to Vimes as if acting on unspoken command. He stared blearily at them. There was Littlebottom, Ping, Lucker, Skulldrinker, Flint and Carrot.
"Come on," he said, managing to drag his eyes away from a hand, fingers curled as if they were gripping the cobbles, "Let's try and find some survivors..." He turned to Carrot. "Where's Sergeant Angua? We could use her nose.."
"Uh, she's on her way, sir," said Carrot, his face pale and drawn in the flickering light of the few fires still burning.
Vimes nodded and headed over to a large pile of blackened timbers where Flint was trying to lift some of the rubble. He dragged some of the building remains across the street, arms screaming at the effort involved, sweat and smoke stinging his eyes.
There were some survivors, but they were few and far between. Angua arrived with Igor, she would sniff out the still-living to be dug out and carried to the doctor. It was painstakingly slow work, heart rendingly terrible and physically draining. In a brief lull Vimes pulled Cheery over to one side.
"What do you think, Corporal?" he said.
Cheery looked into the Commander's eyes, the only part of his face still human under a covering of soot, sweat and blood. "I don't claim to be an expert on this sort of thing sir, really I don't." Her voice was shaking, barely more than a whisper.
"Just give me your impressions," said Vimes, not unkindly.
"It was deliberate, sir. They planted two devices, I think. The idea was to get the walls to collapse inwards, I'd say. Like a domino effect."
Vimes shivered. Here the buildings in the street were crammed together, walls shared by three buildings at least. It was a very good way to kill a lot of people very quickly, as had been proved here.
He stood back, looking down at his hands. Less than twelve hours ago his young son had been walking towards his outstretched fingers, less than three hours ago his wife's hand had been intertwined with his own. Now they were covered in soot, blood (his own and other peoples) and other filth. It was so typical of his life! Whenever something good was finally happening for him, whenever his life was finally taking an upturn, something had to occur that reinforced his shameful belief in the fundamentally flawed nature of humanity. He had spent a /wonderful/ day enjoying the very best experiences life had to offer. And now someone, something, some /god/ probably, it was the kind of thing they went in for, was dishing out the payment of the worst kind for such a fantastic day.
Vimes walked slowly through his own house, following the sound of laughter, feeling like a stranger. He pushed open a door, his hand leaving a smutty print on the wood.
Sybil was playing with Sam, they were both laughing as he played with his toy blocks. He knocked them over with a careless hand in a terrible parody of the disaster in Sheer Street. Sybil looked up and gasped in shock.
"Good gods, Sam!" She stood up and took in his terrible appearance. "What /happened/?"
Vimes couldn't think of anything to say, there was no way to translate the maelstrom of emotions taking hold of his throat. "Uh, I have to see the Patrician," he managed, "I, um, I might not be back for dinner. Just thought I ought to come and say good morning..."
"You should have a bath and a shave, Sam," said Sybil but he backed away.
"No time. I'll see you both later... Look after yourselves..." He hurried away.
The Patrician was not happy. Although Vimes had never lost his slight fear of the ruler of the city, it had, since his promotion, faded somewhat. It returned full measure now as he watched Lord Vetinari stride around the room. Vimes had never seen him angry before. Annoyed, certainly, but never angry.
He was angry now. Vetinari had always claimed to put up with absolutely anything in Ankh-Morpork except that which threatened the city. Something was threatening it now, and Vimes was reminded of the hundreds of vengeful relatives he had met when delivering bad news to victim's families. The explosion in the city was stirring Vetinari in the same way lesser mortals were affected by news of their granny being mugged for a dollar.
"What happened, Commander?" he asked, still pacing.
Vimes swallowed his nervousness. "We're... not sure, sir," he said.
"It was a deliberately detonated explosion?"
"Our forensic experts think so, sir."
"There was no warning received?"
"Nosir."
The Patrician picked up a copy of the Times from his desk, a particularly sour look on his face. "Have you seen this morning's paper, Commander?"
"Nosir," replied Vimes, wondering what was coming next.
He took the paper from the man's outstretched hand. 'Devastation' screamed the headline, and Vimes squinted at the picture of the wreckage in Sheer Street. He read on, aloud.
"Scenes of carnage in Sheer Street.... tireless efforts of rescue workers.... group claims responsibility... the Reclaimers?" Vimes looked up into Vetinari's frowning face. "Who are the Reclaimers?"
"I was hoping, Commander, that you would be able to tell me."
"I've never heard of them sir," Vimes replied honestly as he read on a few more lines. "Whoever they are, they say that they are responsible for detonation of the explosives."
"This was pushed through the door last night," said Vetinari.
Vimes was handed another slip of paper, much handled and decidedly grubby. In smudged pencil the words could still be read:
THERE WILL BE MORE DEATHS TO COME UNLESS YOU CLOSE THE GATES TO THE LAWN ORNAMENTS. ORDER THE GATES SHUT TO THE DWARFS OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES - THE RECLAIMERS
"The word on the street is that this was a troll attack," said Vetinari.
"You don't believe that, sir?" said Vimes.
"Of course not. This is not a form of troll warfare. And no troll wrote that note."
Vimes nodded, he had been thinking something similar himself. "Not unless he works in the Pork Futures warehouses," he said, more or less to himself.
The Patrician's frown deepened. "I cannot carry out that order," he said.
Vimes nodded again. "We'll find them, sir," he said, "If you'll excuse me, I'll be going."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Apologies if this is offensive to any readers. This is the inevitable result of me having to work for god-knows-how-many hours on the history of Northern Ireland for my history coursework. More will, of course, be forthcoming - Lunar.