Author's Note: Here's the second chapter. Sorry it took a while, but the exams are finished (for now) so I should be able to update more frequently now. The next chapter's shaping up nicely now :). The genre's been changed, you might have noticed, to Crime/Drama, because it's a lot more relevant. Anyway, enjoy.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Discworld, any of its characters, plots or settings. I'm only borrowing them for a bit.
The sun rose, and the heat of the day quickly settled into every available space in the room, light twinkling on the surfaces of the rows of metal instruments. In the far left corner of the room, a man was seated at a desk, in a white coat with a number of brightly coloured stains all over it for a design. Every so often, a piece of metal would clatter to the floor, ringing loudly in the otherwise silent surroundings, and he would sigh before bending down to pick it up.
He missed the Guild, and he missed explosions. He didn't like these… people, or what they were doing. Or, to be exact, what they were making him do.
And he was getting extremely tired of silver.
"What're we going to do with all these letters, sarge?"
Corporal Nobby Nobbs nudged the deceased postman's purple bag with his sandal. The two officers were in Treacle Mine Road Watch House, retreating from the heat and watching the bag of letters between them as if it would explode at any moment (1).
"Take 'em back to the Post Office, Nobby. It's not as if we can deliver them," Fred Colon scratched his head.
"Why not, sarge?" Nobby hoisted the bag onto his desk and began to sift through the top of it while Colon replied.
"Because we're not postmen, of course… Nobby, what the hell're you doing?"
"Looking to see if I've got any letters, sarge. I mean, how else am I going to find out, if no-one's delivering them?"
"But there's all different routes! He probably doesn't… didn't deliver to your lodgings, corporal!" Colon protested while letters spilled out onto the floor.
"He did. He was my postman, y'know. Nice bloke," Nobby said casually, and pulled out an envelope from the top of the bag, a look of triumph on his face.
"Why didn't you say so?"
"Didn't think it was important, sarge. Lots of watchmen have postmen."
"Just so happens that yours had his throat ripped out, right?" Colon sighed.
"Right," said Nobby happily, and tucked the letter into his breastplate. "Do you think we should take these down to the Post Office, so's someone else can deliver them?"
"Capital thinking, Nobby. A nice walk in the sunshine, it'll do us good," he hefted the bag over his shoulder, and then set it down. "It's bloody heavy!"
"Course it is, sarge, it's full of letters."
Nobby attempted to lift the bag, and, having arms like hairy matchsticks, he failed miserably. "Strange," he said, twisting his mouth halfway up his left cheek in a way that Colon had come to recognise. It meant that, in a rare moment of genius, Nobby was about to discover something.
"What's strange?"
"Well, he was near the end of his route, wasn't he? Shouldn't have had that many letters, really."
"So why's his bag so heavy?" Colon was now intrigued. They were detectoring.
Nobby didn't reply, but plunged one of his arms into the bottom of the postbag, sustaining multiple papercuts in the process and knocking out dozens of letters. A dull ping was muffled by the paper. Using all the strength available in his skinny arms, Nobby heaved a shiny object from amongst the letters.
It was a candlestick.
"It's silver," said Nobby, who could value the object of an item within five seconds and nick it within the next three.
"Bloody hell, Nobby," said Colon gloomily.
"You know what this means, sarge?" Nobby set the candlestick down. It went clunk, ominously.
"Yes, corporal. We have found a Clue."
There was a series of thumps and a yelp from through the wall, and the man jerked in surprise, his elbow sending a box of nails clattering to the floor. For a few seconds, he did not breathe, as if waiting for punishment. When met with silence, he knelt down on the dusty floor with the empty box in his hands, gathering up the pieces of metal (2).
One nail rolled for several metres, travelling almost the full length of the room, and came to a stop against a shoe. The faint clink it made on impact seemed to fill the world.
The shoe was an exquisitely-made loafer, with leather so new that you could still smell the price. The man focused his gaze on the shoe, because he'd rather not look at the owner.
They've decided to try civilisation, have they? said a voice in the back of his head, a voice that he was too overwhelmed with dread to hear.
"You tried to warn him, didn't you?" the voice came from above his head, smoother than the edge of a knife, and twice as threatening.
The man said nothing, and moved to pick up the nail. The finely-crafted loafer came crashing down upon his fingers with incredible strength, crushing his bones into the wooden floor and kicking up the dust that had settled there over the months. Resisting the urge to cry out, the man nodded.
"Yes, I did."
The foot pressed down harder, the blinding white of pain flashing in the man's vision.
"And why did you do this?" That voice… you wanted to tell everything to it, and you wanted it to listen. You wanted, somehow, to be acknowledged. This voice had power. It had glamour, too. But the thing about glamour is this- if you scrape away the gold, you'll get to see the rusty metal underneath. Most people didn't get the chance to find that out, when it came to this voice.
"Because he's my brother! He has nothing to do with this! He's a postman!"
The man felt the pressure on his hand lift, and relief flooded through his system. But then he heard the chuckle from above.
"I thought you were an educated man, Jonas," said the room's other occupant. "Surely you wouldn't make such a severe grammatical error?"
Jonas froze, his crushed finger wrapped around the nail. The other man continued.
"He is not a postman. He was a postman."
Realization dawned.
"You killed him."
"You were warned."
"You killed him."His other hand gripped the nail, hatred and anger and sorrow overcoming fear. "You killed my brother, you bastard!"
The man laughed mirthlessly. "First of all, your brother died because of your mistakes, not mine. Secondly, I was not the one who killed him, so plunging that nail into my leg will not avenge his death in any way and will only serve to cause you more grief. Always remember, Jonas, that you have other loved ones."
The threat hung in the hair for a few seconds before Jonas relaxed his grip on the nail and placed it back in the box.
"Good man," said the voice, as if the moment of tension had not occurred. "Tomorrow you will collect the materials you require for your studies. Gold will be provided, of course. And you will not be unaccompanied this time."
"Yes," said Jonas hoarsely, his emotions and thoughts shutting down in shock.
"Good man," the man repeated, but this time the tone implied 'Good dog'. "Back to work."
He left, leaving Jonas alone with the metal and clutching his hand.
A few minutes later, there was a crash as a box of nails hit the wall.
Vimes passed the candlestick from hand to hand while Colon and Nobby watched him cautiously.
"Pretty heavy, this," he noted, after a period of observation. "You could do a lot of damage with this."
He motioned hitting someone across the head with the candlestick.
"Self defence, sir?" asked Colon.
"That is the most likely circumstance, yes," Vimes placed the candlestick on the desk and looked at it broodingly, before a thought struck him. "How do we know that Sock was definitely the victim?"
There was few a moment of hesitation, he noticed, before Nobby spoke up.
"Because, well, he was lyin' in the alleyway with his throat ripped out, sir?"
Werewolves, thought Vimes. Bloody werewolves. We've had trouble from dwarves, trolls, and most of the time it's humans causing crime around here. We don't need the undead to start making trouble too. Because dwarves have their sacred rituals and trolls let off fireworks and eat them, and that's pretty harmless culture, most of the time, unless one troll can't stomach his snack, but werewolves… that's different. Because their tradition is ripping throats out…
"No. What I mean is, was this entirely unprovoked?" Vimes rubbed his face with his hands. "Or did Sock aggravate a werewolf and give him the chance to exercise his ethnic traditions? He must have done something; he must have known that he was at risk. We all know he wasn't delivering that candlestick. Who told him? That's what I want to know."
Clues. Clues made everything more complicated. They'd help catch the man whodunit, that's for sure, but they led you up and down the garden path when all you'd needed to do in the first place was to rip up the flowerbeds. Clues were evidence, usually, but Vimes always found that a well-placed Carrot could always be persuaded into getting a confession, because he had a knack for that kind of thing. Treat people nice, even if you were aware of the fact that they were blood-thirsty bastards.
Vimes realised that Colon and Nobby were still staring at him.
"Corporal, sergeant, I want you to take these letters back to the Post Office. And while you're there, explain that Mr Sock will not be returning to work."
"On account of missing a throat, sir?" Nobby suggested.
"Yes, Nobby. On account of missing a throat."
As Colon and Nobby left, Carrot entered with his helmet under his arm. Vimes noticed that his hair was unusually tussled, as if he'd been running his hands through it.
"Did you tell the man's family, captain?"
"No, sir," Carrot said, and paused before realising that some explanation was owed. "Sock wasn't married, had no children, and his parents are both deceased. The only family he had was his brother in the Alchemist's Guild, but when I went up there they told me he'd left several weeks ago, sir."
"Did he leave suspiciously?" Vimes sat down and twirled the candlestick between his hands, focusing on the glint on metal.
"Not as far as I can tell, sir. He left for Sto Lat; apparently alchemists there are in high demand, sir. What's that?"
"It is a silver candlestick, captain. Found on our dead postman."
"Oh," said Carrot, immediately understanding the situation. "A Clue?"
"Yes. A Clue."
Vimes had observed how everyone seemed to have mastered pronouncing the capital 'C'. His attitude towards clues wasn't exclusive- Carrot, Angua and other senior officers treated them with the same caution he did, if not more.
"Angua's following the werewolf's trail, sir."
"Shouldn't you be with her? For safety reasons?"
An awkward look crossed Carrot's face. "She… advised against my accompanying her, sir."
"She wouldn't let you come with her?"
"Not exactly, sir. She said something about interfering with the trail as little as possible. Anyway, I'm sure she's perfectly capable of looking after herself. It is Angua we're talking about here."
"Ah. Point taken. Has Sergeant Littlebottom found anything else?"
"No, sir. I think she's a little intimidated, sir."
Vimes' memory searched through the various attributes of Cheery Littlebottom. "She's terrified of werewolves, isn't she? Apart from Angua, obviously."
"Yes, sir. Angua should be back soon anyway. Then we'll have a better idea of what we're dealing with here."
"We know what we're dealing with, captain, we're dealing with a werewolf. All I want to know is who we're dealing with."
Meanwhile, Angua had a headache.
The werewolf's trail had lead into the spice market. Obviously, this one knew what he was doing.
She had followed the trail no problem up until now- he hadn't even tried to disguise his smell, and he had been running, which made his smell even more prominent.
But now, her nostrils were filled with the smell of Klatchian herbs and there were, so far, eighty different trails that she could be following. And if she picked any trail but the right one and pursued, news would get around that the Watch's werewolf had been stalking innocents. Then the trouble would really start.
Some of the stall-traders, because they were always the ones to hear the word on the street and had obviously heard about the murder, were already giving her wary looks as they haggled. Thank gods that everyone suspected Nobby was the werewolf instead of her. True, it was unfortunate for him, but the corporal had never really cared what anyone thought of him. Or, rather, he was completely oblivious to the fact that people still raised their eyebrows on hearing that he actually was human.
Rather him than me, Angua thought as she trotted through the market, feeling slightly ill from the odour. Dog eat dog and all that. She immediately scolded herself for that remark.
People moved out of her way. It had always been like this, even if she wasn't patrolling with Carrot. People moved for Angua in both forms, but if anyone found out… well, she probably wouldn't be able to go where she pleased as freely as she was used to.
After clearing the spice market and leaving the nauseating smells behind, Angua cut through an alleyway. She'd have to take the long route back to avoid the spice market. However, it definitely wasn't the most pleasant of journeys. Broken bottles and general spiky, harmful things lay scattered all over the concrete ground. Dried blood from years ago still caused her Angua to turn her head and sniff the air.
It was still baking hot, and this coat wasn't helping. Maybe she could Change, but her nearest stash of clothes was further away than the Watch House was, so there was no point, really…
"You ever think about him?" growled a voice from the shadows. Angua turned, hackles raised. It was the werewolf she'd been looking for, unmistakeably. She had the nasal equivalent of a photographic memory.
"Who?" she replied, watching him carefully. In wolf form, he was twice her size. Maybe more. She couldn't completely see him as his black coat merged with the shadows of the alley.
"Wolfgang."
Angua snarled. "No. What's your name?"
"You do," the werewolf ignored her question and continued. "He was a good mate of mine. We had… similar hobbies."
"Ripping throats out?"
"Well done, sergeant!"
"How do you know who I am?" Angua stepped forward, if only by an inch. Was that a smile, or was he baring his teeth?
"Lot of people know who you are. Lots of Wolfgang's friends. They're not happy with you."
"The feeling is mutual. You're coming with me now."
"I don't think I am." He flicked his tail and sat down, an air of male arrogance radiating from him. "I'm only here to deliver a message to the Watch."
Angua rolled her lips back and bared her teeth. "A message? From who?"
Yet again, he ignored her question. "The message is: the postman was a one-off. Leave it, and you, or anyone else, won't see anymore trouble."
"How could you think we would agree to that? That's not how things are done! We can't let you off because you say you won't do it again! You've already done it! You murdered someone, and we have to arrest you. We're the Watch!"
"We have to arrest you. We're the Watch!" mimicked the werewolf, getting up and padding towards her so that he was only a few metres away. "I don't see any handcuffs on you. How are you going to arrest me?"
He's taunting me, thought Angua's human side. He's trying to get me to fight him, and he'll win. Well, I'm not falling for that.
However, Angua's wolf side, which was rather stronger at the moment, said:
Jump.
Jonas tried to shut out every thought while he gathered up the nails, which was the only work he could do with a broken hand, but eventually the grief and guilt wormed their way in.
He's dead because of me.
I killed one of them, so they balanced it out the only way they know how.
It was an accident!
Wasn't it?
He didn't even know himself, really. There was always going to be a casualty, combining werewolves and silver like this, and they were attempting to change the laws of… well, he wasn't quite sure that it was a law, but it was a general characteristic of werewolves that they were most definitely going back on. It wasn't his fault there had been an accident. He'd only been doing what he'd been ordered to do.
And then his hand had slipped, and his brother had died.
How many more times would this happen before they were done with him? And what would happen when they were done with him? Jonas didn't want to think about that.
He didn't really want to think about any of this.
The bigger werewolf caught Angua's front leg and hurled her into the wall before she even had a chance to touch him. Dazed by the collision, she snapped out and bit into the closest body part within reach, which happened to be his tail. He half-yelped, half-snarled and pinned her down on one of the broken bottles with one giant paw. Spots danced in her vision as the glass cut into her hind legs and her back.
"You had your chance." Blood and drool dripped onto Angua's coat from above. "Next filthy little human we get, it's on your head."
He stalked away, disappearing into the shadows of the alleyway. She clambered to her feet shakily, a shard of glass still protruding from her left hind leg, and limped after his trail. It hung in the air, light green and menacing. There was no point in going after him, not after what he'd just done to her with no apparent effort.
Angua was acutely aware of the fact that her wolf side was telling her to fall over, whine and hobble off into a corner to lick her wounds.
I'm not listening to you, thought her human side. Look at the mess you've got me into now.
(1) Of course, this would only happen if the letter had been sent by Leonard of Quirm. It was lucky that Leonard didn't send any letters at all, because if he did, the Post Office would probably have more casualties than the Assassins' Guild during competitive examination periods.
(2) Vitally needed objects always roll under the heaviest piece of furniture. This is a fact of life, and this annoyance is particularly common on the Discworld, where the god Cunnisi, God of Things That Roll Under Chairs, has now expanded his repertoire to include Cabinets and Skirts.
End Of Chapter
Hope you found that bearable. Jonas will be explained in the next chapter, by the way. Read and review, people!