Apologies for the huge delay on updating this one, I don't have any real excuses for it...here it is now, anyway, and I'll try and update the next chapter faster. Thanks.
Vimes ran down the wet streets, not bothering to get a coach. He could get to the Street of Cunning Artificers faster on foot; most probably. He skidded to a halt at the end of the street as an over-loaded cart turned a corner, its back end swinging out behind it, splashing up what, in any other city, could have been called water. However, this was Ankh-Morpork. The substance was almost certainly liquid, albeit a rather worrying greyish brown liquid, and that was about all you could say for it. Vimes swore under his breath as the liquid soaked through his cheap boots. He'd had to keep them secret from Sybil: she tended to get Willikins to dispose of them and replace them with the expensive real leather ones which lasted for years. He had taken to leaving the new shoes at Pseudopolis Yard, where they would inevitably be appropriated by Corporal Nobbs and never seen again. If he was in a generous mood, Vimes would drop them off near Brass Bridge (whilst holding his nose) for Foul Ole Ron and his gang. Whichever way, they hardly ever ended up on his feet.
Once the cart had passed, Vimes continued down the streets, turning corners every now and then, his feet telling him exactly where he was.
"Evening, Mister Vimes," sidled a voice from the mist.
"Evening, Nobby," replied Vimes.
Nobby Nobbs edged out of the shadows, followed by the hulking shape of Sergeant Detritus.
"Ev'ning, sir," said the troll, saluting.
Vimes nodded, and Detritus stood still, and Nobby produced a dog-end from behind his ear.
"You're not on duty tonight, are you?" he asked, taking a drag.
"No, I'm on my way to the Street of Cunning Artificers."
Nobby nodded.
"Me and Detritus are on for a couple of hours; we just took over from Carrot."
"Yeah," rumbled Detritus behind them.
"Shouldn't Carrot have been on with Angua?"
"Erm..." Nobby looked away awkwardly.
"What, Nobby?" asked Vimes impatiently.
"Well..."
Vimes looked at his watch, and swore mildly.
"I've got to go now, you'll have to tell me later – it's quite probable that somebody is about to get killed."
Nobby shrugged.
"This is Ankh-Morpork."
"But this person is, most likely, a relatively harmless book binder who is probably an old man."
"What did he do?" asked Detritus.
"His job," answered Vimes, already walking away.
Nobby shrugged up at Detritus.
"He's going to go spare," he said gloomily. "I just know it."
"Maybe we should have told him," suggested the troll.
"Nah. He'll find out soon enough: Carrot'll tell him. He's going to go absolutely bursar when he finds out about sarge."
With that pearl of wisdom, they wandered off into the street.
The lights were on in the Street of Cunning Artificers: they always were, even in the daytime. The sort of work that went on in the street needed strong lights and fine tools. Walking up to the nearest door, Vimes removed his helmet and knocked. After a few minutes, it was opened by a short woman with shiny black hair.
"Hello?" she said.
"I'm looking for a book binder," replied Vimes.
The woman looked him up and down, taking in the scruffy uniform and cheap, worn boots.
"Fourteenth door on the left," she answered suspiciously.
"Thank you."
Vimes walked down the road, counting the doors carefully under his breath. From each one he heard different sounds: the soft tink of tiny hammers on jewellery; the quiet crackles from a miniature forge; and, more increasingly, the gentle clink of micromail being made. It was, apparently, the up and coming Thing, as advertised by the beautiful and mysterious `Jewels'. And, apparently, it didn't chafe, which was always useful for a city dwarf used to finer things. Female dwarves had taken to dressing up in micromail shirts and long leather skirts, and staring defiantly at people as if daring them to notice.
When he reached the fourteenth door, Vimes knocked, and waited. The door was opened by an old man, slightly hunched over, with round, owlish glasses and wispy white hair that showed signs of having been red.
"Hello, sir, and what can I do for you?" he asked.
"Commander Vimes, City Watch," replied Vimes. "I'd like to talk to you, Mr..."
The man frowned, but then shrugged and opened the door fully.
"Arnolds. Very well; although I'm sure I don't know why."
Vimes went in, and was struck by the neatness of the workshop. There was a mini-forge in the corner, still glowing red, and book-bindings and calligraphy pens on the tables. The only untidy table was in the corner opposite the forge: the skeleton of a book was sitting there, with the old and new bindings next to them, obviously a working project.
"I would offer you a drink, Commander, but I'm afraid I don't have any." The old man remained standing, although it obviously pained him, and gazed hard at Vimes. "What do you want?"
Vimes removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm.
"I'd like to know about a commission."
The man removed his glasses and began to clean them distractedly on his sleeve.
"Yes? I have lots of commissions."
"This would have been special. The...customer would have been mysterious, they probably wouldn't want anyone to know who they were. Did you have any customers like that? Who didn't give any details away?"
Mr. Arnolds replaced his glasses and squinted.
"This is the Street of Cunning Artificers. All my customers are mysterious. What sort of commission was it?"
"A replica of a book; a book of magic. All the pages were blank."
The book-binder sat down on a wooden, high-backed chair and regarded Vimes carefully.
"I don't remember that commission, I'm afraid," he replied.
Somebody cleared their throat. With street-trained reflexes, Vimes whirled around to see a tall blonde in an unassuming and quite severe brown dress and, oddly, leather gauntlets. She smiled weakly, and he lowered the sword he had automatically raised.
"Thank you," she said, nodding slightly. "What's wrong, Father?"
"The Commander wanted to know about a commission, of a blank book of magic." Mr. Arnolds peered short-sightedly from behind his glasses. "We didn't have anything to do with that, did we?"
She went white, and clenched one leather-clad fist.
"Excuse us, Father. I'll deal with this," she reassured with a wan smile.
He waved a hand wearily.
"Very well."
She walked over to the forge in the corner and began to poke the glowing coals, trying to rekindle it. Intrigued, Vimes followed.
"You are Commander Vimes of the City Watch?" she asked in a low, urgent voice.
"Yes."
She nodded to herself.
"I'm Lucy Arnolds – apprentice book-binder. I...looked after that commission. Father doesn't know." She paused. "I wouldn't have done it, ordinarily, but...it was a lot of money, and we're desperate. Father doesn't know that either. We look after the finances, he looks after the books."
Vimes looked around.
"We?" he queried.
"My brother helps me – that's Michael. We deal with this commission."
She moved away from the forge to a long low bookshelf along the wall, full of elegantly bound volumes. Pulling out a particularly battered green ledger, Lucy placed it on the top of the shelf and opened it, running a finger down the page.
"I made a record. There wasn't much information, but I did what I could." Her finger rested on a line of round hand-writing. "Here it is. Delphine von Antwerzen, 21 Sweetheart Lane, The Shades. She requested a blank copy of The Octavo: Explained, and...well, it was a lot of money. I didn't ask any more questions than I needed to."
Vimes nodded, although he knew it would be a false address.
"Thank you," he said. "I'll send an officer over tomorrow to ask some more questions."
Lucy nodded, looking relieved.
"I'll make sure I'm in. I don't want to worry Father. He's been very highly strung since my mother...passed away."
She looked anxiously over at Mr. Arnolds, who was gluing a book spine together, his glasses pushed up high onto the bridge of his nose. Nodding again, Vimes stepped out into the rainy street and rammed his helmet back onto his head.
He made it to Sator Square before he realised that he'd forgotten the plate.
A foggy drizzle set later that night, making the conditions perfect for the crime that was about to be committed. On the Street of Cunning Artificers, several lights were still on; but not in the small book-binder's shop that Vimes had visited earlier. A short, thick-set figure crept along under the eaves of the workshops, counting the door numbers carefully. It wouldn't do to remove the wrong target. Finally he reached number fourteen and allowed himself a grim smile. The locks on this door were ancient – it was hardly worth paying someone as much as he was being paid for this job. There was a small click, and the shadowy figure crept into the book-binder's shop. The room was lit only by the dull smoulder of the forge, but the assassin could see just as well in the dark as he did in the light. He was an assassin rather than an Assassin – he was too poor to be considered by the Guild, and too thick for a scholarship; so he chose to become a jobbing murderer, catering to the seedy underworld of Ankh-Morpork. Looking around, he saw a tall figure at the forge, her hair swept up into a net, working in the dark. This was his target. The assassin drew his knife and raised it above his shoulder. As he moved forward, she turned. A red-hot glowing brand was gripped in one gauntleted hand, and an unholy grin was dimly visible in the orange light.
"No strings attached?" she asked quietly. "This looks like a string to me."
Raising her hand, she thrust the brand at the assassin, who wondered briefly if the Guild of Thieves had been such a bad idea after all.
