Wherefore Ducks? Cont'd: The Unhappy Truth Of What Can Be Learned On The Back Of A Rocking Horse

In which Mr. de Worde puts his notebook down and Vimes contemplates the many different forms of pursuit

The shed was dim. There was an air of thick expectation hanging over the room, to go with the thick layer of dust.

"Uh," started de Worde, "we had a bit of a... problem..."

"Never! Really? Do tell!" said Vimes brightly.

De Worde said, after a rather obvious moment's thought, "The dogs took fright when Mr. Chriek took a picture of them."

Vimes couldn't blame them - dark light, from the sound of it, was not pretty. Didn't make him any happier with de Worde, though. Or Mr. Chriek, who he took a moment to glare at. The vampire had the grace to look embarrassed, unlike his co-worker.

"Well now," he said, "Shall I tell you something? They're electing a new Patrician today -"

"Who?" said de Worde, who, as usual, just did not have a sense of when to shut up and listen.

"I don't know," Vimes told him, more correctly translated as "I'm not planning to tell you any time soon." Luckily, the lad probably didn't know that.

The blonde young woman blew her nose loudly enough to attract everyone's attention. Vimes suspected that this was not an accident. "It'll be Mr. Scrope, of the Shoemakers and Leatherworkers," she said tremulously.

Damn. "How do you know that?" Probably de Worde knew already, he thought, glancing at the man.

"Everyone knows," said the young lady. "That's what the young man at the bakery said this morning."

Damn. "Oh, where would we be without rumor," he growled. Then he realized he'd said that aloud, shrugged, and plowed onwards. In for a dollar, in for a trust fund. "So this is not a day, Mr. de Worde, for... things... to go wrong. My men are talking to some people who brought dogs along. Not many of them(a), I have to admit. Most of them don't want to talk to the Watch(c). Can't think why, we're very good listeners. Now," he paused for emphasis, "is there anything you want to tell me?"

As one, the inhabitants of the tiny room turned to look at de Worde.

"Everyone's staring at you," he added. "I notice."

William de Worde seemed to be struggling with himself. "The Times does not need help from the Watch," he said finally.

Vimes should bloody well think not. "Helping wasn't what I had in mind."

"We haven't done anything wrong.

Hah! "I'll decide that."

"Really?" de Worde shot back. "That's an interesting point of view."

"Oh," said Vimes. He was taking out his notebook. Surprise, surprise. "I see." And by way of response, he took out his truncheon.

"You know what this is?" he said, calmly.

"It's a truncheon," said de Worde, champion of The Tournament For Stating The Obvious. "A big stick."

Not unakin to Vimes' initial reaction, in fact. But he knew better now. Sort of.

"Always the last resort, eh?" he replied, not rising to the bait. That was untrue, in fact - his last resort was probably more accurately defined as his fists - but this was no time to niggle at details. "Rosewood and Llamedos silver, a lovely piece of work. And it says on this little plate here that I'm supposed to keep the peace(d), and you, Mr. de Worde, don't look like part of that right now." De Worde met his gaze. Vimes stared at him. He stared back, stepped a little closer, and murmured,

"What was the odd thing Lord Vetinari did just before the... accident?"

Vimes stopped.

Maybe de Worde was going to be useful after all.

He put the truncheon down. It clicked against the hard wood of the desk, ringing loudly in the total silence that had fallen over the room.

"Now you put your notebook down, lad," he said, quietly, and very, very thoughtfully. "That way, it's just... you and me." Except for the dwarves and the young lady, but it was true nevertheless. "No... clash of symbols."

There was a very slight pause, and Vimes could see de Worde weighing matters in his head, but then, thank gods, the man put away the notebook.

"Right. And now you and me are going to go over to the corner there, while your... friends... tidy up," because with the unfortunately limiting symbols in question out of the way, he could worry about rumor more. He couldn't resist one last sarcastic comment towards the vampire, however. "Amazing, isn't it, how much furniture can get broken, just by taking a picture."

He glanced at the corner he'd indicated, randomly, and sat down on an upturned washtub (well, he was a bit tired). De Worde, to his brief amusement, was forced to come to rest on a rocking horse(e).

"All right, Mr. de Worde," he said, "we'll do it your way."

"I didn't know I had a way."

Which might be true, but didn't really matter, at this point. "You're not going to tell me what you know, are you?"

"I'm not sure what I know," de Worde retorted. "But I think Lord Vetinari did something... unusual... before the crime." No more of 'the accident', Vimes noted. Amazing what a notebook - or rather, the absence thereof - could do.

Time to get his out, however, if he hoped for any help from this quarter. He flipped through the notes and after a moment found what he wanted. "He entered the Palace by the stables some time before seven o' clock and dismissed the guard," he read aloud.

"He'd been out all night?" asked the other man.

Vimes shrugged. It was a reasonable question, but he certainly didn't know. "His Lordship comes and goes. The guards don't ask him where and why." Most of them probably couldn't muster enough coherent speech for it, and those who could had just enough brains to comprehend that doing so was not exactly a course of action destined to go down in history as one of the top ten Plans Most Advisable In The Pursuit Of Longevity. Something occurred to him. "Have they been talking to you?"

De Worde hesitated again. "I don't think so."

"Oh, you don't think so?" said Vimes sardonically. He was in a bad mood.

"I... think it's very unusual for His Lordship to be outside the Palace at that time," de Worde said, neatly sidestepping the question. "Not part of... the routine."

"Nor is stabbing your clerk and trying to run off with a very heavy sack of cash," Vimes pointed out. He saw the lad's expression. "Yes, we noticed that, too. We're not stupid," he said, and apologized silently to the heavens for this incredible falsehood as applied to certain members of his organization before going on. "We only look stupid. Oh..." he turned another page of his notebook "and the guard said he smelled spirits on His Lordship's breath." Must have been strong if a member of the Palace Guard had noticed it.

"Does he drink?" said de Worde.

"Not so's you'd notice."

"He's got a drinks cabinet in his office."

Vimes smiled - only slightly, but enough that de Worde probably caught it. "You noticed that?" Not exactly unexpected, of course, but impressive. "He likes other people to drink."

"But all that might mean was that he was plucking up the courage to..." The man stopped, wisely. Vimes had been about to rethink his proposition that the journalist's help might actually be useful. "No, that's not Vetinari. He's not the sort."

"No. He isn't," Vimes agreed. He sat back on the washtub, insofar as that was possible. "Perhaps you'd better... think... again, Mr. de Worde. Maybe - maybe - you can find someone to help you think better."

It was odd, the dancing way he had to talk with bloody newsy people like de Worde. Vimes was more used to giving orders and shouting.

But different times called for different words. Unfortunately.

In any case, clearly he wasn't going to be getting any more information out of de Worde right now. However, the prospect of de Worde doing a little independent investigation - the right of every free citizen - in ways that were technically illegal, at least for respectable members of respectable City Watches, seemed hopeful.

De Worde must have picked up the tone, because he changed the subject. "Do you know much about Mr. Scrope?"

"Tuttle Scrope? Son of old Tuskin Scrope," said Vimes. "President of the Guild of Shoemakers and Leatherworkers for the past seven years. Family man. Old established shop in Wixon's Alley." He had to stop himself from cringing at the last part, but he managed it.

"That's all?"

"Mr. de Worde, that's all the Watch knows about Mr. Scrope." Nobby, on the other hand, he added in his head, probably knew a lot more. "You understand? You wouldn't want to know about some of the people we know a lot about." A certain Wolfgang von Uberwald came to mind, for instance.

"Ah." De Worde frowned, looking suddenly puzzled. "But there's not a shoe shop in Wixon's Alley."

Ah. "I never mentioned shoes."

"In fact the only shop that is even, er, remotely connected with leather is-"

The lad was well up on his city geography. "That's the one."

"But that sells -"

"Comes under the heading of leatherwork," Vimes said shortly, taking the opportunity to reclaim his truncheon.

"Well, yes... and rubber work, and... feathers... and... whips..." Vimes, because he was a kind soul, did not point out that whips were often leather, as the man was obviously flustered "and... little jiggly things..." Flustered, yes. Blushing, in fact. "But -"

"Never been in there myself," said Vimes, cutting him off before he could stick his foot further into his gullet, "although I believe Corporal Nobbs gets their catalogue." He closed his eyes briefly in pain, then went on. "I don't believe there's a Guild of Makers of Little Jiggly Things, although it's an interesting thought. Anyway, Mr. Scrope is all nice and legal, Mr. de Worde." Sad, but true - Vimes had checked. Twice. He suspected it said something about Ankh-Morpork that a maker of such, well, jiggly little jiggly things as Mr. Scrope could do so and still be all nice and legal, but damned if he knew what. "Nice old family atmosphere, I understand. Makes buying... this and that, and little jiggly things..." (de Worde's blush deepened noticeably) "...as pleasant as half a pound of humbugs, I don't doubt. And what rumor is telling me is that the first thing nice Mr. Scrope will do is pardon Lord Vetinari." Rumor in this case taking the form of a werewolf sergeant, but hey, rumor had taken far, far stranger forms.

"What? Without a trial?"

"Won't that be nice?" said Vimes, brightly. "A good start to his term of office, eh? Clean sheet, fresh start, no sense in raking up unpleasantness." Or raking up any unexpected hints that Vetinari had nothing, in fact, to be pardoned for(f), he thought bitterly. "Poor chap. Overwork. Bound to crack. Didn't get enough fresh air. And so on. So he can be put away in some nice quiet place -" although with Vetinari in it, it probably wouldn't stay quiet for long - "and we'll all be able to stop worrying about this whole wretched affair. A bit of a relief, eh?"

De Worde looked lost. It was odd to see after all his bluster. "But you know he didn't -"

"Do I?" said Vimes. He lifted the truncheon again, twirled it once, still bright and cheerful. "This is an official truncheon of office, Mr. de Worde. If it was a club with a nail in it, this'd be a different sort of city." The sort of city it had been thirty years ago, in fact. And Vimes intended to make absolutely sure that the city today never became that sort of city again, if that was at all possible.

He stood up. "I'm off now. You've been thinking, you tell me. Maybe you ought to... think... some more."

And with that parting shot - or perhaps advice - he walked away.


(a) A grand total of two, in fact, one of whom had a broken leg and therefore couldn't run away, and one of whom was a very old lady and a tad hard of hearing(b).

(b) And even harder of hearing now, thanks to the stampede right by her ear.

(c) An understatement. The appearance of the Watch had cleared the area wherever they went amazingly quickly - at least, of people. Vimes only wished that the animals could have seen it that way.

(d) Well. Piece, actually. Keeper Of The King's Piece. Vimes had never been sure which piece of the king it was he had in his possession, but in any case right then was not the moment to keep strictly to the facts. It was the moment to make sure that de Worde, who had an unfortunately good eye for details, didn't get a good look at the actual plate.

(e) A frightening thing, painted sickly pink with a pattern of dancing teacups covering its probably unholy hide. Vimes made a mental note to never let his oncoming child have a rocking horse ever ever ever.

(f) In the context of this particular crime, of course. Vimes was extremely aware that the term 'innocent', in a general sense, would have to be stretched very, very far or be applied with very, very strong glue before it could be used for Vetinari in any way.

--

Heavy sleet and hail from a grey, gloomy sky greeted him as he came out.

So did Sergeant Colon.

"Sir!" said the sergeant, coming stiffly to attention. "Reporting, sir!"

Vimes sighed. "What's happening, Colon?"

"We are currently in pursuit of two suspicious characters, sir!"

"Suspicious characters?"

"They made off with a sack of dogs, sir!"

"You don't have to keep calling me sir, Fred," said Vimes wearily. He sometimes suspected that Fred had never quite believed him when he'd told the man that it was all right, he didn't know anything about what had happend when he went away to Uberwald, Carrot refused to tell him. "Now, what's all this? Everyone who ran off had dogs -"

"Not like these," said Fred, fervently.

"No?"

"No," said Fred, and told him.

A mountainous nun and an oily holy man, he thought, when the sergeant had finished. Great. Like they needed more complications.

"Fine," he said. "Who's chasing them?"

"Sergeant Angua, Captain Carrot, Sergeant Detritus, Constable Mica, Constable Stronginthearm, Constable Stronginthearm, and Corporal Stronginthearm(a)."

"Good. And..." he stopped, mind backtracking to the explanation, "they came out of the shed, you said?"

"Yessir."

Aha. Now that made things interesting. Perhaps he would have done better to ask more about what exactly had happened to make Chriek take that picture, but it was probably too late now. It also made it clear that whatever uneasy alliance he might have just made, it didn't stretch too far.

"Thank you, sergeant," he said, after a moment. He turned to go, paused, and turned back to look at Colon, who was just beginning to relax, the poor bastard. It occurred to him that he'd been a bit tense recently. He decided now was probably not the time to do anything about it.

"When Sergeant Angua gets back," he told the man, "send her up to my office, will you? I have an... assignment... for her."

No, the alliance didn't stretch far enough for him to trust de Worde to tell him everything he needed to know. So it was time to resort to... other methods.

Watchmanly ones.

(a) There were a total of seven Stronginthearms on the Watch at that time. Stronginthearm is a very common dwarfish name. Seven was actually a surprisingly low percentage compared to the Stronginthearm/non-Stronginthearm ratio of the city as a whole.