GETTING CAUGHT UP • WORDPLAY • LIFE AND DEATH • BAR BRAWL BLUES • CRUSHING DOUBT • MORE GROSS MATTERS
The timer-thralls were difficult to take out— you couldn't kill them, and even maiming wasn't permanent, as the limbs, a disgruntled and gore-spattered Colon told him— would eventually come back together.
"Gross, it is," he said, and scratched at the stubble on his face. "But your buddy here— " Colon indicated Death without looking at him directly— "Is the best at slowing them down. Keeps 'em occupied for a while at least, searching for all their little bits."
"Thanks," Vimes said. "I think that's probably enough report for me."
Colon saluted and ambled off to shout at some Watchmen that looked like they needed shouting at.
Vimes sent someone off to find him a sword, since Igor had his, and took the one Cheery gave him without questioning where it came from. There weren't any helmets to spare, but that wasn't very high on Vimes' list of priorities at the moment. His recovered boot was a little mucky but at least he didn't have to scramble for a new one.
Moist von Lipwig trotted up, shinily, and flanked on all four sides by Post Office golems. "Hello, Commander!" he said. He, unlike most everyone else, didn't have any death goo anywhere on his person. "I'm thinking commemorative Death Smoke stamps, what do you think?"
Tʜᴇʏ'ʟʟ sᴇʟʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʜᴏᴛᴄᴀᴋᴇs.
Moist yelped, apparently not having noticed the hooded figure in the Watchmen's midst, and hid behind one of the golems. "Do I know you?" he asked, a little muffled by a few hundred pounds of clay.
Wᴇ ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ᴍᴇᴛ.
"Oh," said Moist, a little faintly. "That's nice."
"Did you come here for a reason?" asked Angua.
"Oh, yes!" said Moist, still hidden behind his golem. "I came to tell you that your bad guys got out the back. The Igor set off a sort of smoke thingy and knocked down a few of your Watchmen and a few of my postal workers, but everyone seems all right."
"They're fine," said Nobby, revealing himself from the shadows of one of the golems. Vimes hadn't seen him, possibly out of self preservation. No one wanted to see Nobby if they could help it. "We should look into getting some of those smoke bombs, Commander. They'd be great for distracting the bar fight crowd."
"Noted," Vimes said. "We need to catch Lady Reche— let's start fanning out." He waved Nobby off, and with him went Moist and the Post golems, where they were needed, or, presumably in Moist's case, to find somewhere to hide.
"Actually, sir," Carrot said. "I talked to the Librarian."
"And?"
"And he agreed to help so long as Death never disclosed what his life-timer said on it. Does that make sense to anyone else?"
"Wizards," said Vimes, shaking his head. "What did you need his help for?"
"I wanted to see if he'd let Angua take a closer smell at the Book, sir," Carrot says. "Which is why she came to see me after she'd secured the Patrician."
"With some more time with it, I was able to get the scent better," Angua said. "I feel pretty confident I can track the person who used that book, sir."
"But she never came in contact with it," Vimes said, confused.
"Magic does that," Angua said. "The smell gets into you somehow. I don't know how to explain it."
Vimes had been taught growing up never to argue with a lady, and particularly not a lady who could tear your throat out with her teeth. "All right," he said. "You lead the way, then, Captain."
Outside their little staging area, the assembled troops were, if not winning, at least holding their own against the timer-thralls. The city was still dark outside the radius of the manor, but fighting could be heard, and the Watchmen had figured out that there was no smoke near the manor. They were using runners in and out of the dark spots to keep a running communication.
They could spare Vimes, Angua, Carrot, and Death for a little recon mission.
Angua led the way, with her nose in the air. Unavoidably, she led them out of the clear space around the house and into the dangerous fog.
Carrot frowned. "They will be much harder to catch if we can't see them."
Death reached out a hand— Vimes didn't know where the box had gone— and there, glowing in his palm, was a blue orb. The smoke didn't become any less thick, but it was easier to see through somehow, as if they were passing through patches of sunlight rather than horrifying death smoke.
"Handy," said Vimes, vaguely uneased.
Death inclined his head, and said nothing more.
The streets were fairly easy to traverse with everyone in hiding or outside the city— it was the first time Vimes could remember not looking for Thieves' or Assassins' Guild members hiding out in the shadows of the rooftops or the dark alleyways.
Angua knew the city, of course, and she led them confidently through it, using passageways they might not have dared any other day. Of course, Carrot was with them, which was a pretty good deterrent against crime even if he hadn't been wearing a Watchman's badge and walking an empty city.
Death didn't look too out of place. He walked the streets of Ankh-Morpork every day too.
Captain Angua led the group like an armored duck, leading her vaguely bedraggled ducklings. It wasn't a very straight path, as Angua stopped here and there to get the scent again, and lost it for a moment as they passed by one of Dibbler's stalls.
But eventually she led them into a row of poorer-looking houses— a little shantytown popped up in the middle of the city for the workers in the richer manors. Vimes didn't think that Reche was fleeing to the house of one of her servants— people like that barely knew their underlings existed at all, much less lived and ate and slept.
"Why would she go here?" Vimes asked, frowning.
"It's the only place around that's not gated off," Carrot pointed out. "Only place to hide."
Vimes had to concede the point. He turned to Angua. "Can you tell where they are more specifically?"
Angua tilted her head up to catch the breeze, sneezed, and shook her head. "Sorry, Commander. Too many people live here, too many smells."
Vimes nodded. "Death?"
Death tilted his head. The folds of his robes swished darkly.
"Erm?" Carrot asked Vimes quietly.
"Dunno," Vimes said. "Maybe he's, you know, cogitating."
Carrot looked scandalized. "In public?"
Angua snorted a laugh into her hand. When Vimes and Carrot looked at her, she pretended to be concentrating on smelling out their criminals again.
Death cleared his throat. Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ᴀ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴄᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ. I ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ I ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ. Fᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ.
He was very polite for an anthropomorphic personification.
They followed him.
He circled around a few times, quite similar to Angua in the way he followed the trail. They ended up, eventually, at a small building with harshly-scrubbed white walls.
It was called Mrs. Mary's Midwifry and Apothcry.
Aʜ, said Death. Iʀᴏɴʏ.
"Isn't no iron around here, sir," Carrot said helpfully, ever the dwarf. "The building's made out of plaster."
Mʏ ᴍɪsᴛᴀᴋᴇ.
"But it is funny, though," Vimes said. "You know, going somewhere lives are supposed to be created, not ended."
In that moment, no one, possibly Vimes included, could tell if he was being facetious. There was a moment of silence. Carrot, who had missed the awkwardness, was surveying the building.
"There's no death smoke around here, Commander," he said. "Shouldn't there be a whole lot?"
Lᴇᴛ ᴜs ᴛʀʏ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ, said Death.
They went around back.
"Oh," said Angua, quietly. "There it is."
The whole back of the building was consumed in smoke, dark and thick. Vimes had trouble imagining the midwifery behind it— it seemed like it should lead into empty space, a dark swirling universe, possibly with its own disc and elephants and turtle… These were the kind of thoughts that made Vimes a little knurd-ish, so instead he reached out and poked some of the darkness with his sword.
It swirled around the metal angrily, but didn't immediately melt it or anything else Vimes had been worried about. "It's safe to go in," he said, and poked the sword in again. "I should think."
Carrot nodded. Then he walked into the smoke.
"Now that I think of it," said Vimes, a little nervously, "I don't know if I was completely right."
They waited.
Then Carrot stuck his big head out of the smoke and smiled at them. "I did not get disintegrated or otherwise maimed, sir," he said.
Vimes cleared his throat. "As I suspected."
They walked inside— Death's strange light didn't seem to penetrate this smoke.
Sʜᴇ ʜᴀs ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪɴɢs.
"What do you mean?" Angua asked, as they gingerly peeked in the back door. "We're talking to Death, aren't we?"
I ᴀᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ, ᴡʜᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴍɪᴛ ɪᴛ ᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛ. Death stepped aside politely to let the officers in the door first. They decided not to answer that statement.
The midwifery inside would have definitely qualified for Haunted Hospitals Monthly, should someone risk being disintegrated or otherwise maimed to make such a thing. This was the Gold Standard of spooky places, the abandoned hospital that all other abandoned hospitals aspired to be.
In one corner, a bassinet creaked as it rocked on its own. It was probably the wind from the death smoke, and possibly a very, very small ghost.
"Look," Angua said, kneeling on the floor. "Blood. It's from the Igor— I can smell it."
"I did get a bit stabby with that fellow," said Vimes, a little proudly.
"And then he dumped you off the roof?" Angua said.
Vimes gave her a Remember-I'm-Your-Superior-Officer look and she gave him an Okay-I'm-Sorry-But-Not-Really look back. [17]
"Then we ought to find them," Carrot declared, drawing his sword, which was still shiny despite the events of the day. Vimes swore for just a moment that he saw it cut through the fog, but then the illusion was gone and Carrot and Death were leading the way into the rest of the hospital.
The midwives must have all evacuated— you won't find anything more efficient than a group of women with small creatures in their care— because not a thing moved.
"Where are the thralls?" Angua asked apprehensively.
"The Watchmen are keeping them busy?" Vimes said, without much hope.
There was a squelch, then a sudden, weighty silence.
Gʀᴏss, said Death. Everyone looked down.
Death had stepped in— or over, or through, or whatever it was Death did— a puddle of the timer-thralls' black goo. This was the goo that emerged whenever the thralls got injured. Unfortunately, that was easy to tell. There were several drag marks through the puddle, like many people missing a foot or a leg or most of a body had made their laborious way through.
Death discreetly used his robe to wipe at the bottom of his boney feet.
"Guess that answers that," Carrot said, and straightened himself up to his full height, which was impressive in and of itself. "Let's go."
Vimes was of the school of thought that a man shouldn't know about midwife things— he made an effort not to look too long at any of the equipment around, just in case. A father should be stationed outside the door with a cigar, he felt.
Clearly the designers of the place had felt the same— as they trekked through the building, peering into open doors, Vimes caught sight of a visitor's room, decked out in uncomfortable-looking chairs [18] and a couple of old issues of the Times. The floor was smeared with something.
Finally finding a room he was comfortable with examining further, Vimes split off.
He was half-expecting to find more of the Igor's blood, or perhaps the goo from the thralls. Instead, his boots crunched in something gritty— sand. He crouched down to look at it, and ran some through his fingers.
Then he whistled for his team to come back.
Angua was there first, bouncing on her toes and looking eager. "Yessir!" she said, then visibly brought herself together. "I mean, yes, sir. What did you find?"
"This is sand from the timers," Vimes said, as Carrot and Death crowded into the room to look. "But it's not swirling like the sand in the house."
Death crouched down, black robes pooling around his feet. He picked up some of the sand and rubbed it between his skeletal pointer and thumb fingers. Tʜɪs ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢs ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ.
"Lady Reche's? You can tell?" Carrot asked.
I ᴄᴀɴ ᴛᴇʟʟ, Death echoed, then fell silent.
"That can't be a good thing," Angua said, frowning. "If she's leaking sand, I mean. Isn't that like— I don't know— bleeding out?"
Death considered this. Oɴ ᴀ ᴍᴇᴛᴀᴘʜʏsɪᴄᴀʟ ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ, sᴏʀᴛ ᴏғ, he said. Bᴜᴛ ᴏɴ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ.
"How many levels are there?" Vimes asked.
Sɪx. Death said. Tʜɪs ᴡᴀʏ. Without further ado, he turned and led them on, through the waiting room into the rooms beyond.
It would be nice to say that they heard Reche and the thralls far before they saw them. It would even be nice to say that they smelled Reche and the thralls before they saw them. Touching the thralls would be nicer. Tasting them might have been odd, but even that would have been preferable. But they didn't.
Instead, they sensed them before anything else; all the senses at once— a feeling of overwhelming dread and wrongness, a shiver up the spine, leaving you wanting to tuck your tail between your legs and run. Vimes could in fact taste and touch and smell and hear them all at once. It was a thick, cloying smell, like rot and dead body and expensive perfume, so thick in the air you really can't help but move it like a real thing, taste it in your mouth.
Vimes, Angua, and Carrot gagged, and then they saw Reche and the thralls.
They were gathered in a room that must have been the nursery. Reche was sitting in a rocking chair on the far side of the room, rocking slowly. Her eyes were bleeding sand.
The rest of the room was filled with thralls.
As they approached, the Igor burst from the pack and ran towards the door. "I rethign my commithion, mithtreth!" he said, bolting. "I'll put thith on my rethume—" one of the thralls seized him and snapped his neck.
Vimes swore in surprise. Death flickered out for a moment, then returned. Vimes wondered when it had gotten that he hoped Death had gotten to someone. The other options for poor Igor were not good.
I ᴡᴀɴᴛ Lᴀᴅʏ Rᴇᴄʜᴇ, Death said. Oғғɪᴄᴇʀs, ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇ sᴏ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴀs ᴛᴏ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴀᴛʜ?
Vimes, Carrot, and Angua looked at each other. Then, as one, they smiled.
"I think we can do that," Angua said, stretching her shoulders.
"In fact, it would be our honor," Vimes said.
[17] Angua had been a teenage girl once, so she was fluent in this silent language. She could still speak Eye Roll.
[18] A law of waiting rooms. The longer a person might be forced to wait there, the worse designed the chairs are. [19]
[19] This is why monks like to kneel on those hard, uncomfortable mats. No one waits like a monk.
Ankh-Morpork is one of the only cities on the Disc to have a signature bar-brawl move. It's called the Punch-Em-And-Run, which is really all you need to know about Ankh-Morpork.
Carrot led the way in; like a bear burrowing a path for her smaller cubs through snow. He was very good at the Punch-Em-And-Run, using the butt of his sword to club people out of the way. Vimes and Angua followed on his two sides, like the points of an arrow.
Carrot swept the path ahead, Vimes the right and Angua the left, clearing the way for Death, walking in their shadows.
They mowed through the room, pushing people back as the main goal, slicing and throwing dirty punches when they couldn't.
Vimes narrowed his entire focus on the fight. Punch. Shove. Stab. He got so covered in the thralls' black goo that he fumbled his sword and almost dropped it, sliding in the gore on the ground before he found his feet.
But slowly but surely, they made their way into the room.
At one point, Vimes thought they would be crushed among the bodies, pressed so tightly together that no one was attacking so much as squeezing, a claustrophobic, breathless feeling. Nails raked across his armor, functionally claws. Their wielders didn't care for their own pain, the thralls scratching him until their own nails bled black.
Wʜʏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ғʀᴏᴍ ʜᴇʀᴇ? Death's voice rumbled through the room.
Vimes didn't see what happened next— not properly— but even years later he would probably concede that was for the better.
He heard Death's scythe slide through the air, fast enough and strong enough you could almost hear the air ripping. He also heard several distinct and disgusting tearing sounds. Very fleshy.
Death's interference bought them room to breathe [20], and the Watchmen pushed through the crowds, enough to elbow and scratch their way out. They immediately jumped back into the fray.
They had given Death enough space to get through to the other side of the room. The Watch held back the stragglers, and Death scythed the rest down.
Finally, as if he'd always been there, Death stood in front of Lady Reche. She was still just sitting there, apparently not inclined to fight further, even if she could. Every part of her was leaking black, her fingernails dissolving at the ends into sand, black goo coming out of her ears. She didn't stand, just looking up at Death. He stood there in his black robes, with his blue eyes and his gleaming scythe.
"I was going to live forever," she said, quietly.
Tʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʟᴏɴᴇʟʏ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ.
Death reached forward and ripped out her heart.
It gave with an ease that hinted at Death's immense strength, or at the weakness of the Lady's body. It pulled in a spray of black— no red to be seen. Sand poured between Death's fingers.
Without moving anything else, Death brought out the box Reche had used to create the thralls and dropped the heart into it.
Lady Reche stared for a moment, as if surprised, and then died with no further fanfare.
The thralls all dropped to the ground where they stood, not so much as a dying groan to indicate their passing. Not with a bang, not with a whimper, but a not-whimper, or however the saying went.
Death looked at his gooey hand. Dᴏᴇs ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʜᴀɴᴅᴋᴇʀᴄʜɪᴇғ?
Politely, Carrot offered his. "You keep it, sir," he said.
All around the room, the smoke was fading, siphoning back up and into the box. Vimes chanced a look out the window. It was clearing up out there as well. "Well, what do you know?" he said. "We did it."
[20] This was a day of ironies.