Angua and Cheery were alone in the women's changing room after the meeting.
Unlike the men's changing rooms, theirs was nice and didn't have that vague
smell of oil and feet that permeates male locker rooms everywhere. It was
somewhere they both went now and then when they needed to be alone. Right
now, Angua was filing down her nails while Cheery was braiding her
beard[1].
"How come the chariot races are called bunburys, anyway?" asked Cheery, who had grown up in a mine where horses were unknown phenomena, and carts used exclusively for hauling ore out of the shafts.
"I asked Carrot about it once", Angua replied, "Named after one of the men who started it all, he said."
That wasn't true, strictly speaking. Carrot had taken her for one of his long walks through town in the beginning of their courtship, such as it was, and they had ended up by the Hippo, the city's ancient hippodrome. She could still hear his voice now, full of innocent enthusiasm for everything.
"Apparently the origins of the name bunbury goes back all the way to when the first race was instigated by two rich enthusiasts, over two hundred years ago" he had said, beaming in that irresistibly boyish way of his.
"They contributed equally to the financing and organisation, and then agreed that they would toss a coin to decide who should give his name to the races. Sir Charles Bunbury won, and the races have been called bunburys ever since."
"And what became of the other fellow?" she had asked, fascinated despite herself by Carrot's encyclopaedic knowledge of all things Ankh-Morpork.
"I don't remember, actually," Carrot had admitted, a little sheepishly.
"His name was Edward Stanley, I think. Twelfth earl of something or another." He broke off, unaccustomed to not remembering a name.
"An important lesson to us all, just the same," he concluded, the clouded look on his face gone and replaced by his habitually good-natured look. "To think that a man can stand to gain or lose such fame by a single throw of a coin.[2]"
Angua sighed and returned to the present. Cheery was giving her an odd look.
"Sorry," she said to her short friend, seeing the concern in the dwarf's eyes. "Just remembered something, that's all."
-----
Cherry and Angua parted when Angua went off to check the Watch files for more background information. Cheery met up with Detritus, and together they made their way through the back office, past the canteen, where various watchmen were luxuriating between shifts.
The two of them were getting quite famous in the city, and several colleagues looked up from their issues of Bows & Ammo and called out friendly jibes as they passed them.
Detritus was literally a chip off the old block, and Cheery one of the most modern dwarfs in Ankh-Morpork[3], but against all odds they made a splendid team. As they went past the weapon racks behind the reception area, Detritus started to walk over towards his personal shelf to get the Piecemaker[4]. Cheery put up a restraining hand.
"I think it would be better if we showed up unarmed, don't you?" she said.
"But you always bring dat axe," Detritus replied.
"That's different - that's cultural," Cheery grinned. "After all, we're not going there to arrest anyone."
"Maybe," Detritus sulked, "but Mister Vimes always says 'dey are all guilty."
"I know, but I don't think they'd be stealing from themselves. Do you?"
Detritus' teeth glinted in a way only a troll's can as he smiled, indicating that you could never be sure with some people, but he didn't argue. He had learnt to rely on Cheery's judgement in these matters. That and the fact that Cheery knew that she could trust in Detritus immense strength was what made them such a formidable duo. For a pair whose ancestors had done little but bash each other's brains out, they got along famously.
Once outside the headquarters, the wind whipped Cheery's leather skirt as if getting even for a long held grudge. She pushed her helmet further down over her bullet shaped head and moved to the lee side of Detritus, who walked on unperturbed by the elements. If anything, Detritus was feeling better now that winter wasn't so far off any more[5].
They walked past the opera house, where beggars and urchins were huddling in the archways, trying to stay clear of the cold winds, and over New Bridge[6]. The shops on the bridge hid them temporarily from the gales, and Cheery stopped at one of the food stalls for a moment, grateful to be out of the wind.
"Maybe you're right, Detritus," she called out to her partner, "Maybe protection of some sort is called for, after all?"
The proprietor of the shop was a dwarf, too, and after a quick exchange in Dwarfish he handed over a bundle to Cheery. It contained a couple of steaming hot rats covered in thick sauce. She grabbed it with both hands, and the two watchmen trundled on through the wind-swept streets towards Maudlin Bridge, with Cheery happily munching away.
Once on Maudlin Bridge there were no shops lining the stone balustrade, and Cheery felt as if she would have to ask Detritus to hold on to her in order to ensure that she wasn't blown away. She gritted her teeth and chomped down the rat, relishing the warm food. They crossed the river quickly and once they arrived in the older and more prosperous part of town, it was just a matter of minutes before they reached Moon Pond Lane, where the Dingleberry family lived.
The fabulous house with its high walls was situated right on the corner with Scoone Avenue, overlooking the cemetery. Cheery had heard Reg Shoe speak of the Dead Rights Movement more times than she cared to remember, and knew that he felt very strongly about forcing the vitally challenged into reserves, as he called it, but it seemed peaceful enough. More importantly, she figured, having dead next-door neighbours meant that the Dingleberries could have more privacy, a wish they were renowned for.
Everyone in Ankh-Morpork knew about the Dingleberries.
-----
Sam Vimes closed the door to his office and started walking downstairs. Halfway down the staircase he stopped. The hubbub from the front room was reassuring as a background noise, but he wasn't too keen to dive straight into it. It was like having an ocean view, he reckoned. Nice to look at, and you might consider dipping your toes in it from time to time, but still a place where sharks lived and prospered. He heard the rumbling voices of a couple of upset trolls, the meticulous voice of Dorfl answering heated questions from someone he could only assume was the wizard, and Colon's barked orders to all and sundry, and knew that he couldn't deal with it all.
Oh, well. There were other possibilities. For a moment he contemplated the possibility of leaving via the rooftops, but since that would entail passing the dovecotes he quickly reconsidered his options. Constable Visit was often found attending the dovecotes, where he preached the virtues of Omnianism to its uncaring inhabitants, and Vimes felt he couldn't bring himself to face the man and his explanatory pamphlets any more today.
The back door, then. There was always the back door. He sneaked past the front room, past the changing rooms and the door down to the new cellblock, slid back the bolts on the sturdy oak door and stood outside, the cold wind in his face. Only there was something else there in the alley, too.
-----
The Dingleberries had been among the very first citizens of the Counterweight Continent to move to Ankh-Morpork, and had adapted remarkably well to life in the big city after a few initial cultural difficulties. The matter of the family name had been such a problem.
Not wanting to appear different from the average citizen they had changed their very aristocratic Counterweight name and taken what they thought was a run-of-the-mill name. Only later did they discover that it was in fact more of a run-to-the-privy kind of name, and that they had been a laughing stock in the upper class neighbourhood they lived in for several years.
People had stopped laughing now. The family had worked hard, copying Ankh- Morporkian concepts and perfecting them and selling the new, improved versions to the same people they had borrowed the ideas from in the first place. This had made them rich but not very popular with certain people.
Ruined businessmen tried to have contracts taken out on their lives with the Assassins' Guild, but found that the guild members were strangely uninterested in what they were willing to offer, squabbling as they were over who would become holder of the newly instigated Dingleberry Chair of Counterweight Inhumation Techniques.
Others tried employing common thugs to get rid of them. The Dingleberries solved this the way they had dealt with other business difficulties in the past, and upped the ante. When people hired hard men they employed considerably harder trolls and vampires as guards.
Eventually, those unlucky enough to have come in their path had given up trying to get even, and the Dingleberries had been able to get on with what they did best, which was seizing business opportunities.
They had been among the first to catch on to the importance and potential of the new clacks system, and had been instrumental in constructing the Great Branch that now stretched all the way to Uberwald. Rich to begin with[7], they were now immensely wealthy.[8]
Their estates didn't exactly belie this fact. Cheery and Detritus stepped up to the enormous gates. An ornate bell handle in the shape of a hippo hung on a chain on one side. Cheery's hand reached out towards it.
-----
Vimes's hand moved on its own accord towards the face of the presumed attacker - and stopped. Mr. Slant of the Lawyer's Guild stood in front of him, impeccably dressed and seemingly unperturbed.
"Your Grace? A moment of your time, if I may?"
Vimes managed to regain both his physical and mental balance with great difficulty. Slant was a zombie, and could easily have ripped Vimes limb from limb, but even so, Vimes felt that he could at least have flinched at the onslaught.
In spite of trying to hide it from him, Vimes was visibly shaken by the lawyer's presence. Not so much because of who it was - even though they had reasons enough to loath one another - but because he had forgotten to check beforehand if there was someone out there.
The Assassin's Guild hadn't tried anything for quite some time now, but that was no reason to let yourself go soft like that. If you did, you had the same odds of survival as a lobster in a Genuan gumbo kitchen, but without the satisfaction that comes with the knowledge that you were about to die for a good course.
"My, Mr. Slant, whatever are you doing out here in the cold? You look as if you're frozen, stiff!"
The last comma was barely audible, but ensured that the sentence packed more of a punch with the lawyer than a mere wallop could ever have hoped to achieve. Vimes noted with satisfaction how the zombie recoiled slightly.
"I assure you that you needn't worry yourself with my well-being, Your Grace. I'm sure you have other, more pressing problems to cop with."[9]
"Oh no. I can assure you that I don't have a pun-ishing schedule at all," Vimes said, hammering home a point. "So what brings you here, Mr. Slant? Steeling from the poor and giving to the rich, as always, I presume?"
"Very witty, Your Grace. As a matter of fact, I do seek to consult you in a matter concerning several thefts," Slant sniffed.
"My clients, whom I believe you had the opportunity to hear earlier today, feel that the authorities are not handling their case in an appropriate manner. They have turned to me and my associates to ensure that this unfortunate state of affairs ceases."
Ah. That made sense, Vimes thought. Slant was exactly the type of person a powerful family would turn to if they wanted dirt shovelled without having to soil their own hands with it.
"So you're representing the lordlings and that little slanty-eyed turd? So what?"
"I would kindly ask you to refrain from referring to my clients in such a derogatory manner, Your Grace. There is an offence called slander, as I am sure you are aware."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Vimes snorted. And I haven't mentioned anyone in particular, so you don't have anything to go on, he added to himself.
The zombie contorted his features into something approaching a smile. "The altercation earlier this morning was uncalled for, Commander. Lambasting four young noblemen? Tut-tut. A glut of guts can land a man in penury very quickly[10]."
"Anyway," Vimes continued, his features carefully composed. "If you look at it the other way around I'm sure there is no crime in calling a piece of crap 'Lord Rust' for instance, right?"
Slant sighed. He didn't have to, of course, since he was dead, but some habits died harder than their owners did.
"Your Grace, I wish you could understand the difference between my clients and the faecal matter to which you insist on referring."
"So do I," Vimes growled. "Now if you don't have anything else to add, I have better things to do than spend time in a dark alley with an older gentleman such as yourself. People will talk, you know."
As he turned around and walked away, Vimes had the pleasure of hearing the zombie trying to stutter a reply and failing.
-----
The troll who came out of the gatehouse didn't seem very friendly at all. In fact, Cheery was willing to bet that one of the reasons he had got his job was because he looked as if he woke up every day looking to get even with the world. He was big and burly, and by the look of things had been last in line when the Creator handed out necks. He seemed distinctly ill at ease in his livery, as if he wasn't suited for suits, or any other item of clothing, either.
I wouldn't be surprised, Cheery thought, if this was exactly the kind of troll that the oldest sagas mention - the kind that lived in caves and had names like Org and Ugrk.
The troll knuckled up to the gates and opened them a fraction of an inch, peering with distaste at them through the ornate iron bars.
"Sergeant Littlebottom, City Watch," Cheery said, flashing her badge at the man. "Me and my fellow officer here are here to see Mr. Dingleberry."
"I knows who you is, short-arse," the cave troll snorted, "and you and de rock can just grrrooggh-ooggrogh![11] Mr. Dingleberry don't deal with de lower races."
Detritus stiffened and began saying something, but was cut off by Cheery's voice, smooth as Lancre honey.
"I see. But Mr Dingleberry Jr. is interested in the races that are taking place this weekend at the Hippo, is he not? In fact, isn't he competing in those very races? And hasn't he got a problem with his chariot?"
"Yeah? What's it to you, lawn ornament?"
Org and Ugrk had passed the evolutionary test somehow. Cheery would have had them barred from the exam hall. She didn't normally loose her temper, but there is a limit to what even the most level-headed dwarf can take.
She snatched her double-headed axe from its sling on her back and brought it up in one swift motion, letting it come to a shuddering stop inches away from the cave troll's nose.
"How would you like it if I smashed your teeth with this?" she asked, vehemently.
"Yeah," Detritus said evenly. "It would be one of dem dere axe-dental suspect injuries"
----------------------- [1] That may sound like less than appropriate behaviour for members of the Watch, but for Angua, it was something she had to do quite regularly at this time of the month, and anyone who has had their beard pulled in a fight will sympathise with Cherry. [2] In an infinite universe everything has to happen somewhere. In our world the coin came down the other way up, with similar consequences. [3] In that she thought of herself as a she and pronounced her name "Cheri". Most dwarfs still considered the female pronoun to be almost a swearword. [4] A slightly modified siege engine that he used as a crossbow. [5] Trolls evolved in a colder climate, and their silicon-based brains were constantly running the risk of over-heating in the tempered climate zone that was the Sto plains. [6] New Bridge was the oldest bridge in Ankh-Morpork, but then that sort of tomfoolery is commonplace in cities everywhere. [7] Not uncommon for people from the Aurient, where gold is a lot more common compared with the rest of the world. [8] And thus a farce to be reckoned with. [9] There are tribes in the darkest parts of Howondaland who have perfected the skill of extracting excruciatingly painful and deadly poisons from various plants, beetles and frogs. Even they would be in awe of the seasoned hunter-gatherers who fought one another with the oral equivalents of blow darts and barbs in Ankh-Morpork. The battles were fought at various diplomatic soirées on a daily basis. Vimes had been an unwilling guest at enough such parties to know that the lawyer's retort wouldn't have been a problem even for the Sto Latian ambassador, who was generally considered to be the howler monkey in the jungle that was the Circle Sea's diplomatic community. [10] Mr. Slant was the type of person who spoke to you in a way that had you go home and look in a dictionary before you realised you had been insulted. [11] A very rude troll saying that involves the insertion of menhirs into various caves.
"How come the chariot races are called bunburys, anyway?" asked Cheery, who had grown up in a mine where horses were unknown phenomena, and carts used exclusively for hauling ore out of the shafts.
"I asked Carrot about it once", Angua replied, "Named after one of the men who started it all, he said."
That wasn't true, strictly speaking. Carrot had taken her for one of his long walks through town in the beginning of their courtship, such as it was, and they had ended up by the Hippo, the city's ancient hippodrome. She could still hear his voice now, full of innocent enthusiasm for everything.
"Apparently the origins of the name bunbury goes back all the way to when the first race was instigated by two rich enthusiasts, over two hundred years ago" he had said, beaming in that irresistibly boyish way of his.
"They contributed equally to the financing and organisation, and then agreed that they would toss a coin to decide who should give his name to the races. Sir Charles Bunbury won, and the races have been called bunburys ever since."
"And what became of the other fellow?" she had asked, fascinated despite herself by Carrot's encyclopaedic knowledge of all things Ankh-Morpork.
"I don't remember, actually," Carrot had admitted, a little sheepishly.
"His name was Edward Stanley, I think. Twelfth earl of something or another." He broke off, unaccustomed to not remembering a name.
"An important lesson to us all, just the same," he concluded, the clouded look on his face gone and replaced by his habitually good-natured look. "To think that a man can stand to gain or lose such fame by a single throw of a coin.[2]"
Angua sighed and returned to the present. Cheery was giving her an odd look.
"Sorry," she said to her short friend, seeing the concern in the dwarf's eyes. "Just remembered something, that's all."
-----
Cherry and Angua parted when Angua went off to check the Watch files for more background information. Cheery met up with Detritus, and together they made their way through the back office, past the canteen, where various watchmen were luxuriating between shifts.
The two of them were getting quite famous in the city, and several colleagues looked up from their issues of Bows & Ammo and called out friendly jibes as they passed them.
Detritus was literally a chip off the old block, and Cheery one of the most modern dwarfs in Ankh-Morpork[3], but against all odds they made a splendid team. As they went past the weapon racks behind the reception area, Detritus started to walk over towards his personal shelf to get the Piecemaker[4]. Cheery put up a restraining hand.
"I think it would be better if we showed up unarmed, don't you?" she said.
"But you always bring dat axe," Detritus replied.
"That's different - that's cultural," Cheery grinned. "After all, we're not going there to arrest anyone."
"Maybe," Detritus sulked, "but Mister Vimes always says 'dey are all guilty."
"I know, but I don't think they'd be stealing from themselves. Do you?"
Detritus' teeth glinted in a way only a troll's can as he smiled, indicating that you could never be sure with some people, but he didn't argue. He had learnt to rely on Cheery's judgement in these matters. That and the fact that Cheery knew that she could trust in Detritus immense strength was what made them such a formidable duo. For a pair whose ancestors had done little but bash each other's brains out, they got along famously.
Once outside the headquarters, the wind whipped Cheery's leather skirt as if getting even for a long held grudge. She pushed her helmet further down over her bullet shaped head and moved to the lee side of Detritus, who walked on unperturbed by the elements. If anything, Detritus was feeling better now that winter wasn't so far off any more[5].
They walked past the opera house, where beggars and urchins were huddling in the archways, trying to stay clear of the cold winds, and over New Bridge[6]. The shops on the bridge hid them temporarily from the gales, and Cheery stopped at one of the food stalls for a moment, grateful to be out of the wind.
"Maybe you're right, Detritus," she called out to her partner, "Maybe protection of some sort is called for, after all?"
The proprietor of the shop was a dwarf, too, and after a quick exchange in Dwarfish he handed over a bundle to Cheery. It contained a couple of steaming hot rats covered in thick sauce. She grabbed it with both hands, and the two watchmen trundled on through the wind-swept streets towards Maudlin Bridge, with Cheery happily munching away.
Once on Maudlin Bridge there were no shops lining the stone balustrade, and Cheery felt as if she would have to ask Detritus to hold on to her in order to ensure that she wasn't blown away. She gritted her teeth and chomped down the rat, relishing the warm food. They crossed the river quickly and once they arrived in the older and more prosperous part of town, it was just a matter of minutes before they reached Moon Pond Lane, where the Dingleberry family lived.
The fabulous house with its high walls was situated right on the corner with Scoone Avenue, overlooking the cemetery. Cheery had heard Reg Shoe speak of the Dead Rights Movement more times than she cared to remember, and knew that he felt very strongly about forcing the vitally challenged into reserves, as he called it, but it seemed peaceful enough. More importantly, she figured, having dead next-door neighbours meant that the Dingleberries could have more privacy, a wish they were renowned for.
Everyone in Ankh-Morpork knew about the Dingleberries.
-----
Sam Vimes closed the door to his office and started walking downstairs. Halfway down the staircase he stopped. The hubbub from the front room was reassuring as a background noise, but he wasn't too keen to dive straight into it. It was like having an ocean view, he reckoned. Nice to look at, and you might consider dipping your toes in it from time to time, but still a place where sharks lived and prospered. He heard the rumbling voices of a couple of upset trolls, the meticulous voice of Dorfl answering heated questions from someone he could only assume was the wizard, and Colon's barked orders to all and sundry, and knew that he couldn't deal with it all.
Oh, well. There were other possibilities. For a moment he contemplated the possibility of leaving via the rooftops, but since that would entail passing the dovecotes he quickly reconsidered his options. Constable Visit was often found attending the dovecotes, where he preached the virtues of Omnianism to its uncaring inhabitants, and Vimes felt he couldn't bring himself to face the man and his explanatory pamphlets any more today.
The back door, then. There was always the back door. He sneaked past the front room, past the changing rooms and the door down to the new cellblock, slid back the bolts on the sturdy oak door and stood outside, the cold wind in his face. Only there was something else there in the alley, too.
-----
The Dingleberries had been among the very first citizens of the Counterweight Continent to move to Ankh-Morpork, and had adapted remarkably well to life in the big city after a few initial cultural difficulties. The matter of the family name had been such a problem.
Not wanting to appear different from the average citizen they had changed their very aristocratic Counterweight name and taken what they thought was a run-of-the-mill name. Only later did they discover that it was in fact more of a run-to-the-privy kind of name, and that they had been a laughing stock in the upper class neighbourhood they lived in for several years.
People had stopped laughing now. The family had worked hard, copying Ankh- Morporkian concepts and perfecting them and selling the new, improved versions to the same people they had borrowed the ideas from in the first place. This had made them rich but not very popular with certain people.
Ruined businessmen tried to have contracts taken out on their lives with the Assassins' Guild, but found that the guild members were strangely uninterested in what they were willing to offer, squabbling as they were over who would become holder of the newly instigated Dingleberry Chair of Counterweight Inhumation Techniques.
Others tried employing common thugs to get rid of them. The Dingleberries solved this the way they had dealt with other business difficulties in the past, and upped the ante. When people hired hard men they employed considerably harder trolls and vampires as guards.
Eventually, those unlucky enough to have come in their path had given up trying to get even, and the Dingleberries had been able to get on with what they did best, which was seizing business opportunities.
They had been among the first to catch on to the importance and potential of the new clacks system, and had been instrumental in constructing the Great Branch that now stretched all the way to Uberwald. Rich to begin with[7], they were now immensely wealthy.[8]
Their estates didn't exactly belie this fact. Cheery and Detritus stepped up to the enormous gates. An ornate bell handle in the shape of a hippo hung on a chain on one side. Cheery's hand reached out towards it.
-----
Vimes's hand moved on its own accord towards the face of the presumed attacker - and stopped. Mr. Slant of the Lawyer's Guild stood in front of him, impeccably dressed and seemingly unperturbed.
"Your Grace? A moment of your time, if I may?"
Vimes managed to regain both his physical and mental balance with great difficulty. Slant was a zombie, and could easily have ripped Vimes limb from limb, but even so, Vimes felt that he could at least have flinched at the onslaught.
In spite of trying to hide it from him, Vimes was visibly shaken by the lawyer's presence. Not so much because of who it was - even though they had reasons enough to loath one another - but because he had forgotten to check beforehand if there was someone out there.
The Assassin's Guild hadn't tried anything for quite some time now, but that was no reason to let yourself go soft like that. If you did, you had the same odds of survival as a lobster in a Genuan gumbo kitchen, but without the satisfaction that comes with the knowledge that you were about to die for a good course.
"My, Mr. Slant, whatever are you doing out here in the cold? You look as if you're frozen, stiff!"
The last comma was barely audible, but ensured that the sentence packed more of a punch with the lawyer than a mere wallop could ever have hoped to achieve. Vimes noted with satisfaction how the zombie recoiled slightly.
"I assure you that you needn't worry yourself with my well-being, Your Grace. I'm sure you have other, more pressing problems to cop with."[9]
"Oh no. I can assure you that I don't have a pun-ishing schedule at all," Vimes said, hammering home a point. "So what brings you here, Mr. Slant? Steeling from the poor and giving to the rich, as always, I presume?"
"Very witty, Your Grace. As a matter of fact, I do seek to consult you in a matter concerning several thefts," Slant sniffed.
"My clients, whom I believe you had the opportunity to hear earlier today, feel that the authorities are not handling their case in an appropriate manner. They have turned to me and my associates to ensure that this unfortunate state of affairs ceases."
Ah. That made sense, Vimes thought. Slant was exactly the type of person a powerful family would turn to if they wanted dirt shovelled without having to soil their own hands with it.
"So you're representing the lordlings and that little slanty-eyed turd? So what?"
"I would kindly ask you to refrain from referring to my clients in such a derogatory manner, Your Grace. There is an offence called slander, as I am sure you are aware."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Vimes snorted. And I haven't mentioned anyone in particular, so you don't have anything to go on, he added to himself.
The zombie contorted his features into something approaching a smile. "The altercation earlier this morning was uncalled for, Commander. Lambasting four young noblemen? Tut-tut. A glut of guts can land a man in penury very quickly[10]."
"Anyway," Vimes continued, his features carefully composed. "If you look at it the other way around I'm sure there is no crime in calling a piece of crap 'Lord Rust' for instance, right?"
Slant sighed. He didn't have to, of course, since he was dead, but some habits died harder than their owners did.
"Your Grace, I wish you could understand the difference between my clients and the faecal matter to which you insist on referring."
"So do I," Vimes growled. "Now if you don't have anything else to add, I have better things to do than spend time in a dark alley with an older gentleman such as yourself. People will talk, you know."
As he turned around and walked away, Vimes had the pleasure of hearing the zombie trying to stutter a reply and failing.
-----
The troll who came out of the gatehouse didn't seem very friendly at all. In fact, Cheery was willing to bet that one of the reasons he had got his job was because he looked as if he woke up every day looking to get even with the world. He was big and burly, and by the look of things had been last in line when the Creator handed out necks. He seemed distinctly ill at ease in his livery, as if he wasn't suited for suits, or any other item of clothing, either.
I wouldn't be surprised, Cheery thought, if this was exactly the kind of troll that the oldest sagas mention - the kind that lived in caves and had names like Org and Ugrk.
The troll knuckled up to the gates and opened them a fraction of an inch, peering with distaste at them through the ornate iron bars.
"Sergeant Littlebottom, City Watch," Cheery said, flashing her badge at the man. "Me and my fellow officer here are here to see Mr. Dingleberry."
"I knows who you is, short-arse," the cave troll snorted, "and you and de rock can just grrrooggh-ooggrogh![11] Mr. Dingleberry don't deal with de lower races."
Detritus stiffened and began saying something, but was cut off by Cheery's voice, smooth as Lancre honey.
"I see. But Mr Dingleberry Jr. is interested in the races that are taking place this weekend at the Hippo, is he not? In fact, isn't he competing in those very races? And hasn't he got a problem with his chariot?"
"Yeah? What's it to you, lawn ornament?"
Org and Ugrk had passed the evolutionary test somehow. Cheery would have had them barred from the exam hall. She didn't normally loose her temper, but there is a limit to what even the most level-headed dwarf can take.
She snatched her double-headed axe from its sling on her back and brought it up in one swift motion, letting it come to a shuddering stop inches away from the cave troll's nose.
"How would you like it if I smashed your teeth with this?" she asked, vehemently.
"Yeah," Detritus said evenly. "It would be one of dem dere axe-dental suspect injuries"
----------------------- [1] That may sound like less than appropriate behaviour for members of the Watch, but for Angua, it was something she had to do quite regularly at this time of the month, and anyone who has had their beard pulled in a fight will sympathise with Cherry. [2] In an infinite universe everything has to happen somewhere. In our world the coin came down the other way up, with similar consequences. [3] In that she thought of herself as a she and pronounced her name "Cheri". Most dwarfs still considered the female pronoun to be almost a swearword. [4] A slightly modified siege engine that he used as a crossbow. [5] Trolls evolved in a colder climate, and their silicon-based brains were constantly running the risk of over-heating in the tempered climate zone that was the Sto plains. [6] New Bridge was the oldest bridge in Ankh-Morpork, but then that sort of tomfoolery is commonplace in cities everywhere. [7] Not uncommon for people from the Aurient, where gold is a lot more common compared with the rest of the world. [8] And thus a farce to be reckoned with. [9] There are tribes in the darkest parts of Howondaland who have perfected the skill of extracting excruciatingly painful and deadly poisons from various plants, beetles and frogs. Even they would be in awe of the seasoned hunter-gatherers who fought one another with the oral equivalents of blow darts and barbs in Ankh-Morpork. The battles were fought at various diplomatic soirées on a daily basis. Vimes had been an unwilling guest at enough such parties to know that the lawyer's retort wouldn't have been a problem even for the Sto Latian ambassador, who was generally considered to be the howler monkey in the jungle that was the Circle Sea's diplomatic community. [10] Mr. Slant was the type of person who spoke to you in a way that had you go home and look in a dictionary before you realised you had been insulted. [11] A very rude troll saying that involves the insertion of menhirs into various caves.