Stepping into the sun of the square, Vimes was more than a little out of
breath. The Hippo was located as far away from the Yard as the Rust
residence, but in the exact opposite direction, and Vimes' lungs were
protesting. He swore quietly over his complaining muscles and spat a gob of
Panatela-induced mucus on the ground, but then gave in and stood, breathing
deeply, trying to recover from the quick trot through town.
As he stood there, he let his eyes gaze over the scene in front of him. The stadium was simply huge, one of the largest buildings in town. The main entrance to the imposing behemoth was in the middle of the side of its oblong shape, all marble pillars and stairs. It would be closed at this time, he knew. After all, the main entrance was there to give the paying public access to the spectator stands during the actual races, and the practice sessions were never open to the public until the day before the race, at least not officially.
Of course, as Vimes well knew, all the professional gamblers and betting shops would still try to gain inside information by all means possible. But they had their own channels and would certainly not be seen with the punters who even now were gathering outside the locked gates, jostling with black marketeers for tickets.
Off to the side, where the oblong shape curved off, lay the entrance used by the teams and various other staff who did have access to the arena. Here, too, the crowds were beginning to gather, but the people here were content with trying to sneak a peak at their favourites, and Vimes had no great difficulty in making his way through the colourfully clad supporters.
Several sturdy-looking fellows were standing guard in front of the gates here, too, but Vimes' badge together with his positive take on life and the head guard's throat overcame that obstacle in a matter of seconds, and he was shown into a dark passage leading into the arena itself.
He opened a second sturdy wooden gate and suddenly he was inside the Hippodrome. For a second he just stood and gaped in awe. The building looked big from the outside, but seeing the vast, empty space of the arena made him realise just how big a place had to be in order to be able to seat fifty thousand people.
The track itself was impressive, too. In the middle of the arena was a central reservation. On it was a row of statues of hippopotami made of gilded wood, balanced on poles and glowing in the cold afternoon sun, and around it was the track. It was very wide, and several people, insect-like in the distance, were busy raking the sand, making the surface flat for the next practice run. Off to one side of the track hung a strange, big contraption made of wicker that Vimes assumed had to be the starting- stalls.
The spectator stands were separated from the action by means of hurdle fences. Another pair of wide wooden gates under the civic box led away from the stadium.
A small, hunched figure was working away, rake in hand, not far from where he was standing. He hadn't noticed him at first, but now Vimes made his way towards the man, taking care not to walk on the part of the sand that he had gone over already.
"Excuse me?"
The little man looked up without much interest. He was bald as a coot and dressed in loose-fitting clothes that might once have been yellow. If he was surprised to see a policeman entering his stadium, he didn't show it.
"Excuse me," Vimes repeated, since the man with the rake seemed disinclined to open his mouth, "Can you tell me where I can find Lord Rust?"
The little man lifted a finger from the rake and pointed vaguely towards the gates underneath the civic box.
"Stables", he muttered.
"Thank you, my good man", Vimes nodded. "Very nice talking to you."
Oh gods, he thought as he proceeded towards the civic box. The man hadn't even questioned who he was. If that was the kind of security they had here, then his job was going to be next to impossible.
The space inside was dark after having been outside in the bright afternoon sun, but the nightmarish sounds and a certain flatulent component to the air indicated that he had indeed arrived in some kind of stable.
-----
The famous Dingleberry stables were located in a separate corner of the estate, hidden from the main building by a row of fiery red ash trees. It was built in the same Agatean style as the mansion, and Cheery half expected the horses inside it to be eating from mangers that had had their legs cut off, too.
Outside the stable was a bandy-legged little man, not much taller than Cheery. He was staggering underneath an enormous bale of hay, wiry muscles fighting to keep it upright. Cheery proceeded towards the entrance, wondering what human etiquette had to say about striking up conversations with strangers in situations such as this. She reached the open door and then stood there wondering what to do. But then the man stumbled on a fallen pitchfork and toppled over in front of Cheery in a manner that the Guild of Clowns and Jesters would charge a considerable sum of money for, thus neatly solving the problem for her.
"Here, can I help you up?" she said in the general direction of the impromptu haystack.
The man looked balefully at the outstretched hand, but then seemed to realise that whatever standing he might have had was already lost, and so couldn't be hurt by him accepting help.
"What the hay," he said, accurately. "Thanks." "I'm alone here today. Got a lot to do," he added with an apologetic shrug and a toothy smile.
"Don't mention it," Cheery replied. "Manuel Labora? Mr Dingleberry said you'd be here to show me around. Are you alright?"
"Ay, that's me alright." Labora picked a couple of straws from his hair. "And you are?"
"Sergeant Littlebottom, Forensic Department, City Watch," said Cheery, flashing her badge to the man. That sounded a lot better, she thought. She'd have to remember that.
"Aha. Here about the sabotage, I take it?"
"Yes," she confirmed, whilst making a mental note of the word sabotage, "I need to inspect the crime scene and ask some questions."
-----
"First of all I want to know if you think he noticed you following him," Angua said.
She had taken over after Sergeant Colon, who had gratefully accepted her suggestion that he go and check the latest clacks. Angua didn't pay much attention to the plant. She had immediately recognised it for what it was. After all, she too was a carnivore. Instead she concentrated on the boy in front of her.
"Did he spot you?" she repeated.
"Nuh-uh. He was in too much of a hurry," came the self-confident reply. "Besides, I've read about how it's supposed to be done. I know all there is to tailing someone!"
"Really?" This surprised Angua a little. Education wasn't something that was forced on just anyone. You had to be upper middle-class at least to get an education beyond a ding around the ear when you did something that your master disapproved of, and then you were still among those privileged enough to have an apprenticeship. Even the upper echelons of society were still largely illiterate, even though the Guilds were slowly changing this. Finding a street urchin who could read was akin to stumbling over a fish that could play the piano.
"So how come you know how to read? Who taught you that?"
The boy, who obviously was used to disbelief when he divulged this information, looked at her indignantly.
"You don't believe me? I can prove it!"
"I didn't say I didn't believe you," Angua said, patiently, "I just wanted to know who taught you, but if you don't want to tell me that's fine. I have other, more important things to ask you about."
-----
"What the hells are you doing here?"
The angry voice rang out in the small, busy stable yard. The voice was that of a man who wasn't only used to being obeyed, but whose orders were feared and whom the obeyees hated, something which the voice's owner knew and enjoyed.
Vimes, who had made his way through the stables, continued towards the speaker, seemingly not noticing the paralysing effect the man's voice had had on all the people around them. There were stable-boys, blacksmiths, drivers and all sorts of hangers-on everywhere, but the green-clad young man had caused them all to seize doing whatever it was they had been doing the moment before, and now they all stared in shock at Vimes, strolling carelessly through the scene.
"Did you not hear me?! Who the hells let you in here!?"
"Rust Junior, isn't it?" asked Vimes in a friendly voice. "Can I have a word with you?"
"I am Lord Archibald Rust, yes," said the voice's owner haughtily. "Thirty- first lord of the Rust line."
Spitting a gob in the sawdust at the man's feet, Vimes got out his cigar case and chose one for himself.
"The "Rust line", eh? Sounds a bit like a skid mark to me, but I suppose you make those all the time, in the arena, so that's really quite fitting, isn't it?"
There was a nervous titter from one of the stable hands. Vimes bit off the end of the cigar. Young Rust's face darkened.
"How dare you insult my ancestors and my own person?!"
Vimes didn't answer the question at first. Instead he got out his tinderbox and begun lightening the cigar.
"Well, Archie, I suspect that you know about me already, so I don't suppose there is much of a chance for us to get along any old how. I'm just cutting to the chase here, as it were."
Vimes took a drag on the freshly lit cigar and inhaled, causing an immediate protest from his lungs. He coughed.
"Take my advice and don't take up smoking. It's not good for your health."
"I'll tell you what isn't good for your health, Vimes," hissed the lording, his eyes black with rage, "Coming in here and acting like you owned the place, ridiculing me in front of my people, now that's something that can seriously affect your health!!"
-----
The problem with horses, Cheery figured, was that they only looked nice and cuddly at a distance. Up close, the muscular, mad-eyed creatures were terrifying, biting, snorting, and kicking demons from the deepest pits of the underworld. Steel-rimmed hooves the size of dinner plates were decidedly intimidating at any rate, and sitting as they did at the end of legs belonging to animals bred for the sole purpose of moving said legs really fast didn't do anything to alleviate her fears. It was enough to scare a krun'hark[1]. She stuck close to the stable-hand as they moved down the hall, flanked by boxes, as he led her through the stables to where the chariots were stored.
"You know," she said, "I heard about this old Ephebian king who bred horses and supposedly fed them human flesh. I reckon this is what he must have been aiming for."
"Aye, they are splendid-looking animals, are they not?" answered Manuel, stopping to give one of them a pat. The horse availed itself of some straw still stuck in his hair.
"So the only way in to the chariots is via the main entrance and through the stables?"
"Aye. Either that or over the wall, of course," said Manuel, indicating the ten-feet-high construction that surrounded the grounds. "Only problem then would be getting past Vladimir, of course."
"The butler?"
"Aye. He has the grounds to himself during the night." Labora shuddered slightly. "Better'n a whole pack o' hounds, too. He's never done me any harm, mind, but let me tell you, it isn't easy going to sleep knowing his out here."
Cheery nodded. She couldn't blame the man.
-----
"You can't blame me for asking, though," Angua repeated.
"Well, if you really have to know I taught myself how to read," the boy said, "All these newspapers, see? When you sleep on the streets there's nothing better for keepin' warm, yeah? I always liked looking at the pictures, and one day I got to lookin' at the text . . ."
----------------------- [1] The mass-produced toy industry in Ankh-Morpork had never taken off, and the following likening would therefore have been completely useless to Cheery, but those horses were to My Little Pony what a living, breathing Tyrannosaurus Rex would have been if seated next to Barney.
As he stood there, he let his eyes gaze over the scene in front of him. The stadium was simply huge, one of the largest buildings in town. The main entrance to the imposing behemoth was in the middle of the side of its oblong shape, all marble pillars and stairs. It would be closed at this time, he knew. After all, the main entrance was there to give the paying public access to the spectator stands during the actual races, and the practice sessions were never open to the public until the day before the race, at least not officially.
Of course, as Vimes well knew, all the professional gamblers and betting shops would still try to gain inside information by all means possible. But they had their own channels and would certainly not be seen with the punters who even now were gathering outside the locked gates, jostling with black marketeers for tickets.
Off to the side, where the oblong shape curved off, lay the entrance used by the teams and various other staff who did have access to the arena. Here, too, the crowds were beginning to gather, but the people here were content with trying to sneak a peak at their favourites, and Vimes had no great difficulty in making his way through the colourfully clad supporters.
Several sturdy-looking fellows were standing guard in front of the gates here, too, but Vimes' badge together with his positive take on life and the head guard's throat overcame that obstacle in a matter of seconds, and he was shown into a dark passage leading into the arena itself.
He opened a second sturdy wooden gate and suddenly he was inside the Hippodrome. For a second he just stood and gaped in awe. The building looked big from the outside, but seeing the vast, empty space of the arena made him realise just how big a place had to be in order to be able to seat fifty thousand people.
The track itself was impressive, too. In the middle of the arena was a central reservation. On it was a row of statues of hippopotami made of gilded wood, balanced on poles and glowing in the cold afternoon sun, and around it was the track. It was very wide, and several people, insect-like in the distance, were busy raking the sand, making the surface flat for the next practice run. Off to one side of the track hung a strange, big contraption made of wicker that Vimes assumed had to be the starting- stalls.
The spectator stands were separated from the action by means of hurdle fences. Another pair of wide wooden gates under the civic box led away from the stadium.
A small, hunched figure was working away, rake in hand, not far from where he was standing. He hadn't noticed him at first, but now Vimes made his way towards the man, taking care not to walk on the part of the sand that he had gone over already.
"Excuse me?"
The little man looked up without much interest. He was bald as a coot and dressed in loose-fitting clothes that might once have been yellow. If he was surprised to see a policeman entering his stadium, he didn't show it.
"Excuse me," Vimes repeated, since the man with the rake seemed disinclined to open his mouth, "Can you tell me where I can find Lord Rust?"
The little man lifted a finger from the rake and pointed vaguely towards the gates underneath the civic box.
"Stables", he muttered.
"Thank you, my good man", Vimes nodded. "Very nice talking to you."
Oh gods, he thought as he proceeded towards the civic box. The man hadn't even questioned who he was. If that was the kind of security they had here, then his job was going to be next to impossible.
The space inside was dark after having been outside in the bright afternoon sun, but the nightmarish sounds and a certain flatulent component to the air indicated that he had indeed arrived in some kind of stable.
-----
The famous Dingleberry stables were located in a separate corner of the estate, hidden from the main building by a row of fiery red ash trees. It was built in the same Agatean style as the mansion, and Cheery half expected the horses inside it to be eating from mangers that had had their legs cut off, too.
Outside the stable was a bandy-legged little man, not much taller than Cheery. He was staggering underneath an enormous bale of hay, wiry muscles fighting to keep it upright. Cheery proceeded towards the entrance, wondering what human etiquette had to say about striking up conversations with strangers in situations such as this. She reached the open door and then stood there wondering what to do. But then the man stumbled on a fallen pitchfork and toppled over in front of Cheery in a manner that the Guild of Clowns and Jesters would charge a considerable sum of money for, thus neatly solving the problem for her.
"Here, can I help you up?" she said in the general direction of the impromptu haystack.
The man looked balefully at the outstretched hand, but then seemed to realise that whatever standing he might have had was already lost, and so couldn't be hurt by him accepting help.
"What the hay," he said, accurately. "Thanks." "I'm alone here today. Got a lot to do," he added with an apologetic shrug and a toothy smile.
"Don't mention it," Cheery replied. "Manuel Labora? Mr Dingleberry said you'd be here to show me around. Are you alright?"
"Ay, that's me alright." Labora picked a couple of straws from his hair. "And you are?"
"Sergeant Littlebottom, Forensic Department, City Watch," said Cheery, flashing her badge to the man. That sounded a lot better, she thought. She'd have to remember that.
"Aha. Here about the sabotage, I take it?"
"Yes," she confirmed, whilst making a mental note of the word sabotage, "I need to inspect the crime scene and ask some questions."
-----
"First of all I want to know if you think he noticed you following him," Angua said.
She had taken over after Sergeant Colon, who had gratefully accepted her suggestion that he go and check the latest clacks. Angua didn't pay much attention to the plant. She had immediately recognised it for what it was. After all, she too was a carnivore. Instead she concentrated on the boy in front of her.
"Did he spot you?" she repeated.
"Nuh-uh. He was in too much of a hurry," came the self-confident reply. "Besides, I've read about how it's supposed to be done. I know all there is to tailing someone!"
"Really?" This surprised Angua a little. Education wasn't something that was forced on just anyone. You had to be upper middle-class at least to get an education beyond a ding around the ear when you did something that your master disapproved of, and then you were still among those privileged enough to have an apprenticeship. Even the upper echelons of society were still largely illiterate, even though the Guilds were slowly changing this. Finding a street urchin who could read was akin to stumbling over a fish that could play the piano.
"So how come you know how to read? Who taught you that?"
The boy, who obviously was used to disbelief when he divulged this information, looked at her indignantly.
"You don't believe me? I can prove it!"
"I didn't say I didn't believe you," Angua said, patiently, "I just wanted to know who taught you, but if you don't want to tell me that's fine. I have other, more important things to ask you about."
-----
"What the hells are you doing here?"
The angry voice rang out in the small, busy stable yard. The voice was that of a man who wasn't only used to being obeyed, but whose orders were feared and whom the obeyees hated, something which the voice's owner knew and enjoyed.
Vimes, who had made his way through the stables, continued towards the speaker, seemingly not noticing the paralysing effect the man's voice had had on all the people around them. There were stable-boys, blacksmiths, drivers and all sorts of hangers-on everywhere, but the green-clad young man had caused them all to seize doing whatever it was they had been doing the moment before, and now they all stared in shock at Vimes, strolling carelessly through the scene.
"Did you not hear me?! Who the hells let you in here!?"
"Rust Junior, isn't it?" asked Vimes in a friendly voice. "Can I have a word with you?"
"I am Lord Archibald Rust, yes," said the voice's owner haughtily. "Thirty- first lord of the Rust line."
Spitting a gob in the sawdust at the man's feet, Vimes got out his cigar case and chose one for himself.
"The "Rust line", eh? Sounds a bit like a skid mark to me, but I suppose you make those all the time, in the arena, so that's really quite fitting, isn't it?"
There was a nervous titter from one of the stable hands. Vimes bit off the end of the cigar. Young Rust's face darkened.
"How dare you insult my ancestors and my own person?!"
Vimes didn't answer the question at first. Instead he got out his tinderbox and begun lightening the cigar.
"Well, Archie, I suspect that you know about me already, so I don't suppose there is much of a chance for us to get along any old how. I'm just cutting to the chase here, as it were."
Vimes took a drag on the freshly lit cigar and inhaled, causing an immediate protest from his lungs. He coughed.
"Take my advice and don't take up smoking. It's not good for your health."
"I'll tell you what isn't good for your health, Vimes," hissed the lording, his eyes black with rage, "Coming in here and acting like you owned the place, ridiculing me in front of my people, now that's something that can seriously affect your health!!"
-----
The problem with horses, Cheery figured, was that they only looked nice and cuddly at a distance. Up close, the muscular, mad-eyed creatures were terrifying, biting, snorting, and kicking demons from the deepest pits of the underworld. Steel-rimmed hooves the size of dinner plates were decidedly intimidating at any rate, and sitting as they did at the end of legs belonging to animals bred for the sole purpose of moving said legs really fast didn't do anything to alleviate her fears. It was enough to scare a krun'hark[1]. She stuck close to the stable-hand as they moved down the hall, flanked by boxes, as he led her through the stables to where the chariots were stored.
"You know," she said, "I heard about this old Ephebian king who bred horses and supposedly fed them human flesh. I reckon this is what he must have been aiming for."
"Aye, they are splendid-looking animals, are they not?" answered Manuel, stopping to give one of them a pat. The horse availed itself of some straw still stuck in his hair.
"So the only way in to the chariots is via the main entrance and through the stables?"
"Aye. Either that or over the wall, of course," said Manuel, indicating the ten-feet-high construction that surrounded the grounds. "Only problem then would be getting past Vladimir, of course."
"The butler?"
"Aye. He has the grounds to himself during the night." Labora shuddered slightly. "Better'n a whole pack o' hounds, too. He's never done me any harm, mind, but let me tell you, it isn't easy going to sleep knowing his out here."
Cheery nodded. She couldn't blame the man.
-----
"You can't blame me for asking, though," Angua repeated.
"Well, if you really have to know I taught myself how to read," the boy said, "All these newspapers, see? When you sleep on the streets there's nothing better for keepin' warm, yeah? I always liked looking at the pictures, and one day I got to lookin' at the text . . ."
----------------------- [1] The mass-produced toy industry in Ankh-Morpork had never taken off, and the following likening would therefore have been completely useless to Cheery, but those horses were to My Little Pony what a living, breathing Tyrannosaurus Rex would have been if seated next to Barney.