Disclaimer: See Part 1
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
Sherlock Holmes' first formal introduction to the outdoor environment of Ankh-Morpork was, to say the least, memorable.
Natives to the city seldom noticed the Smell, any more than they would have noticed the motion of A'Tuin through space. It pervaded the city so thoroughly that, for all intents and purposes, it *was* the city. Morporkians generally insisted that the city simply had a unique atmosphere, which was true. Very few other cities had a pea soup fog that could actually be collected in a bowl and eaten.
Holmes, on the other hand, being accustomed to the normal sort of fog that doesn't beat you senseless on a muggy day, had stopped short on the front steps of Pseudopolis Yard, turned several shades of green like a surrealist sunset, and doubled over, retching, narrowly missing a bespectacled young wizard who'd had the misfortune to need to speak with someone from the Watch just then.
Once Holmes could speak again, he had demanded to know the origin of the smell, which he compared to a mixture of raw sulphur and putrefied horse droppings, set ablaze. Angua, whose sense of smell had not so much been diminished by as adapted to the unique olfactory cocktail of Ankh-Morpork, had identified it as the Ankh River. Holmes had indicated that the smell seemed to pervade the whole city, and Angua had reassured him that he would get used to it, to which Holmes had replied that such an event was not bloody likely, and furthermore he could feel his nose hairs turning white..
So it was that Holmes was in a bit of a mood when they arrived at the Thieves' Guild. His day was, it seemed, starting to edge back towards abysmal, since by that time he felt as though he was covered in a fine film of Ankh-Morpork. Lord Dunnykins, naturally, didn't help.
"Oh, you again." Dunnykins looked lazily at the uncharacteristically scruffy detective from under the brim of his hat. "Are you here to tell me the colour of my mystery girlfriend's eyes?"
Holmes noted that in his natural environment Lord Dunnykins had the sort of nasal voice which naturally developed from looking down his nose at people. It was, Holmes supposed, designed to intimidate people; he had encountered possessors of such a voice back in London. He'd always thought such people merely sounded whiny, and the nasal I'm-Better-Than-You-So-Just-Get- Used-To-It voice generally grated on his nerves on the best of days. Today, it sounded like Dunnykins was addressing him through his sinuses.
"I am here to investigate the disappearance of Mr. Lightfoot," Holmes said, with the sort of strained courtesy that comes from wearing clothing one does not like, talking to a man one does not like, in a city one has just concluded one does not like.
"Oh my," said Dunnykins, "And here I thought Sir Vimes didn't even care."
"He doesn't," Holmes observed blandly, "But it seems I have nothing better to do myself."
Lord Dunnykins' smugness slid off his face the same way really good dwarf ale (a) slides out of the mug.
"Well then, I suppose I must accommodate you, since Vimes was kind enough to send someone."
"So it seems." Holmes' face stayed as bland as a mayonnaise sandwich.
Carrot was impressed. Previously, only Vimes had attained quite that level of blatant pokerfaced animosity towards any individual. Watching Holmes was like watching a Vimes-ish copper's soul wrapped in the outer shell of a Vetinari.
"First off," Holmes continued, "I shall need a picture of the man, and a complete physical description. Secondly, I need to know where you expected him to be that night."
"Well," Dunnykins drawled, "Every one of the Guild Thieves has a patrol assigned to them every night. Lightfoot's was up Gleam Street, by the Times offices. He was, of course, instructed to avoid the Bucket, not that I think any of the Watch might have disappeared him, but you never know. As for his picture..." He was already rummaging in his desk as he talked, and now surfaced with an iconograph plate, which he offered to Holmes.
Holmes peered at the plate, which depicted the sort of young man that honest citizens instinctively distrusted, despite(b) the open cheeriness displayed in the picture. He had a gold front tooth, but currently Holmes was puzzling over something else.
"What is this?" He held the plate up.
Lord Dunnykins gave Holmes the sort of tired look reserved for the terminally stupid. "It's an iconograph of Lightfoot, you know, hold the box up to your face and click? What, you never seen one of those before?"
"Not in colour. This looks like it was painted."
Dunnykins sighed. "It *was*."
"By whom?" Holmes' natural curiosity was, for the moment, overriding his instant dislike of Dunnykins.
"An imp. Duh."
Holmes' face clouded at the mention of imps. "Very well. I shall start searching for Mr. Lightfoot directly. Good day," he added in a tone indicating that by "good", he meant "the sort in which you have a major industrial accident involving an adjustable spanner and raw sewage." He turned on his heel and went to leave, paused in the open doorway, and turned back to face Dunnykins. "And since you asked, they're blue."
"Blue?" Dunnykins echoed.
"The eyes of your female acquaintance." He left, pausing to nod a polite greeting to someone outside.
After he was gone, the young woman in question (who had long blonde hair and blue eyes, and wore one of Lord Dunnykins' rings on her thumb) peered in. "Is this a bad time?" she asked, seeing Dunnykins' stormy expression.
Outside the Guildhouse, Holmes was still studying the picture Dunnykins had supplied.
"Imps, indeed," he murmured derisively to no one in particular, apparently ignoring his police escort, "Does he think I'm stupid? Imps!"
"Well, they're not exactly the wave of the future anymore," Angua offered, and Holmes looked over at her as though he suddenly remembered that he wasn't walking alone. "Granted, they were amazing when the first of the Agatean models came to Ankh-Morpork, but I think any wizard can summon an imp. It's just a matter of finding the right imp for the right job." She decided to stop right there when she saw Holmes' expression.
"Do you expect me to believe," he said slowly, "that photographs like this one are made by little goblins inside the camera?"
"Not goblins," Carrot corrected him, "Imps."
"And you say you have people here calling themselves wizards, who cast magic and whatnot?"
Carrot and Angua exchanged a worried glance, then nodded.
"Rubbish. I am prepared to accept that there are... certain creatures here not yet documented by English zoologists. Apparently I am in another country, by some means. But I refuse to believe that you actually have such things as wizards, and hobgoblins, and magic. That is utter... superstitious... balderdash, and I will not be made fun of in that way."
The two Watchmen offered him the carefully blank expression usually given to the dangerously insane who would react badly to any sudden movements. Finally Angua spoke.
"You've had a stressful day, Mr. Holmes," she said in the sort of voice that could be said to soothe the savage beast(c), "And you probably didn't get all that much sleep last night. Why don't we just head back to the Watchhouse and get you some hot tea or something?"
Holmes looked at her as though he suspected there was something less than genuine about her offer, but decided that he needed to save his energy for the case ahead.
"Fine," he said, "And maybe afterwards we can have a civilised discussion like sane people."
Carrot and Angua exchanged a hopeful glance past the lean detective.
*
(a) Dwarves rate the quality of ale by the thickness of it. Moderate-quality ale is as thick as treacle [molasses, for those who don't speak British], while the best stuff is actually a sort of gelatin that is served in the form of wobbly amber cubes, arranged in a loose pyramid on a plate. Ale that is merely Really Good has the viscosity of motor oil on a chilly day.
(b) or because of.
(c) at least it worked on barking dogs and Angua's brother.
*****
End of Part 7.
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
Sherlock Holmes' first formal introduction to the outdoor environment of Ankh-Morpork was, to say the least, memorable.
Natives to the city seldom noticed the Smell, any more than they would have noticed the motion of A'Tuin through space. It pervaded the city so thoroughly that, for all intents and purposes, it *was* the city. Morporkians generally insisted that the city simply had a unique atmosphere, which was true. Very few other cities had a pea soup fog that could actually be collected in a bowl and eaten.
Holmes, on the other hand, being accustomed to the normal sort of fog that doesn't beat you senseless on a muggy day, had stopped short on the front steps of Pseudopolis Yard, turned several shades of green like a surrealist sunset, and doubled over, retching, narrowly missing a bespectacled young wizard who'd had the misfortune to need to speak with someone from the Watch just then.
Once Holmes could speak again, he had demanded to know the origin of the smell, which he compared to a mixture of raw sulphur and putrefied horse droppings, set ablaze. Angua, whose sense of smell had not so much been diminished by as adapted to the unique olfactory cocktail of Ankh-Morpork, had identified it as the Ankh River. Holmes had indicated that the smell seemed to pervade the whole city, and Angua had reassured him that he would get used to it, to which Holmes had replied that such an event was not bloody likely, and furthermore he could feel his nose hairs turning white..
So it was that Holmes was in a bit of a mood when they arrived at the Thieves' Guild. His day was, it seemed, starting to edge back towards abysmal, since by that time he felt as though he was covered in a fine film of Ankh-Morpork. Lord Dunnykins, naturally, didn't help.
"Oh, you again." Dunnykins looked lazily at the uncharacteristically scruffy detective from under the brim of his hat. "Are you here to tell me the colour of my mystery girlfriend's eyes?"
Holmes noted that in his natural environment Lord Dunnykins had the sort of nasal voice which naturally developed from looking down his nose at people. It was, Holmes supposed, designed to intimidate people; he had encountered possessors of such a voice back in London. He'd always thought such people merely sounded whiny, and the nasal I'm-Better-Than-You-So-Just-Get- Used-To-It voice generally grated on his nerves on the best of days. Today, it sounded like Dunnykins was addressing him through his sinuses.
"I am here to investigate the disappearance of Mr. Lightfoot," Holmes said, with the sort of strained courtesy that comes from wearing clothing one does not like, talking to a man one does not like, in a city one has just concluded one does not like.
"Oh my," said Dunnykins, "And here I thought Sir Vimes didn't even care."
"He doesn't," Holmes observed blandly, "But it seems I have nothing better to do myself."
Lord Dunnykins' smugness slid off his face the same way really good dwarf ale (a) slides out of the mug.
"Well then, I suppose I must accommodate you, since Vimes was kind enough to send someone."
"So it seems." Holmes' face stayed as bland as a mayonnaise sandwich.
Carrot was impressed. Previously, only Vimes had attained quite that level of blatant pokerfaced animosity towards any individual. Watching Holmes was like watching a Vimes-ish copper's soul wrapped in the outer shell of a Vetinari.
"First off," Holmes continued, "I shall need a picture of the man, and a complete physical description. Secondly, I need to know where you expected him to be that night."
"Well," Dunnykins drawled, "Every one of the Guild Thieves has a patrol assigned to them every night. Lightfoot's was up Gleam Street, by the Times offices. He was, of course, instructed to avoid the Bucket, not that I think any of the Watch might have disappeared him, but you never know. As for his picture..." He was already rummaging in his desk as he talked, and now surfaced with an iconograph plate, which he offered to Holmes.
Holmes peered at the plate, which depicted the sort of young man that honest citizens instinctively distrusted, despite(b) the open cheeriness displayed in the picture. He had a gold front tooth, but currently Holmes was puzzling over something else.
"What is this?" He held the plate up.
Lord Dunnykins gave Holmes the sort of tired look reserved for the terminally stupid. "It's an iconograph of Lightfoot, you know, hold the box up to your face and click? What, you never seen one of those before?"
"Not in colour. This looks like it was painted."
Dunnykins sighed. "It *was*."
"By whom?" Holmes' natural curiosity was, for the moment, overriding his instant dislike of Dunnykins.
"An imp. Duh."
Holmes' face clouded at the mention of imps. "Very well. I shall start searching for Mr. Lightfoot directly. Good day," he added in a tone indicating that by "good", he meant "the sort in which you have a major industrial accident involving an adjustable spanner and raw sewage." He turned on his heel and went to leave, paused in the open doorway, and turned back to face Dunnykins. "And since you asked, they're blue."
"Blue?" Dunnykins echoed.
"The eyes of your female acquaintance." He left, pausing to nod a polite greeting to someone outside.
After he was gone, the young woman in question (who had long blonde hair and blue eyes, and wore one of Lord Dunnykins' rings on her thumb) peered in. "Is this a bad time?" she asked, seeing Dunnykins' stormy expression.
Outside the Guildhouse, Holmes was still studying the picture Dunnykins had supplied.
"Imps, indeed," he murmured derisively to no one in particular, apparently ignoring his police escort, "Does he think I'm stupid? Imps!"
"Well, they're not exactly the wave of the future anymore," Angua offered, and Holmes looked over at her as though he suddenly remembered that he wasn't walking alone. "Granted, they were amazing when the first of the Agatean models came to Ankh-Morpork, but I think any wizard can summon an imp. It's just a matter of finding the right imp for the right job." She decided to stop right there when she saw Holmes' expression.
"Do you expect me to believe," he said slowly, "that photographs like this one are made by little goblins inside the camera?"
"Not goblins," Carrot corrected him, "Imps."
"And you say you have people here calling themselves wizards, who cast magic and whatnot?"
Carrot and Angua exchanged a worried glance, then nodded.
"Rubbish. I am prepared to accept that there are... certain creatures here not yet documented by English zoologists. Apparently I am in another country, by some means. But I refuse to believe that you actually have such things as wizards, and hobgoblins, and magic. That is utter... superstitious... balderdash, and I will not be made fun of in that way."
The two Watchmen offered him the carefully blank expression usually given to the dangerously insane who would react badly to any sudden movements. Finally Angua spoke.
"You've had a stressful day, Mr. Holmes," she said in the sort of voice that could be said to soothe the savage beast(c), "And you probably didn't get all that much sleep last night. Why don't we just head back to the Watchhouse and get you some hot tea or something?"
Holmes looked at her as though he suspected there was something less than genuine about her offer, but decided that he needed to save his energy for the case ahead.
"Fine," he said, "And maybe afterwards we can have a civilised discussion like sane people."
Carrot and Angua exchanged a hopeful glance past the lean detective.
*
(a) Dwarves rate the quality of ale by the thickness of it. Moderate-quality ale is as thick as treacle [molasses, for those who don't speak British], while the best stuff is actually a sort of gelatin that is served in the form of wobbly amber cubes, arranged in a loose pyramid on a plate. Ale that is merely Really Good has the viscosity of motor oil on a chilly day.
(b) or because of.
(c) at least it worked on barking dogs and Angua's brother.
*****
End of Part 7.