Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
Sherlock Holmes left Pseudopolis Yard with Gaspode's strong-leash in hand and abruptly collided with an olfactory wall. He gagged.
"Mr. Holmes, meet Ron. Ron, this is Mr Holmes."
Holmes shielded his nose and mouth with a pocket-handkerchief. "Charmed," he said queasily.
"Buggrit," Ron summarised.
In every city there is usually at least one individual who is considered by the locals to be a force of nature. Foul Ole Ron was one of those individuals, except he was considered less a force of nature than a form of bioterrorism.
"Come on – move off so the man can breathe, wouldya?" Gaspode growled
"If he moves must farther away I shan't be able to speak with him," Holmes said.
"I wasn't talking to Ron," Gaspode returned, "I was talking to his Smell. Go on – git."
To Holmes' surprise (and relief), the dense cloud of elements only found in Ron's unique biosphere moved to a less oppressive distance from the detective. He pulled the handkerchief away from his face, and found that it was irregularly stained in sepia-tones, as though someone had blown tobacco smoke over it from about an inch away.
"Foul Ole Ron, I presume," Holmes began again, "This may sound odd, but your dog has told me quite a bit about you."
"I tole em, I tole em, millennium hand and shrimp, can't trust those prawns nowadays, gotta know what to do with themselves else they get ideas in their heads, buggrit… buggrem…"
Holmes sighed. "Mr Ron, the past few days have been exceedingly difficult for me. Now, I'm sure you have your own problems as well, and I appreciate that. However, my patience is very thin right now, and I would like a few questions answered before it wears through completely. Is that clear?"
Ron stopped in midramble and looked hard at Holmes. Holmes could see frantic activity going on behind Ron's eyes, like a roomful of spiders getting electrocuted.
"With all due r'speck, y'r Lordship," Ron said, "You look like crap."
"I am aware of that," Holmes replied cooly.
"Wotcher need?"
"I wish to ask you a few questions about the incident near Gleam Street."
"Ye mean the Bamf?"
"Yes, I mean the Bamf. Tell me all about the Bamf."
Ron shrugged, and a few flakes from the topmost layer of dried grime slid lazily from the beggar's shoulders like brownish icebergs breaking off a polluted glacier. "Gaspode saw most of it."
"Very well. I trust there are more… like you?"
"There's nobody in the city like Ron," Gaspode interjected.
"Who's askin?" Ron demanded.
"I simply need a bit of aid in finding the owner of this glove." Holmes held up the golden glove in front of Ron's red-rimmed eyes. "Scouts, if you will. I will compensate anyone who brings me *reliable* information as to his whereabouts. This may be a matter of life and, ah… death."
"Right you are, y'r Lordship. I'll get right on it." Ron shuffled off, grumbling and muttering under his breath as he went.
"What did he mean, 'Your Lordship'?" Holmes asked Gaspode.
"'E thinks you're Lord Vetinari, that's what." Gaspode sounded amused.
"Is that a good thing?"
"Oh yeah… Ron's got pantloads o' respect for Lord Vee, bein' that he's the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Just don't get too comfy."
"I don't intend to. This city is not the sort of place I wish to spend the remainder of my lifespan."
"Er, excuse me… Mr. Holmes?" said a voice behind them.
Holmes turned. It was that quirky wizard chap again. He was holding a mug of what might have once been coffee. The steam that rose from it was tinged green. On the bright side, at least he looked like he was awake.
Painfully, excruciatingly awake. Wizards were not morning people, as a rule. (a)
"Yes?" Holmes prompted. Gaspode sighed theatrically, plopped down on his haunches, and started chewing thoughtfully at an itchy and hard-to-reach spot near the middle of his back.
"I need to go with you," Ponder said.
Holmes turned the idea over in his mind. "Why do you need to with me?" he asked.
"Several reasons, really," said Ponder.
"Oh boy," muttered Gaspode, "Several reasons. This ought to be good."
"First, the lads and I need to keep track of you so we know exactly where you are when we find His Lordship – Lord Vetinari – in Lon-Don."
"Why do you think the Lord Vetinari is in London?" Holmes asked
"Well, you're here, he's not, and he had to go somewhere, right?"
"Magic?" The word still appeared to leave a stale taste in the detective's mouth, despite the evidence of his current wardrobe.
"Exactly. The spell that brought you here sent him there. It's simple conservation of mass.
"At least some laws of science still apply here."
"Secondly," Ponder continued, ignoring the barb, "you don't know your way around the city as well as I do. Thirdly, it's my responsibility to make sure you don't get killed, or else Quantum could happen."
"Quantum?"
"That would be a bad thing. If you're killed, there would be no way to get his Lordship back. And that's the best case scenario."
"Dare I ask about the worst case?"
"The worst case scenario is that both of you would get erased from history. It would cause ripples in time-space through both our worlds, even worse than the ripple that caused the incident in the first place. Imagine what your Lon-Don would have been like if you'd never been born."
"Very well. You may come with us. I would prefer not to have to find my way back to Gleam Street by myself anyway."
Ponder suddenly looked guilty. "There's one more reason why I wanted to come with you, sir."
"What's that?"
"I'd really like to see how all this turns out. I really hope you figure out what happened, because quite frankly I'm baffled."
Holmes smiled. He had found a local Watson.
*****
(a) Then again there were always people like Archchancellor Ridcully, who not only laughed at such rules but also frequently and gleefully took a croquet mallet to them and then jumped up and down on the fragments.
*****
End of Pt 17.
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
Sherlock Holmes left Pseudopolis Yard with Gaspode's strong-leash in hand and abruptly collided with an olfactory wall. He gagged.
"Mr. Holmes, meet Ron. Ron, this is Mr Holmes."
Holmes shielded his nose and mouth with a pocket-handkerchief. "Charmed," he said queasily.
"Buggrit," Ron summarised.
In every city there is usually at least one individual who is considered by the locals to be a force of nature. Foul Ole Ron was one of those individuals, except he was considered less a force of nature than a form of bioterrorism.
"Come on – move off so the man can breathe, wouldya?" Gaspode growled
"If he moves must farther away I shan't be able to speak with him," Holmes said.
"I wasn't talking to Ron," Gaspode returned, "I was talking to his Smell. Go on – git."
To Holmes' surprise (and relief), the dense cloud of elements only found in Ron's unique biosphere moved to a less oppressive distance from the detective. He pulled the handkerchief away from his face, and found that it was irregularly stained in sepia-tones, as though someone had blown tobacco smoke over it from about an inch away.
"Foul Ole Ron, I presume," Holmes began again, "This may sound odd, but your dog has told me quite a bit about you."
"I tole em, I tole em, millennium hand and shrimp, can't trust those prawns nowadays, gotta know what to do with themselves else they get ideas in their heads, buggrit… buggrem…"
Holmes sighed. "Mr Ron, the past few days have been exceedingly difficult for me. Now, I'm sure you have your own problems as well, and I appreciate that. However, my patience is very thin right now, and I would like a few questions answered before it wears through completely. Is that clear?"
Ron stopped in midramble and looked hard at Holmes. Holmes could see frantic activity going on behind Ron's eyes, like a roomful of spiders getting electrocuted.
"With all due r'speck, y'r Lordship," Ron said, "You look like crap."
"I am aware of that," Holmes replied cooly.
"Wotcher need?"
"I wish to ask you a few questions about the incident near Gleam Street."
"Ye mean the Bamf?"
"Yes, I mean the Bamf. Tell me all about the Bamf."
Ron shrugged, and a few flakes from the topmost layer of dried grime slid lazily from the beggar's shoulders like brownish icebergs breaking off a polluted glacier. "Gaspode saw most of it."
"Very well. I trust there are more… like you?"
"There's nobody in the city like Ron," Gaspode interjected.
"Who's askin?" Ron demanded.
"I simply need a bit of aid in finding the owner of this glove." Holmes held up the golden glove in front of Ron's red-rimmed eyes. "Scouts, if you will. I will compensate anyone who brings me *reliable* information as to his whereabouts. This may be a matter of life and, ah… death."
"Right you are, y'r Lordship. I'll get right on it." Ron shuffled off, grumbling and muttering under his breath as he went.
"What did he mean, 'Your Lordship'?" Holmes asked Gaspode.
"'E thinks you're Lord Vetinari, that's what." Gaspode sounded amused.
"Is that a good thing?"
"Oh yeah… Ron's got pantloads o' respect for Lord Vee, bein' that he's the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Just don't get too comfy."
"I don't intend to. This city is not the sort of place I wish to spend the remainder of my lifespan."
"Er, excuse me… Mr. Holmes?" said a voice behind them.
Holmes turned. It was that quirky wizard chap again. He was holding a mug of what might have once been coffee. The steam that rose from it was tinged green. On the bright side, at least he looked like he was awake.
Painfully, excruciatingly awake. Wizards were not morning people, as a rule. (a)
"Yes?" Holmes prompted. Gaspode sighed theatrically, plopped down on his haunches, and started chewing thoughtfully at an itchy and hard-to-reach spot near the middle of his back.
"I need to go with you," Ponder said.
Holmes turned the idea over in his mind. "Why do you need to with me?" he asked.
"Several reasons, really," said Ponder.
"Oh boy," muttered Gaspode, "Several reasons. This ought to be good."
"First, the lads and I need to keep track of you so we know exactly where you are when we find His Lordship – Lord Vetinari – in Lon-Don."
"Why do you think the Lord Vetinari is in London?" Holmes asked
"Well, you're here, he's not, and he had to go somewhere, right?"
"Magic?" The word still appeared to leave a stale taste in the detective's mouth, despite the evidence of his current wardrobe.
"Exactly. The spell that brought you here sent him there. It's simple conservation of mass.
"At least some laws of science still apply here."
"Secondly," Ponder continued, ignoring the barb, "you don't know your way around the city as well as I do. Thirdly, it's my responsibility to make sure you don't get killed, or else Quantum could happen."
"Quantum?"
"That would be a bad thing. If you're killed, there would be no way to get his Lordship back. And that's the best case scenario."
"Dare I ask about the worst case?"
"The worst case scenario is that both of you would get erased from history. It would cause ripples in time-space through both our worlds, even worse than the ripple that caused the incident in the first place. Imagine what your Lon-Don would have been like if you'd never been born."
"Very well. You may come with us. I would prefer not to have to find my way back to Gleam Street by myself anyway."
Ponder suddenly looked guilty. "There's one more reason why I wanted to come with you, sir."
"What's that?"
"I'd really like to see how all this turns out. I really hope you figure out what happened, because quite frankly I'm baffled."
Holmes smiled. He had found a local Watson.
*****
(a) Then again there were always people like Archchancellor Ridcully, who not only laughed at such rules but also frequently and gleefully took a croquet mallet to them and then jumped up and down on the fragments.
*****
End of Pt 17.