9. A Civic-minded Vampire

            Shortly after nightfall, widdershins of the river…

            Vimes took a long, appraising look at the vampire sitting across from him and Sergeant Angua at the Cock and Bull, a tavern none of them had ever been to, but which was known for discretion among its servers, who were accustomed to a clientele that didn't want too much attention. At the early hour, most of the tables were empty. At one, a bearded man wrote on a small piece of paper, seemingly at the dictation of the sleek young man sitting beside him. At another table, a woman calmly counted what in the flash of the dim lights looked like gold pieces. No one paid attention to her.

            In plain clothes Vimes never felt comfortable, but Angua had insisted that her acquaintance wouldn't want to be seen talking to a watchman in full armour. The suit jacket Vimes wore was something Sibyl had rustled up and it was fine, but the shirt with its starched collar chafed like the devil. He kept pulling at it.

            The vampire sat erect and still, his face bland. Instead of the usual black, he wore a dark brown suit with a voluminous tie. He wore a diamond stud in his right ear and his black hair was worn to the shoulders and tied back with a black ribbon. Vimes had limited dealings with vampires, even during his recent trip to Uberwald, but he saw in the eyes of this one what he'd seen in the others, in Lady Margolotta especially: A quiet watchfulness. A patience that was disturbing in its completeness. Sitting across from him was one of the few creatures in the world with time.

            Angua introduced him as Pefka.

            "How long have you been in the city?" Vimes asked.

            "Most of my life, sir." Vimes noticed he spoke softly, without opening his mouth too much.

            "And…how long might that be?"

            "Two hundred and seven years. I was not born this way; I was converted, a story I need not tell. Suffice it to say I have learned to survive here as the generations change."

            "You don't have the usual vampire accent."

            "That is one survival tactic. I have others."

            Vimes looked at Angua, who watched in silence. He pulled out a cigar and turned it over in his fingers.

            "You're a Black Ribboner, then?"

            "No."

            The cigar slipped out of Vimes' fingers, rolled across the table and Angua scooped it up.

            "I thought--"

            "Yes, most vampires in the city are attached to that group in some way or another," said Pefka. "I, however, am not a joiner." He gave a quick, close-mouthed smile. "Sing-songs and so forth I find rather embarrassing. I have my own system, in which I have reduced my intake of human blood to an absolute minimum and supplement my diet in other, less offensive ways."

            "A minimum is still a damned lot when we're talking about," Vimes grimaced, "feeding on people."

            "I do not feed on anyone. I have a companion who supplies me with what I need. Voluntarily," Pefka added. "She receives in return some small benefit."

            Vimes lit his cigar just to have something to do. The conversation was flowing in directions he didn't want it to go.

            "Am I to understand you pay someone to give you blood? If it isn't already illegal, I'm going to get the Patrician to change that."

            Pefka smiled again. "That is a common trade, but in my case, no money changes hands, sir. Payment is more subtle."

            Vimes' gaze slid to Angua, who sat stony and neutral.

            "All right. I don't think I want to hear anymore," he said. "Angua explained what we need?"

            Pefka nodded.

            "We've had a dozen vampires hurt in the past few days by Morporkians. Why haven't any fought back?"

            "Black Ribboners must swear not to hurt humans."

            "Not at all? Even when one is running at them with a stick with a nail on the end?"

            Pefka folded his hands on the table. "You must understand the nature of craving, sir. If a Black Ribboner spills blood, merely the scent of it, and the excitement that comes at the moment of violence, are enough to make him forget his vows. It takes only one bite and he will feed again. It is inevitable in such circumstances."

            Vimes did know the nature of craving, and thought Pefka was at least making sense. He'd had his doubts, but maybe Angua had made the right choice after all.

            "How many vampires in the city are not Black Ribboners?"

            Pefka tipped his head slightly to one side, as if counting. "Mm, at the moment, I'd say about twenty."

            "Is that all?"

            "We're a bit of a closed club."

            "You know them all."

            "Of course. We…sense each other. The scent of a vampire who still feeds on human blood is different than one who doesn't."

            Vimes flipped his notebook open on the table.

            "Right. Give me their names and where they're staying, and we can get this case wrapped up."

            Pefka held up a hand. "I'm sorry, sir. I won't do that, and furthermore, I feel it isn't necessary. As I said before, we are a closed club. We know one another and we…monitor each other. Even among us, there are codes of conduct. You look like you have doubts and I understand that. We are not very public about our actions, but amongst ourselves we know who is buying human blood and who is trading for it, as I am. These are the two acceptable ways of acquiring it. If one of us murdered to feed, the others would find out very quickly. And would likely do something about it. A murderer endangers all of us, as is obvious with the unrest we've been seeing."

            Vimes let the ash from his cigar drift onto the floor of the tavern.

            "You think it's a new vampire, new to the city, then?"

            "I'm sure of it, sir. There is no other explanation. The rest of us have met to discuss the issue already. We are all on the alert."

            Angua spoke up for the first time since she introduced Pefka. "I told him about the black hair we found, sir."

            Pefka nodded. "There are only five lady vampires who are not Black Ribboners. The ladies are, as you might guess, the driving force behind the movement. Those who are not involved are accounted for and are not responsible for the killings. "

            "How do you know?" said Vimes.

            "Their scent, sir. Most of us exist on only a partial diet of human blood. It appears the vampire responsible for the deaths consumes nothing else. She will have a very specific scent."

            Vimes felt for the second time like he had stumbled into a world completely foreign to him, where the invisible mark of scent told more than the eyes could ever see. Angua and the vampire Pefka were part of this world, and he, with his nose dulled by the stench of the Ankh, was definitely not.

            "So it's possible for another vampire to smell her out?" said Vimes.

            "Certainly. Our dear Angua, here, could also if the Ankh was a bit less rank this season. But as it is, only another vampire can reliably track the killer by smell. I have, of course, volunteered myself for the task."

            Vimes stared at him suspiciously. "What do you expect in return?"

            Pefka smiled, this time showing his teeth. It was not a comforting sight. "I expect the satisfaction of having done my civic duty, sir. I am an Ankh-Morpork vampire. The Uberwaldeans are kin, though the immigrants seem foreign to me. I will not allow a single, misguided newcomer to destroy the small community built up in my city."

            Vimes blew a large cloud from his cigar. A civic-minded vampire. That wasn't something he expected to find.

            "Then welcome aboard."

            He took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. Pefka opened it and examined the black leaves Captain Carrot had found in the Shades.

            "Black Scopani," he said.

            Vimes wasn't surprised because he'd smelled something like the leaves before. In Uberwald. In the home of Lady Margolotta, who had told him of this special tobacco grown in total darkness. She smoked it like a chimney and by extension, her parlour stunk like one. The cigars Vimes smoked were a refreshing potpourri by comparison.

            "It looks like our vampire brought the habit with her," said Vimes. "Nobody's been able to grow it outside of Uberwald and it costs a fortune to import."

            "It's a rare delicacy, sir," said Pefka. "Only the richest vampires can afford it."

            "Who are the richest vampires in Ankh-Morpork?" asked Vimes.

            Pefka smiled and passed the tobacco back across the table. "The new immigrants tend to be less financially stable for obvious reasons. Those of us who have been in the city for a few lifetimes are better off."

            "You're one of the richest vampires in the city," said Vimes.

            "Yes. But as I said before, the vampire you want is not from here."

            "If I can trust your word." Vimes glared through his cigar smoke.

            "It is your choice, sir. I do advise you, however, to look closer at the richest vampires in Uberwald. That list I will be happy to give you if I may borrow a pencil."   

**

            The Patrician didn't look up from his reading until the man with the narrow face had been standing in the Oblong Office for a long, silent and suitably threatening minute.

            When he did look up, things got worse for Mr. Goldwall.

            "Perhaps you didn't quite notice on your way here," said the Patrician, "but it is dark outside. An hour after nightfall by my calculations."

            "We intended to bring her in, sir, but she was in a bit of a state after she left the cemetery."

            "A state."

            "Like if any of us tried to touch her she'd rip our faces off."

            Ah, the Patrician thought without letting his unsettling gaze leave Mr. Goldwall's face. That kind of state. He'd expected Isabella to react to her tomb with a kind of mobile catatonia but obviously she'd opted for anger. If she was innocent of complicity in a plot, if this whole thing was a case of magic gone awry, she might not know who to be angry at. This was potentially dangerous for all concerned.

            "Where is she now?"

            "Not far, sir. She's in a bar off Sator Square. Larry's keeping an eye on her."

            "What is she drinking?"

            "Cheapest beer on offer, sir. It looks like she doesn't have much money. She was at the bottom of her second when I left."

            The Patrician removed a small but reassuringly full money purse from his desk and tossed it to Goldwall.

            "Give her this with my compliments. Encourage her to switch to cognac. In two hours I want her back."

            Goldwall hefted the purse.

            "She won't come on her own two feet if she drinks all this."

            "Then carry her, Mr. Goldwall," said the Patrician, returning to his papers. "I believe she could use the support."