Chapter Four
After tipping the last of the bleach down the drain, Del headed for the front hall of the Watch House to sign herself out. At the desk, a small and wizened figure was bent over a large piece of parchment, happily spreading epic blots over the page with a bent and mangled feather quill. Del bent over to write her name on the sign-out parchment, holding her hand out for the quill.
"'Ere, miss. It's knockoff time, so why the long face?"
Del felt the now-unfamiliar stretch and yaw of a smile spreading across her face. She had been 'miss' to Uncle Nobby ever since she was a few hours old. Her mother had explained that it was the only term of address he knew towards females who weren't a) blood relations or b) trying to kill him (the situation, they both reasoned, probably hadn't really come up that often). Although known for adopting a sleazy and faintly predatory attitude to anything in skirts, Nobby Nobbs had always been fanatically protective of his adopted niece, an uncle-ly affection that was probably underlaid by a healthy fear of the consequences of failing to be protective if such failure should ever be discovered by either of Del's parents.
"Old Stoneface still on yer ar- er, tail about Short Street, then?" Nobby clucked sympathetically. "I shouldn't worry about it, miss. Forget about it in a couple of days, he will, as soon as there's another nice bloody murder to take his mind off things."
Del smiled weakly. "Thanks, Uncle Nobby". She replaced the quill in the stand, wiping the inky residue onto her already-grimy breeches. "Now if only I can manage to stop smelling like-"
"Lemmon Scented Summre Freshe Bleache" Nobby grinned. "'Orrible stuff, miss. I've been put on scrubbin' cells enough times meself to know what that smells like. Only one thing'll shift that out, and that's a good two or three hours in the pub. Littlebottom and Dwarrows and Swires and that're all going down the Bucket at end of shift. You come along too and we'll stand you a bit o'dinner, likes."
Del pictured the expression on her parents' faces if they discovered her in a pub. "But, but I'm underage, and -"
"Nonsense, miss. You're old enough to do a copper's work, you're old enough to be in the Bucket with the rest of us. No drinks, mind. I'm sure your Dad'd say the same, if he wasn't-"
Del tipped her head to one side, giving her uncle a cool, appraising stare that Corporal Nobbs found uncomfortably familiar. "If he wasn't what, Uncle Nobby? Where is Dad, anyway?"
"Well, he's working on a special case, that's all. Came in this afternoon, bit of an unusual circumstance sort of thing. Mister Vimes sent him and yer mum off special. Can't say any more than that, miss."
* * *
She couldn't sleep. Couldn't sit still, couldn't stand. Even when she sketched her designs now she could sit still for only a few minutes before she'd leap to her feet again, pacing the room. Blue fire licked at her hands, crackled through her skull, whispering, singing, screaming in her head until the tears ran down her face.
MAKE BEAUTY. *BE* BEAUTY. BRING WHAT IS BEAUTIFUL INTO THE WORLD. BE NO LONGER MEAT, NO LONGER A BODY, BUT BEAUTIFUL BONES OUTLINED IN LIGHT.
The whirring of the sewing machine would shut it out, but not for long.
* * *
From "Misftrefs Apollonia's Guide To Moddern Ettiquete and Hostessery", p.41
"Under no circumstance shoulde a Young Ladie enter a Public-Houwse or other Building of Ill Repute. If by some accident or necessity she should be forced to spend time in such a Playse, she should conducte herself with Utmost Propriety at all times. Under no circumstances should she partake of Foode or Drinke or attempt to Eavesdroppe on Conversations Not Fitte For A Mayden's Eares."
* * *
Del slurped at the pint of straight lemonade Uncle Nobby had insisted she order, and toyed with the little paper umbrella Uncle Detritus had allowed as a concession to frivolity. Far from being a smoky, excitingly-shadowed den of iniquity, the Bucket turned out to be a large, reasonably well- scrubbed room filled with, well, most of Del's extended family. One of the disadvantages of being the daughter of two coppers, as she had discovered when quite a small child, was the relative impossibility of ever getting away with anything; even a broken window or a class bunked off would usually result in word getting back to an angry - or worse, Disappointed - Mum or Dad. Another part of the job description appeared to be being on familial terms with almost every person in this bar. Even as she looked around Del could see Uncle Reg poring over the letters section of 'The Times' in one corner, Uncle Visit earnestly showing pamphlets to Corporal Dwarrows in another, and over at the dartboard Uncle Morraine, who appeared to be attempting to score a bullseye using Uncle Buggy as a dart.
"So... Carrot and Angua didn't say if there were any suspects?" Hearing the anxiety in Aunt Cheri's voice, Del mentally returned her attention to the conversation around her, while physically pretending to be fascinated by the gnome's arcing progress towards the dartboard, toothpick-sized sword in hand. She gently relaxed her features into a useful expression of all- purpose dullness.
"Nope. She just headed straight out the door, and he went in to see Mister Vimes." "Stayed in dere... thirty-two minutes. Den he come out again and head off too. Ain't seen either of dem since".
Nobby lowered his voice to that hissing sibilant tone that people use when they're deluding themselves that a person sitting only a few feet away is unable to hear them. "'N when Carrot signed out, 'e told me to look after little miss there, make sure she gets fed an' goes home safe an' that. Must mean they're both gonna be out chasing this one down for a while."
"It's just... I've never seen anything like that body. Not this side of a war or a pretty major famine, at any rate. I mean, what could starve a girl to death without leaving any sign of restraint or imprisonment?"
"I don't like it. Somethin's not right, when you get kids starvin' to death inna city like dat. I mean, dem gettin' thumped or pushed outta window, that you can unnerstand. We all know what kids dat age is like. But not dis."
"Damn right, it ain't. Right, I mean. That sorta thing didn't go on even back when I was a kid. No matter if times were hard, there was always the cockroach farms down by Phedre Road, an' the Omnians were good for a free feed if you didn't mind listening to a lecture or fifteen. Huh, never thought I'd live to see it, girls starvin' to death in Ankh-Morpork. Particularly not when they look like that one prob'ly did afore whatever it was that got her got her..." Nobby smiled in a fond and faintly disturbing manner.
"You'd better keep an eye on" Cheri nodded towards the apparently-oblivious Del in as subtle manner as a dwarf was able to muster (which was not, it must be said, particularly subtle) "tonight, Nobby. As long as we don't know what's going on around here she's as much in danger as the next girl, maybe more because of who her parents are."
"She still don' show any sign of takin' after her Mum, den?"
Cheri reached out and snapped her fingers in front of Del's face. Del who had been pretending to laugh uproariously as Buggy attempted to dislodge his sabre from the centre of the dartboard, where it'd been driven a few inches into the wall, now pretended to start and blink down at her aunt.
"Del! You haven't noticed any - um, changes, recently? Anything you'd like to tell us about?"
Del blushed furiously and buried her face in her lemonade. "No, actually. Not that it's ANY OF your business."
Nobby looked affronted. "What? It IS our business, miss. We could always use another - ouch!" Cheri slid under the table, grasping its edge in her hands and stretched her body the length of the table in order to kick him in the ankles. Mentioning the W-word, even in the relative privacy of the Bucket, was not generally a wise idea. "I mean, another Captain. Yeah. We could always use another good female Captain."
* * *
Coralie Nailsande pulled the bolts shut in the glass-fronted shop door and leaned against the doorframe with a sigh of relief. "Well, lads, that's the last of them." She crossed the shop floor to the workshop area, where three figures were slumped around the workbench in various stages of exhaustion.
Old Tom stood up and hobbled towards the door, wincing and stretching as he straightened his back. "Gods bless us, lass, I've never made so many boots in one day in all me life. Any news? Is there a shortage on or what's goin' on? We're not under siege, are we? I remember in the Century of the Fruitbat, when we ended up havin' to eat all the boots in the city and - "
Coralie cut in quickly, having learnt by experience that cutting off Old Tom's stories as soon as possible was the only way to stem the flow. "No sieges, no major riots, nothing particular out of the ordinary. I got one of the customers to swap me an evening edition of the Times for a paper bag, and it didn't - "
"A PAPER BAG, lass? They traded a whole news paper for one of our paper bags? What, with the crossword and everything?"
"Yes! A paper bag! And we've even run out of those! It was insane! People just wanted anything, anything at all that said our name on it, it was as though they didn't really even want the boots themselves, just anything that said 'Blannick's' on it. Like it was the name they were buying..."
Eleven-year-old Bobby Cattermole raised his head from a small puddle of drool on the bench, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. "Can I go home now, Mr. Blannick? Only it's gone eleven, and our Mum says I've still got to get a good night's sleep or I shan't grow up and have my own shop and..."
"Mr. Blannick?"
"Mr. Blannick?"
"Manny?"
* * *
Del strode home towards Shuttering Street, tailed by the dark figure of Uncle Nobby who seemed to believe that slinking from garbage bin to garbage bin and darting behind lantern poles at random moments constituted subtle shadowing. She didn't mind; in fact she found it rather sweet, really. Nice to know that someone was looking out for her, even if Del could probably have picked him up and, if she'd felt the remotest desire, swung him round and round her head. Overhead, the moon had dipped below the horizon but the stars were out, a swirl of silver specks on the warm black velvet of the night sky. Even the smell of bleach had finally dispersed from her hair and clothes, and she whistled softly as she removed the spare key from its hiding place (on her keyring; the last place any intruder would look*) and turned it in the front door.
From his secret vantage point (under the window of Mrs. Morrock's cookshop on the other side of the road), Nobby Nobbs watched as his niece bent and retrieved a piece of parchment from the doormat. She stood silhouetted in the doorway, studying the document for a few minutes, then shut the door, turned and vanished.
* Del's keyring was the indeed last place that any potential intruder would look for a key. Not because it was a particularly subtle or ingenious hiding place, but because her mother was a werewolf and her father was technically-a-dwarf, and both of them were officers of the City Watch. They had taught their daughter an *awful* lot about ways to make people's lives very unpleasant when strictly necessary.
* * *
And still the mirror waited. It hung there on the wall, outwardly so still and placid. But go near it and the sparks would crackle and sing, always daring you nearer, wanting better, wanting more.
Hungry.
* * *
"Dear" (printed in fancy gold embossed engraving) "Del Ironfoundersdaughter" (scribbled in black ink)
"You are invited to a Show of Fashion commencing at Eleven P.M tonight at the home of Lady Charnel, 24 Bournemouth St Ankh-Morkpork, celebrating Glamourouse Rayment and All That Is Latest in Forward Fashion including that which is Ready to Ware. Light refreshements will not be served. Dress: To Impresse."
* * *
Sergeant Colon was behind the front desk when the doors burst open again, revealing the red-faced, puffing and frantic figure of Corporal Nobbs.
"Sarge! You'd better come quick! It's Carrot's lass, I followed her home, an' something weird's going on!"
"Steady on, Nobby. You followed Miss Del - I mean, Lance-Constable Ironfoundersdaughter - home?"
"Carrot's orders, sarge! He told me to see she got home safe, an' just as well too!"
"Why, what'd you see?"
Still gasping breathlessly, Nobby reached out both hands to steady himself against the old butcher's table which did duty as a reception desk at Psuedopolis Yard.
"Well, she got home to Angua's house, right, and found this letter on the doormat. Dunno what was in it, but she read it through and was off like a shot, Sarge. Had a job tailing her, but she made it to Bournemouth St, and disappeared into this dead posh house."
Colon raised an eyebrow. "Oho! Visiting a young man, was she? Well, old Carrot won't be too pleased about that, but it happens to us all sooner or later, I'm sure he'll - "
"No, sarge! I got up to the house, right, an' climbed up -"
"The drainpipe?"
"You know that never works, sarge. I climbed up the house next door on account of someone was doing the guttering and left up a ladder. Got onna roof and jumped across and looked through the skylight, right. An' there was this big room inside, and all these nobs standin' around drinkin' champagne. And there was this, like, stage, see, only all long an' thin instead of square. And then this girl comes out with no clothes on!"
"Go on, Nobby."
"Only, it ain't just any girl, it's that Gerhardtina Sock that our miss went to school with! An' she's not quite in the, in the altogether, altogether, if you gets my meaning, sarge, she's wearing these bits of cloth tied around, likes, and it looks like someone's smacked her about an' given her two black eyes. And the lass walks up and down the long skinny stage and they all clap and drink their champagne. And then she goes out again... and comes back, wearin' different bits of cloth an' they all clap again! Ain't right in my book, sarge. Someone musta punched that poor girl out and made her parade around with no clothes on... and our Del's in there!".
Colon stood, his face settling grimly. "Right. Get Anthracite and Detritus -"
"They're off duty, sarge"
"I don't care. Grab something from the weapons room for everybody, and let's move!"
* * *
Del was standing by the stage door when Gerhardtina emerged. She'd changed into a more normal dress, but her face was still flushed and smeared with the strange cosmetics that left black circles around the hollows of her eyes. "Del! You made it! Aren't Em's dresses just amazing?"
Del frowned. "That's one word to describe - "
"I'm so glad you liked them! Come on now, darling, there's someone here you just have to meet!" Gerhardtina grabbed Del by the hand and towed her in the direction of the bar.
Darling? In the eleven years they'd known one another, Gerhardtina had addressed her by such affectionate epiphets as 'Wonko', 'Clumsy Slag', 'Ironfistedslaughter' and even (when she was feeling particularly vindictive) 'Delphine', but 'darling' was a hitherto unknown form of address. However, Del didn't have long to worry about it; through the blasts of excitingly coloured smoke and ranks of chattering people she could just glimpse the quarry Gerhardtina was steering them towards. Broad shoulders, a tumbling fringe of inky black hair; lazy, heavy-lidded indigo eyes, oh no oh no oh no...
"Little Delphine Ironfoundersdaughter! My gods, it's been forever, how ARE you?"
Bloody hell. Sammy Vimes.
* * *
"Manny? What's wrong?"
"Mr. Blannick?"
"Wake up, Manny lad, it's knocking-off time".
The figure of Manny Blannick sat upright and oblivious, staring into space as his assistants shook him, poked his shoulders and waved their hands in front of his face in an effort to draw a response. His eyes were locked on a point somewhere towards the back of the room, his face frozen in a vague half-smile as he dreamed of footwear...
* * *
The charm, manners and personal appearance of young Lord Samuel Havelock Ramkin Vimes remained more or less a mystery to those who followed the lineage of Ankh-Morpork's noble families*. How the boy had managed to combine the Ramkin family DNA (which ran to height and bulk, brisk efficiency and good strong shouting voices) with the Vimes genetic legacy (scruffiness, dark hair, chronically snaky tempers) and come out with something resembling a Holy Wood matinee idol remained a generally well- concealed secret. Yet somehow, combine them he had; the offspring of a former street-pounding policeman and the city's premier lady breeder of fancy swamp dragons had turned out to be one of Ankh-Morpork's most eligible young noblemen. From his elegant fall of pitch-black hair to the tips of his feet (shod in a pair of rather fetching boots a young admirer picked up for him at Blannick's that morning), Samuel exuded the kind of aura that causes young girls to blush and dream of they-know-not-what, and middle-aged women to keep perfectly straight faces while they contemplate they-know-exactly-what. With his father's approval (and his mother's secret relief) the young Lord Vimes had politely declined the opportunity to join the Watch on his eighteenth birthday, and instead was rumoured to spend his days fulfilling the duties formerly carried out by the late Rufus Drumknott as Undersecretary to Lord Vetinari. His nights, as chronicled by the A- M.W.M.F.W-W-E-P-A-S-M-G-A-P-W-A-L-M-M-T-T**, were generally spent at glamourous parties, accompanied by a string of beauties from the city's most gracious and noble families.
Del hadn't spent much time with Samuel since they were small. They had solemnly traded unwanted Hogswatchnight presents (her ebony comb-and-brush set for his new lacrosse stick) the day before Samuel had left for Hugglestones, a particularly unpleasant boarding school that his maternal great-aunt had insisted he attend.
* The ranks of those pursuing this particular interest had increased significantly following William de Worde's (reluctant) publication of the 'ANKH-MORPORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE FOR WOMEN-WHO-ENJOY-POINTLESS-AND-SLIGHTLY- MALICIOUS-GOSSIP-ABOUT-PEOPLE-WITH-A-LOT-MORE-MONEY-THAN-THEM'.
** Which Del certainly never read. Never, ever, ever, EVER. Under any circumstances. Not even if someone had happened to leave a copy in the Watch House tea room with the crossword only half done...
* * *
From "Misftrefs Apollonia's Guide To Moddern Ettiquete and Hostessery", p.75
"On being introduced to a Young Gentilmanne of Equal or Greater Ranke, a Young Ladie should make a Courtesey, and express pleasure at the meetinge; honoure &tc. Under no circumstaunces shoulde she Babble, make unnecessary speech or otherwise appear Ill-Bredd or Rude. She shoulde of course also endeavoure to appear Well Groomed and most Pleasinge to the Eye while this introduction takes playse."
* * *
"Sammy. Er, um, I mean, Lord Samuel, I should say. Your grace. Er. Nice to see you again."
"Likewise, I'm sure, my dear cousin Delphine."
There was an awkward pause. Del could feel the heat rising from under her breastplate and suffusing her face in a horrible shade of ruptured-blood- vessel fuschia that clashed violently with her carrotty hair. Gods, she couldn't even blush attractively. At moments like this, she was always self- conscious of the size of her shoulders, hip-bones, hands and feet, felt herself filling the room like some sort of outsized giantess. At this particular moment, she was also painfully aware that she was dressed in rough brown breeches, a copper breastplate and sweaty helmet hair in a roomful of exquisitely coiffed nobles. Gerhardtina broke the silence as diplomatically as possible
"Lord Samuel, you will have heard that Del is a Watchwoman?"
Del's face having turned as hectically pink as physically possible, her ears began to get in on the act. "I've only just joined two days ago."
"Splendid, splendid. That explains the costume, of course. Very suitable. And - how charming! - do I detect a a hint of lemon scent?"
Del squinted determinedly down at the bleach-charred toecaps of her boots. "Lemon scent. Yes. That's right, your Lordship." It was going to be a long evening...
to be continued...
After tipping the last of the bleach down the drain, Del headed for the front hall of the Watch House to sign herself out. At the desk, a small and wizened figure was bent over a large piece of parchment, happily spreading epic blots over the page with a bent and mangled feather quill. Del bent over to write her name on the sign-out parchment, holding her hand out for the quill.
"'Ere, miss. It's knockoff time, so why the long face?"
Del felt the now-unfamiliar stretch and yaw of a smile spreading across her face. She had been 'miss' to Uncle Nobby ever since she was a few hours old. Her mother had explained that it was the only term of address he knew towards females who weren't a) blood relations or b) trying to kill him (the situation, they both reasoned, probably hadn't really come up that often). Although known for adopting a sleazy and faintly predatory attitude to anything in skirts, Nobby Nobbs had always been fanatically protective of his adopted niece, an uncle-ly affection that was probably underlaid by a healthy fear of the consequences of failing to be protective if such failure should ever be discovered by either of Del's parents.
"Old Stoneface still on yer ar- er, tail about Short Street, then?" Nobby clucked sympathetically. "I shouldn't worry about it, miss. Forget about it in a couple of days, he will, as soon as there's another nice bloody murder to take his mind off things."
Del smiled weakly. "Thanks, Uncle Nobby". She replaced the quill in the stand, wiping the inky residue onto her already-grimy breeches. "Now if only I can manage to stop smelling like-"
"Lemmon Scented Summre Freshe Bleache" Nobby grinned. "'Orrible stuff, miss. I've been put on scrubbin' cells enough times meself to know what that smells like. Only one thing'll shift that out, and that's a good two or three hours in the pub. Littlebottom and Dwarrows and Swires and that're all going down the Bucket at end of shift. You come along too and we'll stand you a bit o'dinner, likes."
Del pictured the expression on her parents' faces if they discovered her in a pub. "But, but I'm underage, and -"
"Nonsense, miss. You're old enough to do a copper's work, you're old enough to be in the Bucket with the rest of us. No drinks, mind. I'm sure your Dad'd say the same, if he wasn't-"
Del tipped her head to one side, giving her uncle a cool, appraising stare that Corporal Nobbs found uncomfortably familiar. "If he wasn't what, Uncle Nobby? Where is Dad, anyway?"
"Well, he's working on a special case, that's all. Came in this afternoon, bit of an unusual circumstance sort of thing. Mister Vimes sent him and yer mum off special. Can't say any more than that, miss."
* * *
She couldn't sleep. Couldn't sit still, couldn't stand. Even when she sketched her designs now she could sit still for only a few minutes before she'd leap to her feet again, pacing the room. Blue fire licked at her hands, crackled through her skull, whispering, singing, screaming in her head until the tears ran down her face.
MAKE BEAUTY. *BE* BEAUTY. BRING WHAT IS BEAUTIFUL INTO THE WORLD. BE NO LONGER MEAT, NO LONGER A BODY, BUT BEAUTIFUL BONES OUTLINED IN LIGHT.
The whirring of the sewing machine would shut it out, but not for long.
* * *
From "Misftrefs Apollonia's Guide To Moddern Ettiquete and Hostessery", p.41
"Under no circumstance shoulde a Young Ladie enter a Public-Houwse or other Building of Ill Repute. If by some accident or necessity she should be forced to spend time in such a Playse, she should conducte herself with Utmost Propriety at all times. Under no circumstances should she partake of Foode or Drinke or attempt to Eavesdroppe on Conversations Not Fitte For A Mayden's Eares."
* * *
Del slurped at the pint of straight lemonade Uncle Nobby had insisted she order, and toyed with the little paper umbrella Uncle Detritus had allowed as a concession to frivolity. Far from being a smoky, excitingly-shadowed den of iniquity, the Bucket turned out to be a large, reasonably well- scrubbed room filled with, well, most of Del's extended family. One of the disadvantages of being the daughter of two coppers, as she had discovered when quite a small child, was the relative impossibility of ever getting away with anything; even a broken window or a class bunked off would usually result in word getting back to an angry - or worse, Disappointed - Mum or Dad. Another part of the job description appeared to be being on familial terms with almost every person in this bar. Even as she looked around Del could see Uncle Reg poring over the letters section of 'The Times' in one corner, Uncle Visit earnestly showing pamphlets to Corporal Dwarrows in another, and over at the dartboard Uncle Morraine, who appeared to be attempting to score a bullseye using Uncle Buggy as a dart.
"So... Carrot and Angua didn't say if there were any suspects?" Hearing the anxiety in Aunt Cheri's voice, Del mentally returned her attention to the conversation around her, while physically pretending to be fascinated by the gnome's arcing progress towards the dartboard, toothpick-sized sword in hand. She gently relaxed her features into a useful expression of all- purpose dullness.
"Nope. She just headed straight out the door, and he went in to see Mister Vimes." "Stayed in dere... thirty-two minutes. Den he come out again and head off too. Ain't seen either of dem since".
Nobby lowered his voice to that hissing sibilant tone that people use when they're deluding themselves that a person sitting only a few feet away is unable to hear them. "'N when Carrot signed out, 'e told me to look after little miss there, make sure she gets fed an' goes home safe an' that. Must mean they're both gonna be out chasing this one down for a while."
"It's just... I've never seen anything like that body. Not this side of a war or a pretty major famine, at any rate. I mean, what could starve a girl to death without leaving any sign of restraint or imprisonment?"
"I don't like it. Somethin's not right, when you get kids starvin' to death inna city like dat. I mean, dem gettin' thumped or pushed outta window, that you can unnerstand. We all know what kids dat age is like. But not dis."
"Damn right, it ain't. Right, I mean. That sorta thing didn't go on even back when I was a kid. No matter if times were hard, there was always the cockroach farms down by Phedre Road, an' the Omnians were good for a free feed if you didn't mind listening to a lecture or fifteen. Huh, never thought I'd live to see it, girls starvin' to death in Ankh-Morpork. Particularly not when they look like that one prob'ly did afore whatever it was that got her got her..." Nobby smiled in a fond and faintly disturbing manner.
"You'd better keep an eye on" Cheri nodded towards the apparently-oblivious Del in as subtle manner as a dwarf was able to muster (which was not, it must be said, particularly subtle) "tonight, Nobby. As long as we don't know what's going on around here she's as much in danger as the next girl, maybe more because of who her parents are."
"She still don' show any sign of takin' after her Mum, den?"
Cheri reached out and snapped her fingers in front of Del's face. Del who had been pretending to laugh uproariously as Buggy attempted to dislodge his sabre from the centre of the dartboard, where it'd been driven a few inches into the wall, now pretended to start and blink down at her aunt.
"Del! You haven't noticed any - um, changes, recently? Anything you'd like to tell us about?"
Del blushed furiously and buried her face in her lemonade. "No, actually. Not that it's ANY OF your business."
Nobby looked affronted. "What? It IS our business, miss. We could always use another - ouch!" Cheri slid under the table, grasping its edge in her hands and stretched her body the length of the table in order to kick him in the ankles. Mentioning the W-word, even in the relative privacy of the Bucket, was not generally a wise idea. "I mean, another Captain. Yeah. We could always use another good female Captain."
* * *
Coralie Nailsande pulled the bolts shut in the glass-fronted shop door and leaned against the doorframe with a sigh of relief. "Well, lads, that's the last of them." She crossed the shop floor to the workshop area, where three figures were slumped around the workbench in various stages of exhaustion.
Old Tom stood up and hobbled towards the door, wincing and stretching as he straightened his back. "Gods bless us, lass, I've never made so many boots in one day in all me life. Any news? Is there a shortage on or what's goin' on? We're not under siege, are we? I remember in the Century of the Fruitbat, when we ended up havin' to eat all the boots in the city and - "
Coralie cut in quickly, having learnt by experience that cutting off Old Tom's stories as soon as possible was the only way to stem the flow. "No sieges, no major riots, nothing particular out of the ordinary. I got one of the customers to swap me an evening edition of the Times for a paper bag, and it didn't - "
"A PAPER BAG, lass? They traded a whole news paper for one of our paper bags? What, with the crossword and everything?"
"Yes! A paper bag! And we've even run out of those! It was insane! People just wanted anything, anything at all that said our name on it, it was as though they didn't really even want the boots themselves, just anything that said 'Blannick's' on it. Like it was the name they were buying..."
Eleven-year-old Bobby Cattermole raised his head from a small puddle of drool on the bench, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. "Can I go home now, Mr. Blannick? Only it's gone eleven, and our Mum says I've still got to get a good night's sleep or I shan't grow up and have my own shop and..."
"Mr. Blannick?"
"Mr. Blannick?"
"Manny?"
* * *
Del strode home towards Shuttering Street, tailed by the dark figure of Uncle Nobby who seemed to believe that slinking from garbage bin to garbage bin and darting behind lantern poles at random moments constituted subtle shadowing. She didn't mind; in fact she found it rather sweet, really. Nice to know that someone was looking out for her, even if Del could probably have picked him up and, if she'd felt the remotest desire, swung him round and round her head. Overhead, the moon had dipped below the horizon but the stars were out, a swirl of silver specks on the warm black velvet of the night sky. Even the smell of bleach had finally dispersed from her hair and clothes, and she whistled softly as she removed the spare key from its hiding place (on her keyring; the last place any intruder would look*) and turned it in the front door.
From his secret vantage point (under the window of Mrs. Morrock's cookshop on the other side of the road), Nobby Nobbs watched as his niece bent and retrieved a piece of parchment from the doormat. She stood silhouetted in the doorway, studying the document for a few minutes, then shut the door, turned and vanished.
* Del's keyring was the indeed last place that any potential intruder would look for a key. Not because it was a particularly subtle or ingenious hiding place, but because her mother was a werewolf and her father was technically-a-dwarf, and both of them were officers of the City Watch. They had taught their daughter an *awful* lot about ways to make people's lives very unpleasant when strictly necessary.
* * *
And still the mirror waited. It hung there on the wall, outwardly so still and placid. But go near it and the sparks would crackle and sing, always daring you nearer, wanting better, wanting more.
Hungry.
* * *
"Dear" (printed in fancy gold embossed engraving) "Del Ironfoundersdaughter" (scribbled in black ink)
"You are invited to a Show of Fashion commencing at Eleven P.M tonight at the home of Lady Charnel, 24 Bournemouth St Ankh-Morkpork, celebrating Glamourouse Rayment and All That Is Latest in Forward Fashion including that which is Ready to Ware. Light refreshements will not be served. Dress: To Impresse."
* * *
Sergeant Colon was behind the front desk when the doors burst open again, revealing the red-faced, puffing and frantic figure of Corporal Nobbs.
"Sarge! You'd better come quick! It's Carrot's lass, I followed her home, an' something weird's going on!"
"Steady on, Nobby. You followed Miss Del - I mean, Lance-Constable Ironfoundersdaughter - home?"
"Carrot's orders, sarge! He told me to see she got home safe, an' just as well too!"
"Why, what'd you see?"
Still gasping breathlessly, Nobby reached out both hands to steady himself against the old butcher's table which did duty as a reception desk at Psuedopolis Yard.
"Well, she got home to Angua's house, right, and found this letter on the doormat. Dunno what was in it, but she read it through and was off like a shot, Sarge. Had a job tailing her, but she made it to Bournemouth St, and disappeared into this dead posh house."
Colon raised an eyebrow. "Oho! Visiting a young man, was she? Well, old Carrot won't be too pleased about that, but it happens to us all sooner or later, I'm sure he'll - "
"No, sarge! I got up to the house, right, an' climbed up -"
"The drainpipe?"
"You know that never works, sarge. I climbed up the house next door on account of someone was doing the guttering and left up a ladder. Got onna roof and jumped across and looked through the skylight, right. An' there was this big room inside, and all these nobs standin' around drinkin' champagne. And there was this, like, stage, see, only all long an' thin instead of square. And then this girl comes out with no clothes on!"
"Go on, Nobby."
"Only, it ain't just any girl, it's that Gerhardtina Sock that our miss went to school with! An' she's not quite in the, in the altogether, altogether, if you gets my meaning, sarge, she's wearing these bits of cloth tied around, likes, and it looks like someone's smacked her about an' given her two black eyes. And the lass walks up and down the long skinny stage and they all clap and drink their champagne. And then she goes out again... and comes back, wearin' different bits of cloth an' they all clap again! Ain't right in my book, sarge. Someone musta punched that poor girl out and made her parade around with no clothes on... and our Del's in there!".
Colon stood, his face settling grimly. "Right. Get Anthracite and Detritus -"
"They're off duty, sarge"
"I don't care. Grab something from the weapons room for everybody, and let's move!"
* * *
Del was standing by the stage door when Gerhardtina emerged. She'd changed into a more normal dress, but her face was still flushed and smeared with the strange cosmetics that left black circles around the hollows of her eyes. "Del! You made it! Aren't Em's dresses just amazing?"
Del frowned. "That's one word to describe - "
"I'm so glad you liked them! Come on now, darling, there's someone here you just have to meet!" Gerhardtina grabbed Del by the hand and towed her in the direction of the bar.
Darling? In the eleven years they'd known one another, Gerhardtina had addressed her by such affectionate epiphets as 'Wonko', 'Clumsy Slag', 'Ironfistedslaughter' and even (when she was feeling particularly vindictive) 'Delphine', but 'darling' was a hitherto unknown form of address. However, Del didn't have long to worry about it; through the blasts of excitingly coloured smoke and ranks of chattering people she could just glimpse the quarry Gerhardtina was steering them towards. Broad shoulders, a tumbling fringe of inky black hair; lazy, heavy-lidded indigo eyes, oh no oh no oh no...
"Little Delphine Ironfoundersdaughter! My gods, it's been forever, how ARE you?"
Bloody hell. Sammy Vimes.
* * *
"Manny? What's wrong?"
"Mr. Blannick?"
"Wake up, Manny lad, it's knocking-off time".
The figure of Manny Blannick sat upright and oblivious, staring into space as his assistants shook him, poked his shoulders and waved their hands in front of his face in an effort to draw a response. His eyes were locked on a point somewhere towards the back of the room, his face frozen in a vague half-smile as he dreamed of footwear...
* * *
The charm, manners and personal appearance of young Lord Samuel Havelock Ramkin Vimes remained more or less a mystery to those who followed the lineage of Ankh-Morpork's noble families*. How the boy had managed to combine the Ramkin family DNA (which ran to height and bulk, brisk efficiency and good strong shouting voices) with the Vimes genetic legacy (scruffiness, dark hair, chronically snaky tempers) and come out with something resembling a Holy Wood matinee idol remained a generally well- concealed secret. Yet somehow, combine them he had; the offspring of a former street-pounding policeman and the city's premier lady breeder of fancy swamp dragons had turned out to be one of Ankh-Morpork's most eligible young noblemen. From his elegant fall of pitch-black hair to the tips of his feet (shod in a pair of rather fetching boots a young admirer picked up for him at Blannick's that morning), Samuel exuded the kind of aura that causes young girls to blush and dream of they-know-not-what, and middle-aged women to keep perfectly straight faces while they contemplate they-know-exactly-what. With his father's approval (and his mother's secret relief) the young Lord Vimes had politely declined the opportunity to join the Watch on his eighteenth birthday, and instead was rumoured to spend his days fulfilling the duties formerly carried out by the late Rufus Drumknott as Undersecretary to Lord Vetinari. His nights, as chronicled by the A- M.W.M.F.W-W-E-P-A-S-M-G-A-P-W-A-L-M-M-T-T**, were generally spent at glamourous parties, accompanied by a string of beauties from the city's most gracious and noble families.
Del hadn't spent much time with Samuel since they were small. They had solemnly traded unwanted Hogswatchnight presents (her ebony comb-and-brush set for his new lacrosse stick) the day before Samuel had left for Hugglestones, a particularly unpleasant boarding school that his maternal great-aunt had insisted he attend.
* The ranks of those pursuing this particular interest had increased significantly following William de Worde's (reluctant) publication of the 'ANKH-MORPORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE FOR WOMEN-WHO-ENJOY-POINTLESS-AND-SLIGHTLY- MALICIOUS-GOSSIP-ABOUT-PEOPLE-WITH-A-LOT-MORE-MONEY-THAN-THEM'.
** Which Del certainly never read. Never, ever, ever, EVER. Under any circumstances. Not even if someone had happened to leave a copy in the Watch House tea room with the crossword only half done...
* * *
From "Misftrefs Apollonia's Guide To Moddern Ettiquete and Hostessery", p.75
"On being introduced to a Young Gentilmanne of Equal or Greater Ranke, a Young Ladie should make a Courtesey, and express pleasure at the meetinge; honoure &tc. Under no circumstaunces shoulde she Babble, make unnecessary speech or otherwise appear Ill-Bredd or Rude. She shoulde of course also endeavoure to appear Well Groomed and most Pleasinge to the Eye while this introduction takes playse."
* * *
"Sammy. Er, um, I mean, Lord Samuel, I should say. Your grace. Er. Nice to see you again."
"Likewise, I'm sure, my dear cousin Delphine."
There was an awkward pause. Del could feel the heat rising from under her breastplate and suffusing her face in a horrible shade of ruptured-blood- vessel fuschia that clashed violently with her carrotty hair. Gods, she couldn't even blush attractively. At moments like this, she was always self- conscious of the size of her shoulders, hip-bones, hands and feet, felt herself filling the room like some sort of outsized giantess. At this particular moment, she was also painfully aware that she was dressed in rough brown breeches, a copper breastplate and sweaty helmet hair in a roomful of exquisitely coiffed nobles. Gerhardtina broke the silence as diplomatically as possible
"Lord Samuel, you will have heard that Del is a Watchwoman?"
Del's face having turned as hectically pink as physically possible, her ears began to get in on the act. "I've only just joined two days ago."
"Splendid, splendid. That explains the costume, of course. Very suitable. And - how charming! - do I detect a a hint of lemon scent?"
Del squinted determinedly down at the bleach-charred toecaps of her boots. "Lemon scent. Yes. That's right, your Lordship." It was going to be a long evening...
to be continued...
