Chapter 16 - Discoveries

The Watchmen marched smartly along the alley, still trailed by the more determined members of the crowd. They hadn't seen a zombie troll before, and they were hoping he might wake up, or failing that, his head might fall off. And, even with only a few days experience, they already knew that the new little blonde Watchman was worth trailing. She attracted trouble like the zombie troll was attracting flies.

So far, however, nothing exciting had happened - and several of the crowd began to drift away as the expedition reached the residential quarter.

Then Angua's head came up, and her nostrils flared. "Fire!" she said sharply, just as Buffybot and Buffy's heads turned in unison in the same direction.

"And someone's crying for help!" cried Buffybot, thrilled. She broke into a run, closely followed by the Slayer.

Vimes paused only to blow his whistle, and then he hurried after them, cursing. First dragons, then vampires, then zombie trolls, then a fire. It was another crappy week in the Watch.

The two Buffys and Angua proved to be humiliatingly faster on their feet than a middle aged watch commander, although he did just manage to outstrip Detritus, who was still burdened by Porphyry. He arrived, out of breath, to find a milling mob standing outside a large anonymous warehouse, from the open doors of which smoke billowed. The more organised members of the crowd were already setting out to demolish the buildings on either side of the warehouse, to try and contain the fire. Vimes pointed Detritus in their direction, and walked over as near to the fire as he could bear. He frowned. The shattered doors had been blown inwards - surely a fire, or explosion would blow them outwards? He filed the observation to consider later, and moved toward the open door, just as a small blonde figure emerged from the smoke, a robed figure draped over her shoulder. Sergeant Angua followed a pace behind.

There was spontaneous applause from the crowd, and the flash of a photographer's fire salamander. Vimes rolled his eyes. He might have guessed Otto would be here somewhere.

Buffy slid her burden from her shoulder, and into the waiting arms of several burly bystanders. "Bottie's just checking around the back, but I guess everyone else must have gotten out. I couldn't sense anyone anyway." She looked around. "Is the fire department coming? If you have a fire department?"

Vimes resisted the temptation to explain the difficulties associated with trying to scoop the contents of the Ankh into a bucket, and the danger of it catching fire if your threw it over something hot, and instead raised an eyebrow at Angua. She nodded. "No sign of any more people. But it would be nice to preserve the evidence in there." She counted off on her fingers, "a lot of what you might call 'interesting' statues, a silver pentagram, an altar with suggestive stains, and several knotted ropes, a number of them broken - plus some very shiny knives and axes scattered on the floor among a number of odd scorch marks. It might be the weekly meeting of the Ankh Morpork Hobby and Crafts Group, but I doubt it, Sir."

Vimes snarled. Bloody magic again. Why wouldn't people leave it alone? He looked coldly at the robed figure lying on the pavement, and resisted the urge to kick it. "Awake, is he?"

The man bending over him - Albert Grimper, thought Vimes absently, got a cobbler's shop in the next street - looked up. "E's awake Commander Vimes, sir, but deeeleerious. Babbling about some kind of bloodsucker tryin' to peck out his eyeballs. Poor feller."

Vimes looked down at the prone figure. He did have a feverish look, under all the smoke stain and bruises. Skinny bloke, with receding hair, and unfortunate teeth. Ah. He gazed around the small crowd. "Anyone recognise him?" There was a general shaking of heads.

"Sounds posh, though," offered Albert. "Like he's got a plum stuck in his gob. And I just happened to notice he's wearing a very nice ring on his pinkie finger."

Vimes bent down and looked at the ring for a moment. After all, it probably wouldn't still be there by the time the fallen brother reached home. "So I see," he said, getting to his feet, "so I see."

"Hi everyone!"

Vimes turned, his back stiffening. Why was that voice so very annoying?

Buffybot came bouncing around the corner of the warehouse, her face heavily smudged with soot, orb swinging from its chain around her neck, and axe gleaming in her hand. The salamander flashed again, just as Buffybot delivered a dazzling smile to the waiting crowd.

"This is great," she said happily, "I've never been to a fire before!" She looked at the prone figure on the pavement, and her eyes widened, "Ooh! Buffy got to rescue someone." She looked sad. "I didn't rescue anybody, except for a big black bird - and he swore at me and flew away. I don't think that was very polite, do you?"

There was a great clanging sound in the distance, and everyone turned. Barrelling along the street was the Ankh Morpork fire cart, buckets of sand dangling from every strut, wrecking ball swinging, and ten solemn golems on board. The fire didn't stand a chance.

Ernest Winkelson limped painfully along beside the banks of the River Ankh, cradling his injured arm against his chest, and cursing under his breath. Curse all vampires! Especially husky-voiced lady vampires, with curvaceous figures, exotic perfume, luminous dark eyes - and fingers that could close on a man's arm like a bear trap. He'd nearly had her, he knew it. He paused for a moment to savour the thought of what he could have done to Lady Margolotta with his binding spell in place, and then he cursed again, with even greater vigour. Last night he had had nearly everything and the Orb had been close enough for him to almost feel it in his palm.

Now he had nearly nothing. The Brotherhood were scattered or dead, and those left alive were extremely likely to blame him for their troubles. His plot was in disarray, and his secret plan almost certainly uncovered to the authorities. His bag was lost, and with it most of the banked and bottled magic he had worked so hard to acquire, leaving his power over the world of the dead much diminished. And to top it all a goat had trodden on his foot.

But he still had his ring. And the orb was still at large. He looked down at his clenched fist, where the sapphire glowed in the darkness. And with that he still controlled that annoyingly crude and slouching alien vampire he had summoned from another world, as well as that idiot Porphry. With a pair of servants like that at his beck and call, surely he could still pull something out of the fire?

Vimes paced Lord Vetinari's anteroom, trying not to look at his fellow visitors. Two sodding vampires, in one place. Sitting side by side and looking offensively relaxed. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and his hand twitch for the feel of a stake resting in its palm. He looked across at Buffy, who stood against the wall, giving Lady Margolotta a narrow eyed cop's stare. It would seem that she didn't like vampires either. Smart woman.

Lady Margolotta whispered something and patted the other vampire - Spike, wasn't it? - on the arm. Buffy's gaze narrowed still further, and her nostrils flared.

The blond vampire smirked at her, and quirked an eyebrow. "Got a problem, Slayer?"

Buffy folded her arms. "I'm just trying to decide, when I finally get to stake you, if I should dump your ashes in a pot and grow a dandelion out of them, or if I should scatter them on the lawn to keep down the slugs."

Lady Margolotta smiled. "How sweet that you should want a memento, my dear."

Vimes growled under his breath. Vampire repartee. If Vetinari didn't show up very soon, he would ... The doors to Lord Vetinari's office opened with an ominous creak. It's like he knows, thought Vimes, savagely. He strode through the door, his steel capped boots echoing like pistol shots on the floor tiles. Buffy, Lady Margolotta and Spike followed behind him, all silent.

"So," said Vimes, sitting heavily in Captain Carrot's chair, "we're looking for a bunch of stupid upper class twits with splinters, minor burns, and or the imprint of goat's horns on their bums."

"I suppose we could look for anyone sitting on a cushion, Sir," said Carrot brightly.

Buffybot nodded, excited.

Vimes gave them a look, and they gazed innocently back. They both probably really did think that was a good idea, he thought wearily. He looked around his assembled officers. "We are also looking for a skinny necromancer in an opera cloak and a top hat. Plus that bloody dragon, of course. Do give out those descriptions, please."

Sergeants Littlebottom and Detritus began to write in their notebooks, tongues curling in concentration. After a moment Detritus looked up.

"Do we know what colour is der dragon, sir?"

Vimes closed his eyes. "Multi-coloured, sergeant."

"And very pretty," added Buffybot. "A multi-coloured very pretty dragon. With big, big wings." She bounded over to help Detritus with his spelling.

Vimes leaned back in his chair. Vetinari's agents were no doubt hunting down the Brotherhood as he spoke, but Winkelson might be more of a challenge for them. Surely a necromancer knew a few tricks? His mind went back to the recent interview, and the vampire Spike's revelations. It wasn't news to him that various people in the City would like him - and Vetinari - dead. Many people, in fact. But trying to assassinate him by vampire was a new trick. He supposed he should be flattered. When he wasn't so furiously angry, of course. As for trying to foment unrest by unleashing a dragon - death's too good for them, he thought savagely. In fact, even what Vetinari has planned is probably too good for them.

He turned his jaundiced gaze to Buffybot, who had finished helping Detritus and was standing at ease, clearly full of pep. Vimes loathed pep. Especially first thing in the morning, and even more so when he'd gone 48 hours without sleep and his eyeballs felt as though they'd been rubbed with sandpaper. Buffybot's eyes were clear and bright, of course, and her breastplate gleamed. It was worse than working with a golem, he reflected, it really was.

Meanwhile, though, he had a problem. And it was hanging round his newest Lance Constable's neck. Lord Vetinari had not asked for the Orb, of course. Or indeed expressed any great interest in an artifact that could move the wearer between worlds. Nor had he seemed more than mildly interested in the news that The Slayer and Spike the Vampire came from such another world, not to be found on any map. Other than expressing a polite hope that they had not suffered from the Morpork Trots or caught any particularly virulent alien parasites during their time in the city, he had skated over the delicate matter entirely. Nonetheless, Vimes did not doubt that all things being equal, within a week Lord Vetinari would be in possession of the Orb, unless he took action fast. He cleared his throat. "Bott!"

Buffybot snapped to attention. "Yes, Commander Vimes, sir!"

Vimes gestured her to step forward. "I have a job for you."