Hot and Cold
Chapter 8
Vimes strode to the front of Pseudopolis Yard and found that there really was a coach waiting for him. It wasn't from the mansion, that much he knew, and somehow that made it all the worse. The suspicious bastard in him reared its head, tetchy and restless.
A fresh-faced young man in a coachman's hat and tailcoat stood expectantly. When he saw Vimes, the man clicked his heels and saluted. "Afternoon, sir," he said smartly.
Vimes nodded and the man put his hand down swiftly. "Afternoon," said Vimes. "Now d'you mind telling me who the hell you are and where you think you're taking me?"
The coachman flicked his eyes once towards Vimes then continued staring a meter away from him. "I've orders to take you to Camembart Hall, sir, for the awarding of the Literatum Triumvirate." When Vimes's expression remained blank, the man cleared his throat and produced a posh-looking envelope sealed with red wax. "I was told that this might happen, sir, so they had me bring an extra," said the coachman.
Vimes took the envelope and broke the seal. Inside was an invitation that looked strangely familiar. It was familiar because he had read it once, and he most likely dismissed it as one of those things that would happen in the distant future. Coppers like him had a weak sense of hereafter, not when they were too busy with the here-and-now.
But then he remembered. The first invitation was sent to him at home a few weeks ago, but he was so godsdamn exhausted from the Watch that he absent-mindedly passed the letter to Sybil...and there was no doubt that she replied 'yes' for the both of them and now it's come back to haunt him.
Vimes mentally slapped himself on the forehead.
Well, nothing could be done about it, thought vimes. He certainly could not refuse to come, not when Sybil was there and expecting him. There were just some things that you don't say no to, not if you want to live, and a riled-up Ramkin is one of them...
He moved forward but the coachman stretched out his hand over the coach door to stop him. "Now, listen here," said Vimes, voice dripping with menace, "I'm coming already, so I don't want any more fooling around."
The coachman gulped nervously but stood his guard. "No, sir," he answered. "Strictly a formal affair, sir, I'm afraid," he paused. "Not a come-as-you-are."
Bloody wonderful, Vimes thought. Not only is it a party, it's a ridiculous costume party, and he wasn't invited as the Commander of the City Watch but as the Duke of Ankh. As Commander, everyone knew that he would never stand these kinds of affairs, not while he lived and breathed. But being a duke, that was a different bowl of porridge altogether, 'cos suddenly there were things like Vetinari's 'incumbence of society' and Fred's 'nobless obligay'. He'd be expected to wear the gilded armour and the cloak with the silly trimmings but not the tights. He insisted on that. If they wanted the tights on the party then they might as well take it, because he wasn't going.
"Fine," Vimes said with clenched jaws. "But we're going to Scoone Avenue first. I don't have my fancy cloak with me, so you're gonna have to take me there," he paused and looked the coachman square in the eye, "that is, if you don't mind."
The coachman's adam's apple wobbled in his throat. "Er, yessir, not a problem, sir," he said, and when he realised that his arm was still blocking the way, the offending limb was retracted in a second.
Vimes climbed into the coach. When Cheery tried to follow, the coachman stuck his arm out once more. "You really wouldn't want to do that again," Vimes said to the coachman. "You might accidentally break your arm when I hit it with the coach door."
The coachman removed his arm and put it behind his back protectively. "Take it easy," Vimes said dryly, "and let her in, she's with me."
Despite Vimes's words, Cheery still stepped back timidly. "Er, maybe it can just wait for later, sir," she said.
Vimes beckoned her inside nevertheless. "Now, Corporal, I'll have none of that," he said. "Our good man here will have you dropped off on the way back, won't you, good chap?" Vimes grinned at the coachman humorlessly, and the coachman, in turn, bobbed his head rapidly several times. "See?" Vimes said.
Cheery appeared to have changed her mind and went up the coach to sit beside Vimes. The coachman, on the other hand, sat carefully on the other side. There was the sound of a whip cracking and the coach began to move.
Inside, the coachman was careful to avoid Vimes's gaze, but he was in rotten luck, because Vimes was in the mood for a round of questions-and-answers. He gave the man his beadiest glare and said, in a tone that could rake over wet soil, "So...what's your name, lad?"
The coachman cleared his throat. "Erm, A-abner...sir," he squeaked.
"Abner," Vimes said slowly, not taking his eyes off the coachman for one second, "Now what made you think that you can drag the Commander of the City Watch from his office, away from his duties, and into some ring-around-the-rosy in silly hats and wrong-cut tights scuttering about nibbling on food bits no bigger than my thumb walking like I have the Patrician's cane up my arse?"
Abner took a moment to hear the rest of the sentence, and when he did, his only reply was, "Uh, sir?" and a puzzled look.
Vimes sighed and leaned wearily on the backrest. "Who sent you, lad?" he said, and when Abner kept gazing nervously out the window, he continued. "Well, can't you take it easy a bit? I can see they had your screws on too tight..."
Abner took a deep breath. "Yes, sir...no sir...I mean, they haven't screwed me on tight," he said, no longer as shaky. "It was Lord Rompus who called for me, sir. It seems that he and the Patrician wanted you at the ceremony...and Lady Ramkin, too. They told me to fetch you, sir, and they said that the Duke of Ankh can not miss it for the world. So you see..."
"Yes, yes," Vimes said, "I get the point. They've ganged up on me."
And it wouldn't be the first time too. Vetinari knew that he only need come to Sybil to get Vimes to do the things he wouldn't for the life of him do. The man's positively mercenary in more ways than one. And then there were the words: Can not miss it for the world. Note that it's can not, not can't...meaning his absence would not only warrant a casual remark and a blip at the society pages. There would be consequences.
They forgot one thing, though, and that was the fundamental fact that Vimes was Vimes, who, come hell or high water, would find a way to wriggle himself out of a nasty tangle. And what a nasty tangle indeed this was.
That was why he brought Cheery along.
"Corporal," Vimes said, turning to Cheery with a little more torque than necessary, "What news did you say you have?"
It was not unusual for Vimes to rattle off questions in the most random of times. The Watch worked 'round the clock, and he was not above interrupting his Watchmen during teatimes and breaks if it had to do with an investigation, and that meant working lunches and working coach rides as well. Once, he had followed a Constable to the privy when he, that is the Constable, couldn't hold it in anymore during an important report.
Cheery, who had been quiet so far, had been collecting her thoughts long enough. "Well, we've got the Cooper boy off the river the other day, sir, but you know that," Cheery began. "Anyway, I had him taken down to the cellar at Pseudopolis Yard, as you said, and I had the body examined more closely with Igor's help."
"What did you find out?" Vimes said. "Something pointing to the murderer?"
Cheery was swinging her legs. "Nothing so specific sir," she said. "But we saw that he had died of strangulation by garrote."
Vimes was about to ask a question when Cheery beat him to it. "It was very late in the night when we retrieved the body, sir, so we couldn't have noticed," she said, and Vimes nodded. "Very fine piece of wire or string it was, too. Anyhow, we thought that was it when Igor noticed something on the boy's fingertips. At first, we thought it was this white powder..."
"Slunkie?" said Vimes. Not one of the more popular troll drugs, he knew. It was more expensive than Slab, which was the favorite among gutter trolls. He heard that it had effects similar to squeezing oneself into a fine mesh strainer, followed by the sensation of being a pebble inside a maracas being shaken by a spastic monkey.
Question was, how does a young man get involved with troll drugs? He'd never heard of any of the 'Big Bad Esses' having an effect on humans. It wasn't a matter of trying, because there was no doubt that there was some bloody idiot in Ankh-Morpork who had already tried troll drugs; his experience as a copper could say that much. 'Cos when you stick a bunch of people together and force them to live in the same little space and breath in the same stale air, some of them would inevitably do the dumbest things. The point was, if they did, Vimes would certainly know about it.
Cheery shook her head. "That's exactly what I thought, sir," she said. "I thought it had something to do with drugs...maybe the boy had a scuffle with a dealer, which, if so, would rule out trolls because they don't do strangulation. But then I had it tested, and, well...it didn't turn out to be Slunkie at all..."
"Not Slunkie?" Vimes said. "Well what is it? Slake?"
"No, sir," Cheery said.
"Slam?" he said.
"No, sir."
"Well, you just nod your head...er...Slam-bang, Slapper, Slate...Slick...erm, Slippy,Slope...Slog, Slug...no? None of those?" Vimes drew back in surprise. "It's probably bloody talcum powder then," he joked.
"Close enough, sir," Cheery said in a sardonic tone. "It was fine salt."
"Salt?" he said. "That's new." Vimes noted that Cheery was still trying hard to contain her enthusiasm, which only meant that there was something more. "Well, Cheery," he said, "out with it."
"We took some scrapings from the nails, sir," Cheery said brightly, "for the testing, but we found something else aside from the salt...there were bits of skin too."
Skin...bits of skin, Vimes thought. Young Cooper most likely fought back. Boy gets strangled, boy struggles...he claws at his killer, takes a bit of skin...takes a lot of salt with him, too. Now where could a lot of salt be found?
Vimes drummed his fingers on his knee for some moment and contemplated some more. A few minutes passed and the coach jerked up and down on gravel before coming to a direct halt in front of the Ramkin Mansion at Scoone Avenue. Vimes sat still, unmoving.
"Sir?" Cheery said. No response.
"Sir Samuel?" Abner said, shaking him lightly. "We're here, sir."
Vimes jolted back to reality. "Huh," he said with a measure of surprise, "We're here?"
"I think so, sir," said Cheery. "Unless we ended up on the wrong block."
Vimes alighted the coach. "Very funny, Corporal. Now you...and you...wait here and I'll go get changed," Vimes said, before disappearing into the house.
Abner turned to Cheery. "Er, does he always-" Abner said.
Cheery shrugged. "Yeah, coppers," she said, still staring at the door. "You should hear him when he orders lunch at Harga's."
When Vimes returned, he had already donned the shiny armour, the fancy cloak and the feathered helmet. He gleamed. The rest of him, however, was offset by the darkness of his expression.
"Not-a-word," Vimes growled, and stormed past Cheery and Abner. He boarded the coach and sat down with a huff.
"Wasn't gonna say anything, sir," Cheery said, taking his place beside Vimes.
Abner got on last, and he rapped the coach as a signal that they were good to go. The horses trotted on and they moved forward. They remained quiet for a while; Cheery and Abner distracted themselves with the view by the window while Vimes remained deep in thought.
They were about to turn the corner that led to Pseudopolis Yard when Cheery spoke. "Er, sir?" she said.
Vimes turned towards her. "Yes, Corporal?" He answered.
"You have any orders, sir, for when I return to the Yard?"
Vimes didn't answer for a moment, but instead tugged at his chin. "Hum," he said. "I might, yes...well, I want you to speak to Carrot and tell him to get a team together and go take a look around the salt merchants throughout the city, starting with those closest to the Coopers' house." Vimes paused and tapped at his knee. "Oh, and go get someone to speak to the boy's father again, but this time ask about anything that might tie the boy up to...er, salt." He sighed and shook his head. "We'll make heads-or-tails with this business yet, Corporal, we just have to find the right angles."
"I'm sure we will, sir," Cheery said with a nod. "I'll have Corporal Shoe over to the Coopers' then, sir. He was the one who spoke to the father before," she went on.
Vimes approved with a tilt of his head. "Good," said Vimes. "And another thing, have Igor come by my office...when I get back. I want to speak to him."
"Alright, sir...anything else?" Cheery said.
Vimes seemed to hesitate, but he let it go in a moment. "One last thing, Cheery," Vimes said urgently. "Be sure to get our friend at the first cell by seven this evening."
Cheery looked at Vimes with a measure of reasonable doubt. "Say that again, sir?" she said, head tilted in question.
"The man," Vimes said with some emphasis, "at the first cell has to be let go by seven tonight."
Cheery raised an insubordinate eyebrow; Vimes hoped Abner missed it. "But, sir, we don't have-" she said, but Vimes interrupted him.
"Exactly!" Vimes said, a little more intensely than intended. "We don't have anything on him, so just come by the cell at seven, take him out and let him go...any questions?"
Cheery took a moment, but when realization finally dawned, her face went bright as a sunbeam on a patch of earth. She was about to speak when Vimes gave her a meaningful look and an almost imperceptible shake of the head.
"Right, sir, got it," Cheery said brightly. "At seven I'll have to go down to the first cell, that is, at the Yard...open it up...take our friend out...and let him go."
"The long and short of it, Corporal, yes," Vimes said.
Cheery twiddled her thumbs. "But, sir, what if," she paused, "what if they ask me why?"
Vimes gave her a look. "What do you mean 'if they ask'?" he said. "Then tell them a six, you know that, and they won't ask anymore."
"Right you are, sir," Cheery said with a somewhat satisfied look.
The coach stopped by in front of Pseudopolis Yard. Abner opened the door for Cheery, and she hopped to the ground. When she turned around, she gave Vimes a quick salute before making a run for the entrance.
The coach rattled and left a trail of dust.
Vimes settled more comfortably into the seat and thought about the prospect of another dismal party. He ought to have been used to it by now, he knew, but there are just some things in life that people aren't built to stand. As a copper, he was used to searching for truth, hoping in the end to find some semblance of justice. But when he is in a roomful of prating nobs, the sheer speed and levity at which lies were told was enough to give him a headache in seconds.
He turned to find Abner with a look on his face.
"What are you so smug about?" Vimes asked.
Abner shrugged. "Nothing, sir," he said. "Not when I see you and her making such an effort back there." When Vimes's expression remained neutral, he continued. "The man, the cell? She's gonna bust you out of the ceremony later, isn't she?"
If Vimes was surprised, he certainly didn't let it show. "So what if she is?" he said.
Abner gave a weak smile. "I just want to say that you needn't have bothered speaking in code, sir," he said reassuringly.
"How would I know if you wouldn't rat me out to your master, eh?" Vimes asked.
The coachman met his eye. "It's my job to take you to the Hall, sir," he said. "Not to keep you in it. My job's much easier, that's for certain. As for your Corporal, I'm sure she could do a good six."
Vimes's jaw dropped. "You don't happen to work for me, do you?" he said, surprised.
"No, sir," Abner said. "That'd be my brother. He's the copper in the fam'ly."
"Oh, and he's ratting out our Watch code isn't he?" Vimes accused. "I'll have none of that!"
Abner drew back in his seat. "To be fair, sir," said he in a small voice, "I think the whole city knows. Now, I wouldn't overstep my boundaries, sir, but I s'pose you could have the code shuffled every few weeks or so, 'cos when you have your coppers encountering and communicating with criminals on a daily basis, it'd take a week before they all knew that 'six' meant 'lie' and 'seven' meant a 'swift bop with a truncheon'."
Vimes, to his own surprise, listened intently. He felt a little regret, for himself, for letting everything get out of proportion. It was good, he admitted, to have a fully-functioning Watch in the city, but sometimes he wanted nothing more than to have his ear on the ground again. And his boots...come to that.
Vimes drew himself up. "Oh yeah, if you seem to know so much, why don't you make it official then?" he challenged.
Abner was silent. When he spoke, it came out sounding almost like a squeak. "Are you...offering me a job, sir?" he said in wonder.
Vimes smirked. "Maybe," he said.
Whatever brightness Abner had suddenly faded in an instant. "Oh," he said, as though he remembered something. "Couldn't take it, sir. Got a contract with the Guild. I can't break it, not on my life, sir.
"Wasn't gonna give it to you, anyhow," Vimes said, a little bitterly. He could sense that the lad had brains, and he was wasting it on some stupid mindless job fetching people in carriages. "And what sort of Guild had indentured coachmen? Couldn't you come to an arrangement if you talk them into it?"
Abner's eyes widened. "Oh no, sir," he said, "not this guild. The Guild of Arts and Letters have very strict policies, and they have their ways of sticking to it."
Vimes's mind rolled inside his head. Guild of Arts and Letters...now what the hell was that? That's what it said on the invitation, he knew, but he thought it was just another hobnobbing with the nobs of the city...
The coachman seemed to have read his mind. "The Guild guards the Literature and the Arts of Ankh-Morpork, sir," he said. "'S what it says on the pamphlet, at least."
"Pamphlet," Vimes said pointedly.
"They give out some...to those who, er, come to visit them...I think, sir." Abner said.
Vimes had never heard of the Guild. "Since when?" he said. "Since yesterday?"
Abner shook his head. "No, sir!" he said. "The Guild has been around since the monarchy. By royal sanction, sir."
"Then where's their Guild house, eh?" Vimes said. "Behind the 'Aa' to 'Ac' bookshelf at the Library's non-extant fiction section?"
Abner looked like he was word short of being offended. "I told you, sir," he said wearily. "It's at Camembart Hall at Quarteredman Avenue."
Vimes scoffed. "Yeah, sure, a building I've never heard of in a street I've passed a billion times," he said. "And what's this business with the Liter-wossnames, anyhow?"
Abner sighed. "Literatum Triumvirate, sir," he said.
"That," Vimes said, suddenly feeling silly for knowing so little. "They award it, eh?"
Abner nodded. "It's an award, sir," he replied. "And an appointment. Every half a century the Guild calls three of the best literary writers in Ankh-Morpork, their whole body of work is judged, and, if they are worthy, they are inducted into the Hall of Triumvirates, as well as the Guild Council. It's a great honor, sir, to have it."
"Oh," Vimes said. His knowledge of Literature began and ended with the books he read before he joined the Watch, which were mostly children's stories, fables and such. The last book he read was the 'Laws of Ankh-Morpork' and it shamed him to admit that he gave up on the book halfway. Then again, most of the citizens in the city knew about books by the feel of it on their bum...especially now that toilet paper had gotten expensive while Grandpa's old books just sat in the attic.
So, Vimes thought, they want him to appear at some swanky awards ceremony given once in a lifetime. Why did he feel that it would be full of pretentious sods?
The coach eventually slowed down and came to a halt on the turnwise end of Quarteredman Avenue, beside a fountain that featured a figure of a muscled young man steadily piddling on a stair of sculptured shells. Abner leaned to the window and pointed, "This, sir, is Camembart Hall."
Vimes climbed down the carriage and looked at the building. "This is the Guild House?" he said in genuine surprise.
"Built especially for the Guild, sir," Abner said.
Vimes had seen the building before, only he didn't notice it. It was like the others in the street: a bit posh and deteriorated somewhat by age. The whole of Quarteredman Avenue was built end-to-end that way; the style was dominantly Ephebian, and, if Ankh-Morpork had a true Hall of Justice, it would be located there. Something about the ivory white columns just made it right.
He was sure, however, that the building Abner pointed to had been abandoned for a long time. He didn't look in, of course. He just knew, like everyone else, that nobody ever went in anymore and the lights were never lit at night.
He turned to Abner. "But I always thought it was just an odd abandoned building!" he said. "I never saw anyone come in or leave...and at night it's always dark."
"They come through the back, sir," Abner said, "and, er, they keep early hours."
"Oh," Vimes said, still wondering at the building's facade and the true but nevertheless strange thought that Ankh-Morpork, in all probability, still had the ability to surprise him.
Abner coughed behind him. "Er, sir?" he said. "If you don't mind me reminding you, sir, but I think they're waiting for you inside. We have to take you to the back...if you'll just step in the coach."
"No, I know my way behind that alley," Vimes said. "But thank you, Abner."
"Just doing my job, sir," he said.
Vimes shook his head. "No, for reminding me that life's still full of surprises."
The coachman watched as Vimes walked and disappeared through the alley that would take him to the back, then, when the man was gone, he went back to the coach and hopped up beside the driver.
"You wouldn't believe it," Abner said, "but Commander Vimes wot just offered me a job in the Watch."
"Tha's nice, Abner," the driver said. "Too bad you couldn't take it. Rompus'll be keen on you, if you did."
Abner looked down sadly. "I know," he said, "I know. Would've been great, though."
A whip cracked in the silence of the street, and the coach wheels turned over the cobbles in the fading afternoon.
A/N: There's still a second part for this guys...that means more Vimes. But it's all still in here *taps temple*. Also, school has started over here and I have to get cracking on my biology thesis, because...College. That means, I'll be cracking like mad to update this thing. I do know that there are some of you out there who are following this thing (uh...I think), so I'm doing this for you guys. I'll keep the story alive to the best of my ability.