Men at Arms

“Could be from the forge,” said Carrot. “Anyway, trolls and dwarfs have been letting fireworks off all over the city.”

Vimes nodded.

“All right,” he said, “so what can we see?”

“Someone thumped the wall pretty hard just here,” said Carrot.

“Could have happened at any time,” said Vimes.

“No, sir, because there's the plaster dust underneath and a dwarf always keeps his workshop clean.”

“Really?”

There were various weapons, some of them half finished, on racks by the bench. Vimes picked up most of a crossbow.

“He did good work,” he said. “Very good at mechanisms.”

“Well known for it,” said Carrot, poking around aimlessly on the bench. “A very delicate hand. He made musical boxes for a hobby. Could never resist a mechanical challenge. Er. What are we looking for actually, sir?”

“Not sure. Now this is good…”

It was a war axe, and so heavy that Vimes' arm sagged. Intricate etched lines covered the blade. It must have represented weeks of work.

“Not your actual Saturday night special, eh?”

“Oh no,” said Carrot, “that's a burial weapon.”

“I should think it is!”

“I mean, it's made to be buried with a dwarf. Every dwarf is buried with a weapon. You know? To take with him to… wherever he's going.”

“But it's fine workmanship! And it's got an edge like—aargh,” Vimes sucked his finger, “like a razor.”

Carrot looked shocked. “Of course. It'd be no good him facing them with an inferior weapon.”

“What them are you talking about?”

“Anything bad he encounters on his journey after death,” said Carrot, a shade awkwardly.

“Ah.” Vimes hesitated. This was an area in which he did not feel comfortable.

“It's an ancient tradition,” said Carrot.

“I thought dwarfs didn't believe in devils and demons and stuff like that.”

“That's true, but… we're not sure if they know.”

“Oh.”

Vimes laid down the axe and picked up something else from the work rack. It was a knight in armour, about nine inches high. There was a key in its back. He turned it, and then nearly dropped the thing when the figure's legs started to move. He put it down, and it began to march stiffly across the floor, waving its sword.

“Moves a bit like Colon, don't it,” said Vimes. “Clockwork!”

“It's the coming thing,” said Carrot. “Mr Hammerhock was good at that.”

Vimes nodded. “We're looking for anything that shouldn't be here,” he said. “Or something that should be and isn't. Is there anything missing?”

“Hard to say, sir. It isn't here.”

“What?”

“Anything that's missing, sir,” said Carrot conscientiously.

“I mean,” said Vimes, patiently, “anything not here which you'd expect to find.”

“Well, he's got—he had—all the usual tools, sir. Nice ones, too. Shame, really.”

“What is?”

“They'll be melted down, of course.”

Vimes stared at the neat racks of hammers and files.

“Why? Can't some other dwarf use them?”

“What, use another dwarf's actual tools?” Carrot's mouth twisted in distaste, as though someone had suggested he wear Corporal Nobbs' old shorts. “Oh, no. that's not… right. I mean, they're… part of him. I mean… someone else using them, after he's used them all these years, I mean… urrgh.”

“Really?”

The clockwork soldier marched under the bench.

“It'd feel… wrong,” said Carrot. “Er. Yukky.”

“Oh.” Vimes stood up.

“Capt—”

“Ow!”

“—mind your head. Sorry.”

Rubbing his head with one hand, Vimes used the other to examine the hole in the plaster.

“There's… something in here,” he said. “Pass me one of those chisels.”

There was silence.

“A chisel, please. If it makes you feel any better, we are trying to find out who killed Mr Hammerhock. All right?”

Carrot picked one up, but with considerable reluctance.

“This is Mr Hammerhock's chisel, this is,” he said reproachfully.

“Corporal Carrot, will you stop being a dwarf for two seconds? You're a guard! And give me the damn chisel! It's been a long day! Thank you!”

Vimes prised at the brickwork, and a rough disc of lead dropped into his hand.

“Slingshot?” said Carrot.

“No room in here,” said Vimes. “Anyway, how the hell could it get this far into the wall?”

He slipped the disc into his pocket.

“That seems about it, then,” he said, straightening up. “We'd better—ow!—oh, fish out that clockwork soldier, will you? Better leave the place tidy.”

Carrot scrabbled in the darkness under the bench. There was a rustling noise.

“There's a piece of paper under here, sir.”

Carrot emerged, waving a small yellowing sheet. Vimes squinted at it.

“Looks like nonsense to me,” he said, eventually. “It's not dwarfish, I know that. But these symbols—these things I've seen before. Or something like them.” He passed the paper back to Carrot. “What can you make of it?”

Carrot frowned. “I could make a hat,” he said, “or a boat. Or a sort of chrysanthemum—”

“I mean the symbols. These symbols, just here.”

“Dunno, captain. They do look familiar, though. Sort of… like alchemists' writing?”

“Oh, no!” Vimes put his hands over his eyes. “Not the bloody alchemists! Oh, no! Not that bloody gang of mad firework merchants! I can take the Assassins, but not those idiots! No! Please! What time is it?”