Snuff

He shook his head. What a copper that man would make if properly led by human beings. He sighed. “Mr. Ten Gallons? I told you, Mr. Sillitoe has given me carte blanche. Can we discuss the matter of the goblins?”
    The giant growled, “I ain’t got no cart and I don’t know no Blanche, and I ain’t having no goblins on my deck, okay?”
    Vimes nodded, poker-faced, and looked exhaustedly at the deck. “Is that your last word, Mr. Ten Gallons?”
    â€œIt damn well is!”
    â€œOkay, this is mine.”
    Ten Gallons went over backward like a tree and began to sleep like a log.
    The street never leaves you…
    And what the University of the Street told you was that fighting was a science, the science of getting the opponent out of your face and facedown on the ground with the maximum amount of speed and the minimum of effort. After that, of course, you had a range of delightful possibilities and the leisure in which to consider them. But if you wanted to fight fair, or at least more fair than most of the other street options, then you had to know how to punch, and what to punch and from precisely which angle to punch it. Of course, his treasured brass knuckles were an optional but helpful extra but, Vimes thought as he tried to wring some blood back into his fingers, probably any court, after sight of Ten Gallons, would have forgiven Vimes, even if he used a sledgehammer.
    He looked at the brass knuckles. They hadn’t even bent: good old Ankh-Morpork know-how. The country may have the muscle but the city has got the technology, he thought, as he slipped them back in his pocket.
    â€œOkay, Mr. Feeney, let’s get them in, shall we? Find Stinky, he’s the brains of the outfit.”

P ossibly Stinky was the brains of the outfit. Even at the end Vimes was never certain just what Stinky was. But the goblins, spurred by his crunchy chattering, ran and leapt like ugly gazelles past Vimes and into the boat. He took one look at the growling death behind them, made the last jump into the boat and helped Feeney shut and bolt the doors. And that meant that now, with the ventilation gone, the bulls in the basement were getting nostrils full of goblin. It wasn’t, Vimes thought, all that bad when you got used to it—more alchemical than midden—but down below there was a lot of shouting and a jerk as the beasts tried to stampede inside their treadmill.
    Vimes ignored it, despite the shuddering of the boat, and shouted, “Let go of the barges, chief constable! I hope you really do know how!”
    Feeney nodded and opened the hatch in the floor. Spray blew in and stopped when he knelt down and stuck his hand into the hole.
    â€œTakes quite a few turns before they drop, commander. If I was you I’d be holding on to something when the iron ore goes!”
    Vimes elbowed his way through the terrified goblins, pulled himself with care up into the wheelhouse again, and tapped Gastric on the shoulder. “We’re dropping the barges any minute!” The pilot, still clinging to the wheel and squinting into the dark, gave a brief nod; nothing less than a scream would be heard in the wheelhouse now. The wind and debris had smashed every window.
    Vimes looked out of the rear window and saw the great, floating, flying desolation of lightning-laced wood, mud and tumbling rock closing in. For a moment he thought he saw a naked marble lady tumbling with the debris and clutching her marble shift as if defending the remains of her modesty from the deluge. He blinked and she was gone…Perhaps he’d imagined it…He shouted, “I hope you can swim, sir?” just as the damn slam caught up and the apparition called Stratford dived through the window and was fielded neatly by Vimes, to Stratford’s great surprise.
    â€œDo you think I’m a baby, Mr. Stratford? Do you think that I don’t think?”
    Stratford squirmed out of Vimes’s grip, spun neatly and threw a punch which Vimes very nearly dodged. It was harder than he had expected, and, to give a devil his due, Stratford knew how to defend and, perish the thought, was younger than Vimes, much younger. Yes, you could tell the eyes of a murderer, at least after they had done more than three or so and got away with it. Their eyes held the expression some gods probably had. But a killer in the process of trying to kill was always absorbed, constantly calculating, drawing upon some