Snuff

at least helped him to deal with the form of ablution his old mother had called “washing the bits that showed.” He paid attention to them, nevertheless, taking some pains in the knowledge that this little wooden world would evaporate very soon and he would be back in the world of Sam Vimes, husband and father. Periodically, however, as he made himself respectable, he turned back to himself in the shaving mirror and said, “Fred Colon!”
    The luxury cabin had turned out to be wonderful to sleep in, although so small that in reality it would only be suitable for a fastidious corpse. But eventually, when every part of Vimes he could reach had been decently, if erratically, scrubbed and the steward had brought him a hermit-sized portion of fruits and nuts and grains, he looked around to see what he might have left behind and saw a face in the shaving mirror. It was his own, although it must be said the phenomenon is not unusual in shaving mirrors. The Vimes in the mirror said, You know he doesn’t just want to kill you. That wouldn’t be good enough for a bastard like that, not by a long way. He wants to destroy you and will try everything until he does .
    â€œI know,” said Vimes, and added, “You’re not a demon, are you?”
    â€œAbsolutely not,” said his mirror image. “I might be made up of your subconscious mind and a momentary case of muesli poisoning occasioned by a fermenting raisin. Watch where you walk, commander. Watch everywhere.” And then it was gone.
    Vimes stepped away from the mirror and turned around slowly. It must have been my face, he said to himself, otherwise it would have been the other way round, wouldn’t it?
    He walked down the gangway into reality and what turned out to be Corporal Nobby Nobbs, beyond whom reality does not get much more real.
    â€œGood to see you, Mr. Vimes! My word, you’re looking fit! Your holiday must be doing you a lot of good. Got any bags?” This was asked in the absolute certainty that Vimes would have no bags, but a show of willing is always worth a try.
    â€œIs everything all right?” said Vimes, ignoring this.
    Nobby scratched his nose and a bit fell off. Oh yes, thought Vimes, I’m back, all right!
    â€œWell, the usual stuff that happens is happening, but we’re on top of it. Could I draw your attention to the hill over there? They were very careful not to harm the trees, and Lady Sybil herself promised a lingering death to anyone who upset the goblins.”
    Mystified, Vimes scanned the skyline and saw Hangman’s Hill. “Hells bells! It’s a clacks tower, it’s a bloody clacks tower! Sybil will go totally librarian about it!”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, Mr. Vimes, Lady Sybil was all for it by the time she’d read all of Captain Carrot’s note. He said this was no time for you to be out of touch. You know that, sir, very persuasive officer, which is how come he got the clacks company to rush up here toot sweet with a temporary tower. Worked all night, so they did, and got it lined up on the Grand Trunk sweet as a nut!”
    This time Nobby picked his nose, briefly inspected the contents for interest or value, then flicked them away and went on, “Only one thing, sir, the Ankh-Morpork Times wants to interview you about how you are a great hero what saved someone’s wonderful fanny—”
    There was a pause while they waited for Feeney to stop choking with laughter and get his breath back and then Vimes said, “Corporal Nobby Nobbs, this here is Chief Constable Upshot. I call him chief constable because he’s the only law in these parts, that is until now. This is his patch, and so you will respect it, okay? Who else came with you from the Smoke?”
    â€œSergeant Detritus, Mr. Vimes, but he’s up at the Hall, guarding her ladyship and Young Sam with delicate surreptition.”
    A part of Vimes had unknowingly been holding its breath. Detritus and Willikins? Together they could face an army. He shook himself. “But not Fred Colon?”
    â€œNo, Mr. Vimes, as I understand it we were on our way when the second clacks came through, but I reckon that he’ll be here pretty soon.”
    â€œGentlemen, I’m going home,” said Vimes, “but, Mr. Feeney, how soon will another boat go down to Quirm?”
    Feeney beamed. “You’re in luck, commander. The Roberta E. Biscuit will be going tomorrow