Snuff

Honorable Ambrose. Bit of a mystery, this one. Something to do with shipping. Sent out from the city to lie low here because of something to do with a girl. And the colonel, who spent a lot of time thinking, * had some time ago wondered to himself how, in these modern days, you got banished from the city because of a girl, and instinct had told him that possibly it had something to do with the age of the girl. After incubating that thought for a while, the colonel had written to his old chum “Jankers” Robinson, who always knew a thing or two about this and that and one thing and another and who was now some political wallah in the palace. He had made an enquiry, as one might, of his friend whom he had once dragged to safety over the pommel of his saddle before a Klatchian scimitar got him, and had received a little note with nothing more than “Yes indeed, under-age, hushed up at great expense,” and after that the colonel had taken great care never to shake the bastard’s hand again.
    Blithely unaware of the thoughts of the colonel, the Honorable Ambrose, who always seemed to be slightly bigger than his clothes—said clothes being of a fashion more suited to somebody twenty years his junior—sneered, “Frankly, I think we’re doing the world a service. They say that he favors dwarfs and all kinds of low-life. You might expect anything of a man like that!”
    Yes, you might, thought the colonel.
    And Miss Pickings said, “But we haven’t done anything wrong…Have we?”
    The colonel turned a page and smoothed it down with military exactitude. He thought, Well, you all condone smuggling when the right people are doing it because they’re chums, and when they aren’t they’re heavily fined. You apply one law for the poor and none for the rich, my dear, because the poor are such a nuisance.
    He felt eyes suddenly upon him because marital telepathy is a terrible thing. His wife said, “It doesn’t do any harm, everybody does it.” Her head swung round again as her husband turned the page, his eyes fixedly on the type as he thought, as noiselessly as his brain could contrive: and of course there was the…incident, a few years ago. Not good, that. Not good. Not good when little babies of any sort are taken away from mothers. Not good at all. And you all know it and it worries you, and well it should.
    The room was silent for a moment and then Mrs. Colonel continued. “There will not be any problems. Young Lord Rust has promised me. We have rights, after all.”
    â€œI blame that wretched blacksmith,” said Miss Pickings. “He keeps bringing it back into people’s memories, him and that damn writing woman.”
    Mrs. Colonel bridled at this. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Pickings. Legally nothing wrong has happened here.” Her head swiveled toward her husband. “Are you all right, dear?” she demanded.
    For a moment he looked as though he wasn’t and then the colonel said, “Oh, yes, dear. Right as rain. Right as rain.” But his thoughts continued: you have partaken in what is, I strongly suggest, a cynical attempt to ruin the career of a very good man.
    â€œI heard you coughing.” It sounded like an accusation.
    â€œOh, just a bit of dust or something, dear, right as rain. Right as rain.” And then he slammed his magazine on to the table. Standing up, he said, “When I was nothing but a subaltern, dear, one of the first things I learned was that you never give away your position by frantic firing. I think I know the type of your Commander Vimes. Young Lord Rust may be safe, with his money and contacts, but I doubt very much that you all will be. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t been so hasty? What’s a bit of smuggling? You’ve just pulled the dragon’s tail and made him angry!”
    When his wife regained control of her tongue, she said, “How dare you, Charles!”
    â€œOh, quite easily, as it turns out, dear,” said the colonel, smiling happily. “A bit of smuggling might be considered a peccadillo, but not when you’re supposed to be upholding the law. It baffles me that none of you seems to realize that. If you have any sense, ladies and gentlemen, you will explain that whole unfortunate goblin event to his grace right now. After all, your chum Gravid organized it. The only little problem is