Snuff

with that happy but somewhat glassy smile with which a trader greets an
     old acquaintance who he knows will end up getting merchandise with a discount of
     one hundred per cent.
    â€œWhy, Fred, how nice to see you again!” he said,
     while awakening the mystic third eye developed by all small shopkeepers,
     especially those who see Nobby Nobbs coming into the shop.
    â€œWe were patrolling in the area, Bewilderforce, and
     I thought I’d drop in to get my tobacco and see how you were managing, with all
     this fuss about the tax and everything?”
    The sergeant had to speak up to be heard above the
     rumbling of the snuff mill, and the carts that were moving across the factory
     floor in a stream. Rows of women at tables were packing snuff and—here, he
     leaned sideways to get a better view—the cigarette production line was also
     a-bustle.
    Sergeant Colon looked around. Policemen always look,
     on the basis that there is always something to see. Of course, sometimes they
     may find it sensible to forget that they have seen anything, at least
     officially. Mr. Gumption had a new tie pin, in which a diamond flashed. His
     shoes were also clearly new—bespoke, if Fred Colon was any judge—and a barely
     noticeable sniff suggested the wearing of, let’s see now, oh yes, Cedar
     Fragrance Pour Hommes, from Quirm at $15 a pop.
    He said, “How’s business doing? Is the new tax
     hitting you at all?”
    Mr. Gumption’s visage flew into the expression of a
     hard-working man sorely pressed by the machinations of politics and fate. He
     shook his head sadly. “We’re barely making ends meet, Fred. Lucky to break even
     at the end of the day.”
    Oh, and a gold tooth, too, thought Sergeant Colon. I
     nearly missed that. Out loud he said, “I’m very sorry to hear that,
     Bewilderforce, I really am. Allow me to raise your profits by expending two
     dollars in the purchase of my usual three ounces of twist tobacco.”
    Fred Colon proffered his wallet and Mr. Gumption,
     with a scolding noise, waved it away. It was a ritual as old as merchants and
     policemen, and it allowed the world to keep on turning. He cut a length of
     tobacco from the coil on the marble counter, wrapped it quickly and expertly,
     and as an afterthought reached down and came up with a large cigar, which he
     handed to the sergeant.
    â€œTry one of these handsome smokes, Fred, just in,
     not local, made on the plantation for our valued customers. No no, my pleasure,
     I insist,” he added, as Fred made grateful noises. “Always nice to see the Watch
     in here, you know that.”
    Actually, Mr. Gumption thought, as he watched the
     departing policemen, that was pretty mild: all that the Nobbs creature had done
     was stare around.
    â€œThey must be coining it,” said Nobby Nobbs as they
     ambled onward. “Did you see the ‘staff wanted’ note in their window? And he was
     writing out a list of prices on the counter. He’s lowering them! He must have a
     good deal going on with the plantation people, that’s all I can say.”
    Sergeant Colon sniffed the big fat cigar, the
     fattest he had ever seen, which smelled so good it was probably illegal, and he
     felt the tingle, the feeling that he had walked into something that was a lot
     bigger than it seemed, the feeling that if you pulled a thread something large
     would unravel. He rolled the cigar between his fingers the way he had seen
     connoisseurs do. In truth, Sergeant Colon was, when it came to tobacco products,
     something of a bottom-feeder, cheapness being the overriding consideration, and
     the protocol of cigars was unfamiliar to a man who very much enjoyed a good
     length of chewing tobacco. What was the other thing he had seen posh types do?
     Oh yes, you had to roll it in your fingers and hold it up to your ear. He had no
     idea why this had to be done, but he did it anyway.
    And swore.
    And dropped it on the ground…

T he track from the top of Hangman’s Hill went beyond the trees and down, mostly through furze bushes and rocky outcrops, with the occasional patch of raw and useless soil, all substance eroded away. Wild land, wasteland, home to skinny rabbits, hopeless mice, the occasional concussed rat, and goblins.
    And there among the bushes was the entrance to a cave. A human would have to bend double to get into that fetid hole and would be an easy target. But Vimes knew,