Snuff

mother and child or the death of the child but the possible life of the mother, the conclusion must be that her decision is right. In his book A Banquet of Worms Colonel F. J. Massingham does mention this about the goblins and apparently, according to the goblins’ world view, a consumed child, which clearly did emerge from the mother, has been returned whence it came and will, hopefully, be reborn anew at some future date when circumstances are more favorable with, therefore, no actual harm done. You may think that this view does not stand up to scrutiny, but when you’re faced with the dreadful algebra, the world becomes quite a different place.”
    There was silence while they all contemplated this.
    Carrot said, “You know how it is in a street fight, Cheery. Sometimes if things get hot and you know it’s you or them—that’s when you do the algebra.”
    â€œFred doesn’t seem to know where he is,” said Cheery. “He wasn’t running a temperature and his bedroom isn’t particularly warm, but he acts as if he’s very hot and he won’t let go of that damn little pot. He shouts if anyone tries even to get near it. Actually, he screamed at me! And that’s another thing, his voice has changed, he sounds like a man who’s gargling rocks. I had a word with Ponder Stibbons at the university, but they don’t appear to have anyone who knows anything much about goblins.”
    Captain Carrot raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure? I know for a fact that they have a Professor of Dust, Miscellaneous Particles and Filaments, and you tell me that there’s no expert on an entire species of talking humanoids?”
    â€œThat’s about right, sir. All we could turn up was stuff about what a bloody nuisance they are—you know the kind of thing.”
    â€œ Nobody knows anything about goblins? I mean, stuff worth knowing?”
    A. E. Pessimal actually saluted. “Harry King does, captain. There’s quite a few of them downriver. They don’t come into town much, though. You may remember that Lord Vetinari was gracious enough to ask for me to be seconded to the revenue in order that I might go through Mr. King’s returns, given that all the other tax officers were frightened to set foot on his property. I myself, sir, was not frightened,” said A. E. Pessimal proudly, “because I am protected by my badge and the majesty of the law. Harry King might throw a taxman out of the building, but he’s clever enough not to try that with one of Commander Vimes’s men, no indeed!” You could have lit the city with the proud glow from A. E. Pessimal’s face as he tried to puff out a chest that mostly went in.
    It became a little more swollen when Carrot said, “Very well done, inspector. You’re a mean man with a smoking abacus indeed. I think I shall pay a visit to our old friend Harry first thing in the morning.”

V imes did some thinking about the problem of taking Young Sam to a crime scene, but frankly, the lad was showing himself to be up to just about any encounter. Besides, any lad wants to go and see where his dad works. He looked down at his son. “Would you be scared of a long walk in the dark, lad? With me and these ladies?”
    Young Sam looked solemn for a moment and then said, “I think I’ll let Mr. Whistle do the being scared and then it won’t bother me.”
    The door to the secret tunnel, if indeed it was secret, was in Miss Beedle’s cellar, which had quite a well-appointed wine rack and a general, not unpleasant smell of, well, a cellar. But once through the door there was a smell of distant goblins.
    It was a long walk in the dark, especially when you were obliged to walk up quite a steep slope very nearly on hands and knees.
    The smell of goblins grew stronger after a while, but during that while, you tended to get used to it. Here and there light shone into the gloom from holes to the outside world, which Vimes thought was sensible engineering until he realized that rabbits used this tunnel too, and had left plenty of droppings as evidence. He wondered whether he should pocket a few samples for Young Sam’s collection and suggested this to Young Sam, toiling manfully behind him, who said, “No, Dad, got rabbits. Want elephant if we find one.”
    Rabbit poo, Vimes noticed, was about the size of a chocolate raisin, a thought which instantly dragged him