Snuff

got sick and I made certain he got a few good meals. Of course he swears it was because he did the magic, but his wife was remarkably sensible, and the other males don’t worry about what the girls get up to, so they slip fruit and veg into their stews, saying they’re magical, and so they have children who survive and thus we change the world one meal at a time. That is if the goblins get a chance to live at all.” She looked sadly at the gossiping girls and said, “What they really need is a first-class theologian, because, you see, they agree with the rest of the world: they think they’re rubbish! They think they did something very bad, a long time ago, and because of it they’ve lived like they do. They think they have it coming to them, as you might say.”
    Vimes frowned. He couldn’t remember ever going into a church or temple or one of the numerous other places of more or less spirituality for any other reason than the occasional requirements of the job. These days he tended to go in for reasons of Sybil, i.e., his wife dragging him along so that he could be seen, and, if possible, seen remaining awake.
    No, the world of next worlds, afterlives and purgatorial destinations simply did not fit into his head. Whether you wanted it or not, you were born, you did the best you could, and then, whether you really wanted to or not, you died. They were the only certainties, and so the best thing for a copper to do was to get on with the job. And it was about time that Sam Vimes got back to doing his.
    Young Sam at this point had tired of petticoat company and had drifted over to an elderly goblin man who was working on a pot, and was watching with extreme fascination, to the apparent pleasure, as far as Vimes could tell, of the elderly goblin. That’s a lesson to us…I don’t know what kind of lesson, but it’s a lesson, he thought.
    Vimes waited until Miss Beedle returned from discussing the possible new fashion explosion with the girls, then politely asked her, “Did the victim have any unggue pots on her?”
    â€œI would be amazed if she hadn’t,” said Miss Beedle. “One or two at the very least, but probably the quite small ones for use during the day.”
    â€œI see,” said Vimes, “but were any found on her, er, afterward, I mean, if she was laid out?” He didn’t know what the protocol was and continued, “Look, Miss Beedle, is it possible that she had an unggue pot on her that’s now missing? I know they’re valuable, of course—they’re shiny.”
    â€œI don’t know, but I’ll go and ask the Cold Bone Wakes. He’s the head goblin. He’ll know.”
    That reminded Vimes. Feeling embarrassed, he delved into his pocket and took out a small package very, very carefully wrapped, and handed it to Miss Beedle with a pleading look. “I believe this belonged to the dead girl,” he said. “A stone ring with a little blue bead in it? Can you see that it gets to someone here who’ll value it?” All she had was a stone ring, he thought, and even that got taken away.
    There were times when the world did not need policemen, because what it really did need was for somebody who knew what they were doing to shut it all down and start it all up again so that this time it could be done properly…
    But before despair could entirely set in, Miss Beedle was back, and excited. “How apposite that you should ask that question, Commander! One of them was missing! Unggue cat!”
    Vimes could register absolute flat-faced incomprehension as well as any copper born. It radiated a searchlight of ignorance, but that was fine because Miss Beedle was prepared to be a fountainhead of information. “I’m sure you know what everybody knows, commander, which is that goblins do, I might say religiously, store certain bodily secretions in pots, in the belief that these must be reunited with their corpse when they are buried. This obligation is called unggue. All goblins must, by custom, which is very strict among goblins, maintain the Unggue Had, the trinity of snot, nail clippings and earwax. The missing pot in this case is the pot of cat, which contains nail clippings. Don’t get misled by the word ‘cat.’ Felines don’t come into the picture…it’s simply that there are only so many syllables in the world.”
    â€œAnd this is the first time