Snuff

river trees lit and occasionally burned, which was, Vimes thought, at least a help to navigation. The rain was soaking his clothing now, and so he shouted in a voice which betrayed his belief that he would not like the answer to what he was about to ask, ‘Apropos of nothing, and just to pass the time, lad, would you tell me what exactly a damn slam is?’
    Feeney’s voice was initially drowned by a thunder-roll behind them, but on the next go he managed, ‘It’s an occasional phenomenon caused by a storm getting stuck in the valley and the debris of the storm getting piled up in a certain way, sir …’
    Stinky scrambled up from who would dare to speculate where and up on to the horse’s head. He glowed with a faint blue corpse light. Vimes reached out a finger to touch him and a tiny blue flame danced across his hand. He knew it. ‘St Ungulant’s fire,’ he said aloud, and wished that he was in a position to use it to light his last cigar, even if it was an exhalation of the corpses of the drowned. Sometimes you just needed a little tobacco.
    Feeney was staring at the blue light with an expression of such horror that Vimes hardly dared to disturb him. But he said, ‘Then what happens, lad?’
    Lightning, with a sense for the dramatic moment, illuminated Feeney’s face as he turned. ‘Well, commander, the debris will build up and up and tangle until it’s one mass, and the river is building up so much behind it that sooner or later it’ll overcome the strength of the natural dam, which will plough down the river, mercilessly sweeping up or capsizing everything in its path, all the way to the sea, sir. That’s why this river is called “Old Treachery”!’
    ‘Well, of course,’ said Vimes, ‘I’m a simple man from the city who doesn’t know very much about these things, but I take it that a build-up of debris which ploughs its way downriver sweeping up or capsizing everything in its path all the way down to the sea is generally considered to be a bad thing?’
    There was a long-drawn-out creak behind them as another tree was hit by a flash. ‘Yes, sir. You left out the word “mercilessly”, sir,’ said Feeney, carefully. ‘I think we really should try to catch up with the Fanny as quickly as possible.’
    ‘I think you’re right, lad, and right now I suggest—’
    Whatever it was that Stinky was doing, and whatever it was that Stinky actually was, the horses were already becoming skittish to the point of bolting. There was so much water in the air and so little light left that the difference between the river and the shore could only be judged by seeing which one you fell into.
    And there was solid rain now, rain that blew from every direction , including upwards, and the symphony of dark destruction was punctuated by the sound of banks slipping inexorably into the churning water. The horses were now frantic and direction had no meaning, and nor did warmth and the world was nothing but darkness, water, cold despair and two red eyes.
    Feeney saw them first and then Vimes picked up the smell. It was the rich, desperate smell of oxen getting really worried and was thick enough to stink its way out of the turmoil. Amazingly, the boat was still churning the water, making progress of sorts despite the fact that its trailing flotilla of barges was jack-knifing, tangling and generally swishing across the river like the tail of an angry cat.
    ‘Why didn’t she tie up somewhere?’ shouted Feeney to the storm. It sounded like despair, but Vimes dismounted, grabbed the sticky shape of Stinky and slapped his horse on the rump. It certainly stood a better chance by itself now than it did with him, after all.
    And then for a moment his inner eyes looked at Koom Valley. He had nearly died that day as water poured off the valley walls and thundered through the endless caves in the limestone, smacking him against the walls, banging him on the floors and ceilings and finally dropping him on a tiny beach of sand, in utter darkness. And the darkness had been his friend, and Vimes had floated on the face of the darkness, and there he had found enlightenment growing, and understood that fear and rage could be hammered into a sword, and the desire to once again read a book to a child could be forged into a shield and armour for a ragged dying castaway, who thereafter shook hands with kings.
    After that, what could be frightening about rescuing goblins and who knew how many other people from a floundering