Thud!

the less pleasant parts of town, but not all the way there. You tended to notice the dwarf outposts. A patchwork of windows testified to a two-story house having been turned into a three-story house while remaining exactly the same height; there was an excess of small ponies pulling small carts; and, of course, all the really short people wearing beards and helmets was a definite clue.
    Dwarfs dug down, too. It was a dwarf thing. Up here, far from the river, they could probably get to sub-basement level without being up to their necks in water.
    There were a lot of them out and about this morning. They weren’t particularly angry, insofar as Vimes could tell when the available area of expression between eyebrows and mustache was a few square inches, but it wasn’t usual to see dwarfs just standing around. They tended to be somewhere, working hard, usually for one another. No, they weren’t angry, but they were worried. You didn’t need to see faces to sense that. Dwarfs as a whole weren’t happy about newspapers, regarding such news as a lover of fine grapes would regard raisins. They got their news from other dwarfs, to ensure that it was new and fresh and full of personality, and no doubt it grew all kinds of extras in the telling. This crowd was waiting uncertainly for news that it was going to become a riot.
    For now, it parted to let them through. The presence of Detritus caused a wake of muttering, which the troll cleverly decided not to hear.
    “Feel that?” said Angua, as they walked up the street. “Through your feet?”
    “I don’t have your senses, Sergeant,” said Vimes.
    “It’s a constant thud, thud, underground,” said Angua. “I can feel the street shaking. I think it’s a pump.”
    “Pumping out more cellars, maybe?” said Vimes. Sounded like a big undertaking. How far down could they go? he wondered. Ankh-Morpork is mostly built on Ankh-Morpork, after all. There’s been a city here since forever .
    It wasn’t just a random crowd, when you looked closely. It was also a queue, along one side of the street, moving very slowly toward a side door. They were waiting to see the grags. Please come and say the death words over my father…please advise me on the sale of my shop…please guide me in my business…I am a long way from the bones of my grandfathers, please help me stay a dwarf…
    This was not the time to be D’rkza . Strictly speaking, most Ankh-Morpork dwarfs were D’rkza ; it meant something like “not really a dwarf.” They didn’t live deep underground and only come out at night, they didn’t mine metal, they let their daughters show at least a few indications of femininity, they tended to be a little slipshod when it came to some of the ceremonies. But the whiff of Koom Valley was in the air, and this was no time to be mostly a dwarf. So you paid attention to the grags. They kept you on the straight seam.
    And, until now, that had been fine by Vimes. Up until now, though, the grags in the city has stopped short of advocating murder.
    He liked dwarfs. They made reliable officers, and dwarfs tended to be naturally law-abiding, at least in the absence of alcohol. But they were all watching him. He could feel the pressure of their gaze.
    Standing around watching people was, of course, Ankh-Morpork’s leading industry. The place was a net exporter of penetrating stares. But these were the wrong kind. The street felt not exactly hostile but alien. And yet it was an Ankh-Morpork street. How could he be a stranger here?
    Maybe I shouldn’t have brought a troll, he thought. But where does that lead? Pick your own copper from a chart?
    Two dwarfs were on guard outside Hamcrusher’s house; they were more heavily armed than the average dwarf, insofar as that was possible, but it was probably the black-leather sashes they wore that were doing the trick of keeping the mood subdued. These declared to all who recognized them that they were working for deep-down dwarfs and, as such, partook a little of the magic, mana, awe, or fear that they engendered in the average, backsliding dwarf.
    They started to give Vimes the look of all guards everywhere, which, in summary, is this: The default position is that you’re dead; only my patience stands in the way. But Vimes was ready for it. Any five hells you cared to name knew that he’d used it himself often enough. He countered with the aloof expression of someone who didn’t notice guards.
    “Commander Vimes, City Watch,” he