Thud!

bad time. It was between shifts. Currently, they were trying without success to swagger whilst standing still, watched with deep suspicion by seven or eight officers of various shapes.
    They’d brought it on themselves. They were baaad trolls. At least, they’d like everyone to think so. But they’d got it wrong. Vimes had seen bad trolls, and these didn’t come close. They’d tried. Oh, they’d tried. Lichen covered their heads and shoulders. Clan graffiti adorned their bodies; one of them had even had his arm carved, which must have hurt, for that stone-cool troll look. Since wearing the traditional belt of human or dwarf skulls would have resulted in the wearer’s heels leaving a groove all the way to the nearest nick, and monkey skulls left the wearer liable to ambush by dwarfs with no grounding in forensic anthropology, these trolls—
    Vimes grinned. These boys had done the best they could with, oh dear, sheep and goat skulls. Well done, boys, that’s really scary.
    It was depressing. The old-time bad trolls didn’t bother with all that stuff. They just beat you over the head with your own arm until you got the message.
    “Well, gentlemen?” he said. “I’m Vimes.”
    The trolls exchanged glances through the mats of lichen, and one of them lost.
    “Midder Chrysophrase he wanna see you,” said Carved Arm sulkily.
    “Is that so?” said Vimes.
    “He wanna see you now ,” said the troll.
    “Well, he knows where I live,” said Vimes.
    “Yeah. He does.”
    Three words, smacking into the silence like lead. It was the way the troll said them. A suicidal kind of way.
    The silence was broken by the steely sound of bolts being shot home, followed by a click. The trolls turned. Sergeant Detritus was taking the key out of the lock of the Watch house’s big, thick, double doors. Then he turned around and his heavy hands landed on the trolls’ shoulders.
    He sighed. “Boys,” he said, “if dere was a Ph.D. in bein’ fick, youse wouldn’t be able to find a pencil.”
    The troll who’d uttered the not-very-veiled threat then made another mistake. It must have been terror that moved his arms, or dumb machismo. Surely no one with a functioning brain cell would have selected that moment to move their arms into what, for trolls, was the attack position.
    Detritus’s fist moved in a blur, and the crack, as it connected with the troll’s skull, made the furniture rattle.
    Vimes opened his mouth…and shut it again. Trollish was a very physical language. And you had to respect cultural traditions, didn’t you? It wasn’t only dwarfs who were allowed to have them, was it? Besides, you couldn’t crack a troll’s skull even with a hammer and chisel. And he threatened your family, his hind brain added. He had it coming—
    There was a twinge of pain from the wound on his hand, echoed by the stab of a headache. Oh hells. And Igor said the stuff would work!
    The stricken troll rocked for a second or two, and then went over forwards in one rigid movement.
    Detritus walked across to Vimes, kicking the recumbent figure en passant.
    “Sorry about dat, sir,” he said, and his hand clanged on his helmet as he saluted. “Dey got no manners.”
    “All right, that’s enough,” said Vimes, and addressed the remaining, suddenly-very-alone messenger. “ Why does Chrysophrase want to see me?”
    “He wouldn’t tell der Brothers Fick that, would he…” said Detritus, grinning horribly at the troll. There was no swagger left now.
    “All I know is, it’s about der killin’ o’ the horug ,” mumbled the troll, taking refuge in surliness. At the sound of the word the eyes of every watching dwarf narrowed further. It was a very bad word.
    “Oh boy, oh boy, oh…” Detritus hesitated.
    “Boy,” said Vimes out of the corner of his mouth.
    “—boy!” said Detritus triumphantly. “You are makin’ friends like nobody’s business today!”
    “Where’s the meeting?” said Vimes.
    “Der Pork Futures Warehouse,” said the troll. “You is to come alone…” he paused, awareness of his position dawning on him, and added, “if you don’t mind.”
    “Go and tell your boss I might choose to wander that way, will you?” said Vimes. “Now get out of here. Let him out, Sergeant.”
    “An’ take your rubbish home wid you,” Detritus roared.
    He slammed the doors behind the troll, bent under the weight of his fallen comrade.
    “Okay,” said Vimes, as tensions relaxed. “You heard the troll. A good