'A doughnut.'
'Yes.'
'You only had to say.'
Harga brushed off his vest, gave Vimes a hurt look, and went back into the kitchen.
'Stop! In the name of the law!'
'What the law's name, then?'
'How should I know!'
'Why we chasing him?'
'Because he's running away!'
Cuddy had only been a guard for a few days, but already he had absorbed one important and basic fact: it is almost impossible for anyone to be in a street without breaking the law. There are a whole quiverful of offences available to a policeman who wishes to pass the time of day with a citizen, ranging from Loitering with Intent through Obstruction to Lingering While Being the Wrong Colour/Shape/Species/Sex. It occurred briefly to him that anyone not making a dash for it when they saw Detritus knuckling along at high speed behind them was probably guilty of contravening the Being Bloody Stupid Act of 1581. But it was too late to take that into account. Someone was running, and they were chasing. They were chasing because he was running, and he was running because they were chasing.
Vimes sat down with his coffee and looked at the thing he'd picked up from the rooftop.
It looked like a short set of Pan pipes, provided Pan was restricted to six notes, all of them the same. They were made of steel, welded together. There was a strip of serrated metal along one side, like a flattened-out cogwheel, and the whole thing reeked of fireworks.
He laid it carefully beside his plate.
He read Sergeant Colon's report. Fred Colon had spent some time on it, probably with a dictionary. It went as follows:
'Report of Sgt F. Colon. Approx. 10am today, Auguste 15, I proseeded in the company of Corporal, C. W. St. J. Nobbs, to the Guild of Fools and Joculators in God Street, whereupon we conversed with clown Boffo who said, down Beano, the corpus derelicti, was definitely seen by him, down Boffo, leaving the Guild the previous morning just after the explosion. {This is dead bent in my opinion, the reason being, the stiff was dead at least two days, Cpl C. W. St. J. Nobbs agrees, so someone is telling meat pies, never trust anyone who falls on his arse for a living.} Whereupon Dr Whiteface met us, and, damn near gave us the derriere velocite out of the place. It seemed to us, viz, me and Cpl C. W. St. J. Nobbs, that the Fools are worried that it might have been the Assassins, but we don't know why. Also, clown Boffo went on about us looking for Beano's nose, but he had a nose on when we saw him here, so we said to clown Boffo, did he mean a false nose, he said, no, a real one, bugger off. Whereupon we come back here.'
Vimes worked out what derriere velocite meant. The whole nose business looked like a conundrum wrapped up in an enigma, or at least in Sergeant Colon's handwriting, which was pretty much the same thing. Why be asked to look for a nose that wasn't lost?
He looked at Cuddy's report, written in the careful angular handwriting of someone more used to runes. And sagas.
'Captain Vimes, this herewith is the chronicle of me, Lance-Constable Cvddy. Bright was the morning and high ovr hearts when we proceeded to the Alchemists Gvild, where events eventvated as I shall now sing. These inclvded exploding balls. As to the qvest vpon which we were sent, we were informed that the attached piece of paper [attached] is in the handwriting of Leonard of Qvirm, who vanished in mysteriovs circvmstances. It is how to make a powder called No. 1 powder, which is vsed in fireworks. Mr Silverfish the alchemist says any alchemists knows it. Also, in the margin of the paper, is a drawing of The Gonne, becavse I asked my covsin Grabpot abovt Leonard and he vsed to sell paints to Leonard and he recognized the writing and said Leonard always wrote backwards becavse he was a genivs. I have copied same herewith.'
day to you. You couldn't spare I ten thousand dollars for a small mansion, could you?'
'No.'
'Just asking.'
Queen Molly prodded at the gown.
'What was it, corporal?'
'I think it's a new kind of weapon.'
'We heard the glass smash and there she was,' said Molly. 'Why would anyone want to kill her?'
Carrot looked at the velvet cloak.
'Whose room is this?' he said.
'Mine. It's my dressing room.'
'Then whoever did it wasn't after her. He was after you, Molly. “Some in rags, and some in tags, and one in a velvet gown” . . . it's in your Charter, isn't it? Official dress of the chief beggar. She probably couldn't resist seeing what it looked like on her. Right gown, right room. Wrong person.'
Molly put her hand to her mouth, risking instant poisoning.