A/N PLEASE SEE DISCLAIMERS IN CHAPTER ONE.
And no, the chapter title isn't a Lawrence Block title. I was writing dialogue and all of a sudden it hit me. You'll figure it out.
T E N …
Harry was sitting down in the seedy pub, slowly and quite contentedly finishing a pint. The beer was swill, true, but it was still beer, nonetheless. Harry felt a great deal of satisfaction that the raid had gone splendidly and they had made real progress. Angua and Littlebottom were occasionally finishing drinks of their own, and occasionally poking around for an Igor they were going to interrogate later, and occasionally waiting for someone named Susan to show up. He was fine to let them deal with that; Harry wanted to replay once more in his mind the successful events of the day.
…
"Right, Potter, so you do understand now how this raid will work?" Sergeant Littlebottom repeated exasperatedly for the fourth time. Harry felt like he understood from the first, but considering what happened his last Auror raid, he thought it was prudent to make sure that they were all on the same page.
Littlebottom and Detritus were to go inside first; Harry was to poke around out the back, with a dwarf corporal named Dunkerbrang. As Littlebottom and Detritus called a 'surprise inspection,' Harry and Dunkerbrang would be looking for who was running to where to hide what; they were the front line of the investigative forces. Harry wished he had his invisibility cloak, but then, he felt learning standard Auror - er, Watch - practices was an important part of his training.
Harry and Dunkerbrang would then hopefully catch those covering up whatever was wrong fat handed, and they would be able to interrogate them to find out who was stealing high-grade fat. Harry attempted to dunk his donut in the coffee again. Lard knew, it wasn't the biscuit-makers.
…
Harry and 'Dunk', as he wanted to be called, quietly stole into the back of the Fat Warehouse. Detritus and Littlebottom were going to give them a few minutes to find a position before they would enter 'very loudly and prodding buttock.'
"Merl- … uh, gods, the smell …" said Harry.
"Yep, really takes me back," Dunk said.
"Back where?" asked Harry.
"I'm from Uberwald, as are a lot of the dwarfs on the Watch. I used to work in the fat mines. I loved the smell of fat in the morning … smells like … triumph," Dunkerbrang said.
"Right," said Harry. He was looking into the offal storage pits. Nothing too unusual that he could discern. Each pit had an iron bucket, that swiveled over it, containing flaming pitch. This was used for burning off contaminated fat. "Let's get a bit closer to the doors over there, so we can see anyone moving," Harry said. "We'll crouch down under that storage vat."
The dwarf nodded and the two moved. A few minutes later, they could hear loud shouting and the sounds of running feet. That must be Detritus prodding buttock, Harry thought.
There was a quiet period, and then the sound of stealthy footsteps. A door opened, and a short thin man crept into the offal storage. He quickly ran to the far end of the room, and pulled something under his vest and tossed it into the pit. He moved over to the pitch bucket.
"We'll never stop him in time," Harry said, as they dashed towards him. "Unless …"
"What?" said Dunkerbrang.
"Sorry about this," Harry said, and reached down and tossed the dwarf.
Dunkerbrang sailed through the air, arching his last few feet so that his metal helmet collided perfectly with the thin man's legs.
"Geraaaaarrgh!"
The thin man was down, writing in pain, and Dunkerbrang stood over him with the steely (and toothy) glint of a dwarf that's just found a particularly troublesome rat.
"Well, well, what's this then?" Dunkerbrang asked.
Harry finally caught up and climbed the scaffolding to look into the offal pit. The man had thrown in a large notebook.
Harry gingerly climbed down into the pit, and picked it out. As he brushed off the debris, he noticed it was … hairy. He looked carefully into the pit, and steeled his stomach.
It was undeniably a horse's tail.
"Looks like a real mare's nest here," Harry said. "This, I presume, is where the missing horses have gotten to."
"You've … you've got nothin' on me," the thin man said.
"You mean besides the horse hair?" Dunkerbrang said. "Who are you, anyway?"
"Avoir," said Mr. Avoir. "I'm the bookskeeper."
"Well, Mr. Bookskeeper, maybe you can explain the entries here, and why there are so many horse carcasses in that offal pit?" Harry said, brushing the fat off his robes. He wouldn't be eating steak again anytime soon.
"I … I …" Mr. Avoir suddenly didn't seem too interested in talking.
"Let's go bring him to meet Sgts. Detritus and Littlebottom," Harry said. "I think it might be a good idea for them to prod another buttock." He had brought the horse tail with him.
As the passed through, the workmen were endeavoring to explain to an impatient Cherie that they were just doing their jobs. The statements they were making were probably helped by the fact that Detritus was occasionally poking them in the chest with a sledgehammer-sized fist, making comments like, "I know it was you what did it, wasn't it?"
"Ah, Harry, Dunk," Littlebottom said, bored. "Seems you've found someone who had something to hide. What've you got there?"
"He was attempting to destroy the books," Harry said. "In an offal pit filled with horses."
"Is that so?" Cherie said. "Well, lads, looks like you're all for the Patricians' scorpion pit."
At this a chorus of denials broke out.
"It was all Avoir!"
"He was gettin' paid by the Igors!"
"We didn't want to do it! He threatened to have the Grave Gourmands burn our homes!"
"SHUDDUP!"
Detritus' roar silenced the suddenly timid mob.
"Right, Detritus, you stay here and guard the premises. We're taking them back to the yard for further inquiries," Littlebottom said.
They had removed the workmen (four of whom were discharged after making statements) and left Mr. Avoir in the cells, with several copies of the books for Vimes to go through.
Harry had assisted in the interview process and writing up the paperwork, until Angua and Littlebottom arrived in the early evening.
"Nice work today, Potter," Angua said. "We're off to beers."
"Oh, a drink would be great," Harry said.
Angua looked at him quizzically. "I guess we can get one," she said. "We're going to get the Igor, remember?"
"Right," Harry said, puzzled. "I thought you see we were going for…"
"Susan knows where Igor is. She'll be at Biers," Angua said. "B-I-E-R-S. Biers."
"Oh, I see," Harry said. "I was under the impression we were going to a place to get beers."
"We're not," Angua said.
"So what is Biers, anyway?" asked Harry.
"A pub," Littlebottom said.
…
"I'll have one," Harry said.
"One what?" asked the bartender. Harry saw he was an Igor by the third ear he was sporting, and then by the fact that his face resembled a topographic map of Scotland.
"This pub is called Biers, by the sign," Harry said. "I'll have one. A beer."
The barman, who was an Igor who seemed to share Igor's same speech impediment, looked at Harry closely for a minute, and then at Angua. "He's with me. We're waiting to see Susan," she said.
The Igor shrugged and passed out a round of beers to the Watch. That had been six beers ago.
"Any idea how much fat they stole?" Harry asked Littlebottom. He had mainly been taking the interviews.
"Well, I went back and checked the pit, and also the entries in the log books. I reckon about nine thousand pounds," Littlebottom said.
"Nine thousand pounds!" Harry said. "How could they hide it all? I mean, racehorses are big, but they're not that fat."
"Yeah, that's what you might think," Angua said. "You've clearly never been out to the track here."
"What would they do with all of it?" Harry asked. "I mean, wouldn't someone notice that much fat going missing?"
"Not if it was going to an Igor," Littlebottom said. "They're always carting fat to and from their workshops. An Igor with a cartload of fat's a pretty common sight in Ankh-Morpork. Probably they started with a few hundred pounds here, few hundred pounds there, and then topped up more recently."
"So you could replace the arms and legs of a gigantic army," Harry said. "Maybe they've got an army already and before going into battle, this way they could grow a whole series of limbs and stuff before a battle, and after the battle, they'd have a lot of arms just at hand, and be able to replace on foot."
"Mmm … I doubt it," Angua said. "An army that would need that much replacement wouldn't be easy to hide. It would have a camp, require provisions, supplies … you can't exactly hide something that big. Besides, even if you had a pre-grown appendage, the surgery would still have an absolute minimum recovery time of about a month. A campaign might last six months, true, and you'd accelerate your troop replacement time, but if you are really counting on these troops coming back to you in order to stay successful, you're army's not that big. I mean the Agatean Empire can put more than 50,000 men under arms in a month. No one else has a regiment that large, not Klatch, not Fourecks. And they wouldn't go about requiring fat deposits beforehand."
As Harry was digesting this, Susan Sto-Helit arrived. She noticed the Watch sitting prominently at the bar and immediately moved to join them.
"Harry, this is Susan Sto-Helit," Angua made the introductions. "Susan's an old friend. Harry's a Watchman, temporarily on loan from Lon-."
"Pleased to meet you," said Harry, offering his hand. Susan took it. As he took Susan's hand, Harry was aware of the sensation of touching a block of ice, and stared into the vacuum of her eyes, which bored deeply into his soul. He flinched backwards reflexively.
"I suggest you find a better name for it than Lon-," she said quietly. "Igor, I'll have a glass of white wine, please."
A glass appeared in front of her so quickly that Harry wasn't sure how it got there. He was looking at Susan and felt sweat on the back of his neck. Who is this person? He thought. Kid gloves treatment, right now.
"Susan, Harry's helping us out with an investigation," Littlebottom said. "We've been investigating the Fat Warehouse today. It seems … a good bit of extremely high-quality fat has been … misplaced. We have reason to believe Igor knows something about it."
"Ah," said Susan non-committally, staring straight ahead. Her eyes went glassy for a moment and she took a deep sip of her wine. "I'm pretty certain you'll find him in Ye Olde slop shop right now, less than 200 yards from here, on your left as you go out the door. He's probably pretty drunk."
Littlebottom and Angua left immediately.
Susan had finished her drink in two swigs and motioned to Igor for another. It appeared again, in a spotlessly clean glass, a rarity at Biers.
Harry still wasn't exactly sure what to make of Susan. Okay, it's safe enough to start with small talk, I guess. "You've had a tough day," he said.
"Really. How did you tell?" Susan said.
"I know the body language. No talking to anyone, quick consumption of alcohol, staring straight ahead. You look like my girlfriend when she's had a bad shift," Harry said.
"Yeah?" Susan said, flashing a smile at him. "Yeah, I have. These doggone Grave Gourmands … they're driving me batty."
At the mention of the Grave Gourmands, Harry's senses instantly became alert. "Really? How is that, exactly?" Harry said, careful not to let too much interest into his voice.
"Well, I'm a school teacher, you see. The gangs the kids get involved in these days … I wouldn't mind it so much if it were a simple speciesist thing. Anyway, Jeremy spoke in class today."
"Jeremy?" asked Harry.
"My boyfriend, Jeremy Clockson," Susan said. "At any rate, we were discussing the concept of temporal reality. My boyfriend is somewhat of a … specialist when it comes to time. So I asked him to talk about the topic."
"And what happened?" asked Harry.
"As I said, Jeremy spoke in class today. And, well, clearly I remember calling on the boy," Susan said. "Seemed a harmless little way of getting the class to pay attention. Oh, but when I pulled away the Grave Gourmand pamphlet he was reading, did we unleash a banshee. I had to send him home, eventually."
"So they're marketing them down to children now," Harry said.
"Apparently, the pamphlets seem to be crafted as children's stories, but I find a lot of adults reading the things, too," Susan said. "I've seen a few people getting the tattoos and everything. I don't really know what they seem to want. I'm beginning to wonder if the attacks on the temples are just a cover for-"
"A cover for what?" Harry asked, but he didn't get an answer, as Susan had noticed that Angua and Littlebottom had returned with a clearly very drunk Igor.
The Igor noticed Susan eyeing him coldly. He shrugged and the other Igor arrived, seemingly unbidden, with a large cup of Klatchian coffee.
"Drink it slow," Igor said. "And you won't get knurd."
The Igor took a sip. People who aren't used to drinking high-octane caffeine can't handle something on the nature of Klatchian coffee, and for Harry, just the smell alone was enough. It seemed to work. Igor straightened his back a bit and made a quick chiropractic adjustment.
"Though what'h thith, then?" said Igor moodily.
Susan continued to look at him disdainfully. "When you left my service, you informed me you were going to be working on an area of research quite important to the Igor."
She left it there, dangling, like a participle out on loan. It felt … dangerous.
"Yeth?" said Igor.
"So I'm not particularly pleased that the Watch has … politely … asked me to locate you," Susan said. "You understand what that means."
The type of silence that drifted over Biers was the one that usually followed the phrase 'so, do you feel lucky?'
Igor considered this carefully. "What do you want to know?" he said finally.
"We already know that you've been stealing fat," Harry forwarded boldly. "What is this, some kind of necromancy?'
"Necromanthy?" the Igor scoffed. "Nah, tha'th not that hard, really. Find a good dead body, raith it up, get it to do your prophecy for you. I mean, they tell you thingth, when they're dead," Igor spat coffee. "No need for fat. Tho, you learn thtuff. Most necromantherth just want to raise the dead to ask them thtuff."
Harry was quickly back on the attack. "So you are trying to equip an army of Inferi?"
"Huh?"
"An army of reanimated corpses that you can replaces appendages on so that they continue to fight," Harry explained. "You are working for someone who intends to use the newly dead as battle troops."
"Why bother?" the Igor said, looking at him sharply. "You want ghoulth or animated thkeletonth, that'th dead easy. Eathier than necromancy, even. No need for fat at all."
Harry sat, wide-eyed. What the hell? Then why do they need all that fat?
"Right, we're a bunch of silly buggers," Harry said. "What the hell do you need all that fat for, then?"
The Igor chuckled. "Thith ith new, thith ith. Totally a new idea." The Igor thipped his coffee. "Thith a rethurrecthion," the Igor said. He leaned forward to whithper. "Ith-"
And then the world turned upside down.
The Igor's mouth continued to move, but no sound came out. A crossbow bolt flew threw the open window, entered through the back of his brain, and the point darted out Igor's forehead. His body collapsed over the bar.
Littlebottom caught the Igor as he fell, and went about immediately determining if she could resuscitate him. Meanwhile, Angua dropped her breastplate, and dashed out the front door.
Harry moved to go after her, and Susan grabbed and held him.
"Not yet," she said.
A howl came from outside.
"Now go," Susan said.
Although he wondered why she had stopped him, Harry didn't need to be told twice. He dashed after Angua, and caught sight of movement down the road. As he ran towards it, all Harry remembered hearing later was 'fwoom.' And seeing a light that could have subordinated the sun.
There was a horrid, acrid smell in the air … and he staggered forward, dazed and blinking. There was Angua, naked, lying on the street, whimpering. Blood poured from her nose and mouth. Her face was speckled with small grains of shining metal.
"Uh … uh …" she moaned. "Oh gods …"
Harry carefully made his way to her. The smell and the ringing in his ears was still painful, but he got to Angua.
"Are you okay?" he asked. Stupid question. I've got to get her out of here, so long as she doesn't have a broken vertebra. "Can you I move you? Do you feel pain in your back or legs?"
"Mm … uh … okay," Angua said.
Harry gingerly picked her up. She weighed much less than he had thought. He carried her back into Biers, and laid her on a table. "It'll be okay, Angua," he said. I hope.
"Oh dear gods," Cherie said, coming over to look at Angua. "Igor's gone. There's nothing we can do for him, but Angua …"
"IGOR!" she shouted. The barman appeared immediately. "I want two pitchers of clean water, now," she said.
They appeared in front of her as if by magic. "Harry, keep flushing out her mouth and her nose," Cherie said. "I'm going to get Carrot and Igor."
Harry took the pitcher and carefully moistened a relatively clean cloth, and began to wash Angua's face. As he did, she began to cry. "Sorry, I'm sorry," she said. "I've should've waited."
"Susan kept me back," Harry said, continuing to wash her face. "She's not here now."
"Mmm ... " Angua said. "She was trying to be nice."
"Oh …" she moaned a bit. The bleeding seemed to be stopping, but her entire face was swelling up. "Thanks. Really. Thank you."
"No problem," Harry said. "Part of the job."
"Not just that … for giving Carrot and I some private time," she managed. "We haven't been together in weeks. I'm worried he doesn't find me attractive any more. I really needed him."
Harry looked down at Angua's mane of hair, and her undeniably attractive body, made much more revealing than he needed to know. Given his job, and the realities of the war, he'd seen many other girls besides Hermione out of their kit; he was faithful to Hermione, but still male. Angua certainly would rank in his top five.
"How could he not find you attractive?" Harry said.
"He sees how I look first thing in the … you know … evening?" she tried.
"Uh, yeah," said Harry.
"Well, I know I'm no prize early on, but I'm sure it all work out," Angua said.
As he continued to work on cleaning her up, the room seemed … dimmer a bit. Harry glanced up and noticed that the shadows had crept in around Angua and himself. There was a … drawing of a throat somewhere in the back of the room, as if someone was hissing. "Did he … hurt Angua?" he somehow felt, rather than heard.
"Uh oh," she muttered.
"What's with these people?" asked Harry, as his fingers closed around his truncheon.
"They … think you're normal," Angua managed. "I'm not strong enough right now to be able to …" her voice trailed off and she fell into a coughing fit.
Suddenly, the door opened.
"Where is Angua?" came a strident voice. The denizens of the bar hesitated, and then shot back to their seats in Olympic standard time.
One unwritten rule that most Ankh-Morpork residents were very aware of was that you didn't get between Captain Carrot and his girlfriend. At least, not for more than a few seconds. Everyone knew that Captain Carrot was too nice and kind to actually hurt anyone but … perhaps, just for the sake of longevity, it would be as well not to test the theory. Even the undead can be very attached to their unlife. And even if a vampire could be resurrected just with a drop of blood … perhaps it wasn't worth experimenting to find out if Captain Carrot really did know some things that could put you in a grave. Involuntarily, that is.
"Captain? She's here," Harry said.
Carrot rushed over. "What was it, Angua?" he asked, holding her hand.
"Some kind of bomb. Aniseed and silver nitrate," she gasped.
A look crossed Carrot's face. Harry knew that look. It was a look that he had on his own face when, just before he had killed Tom Riddle, he had received word that Hermione had been subject of a near-fatal Death Eater attack.
Someone, somewhere, is going to be very sorry about this, Harry thought.
"I know what aniseed is, but why make a bomb of it? And the silver nitrate …" his voice trailed off.
"Angua is a werewolf," Carrot said calmly, looking into Harry's eyes, daring him to say anything.
"She is?" Harry said, suddenly concerned. Silver could kill her, and the aniseed … must burn her olfactory glands, he thought. Good thing the boys back home never thought of that. On the other hand, the next time I face one of Greyback's minions, this might be useful information …
"Is this going to be a problem?" Carrot said, in a clipped voice.
"Well, I can try to make a wolfsbane potion for her," Harry said. "I'll need to speak with Igor about his apothecary stores. It should help her. I usually try to make it for my uncle, just before the full moon. He and my aunt pretty much have it under control."
Angua and Carrot looked at each other, and then at Harry.
"Your uncle is a werewolf?" they said in chorus.
"He's … he's just got a … furry little problem," Harry said, defensively.
Angua smiled, really smiled at that. "Well, I don't think it's a problem … but furry little something, I think I can use that."
"Yes, it's something a little furry," said Carrot happily, smiling at Harry. Angua cringed and looked daggers at Carrot, but the officer was oblivious.
"Here we are all worried about you fitting in, and it turns out you're practically a dwarf and live with werewolves yourself! Really, Harry, you're just one of the Watch," Carrot said happily.
He turned to the patrons of Biers for a moment. "We'll be investigating the circumstances of Igor's death," he said. "Since I'm pretty well aware none of you would use a bow, I'll give you one minute to get out so that the Watch can go over the area. After that, anyone who remains will be detained for questioning."
There was a brief of interlude of, oh, four seconds. And the room cleared. In a hurry.
The door swung back open, and Cherie, Detritus, Sgt. Colon and Nobby came in.
"Ah, pretty bad," Colon said happily. Nobby went straight to the Igor and examined the bolt carefully. "A 17-inch expansion bolt with six vanes, half-moon nock, modified composite point with razor bludgeoning. I think it was featured in Stronginthearms' winter catalog, but I find that it's not so good in extremely windy conditions." He looked up. "You didn't hear anything? No whizzing sound, for instance?"
Harry shook his head no.
"Then I'd say it was a recurve crossbow, from the distance it's in his skull, at least 175 pounds draw, maybe even 200," Nobby said. From the angle it's in him, it came through the window. We could take a piece of string and tie it to the bolt, and work our way back to where he must have stood."
Nobby began going through the Igor's pockets, surreptiously examining the contents. "Yep, all Igors usually carry some string, here's some. I'll hold it here, if someone paces it off."
"You can pace it off, Nobby," Carrot said, holding his face in a tight smile. "That way we can make sure we get all the contents out of his pockets."
Nobby gave Carrot a sidelong glance, shrugged, and then tied the string to the arrow and began to walk to the window. Colon walked outside, retrieved the string from Nobby, and the two of them began to search for the origin of the shot.
Detritus had been making a careful chalk outline around the Igor. Soon, a knock came on the door, and Igor - that is, the Watch Igor, haven't you been paying attention? - came in.
"Ah," the Igor said. "I thought it might happen."
"Do you know who would have wanted him inhumaned?" Carrot asked.
"Carrot, I like my job at the Watch. But there is some delicate Igor politics going on here in the background. All I'll say right now is that Igor shouldn't ha' been trying to deal with all that fat. There are challenges for Igors, and certainly all Igors want to be on the cutting edge of Igorring. Igor wanted to be up there … he got too greedy. It was better this way, maybe."
"So he was behind the thefts at the Fat Warehouse?" Harry asked.
"I believe so," Igor said, dexterously removing the crossbow bolt, and handing it to Carrot, who was careful to hold the end of the string for Nobby and Colon.
"I'm going to recycle his usable parts," Igor said. "He'd've wanted that."
"Where was he taking the fat?" asked Harry.
"I don't know. It was out of Ankh-Morpork, though, I'm pretty sure," Igor said. He lifted up Igor's body and placed it over his shoulder.
"I'll be leaving now, Captain," Igor said. "If I act quickly I can spare the internal organs as well."
"Fine," Carrot said. "We just need to wait on Fred and Nobby."
On cue, they walked in. "Seems like the shot came from behind those rubbish bins outside that slop house," Sgt. Colon said. "About 400 feet, that's a heckuva good shot."
"Tha's where we found him," said Angua quietly. She was still laying on her back and resting. "He was in there drinkin' and we brought him here."
"Well, there goes one of our best leads," Carrot said. "Tomorrow, the Watch will make inquiries at the slop shop. And we'll resume our questioning of Mr. Avoir. Meantime, it's been a long day for everyone. Detritus, if you're finished here, let's all turn in."
"Yep, dat's all, folks," Detritus said, putting his chalk away.
Carrot picked up Angua as though she were a rag doll, and carefully cradled her in his arms. "Come on, Harry. Let's go back home. Tomorrow is another day."