Part 36 (2/2)
”Looking for somewhere to throw up,” said Angua.
”Good man. We'll take a minute or two to rest here, I think.”
With that, Sam Vimes walked back to the milestone, sat down next to it, put his arms around it, and held on tight until he felt better.
You could catch up with the dwarfs long before they're near with the dwarfs long before they're near Koom Valley. Good grief, at the speed we did earlier you'd have to watch out in case you smash into the back of them! Koom Valley. Good grief, at the speed we did earlier you'd have to watch out in case you smash into the back of them!
Vimes's thoughts nagged at him as Willikins drove the coach, at a very sedate speed, out of Quirue and then, on a clear stretch of road, unleashed the hidden horsepower until they were bowling along at forty miles every hour. That seemed quite fast enough.
No one was hurt, after all. You could get to Koom Valley by nightfall!
Yes, but that was not the plan.
Okay, he thought, but what was the plan, exactly? Well, it helped that Sybil knew more or less everybody, or at least everybody who was female, of a certain age, and who had been to the Quirm College for Young Ladies at the same time as Sybil. There appeared to be hundreds of them. They all seemed to have names like Bunny or Bubbles, they kept in touch meticulously, they'd all married influential or powerful men, they all hugged one another when they met, and went on about the good old days in Form 3b or whatever, and if they acted together, they could probably run the world or, it occurred to Vimes, might already be doing so.
They were Ladies Who Organize.
Vimes did his best, but he could never keep track of them. A web of correspondence held them all together, and he marveled at Sybil's ability to be concerned over the problems of a child, whom she'd never met, of a woman she hadn't seen in twenty-five years. It was a female thing.
So they would be staying in the town near the foot of the valley, with a lady currently known only as Bunty, whose husband was the local magistrate. According to Sybil, he had his own police force. Vimes translated this, in the privacy of his head, as ”he's got his own gang of thuggish, toothless, evil-smelling thief-takers” since that was what you generally got in these little towns. Still, they might be useful.
Beyond that...there was no plan. He intended to find the dwarfs and capture and drag as many as possible back to Ankh-Morpork. But that was an intention, not a plan. It was a firm intention, though. Five people had been murdered. You couldn't just turn your back on that. He'd drag 'em back and lock them up and throw everything at 'em and see what stuck. He doubted it they had many friends now. Of course, it'd get political, it always did, but at least people would know know that he'd done all he could, and it was the best he could do. With any luck, it would stop anyone else getting funny ideas. that he'd done all he could, and it was the best he could do. With any luck, it would stop anyone else getting funny ideas.
And then there was the d.a.m.n Secret, but it occurred to him that if he did did find it, and it simply was proof that the dwarfs ambushed the trolls or the trolls ambushed the dwarfs or they both ambushed each other at the same time, well, he might as well drop it down a hole. It really wouldn't change anything. And it was unlikely to be a pot of gold; people didn't take a lot of money onto battlefields, because there wasn't very much to spend it on. find it, and it simply was proof that the dwarfs ambushed the trolls or the trolls ambushed the dwarfs or they both ambushed each other at the same time, well, he might as well drop it down a hole. It really wouldn't change anything. And it was unlikely to be a pot of gold; people didn't take a lot of money onto battlefields, because there wasn't very much to spend it on.
Anyway, it had been a good start. They'd clawed some time, hadn't they? They could keep up a cracking pace and change horses at every staging inn, couldn't they? Why was he trying to persuade himself? It made sense sense to slow down. It was to slow down. It was dangerous dangerous to go fast. to go fast.
”If we keep up this pace, we might get there the day after tomorrow, right?” he said to Willikins as they rattled on between stands of young maize.
”If you say so, sir,” said Willikins. Vimes noted the hint of diplomacy.
”You don't think so?” he said. ”Come on, you can speak your mind!”
”Well, sir, those dwarfs want to get there fast, d'you think?” said Willikins.
”I expect so. I don't think they want to hang around. So?”
”So I'm just puzzled that you think they'll be using the road, sir. They could use broomsticks, couldn't they?”
”I suppose so,” Vimes conceded. ”But the archchancellor would have told me if they'd done that, surely.”
”Begging your pardon, sir, but what business would it be of his? They wouldn't have to bother the gentlemen at the university. Everyone knows the best broomsticks are made by the dwarfs, up at Copperhead.”
The coach rolled on.
After a while, Vimes inquired, in the voice of one who has been thinking deeply: ”They'd have to travel at night, though. They'd be spotted otherwise.”
”Very true, sir,” said Willikins, staring ahead.
There was more thoughtful silence.
”Do you think this thing could jump fences?” said Vimes.
”I'm game to give it a try, sir,” said Willikins. ”I think the wizards put some thought into all this.”
”And how fast do you think it could go, for the sake of argument?” said Vimes.
”Dunno, sir. But I've got a feeling it might be pretty fast. A hundred miles in an hour, maybe?”
”You really think so? That means we could be halfway there in a couple of hours!”
”Well, you did say you wanted to get there fast, sir,” said Willikins.
This time, the silence went on longer, before Vimes said: ”All right, stop somewhere. I want to make sure that everyone knows what we're going to do.”
”Happy to do that, sir,” said Willikins. ”It'll give me a chance to tie my hat on.”
What Vimes remembered most of all about that journey- most of all about that journey- and there was so much of it he wanted to forget-was the silence. And the and there was so much of it he wanted to forget-was the silence. And the softness softness.
Oh, he could feel the wind in his face, but it was only a breeze, even when the ground was a flat green blur. The air was shaping itself around them. When Vimes experimentally held up a piece of paper a foot above his head, it blew away in an instant.
The corn exploded, too. As the coach approached, the green shoots grew out of the ground as if dragged, and then burst like fireworks.
The corn belt was giving way to cattle country, when Willikins said: ”You know, sir, this thing steers itself. Watch.”
He lowered the reins as a patch of woodland approached. The scream had hardly formed in Vimes's throat before the coach curved around the woodland and then swung delicately back onto its original course.
”Don't do that again, please!” said Vimes.
”All right, sir, but it's steering itself. I don't think I could make make it run into anything.” it run into anything.”
”Don't try!” Vimes said quickly. ”And I swear I saw a cow explode back there! Keep us away from towns and people, will you?”
Behind the coach, turnips and rocks leapt into the air and bounced away in the opposite direction. Vimes hoped they wouldn't get into trouble about that.*
The other thing that Vimes noticed was the landscape ahead was strangely bluish, while behind them it had a relatively red tint. He didn't like to point this out, though, in case it sounded strange.
They had to stop twice to get directions, and were twenty miles from Koom Valley at half past five. There was a coaching inn. They sat out in its yard. No one spoke much. Apart from the speed-hungry Willikins, the only people not shaken by the journey were Sybil and Young Sam, who seemed quite happy, and Detritus, who had watched the world skim past with every sign of enjoyment. Brick was still facedown on the coach roof, holding tight.
”Ten hours,” said Fred Colon. ”And that included lunch and stoppin' to be sick. I can't believe it...”
”I don't fink people are s'posed to go this fast,” n.o.bby moaned. ”I fink my brain's still back home.”
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