'Dolomitic conglomerates! Get chore dolomitic conglomerates heeyar! Manganese nodules! Manganese nodules! Get them while they're . . . uh . , . nodule-shaped.' He hesitated a bit, and then rallied. 'Pumice! Pumice! Tufa a dollar! Roast limestones—'
A few trolls wandered up to stare at him.
'You, sir, you look . . . hungry,' said Dibbler, grinning widely at the smallest troll. 'Why not try our shale on a bun? Mmm-mmm! Taste that alluvial deposit, know what I mean?'
C. M. O. T. Dibbler had a number of bad points, but species prejudice was not one of them. He liked anyone who had money, regardless of the colour and shape of the hand that was proffering it. For Dibbler believed in a world where a sapient creature could walk tall, breathe free, pursue life, liberty and happiness, and step out towards the bright new dawn. If they could be persuaded to gobble something off Dibbler's hot-food tray at the same time, this was all to the good.
The troll inspected the tray suspiciously, and lifted up a bun.
'Urrh, yuk,' he said, 'it's got all ammonites in it! Yuk!'
'Pardon?' said Dibbler.
'Dis shale,' said the troll, 'is stale.'
'Lovely and fresh! Just like mother used to hew!'
'Yeah, and there's bloody quartz all through dis granite,' said another troll, towering over Dibbler. 'Clogs the arteries, quartz.'
He slammed the rock back on the tray. The trolls ambled off, occasionally turning around to give Dibbler a suspicious look.
'Stale? Stale! How can it be stale? It's rockl' shouted Dibbler after them He shrugged. Oh, well. The hallmark of a good businessman was knowing when to cut your losses.
He closed the lid of the tray, and opened another one.
'Hole food! Hole food! Rat! Rat! Rat-onna-stick! Rat-in-a-bun! Get them while they're dead! Get chore—'
There was a crash of glass above him, and Lance-Constable Cuddy landed head first in the tray.
'There's no need to rush, plenty for everyone,' said Dibbler.
'Pull me out,' said Cuddy, in a muffled voice. 'Or pass me the ketchup.'
Dibbler hauled on the dwarf's boots. There was ice on them.
'Just come down the mountain, have you?'
'Where's the man with the key to this warehouse?'
'If you liked our rat, then why not try our fine selection of-'
Cuddy's axe appeared almost magically in his hand.
'I'll cut your knees off,' he said.
'GerhardtSockoftheButchers'Guildiswhoyouwant.'
'Right.'
' Nowpleasetaketheaxeaway.'
Cuddy's boots skidded on the cobbles as he hurried off.
Dibbler peered at the broken remains of the cart. His lips moved as he calculated.
'Here!' he shouted. 'You owe – hey, you owe me for three rats!'
Lord Vetinari had felt slightly ashamed when he watched the door close behind Captain Vimes. He couldn't work out why. Of course, it was hard on the man, but it was the only way . . .