'We get our goohuloog heads kicked in,' said Coalface, the less circuitous thinker.
A match flared. In the sewers, its light was like a nova.
Vimes lit first his cigar, and then a lamp.
'Dr Cruces?' he said.
The chief of Assassins froze.
'Corporal Carrot here has a crossbow too,' he said. 'I'm not sure if he'd use it. He's a good man. He thinks everyone else is a good man. I'm not. I'm mean, nasty and tired. And now, doctor, you've had time to think, you're an intelligent man . . . What were you doing down here, please? It can't be to look for the mortal remains of young Edward, because our Corporal Nobbs has taken him off to the Watch morgue this morning, probably nicking any small items of personal jewellery he had on him, but that's just Nobby's way. He's got a criminal mind, has our Nobby. But I'll say this for him: he hasn't got a criminal soul.
'I hope he's cleaned the clown make-up off the poor chap. Dear me. You used him, didn't you? He killed poor old Beano, and then he got the gonne, and he was there when it killed Hammerhock, he even left a bit of his Beano wig in the timbers, and just when he could have done with some good advice, such as to turn himself in, you killed him. The point, the interesting point, is that young Edward couldn't have been the man on the Tower a little while ago. Not with the stab wound in his heart and everything. I know that being dead isn't always a barrier to quiet enjoyment in this city, but I don't think young Edward has been up and about much. The piece of cloth was a nice touch. But, you know, I've never believed in that stuff – footprints in the flower bed, telltale buttons, stuff like that. People think that stuff's policing. It's not. Policing's luck and slog, most of the time. But lots of people'd believe it. I mean, he's been dead . . . what. . . not two days, and it's nice and cool down here . . . you could haul him up, I daresay you could fool people who didn't look too close once he was on a slab, and you'd have got the man who shot the Patrician. Mind you, half the city would be fighting the other half by then, I daresay. Some more deaths would be involved. I wonder if you'd care.' He paused. 'You still haven't said anything.'
'You have no understanding,' said Cruces.
'Yes?'
'D'Eath was right. He was mad, but he was right.'
'About what, Dr Cruces?' said Vimes.
And then the Assassin was gone, diving into a shadow.
'Oh, no,' said Vimes.
A whisper echoed around the man-made cavern.
'Captain Vimes? One thing a good Assassin learns is—'
There was a thunderous explosion, and the lamp disintegrated.
'—never stand near the light.'
Vimes hit the floor and rolled. Another shot hit a foot away, and he felt the splash of cold water.
There was water under him, too.
The Ankh was rising and, in accordance with laws older than those of the city, the water was finding its way back up the tunnels.
'Carrot,' Vimes whispered.
'Yes?' The voice came from somewhere in the pitch blackness to his right.
'I can't see a thing. I lost my night vision lighting that damn lamp.'
'I can feel water coming in.'
'We—' Vimes began, and stopped as he formed a mental picture of the hidden Cruces aiming at a patch of sound.
I should have shot him first, he thought. He's an Assassin!
He had to raise himself slightly to keep his face out of the rising water.
Then he heard a gentle splashing. Cruces was walking towards them.
There was a scratching noise, and then light. Cruces had lit a torch, and Vimes looked up to see the skinny shape in the glow. His other hand was steadying the gonne.
Something Vimes had learned as a young guard drifted up from memory. If you have to look along the shaft of an arrow from the wrong end, if a man has you entirely at his mercy, then hope like hell that man is an evil man. Because the evil like power, power over people, and they want to see you in fear. They want you to know you're going to die. So they'll talk. They'll gloat.