Carrot turned, and smiled.
'I wasn't certain,' he said. 'But I thought, well, isn't it only silver that kills them? I just had to hope.'
It was two days later. The rain had set in. It didn't pour, it slouched out of the grey clouds, running in rivulets through the mud. It filled the Ankh, which slurped once again through its underground kingdom. It poured from the mouths of gargoyles. It hit the ground so hard there was sort of a mist of ricochets.
It drummed off the gravestones in the cemetery behind the Temple of Small Gods, and into the small pit dug for Acting-Constable Cuddy.
There were always only guards at a guard's funeral, Vimes told himself. Oh, sometimes there were relatives, like Lady Ramkin and Detritus' Ruby here today, but you never got crowds. Perhaps Carrot was right. When you became a guard, you stopped being everything else.
Although there were other people today, standing silently at the railings around the cemetery. They weren't at the funeral, but they were watching it.
There was a small priest who gave the generic fill-in-deceased's-name-here service, designed to be vaguely satisfactory to any gods who might be listening. Then Detritus lowered the coffin into the grave, and the priest threw a ceremonial handful of dirt on to the coffin, except that instead of the rattle of soil there was a very final splat.
And Carrot, to Vimes' surprise, made a speech. It echoed across the soggy ground to the rain-dripping trees. It was really based around the only text you could use on this occasion: he was my friend, he was one of us, he was a good copper.
He was a good copper. That had got said at every guard funeral Vimes had ever attended. If d probably be said even at Corporal Nobbs' funeral, although everyone would have their fingers crossed behind their backs. It was what you had to say.
Vimes stared at the coffin. And then a strange feeling came creeping over him, as insidiously as the rain trickling down the back of his neck. It wasn't exactly a suspicion. If it stayed in his mind long enough it would be a suspicion, but right now it was only a faint tingle of a hunch.
He had to ask. He'd never stop thinking about it if he didn't at least ask.
So as they were walking away from the grave he said, 'Corporal?'
'Yessir?'
'No-one's found the gonne, then?'
'No, sir.'
'Someone said you had it last.'
'I must have put it down somewhere. You know how busy it all was.'
'Yes. Oh, yes. I'm pretty sure I saw you carry most of it out of the Guild . . .'
'Must have done, sir.'
'Yes. Er. I hope you put it somewhere safe, then. Do you, er, do you think you left it somewhere safe?'
Behind them, the gravedigger began to shovel the wet, clinging loam of Ankh-Morpork into the hole.
'I think I must have done, sir. Don't you? Seeing as no-one has found it. I mean, we'd soon know if anyone'd found it!'
'Maybe it's all for the best, Corporal Carrot.'
'I certainly hope so.'
'He was a good copper.'
'Yes, sir.'
Vimes went for broke.
'And . . . it seemed to me, as we were carrying that little coffin . . . slightly heavier . . .?'
'Really, sir? I really couldn't say I noticed.'
'But at least he's got a proper dwarf burial.'