#helmclever

"And I am sure you would not wish to do so tonight."

Vimes opened his mouth to shout the grag out of the building, and stopped.

Because the cheeky little sod had got it slap-bang on the money. Vimes had been on the edge since leaving the house. He'd felt a tingling across his skin, and a tightness in his gut, and a sharp, nasty little headache. Someone was going to pay for all this...this...this thisness, and it didn't need to be a screwed-up bit player like Helmclever.

And he was not certain, not certain at all, what he'd do if the prisoner gave him any lip or tried to be smart. Beating people up in little rooms...he knew where that led. And if you did it for a good reason, you'd do it for a bad one. You couldn't say "we're the good guys" and do bad-guy things. Sometimes the watching watchman inside every good copper's head could use an extra pair of eyes.

“We’re playing a game, Mr. Helmclever,” said Vimes quietly. “And you can choose your side.”

Helmclever reached out with a trembling hand and touched a piece. A Troll.

"Oh, do you play at all, Commander?"" said Helmclever with the hungry look of the true enthusiast. Vimes knew the type, too. Show polite interest, and you'll bet there all night.

"Lord Vetinari does. It's never interested me," said Vimes.* "Helmclever's not a common dwarf name. You're not related to the Helmclevers in Tallow Lane, are you?"

* Vimes had never got on with any game much more complex than darts. Chess in particular had always annoyed him. It was the dumb way the pawns went off and slaughtered their fellow pawns while the kings lounged about doing nothing that always got to him; if only the pawns united, maybe talked the rooks around, the whole board could've been a republic in a dozen moves.