Snuff

departing city as the coach hurried him toward a fortnight of bucolic slumber.
     He felt like a man banished. But, to look on the bright side, there was bound to
     be some horrible murder or dreadful theft in the city which for the very important purposes of morale, if
     nothing else, would require the presence of the head of the Watch. He could but
     hope.
    Sam Vimes had known ever since their marriage that
     his wife had a place out in the country. One of the reasons he knew this was
     because she had given it to him. In fact, she had transferred all the holdings
     of her family, said family consisting solely of her at that point, to him in the
     old fashioned but endearing belief that a husband should be the one doing the
     owning. * She had insisted.
    Periodically, according to the season, a cart had
     come from the country house all the way to their home in Scoone Avenue,
     Ankh-Morpork, loaded with fruits and vegetables, cheeses and meats; all the
     produce of an estate that he’d never seen. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing
     it now. One thing he knew about the country was that it squelched underfoot.
     Admittedly most of the streets of Ankh-Morpork squelched underfoot, but, well,
     that was the right kind of squelch and a squelch that he had squelched ever
     since he could walk and, inevitably, slip.
    The place was officially called Crundells, although
     it was always referred to as Ramkin Hall. Apparently it had a mile of trout
     stream and, Vimes seemed to recall from the deeds, a pub. Vimes knew how you
     could own a pub but he wondered how you could own a trout stream because, if that was your bit, it had
     already gurgled off downstream while you were watching it, yes? That meant
     somebody else was now fishing in your water, the bastard! And the bit in front of you now had recently
     belonged to the bloke upstream; that bloated plutocrat of a fat neighbor now
     probably considered you some kind of poacher, that other bastard! And the fish
     swam everywhere, didn’t they? How did you know which ones were yours? Perhaps
     they were branded—that sounded very countryside to Vimes. To be in the countryside you had to be
     permanently on the defensive; quite the opposite of the city.

U ncharacteristically for him, Lord Vetinari laughed out loud. He very nearly gloated at the downfall of his enemy and slammed his copy of the Ankh-Morpork Times , open at the crossword page, on to his desk. “Cucumiform, shaped like a cucumber or a variety of squash! I thumb my nose at you, madam!”
    Drumknott, who was carefully arranging paperwork, smiled and said, “Another triumph, my lord?” Vetinari’s battle with the chief crossword compiler of the Ankh-Morpork Times was well known.
    â€œI am sure she is losing her grip,” said Vetinari, leaning back in his chair. “What is it that you have there, Drumknott?” He pointed at a bulky brown envelope.
    â€œCommander Vimes’s badge, sir, as delivered to me by Captain Carrot.”
    â€œSealed?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œThen it doesn’t have Vimes’s badge in it.”
    â€œNo, sir. A careful fingertip examination of the envelope suggests that it contains an empty tin of Double Thunder snuff. A conclusion confirmed by a casual sniff, my lord.”
    A still ebullient Vetinari said, “But the captain must have realized this, Drumknott.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œOf course, that would be in the nature of the commander,” said Vetinari, “and would we have him any other way? He has won a little battle and a man who can win little battles is well set up to win big ones.”
    Unusually, Drumknott hesitated a little before saying, “Yes, sir. Apropos of that, it was Lady Sybil who suggested the trip to the countryside, was it not?”
    Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “Why yes, of course, Drumknott. I can’t imagine who would propose otherwise. The brave commander is well known for his dedication to his work. Who else but his loving wife could possibly persuade him that a few weeks of jolly holiday in the countryside would be a good thing?”
    â€œWho indeed, sir,” said Drumknott, and left it at that, because there was no point in doing anything else. His master appeared to have sources of information unavailable even to Drumknott, however hard he tried, and only the heavens knew who all those were who scuttled in darkness up the long stairs. And thus life in