Snuff by Terry Pratchett Read Free Book Online

poles in deserts!” Vimes glared at the raggedy man, who clearly felt that an explanation was called for and was going to deliver it whether it was called for or not.
    â€œYes, sir, I know, sir, that is a popular delusion, and personally I’ve never given it much credence, on account of the difficulty of dealing with what I might call the bathroom necessities and similar. I mean, that sort of thing might be all right in foreign parts, where there’s sunshine and lots of sand, but it wouldn’t do for me, sir, no indeed.”
    The apparition held out a grubby hand that was mostly fingernails and went on, proudly, “Stump, your grace, although I’m not often stumped, haha, my little joke.”
    â€œYes, it is,” said Vimes, keeping his eyes blank.
    â€œIndeed it is, sir,” said Stump. “The only one I’ve got. I’ve been following the noble profession of herming here for nigh on fifty-seven years, practicing piety, sobriety, celibacy and the pursuit of the true wisdom in the tradition of my father and grandfather and great-grandfather before me. That’s my great-grandfather you are holding, there, sir,” he added cheerfully. “Lovely sheen, hasn’t he?” Vimes managed not to drop the skull he was holding. Stump went on, “I expect your little boy wandered into my grotto, sir, no offense meant, sir, but the village lads round here are a bit frolicsome sometimes and I had to get granddad out of the tree only two weeks ago.”
    It was Willikins who found the mental space to say, “You keep your great-grandfather’s skull in a cave?”
    â€œOh yes, gentlemen, and my father’s. Family tradition, see? And my grandfather’s. Unbroken tradition of herming for nearly three hundred years, dispensing pious thinking and the knowledge that all paths lead but to the grave, and other somber considerations, to all those who seek us out—who are precious few these days, I might add. I hope my son will be able to step into my sandals when he’s old enough. His mother says that he’s turning out a very solemn young man, so I live in hopes that one day he might be giving me a right good polishin’ up. There’s plenty of room on the skull shelf back in the grotto, I’m pleased to say.”
    â€œYour son?” said Vimes. “You mentioned celibacy?”
    â€œVery attentive of you, your grace. We get a week’s holiday every year. A man cannot live by snails and herbs of the riverbank alone…”
    Vimes delicately indicated that they had ground to cover, and left the hermit carefully carrying the family relic back to his grotto, wherever that was. When they seemed to be safely out of earshot he said, waving his hands in the air, “Why? I mean…why?”
    â€œOh, quite a few of the really old ancestral homes had a hermit on the strength, sir. It was considered romantic to have a grotto with a hermit in it.”
    â€œHe was a bit whiffy on the nose,” said Vimes.
    â€œNot allowed to bathe, I believe, sir, and you should know, sir, that he gets an allowance consisting of two pounds of potatoes, three pints of small beer or cider, three loaves of bread and one pound of pork dripping per week. And presumably all the snails and herbs of the riverbank he can force down. I looked at the accounts, sir. Not a bad diet for an ornamental garden feature.”
    â€œNot too bad if you throw in some fruit and the occasional laxative, I suppose,” said Vimes. “So Sybil’s ancestors used to come along and talk to the hermit whenever they were faced with a philosophical conundrum, yes?”
    Willikins looked puzzled. “Good heavens, no, sir, I can’t imagine that any of them would ever dream of doing that. They never had any truck with philosophical conundra. * They were aristocrats, you see? Aristocrats don’t notice philosophical conundra. They just ignore them. Philosophy