Another evening folded over the city in layers of fog.
When Carrot arrived back at the Watch House Corporal Littlebottom made a face at him and indicated, with a flicker of her eyes, the three people sitting grimly on the bench against one wall.
They want to see an officer!' she hissed. 'But S'arnt Colon isn't back and I knocked on Mr Vimes's door and I don't think he's in.'
Carrot composed his features into a welcoming smile.
'Mrs Palm," he said. 'And Mr Boggis . . . and Dr Downey. I am so sorry. We're rather stretched at present, what with the poisoning and this business with the golems—'
The head of the Assassins' Guild smiled, but only with his mouth. 'It's about the poisoning we wish to speak,' he said. 'Is there somewhere a little less public?'
'Well, there's the canteen,' said Carrot. 'It'll be empty at this time of night. If you'd just step this way . . .'
'You do well for yourselves here, I must say,' said Mrs Palm. 'A canteen—'
She stopped as she stepped through the door.
'People eat in here?' she said.
'Well, grumble about the coffee, mostly,' said Carrot. 'And write their reports. Commander Vimes is keen on reports.'
'Captain Carrot,' said Dr Downey, firmly, 'we have to talk to you on a grave matter concerning— What have I sat in?'
Carrot brushed a chair hurriedly. 'Sorry, sir, we don't seem to have much time to clean up—'
'Leave it for now, leave it for now.'
The head of the Assassins' Guild leaned forward with his hands pressed together.
'Captain Carrot, we are here to discuss this terrible matter of the poisoning of Lord Vetinari.'
'You really ought to talk to Commander Vimes—'
'I believe that on a number of occasions Commander Vimes has made derogatory comments to you about Lord Vetinari,' said Dr Downey.
'You mean like "He ought to be hung except they can't find a twisty enough rope"?' said Carrot. 'Oh, yes. But everyone does that.'
'Do you?'
'Well, no,' Carrot admitted.
'And I believe he personally took over the investigation of the poisoning?'
'Well, yes. But—'
'Didn't you think that was odd?'
'No, sir. Not when I thought about it. I think he's got a sort of soft spot for the Patrician, in his way. He once said that if anyone was going to kill Vetinari he'd like it to be him.'
'Indeed?'
'But he was smiling when he said it. Sort of smiling, anyway.'
'He, er, visits his lordship most days, I believe?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And I understand that his efforts to discover the poisoner have not reached any conclusions?'
'Not as such, sir,' said Carrot. 'We've found a lot of ways he's not being poisoned.'
Downey nodded at the others. 'We would like to inspect the Commander's office,' he said.
'I don't know if that's—' Carrot began.
'Please think very carefully,' said Dr Downey. 'We three represent most of the guilds of this city. We feel we have a good reason for inspecting the Commander's office. You will of course accompany us to see that we do nothing illegal.'
Carrot looked awkward. 'I suppose ... if I'm with you . . .' he said.
'That's right,' said Downey. 'That makes it official.'
Carrot led the way. 'I don't even know if he's back,' he said, opening the door. 'As I said, we've been . . . oh.'
Downey peered around him and at the figure slumped over the desk.
'It would appear that Sir Samuel is in,' he said. 'But quite out of it.'
'I can smell the drink from here,' said Mrs Palm. 'It's terrible what drink will do to a man.'
'A whole bottle of Bearhugger's finest,' said Mr Boggis. 'All right for some, eh?'
'But he hasn't touched a drop all year!' said Carrot, giving the recumbent Vimes a shake. 'He goes to meetings about it and everything!'
'Now let us see . . .' said Downey.
He pulled open one of the desk drawers.
'Captain Carrot?' he said. 'Can you witness that there appears to be a bag of greyish powder in here? I will now—'
Vimes's hand shot out and slammed the drawer on the man's fingers. His elbow rammed back into the assassin's stomach and, as Downey's chin jerked down, Vimes's forearm swung upwards and caught him full on the nose.
Then Vimes opened his eyes.
'Wassat? Wassat?' he said, raising his head. 'Dr Downey? Mr Boggis? Carrot? Hmm?'
'Hwat? Hwat?' screamed Downey. 'You hnsfruck me!'
'Oh, I'm so sorry,' said Vimes, concern radiating from every feature as he pushed the chair back into Downey's groin and stood up. ‘I’m afraid I must have dropped off and, of course, when I woke up and found someone stealing from . . .'
'You're raving drunk, man!' said Mr Boggis.
Vimes's features froze.
'Indeed? Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,' he snarled, prodding the man in the chest. 'A peck of bloody pickled peppers Peter Piper damn well picked. Do you want me to continue?' he said, poking the man until his back was against the wall. 'It doesn't get much better!'
'Hwhat about thif packet?' shouted Downey, clutching his streaming nose with one hand and waving at the desk with the other.
Vimes still wore a wild-eyed mirthless grin. 'Ah, well, yes,' he said. 'You've got me there. A highly dangerous substance.'
'Ah, you admit it!'
'Yes, indeed. I suppose I have no alternative but to dispose of the evidence . . .' Vimes grabbed the packet, ripped it open and tipped most of the powder into his mouth.
'Mmm mmm,' he said, powder spraying everywhere as he masticated. 'Feel that tingle on the tongue!'
'But that's arsenic,' said Boggis.
'Good gods, is it?' said Vimes, swallowing. 'Amazing! I've got this dwarf downstairs, you know, clever little bugger, spends all his time with pipes and chemicals and things to find out what is arsenic and what isn't, and all the time here's you able to spot it just by looking! I've got to hand it to you!'
He dropped the torn packet into Boggis's hand, but the thief jerked back and the packet tumbled to the floor, spraying its contents.
'Excuse me,' said Carrot. He knelt down and peered at the powder.
It is traditionally the belief of policemen that they can tell what a substance is by sniffing it and then gingerly tasting it, but this practice had ceased in the Watch ever since Constable Flint had dipped his finger into a blackmarket consignment of ammonium chloride cut with radium, said 'Yes, this is definitely slab wurble wurble sclup", and had to spend three days tied to his bed until the spiders went away.
Nevertheless, Carrot said, 'I'm sure this isn't poisonous,’ licked his finger and tried a bit.
'It's sugar,' he said.
Downey, his composure severely compromised, waved a finger at Vimes. 'You admitted it was dangerous!' he screamed.
'Right! Take too much of it and see what it does to your teeth!' bellowed Vimes. 'What did you think it was?'
'We had information . . .' Boggis began.
'Oh, you had information, did you?' said Vimes.
'You hear that, Captain? They had information. So that's all right!'
'We acted in good faith,' said Boggis.
'Let me see,' said Vimes. 'Your information was something on the lines of: Vimes is dead drunk in the Watch House and he's got a bag of arsenic in his desk? And I'll just bet you wanted to act in good faith, eh?'
Mrs Palm cleared her throat. 'This has gone far enough. You are correct, Sir Samuel,' she said. 'We were all sent a note.' She handed a slip of paper to Vimes. It had been written in capitals. 'And I can see we have been misinformed,' she added, glaring at Boggis and Downey. 'Do allow me to apologize. Come, gentlemen.'
She swept out of the door. Boggis followed her quickly.
Downey dabbed at his nose. 'What's the guild price on your head, Sir Samuel?' he said.
'Twenty thousand dollars.'
'Really? I think we shall definitely have to upgrade you.'
'Delighted. I shall have to buy a new beartrap.'
'I’ll, er, show you out,' said Carrot.
When he hurried back he found Vimes leaning out of the window and feeling the wall below it.
'Not a brick dislodged,' Vimes muttered. 'Not a tile loose . . . and the front office has been manned all day. Odd, that.'
He shrugged and walked back to his desk, where he picked up the note.
'And I shouldn't think we'll be able to find any Clues on this,' he said. 'There's too many greasy fingermarks all over it.' He put down the paper and glared at Carrot. 'When we find the man responsible,' he said, 'somewhere at the top of the charge sheet is going to be Forcing Commander Vimes to Tip a Whole Bottle of Single Malt on to the Carpet. That's a hanging offence.' He shuddered. There were some things a man should not have to do.
'It's disgusting!' said Carrot. 'Fancy them even thinking that you'd poison the Patrician!'
'I'm offended that they think I'd be daft enough to keep the poison in my desk drawer,' said Vimes, lighting a cigar.
'Right,' said Carrot. 'Did they think you were some kind of fool who'd keep evidence like that where anyone could find it?'
'Exactly,' said Vimes, leaning back. 'That's why I've got it in my pocket.'
He put his feet on the desk and blew out a cloud of smoke. He'd have to get rid of the carpet. He wasn't going to spend the rest of his life working in a room haunted by the smell of departed spirits.
Carrot's mouth was still open.
'Oh, good grief,' said Vimes. 'Look, it's quite simple, man. I was expected to go "At last, alcohol!", and chugalug the lot without thinking. Then some respectable pillars of the community' - he removed the cigar from his mouth and spat -'were going to find me, in your presence, too -which was a nice touch - with the evidence of my crime neatly hidden but not so well hidden that they couldn't find it.' He shook his head sadly. 'The trouble is, you know, that once the taste's got you it never lets go.'
'But you've been very good, sir,' said Carrot. 'I've not seen you touch a drop for—'
'Oh, that,' said Vimes. 'I was talking about policing, not alcohol. There's lots of people will help you with the alcohol business, but there's no one out there arranging little meetings where you can stand up and say, "My name is Sam and I'm a really suspicious bastard." '
He pulled a paper bag out of his pocket. 'We'll get Littlebottom to have a look at this,' he said. 'I damn sure wasn't going to try tasting it. So I nipped down to the canteen and filled a bag with sugar out of the bowl. It was but the work of a moment to fish Nobby's butts out of it, I might add.' He opened the door, poked his head out into the corridor and yelled, 'Littlebottom!' To Carrot he added, 'You know, I feel quite perked up. The old brain has begun to work at last. You know the golem that did the killing?'
'Yes, sir?'
'Ah, but do you know what was special about it?'
'Can't think, sir,' said Carrot, 'except that it was a new one. The golems made it themselves, I think. But of course they needed a priest for the words and they had to borrow Mr Hopkinson's oven. I expect the old men thought it would be interesting. They were historians, after all.'
It was Vimes's turn to stand there with his mouth open.
Finally he got control of himself. 'Yes, yes, of course,' he said, his voice barely shaking. 'Yes, I mean, that's obvious. Plain as the nose on your face. But... er, have you worked out what else is special about k?' he added, trying to keep any trace of hope out of his voice.
'You mean the fact it's gone mad, sir?'
'Well, I didn't think it was winner of the Ankh-Morpork Mr Sanity Award!' said Vimes.
'I mean they drove it mad, sir. The other golems. They didn't mean to, but it was built-in, sir. They wanted it to do so many things. It was like their. . . child, I think. All their hopes and dreams. Arid when they found out it'd been killing people . . . well, that's terrible to a golem. They mustn't kill, and it was their own day doing it—'
'It's not a great idea for people, either.'
'But they'd put all their future in it—'
'You wanted me, Commander?' said Cheery.
'Oh, yes. Is this arsenic?' said Vimes, handing her the packet.
Cheery sniffed at it. 'It could be arsenous acid, sir. I'll have to test it, of course.'
'I thought acids sloshed about in jars,' said Vimes. 'Er ... what's that on your hands?'
'Nail varnish, sir.'
'Nail varnish?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Er . . . fine, fine. Funny, I thought it would be green.'
'Wouldn't look good on the fingers, sir.'
'I meant the arsenic, Littlebottom.'
'Oh, you can get all sorts of colours of arsenic, sir. The sulphides - that's the ores, sir - can be red or brown or yellow or grey, sir. And then you cook them up with nitre and you get arsenous acid, sir. And a load of nasty smoke, really bad.'
'Dangerous stuff,' said Vimes.
'Not good at all, sir. But useful, sir,' said Cheery. 'Tanners, dyers, painters . . . It's not just poisoners that've got a use for arsenic.'
'I'm surprised people aren't dropping dead of it all the time,' said Vimes.
'Oh, most of them use golems, sir—'
The words stayed in the air even after Cheery stopped speaking.
Vimes caught Carrot's eye and started to whistle hoarsely under his breath. This is it, he thought. This is where we've filled ourselves up with so many questions that they're starting to overflow and become answers.
He felt more alive than he had for days. The recent excitement still tingled in his veins, kicking his brain into life. It was the sparkle you got with exhaustion, he knew. You were so bone-weary that a shot of adrenalin hit you like a falling troll. They must have it all now. All the bits. The edges, the corners, the whole picture. All there, just waiting to be pieced together . . .
'These golems,' said Carrot. 'They'd be covered in arsenic, would they?'
'Could be, sir. I saw one at the Alchemists' Guild building in Quirm and, hah, it'd even got arsenic plated on its hands, sir, on account of stirring crucibles with its fingers . . .'
'They don't feel heat/ said Vimes.
'Or pain,' said Carrot.
'That's right,' said Cheery. She looked uncertainly from one to the other.
'You can't poison them,' said Vimes.
'And they'll obey orders,' said Carrot. 'Without speaking.'
'Golems do all the really mucky jobs,' said Vimes.
'You could have mentioned this before, Cheery,' said Carrot.
'Well, you know, sir ... Golems are just there, sir. No one notices golems.'
'Grease under his fingernails,' said Vimes, to the room in general. 'The old man scratched at his murderer. Grease under his fingernails. With arsenic in it.'
He looked down at the notebook, still on his desk. It's there, he thought. Something we haven't seen. But we've looked everywhere. So we've seen the answer and haven't seen that it is the answer. And if we don't see it now, at this moment, we'll never see it at all . . .
'No offence, sir, but that's probably not a help,' said Cheery's voice somewhere in the distance. 'So many of the trades that use arsenic involve some kind of grease.'
Something we don't see, thought Vimes. Something invisible. No, it wouldn't have to be invisible. Something we don't see because it's always there. Something that strikes in the night . . .
And there it was.
He blinked. The glittering stars of exhaustion were causing his mind to think oddly. Well, thinking rationally hadn't worked.
'No one move,' he said. He held up a hand for silence. There it is,' he said softly. There. On my desk. You see it?'
'What, sir?' said Carrot.
'You mean you haven't worked it out?' said Vimes.
'What, sir?'
'The thing that's poisoning his lordship. There it is ... on the desk. See?'
'Your notebook?'
'No!'
'He drinks Bearhugger's whisky?' said Cheery.
'I doubt it,' said Vimes.
'The blotter?' said Carrot. 'Poisoned pens? A packet of Pantweeds?'
'Where're they?' said Vimes, patting his pockets.
'Just sticking out from under the letters in the In Tray, sir,' said Carrot. He added reproachfully, 'You know, sir, the ones you don't answer.'
Vimes picked up the packet and extracted another cigar. Thanks,' he said. 'Hah! I didn't ask Mildred Easy what else she took! But of course they're a servant's little bonus, too! And old Mrs Easy was a seamstress, a proper seamstress! And this is autumn! Killed by the nights drawing in! See?'
Carrot crouched down and looked at the surface of the desk. 'Can't see it myself, sir,' he said.
'Of course you can't,' said Vimes. 'Because there's nothing to see. You can't see it. That's how you can tell it's there. If it wasn't there you'd soon see it!' He gave a huge manic grin. 'Only you wouldn't! See?'
'You all right, sir?' said Carrot. 'I know you've been overdoing it a bit these last few days—'
'I've been underdoing it!' said Vimes. 'I've been running around looking for damn Clues instead of just thinking for five minutes! What is it I'm always telling you?'
'Er ... er ... Never trust anybody, sir?'
'No, not that.'
'Er ... er ... Everyone's guilty of something, sir?'
'Not that, either.'
'Er ... er ... Just because someone's a member of an ethnic minority doesn't mean they're not a nasty small-minded little jerk, sir?'
'N— When did I say that?'
'Last week, sir. After we'd had that visit from the Campaign for Equal Heights, sir.'
Well, not that. I mean . . . I'm pretty sure I'm always saying something else that's very relevant here. Something pithy about police work.'
'Can't remember anything right now, sir.'
'Well, I'll damn well make up something and start saying it a lot from now on.'
'Jolly good, sir.' Carrot beamed. 'It's good to see you're your old self again, sir. Looking forward to kicking ar—to prodding buttock, sir. Er . . . What have we found, sir?'
'You'll see! We're going to the palace. Fetch Angua. We might need her. And bring the search warrant.'
'You mean the sledgehammer, sir?'
'Yes. And Sergeant Colon, too.'
'He hasn't signed in again yet, sir,' said Cheery. 'He should have gone off-duty an hour ago.'
'Probably hanging around somewhere, staying out of trouble,' said Vimes.

 
Wee Mad Arthur peered over the edge of the wall. Somewhere below Colon, two red eyes stared up at him.
'Heavy, is it?'
"S!'
'Kick it with your other foot!'
There was a sucking sound. Colon winced. Then there was a plop, a moment of silence, and a loud crash of pottery down in the street.
'The boot it was holding came off,' moaned Colon.
'How did that happen?'
'It got. . . lubricated . . .'
Wee Mad Arthur tugged at a finger. 'Up yez come, then.'
'Can't.'
'Why not? It ain't holding on to yez no more.'
'Arms tired. Another ten seconds and I'm gonna be a chalk outline . . .'
'Nah, no one's got that much chalk.' Wee Mad Arthur knelt down so that his head was level with Colon's eyes. 'If you gonna die, d'yez mind signing a chitty to say yez promised me a dollar?'
Down below, there was a chink of pottery shards.
'What was that?' said Colon. 'I thought the damn thing smashed up ..."
Wee Mad Arthur looked down. 'D'yez believe in that reincarnation stuff, Mr Colon?' he said.
'You wouldn't get me touching that foreign muck,' said Colon.
'Well, it's putting itself together. Like one of them jiggling saw puzzles.'
'Well done, Wee Mad Arthur,' said Colon. 'But I know you're just saying that so's I'll make the effort to haul meself up, right? Statues don't go putting themselves back together when they're smashed up.'
'Please yezself. It's done nearly a whole leg already.'
Colon managed to peer down through the small and smelly space between the wall and his armpit. All he could see were shreds of fog and a faint glow.
'You sure?' he said.
'Yez run around rat holes, yez learns to see good in the dark,' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'Otherwise yez dead.'
Something hissed, somewhere below Colon's feet.
With his one booted foot and his toes he scrabbled at the brickwork.
'It's having a wee bit o' trouble,' said Wee Mad Arthur conversationally. 'Looks like it's put its knees on wrong way round.'

 
Dorfl sat hunched in the abandoned cellar where the golems had met. Occasionally the golem raised its head and hissed. Red light spilled from its eyes. If something had streamed back down through the glow, soared through the eye-sockets into the red sky beyond, there would be ...
Dorfl huddled under the glow of the universe. Its murmur was a long way off, muted, nothing to do with Dorfl.
The Words stood around the horizon, reaching all the way to the sky.
And a voice said quietly, 'You own yourself.' Dorfl saw the scene again arid again, saw the concerned face, hand reaching up, filling its vision, felt the sudden icy knowledge . . .
'. . . Own yourself...’
It echoed off the Words, and then rebounded, and then rolled back and forth, increasing in volume until the little world between the Words was gripped in the sound.
Golem Must Have a Master. The letters towered against the world, but the echoes poured around them, blasting like a sandstorm. Cracks started and then ran, zigzagging across the stone, and then—
The Words exploded. Great slabs of them, mountain-sized, crashed in showers of red sand.
The universe poured in. Dorfl felt the universe pick it up and bowl it over and then lift it off its feet and up ...
. . . and now the golem was among the universe. It could feel it all around, the purr of it, the busyness, the spinning complexity of it, the roar . . .
There were no Words between you and It.
You belonged to It, It belonged to you.
You couldn't turn your back on It because there It was, in front of you.
Dorfl was responsible for every tick and swerve of It.
You couldn't say, 'I had orders.' You couldn't say, 'It's not fair.' No one was listening. There were no Words. You owned yourself.
Dorfl orbited a pair of glowing suns and hurtled off again.
Not Thou Shalt Not. Say I Will Not.
Dorfl tumbled through the red sky, then saw a dark hole ahead. The golem felt it dragging at him, and streamed down through the glow and the hole grew larger and sped across the edges of Dorfl's vision . . .
The golem opened his eyes.
NO MASTER!
Dorfl unfolded in one movement and stood upright. He reached out one arm and extended a finger.
The golem pushed the finger easily into the wall where the argument had taken place, and then dragged it carefully through the splintering brickwork. It took him a couple of minutes but it was something Dorfl felt needed to be said.
Dorfl completed the last letter and poked a row of three dots after it. Then the golem walked away, leaving behind:
NO MASTER...

 
A blue overcast from the cigars hid the ceiling of the smoking-room.
'Ah, yes. Captain Carrot,' said a chair. 'Yes . . . indeed . . . but... is he the right man?'
"S got a birthmark shaped like a crown. I seen it,' said Nobby helpfully.
'But his background . . .'
'He was raised by dwarfs,' said Nobby. He waved his brandy glass at a waiter. 'Same again, mister.'
'I shouldn't think dwarfs could raise anyone very high,' said another chair. There was a hint of laughter.
'Rumours and folklore,' someone murmured.
'This is a large and busy and above all complex city. I'm afraid that having a sword and a birthmark are not much in the way of qualifications. We would need a king from a lineage that is used to command.'
'Like yours, my lord.'
There was a sucking, draining noise as Nobby attacked the fresh glass of brandy. 'Oh, I'm used to command, all right,' he said, lowering the glass. 'People are always orderin' me around.'
'We would need a king who had the support of the great families and major guilds of the city.'
'People like Carrot,' said Nobby.
'Oh, the people
'Anyway, whoever got the job'd have his work cut out,' said Nobby. 'Ole Vetinari's always pushin' paper. What kinda fun is that? 'S no life, sittin' up all hours, worryin', never a moment to yerself.' He held out the empty glass. 'Same again, my old mate. Fill it right up this time, eh? No sense in havin' a great big glass and only sloshin'a bit in the bottom, is there?'
'Many people prefer to savour the bouquet,' said a quietly horrified chair. They enjoy sniffing it.'
Nobby looked at his glass with the red-veined eyes of one who'd heard rumours about what the upper crust got up to. 'Nah,' he said. ‘I’ll go on stickin' it in my mouth, if it's all the same to you.'
'If we may get to the point,' said another chair, 'a king would not have to spend every moment running the city. He would of course have people to do that. Advisors. Counsellors. People of experience.'
'So what'd he have to do?' said Nobby.
'He'd have to reign,' said a chair.
'Wave.'
'Preside at banquets.'
'Sign things.'
'Guzzle good brandy disgustingly.'
'Reign.'
'Sounds like a good job to me,' said Nobby. 'All right for some, eh?'
'Of course, a king would have to be someone who could recognize a hint if it was dropped on his head from a great height/ said a speaker sharply, but the other chairs shushed him into silence.
Nobby managed to find his mouth after several goes and took another long pull at his cigar. 'Seems to me,' he said, 'seems to me, what you want to do is find some nob with time on his hands and say, "Yo, it's your lucky day. Let's see you wave that hand."'
'Ah! That's a good idea! Does any name cross your mind, my lord? Have a drop more brandy.'
'Why, thanks, you're a toff. O' course, so 'm I, eh? That's right, flunkey, all the way to the top. No, can't think of anyone that fits the bill.'
'In fact, my lord, we were indeed thinking of offering the crown to you—'
Nobby's eyes bulged. And then his cheek bulged.
It is not a good idea to spray finest brandy across the room, especially when your lighted cigar is in the way. The flame hit the far wall, where it left a perfect chrysanthemum of scorched woodwork, while in accordance with a fundamental rule of physics Nobby's chair screamed back on its castors and thudded into the door.
'King?' Nobby coughed, and then they had to slap him on the back until he got his breath again. 'King?' he wheezed. 'And have Mr Vimes cut me head off?'
'All the brandy you can drink, my lord,' said a wheedling voice.
"S no good if you ain't got a throat for it to go down!'
'What're you talking about?'
'Mr Vimes^?d go spare! He'd go spared
'Good heavens, man—'
'My lord,' someone corrected.
'My lord, I mean - when you're king you can tell that wretched Sir Samuel what to do. You'll be, as you would call it, "the boss". You could—'
'Tell ole Stoneface what to do?' said Nobby.
That's right!'
Td be a king and tell ole Stoneface what to do?' said Nobby.
'Yes!'
Nobby stared into the smoky gloom.
'He'd go spared
'Listen, you silly little man—'
'My lord—'
'You silly little lord, you'd be able to have him executed if you wished!'
'I couldn't do that!'
'Why not?'
'He'd go spare!'
'The man calls himself an officer of the law, and whose law does he listen to, eh? Where does his law come from?'
'I don't know!' groaned Nobby. 'He says it comes up through his boots!' He looked around. The shadows in the smoke seemed to be closing in.
'I can't be king! Ole Vimes'd go spare!'
'Will you stop saying that!'
Nobby pulled at his collar.
"S a bit hot and smoky in here,' he mumbled. 'Which way's the window?'
'Over there—'
The chair rocked. Nobby hit the glass helmet-first, landed on top of a waiting carriage, bounced off and ran into the night, trying to escape destiny in general and axes in particular.

 
Cheri Littlebottom strode into the palace kitchens and fired her crossbow into the ceiling.
'Don't nobody move!' she yelled.
The Patrician's domestic staff looked up from their dinner.
'When you say don't nobody move,' said Drum-knott carefully, fastidiously taking a piece of plaster off his plate, 'do you in fact mean—'
'All right, Corporal, I'll take over now,' said Vimes, patting Cheri on the shoulder. 'Is Mildred Easy here?'
All heads turned.
Mildred's spoon dropped into her soup.
'It's all right,' said Vimes. 'I just need to ask you a few more questions—'
'I'm . . . s-s-sorry, sir—'
'You haven't done anything wrong,' said Vimes, walking around the table. 'But you didn't just take food home for your family, did you?'
'S-sir?'
'What else did you take?'
Mildred looked at the suddenly blank expressions on the faces of the other servants. 'There was the old sheets but Mrs Dipplock did s-say I could have—'
'No, not that,' said Vimes.
Mildred licked her dry lips. 'Er, there was . . . there was some boot polish . . .'
'Look,' said Vimes, as kindly as possible, 'everyone takes small things from the place where they work. Small stuff that no one notices. No one thinks of it as stealing. It's like . . . it's like rights. Odds and ends. Ends, Miss Easy? I'm thinking about the word "ends".'
'Er . . . you mean . . . the candle ends, sir?'
Vimes took a deep breath. It was such a relief to be right, even though you knew you'd only got there by trying every possible way to be wrong. 'Ah,' he said.
'B-but that's not stealing, sir. I've never stolen nothing, s-sir!'
'But you take home the candle stubs? Still half an hour of light in 'em, I expect, if you burn them in a saucer?' said Vimes gently.
'But that's not stealing, sir! That's perks, sir.'
Sam Vimes smacked his forehead. 'Perks! Of course! That was the word I was looking for. Perks! Everyone's got to have perks, aren't I right? Well, that's fine, then,' he said. 'I expect you get the ones from the bedrooms, yes?'
Even through her nervousness, Mildred Easy was able to grin the grin of someone with an Entitlement that lesser beings hadn't got. 'Yessir. I'm allowed, sir. They're much better than the ole coarse ones we use in the main halls, sir.'
'And you put in fresh candles when necessary, do you?'
'Yessir.'
Probably slightly more often than necessary, Vimes thought. No point in letting them burn down too much . . .
'Perhaps you can show me where they're kept, miss?'
The maid looked along the table to the housekeeper, who glanced at Commander Vimes and then nodded. She was bright enough to know when something that sounded like a question really wasn't one.
'We keep them in the candle pantry next door, sir,' said Mildred.
'Lead the way, please.'
It wasn't a big room, but its shelves were stacked floor-to-ceiling with candles. There were the yard-high ones used in the public halls and the small everyday ones used everywhere else, sorted according to quality.
'These are what we uses in his lordship's rooms, sir.' She handed him twelve inches of white candle.
'Oh, yes . . . very good quality. Number Fives. Nice white tallow,' said Vimes, tossing it up and down. 'We burn these at home. The stuff we use at the Yard is damn near pork dripping. We get ours from Carry's in the Shambles now. Very reasonable prices. We used to deal with Spadger and Williams but Mr Carry's really cornered the market these days, hasn't he?'
'Yessir. And he delivers 'em special, sir.'
'And you put these candles in his lordship's room every day?'
'Yessir.'
'Anywhere else?'
'Oh, no, sir. His lordship's particular about that! We just use Number Threes.'
'And you take your, er, perks home?'
'Yessir. Gran said they gave a lovely light, sir . . .'
'I expect she sat up with your little brother, did she? Because I expect he got took sick first, so she sat up with him all night long, night after night and, hah, if I know old Mrs Easy, she did her sewing . . .'
'Yessir.'
There was a pause.
'Use my handkerchief,' said Vimes, after a while.
'Am I going to lose my position, sir?'
'No. That's definite. No one involved deserves to lose their jobs,' said Vimes. He looked at the candle. 'Except possibly me,' he added.
He stopped at the doorway, and turned. 'And if you ever want candle-ends, we've always got lots at the Watch House. Nobby'll have to start buying cooking fat like everyone else.'

 
'What's it doing now?' said Sergeant Colon.
Wee Mad Arthur peered over the edge of the roof again. 'It's havin' problems with its elbows,' he said conversationally. 'It keeps lookin' at one of'em and tryin' it all ways up and it's not workin'.'
'I had that trouble when I put up them kitchen units for Mrs Colon,' said the sergeant. 'The instructions on how to open the box were inside the box—'
'Oh-oh, it's worked it out,' said the rat-catcher. 'Looks like it had it mixed up with its knees after all.'
Colon heard a clank below him;
'And now it's gone round the corner' — there was a crash of splintering wood - 'and now it's got into the building. I expect it'll come up the stairs, but it looks like yer'll be okay.'
'Why?'
"Cos all you gotta do is let go of the roof, see?'
‘I’ll drop to my death!'
'Right! Nice clean way to go. None of that "arms-and-legs-bein'-ripped-off' stuff first.'
'I wanted to buy a farm!' moaned Colon.
'Could be,' said Arthur. He looked over the roof again. 'Or,' he said, as if this were hardly a better option, 'yez could try to grab the drainpipe.'
Colon looked sideways. There was a pipe a few feet away. If he swung his body and really made an effort, he might just miss it by inches and plunge to his death.
'Does it look safe?' he said.
'Compared with what, mister?'
Colon tried to swing his legs like a pendulum. Every muscle in his arm screamed at him. He knew he was overweight. He'd always meant to take exercise one day. He just hadn't been aware that it was going to be today.
'I reckon I can hear it walking up the stairs,' said Wee Mad Arthur.
Colon tried to swing faster. 'What're you going to do?' he said.
'Oh, don't yez worry about me,' said Wee Mad Arthur. ‘I’ll be fine. I'll jump.'
'Jump?'
'Sure. I'll be safe 'cos of being normal-sized, see.'
'You think you're normal-sized?'
Wee Mad Arthur looked at Colon's hands. 'Are these yer fingers right here by my boots?' he said.
'Right, right, you're normal-sized. 'S not your fault you've moved into a city full of giants,' said Colon.
'Right. The smaller yez are the lighter yez fall. Well known fact. A spider'll not even notice a drop like this, a mouse'd walk away, a horse'd break every bone in its body and a helephant would spla—'
'Oh, gods,' muttered Colon. He could feel the drainpipe with his boot now. But getting a grip would mean there would have to be one long, bottomless moment when he was not exactly holding on to the roof and not exactly holding on to the drainpipe and in very serious peril of holding on to the ground.
There was another crash from somewhere on the roof.
'Right,' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'See you at the bottom.'
'Oh, gods.'
The gnome stepped off the roof.
'All okay so far,' he shouted, as he went past Colon.
'Oh, gods.'
Sergeant Colon looked up into two red glows.
'Doing fine up to now,' said a dopplering voice from below.
'Oh, gods . . .’
Colon heaved his legs around, stood on fresh air for a moment, grabbed the top of the pipe, ducked his head as a pottery fist swung at him, heard the nasty little noise as the pipe's rusty bolts said goodbye to the wall and, still clinging to a tilting length of cast-iron pipe as if it were going to help, disappeared backwards into the fog.

 
Mr Sock looked up at the sound of the door opening, and then cowered back against the sausage machine.
' You!' he whispered. 'Here, you can't come back! I sold you!'
Dorfl regarded him steadily for a few seconds, and then walked past him and took the largest cleaver from the blood-stained rack on the wall.
Sock began to shake.
'I-I-I was always g-g-good to you,' he said. 'A-a-always let you h-have your h-holy d-d-days off—'
Dorfl stared at him again. It's only red light, Sock gibbered to himself. . .
But it seemed more focused. He felt it entering his head through his own eyes and examining his soul.
The golem pushed him aside and stepped out of the slaughterhouse and towards the cattle pens.
Sock unfroze. They never fought back, did they? They couldn't. It was how the damn things were made.
He stared around at the other workers, humans and trolls alike. 'Don't just stand there! Get it!'
One or two hesitated. It was a big cleaver in the golem's hand. And when Dorfl stopped to look around at them there was something different about the golem's stance, too. It didn't look like something that wouldn't fight back.
But Sock didn't employ people for the muscles in their heads. Besides, no one had really liked a golem around the place.
A troll aimed a pole-axe at him. Dorfl caught it one-handed without turning his head and snapped the hickory handle with his fingers. A man with a hammer had it plucked from his hand and thrown so hard at the wall that it left a hole.
After that they followed at a cautious distance. Dorfl took no further notice of them.
The steam over the cattle pens mingled with the fog. Hundreds of dark eyes watched Dorfl curiously as he walked between the fences. They were always quiet when the golem was around.
He stopped by one of the largest pens. There were voices from behind.
'Don't tell me it's going to slaughter the lot of 'em! We'll never get that lot jointed this shift!'
'I heard where there was one at a carpenter's that went odd and made five thousand tables in one night. Lost count or something.'
'It's just staring at them . . .'
'I mean, five thousand tables? One of them had twenty-seven legs. It got stuck on legs . . .'
Dorfl brought the cleaver down hard and sliced the lock off the gate. The cattle watched the golem, with that guarded expression which cattle have that means they're waiting for the next thought to turn up.
He walked on to the sheep pens and opened them, too. The pigs were next, and then the poultry.
'All of them?' said Mr Sock.
The golem walked calmly back down the line of pens, ignoring the watchers, and re-entered the slaughterhouse. He came out very shortly afterwards leading the ancient and hairy billygoat on a piece of string. He went past the waiting animals until he reached the wide gates that led on to the main road, which he opened. Then he let the goat loose.
The animal sniffed the air and rolled its slotted eyes. Then, apparently deciding that the distant odour of the cabbage fields beyond the city wall was much preferable to the smells immediately around it, it trotted away up the road.
The animals followed it in a rush, but with hardly any other noise than the rustle of movement and the sounds of their hooves. They streamed around the stationary figure of Dorfl, who stood and watched them go.
A chicken, bewildered by the stampede, landed on the golem's head and started to cluck.
Anger finally overcame Sock's terror. 'What the hell are you doing?' he shouted, trying to field a few stray sheep as they bolted out of the pens. 'That's money walking out of the gate, you—'
Dorfl's hand was suddenly around his throat. The golem picked him up and held the struggling man at arm's-length, turning his head this way and that as if considering his next course of action.
Finally he tossed away the cleaver, reached up under the chicken that had taken up residence, and produced a small brown egg. With apparent ceremony the golem smashed it carefully on Sock's scalp and dropped him.
The golem's former co-workers jumped back out of the way as Dorfl walked back through the slaughterhouse.
There was a tally board by the entrance. Dorfl looked at it for a while, then picked up the chalk and wrote:
NO MASTER...
The chalk crumbled in his fingers. Dorfl walked out into the fog.
Cheri looked up from her workbench.

 
'The wick's full of arsenous acid,' she said. 'Well done, sir! This candle even weighs slightly more than other candles!'
'What an evil way to kill anyone,' said Angua.
'Certainly very clever,' said Vimes. 'Vetinari sits up half the night writing, and in the morning the candle's burned down. Poisoned by the light. The light's something you don't see. Who looks at the light? Not some plodding old copper.'
'Oh, you're not that old, sir,' said Carrot, cheerfully.
'What about plodding?'
'Or that plodding, either,' Carrot added quickly. 'I've always pointed out to people that you walk in a very purposeful and meaningful manner.'
Vimes gave him a sharp look and saw nothing more than a keen and innocently helpful expression.
'We don't look at the light because the light is what we look with,' said Vimes. 'Okay. And now I think we should go and have a look at the candle factory, shouldn't we? You come, Littlebottom, and bring your . . . have you got taller, Little-bottom?'
'High-heeled boots, sir,' said Cheri.
'I thought dwarfs always wore iron boots . . .'
'Yes, sir. But I've got high heels on mine, sir. I welded them on.'
'Oh. Fine. Right.' Vimes pulled himself together. 'Well, if you can still totter, bring your alchemy stuff with you. Detritus should've come off-duty from the palace. When it comes to locked doors you can't beat Detritus. He's a walking crowbar. We'll pick him up on the way.'
He loaded his crossbow and lit a match.
'Right,' he said. 'We've done it the modern way, now let's try policing like grandfather used to do it. It's time to—'
'Prod buttock, sir?' said Carrot, hurriedly.
'Close,' said Vimes, taking a deep drag and blowing out a smoke ring, 'but no cigar.'

 
Sergeant Colon's view of the world was certainly changing. Just when something was about to fix itself firmly in his mind as the worst moment of his entire life, it was hurriedly replaced by something even nastier.
Firstly, the drainpipe he was riding hit the wall of the building opposite. In a well-organized world he might have landed on a fire escape, but fire escapes were unknown in Ankh-Morpork and the flames generally had to leave via the roof.
With the pipe thus leaning against the wall, he found himself sliding down the diagonal. Even this might have been a happy outcome were it not for the fact that Colon was a heavy man and, as his weight slid nearer to the middle of the unsupported pipe, the pipe sagged, and cast iron has only a very limited amount of sag before it snaps, which it novv did.
Colon dropped, and landed on something soft -at least, softer than the street - and the something went 'mur-r-r-r-r-m!'. He bounced off it and landed on something lower and softer which went 'baaaaarp!', and rolled from this on to something even lower and apparently made of feathers, which went insane. And pecked him.
The street was full of animals, milling around uncertainly. When animals are in a state of uncertainty they get nervous, and the street was already, as it were, paved with anxiety. The only benefit to Sergeant Colon was that this made it slightly softer than would otherwise have been the case.
Hooves trod on his hands. Very large dribbly noses sneezed at him.
Sergeant Colon had not hitherto had a great deal of experience of animals, except in portion sizes. When he'd been little he'd had a pink stuffed pig called Mr Dreadful, and he'd got up to Chapter Six in Animal Husbandry. It had woodcuts in it. There was no mention of hot smelly breath and great clomping feet like soup plates on a stick. Cows, in Sergeant Colon's book, should go 'moo'. Every child knew that. They shouldn't go 'mur-r-r-r-r-m!' like some kind of undersea monster and spray you with spit.
He tried to get up, skidded on some cow's moment of crisis, and sat down on a sheep. It went 'blaaaart!' What kind of noise was that for a sheep to make?
He got up again and tried to make his way to the kerb. 'Shoo! Get out of the damn way, you sheep! Gam!'
A goose hissed at him and stuck out altogether too much neck.
Colon backed off, and stopped when something nudged him in the back. It was a pig.
It was no Mr Dreadful. This wasn't the little piggy that went to market, or the little piggy that stayed at home. It would be quite hard to imagine what kind of foot would have a piggy like this, but it would probably be the kind that also had hair and scales and toenails like cashew nuts.
This piggy was the size of a pony. This piggy had tusks. And it wasn't pink. It was a blue-black colour and covered with sharp hair but it did have - let's be fair, thought Colon - little red piggy eyes.
This little piggy looked like the little piggy that killed the boarhounds, disembowelled the horse and ate the huntsman.
Colon turned around, and came face-to-face with a bull like a beef cube on legs. It turned its huge head from side to side so that each rolling eye could get a sight of the sergeant, but it was clear that neither of them liked him very much.
It lowered its head. There wasn't room for it to charge, but it could certainly push.
As the animals crowded around him, Colon took the only way of escape possible.

 
There were men slumped all over the alley.
'Hello, hello, hello, what's all this, then?' said Carrot.
A man who was holding his arm and groaning looked up at him. 'We were viciously attacked!'
'We don't have time for this,' said Vimes.
'We may have,' said Angua. She tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the wall opposite, on which was written in a familiar script:
NO MASTER...
Carrot hunched down and spoke to the casualty. 'You were attacked by a golem, were you?' he said.
'Right! Vicious bugger! Just walked out of the fog and went for us, you know what they're like!'
Carrot gave the man a cheerful smile. Then his gaze travelled along the man's body to the big hammer lying in the gutter, and moved from that to the other tools strewn around the scene of the fight. Several had their handles broken. There was a long crowbar, bent nearly into a circle.
'It's lucky you were all so well armed, ' he said.
'It turned on us, ' said the man. He tried to snap his fingers. 'Just like that - aargh!'
'You seem to have hurt your fingers . . .'
'You're right!'
'It's just that I don't understand how it could have turned on you and just walked out of the fog,' said Carrot.
'Everyone knows they're not allowed to fight back!'
' "Fight back",' Carrot repeated.
'It's not right, them walking around the streets like that,' the man muttered, looking away.
There was the sound of running feet behind them and a couple of men in blood-stained aprons caught up with them. 'It went that way!' one yelled. 'You'll be able to catch up with it if you hurry!'
'Come on, don't hang around! What do we pay our taxes for?' said the other.
'It went all round the cattle yards and let everything out. Everything*. You can't move on Pigsty Hill!'
'A golem let all the cattle out?' said Vimes. 'What for?'
'How should I know? It took the yudasgoat out of Sock's slaughterhouse so half the damn things are following it around! And then it went and put old Fosdyke in his sausage machine—'
'What?'
'Oh, it didn't turn the handle. It just shoved a handful of parsley in his mouth, dropped an onion down his trousers, covered him in oatmeal and dropped him in the hopper!'
Angua's shoulders started to shake. Even Vimes grinned.
'And then it went into the poultry merchant's, grabbed Mr Terwillie, and' - the man stopped, aware there was a lady present, even if she was making snorting noises while trying not to laugh, and continued in a mumble - 'made use of some sage and onion. If you know what I mean . . .'
'You mean he—?' Vimes began.
'Yes!'
His companion nodded. 'Poor old Terwillie won't be able to look sage and onion in the face again, I reckon.'
'By the sound of it, that's the last thing he'll do,' said Vimes.
Angua had to turn her back.
Tell him about what happened in your pork butcher's,' said the man's companion.
'I don't think you'll need to/ said Vimes. ‘I’m seeing a pattern here.'
'Right! And poor young Sid's only an apprentice and didn't deserve what it done to him!'
'Oh, dear,' said Carrot. 'Er. . .I think I've got an ointment that might be—'
'Will it help with the apple?' the man demanded.
'It shoved an apple in his mouth?'
'Wrong!'
Vimes winced. 'Ouch . . .'
'What's going to be done, eh?' said the butcher, his face a few inches from Vimes's.
'Well, if you can get a grip on the stem—'
'I'm serious! What are you going to do? I'm a taxpayer and I know my rights!'
He prodded Vimes in the breastplate. Vimes's expression went wooden. He looked down at the finger, and then back up at the man's large red nose.
'In that case,' said Vimes, 'I suggest you take another apple and—'
'Er, excuse me,' said Carrot loudly, 'You're Mr Maxilotte, aren't you? Got a shop in the Shambles?'
'Yes, that's right. What of it?'
'It's just that I don't recall seeing your name on the register of taxpayers, which is very odd because you said you were a taxpayer, but of course you wouldn't lie about a thing like that and anyway when you paid your taxes they would have given you a receipt because that's the law and I'm sure you'd be able to find it if you looked—'
The butcher lowered his finger. 'Er, yes . . .'
'I could come and help you if you'd like,' said Carrot.
The butcher gave Vimes a despairing look.
'He really does read that stuff,' said Vimes. 'For pleasure. Carrot, why don't you scarp—? My gods, what the hell is that?
There was a bellow further up the street.
Something big and muddy was approaching at a sort of menacing amble. In the gloom it looked vaguely like a very fat centaur, half-man, half. . . in fact it was, he realized as it bounced nearer, half-Colon, half-bull.
Sergeant Colon had lost his helmet and had a certain look about him that suggested he had been close to the soil.
As the massive bull cantered past, the sergeant rolled his eyes wildly and said, 'I daren't get off! I daren't get off!'
'How did you get on?' shouted Vimes.
'It wasn't easy, sir! I just grabbed the 'orns, sir, next minute I was on its back!'
'Well, hang on!'
'Yes, sir! Hanging on sir!'

 
Rogers the bulls were angry and bewildered, which counts as the basic state of mind for full-grown bulls.[16]
But they had a particular reason. Beef cattle have a religion. They are deeply spiritual animals. They believe that good and obedient cattle go to a better place when they die, through a magic door. They don't know what happens next, but they've heard that it involves really good eating and, for some reason, horseradish.
Rogers had been quite looking forward to it. They were getting a bit creaky these days, and cows seemed to run faster than they had done when they were lads. They could just taste that heavenly horseradish . . .
And instead they'd been herded into a crowded pen for a day and then the gate had been opened and there'd been animals everywhere and this did not look like the Promised Lard.
And someone was on their back. They'd tried to buck him off a few times. In Rogers' heyday the impudent man would by now be a few stringy red stains on the ground, but finally the arthritic bulls had given up until such time as they could find a handy tree on which to scrape him off.
They just wished the wretched man would stop yelling.

 
Vimes took a few steps after the bull, and then turned.
'Carrot? Angua? You two get down to Carry's tallow works. Just keep an eye on it until we get there, understand? Spy out the place but don't go in, understand? Right? Do not in any circumstances move in. Do I make myself clear? Just remain in the area. Right?'
'Yes, sir,' said Carrot.
'Detritus, let's get Fred off that thing.'
The crowds were melting away ahead of the bull. A ton of pedigree bull does not experience traffic congestion, at least not for any length of time.
'Can't you jump off, Fred?' Vimes yelled, as he ran along behind.
'I do not wish to give that a try, sir!'
'Well, can you steer it?'
'How, sir?'
'Take the bull by the horns, man!'
Colon tentatively reached out and took a horn in each hand. Rogers the bulls turned their head and nearly pulled him off.
'He's a bit stronger than me, sir! Quite a lot stronger actually, sir!'
'I could shoot it through der head wid my bow, Mr Vimes,' said Detritus, flourishing his converted siege weapon.
'This is a crowded street, Sergeant. It might hit an innocent person, even in Ankh-Morpork.'
'Sorry, sir.' Detritus brightened. 'But if it did we could always say they'd bin guilty of somethin', sir?'
'No, that . . . What's that chicken doing?'
A small black bantam cock raced up the street, ran between the bull's legs and skidded to a halt just in front of Rogers. A smaller figure jumped off its back, leapt up, caught hold of the ring through the bull's nose, swung up further until it was in the mass of curls on the bull's forehead, and then took firm hold of a lock of hair in each tiny hand.
'It looks like Wee Mad Arthur der ger-nome, sir,' said Detritus. 'He . . . tryin' to nut der bull . . .'
There was a noise like a slow woodpecker working on a particularly difficult tree, and it punctuated a litany of complaints from somewhere between the animal's eyes.
'Take that, yer big lump that yez are . . .'
The bulls stopped. They tried to turn their head so that one or other of the Rogerses could see what the hell it was that was hammering at their foreheads, and might as well have tried looking down their own ears.
They staggered backwards.
'Fred,' Vimes whispered. 'You slip off its back while it's busy.'
With a panicky look, Sergeant Colon swung a leg over the bull's huge back and slid down to the ground. Vimes grabbed him and hustled him into a doorway. Then he hustled him out again. A doorway was far too confined a space in which to be anywhere near Fred Colon.
'Why are you all covered in crap, Fred?'
'Well, sir, you know that creek that you're up without a paddle? It started there and it's got worse,
sir.
'Good grief. Worse than that?'
'Permission to go and have a bath, sir?'
'No, but you could stand back a few more feet. What happened to your helmet?'
'Last time I saw it, it was on a sheep, sir. Sir, I was tied up and shoved in a cellar and heroically broke free, sir! And I was chased by one of them golems, sir!'
'Where was this?'
Colon had hoped he wouldn't be asked that. 'It was a place in the Shambles,' he said. 'It was foggy, so I—'
Vimes grabbed Colon's wrists. 'What's this?'
They tied me up with string, sir! But at great pers'nal risk of life and limb I—'
This doesn't look like string to me,' said Vimes.
'No, sir?'
'No, this looks like . . . candlewick.'
Colon looked blank.
That a Clue, sir?' he said, hopefully.
There was a splatting noise as Vimes slapped him on the back. 'Well done, Fred,' he said, wiping his hand on his trousers. 'It's certainly a corroboration.'
That's what I thought!' said Colon quickly. This is a corrobolaration and I've got to get it to Commander Vimes as soon as possible regardless of—'
'Why's that gnome nutting that bull, Fred?'
That's Wee Mad Arthur, sir. We owe him a dollar. He was ... of some help, sir.'
Rogers the bulls were on their knees, dazed and bewildered. It wasn't that Wee Mad Arthur was capable of delivering a killing blow, but he just didn't stop. After a while the noise and the thumping got on people's nerves.
'Should we help him?' said Vimes.
'Looks like he's doing all right by himself, sir,' said Colon.
Wee Mad Arthur looked up and grinned. 'One dollar, right?' he shouted. 'No welching or I'll come after yez! One of these buggers trod on me grandpa once!'
'Was he hurt?'
'He got one of his horns twisted right orf!'
Vimes took Sergeant Colon firmly by the arm. 'Come on, Fred, it's all hitting the street now!'
'Right, sir! And most of it's splashing!'
'I say! You there! You're a watchman, aren't you? Come over here!'
Vimes turned. A man had pushed his way through the crowds.
On the whole, Colon reflected, it was just possible that the worst moment of his life hadn't happened yet. Vimes tended to react in a ballistic way to words like 'I say! You there!' when uttered in a certain kind of neighing voice.
The speaker had an aristocratic look about him, and the angry air of a man not accustomed to the rigours of life who has just found one happening to him.
Vimes saluted smartly. 'Yessir! I'm a watchman, sir!'
'Well, just you come along with me and arrest this thing. It's disturbing the workers.'
'What thing, sir?'
'A golem, man! Walked into the factory as bold as you like and started painting on the damn walls!'
'What factory, sir?'
'You come with me, my man. I happen to be a very good friend of your commander and I can't say I like your attitude.'
'Sorry about that, sir,' said Vimes, with a cheerfulness that Sergeant Colon had come to dread.
There was a nondescript factory on the other side of the street. The man strode in.
'Er ... he said "golem", sir,' murmured Colon.
Vimes had known Fred Colon a long time. 'Yes, Fred, so it's vitally important for you to stay on guard out here,' he said.
The relief rose off Colon like steam. 'That's right, sir!' he said.
The factory was full of sewing-machines. People were sitting meekly in front of them. It was the sort of thing the guilds hated, but since the Guild of Seamstresses didn't take all that much interest in sewing there was no one to object. Endless belts led up from each machine to pulleys on a long spindle near the roof, which in turn were driven by ... Vimes's eyes followed it down the length of the workshop ... a treadmill, now stationary and somewhat broken. A couple of golems were standing forlornly alongside it, looking lost.
There was a hole in the wall quite close to it and, above it, someone had written in red paint:
WORKERS! NO MASTERS BUT YOURSELVES!
Vimes grinned.
'It smashed its way in, broke the treadmill, pulled my golems out, painted that stupid message on the wall and stamped out again!' said the man behind him.
'Hmm, yes, I see. A lot of people use oxen in their treadmills,' said Vimes mildly.
'What's that got to do with it? Anyway, cattle can't keep going twenty-four hours a day.'
Vimes's gaze worked its way along the rows of workers. Their faces had that worried, Cockbill Street look that you got when you were cursed with pride as well as poverty.
'No, indeed,' he said. 'Most of the clothing workshops are up at Nap Hill, but the wages are cheaper down here, aren't they?'
'People are jolly glad to get the work!'
'Yes,' said Vimes, looking at the faces again. 'Glad.' At the far end of the factory, he noted, the golems were trying to rebuild their treadmill.
'Now you listen to me, what I want you to do is—' the factory-owner began.
Vimes's hand gripped his collar and dragged him forward until his face was a few inches from Vimes's own.
'No, you listen to me,' hissed Vimes. 'I mix with crooks and thieves and thugs all day and that doesn't worry me at all but after two minutes with you I need a bath. And if I find that damn golem I'll shake its damn hand, you hear me?'
To the surprise of that part of Vimes that wasn't raging, the man found enough courage to say 'How dare you! You're supposed to be the law!'
Vimes's furious finger almost went up the man's nose.
'Where shall I start?' he yelled. He glared at the two golems. 'And why are you clowns repairing the treadmill?' he shouted. 'Good grief, haven't got the sense you were bor— Haven't you got any sense?'
He stormed out of the building. Sergeant Colon stopped trying to scrape himself clean and ran to catch up with him.
'I heard some people say they saw a golem come out of the other door, sir,' he said. 'It was a red one. You know, red clay. But the one that was after me was white, sir. Are you angry, Sam?'
'Who's that man who owns that place?'
'That's Mr Catterail, sir. You know, he's always writing you letters about there being too many what he calls "lesser races" in the Watch. You know . . . trolls and dwarfs . . .'
The sergeant had to trot to keep up with him.
'Get some zombies,' said Vimes.
'You've always been dead against zombies, excuse my pune,' said Sergeant Colon.
'Any want to join, are there?'
'Oh, yessir. Couple of good lads, sir, and but for the grey skin hangin' off 'em you'd swear they hadn't been buried five minutes.'
'Swear them in tomorrow.'
'Right, sir. Good idea. And of course it's a great saving not having to include them in the pension plan.'
They can patrol up on Kings Down. After all, they're only human.'
'Right, sir.' When Sam is in these moods, Colon thought, you agree with everything. 'You're really getting the hang of this affirmative action stuff, eh sir?'
'Right now I'd swear in a gorgon!'
'There's always Mr Bleakley, sir, he's getting fed up with working in the kosher butcher's and—'
'But no vampires. Never any vampires. Now let's get a move on, Fred.'

 
Nobby Nobbs ought to have known. That's what he told himself as he scuttled through the streets. All that stuff about kings and stuff- they'd wanted him to ...
It was a terrible thought . . .
Volunteer.
Nobby had spent a lifetime in one uniform or another. And one of the most basic lessons he'd learned was that men with red faces and plummy voices never ever gave cushy numbers to the likes of Nobby. They'd ask for volunteers to do something 'big and clean' and you'd end up scrubbing some damn great drawbridge; they'd say, 'Anyone here like good food?' and you'd be peeling potatoes for a week. You never ever volunteered. Not even if a sergeant stood there and said, 'We need someone to drink alcohol, bottles of, and make love, passionate, to women, for the use of.' There was always a snag. If a choir of angels asked for volunteers for Paradise to step forward, Nobby knew enough to take one smart pace to the rear.
When the call came for Corporal Nobbs, it would not find him wanting. It would not find him at all.
Nobby avoided a herd of pigs in the middle of the street.
Even Mr Vimes never expected him to volunteer. He respected Nobby's pride.
Nobby's head ached. It must've been the quail's eggs, he was sure. They couldn't be healthy birds to lay titchy eggs like that.
He sidled past a cow that had got its head stuck in someone's window.
Nobby as king? Oh, yes. No one ever gave a Nobbs anything except maybe a skin disease or sixty lashes. It was a dog-eat-Nobbs world, right enough. If there were to be a world competition for losers, a Nobbs would come firs— last.
He stopped running and went to earth in a doorway. In its welcome shadows he extracted a very short cigarette end from behind his ear and lit it.
Now that he felt safe enough to think about more than flight he wondered about all the animals that seemed to be on the streets. Unlike the family tree that had borne Fred Colon as its fruit, the creeping vine of the Nobbses had flourished only within city walls. Nobby was vaguely aware of animals as being food in a primary stage and left it at that. But he was pretty sure they weren't supposed to be wandering around untidily like this.
Gangs of men were trying to round them up. Since they were tired and working at cross-purposes, and the animals were hungry and bewildered, all that was happening was that the streets were getting a lot muddier.
Nobby became aware that he was not alone in the doorway.
He looked down.
Also lurking in the shadows was a goat. It was unkempt and smelly, but it turned its head and gave Nobby the most knowing look he'd ever seen on the face of an animal. Unexpectedly, and most uncharacteristically, Nobby was struck by a surge of fellow-rfeeling.
He pinched out the end of his cigarette and passed it down to the goat, which ate it.
'You and me both,' said Nobby.

 
Miscellaneous livestock scattered madly as Carrot, Angua and Cheri made their way down the Shambles. They especially tried to keep away from Angua. It seemed to Cheri that an invisible barrier was advancing in front of them. Some animals tried to climb walls or scattered madly into side alleys.
'Why are they so scared?' said Cheri.
'Can't imagine,' said Angua.
A few maddened sheep ran away from them as they walked around the candle-factory. Light from its high windows indicated that candlemaking continued all night.
They make nearly half a million candles every twenty-four hours,' said Carrot. 'I heard they've got very advanced machinery. It sounds very interesting. I'd love to see it.'
At the rear of the premises light blazed out into the fog. Crates of candles were being manhandled on to a succession of carts.
'Looks normal enough,' said Carrot, as they eased themselves into a conveniently shadowy doorway. 'Busy, though.'
'I don't see what good this is going to do,' said Angua. 'As soon as they see us they can destroy any evidence. And, even if we find arsenic, so what? There's no crime in owning arsenic, is there?'
'Er ... is there a crime in owning that? whispered Cheri.
A golem was walking slowly up the alley. It was quite unlike any other golem they had seen. The others were ancient and had repaired themselves so many times they were as shapeless as a gingerbread man, but this one looked like a human, or at least like humans wished they could look. It resembled a statue made of white clay. Around its head, part of the very design, was a crown.
'I was right,' murmured Carrot. 'They did make themselves a golem. The poor devils. They thought a king would make them free.'
'Look at its legs,' said Angua.
As the golem walked, lines of red light appeared and disappeared all over its legs, and across its body and arms.
'It's cracking,' she said.
'I knew you couldn't bake pottery in an old bread oven!' said Cheri. 'It's not the right shapel'
The golem pushed open a door and disappeared into the factory.
'Let's go,' said Carrot.
'Commander Vimes told us to wait for him,' said Angua.
'Yes, but we don't know what might be going on in there,' said Carrot. 'Besides, he likes us to use our initiative. We can't just hang around now.'
He darted across the alley and opened the door.
There were crates piled inside, with a narrow passageway between them. From all around them, but slightly muffled by the crates, came the clicking and rattling of the factory. The air smelled of hot wax.
Cheri was aware of a whispered conversation going on several feet above her little round helmet.
‘I wish Mr Vimes hadn't wanted us to bring her. Supposing something happens to her?'
'What are you talking about?'
'Well . . . you know . . . she's a girl.'
'So what? There's at least three female dwarfs in the Watch already and you don't worry about them.'
'Oh, come on ... name one.'
'Lars Skulldrinker,for a start.'
'No! Really?'
'Are you calling this nose a liar?'
'But he broke up a fight in the Miner's Arms single-handedly last week!'
' Well? Why do you assume females are weaker? You wouldn't worry about me taking on a vicious bar crowd by myself.'
'I'd give aid where necessary.'
' To me or to them?'
'That's unfair!'
'Is it?'
'I wouldn't help them unless you got really rough.'
'Ah, so? And they say chivalry is dead . . .'
'Anyway, Cheri is . . .a bit different. I'm sure he. . . she's good at alchemy, but we'd better watch her back in a fight. Hold on...’
They'd stepped out into the factory.
Candles whirled overhead - hundreds of them, thousands of them - dangling by their wicks from an endless belt of complex wooden links that switch-backed its way up and down the long hall.
'I heard about this,' said Carrot. 'It's called a producing line. It's a way of making thousands of things that are all the same. But look at the speed! I'm amazed the treadmill can—'
Angua pointed. There was a treadmill creaking around beside her, but there was nothing inside it.
'Something's got to be powering all this,' said Angua.
Carrot pointed. Further up the hall the switchbacks of the line converged in a complicated knot. There was a figure somewhere in the middle, arms moving in a blur.
Just beside Carrot the line ended at a big wooden hopper. Candles cascaded into it. No one had been emptying it, and they were tumbling over the pile and rolling on to the floor.
'Cheri,' said Carrot. 'Do you know how to use any kind of weapon?'
'Er . . . no, Captain Carrot.' 'Right. You just wait in the alley, then. I don't want any harm coming to you.' She scuttled off, looking relieved. Angua sniffed the air. 'There's been a vampire here,' she said.
'I think we'd—' Carrot began. 'I knew you'd find out! I wish I'd never bought the damned thing! I've got a bow! I warn you, I've got a crossbow!'
They turned. 'Ah, Mr Carry,' said Carrot cheerfully. He produced his badge. 'Captain Carrot, Ankh-Morpork City Watch—'
'I know who you are! I know who you are! And what you are, too! I knew you'd come! I've got a bow and I'm not afraid to use it!' The crossbow's point moved uncertainly, proving him a liar. 'Really?' said Angua. 'What we are?' 'I didn't even want to get involved!' said Carry. 'It killed those old men, didn't it?'
'Yes,' said Carrot.
'Why? I didn't tell it to!'
'Because they helped make it, I think,' said Carrot. 'It knew who to blame.'
The golems sold it to me!' said Carry. 'I thought it'd help build up the business but the damned thing won't stop—'
He glanced up at the line of candles whirring overhead, but jerked his head back before Angua could move.
'Works hard, does it?'
'Hah!' But Carry didn't look like a man enjoying a joke. He looked like a man in private torment. 'I've laid off everyone except the girls in the packing department, and they're on three shifts and overtime! I've got four men out looking for tallow, two negotiating for wicks and three trying to buy more storage space!'
'Then get it to stop making candles,' said Carrot.
'It goes off into the streets when we run out of tallow! You want it walking around looking for something to do? Hey, you two stay together!' Carry added urgently, waving the crossbow,
'Look, all you have to do is change the words in its head,' said Carrot.
'It won't let me! Don't you think I've tried?'
'It can't not let you,' said Carrot. 'Golems have to let—'
'I said it won't let me!'
'What about the poisoned candles?' said Carrot.
'That wasn't my idea!'
'Whose idea was it?'
Carry's crossbow swung back and forth. He licked his lips. 'This has all gone far too far,' he said. 'I'm getting out.'
'Whose idea, Mr Carry?'
'I'm not going to end up in some alley somewhere with as much blood as a banana!'
'Now then, we wouldn't do anything like that,' said Carrot.
Mr Carry was exporting terror. Angua could smell it streaming off him. He might pull the trigger out of sheer panic.
There was another smell, too. 'Who's the vampire?' she said.
For a moment she thought the man would fire the crossbow. 'I never said anything about him!'
'You've got garlic in your pocket,' said Angua. 'And the place reeks of vampire.'
'He said we could get the golem to do anything,' Carry mumbled.
'Like making poisoned candles?' said Carrot.
'Yes, but he said it'd just keep Vetinari out of the way,' said Carry. He seemed to be getting a tenuous grip on himself. 'And he's not dead, 'cos I'd have heard,' he said. 'I shouldn't think making him ill is a crime, so you can't—'
'The candles killed two other people,' said Carrot.
Carry started to panic again. 'Who?'
'An old lady and a baby in Cockbill Street.'
'Were they important?' said Carry.
Carrot nodded to himself. 'I was almost feeling sorry for you,' he said. 'Right up to that point. You're a lucky man, Mr Carry.'
'You think so?'
'Oh, yes. We got to you before Commander Vimes did. Now, just put down the crossbow and we can talk about—'
There was a noise. Or, rather, the sudden cessation of a noise that had been so pervasive that it had no longer been consciously heard.
The clacking line had stopped. There was a chorus of little waxy thuds as the hanging candles swung and hit one another, and then silence unrolled. The last candle dropped off the line, tumbled down the heap in the hopper, and bounced on the floor.
And in the silence, the sound of footsteps.
Carry started to back away. 'Too late!' he moaned.
Both Carrot and Angua saw his finger move.
Angua pushed Carrot out of the way as the claw released the string, but he had anticipated this and his hand was already flinging itself up and across. She heard the sickening, tearing noise as his palm whirled in front of her face, and his grunt as the force of the bolt spun him round.
He landed heavily on the floor, clutching his left hand. The crossbow bolt was sticking out of the palm.
Angua crouched down. 'It doesn't look barbed, let me pull—'
Carrot grabbed her wrist. 'The point's silver! Don't touch it!'
They both looked up as a shadow crossed the light.
The king golem looked down at her.
She felt her teeth and fingernails begin to lengthen.
Then she saw the small round face of Cheri peering nervously around a pile of crates. Angua fought down her werewolf instincts, screamed 'Stay right there!' at the dwarf and at every swelling hair follicle, and hesitated between pursuing the fleeing Carry and dragging Carrot to safety.
She told her body again that a wolf-shape was not an option. There were too many strange smells, too many fires . . .
The golem glistened with tallow and wax.
She backed away.
Behind the golem she saw Cheri look down at the groaning Carrot and then up at a fire-axe hooked on the wall. The dwarf took it down and weighed it vaguely in her hands.
'Don't try—' Angua began.
'T'dr'duzkb'hazgt't!'
'Oh, no!' moaned Carrot. 'Not that one!'
Cheri came up behind the golem at a run and hacked at its waist. The axe rebounded but she pirouetted with it and caught the statue on the thigh, chipping off a piece of clay.
Angua hesitated. Cheri's axe was making blurred orbits around the golem while its wielder yelled more terrible battle cries. Angua couldn't make out any words but many dwarf cries didn't bother with words. They went straight for emotions in sonic form. Chips of pottery ricocheted off the crates as each blow landed.
'What did she yell?' Angua said, as she pulled Carrot out of the way.
'It's the most menacing dwarf battle cry there is! Once it's been shouted someone has to be killed!'
'What's it mean?'
'Today Is A Good Day For Someone Else To Die!'
The golem watched the dwarf incuriously, like an elephant watching an attack by a rogue chicken.
Then it picked the axe out of the air, Cheri trailing behind it like a comet, and hurled it aside.
Angua hauled Carrot to his feet. Blood dripped from his hand. She tried to shut her nostrils. Full moon tomorrow. No more choices.
'Maybe we can reason with it—' Carrot started.
'Attention! This is the real world calling!' shouted Angua.
Carrot drew his sword. 'I am arresting you—' he began.
The golem's arm whirred across. The sword buried itself to the hilt in a crate of candles.
'Got any more clever ideas?' said Angua, as they backed away. 'Or can we go now?'
'No. We've got to stop it somewhere.'
Their heels met a wall of crates.
'I think we've found the place,' said Angua as the golem raised its fists again.
'You duck right, I'll duck left. Maybe—'
A blow rocked the big double doors in the far wall.
The king golem's head turned.
The doors shook again, and burst inwards. For a moment Dorfl was framed in the doorway. Then the red golem lowered his head, spread his arms, and charged.
It wasn't a very fast run but it did have a terrible momentum, like the slow slide of a glacier. The floorboards shook and drummed under him.
The golems collided with a clang in the middle of the floor. Jagged lines of fire spread across the king's body as cracks opened, but it roared and caught up Dorfl around the middle and tossed him against the wall.
'Come on,' said Angua. 'Now can we find Cheri and get out of here?'
'We ought to help him,' said Carrot, as the golems smashed into each other again.
'How? If it. . . if he can't stop it, what makes you think we can? Come on!'
Carrot shook her off.
Dorfl picked itself up from among the bricks and charged again. The golems met, scrabbling at one another for purchase. They stood locked for a moment, creaking, and then Dorfl's hand came up holding something. Dorfl pushed himself back and smashed the other golem over the head with its own leg.
As it spun Dorfl's other hand lashed out, but was grabbed. The king swivelled with a strange grace, bore Dorfl to the floor, rolled and kicked out. Dorfl rolled too. He flung out his arms to stop himself, and looked back >to see both his feet pinwheeling into the wall.
The king picked up its own leg, balanced for a moment, and joined itself together.
Then its red gaze swept the factory and flared when it caught sight of Carrot,
'There must be a back way out of here,' muttered Angua. 'Carry got out!'
The king started to run after them, but hit an immediate problem. It had put its leg on back to front. It began to limp in a circle but, somehow, the circle got nearer to them.
'We can't just leave Dorfl lying there/ said Carrot.
He pulled a long metal rod out of a stirring tank and eased himself back down to the grease-crusted floor.
The king rocked towards him. Carrot hopped backwards, steadied himself on a rail, and swung.
The golem lifted its hand, caught the rod out of the air and tossed it aside. It raised both fists and tried to step forward.
It couldn't move. It looked down.
'Thsss,' said what remained of Dorfl, gripping its ankle.
The king bent, swung one hand with the palm edgewise, and calmly sheared the top off Dorfl's head. It removed the chem and crumpled it up.
The glow died in Dorfl's eyes.
Angua cannoned into Carrot so hard he almost fell over. She wrapped both arms around him and pulled him after her.
'It just killed Dorfl, just like that!' said Carrot.
'It's a shame, yes,' said Angua. 'Or it would be if Dorfl had been alive. Carrot, they're like . . . machinery. Look, we can make it to the door—'
Carrot shook himself free. 'It's murder,' he said. 'We're Watchmen. We can't just. . . watch! It killed him!'
'It's an it and so's he—'
'Commander Vimes said someone has to speak for the people with no voices!'
He really believes it, Angua thought. Vimes puts words in his head.
'Keep it occupied!' he shouted, and darted away.
'How? Organize a sing-song?'
'I've got a plan.'
'Oh, good!’

 
Vimes looked up at the entrance of the candle-factory. He could dimly see two cressets burning on either side of a shield. 'Look at that, will you?' he said. 'Paint not dry and he flaunts the thing for all the world to see!'
'What's dat, sir?' said Detritus.
'His damn coat of arms!'
Detritus looked up. 'Why's it got a lighted fish on it?' he said.
'In heraldry that's a poisson,' said Vimes bitterly. 'And it's supposed to be a lamp.'
'A lamp made out of a poisson,' said Detritus. 'Well, dere'safmg.'
'At least it's got the motto in proper language,' said Sergeant Colon. 'Instead of all the old- fashioned stuff no one understands. "Art Brought Forth the Candle." That, Sergeant Detritus, is a pune, or play on words. 'Cos his name is Arthur, see.'
Vimes stood between the two sergeants and felt a hole open up in his head.
'Damn!* he said. 'Damn, damn, damn! He showed it to me! "Dumb plodder Vimes! He won't notice!" Oh, yes! And he was right!'
"S not that good,' said Colon. 'I mean, you've got to know that Mr Carry's first name is Arthur—'
'Shut up, Fred!' snapped Vimes.
'Shutting up right now, sir.'
'The arrogance of the . . . Who's that?'
A figure darted out of the building, glanced around hurriedly, and scurried along the street.
'That's Carry!^' said Vimes. He didn't even shout 'After him!' but went from a standing start to a full run. The fleeing figure dodged between the occasional straying sheep or pig and didn't have a bad turn of speed, but Vimes was powered by sheer anger and was only yards away when Carry ducked into an alleyway.
Vimes skidded to a halt and grabbed at the wall. He'd seen the shape of a crossbow and one of the things you learned in the Watch - that is, one of the things which hopefully you'd have a chance to learn — was that it was a very stupid thing indeed to follow someone with a crossbow into a dark alley where you'd be outlined against any light there was.
'I know it's you, Carry,' he shouted.
‘I’ve got a crossbow!'
'You can only fire it once!^'
'I want to turn King's Evidence!'
'Guess again!'
Carry lowered his voice. 'They just said I could get the damn golem to do it. I didn't think anyone was going to get hurt.'
'Right, right,' said Vimes. 'You made poisoned candles because they gave a better light, I expect.'
'You know what I mean! They told me it would all be all right and—'
'Which they would "they" be?'
'They said no one would ever find out!'
'Really?'
'Look, look, they said they could . . .' The voice paused, and took on that wheedling tone the blunt-witted use when they're trying to sound sharp.
'If I tell you everything, you'll let me go, right?'
The two sergeants had caught up. Vimes pulled Detritus towards him, although in fact he ended up pulling himself towards Detritus.
'Go round the corner and see he doesn't come out of the alley the other way,' he whispered. The troll nodded.
'What's it you want to tell me, Mr Carry?' said Vimes to the darkness in the alley.
'Have we got a bargain?'
'What?'
'A bargain.'
'No, we damn well haven't got a bargain, Mr Carry! I'm not a tradesman! But I'll tell you something, Mr Carry. They betrayed you!'
There was silence from the darkness, and then a sound like a sigh.
Behind Vimes, Sergeant Colon stamped his feet on the cobbles to keep warm.
'You can't stay in there all night, Mr Carry,' said Vimes.
There was another sound, a leathery sound. Vimes glanced up into the coils of fog. 'Something's not right,' he said. 'Come on!'
He ran into the alley. Sergeant Colon followed, on the basis that it was fine to run into an alley containing an armed man provided you were behind someone else.
A shape loomed at them.
'Detritus?'
'Yes, sir!'
'Where did he go? There are no doors in the alley!'
Then his eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom. He saw a huddled outline at the foot of a wall, and his foot nudged a crossbow. 'Mr Carry?'
He knelt down and lit a match.
'Oh, nasty,' said Sergeant Colon. 'Something's broken his neck . . .'
'Dead, is he?' said Detritus. 'You want I should draw a chalk outline round him?'
'I don't think we need bother, Sergeant.'
'It no bother, I've got der chalk right here.'
Vimes looked up. Fog filled the alley, but there were no ladders, no handy low roofs.
'Let's get out of here,' he said.

 
Angua faced the king.
She resisted a terrible urge to Change. Even a werewolf s jaws probably wouldn't have any effect on the thing. It didn't have a jugular.
She daren't look away. The king moved uncertainly, with little jerks and twitches that in a human would suggest madness. Its arms moved fast but erratically, as if signals that were being sent were not arriving properly. And Dorfl's attack had left it damaged. Every time it moved, red light shone from dozens of new cracks.
'You're cracking up!' she shouted. 'The oven wasn't right for pottery!'
The king lunged at her. She dodged and heard its hand slice through a rack of candles.
'You're cranky! You're baked like a loaf! You're half-baked?
She drew her sword. She didn't usually have much use for it. She found a smile would invariably do the trick,
A hand sliced the top off the blade.
She stared at the sheared metal in horror and then somersaulted back as another blow hummed past her face.
Her foot rolled on a candle and she fell heavily, but with enough presence of mind to roll before a foot stamped down.
'Where've you gone?' she yelled.
'Can you get it to move a little closer to the doors, please?' said a voice from the darkness on high.
Carrot crawled out along the rickety structure that supported the production line.
'Carrot!'
'Almost there...'
The king grabbed at her leg. She lashed out with her foot and caught it on the knee.
To her amazement she made it crack. But the fire below was still there. The pieces of pottery seemed to float on it. No matter what anyone did the golem could keep going, even if it were just a cloud of dust held together.
'Ah. Right,' said Carrot, and dropped off the gantry.
He landed on the king's back, flung one arm around its neck, and began to pound on its head with the hilt of his sword. It staggered and tried to reach up to pull him off.
'Got to get the words out!' Carrot shouted, as the arms flailed at him. 'It's the only . . . way!'
The king staggered forward and hit a stack of boxes, which burst and rained candles over the floor. Carrot grabbed its ears and tried to twist.
Angua heard him saying: 'You . . . have . . . the right... to ... a lawyer . . .'
'Carrot! Don't bother with its damn rights!'
'You . . . have . . . the right to—'
'Just give it the last ones!'
There was a commotion in the gaping doorway and Vimes ran in, sword drawn. 'Oh, gods . . . Sergeant Detritus!'
Detritus appeared behind him. 'Sah!'
'Crossbow bolt through the head, if you please!'
Tf you say so, sir . . .'
'Its head, Sergeant! Mine is fine! Carrot, get down off the thing!'
'Can't get its head off, sir!'
'We'll try six feet of cold steel in the ear just as soon as you let the damn thing go!'
Carrot steadied himself on the king's shoulders, tried to judge his moment as the thing staggered around, and leapt.
He landed awkwardly on a sliding heap of candles. His leg buckled under him and he tumbled over until he was stopped by the inert shell that had been Dorfl.
'Hey, look dis way, mister,' said Detritus.
The king turned.
Vimes didn't catch everything that happened next, because it all happened so quickly. He was merely aware of the rush of air and thegloink of the rebounding bolt mingling with the wooden juddering noise as it buried itself in the doorframe behind him.
And the golem was crouching down by Carrot, who was trying to squirm out of the way.
It raised a fist, and brought it down . . .
Vimes didn't even see Dorfl's arm move but there it was there, suddenly gripping the king's wrist.
Tiny stars of light went nova in Dorfl's eyes.
'Tssssss!'
As the king jerked back in surprise, Dorfl held on and levered himself up on what remained of his legs. As he came up so did his fist.
Time slowed. Nothing moved in the whole universe but Dorfl's fist.
It swung like a planet, without any apparent speed but with a drifting unstoppability.
And then the king's expression changed. Just before the fist landed, it smiled.
The golem's head exploded, Vimes recalled it in slow motion, one long second of floating pottery. And words. Scraps of paper flew out, dozens, scores of them, tumbling gently to the floor.
Slowly, peacefully, the king hit the floor. The red light died, the cracks opened, and then there were just. . . pieces.
Dorfl collapsed on top of them.
Angua and Vimes reached Carrot together.
'He came alive!' said Carrot, struggling up. That thing was going to kill me and Dorfl came alive! But that thing had smashed the words out of his head! A golem has to have the words!'
'They gave their own golem too many, I can see that,' said Vimes.
He picked up some of the coils of paper.
...CREATE PEACE AND JUSTICE FOR ALL...
...RULE USE WISELY...
...TEACH US FREEDOM...
...LEAD US TO...
Poor devil, he thought.
'Let's get you home. That hand needs treating—' said Angua.
'Listen, will you?' said Carrot. 'He's alive!'
Vimes knelt down by Dorfl. The broken clay skull looked as empty as yesterday's breakfast egg. But there was still a pinpoint of light in each eye socket.
'Usssss,' hissed Dorfl, so faintly that Vimes wasn't sure he'd heard it.
A finger scratched on the floor.
'Is it trying to write something?' said Angua.
Vimes pulled out his notebook, eased it under Dorfl's hand, and gently pushed a pencil into the golem's fingers. They watched the hand as it wrote - a little jerkily but still with the mechanical precision of a golem - eight words.
Then it stopped. The pencil rolled away. The lights in Dorfl's eyes dwindled and went out,
'Good grief,' breathed Angua. 'They don't need words in their heads . . .'
'We can rebuild him,' said Carrot hoarsely. 'We have the pottery.'
Vimes stared at the words, and then at what remained of Dorfl.
'Mr Vimes?' said Carrot.
'Do it,' said Vimes.
Carrot blinked.
'Right now,' Vimes said. He looked back at the scrawl in his book.
W<span lang=EN-US style='font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.5pt'>O</span>R</span><span lang=EN-US style='font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.5pt'>D</span>S I</span><span lang=EN-US style='font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.5pt'>N</span> THE H</span><span lang=EN-US style='font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.5pt'>E</span>A</span><span lang=EN-US style='font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.5pt'>R</span>T CA</span><span lang=EN-US style='font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 11.5pt'>N</span>N</span><span lang=EN-US style='font-size: 14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.5pt'>O</span>T BE T</span><span lang=EN-US style='font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.5pt'>A</span><span lang=EN-US style='font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.5pt'>K</span><span lang=EN-US style='font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.5pt'>E</span>N.</span>
'And when you rebuild him,' he said, 'when you rebuild him. . . give him a voice. Understand? And get someone to look at your hand.'
'A voice, sir?'
'Do it!'
'Yes, sir.'
'Right.' Vimes pulled himself together. 'Constable Angua and I will have a look around here. Off you go.'
He watched Carrot and the troll carry the remains out. 'Okay,' he said. 'We're looking for arsenic. Maybe there'll be some workshop somewhere. I shouldn't think they'd want to mix the poisoned candles up with the others. Cheery'll know what— Where is Corporal Littlebottom?'
'Er ... I don't think I can hold on much longer . . .'
They looked up.
Cheri was hanging on the line of candles.
'How did you get up there?' said Vimes.
'I sort of found myself going past, sir.'
'Can't you just let go? You're not that high— Oh . . .'
A big trough of molten tallow was a few feet under her. Occasionally the surface wentgloop.
'Er . . . how hot would that be?' Vimes hissed to Angua.
'Ever bitten hot jam?' she said.
Vimes raised his voice. 'Can't you swing yourself along, Corporal?'
'All the wood's greasy, sir!'
'Corporal Littlebottom, I order you not to fall off!'
'Very good, sir!'
Vimes pulled off his jacket. 'Hang on to this. I'll see if I can climb up . . .'he muttered.
'It won't work!' said Angua. The thing's shaky enough as it is!'
'I can feel my hands slipping, sir.'
'Good grief, why didn't you call out earlier?'
'Everyone seemed to be busy, sir.'
'Turn around, sir,' said Angua, undoing the buckles of her breastplate. 'Right now, please! And shut your eyes!'
'Why, what . . . ?'
'Rrright nowwww, sirrrrr!'
'Oh. . .yes. . .'
Vimes heard Angua back away from the candle machine, her footsteps punctuated by the clang of falling armour. Then she started running and the footsteps changed while she was running and then . . .
He opened his eyes.
The wolf sailed upwards in slow motion, caught the dwarfs shoulder in its jaws as Cheri's grip gave way, and then arced its body so that wolf and dwarf hit the floor on the far side of the vat.
Angua rolled, whimpering.
Cheri scrambled to her feet. 'It's a werewolf!'
Angua rolled back and forth, pawing at her mouth.
'What's happened to it?' said Cheri, her panic receding a little. 'It looks . . . hurt. Where's Angua? Oh. . .'
Vimes glanced at the dwarfs torn leather shirt. 'You wear chain mail under your clothes?' he said.
'Oh . . . it's my silver vest . . . but she knew about it. I told her . . .'
Vimes grabbed Angua's collar. She moved to bite him, and then caught his eye and turned her head away.
'She only bit the silver,' said Cheri, distractedly.
Angua pulled herself on to her feet, glared at them, and slunk off behind some crates. They heard her whimpering which, by degrees, became a voice.
'Blasted blasted dwarfs and their blasted vests . . .'
'You all right, Constable?' said Vimes.
'Damn silver underwear . . . Can you throw me my clothes, please?'
Vimes bundled up Angua's uniform and, eyes closed for decency's sake, handed it around the crates.
'No one told me she was a were—' Cheri moaned.
'Look at it like this, Corporal,' said Vimes, as patiently as he could. 'If she hadn't been a werewolf you would by now be the world's largest novelty candle, all right?'
Angua walked from behind the crates, rubbing her mouth. The skin around it looked too pink . . .
'It burned you?' said Cheri.
'It'll heal,' said Angua.
'You never said you were a werewolf!'
'How would you've liked me to have put it?'
'Right,' said Vimes, 'if that's all sorted out, ladies, I want this place searched. Understand?'
'I've got some ointment,' said Cheri meekly.
'Thank you.'
They found a bag in a cellar. There were several boxes of candles. And a lot of dead rats.

 
Igneous the troll opened the door of his pottery a fraction. He'd intended the fraction to be no more than about one-sixteenth, but someone immediately pushed hard and turned it into rather more than one and three-quarters.
'Here, what's dis?' he said, as Detritus and Carrot came in with the shell of Dorfl between them. 'You can't jus' break in here—'
'We ain't just breakin' in,' said Detritus.
'Dis is an outrage,' said Igneous. 'You got no right comin' in here. You got no reason—'
Detritus let go of the golem and spun around. His hand shot out and caught Igneous around the throat. 'You see dose statchoos of Monolith over dere? You see dem?' he growled, twisting the other troll's head to face a row of troll religious statues on the other side of the warehouse. 'You want I should smash one open, see what dey're fill wit', maybe find a reason?'
Igneous's slitted eyes darted this way and that. He might have been hard of thinking, but he could feel a killing mood when it was in the air. 'No call for dat, I always help der Watch,' he muttered. 'What dis all about?'
Carrot laid out the golem on a table. 'Start, then,' he said. 'Rebuild him. Use as much of the old clay as you can, understand?'
'How can it work when its lights're out?' said Detritus, still puzzled by this mission of mercy.
'He said the clay remembers!'
The sergeant shrugged.
'And give him a tongue,' said Carrot.
Igneous looked shocked. 'I won't do dat,' he said. 'Everybody know it blasphemy if golems speak.'
'Oh, yeah?' said Detritus. He strode across the warehouse to the group of statues and glared at them. Then he said, 'Whoops, here's me accident'ly trippin' up, ooo, dis is me grabbin' a statchoo for support, oh, der arm have come right off, where can I put my face . . . and what is dis white powder what I sees here with my eyes accident'ly spillin' on der floor?'
He licked a finger and gingerly tasted the stuff.
'Slab,' he growled, walking back to the trembling Igneous. 'You tellin' me about blasphemy, you sedimentr'y coprolith? You doin' what Captain Carrot say right now or you goin' out of here in a sack!'
'Dis is police brutality . . .' Igneous muttered.
'No, dis is just police shoutin'!' yelled Detritus. 'You want to try for brutality it okay wit' me!'
Igneous tried to appeal to Carrot. 'It not right, he got a badge, he puttin' me in fear, he can't do dis,' he said.
Carrot nodded. There was a glint in his eye that Igneous should have noticed. 'That's correct,' he said. 'Sergeant Detritus?'
'Sir?'
'It's been a long day for all of us. You can go off duty.'
'Yessir!' said Detritus, with considerable enthusiasm. He removed his badge and laid it down carefully. Then he started to struggle out of his armour.
'Look at it like this,' said Carrot. 'It's not that we're making life, we're simply giving life a place to live.'
Igneous finally gave up. 'Okay, okay,' he muttered. 'I doin' it. I doin' it.'
He looked at the various lumps and shards that were all that remained of Dorfl, and rubbed the lichen on his chin.
'You got most of the bits,' he said, professionalism edging resentment aside for a moment. 'I could glue him together wit' kiln cement. Dat'd do the trick if we bakes him overnight. Lessee... I reckon I got some over dere . . .'
Detritus blinked at his finger, which was still white with the dust, and sidled over to Carrot. 'Did I just lick dis?' he said.
'Er, yes,' said Carrot.
'T'ank goodness for dat,' said Detritus, blinking furiously, "d hate to believe dis room was really full of giant hairy spide . . . weeble weeble sclup ..."
He hit the floor, but happily.
'Even if I do it you can't make it come alive again,' muttered Igneous, returning to his bench. 'You won't find a priest who's goin' to write der words for in der head, not again.'
'He'll make up his own words,' said Carrot.
'And who's going to watch the oven?' said Igneous. 'It's gonna take 'til breakfast at least . . /
'I wasn't planning on doing anything for the rest of tonight,' said Carrot, taking off his helmet.

 
Vimes awoke around four o'clock. He'd gone to sleep at his desk. He hadn't meant to, but his body had just shut down.
It wasn't the first time he'd opened bleary eyes there. But at least he wasn't lying in anything sticky.
He focused on the report he'd half-written. His notebook was beside it, page after page of laborious scrawl to remind him that he was trying to understand a complex world by means of his simple mind.
He yawned, and looked out at the shank of the night.
He didn't have any evidence. No real evidence at all. He'd had an interview with an almost incoherent Corporal Nobbs, who hadn't really seen anything. He had nothing that wouldn't burn away like the fog in the morning. All he'd got were a few suspicions and a lot of coincidences, leaning against one another like a house of cards with no card on the bottom.
He peered at his notebook.
Someone seemed to have been working hard. Oh, yes. It had been him.
The events of last night jangled in his head. Why'd he written all this stuff about a coat of arms?
Oh, yes . . .
Yes!
Ten minutes later he was pushing open the door of the pottery. Warmth spilled out into the clammy air.
He found Carrot and Detritus asleep on the floor on either side of the kiln. Damn. He needed someone he could trust, but he hadn't the heart to wake them. He'd pushed everyone very hard the last few days ...
Something tapped on the door of the kiln.
Then the handle started to turn by itself.
The door opened as far as it could go and something half-slid and half-fell on to the floor.
Vimes still wasn't properly awake. Exhaustion and the importunate ghosts of adrenalin sizzled around the edges of his consciousness, but he saw the burning man unfold himself and stand upright.
His red-hot body gave little pings as it began to cool. Where it stood, the floor charred and smoked.
The golem raised his head and looked around.
'You!' said Vimes, pointing an unsteady finger. 'Come with me!'
'Yes,'said Dorfl.

 
Dragon King of Arms stepped into his library. The dirt of the small high windows and the remnants of the fog made sure there was never more than greyness here, but a hundred candles yielded their soft light. He sat down at his desk, pulled a volume towards him, and began to write.
After a while he stopped and stared ahead of him.
There was no sound but the occasional spluttering of a candle.
'Ah-ha. I can smell you, Commander Vimes,' he said. 'Did the Heralds let you in?'
'I found my own way, thank you,' said Vimes, stepping out of the shadows. The vampire sniffed again. 'You came alone?' 'Who should I have brought with me?' 'And to what do I owe the pleasure, Sir Samuel?' 'The pleasure is all mine. I'm going to arrest you,' said Vimes.
'Oh, dear. Ah-ha. For what, may I ask?' 'Can I invite you to notice the arrow in this crossbow?' said Vimes. 'No metal on the point, you'll see. It's wood all the way.'
'How very considerate. Ah-ha.' Dragon King of Arms twinkled at him. 'You still haven't told me what I'm accused of, however.'
'To start with, complicity in the murders of Mrs Flora Easy and the child William Easy.'
'I am afraid those names mean nothing to me.'
Vimes's finger twitched on the bow's trigger. 'No,' he said, breathing deeply. They probably don't. We are making other enquiries and there may be a number of additional matters. The fact that you were poisoning the Patrician I consider a mitigating circumstance.'
'You really intend to prefer charges?'
Tdprefer violence,' said Vimes loudly. 'Charges is what I'm going to have to settle for.'
The vampire leaned back. 'I hear you've been working very hard, Commander,' he said. 'So I will not—'
'We've got the testimony of Mr Carry,' lied Vimes. 'The late Mr Carry.'
Dragon's expression changed by not one tiny tremor of muscle. 'I really do not know, ah-ha, what you are talking about, Sir Samuel.'
'Only someone who could fly could have got into my office.'
Tm afraid you've lost me, sir.'
'Mr Carry was killed tonight,' Vimes went on. 'By someone who could get out of an alley guarded at both ends. And I know a vampire was in his factory.'
Tm still gamely trying to understand you, Commander,' said Dragon King of Arms. 'I know nothing about the death of Mr Carry and in any case there are a great many vampires in the city. I'm afraid your . . . aversion is well known.'
'I don't like to see people treated like cattle,' said Vimes. He stared briefly at the volumes piled in the room. 'And of course that's what you've always done, isn't it? These are the stock books of Ankh-Morpork.' The crossbow swung back towards the vampire, who hadn't moved. 'Power over little people. That's what vampires want. The blood is just a way of keeping score. I wonder how much influence you've had over the years?'
'A little. You are correct there, at least.'
' "A person of breeding",' said Vimes. 'Good grief. Well, I think people wanted Vetinari out of the way. But not dead, yet. Too many things'd happen too fast if he were dead. Is Nobby really an earl?'
'The evidence suggests so.'
'But it's your evidence, right? You see, I don't think he's got noble blood in him. Nobby's as common as muck. It's one of his better points. I don't set any score by the ring. The amount of stuff his family's nicked, you could probably prove he's the Duke of Pseudopolis, the Seriph of Klatch and the Dowager Duchess of Quirm. He pinched my cigar case last year and I'm damn certain he's not me. No, I don't think Nobby is a nob. But I think he was convenient.'
It seemed to Vimes that Dragon was getting bigger, but perhaps it was only a trick of the candlelight. The light flickered as the candles hissed and popped.
'You made good use of me, eh?' Vimes carried on. Td been ducking out of appointments with you for weeks. I expect you were getting quite impatient. You were so surprised when I told you about Nobby, eh? Otherwise you'd've had to send for him or something, very suspicious. But Commander Vimes discovered him. That looks good. Practically makes it official.
'And then I started thinking: who wants a king? Well, nearly everyone. It's built in. Kings make it better. Funny thing, isn't it? Even those people who owe everything to him don't like Vetinari. Ten years ago most of the guild leaders were just a bunch of thugs and now . . . well, they're still a bunch of thugs, to tell the truth, but Vetinari's given 'em the time and energy to decide they never needed him.
'And then young Carrot turns up with charisma writ all over him, and he's got a sword and a birthmark and everyone gets a funny feeling and dozens of buggers start going through the records and say, "Hey, looks like the king's come back." And then they watch him for a while and say, "Shit, he really is decent and honest and fair and just, just like in all the stories. Whoops! If this lad gets on the throne we could be in serious trouble! He might turn out to be one of them inconvenient kings from long ago who wanders around talking to the common people—" '
'You are in favour of the common people?' said Dragon mildly.
The common people?' said Vimes. 'They're nothing special. They're no different from the rich and powerful except they've got no money or power. But the law should be there to balance things up a bit. So I suppose I've got to be on their side.'
'A man married to the richest woman in the city?'
Vimes shrugged. The watchman's helmet isn't like a crown. Even when you take it off you're still wearing it.'
That's an interesting statement of position, Sir Samuel, and I would be the first to admire the way you've come to terms with your family history, but—'
'Don't move!' Vimes shifted his grip on the crossbow. 'Anyway . . . Carrot wouldn't do, but the news was getting around, and someone said, "Right, let's have a king we can control. All the rumours say the king is a humble watchman so let's find one." And they had a look and found that when it comes to humble you can't beat Nobby Nobbs. But ... I think people weren't too sure. Killing Vetinari wasn't an option. As I said, too many things would happen too fast. But to just gently remove him, so that he's there and not there at the same time, while everyone tried out the idea . . . that was a good wheeze. That's when someone got Mr Carry to make poisoned candles. He'd got a golem. Golems can't talk. No one would know. But it turned out to be a bit. . . erratic.'
'You seem to wish to involve me,' said Dragon King of Arms. 'I know nothing about this man other than that he's a customer—'
Vimes strode across the room and pulled a piece of parchment from a board. 'You did him a coat of arms!' he shouted. 'You even showed me when I was here! "The butcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker!" Remember?'
There was no sound now from the hunched figure.
'When I first met you the other day,' said Vimes, 'you made a point of showing me Arthur Carry's coat of arms. I thought it was a bit fishy at the time, but all that business with Nobby put it out of my mind. But I do remember it reminded me of the one for the Assassins' Guild.'
Vimes flourished the parchment.
'I looked and looked at it last night, and then I wound my sense of humour down ten notches and let it go out of focus and looked at the crest, the fish-shaped lamp. Lampe au poisson, it's called. A sort of bilingual play on words, perhaps? "A lamp of poison?" You've got to have a mind like old Detritus to spot that one. And Fred Colon wondered why you'd left the motto in modern Ankhian instead of putting it into the old language, and that made me wonder so I sat up with the dictionary and worked it out and, you know, it would have read "Ars Enixa Est Candelam". Ars Enixa. That must have really cheered you up. You'd said who did it and how it was done and gave it to the poor bugger to be proud of. It didn't matter that no one else would spot it. It made you feel good. Because we ordinary mortals just aren't as clever as you, are we?' He shook his head. 'Good grief, a coat of arms. Was that the bribe? Was that all it took?'
Dragon slumped in his chair.
'And then I wondered what was in it for you,' continued Vimes. 'Oh, there's a lot of people involved, I expect, for the same old reasons. But you? Now, my wife breeds dragons. Out of interest, really. Is that what you do? A little hobby to allow the centuries to fly by? Or does blue blood taste sweeter? Y'know, I hope it was some reason like that. Some decent mad selfish one.'
'Possibly - if someone were so inclined, and I certainly' make no such admission, ah-ha — they might simply be thinking of improving the race,' said the shape in the shadows.
'Breeding for receding chins or bunny teeth, that sort of thing?' said Vimes. 'Yes, I can see where it'd be more straightforward if you had the whole king business. All those courtly balls. All those little arrangements which see to it that the right kind of gel meets only the right kind of boy. You've had hundreds of years, right? And everyone consults you. You know where all the family trees are planted. But it's all got a bit messy under Vetinari, hasn't it? All the wrong people are getting to the top. I know how Sybil curses when people leave the pen gates open: it really messes up her breeding programme.'
'You are wrong about Captain Carrot, ah-ha. The city knows how to work around . . . difficult kings. But would it want a future king who might really be called Rex?'
Vimes looked blank. There was a sigh from the shadows. 'I am, ah-ha, referring to his apparently stable relationship with the werewolf.'
Vimes stared. Understanding eventually dawned. 'You think they'd have puppies?'
'The genetics of werewolves are not straightforward, ah-ha, but the chance of such an outcome would be considered unacceptable. If someone were thinking on those lines.'
'By gods, and that's if?'
The shadows were changing. Dragon was still slumped in his chair, but his outline seemed to be blurring.
'Whatever the, ah-ha, motives, Mr Vimes, there is no evidence other than supposition and coincidence and your will to believe that links me with any attempt on Vetinari's, ah-ha, life . . .'
The old vampire's head was sunk even further in his chest. The shadows of his shoulders seemed to be getting longer.
'It was sick, involving the golems,' said Vimes, watching the shadows. 'They could feel what their "king" was doing. Perhaps it wasn't very sane even to begin with, but it was all they had. Clay of their clay. The poor devils didn't have anything except their clay, and you bastards took away even that—'
Dragon leapt suddenly, bat-wings unfolding. Vimes's wooden bolt clattered somewhere near the ceiling as he was borne down.
'You really thought you could arrest me with a piece of wood?' said Dragon, his hand around Vimes's neck.
'No,' Vimes croaked. 'I was more. . . poetic. . . than that. All I had ... to do ... was keep you talking. Feeling . . . weak, are you? The biter bit . . . you might say . . . ?' He grinned.
The vampire looked puzzled, and then turned his head and stared at the candles. 'You . . . put something in the candles? Really?'
'We . . . knew garlic . . . would smell but . . . our alchemist reckoned that. . . if you get. . . holy water. . . soak the wicks . . . water evaporates . . . just leaves holiness.'
The pressure was released. Dragon King of Arms sat back on his haunches. His face had changed, shaping itself forward, giving him an expression like a fox.
Then he shook his head. 'No,' he said, and this time it was his turn to grin. 'No, that's just words. That wouldn't work . . .'
'Bet. . . your. . . unlife?' rasped Vimes, rubbing his neck. 'A better way . . . than old Carry went, eh?'
'Trying to trick me into an admission, Mr Vimes?'
'Oh, I had that,' said Vimes. 'When you looked straight at the candles.'
'Really? Ah-ha. But who else saw me?' said Dragon.
From the shadows there was a rumble like a distant thunderstorm.
'I Did,' said Dorfl.
The vampire looked from the golem to Vimes.
'You gave one of them a voice?' he said.
'Yes,' said Dorfl. He reached down and picked up the vampire in one hand. 'I Could Kill You,' he said. 'This Is An Option Available To Me As A Free-Thinking Individual But I Will Not Do So Because I Own Myself And I Have Made A Moral Choice.'
'Oh, gods,' murmured Vimes under his breath.
'That's blasphemy,' said the vampire.
He gasped as Vimes shot him a glance like sunlight. 'That's what people say when the voiceless speak. Take him away, Dorfl. Put him in the palace dungeons.'
'I Could Take No Notice of That Command But Am Choosing To Do So Out of Earned Respect And Social Responsibility—'
'Yes, yes, fine,' said Vimes quickly.
Dragon clawed at the golem. He might as well have kicked at a mountain.
'Undead or Alive, You Are Coming With Me,' said Dorfl.
'Is there no end to your crimes? You've made this thing a policeman? said the vampire, struggling as Dorfl dragged him away.
'No, but it's an intriguing suggestion, don't you think?' said Vimes.
He was left alone in the thick velvety gloom of the Royal College.
And Vetinari will let him go, he reflected. Because this is politics. Because he's part of the way the city works. Besides, there's the matter of evidence. I've got enough to prove it to myself, but . . .
But I'll know, he told himself.
Oh, he'll be watched, and maybe one day when Vetinari is ready a really good assassin will be sent with a wooden dagger soaked in garlic, and it'll all be done in the dark. That's how politics works in this city. It's a game of chess. Who cares if a few pawns die?
I'll know. And I'll be the only one who knows, deep down.
His hands automatically patted his pockets for a cigar.
It was hard enough to kill a vampire. You could stake them down and turn them into dust and ten years later someone spills a drop of blood in the wrong place and guess who's back"? They returned more times than raw broccoli.
These were dangerous thoughts, he knew. They were the kind that crept up on a watchman when the chase was over and it was just you and him, facing one another in that breathless little pinch between the crime and the punishment.
And maybe a watchman had seen civilization with the skin ripped off one time too many and stopped acting like a watchman and started acting like a normal human being and realized that the click of the crossbow or the sweep of the sword would make all the world so clean.
And you couldn't think like that, even about vampires. Even though they'd take the lives of other people because little lives don't matter and what the hell can we take away from them"?
And you couldn't think like that because they gave you a sword and a badge and that turned you into something else and that had to mean there were some thoughts you couldn't think.
Only crimes could take place in darkness.
Punishment had to be done in the light. That was thejob of a good watchman, Carrot always said. To light a candle in the dark.
He found a cigar. Now his hands did the automatic search for matches.
The volumes were piled up against the walls. The candlelight picked up gold lettering and the dull gleam of leather. There they were, the lineages, the books of heraldic minutiae, the Who's Whom of the centuries, the stock books of the city. People stood on them to look down.
No matches . . .
Quietly, in the dusty silence of the College, Vimes picked up a candelabrum and lit his cigar.
He took a few deep luxuriant puffs, and looked thoughtfully at the books. In his hand, the candles spluttered and flickered.

 
The clock ticked its arrhythmic tock. It finally stuttered its way to one o'clock, and Vimes got up and went into the Oblong Office.
'Ah, Vimes,' said Lord Vetinari, looking up.
'Yes, sir.'
Vimes had managed a few hours' sleep and had even attempted to shave.
The Patrician shuffled some papers on his desk. 'It seems to have been a very busy night last night. . .'
'Yes, sir.' Vimes stood to attention. All uniformed men knew in their very soul how to act in circumstances like this. You stared straight ahead, for one thing.
'It appears that I have Dragon King of Arms in the cells,' said the Patrician.
'Yes, sir.'
'I've read your report. Somewhat tenuous evidence, I feel.'
'Sir?'
'One of your witnesses isn't even alive, Vimes.'
'No, sir. Neither is the suspect, sir. Technically.'
'He is, however, an important civic figure. An authority.'
'Yes, sir.'
Lord Vetinari shuffled some of the papers on his desk. One of them was covered in sooty fingermarks. 'It also appears I have to commend you, Commander.'
'Sir?'
The Heralds at the Royal College of Arms, or at least at what remains of the Royal College of Arms, have sent me a note saying how bravely you worked last night.'
'Sir?'
'Letting all those heraldic animals out of the pens and raising the alarm and so on. A tower of strength, they've called you. I gather most of the creatures are lodging with you at the present time?'
'Yes, sir. Couldn't stand by and let them suffer, sir. We'd got some empty pens, sir, and Keith and Roderick are doing well in the lake. They've taken a liking to Sybil, sir.'
Lord Vetinari coughed. Then he stared up at the ceiling for a while. 'So you, er, assisted in the fire.'
'Yes, sir. Civic duty, sir.'
'The fire was caused by a candlestick falling over, I understand, possibly after your fight with Dragon King of Arms.'
'So I believe, sir.'
'And so, it seems, do the Heralds.'
'Anyone told Dragon King of Arms?' said Vimes innocently.
'Yes.'
'Took it well, did he?'
'He screamed a lot, Vimes. In a heart-rending fashion, I am told. And I gather he uttered a number of threats against you, for some reason.'
'I shall try to fit him into my busy schedule, sir.'
'Bingely bongely beep!!' said a small bright voice. Vimes slapped a hand against his pocket.
Lord Vetinari fell silent for a moment. His fingers drummed softly on his desk. 'Many fine old manuscripts in that place, I believe. Without price, I'm told.'
'Yes, sir. Certainly worthless, sir.'
'Is it possible you misunderstood what I just said, Commander?'
'Could be, sir.'
"The provenances of many splendid old families went up in smoke, Commander. Of course, the Heralds will do what they can, and the families themselves keep records but frankly, I understand, it's all going to be patchwork and guesswork. Extremely embarrassing. Are you smiling, Commander?'
'It was probably a trick of the light, sir.'
'Commander, I always used to consider that you had a definite anti-authoritarian streak in you.'
'Sir?'
'It seems that you have managed to retain this even though you are authority.'
'Sir?'
'That's practically Zen.'
'Sir?'
'It seems I've only got to be unwell for a few days and you manage to upset everyone of any importance in this city.'
'Sir.'
'Was that a "yes, sir" or a "no, sir", Sir Samuel?'
'It was just a "sir", sir.'
Lord Vetinari glanced at a piece of paper. 'Did you really punch the president of the Assassins' Guild?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Why?'
'Didn't have a dagger, sir.'
Vetinari turned away abruptly. 'The Council of Churches, Temples, Sacred Groves and Big Ominous Rocks is demanding . . . well, a number of things, several of them involving wild horses. Initially, however, they want me to sack you.'
'Yes, sir?'
'In all I've had seventeen demands for your badge. Some want parts of your body attached. Why did you have to upset everybody?'
'I suppose it's a knack, sir.'
'But what could you hope to achieve?'
'Well, sir, since you ask, we found out who murdered Father Tubelcek and Mr Hopkinson and who was poisoning you, sir.' Vimes paused. 'Two out of three's not bad, sir.'
Vetinari riffled through the papers again. 'Workshop owners, assassins, priests, butchers . . . you seem to have infuriated most of the leading figures in the city.' He sighed. 'Really, it seems I have no choice. As of this week, I'm giving you a pay rise.'
Vimes blinked. 'Sir?'
'Nothing unseemly. Ten dollars a month. And I expect they need a new dart-board in the Watch House? They usually do, I recall.'
'It's Detritus,' said Vimes, his mind unable to think of anything other than an honest reply. 'He tends to split them.'
'Ah, yes. And talking of splits, Vimes, I wonder if your forensic genius could help me with a little conundrum we found this morning.' The Patrician stood up and headed for the stairs.
'Yes, sir? What is it?' said Vimes, following him down.
'It's in the Rats Chamber, Vimes.'
'Really, sir?'
Vetinari pushed open the double doors. ' Voila,' he said.
'That's some kind of musical instrument, isn't it, sir?'
'No, Commander, the word means "What is that in the table?",' said the Patrician sharply.
Vimes looked into the room. There was no one there. The long mahogany table was bare.
Except for the axe. It had embedded itself in the wood very deeply, almost splitting the table along its entire length. Someone had walked up to the table and brought an axe down right in the centre as hard as they could and then left it there, its handle pointing towards the ceiling.
'That's an axe,' said Vimes.
'Astonishing,' said Lord Vetinari. 'And you've barely had time to study it. Why is it there?'
'I really couldn't say, sir.'
'According to the servants, Sir Samuel, you came into the palace at six o'clock this morning . . .'
'Oh, yes, sir. To check that the bastard was safely in a cell, sir. And to see that everything was all right, of course.'
'You didn't come into this room?'
Vimes kept his gaze fixed somewhere on the horizon. 'Why should I have done that, sir?'
The Patrician tapped the axe handle. It vibrated with a faint thumping noise. 'I believe some of the City Council met in here this morning. Or came in here, at least. I'm told they hurried out very quickly. Looking rather disturbed, I'm told.'
'Maybe it was one of them that did it, sir.'
'That is, of course, a possibility,' said Lord Vetinari. 'I suppose you won't be able to find one of your famous Clues on the thing?'
'Shouldn't think so, sir. Not with all these fingerprints on it.'
‘It would be a terrible thing, would it not, if people thought they could take the law into their own hands . . .'
'Oh, no fear of that, sir. I'm holding on tightly to it.'
Lord Vetinari plunked the axe again. 'Tell me, Sir Samuel, do you know the phrase "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"?'
It was an expression Carrot had occasionally used, but Vimes was not in the mood to admit anything. 'Can't say that I do, sir,' he said. 'Something about trifle, is it?'
'It means "Who guards the guards themselves?", Sir Samuel.'
'Ah.'
'Well?'
'Sir?'
'Who watches the Watch? I wonder?'
'Oh, that's easy, sir. We watch one another.'
'Really? An intriguing point . . .'
Lord Vetinari walked out of the room and back into the main hall, with Vimes trailing behind. 'However,' he said, 'in order to keep the peace, the golem will have to be destroyed.'
'No, sir.'
'Allow me to repeat my instruction.'
'No, sir.'
'I'm sure I just gave you an order, Commander. I distinctly felt my lips move.'
'No, sir. He's alive, sir.'
'He's just made of clay, Vimes.'
'Aren't we all, sir? According to them pamphlets Constable Visit keeps handing out. Anyway, he thinks he's alive, and that's good enough for me.'
The Patrician waved a hand towards the stairs and his office full of paper. 'Nevertheless, Commander, I've had no less than nine missives from leading religious figures declaring that he is an abomination.'
'Yes, sir. I've given that viewpoint a lot of thought, sir, and reached the following conclusion: arseholes to the lot of 'em, sir.'
The Patrician's hand covered his mouth for a moment. 'Sir Samuel, you are a harsh negotiator. Surely you can give and take?'
'Couldn't say, sir.' Vimes walked to the main doors and pushed them open.
'Fog's lifted, sir,' he said. There's a bit of cloud but you can see all the way across the Brass Bridge—'
'What will you use the golem for?'
'Not use, sir. Employ. I thought he might be useful for to keep the peace, sir.'
'A watchman?'
'Yes, sir,' said Vimes. 'Haven't you heard, sir? Golems do all the mucky jobs.'
Vetinari watched him go, and sighed. 'He does so like a dramatic exit,' he said.
'Yes, my lord,' said Drumknott, who had appeared noiselessly at his shoulder.
'Ah, Drumknott.' The Patrician took a length of candle out of his pocket and handed it to his secretary. 'Dispose of this somewhere safely, will you?'
'Yes, my lord?'
'It's the candle from the other night.'
'It's not burned down, my lord? But I saw the candle end in the holder . . .'
'Oh, of course I cut off enough to make a stub and let the wick burn for a moment. I couldn't let our gallant policeman know I'd worked it out for myself, could I? Not when he was making such an effort and having so much fun being . . . well, being Vimes. I'm not completely heartless, you know.'
'But, my lord, you could have sorted it out diplomatically! Instead he went around upsetting things and making a lot of people very angry and afraid—'
'Yes. Dear me. Tsk, tsk.'
'Ah,' said Drumknott.
'Quite so,' said the Patrician.
'Do you wish me to have the table in the Rats Chamber repaired?'
'No, Drumknott, leave the axe where it is. It will make a good . . . conversation piece, I think.'
'May I make an observation, my lord?'
'Of course you may,' said Vetinari, watching Vimes walk through the palace gates.
'The thought occurs, sir, that if Commander Vimes did not exist you would have had to invent him.'
'You know, Drumknott, I rather think I did.'

 
'Atheism Is Also A Religious Position,' Dorfl rumbled.
'No it's not!' said Constable Visit. 'Atheism is a denial of a god.'
'Therefore It Is A Religious Position,' said Dorfl. 'Indeed, A True Atheist Thinks Of The Gods Constantly, Albeit In Terms of Denial. Therefore, Atheism Is A Form Of Belief. If The Atheist Truly Did Not Believe, He Or She Would Not Bother To Deny.'
'Did you read those pamphlets I gave you?' said Visit suspiciously.
'Yes. Many Of Them Did Not Make Sense. But I Should Like To Read Some More.'
'Really?' said Visit. His eyes gleamed. 'You really want more pamphlets?'
'Yes. There Is Much In Them That I Would Like To Discuss. If You Know Some Priests, I Would Enjoy Disputation.'
'All right, all right,' said Sergeant Colon. 'So are you going to take the sodding oath or not, Dorfl?'
Dorfl held up a hand the size of a shovel. 'I, Dorfl, Pending The Discovery Of A Deity Whose Existence Withstands Rational Debate, Swear By The Temporary Precepts of A Self-Derived Moral System—'
'You really want more pamphlets?' said Constable Visit.
Sergeant Colon rolled his eyes.
'Yes,' said Dorfl.
'Oh, my god!' said Constable Visit, and burst into tears. 'No one's ever asked for more pamphlets before!'
Colon turned when he realized Vimes was watching. 'It's no good, sir,' he said. 'I've been trying to swear him in for half an hour, sir, and we keep ending up arguing about oaths and things.'
'You willing to be a Watchman, Dorfl?' said Vimes.
'Yes.'
'Right. That's as good as a swear to me. Give him his badge, Fred. And this is for you, Dorfl. It's a chit to say you're officially alive, just in case you run into any trouble. You know . . . with people.'
Thank You,' said Dorfl solemnly. 'If Ever I Feel I Am Not Alive, I Will Take This Out And Read It.'
'What are your duties?' said Vimes.
'To Serve The Public Trust, Protect The Innocent, And Seriously Prod Buttock, Sir,' said Dorfl.
'He learns fast, doesn't he?' said Colon. 'I didn't even tell him the last one.'
'People won't like it,' said Nobby. "S not going to be popular, a golem as a watchman.'
'What Better Work For One Who Loves Freedom Than The Job of Watchman. Law Is The Servant of Freedom. Freedom Without Limits Is Just A Word,' said Dorfl ponderously.
'Y'know,' said Colon, 'if it doesn't work out, you could always get ajob making fortune cookies.'
'Funny thing, that,' said Nobby. 'You never get bad fortunes in cookies, ever noticed that? They never say stuff like: "Oh dear, things're going to be really bad." I mean, they're never misfortune cookies.'
Vimes lit a cigar and shook the match to put it out. 'That, Corporal, is because of one of the fundamental driving forces of the universe.'
'What? Like, people who read fortune cookies are the lucky ones?' said Nobby.
'No. Because people who sell fortune cookies want to go on selling them. Come on, Constable Dorfl. We're going for a walk.'
'There's a lot of paperwork, sir,' said Sergeant Colon.
'Tell Captain Carrot I said he should look at it,' said Vimes, from the doorway.
'He hasn't been in yet, sir.'
'It'll keep.'
'Right, sir.'
Colon went and sat behind his desk. It was a good place to be, he'd decided. There was absolutely no chance of finding any Nature there. He'd had a rare conversation with Mrs Colon this morning and made it clear that he was no longer interested in getting close to the soil because he'd been as close to the soil as it was possible to get and the soil, it turned out, was just dirt. A good thick layer of cobblestones was, he decided, about as close as he wanted to get to Nature. Also, Nature tended to be squishy.
'I've got to go on duty,' said Nobby. 'Captain Carrot wants me to do crime prevention in Peach Pie Street.'
'How d'you do that, then?' said Colon.
'Keep away, he said.'
"Ere, Nobby, woss this about you not being a lord after all?' said Colon cautiously.
'I think I got the sack,' said Nobby. 'Bit of a relief, really. That nobby grub isn't much, and the drink is frankly piss.'
'Lucky escape for you, then,' said Colon. 'I mean, you won't have to go giving your clothes away to gardeners and so on.'
'Yeah. Wish I'd never told them about the damn ring, really.'
'Would've saved you a lot of trouble, certainly,' said Colon.
Nobby spat on his badge and buffed it industriously with his sleeve. 'S a good job I never told them about the tiara, the coronet and the three gold lockets, he said to himself.

 
'Where Are We Going?' said Dorfl, as Vimes strolled across the Brass Bridge.
'I thought I might break you in gently with some guard duty at the palace,' said Vimes.
'Ah. This Is Where My New Friend Constable Visit Is Also On Guard,' said Dorfl.
'Splendid!'
'I Wish To Ask You A Question,' said the golem.
'Yes?'
'I Smashed The Treadmill But The Golems Repaired It. Why? And I Let The Animals Go But They Just Milled Around Stupidly. Some of Them Even Went Back To The Slaughter Pens. Why?'
'Welcome to the world, Constable Dorfl.'
'Is It Frightening To Be Free?'
'You said it.'
'You Say To People "Throw Off Your Chains" And They Make New Chains For Themselves?'
'Seems to be a major human activity, yes.'
Dorfl rumbled as he thought about this. 'Yes,' he said eventually. 'I Can See Why. Freedom Is Like Having The Top Of Your Head Opened Up.'
'I'll have to take your word for that, Constable.'
'And You Will Pay Me Twice As Much As Other Watchmen/ said Dorfl.
'Will I?'
'Yes. I Do Not Sleep. I Can Work Constantly. I Am A Bargain. I Do Not Need Days Off To Bury My Granny.'
How soon they learn, thought Vimes. He said: 'But you have holy days off, don't you?'
'Either All Days Are Holy Or None Are. I Have Not Decided Yet.'
'Er . . . what do you need money for, Dorfl?'
'I Shall Save Up And Purchase The Golem Klutz Who Labours In The Pickle Factory, And Give Him To Himself; Then Together We Will Earn And Save For The Golem Bobkes Of The Coal Merchant; The Three Of Us Will Labour And Buy The Golem Shmata Who Toils At The Seven-Dollar Tailor's In Peach Pie Street; Then The Four of Us Will—'
'Some people might decide to free their comrades by force and bloody revolution,' said Vimes. 'Not that I'm suggesting that in any way, of course.'
'No. That Would Be Theft. We Are Bought And Sold, So We Will Buy Ourselves Free. By Our Labour. No One Else To Do It For Us. We Will Do It By Ourselves.'
Vimes smiled to himself. Probably no other species in the world would demand a receipt with their freedom. Some things you just couldn't change.
'Ah,' he said. 'It seems some people want to talk to us . . .'
A crowd was approaching over the bridge, in a mass of grey, black and saffron robes. It was made up of priests. They looked angry. As they pushed and shoved their way through the other citizens, several haloes became interlocked.
At their head was Hughnon Ridcully, Chief Priest of Blind lo and the closest thing Ankh-Morpork had to a spokesman on religious issues. He spotted Vimes and hurried towards him, admonitory finger upraised.
'Now, see here, Vimes . . .' he began, and stopped. He glared at Dorfl.
'Is this if?' he said.
'If you mean the golem, this is /ii'm,' said Vimes. 'Constable Dorfl, your reverence.'
Dorfl touched his helmet respectfully. 'How May We Be Of Service?' he said.
'You've done it this time, Vimes!' said Ridcully, ignoring him. 'You've gone altogether too far by . half. You made this thing speak and it isn't even alive!' '
'We want it smashed!'
'Blasphemy!'
'People won't stand for it!'
Ridcully looked around at the other priests. 'I'm talking,' he said. He turned back to Vimes. 'This comes under the heading of gross profanity and the worship of idols—'
'I don't worship him. I'm just employing him,' said Vimes, beginning to enjoy himself. 'And he's far from idle.' He took a deep breath. 'And if it's gross profanity you're looking for—'
'Excuse Me,' said Dorfl.
'We're not listening to you! You're not even really alive!' said a priest.
Dorfl nodded. 'This Is Fundamentally True,' he said.
'See? He admits it!'
'I Suggest You Take Me And Smash Me And Grind The Bits Into Fragments And Pound The Fragments Into Powder And Mill Them Again To The Finest Dust There Can Be, And I Believe You Will Not Find A Single Atom of Life—'
'True! Let's do it!'
'However, In Order To Test This Fully, One Of You Must Volunteer To Undergo The Same Process.'
There was silence.
'That's not fair,' said a priest, after a while. 'All anyone has to do is bake up your dust again and you'll be alive . . .'
There was more silence.
Ridcully said, 'Is it only me, or are we on tricky theological ground here?'
There was more silence.
Another priest said, 'Is it true you've said you'll believe in any god whose existence can be proved by logical debate?'
'Yes.'
Vimes had a feeling about the immediate future and took a few steps away from Dorfl.
'But the gods plainly do exist,' said a priest.
'It Is Not Evident.'
A bolt of lightning lanced through the clouds and hit Dorfl's helmet. There was a sheet of flame and then a trickling noise. Dorfl's molten armour formed puddles around his white-hot feet.
'I Don't Call That Much Of An Argument,' said Dorfl calmly, from somewhere in the clouds of smoke.
'It's tended to carry the audience,' said Vimes. 'Up until now.'
The Chief Priest of Blind lo turned to the other priests. 'All right, you fellows, there's no need for any of that—'
'But Offler is a vengeful god,' said a priest at the back of the crowd.
'Trigger-happy is what he is,' said Ridcully. Another lightning bolt zigzagged down but bent at right-angles a few feet above the Chief Priest's hat and earthed itself on a wooden hippo, which split. The Chief Priest smiled smugly and turned back to Dorfl, who was making little clinking noises as he cooled.
'What you're saying is, you'll accept the existence of any god only if it can be proved by discussion?'
'Yes,'said Dorfl.
Ridcully rubbed his hands together. 'Not a problem, me old china,' he said. 'Firstly, let us take the—'
'Excuse Me,' said Dorfl. He bent down and picked up his badge. The lightning had given it an interesting melted shape.
'What are you doing?' said Ridcully.
'Somewhere, A Crime Is Happening,' said Dorfl. 'But When I Am Off Duty I Will Gladly Dispute With The Priest of The Most Worthy God.'
He turned and strode on across the bridge. Vimes nodded hurriedly at the shocked priests and ran after him. We took him and baked him in the fire and he's turned out to be free, he thought. No words in the head except the ones he's chosen to put there himself. And he's not just an atheist, he's a ceramic atheist. Fireproof!
It looked like being a good day.
Behind them, on the bridge, a fight was breaking out.

 
Angua was packing. Or, rather, she was failing to pack. The bundle couldn't be too heavy to carry by mouth. But a little money (she wouldn't have to buy much food) and a change of clothes (for those occasions when she might have to wear clothes) didn't have to take up much room.
'The boots are a problem,' she said aloud.
'Maybe if you knot the laces together you could carry them round your neck?' said Cheri, who was sitting on the narrow bed.
'Good idea. Do you want these dresses? I've never got round to wearing them. I expect you could cut them down.'
Cheri took them in both arms. 'This one's silkV
'There's probably enough material for you to make two for one.'
'D'you mind if I share them out? Only some of the lads - the ladies at the Watch House' - Cheri savoured the word 'ladies' - 'are beginning to get a bit thoughtful
'Going to melt down their helmets, are they?' said Angua.
'Oh, no. But perhaps they could be made into a more attractive design. Er . . .'
'Yes?'
'Urn . . .'
Cheri shifted uneasily.
'You've never actually eaten anyone, have you? You know . . . crunching bones and so on?'
'No.'
'I mean, I only heard my second cousin was eaten by werewolves. He was called Sfen.'
'Can't say I recall the name,' said Angua.
Cheri tried to grin. That's all right, then,' she said.
'So you won't need that silver spoon in your pocket,' said Angua.
Cheri's mouth dropped open, and then the words tumbled over themselves. 'Er ... I don't know how it got there it must have dropped in when I was washing up oh I didn't mean—'
'It doesn't worry me, honestly. I'm used to it.'
'But I didn't think you'd—'
'Look, don't get the wrong idea. It's not a case of not wanting to,' said Angua. 'It's a case of wanting to and not doing it.'
'You don't really have to go, do you?'
'Oh, I don't know if I can take the Watch seriously and . . . and sometimes I think Carrot's working up to ask me ... and, well, it'd never work out. It's the way he just assumes everything, you know? So best to go now,' Angua lied.
'Won't Carrot try to stop you?'
'Yes, but there's nothing he can say.'
'He'll be upset.'
'Yes,' said Angua briskly, throwing another dress on the bed. 'And then he'll get over it.'
'Hrolf Thighbiter's asked me out,' said Cheri shyly, looking at the floor. 'And I'm almost certain he's male!'
'Glad to hear it.'
Cheri stood up. ‘I’ll walk with you as far as the Watch House. I've got to go on duty.'
They were half-way along Elm Street before they saw Carrot, head and shoulders above the crowd.
‘Looks like he was coming to see you,' said Cheri. 'Er, shall I go away?'
Too late...'
'Ah, good morning, Corporal Miss Little-bottom!' said Carrot cheerfully. 'Hello, Angua. I was just coming to see you but I had to write my letter home first, of course.'
He took off his helmet, and smoothed back his hair. 'Er . . .' he began.
'I know what you're going to ask,' said Angua.
'You do?'
'I know you've been thinking about it. You knew I was wondering about going.'
'It was obvious, was it?'
'And the answer's no. I wish it could be yes.'
Carrot looked astonished. 'It never occurred to me that you'd say no,' he said. 'I mean, why should you?'
'Good grief, you amaze me,' she said. 'You really do.'
'I thought it'd be something you'd want to do,' said Carrot. He sighed. 'Oh, well ... it doesn't matter, really.'
Angua felt that a leg had been kicked away. 'It doesn't matter? she said.
'I mean, yes, it'd have been nice, but I won't lose any sleep over it.'
'You won't?'
'Well, no. Obviously not. You've got other things you want to do. That's fine. I just thought you might enjoy it. I'll do it by myself.'
'What? How can ... ?' Angua stopped. 'What are you talking about, Carrot?'
‘The Dwarf Bread Museum. I promised Mr Hopkinson's sister that I'd tidy it up. You know, get it sorted out. She's not very well off and I thought it could raise some money. Just between you and me, there's several exhibits in there that could be better-presented, but I'm afraid Mr Hopkinson was rather set in his ways. I'm sure there's a lot of dwarfs in the city that'd flock there if they knew about it, and of course there's a lot of youngsters that ought to learn more about their proud heritage. A good dusting and a lick of paint would make all the difference, I'm sure, especially on the older loaves. I don't mind giving up a few days off. I just thought it might cheer you up, but I appreciate that bread isn't everyone's cup of tea.'
Angua stared at him. It was the stare that Carrot so often attracted. It roamed every feature of his face, looking for the tiniest clue that he was making some kind of joke. Some long, deep joke at the expense of everyone else. Every sinew in her body knew that he must be, but there was not a clue, not a twitch to prove it.
'Yes,' she said weakly, still searching his face, 'I expect it could be a little goldmine.'
'Museums have got to be a whole lot more interesting these days. And, you know, there's a whole guerrilla crumpet assortment he hasn't even catalogued,' said Carrot. 'And some early examples of defensive bagels.'
'Gosh,' said Angua. 'Hey, why don't we paint a big sign saying something like "The Dwarf Bread Experience"?'
'That probably wouldn't work for dwarfs,' said Carrot, oblivious to sarcasm. 'A dwarf bread experience tends to be short. But I can see it's certainly caught your imagination!'
I'll have to go, Angua thought as they strolled on down the street. Sooner or later he'll see that it can't really work out. Werewolves and humans . . . we've both got too much to lose. Sooner or later I'll have to leave him.
But, for one day at a time, let it be tomorrow.
'Want the dresses back?' said Cheri, behind her.
'Maybe one or two,' said Angua.

 
THE END
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote-list'><![if!supportEndnotes]>

<![endif]><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn1>

[1] He subsequently got dead-drunk and was shanghaied aboard a merchantman bound for strange and foreign parts, where he met lots of young ladies who didn't wear many clothes. He eventually died from stepping on a tiger. A good deed goes around the world.
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn2>

[2] That is to say, the sort you can use to give something three extra legs and then blow it up.
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn3>

[3] Town hall.
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn4>

[4] Because Ankh-Morpork doesn't have a town hall.
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn5>

[5] Yeast bowl.
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn6>

[6] Commander Vimes, on the other hand, was all for giving criminals a short, sharp shock. It really depended on how tightly they could be tied to the lightning rod.
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[7] Constable Visit was an Omnian, whose country's traditional approach to evangelism was to put unbelievers to torture and the sword. Things had become a lot more civilized these days but Omnians still had a strenuous and indefatigable approach to spreading the Word, and had merely changed the nature of the weapons. Constable Visit spent his days off in company with his co-religionist Smite-The-Unbeliever-With-Cunning-Arguments, ringing doorbells and causing people to hide behind the furniture everywhere in the city.
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn8>

[8] Detritus was particularly good when it came to asking questions. He had three basic ones. They were the direct ('Did you do it?'), the persistent ('Are you sure it wasn't you what done it?') and the subtle ('It was you what done it, wasn't it?'). Although they were not the most cunning questions ever devised, Detritus's talent was to go on patiently asking them for hours on end, until he got the right answer, which was generally something like: 'Yes! Yes! I did it! I did it! Now please tell me what it was I did!'
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn9>

[9] It is a pervasive and beguiling myth that the people who design instruments of death end up being killed by them. There is almost no foundation in fact. Colonel Shrapnel wasn't blown up, M. Guillotin died with his head on, Colonel Catling wasn't shot. If it hadn't been for the murder of cosh and blackjack maker Sir William Blunt-Instrument in an alleyway, the rumour would never have got started.
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn10>

[10] 'Welcome, Corporal Smallbottom! This is Constable Angua . . . Angua, show Smallbottom how well you're learning dwarfish . . .'
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn11>

[11] The Ankh-Morpork view of crime and punishment was that the penalty for the first offence should prevent the possibility of a second offence.
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn12>[12] This always happens in any police chase anywhere, A heavily laden lorry will always pull out of a side alley in front of the pursuit.
If vehicles aren't involved, then it'll be a man with a rack of garments. Or two men with a large sheet of glass.

There's probably some kind of secret society behind all this.
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn13>

[13] And for the most part were unconcerned about matters of height. There's a dwarfish saying: 'All trees are felled at ground-level' - although this is said to be an excessively bowdlerized translation for a saw which more literally means, 'When his hands are higher than your head, his groin is level with your teeth.'
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn14>

[14] These terms are often synonymous.
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn15>

[15] As they were euphemistically named. People said, 'They call themselves seamstresses - hem, hem!'
</div><divstyle='mso-element:endnote'id=edn16>

[16] Because of the huge obtrusive mass of his forehead, Rogers the bulls' view of the universe was from two eyes each with their own non-overlapping hemispherical view of the world. Since there were two separate visions, Rogers had reasoned, that meant there must be two bulls (bulls not having been bred for much deductive reasoning). Most bulls believe this, which is why they always keep turning their head this way and that when they look at you. They do this because both of them want to see.
</div></div>