He fished for Curious Squid, so called because, as well as being squid, they were curious. That is to say, their curiosity was the curious thing about them.

Shortly after they got curious about the lantern that Solid had hung over the stern of his boat, they started to become curious about the way in which various of their number suddenly vanished skywards with a splash.

Some of them even became curious – very briefly curious about the sharp barbed thing that was coming very quickly towards them.

The Curious Squid were extremely curious. Unfortunately, they weren't very good at making connections.

It was a very long way to this fishing ground, but for Solid the trip was usually well worth it. The Curious Squid were very small, harmless, difficult to find and reckoned by connoisseurs to have the foulest taste of any creature in the world. This made them very much in demand in a certain kind of restaurant where highly skilled chefs made, with great care, dishes containing no trace of the squid whatsoever.

Solid Jackson's problem was that tonight, a moonless night in the spawning season, when the squid were especially curious about everything, the chef seemed to have been at work on the sea itself.

There was not a single interested eyeball to be seen. There weren't any other fish either, and usually there were a few attracted to the light. He'd caught sight of one. It had been making through the water extremely fast in a straight line.

He laid down his trident and walked to the other end of the boat, where his son Les was also gazing intently at the torchlit sea.

'Not a thing in half an hour,' said Solid.

'You sure we're in the right spot, Dad?'

Solid squinted at the horizon. There was a faint glow in the sky that indicated the city of Al–Khali, on the Klatchian coast. He turned round. The other horizon glowed, too, with the lights of AnkhMorpork. The boat bobbed gently halfway between the two.

‘ ‘Course we are,' he said, but certainty edged away from his words.

Because there was a hush on the sea. It didn't look right. The boat rocked a little, but that was with their movement, not from any motion of the waves.

It felt as if there was going to be a storm. But the stars twinkled softly and there was not a cloud in the sky.

The stars twinkled on the surface of the water, too. Now that was something you didn't often see.

'I reckon we ought to be getting out of here,' Solid said.

Les pointed at the slack sail. 'What're we going to use for wind, Dad?'

It was then that they heard the splash of oars,

Solid, squinting hard, could just make out the shape

of another boat, heading towards him. He grabbed his boathook.

'I knows that's you, you thieving foreign bastard!'

The oars stopped. A voice sang over the water.

'May you be consumed by a thousand devils, you damned person!'

The other boat glided closer. It looked foreign, with eyes painted on the prow,

'Fished 'ern all out, have you? I'll take my trident to you, you bottom–feedin' scum that y'are!'

'My curvy sword at your neck, you unclean son of a dog of the female persuasion!'

Les looked over the side. Little bubbles fizzed on the surface of the sea.

'Dad?' he said.

'That's Greasy Arif out there!' snapped his father, 'You take a good look at him! He's been coming out here for years, stealing our squid, the evil lying little devil!'

'Dad, there's–'

'You get on them oars and I'll knock his black teeth out!'

Les could hear a voice saying from the other boat, '–see, my son, how the underhanded fish thief–'

'Row!' his father shouted.

'To the oars!' shouted someone in the other boat.

'Whose squid are they, Dad?' said Les.

'Ours!'

'What, even before we've caught them?'

'Just you shut up and row!'

'I can't move the boat, Dad, we're stuck on something!'

'It's a hundred fathoms deep here, boy! What's there to stick on?'

Les tried to disentangle an oar from the thing rising slowly out of the fizzing sea.

'Looks like a... a chicken, Dad!'

There was a sound from below the surface. It sounded like sonic bell or gong, slowly swinging.

'Chickens can't swim!'

'It's made of iron, Dad!'

Solid scrambled to the rear of the boat.

It was a chicken, made of iron. Seaweed and shells covered it and water dripped off it as it rose against the stars.

It stood on a cross–shaped perch.

There seemed to be a letter on each of the four ends of the cross.

Solid held the torch closer.

'What the–'

Then he pulled the oar free and sat down beside his son.

'Row like the blazes, Les!'

'What's happening, Dad?'

'Shut up and row! Get us away from it!'

'Is it a monster, –Dad?'

'It's worse than a monster, son!' shouted Solid, as the oars bit into the water.

The thing was quite high now, standing on some kind of tower...

'What is it, Dad! What is it?'

'It's a damned weathercock!'

There was not, on the whole, a lot of geological excitement. The sinking of continents is usually accompanied by volcanoes, earthquakes and armadas of little boats containing old men anxious to build pyramids and mystic stone circles in sonic new land where

being the possessor of genuine ancient occult wisdom might be expected to attract girls. But the rising of this one caused barely a ripple in the purely physical scheme of things. It more or less sidled back, like a cat who's been away for a few days and knows you've been worrying.

Around the shores of the Circle Sea a large wave, only five or six feet high by the time it reached them, caused some comment. And in some of the very low–lying swamp areas the water swamped some villages of people that no–one else cared about very much. But in a purely geological sense, nothing very much happened.

In a purely geological sense.

‘It’s a city, Dad! Look, you can see all the windows and––'

'I told you to shut up and keep rowing!'

The seawater surged down the streets. On either side, huge, weed–encrusted buildings boiled slowly out of the surf.

Father and son fought to keep some way on the boat as it was dragged along. And, since lesson one in the art of rowing is that you do it while looking the wrong way, they didn't see the other boat...

'You lunatic!'

'Foolish man!'

'Don't you touch that building! This country belongs to Ankh–Morpork!'

The two boats spun in a temporary whirlpool.

'I claim this land in the name of the Seriph of Al–Khali!'

'We saw it first! Les, you tell him we saw it first!'

'We saw it first before you saw it first!'

'Les, you saw him, he tried to hit me with that oar!'

'But Dad, you're waving that trident–'

'See the untrustworthy way he attacks us, Akhan!'

There was a grinding noise from under the keel of both boats and they began to tip as they settled into the sea–bottom ooze.

'Look, Father, there is an interesting statue–'

'He has set his foot on Klatchian soil! The squid thief!'

'Get those filthy sandals off Ankh–Morporkian territory!'

'Oh, Dad–'

The two fishermen stopped screaming at each other, mainly in order to get their breath back. Crabs scuttled away. Water drained between the patches of weed, carving runnels in the grey silt.

'Father, look, there's still coloured tiles on the––'

'Mine!'

'Mine!'

Les caught Akhan's eye. They exchanged a very brief glance which was nevertheless modulated with a considerable amount of information, beginning with the sheer galactic–sized embarrassment of having parents and working up from there.

'Dad, we don't have to–' Les began.

'You shut up! It's your future fro thinking about, my lad–'

'Yes, but who cares who saw it first, Dad? We're both hundreds of miles from home! I mean, who's going to know, Dad?'

The two squid fishermen glared at one another.

The dripping buildings rose above them. There were holes that might well have been doorways, and glassless apertures that could have been windows, but

all was darkness within. Now and again, Les fancied he could hear something slithering.

Solid Jackson coughed. 'The lad's right,' he muttered. 'Daft to argue. just the four of us.'

'Indeed,' said Arif.

They backed away, each man carefully watching the other. Then, so closely that it was a chorus, they both yelled: 'Grab the boat!'

There was a confused couple of moments and then each pair, boat carried over their heads, ran and slithered along the muddy streets.

They had to stop and come back, with mutual cries of 'A kidnapper as well, eh?', to get the right sons.

As every student of exploration knows, the prize goes not to the explorer who first sets foot upon the virgin soil but to the one who gets that foot home first. If it is still attached to his leg, this is a bonus.

The weathercocks of Ankh–Morpork creaked around in the wind.

Very few of them were in fact representations of Avis domestica. There were various dragons, fish and miscellaneous animals. On the roof of the Assassins' Guild a silhouette of one of the members squeaked into a new position, cloak and dagger at the ready. On the Beggars' Guild a tin beggar's hand asked the wind for a quarter. On the Butchers' Guild a copper pig sniffed the air. On the roof of the Thieves' Guild a real if rather decreased unlicensed thief turned gently, which shows what you are capable of if you try, or at least if you try stealing without a licence.

The one on the library dome of Unseen University was running slow and wouldn't show the change for

half an hour yet, but the smell of the sea drifted over the city.

There was a tradition of soap–box public speaking in Sator Square. 'Speaking' was stretching a point to cover the ranters, haranguers and occasional selfabsorbed mumblers that spaced themselves at intervals amongst the crowds. And, traditionally, people said whatever was on their minds and at the top of their voices. The Patrician, it was said, looked kindly on the custom. He did. And very closely, too. He probably had someone make notes.

So did the Watch.

It wasn't spying Commander Vimes told himself. Spying was when you crept around peeking in windows. It wasn't spying when you had to stand back a bit so that you weren't deafened.

He reached out without paying attention and struck a match on Sergeant Detritus.

'Dat was me, sir,' said the troll reproachfully.

'Sorry, sergeant,' said Vimes, lighting his cigar.

'It not a problem.'

They returned their attention to the speakers.

It's the wind, thought Vimes. It's bringing something new...

Usually the speakers dealt with all kinds of subjects, many of them on the cusp of sanity or somewhere in the peaceful valleys on the other side. But now they were all monomaniacs.

'–time they were taught a lesson!' screamed the nearest one. 'Why don't our so–called masters listen to the voice of the people? Ankh–Morpork has had enough of these swaggering brigands! They steal our fish, they steal our trade and now they're stealing our land!'

It would have been better if people had cheered, Vimes thought. People generally cheered the speakers

indiscriminately, to egg them on. But the crowd around this man just seemed to nod approval. He thought: they're actually thinking about what he said...

'They stole my merchandise!' shouted a speaker opposite him. 'It's a pirate bloody empire! I was boarded! In Ankh–Morpork waters!'

There was a general self–righteous muttering.

'What did they steal, Mr Jenkins?' said a voice from the crowd.

'A cargo of fine silks!'

The crowd hissed.

'Ah? Not dried fish offal and condemned meat, then? That's your normal cargo, I believe.'

Mr Jenkins strained to look for the speaker.

'Fine silks!' he said. 'And what does the city care about that? Nothing!'

There were shouts of 'Shame!'

'Has the city been told?' said the enquiring voice.

People started to crane their heads. And then the crowd opened a little, to reveal the figure of Commander Vimes of the City Watch.

'Well, it's... I...' Jenkins began. 'Er... I...'

'I care,' said Vimes calmly. 'Shouldn't be too hard to track down a cargo of fine silks that stink of fish guts.' There was laughter. Ankh–Morpork people always like some variety in their street theatre.

Vimes apparently spoke to Sergeant Detritus, while keeping his gaze locked on Jenkins. 'Detritus, just you go along with Mr Jenkins here, will you? His ship is the Milka, I believe. He'll show you all the lading bills and manifests and receipts and things, and then we can sort him out in jig time.'

There was a clang as Detritus's huge hand came to rest against his helmet.

'Yessir!'

'Er... er... you can't,' said Jenkins quickly. 'They... er... stole the paperwork as well...'

'Really? So they can take the stuff back to the shop if it doesn't fit?'

'Er... anyway, the ship's sailed. Yes! Sailed! Got to try and recoup my losses, you know!'

'Sailed? Without its captain?' said Vimes. 'So Mr Scoplett is in charge? Your first officer?'

'Yes, yes–'

'Damn!' said Vimes, snapping his fingers theatrically. 'That man we've got in the cells on a charge of being Naughtily Drunk last night... we're going to have to charge him with impersonation as well, then? I don't know, more blasted paperwork, the stuff just piles up...'

Mr Jenkins tried to look away but Vimes's stare kept pulling him back. The occasional tremble of a lip suggested that he was preparing a riposte, but he was bright enough to spot that Vimes's grin was as funny as the one that moves very fast towards drowning men. And has a fin on top.

Mr Jenkins made a wise decision, and got down. 'I'll.... er... I'll go and sort... I'd better go and... er...' he said, and pushed his Way through the mob, which waited a little while to see if anything interesting was going to happen and then, disappointed, sought out other entertainment.

'You want I should go ad have a look at his boat?' said Detritus.

'No, sergeant. There won't be any silk, and there won't be any paperwork. There won't be anything except a lingering aroma of fish guts.'

'Wow, dem damn Klatchians steals everything that ain't nailed down, right?'

Vimes shook his head and strolled on. 'They don't have trolls in Klatch, do they?' he said.

'Nossir. It's der heat. Troll brains don't work in der heat. If I was to go to Klatch,' said Detritus, his knuckles making little bink–bink noises as he dragged them over the cobbles, 'I'd be really stoopid.'

'Detritus?'

'Yessir?'

'Never go to Klatch.'

'Nossir.'

Another speaker was attracting a much larger crowd. He stood in front of a large banner that proclaimed: GREASY FORANE HANDS OFF LESHP.

'Leshp,' said Detritus. 'Now dere's a name that ain't got its teef in.'

'It's the land that came back up from under the sea last week,' said Vimes despondently. . ,

They listened while the speaker proclaimed that Ankh–Morpork had a duty to protect its kith and kin on the new land. Detritus looked puzzled.

'How come dere's dese kiff and kin on dere when it only just come up from under der water?' he said.

'Good question,' said Vimes.

'Dey been holding dere breath?'

'I doubt it.'

There was more in the air than the salt of the sea, Vimes thought. There was some other current. He could sense it. Suddenly, the problem was Klatch.

Ankh–Morpork had been at peace with Klatch, or at least in a state of non–war, for almost a century. It was, after all, the neighbouring country.

Neighbours... hah! But what did that mean? The Watch could tell you a thing or two about neighbours. So could lawyers, especially the real rich ones to whom 'neighbour' meant a man who'd sue for twenty

years over a strip of garden two inches wide. Peopled live for ages side by side, nodding at one another amicably on their way to work every day, and then some trivial thing would happen and someone would he having a garden fork removed from their ear.

And now some damn rock had risen up out of the sea and everyone was acting as if Klatch had let its dog bark all night.

'Aagragaah,' said Detritus, mournfully.

'Don't mind me, just don't spit it on my boot,' said Vimes.

'It mean–' Detritus waved a huge hand, 'like... dem things, what only comes in...' he paused and looked at his fingers, while his lips moved'... fours. Aagragaah. It mean lit'rally der time when you see dem little pebbles and you jus' know dere's gonna be a great big landslide on toppa you and it already too late to run. Dat moment, dat's aagragaah.'

Vimes's own lips moved. 'Forebodings?'

'Dat's der bunny.'

'Where does the word come from?'

Detritus shrugged. 'Maybe it named after der soun' you make just as a t'ousand ton of rock hit you.'

'Forebodings...' Vimes rubbed his chin. 'Yeah. Well, I've got plenty of them...'

Landslides and avalanches, he thought. All the little snowflakes land, light as a feather – and suddenly the whole side of a mountain is moving...

Detritus looked at him slyly. 'I know everyone say "Dem two short planks, dey're as fick as Detritus",' he said, 'but I know which way der wind is blowin'.'

Vimes looked at his sergeant with a new respect.

'You can spot it, can you?'

The troll's finger tapped his helmet twice, knowingly.

'It pretty obvious,' he said. 'You see up on der roofs dem little chickies and dragons and stuff? And dat poor bugger on der Fieves' Guild? You just has to watch 'em. Dey know. Beats me how dey always pointin' der right way.'

Vimes relaxed a little. Detritus's intelligence wasn't too bad for a troll, falling somewhere between a cuttlefish and a linedancer, but you could rely on him not to let it slow him down.

Detritus winked. 'An' it look to me like dat time when you go an' find a big club and listen to grandad tellin' you how he beat up all dem dwarfs when he was a boy,' he said. 'Somethin' in der wind, right?'

'Er... yes...' said Vimes.

There was a fluttering above him. He sighed. A message was coming in.

On a pigeon.

But they'd tried everything else, hadn't they? Swamp dragons tended to explode in the air, imps ate the messages and the semaphore helmets had not been a success, especially in high winds. And then Corporal Littlebottom had pointed out that Ankh–Morpork's pigeons were, because of many centuries of depredation by the city's gargoyle population, considerably more intelligent than most pigeons, although Vimes considered that this was not difficult because there were things growing on old damp bread that were more intelligent than most pigeons.

He took a handful of corn out of his pocket. The pigeon, obedient to its careful training, settled on his shoulder. In obedience to internal pressures, it relieved itself.

'You know, we've got to find something better,' said Vimes, as he unwrapped the message. 'Every

time we send a message to Constable Downspout he eats it.'

'Well, he are a gargoyle,' said Detritus. 'He fink it lunch arriving.'

'Oh,' said Vimes, 'his lordship requires my attendance. How nice.'

Lord Vetinari looked attentive, because he'd always found that listening keenly to people tended to put them off.

And at meetings Eke this, when he was advised by the leaders of the city, he listened with great care because what people said was what they wanted him to hear. He paid a lot of attention to the spaces outside the words, though. That's where the things were that they hoped he didn't know and didn't want him to find out.

Currently he was paying attention to the things that Lord Downey of the Assassins' Guild was failing to say in a lengthy exposition of the Guild's high level of training and value to the city. The voice, eventually, came to a stop in the face of Vetinari's aggressive listening.

'Thank you, Lord Downey,' he said. 'I'm sure we shall all he able to sleep a lot more uneasily for knowing all that. just one minor point... I believe the word "assassin" actually comes from Klatch?'

'Well... indeed...'

'And I believe also that many of your students are, as it turns out, from Klatch and its neighbouring countries?'

'The unrivalled quality of our education. .

'Quite so. What you are telling me, in point of fact, is that their assassins have been doing it longer, know

their way around our city and have had their traditional skills honed by you?'

'Er...'

The Patrician turned to Mr Burleigh.

'We surely have superiority in weapons, Mr BurIeigh?'

'Oh, yes. Say what you like about dwarfs, but we've been turning out some superb stuff lately,' said the President of the Guild of Armourers.

'Ah. That at least is some comfort.'

'Yes,' said Burleigh. He looked wretched. 'However, the thing about weapons manufacture... the important thing... '

'I believe you are about to say that the important thing about the business of weaponry is that it is a business,' said the Patrician.

Burleigh looked as though he'd been let off the hook on to a bigger hook.

'Er... yes.'

'That, in fact, the weapons are for selling.'

'Er... exactly.'

'To anyone who wishes to buy them.'

'Er... yes.'

'Regardless of the use to which they are going to be put?'

The armaments manufacturer looked affronted.

'Pardon me? Of course. They're weapons.'

'And I suspect that in recent years a very lucrative market has been Klatch?'

'Well, yes... the Seriph needs them to pacify the outlying regions...'

The Patrician held up his hand. Drumknott, his clerk, gave him a piece of paper.

'The "Great Leveller" Cart–Mounted Ten–Bank 500–pound Crossbow?' he said. 'And, let me see... the

"Meteor" Automated Throwing Star Hurler, Decapitates at Twenty Paces, Money Back If Not Completely Decapitated?'

'Have you ever heard of the D'regs, my lord?' said Burleigh. 'They say the only way to pacify one of them is to hit him repeatedly with an axe and bury what's left under a rock. And even then, choose a heavy rock.'

The Patrician seemed to be staring at a large drawing of the 'Dervish` Mk III Razor–Wire Bolas. There was a painful silence. Burleigh tried to fill it up, always a bad mistake.

'Besides, we provide much–needed jobs in AnkhMorpork,' he murmured.

'Exporting these weapons to other countries,' said Lord Vetinari. He handed the paper back and fixed Burleigh with a friendly smile.

'I'm very pleased to see that the industry has done so well,' he said. 'I will bear this particularly in mind.'

He placed his hands together carefully. 'The situation is grave, gentlemen.'

'Whose?' said Mr Burleigh.

'I'm sorry?'

'What? Oh... I was thinking about something else, my lord...'

'I was referring to the fact that a number of our citizens have gone out to this wretched island. As have, I understand, a number of Klatchians.'

'Why are our people going out there?' said Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild.

'Because they are showing a brisk pioneering spirit and seeking wealth and... additional wealth in a new land,' said Lord Vetinari.

'What's in it for the Klatchians?' said Lord Downey.

'Oh, they've gone out there because they are a

bunch of unprincipled opportunists always ready to grab something for nothing,' said Lord Vetinari.

'A masterly summation, if I may say so, my lord,' said Mr Burleigh, who felt he had some ground to make up.

The Patrician looked down again at his notes. 'Oh, I do beg your pardon,' he said, 'I seem to have read those last two sentences in the wrong order... Mr Slant, I believe you have something to say here?'

The president of the Guild of Lawyers cleared his throat. The sound was like a death rattle and technically it was, since the man had been a zombie for several hundred years although historical accounts suggested that the only difference dying had made to W Slant was that he'd started to work through his lunch break.

'Yes, indeed,' he said, opening a large legal tome. 'The history of the city of Leshp and its surrounding country is a little obscure. It is known to have been above the sea almost a thousand years ago, however, when records suggest that it was considered part of the Ankh–Morpork empire––

'What is the nature of these records and do they tell us who was doing the considering?' said the Patrician. The door opened and Vimes stepped in. 'Ah, commander, do take a seat. Continue, Mr Slant.'

The zombie did not like interruptions. He coughed again. 'The records relating to the lost country date back several hundred years, my lord. And they are of course our records.'

'Only ours?'

'I hardly see how any others could apply,' said Mr Slant severely.

'Klatchian ones, for example?' said Vimes, from the far end of the table.

'Sir Samuel, the Klatchian language does not even have a word for lawyer,' said Mr Slant.

'Doesn't it?' said Vimes. 'Good for them.'

'It is our view,' said Slant, turning his chair slightly so that he did not have to look at Vimes, 'that the new land is ours by Eminent Domain, Extra–Territoriality and, most importantly, Acquiris Quodcumque Rapis. I am given to understand that it was one of our fishermen who first set foot on it this time.'

'I hear the Klatchians claim that it was one of their fishermen,' said Vetinari.

At the end of the table Vimes's lips were moving. Let's see, Acquiris...' "You get what you grab"?' he said aloud.

'We're not going to take their word for it, are we?' said Slant, pointedly ignoring him. 'Excuse me, my lord, but I don't believe that proud Ankh–Morpork is told what to do by a bunch of thieves with towels on their heads.'

'No, indeed! It's about time Johnny Klatchian was taught a lesson,' said Lord Selachii. 'Remember all that business last year with the cabbages? Ten damn boatloads they wouldn't accept!'

'And everyone knows caterpillars add to the flavour,' said Vimes, more or less to himself.

The Patrician shot him a glance,

'That's right!' said Selachii. 'Good honest protein! And you remember all that trouble Captain Jenkins had over that cargo of mutton? They were going to imprison him! In a Klatchian jail!'

'Surely not? Meat is at its best when it's going green,' said Vimes.

'It's not as if it'd taste any different under all that curry,' said Burleigh. 'I was at a dinner in their embassy once, and do you know what they

made me eat? It was a sheep's––'

'Excuse me, gentlemen,' said Vimes, standing up. 'There are some urgent matters I must deal with.'

He nodded to the Patrician and hurried out of the room. He shut the door behind him and took a breath of fresh air, although right now he'd have happily inhaled deeply in a tannery.

Corporal Littlebottom stood up and looked at him expectantly. She had been sitting next to a box, which cooed peacefully.

'Something's up. Run down to... I mean, send a pigeon down to the Yard,' said Vimes.

'Yes, sir?'

'All leave is cancelled as of now and I want to see every officer, and I mean every officer, at the Yard at, oh, let's say six o'clock.'

'Right, sir. That might mean an extra pigeon unless I can write small enough.'

Littlebottom hurried off.

Vimes glanced out of the window. There was always a certain amount of activity outside the palace but today there was... not so much a crowd as, just, rather more people than you normally saw, hanging around. As if they were waiting for something.

Klatch!

Everyone knows it.

Old Detritus was right. You could hear the little pebbles bouncing. It's not just a few fishermen having a scrap, it's a hundred years of... well, like two big men trying to fit in one small room, trying to be polite about it, and then one day one of them just has to stretch and pretty soon they're both smashing the furniture.

But it couldn't really happen, could it? From what he'd beard, the present Seriph was a competent man

who was mostly concerned with pacifying the rowdy edges of his empire. And there were Klatchians living in AnkhMorpork, for heaven's sake! There were Klatchians born in Ankh–Morpork. You saw some lad with a face that'd got camels written all over it, and when he opened his mouth it'd turn out he had an Ankhian accent so thick you could float rocks. Oh, there's all the jokes about funny food and foreigners, but surely...

Not very funny jokes, come to think of it.

When you hear the bang, there's no time to wonder how long the little fuse has been fizzing.

There were raised voices when he went back into the Rats Chamber.

'Because, Lord Selachii; the Patrician was saying, 'these are not the old days. It is no longer considered... nice... to send a warship over there to, as you put it, show Johnny Foreigner the error of his ways. For one thing, we haven't had any warships since the Mary–Jane sank four hundred years ago. And times have changed. These days, the whole world watches. And, my lord, you are no longer allowed to say "What're you lookin' at?" and black their eyes.' He leaned back. 'There's Chimeria, and Khanli, and Ephebe, and Tsort. And Muntab, these days, too. And Omnia. Some of these are powerful nations, gentlemen. Many of them don't like Klatch's current expansionist outlook, but they don't Eke us much, either.'

'Whyever not?' said Lord Selachii.

'Well, because during our history those we haven't occupied we've tended to wage war on,' said Lord Vetinari. 'For some reason the slaughter of thousands of people tends to stick in the memory.'

'Oh, history,' said Lord Selachii. 'That's all in the past!'

'A good place for history, agreed,' said the Patrician solemnly.

'I meant: why don't they like us now? Do we owe them money?'

'No. Mostly they owe us money. Which is, of course, a far better reason for their dislike.'

'How about Sto Lat and Pseudopolis and the other cities?' said Lord Downey.

'They don't like us much, either.'

'Why not? I mean t'say, we do share a common heritage,' said Lord Selachii.

'Yes, my lord, but that common heritage largely consists of having had wars with one another,' said the Patrician. 'I can't see much support there. Which is a little unfortunate because we do not, in fact, have an army. I am not, of course, a military man but I believe that one of those is generally considered vital to the successful prosecution of a war.'

.He looked along the table.

'The fact is" he went on, 'that Ankh–Morpork has been violently against a standing army.'

'We all know why people don't trust an army,' said Lord Downey. 'A lot of armed men, standing around with nothing to do... they start to get ideas . .

Vimes saw the heads turn towards him.

'My word,' he said, with glassy brightness, 'can this be a reference to "Old Stoneface" Vimes, who led the city's militia in a revolt against the rule of a tyrannical monarch in an effort to bring some sort of freedom and justice to the place? I do believe it is! And was he Commander of the Watch at the time? Good heavens, yes, as a matter of fact he was! Was he hanged and dismembered and buried in five graves? And is he a distant ancestor of the current Commander? My word, the coincidences just pile up, don't they?' His voice went from manic cheerfulness to a growl. 'Right! That's got that over with. Now – has anyone got any point they wish to make?'

There was a general shifting of position and a group clearing of throats.

'What about mercenaries?' said Boggis.

'The problem with mercenaries' ' said the Patrician, 'is that they need to be paid to start fighting. And, unless you are very lucky, you end up paying them even more to stop–'

Selachii thumped the table.

'Very well, then, by jingo!' he snarled. 'Alone!'

'We could certainly do with one,' said Lord Vetinari. 'We need the money. I was about to say that we cannot afford mercenaries.'

'How can this be?' said Lord Downey. 'Don't we pay our taxes?'

'Ah, I thought we might come to that,' said Lord Vetinari. He raised his hand and, on cue again, his clerk placed a piece of paper in it.

'Let me see now... ah yes. Guild of Assassins... Gross earnings in the last year: AM$13,207,048. Taxes paid in the last year: forty–seven dollars, twenty–two pence and what on examination turned out to be a Hershebian half–dong, worth one–eighth of a penny.'

'That's all perfectly legal! The Guild of Accountants––'

'Ah yes. Guild of Accountants: gross earnings AM$7,999,011. Taxes paid: nil. But, ah yes, I see they applied for a rebate of AM$200,000.'

'And what we received, I may say, included a Hershebian half–dong,' said Mr Frostrip of the Guild of Accountants.

'What goes around comes around" said Vetinari calmly.

He tossed the paper aside. 'Taxation, gentlemen, is very much like dairy farming The task is to extract the maximum amount of milk with the minimum of moo. And I am afraid to say that these days all I get is moo.'

'Are you telling us that Ankh–Morpork is bankrupt?' said Downey.

'Of course. While, at the same time, full of rich people. I trust they have been spending their good fortune on swords.'

'And you have allowed this wholesale tax avoidance?' said Lord Selachii.

'Oh, the taxes haven't been avoided,' said Lord Vetinari. 'Or even evaded. They just haven't been paid.'

'That is a disgusting state of affairs!'

The Patrician raised his eyebrows. 'Commander Vimes?'

'Yes, sir?'

'Would you be so good as to assemble a squad of your most experienced men, liaise with the tax gatherers and obtain the accumulated back taxes, please? My clerk here will give you a fist of the prime defaulters.'

'Right, sir. And if they resist, sir?' said Vimes, smiling nastily.

'Oh, how can they resist, commander? This is the will of our civic leaders.' He took the paper his clerk proffered. 'Let me see, now. Top of the list––'

Lord Selachii coughed hurriedly. 'Far too late for that sort of nonsense now,' he said.

'Water under the bridge,' said Lord Downey.

'Dead and buried,' said Mr Slant.

'I paid mine,' said Vimes.

'So let me recap, then,' said Vetinari. 'I don't think anyone wants to see two grown nations scrapping over a piece of rock. We don't want to fight, but–'

'By jingo, if we do, we'll show those–' Lord Selachii began.

'We have no ships. We have no men. We have no money, too,' said Lord Vetinari. 'Of course, we have the art of diplomacy. It is amazing what you can do with the right words.'

'Unfortunately, the right words are more readily listened to if you also have a sharp stick,' said Lord Downey.

'Lord Selachii slapped the table. 'We don't have to talk to these people! My lords... gentlemen... it's up to us to show them we won't be pushed around! We must re–form the regiments!'

'Oh, private armies?' said Vimes. 'Under the command of someone whose fitness for it lies in the fact that he can afford to pay for a thousand funny hats?'

Someone leaned forward, halfway along the table. Up to that moment Vimes had thought he was asleep, and when Lord Rust spoke it was, indeed, in a sort of yawn.

'Whose fitness, Mister Vimes, lies in a thousand years of breeding for leadership,' he said.

The 'Mister' twisted in Vimes's chest. He knew he was a mister would always be a mister, was probably a blueprint for mistership, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't be Sit Samuel to someone who pronounced years as 'hyahs'.

'Ah, good breeding,' he said. 'No, sorry, don't have any of that, if that's what you need to get your own men killed by sheer–'

'Gentlemen, please,' said the Patrician. He shook his head. 'Let's have no fighting, please. This is, after all, a council of war. As for re–forming the regiments, well, this is of course your ancient right. The supplying of armed men in times of need is one of the duties of a

gentleman. History is on your side. The precedents are dear enough, I can't go against them. I have to say I cannot afford to.'

'You're going to let them play soldiers?' said Vimes.

'Oh, Commander Vimes,' said Mr Burleigh, smiling. 'As a military man yourself, you must––.,

Sometimes people can attract attention by shouting. They might opt for thumping a table, or even take a swing at someone else. But Vimes achieved the effect by freezing, by simply doing nothing. The chill radiated off him. Lines in his face locked like a statue.

'I am not a military man.'

And then Burleigh made the mistake of trying to grin disarmingly.

'Well, commander, the helmet and armour and everything... It's really all the same in the end, isn't it?'

'No. It's not.'

'Gentlemen. .. 'Lord Vetinari put his hands flat on

the table, a sign that the meeting had ended. 'I can only repeat that tomorrow I shall be discussing the matter with Prince Khufurah–'

'I've heard good reports of him,' said Lord Rust. 'Strict but fair. One can only admire what he's doing in some of those backward regions. A most–'

'No, sir. You are thinking of Prince Cadram,' said Lord Vetinari 'Khufurah is the younger brother. He is arriving here as his brother's special envoy.'

'Him? That one? The man's a wastrel! A cheat! A liar! They say he takes bri–'

'Thank you for your diplomatic input, Lord Rust,' said the Patrician. 'We must deal with facts as they are. There is always a way. Our nations have many interests in common. And of course it says a lot for the seriousness with which Cadram is treating this matter

that he is sending his own brother to deal with it. It's a nod towards the international community.'

'A Klatchian bigwig is coming here?' said Vimes. 'No one told me!'

'Strange as it may seem, Sir Samuel, I am occasionally capable of governing this city for minutes at a time without seeking your advice and guidance.'

'I meant there's a lot of anti–Klatchian feeling around–'

'A really greasy piece of work–' Lord Rust whispered to Mr Boggis, in that special aristocratic whisper that carries to the rafters. 'It's an insult to send him here!'

'I am sure that you will see to it that the streets are safe to walk, Vimes,' said the Patrician sharply. 'I know you pride yourself on that sort of thing. Officially he's here because the wizards have invited him to their big award ceremony. An honorary doctorate, that sort of thing. And one of their lunches afterwards. I do like negotiating with people after the faculty of Unseen University have entertained them to lunch. They tend not to move about much and they'll agree to practically anything if they think there's a chance of a stomach powder and a small glass of water. And now, gentlemen... if you will excuse me.. .'

The lords and leaders departed in ones and twos, talking quietly as they walked out into the hall.

The Patrician shuffled his papers into order, running a thin finger along each edge of the pile, and then looked up.

'You appear to be casting a shadow, commander.'

'You're not really going to allow them to re–form the regiments, are you?' said Vimes.

'There is absolutely no law against it, Vimes. And it

will keep them occupied. Every official gentleman is entitled, in fact I believe used to be required, to raise men when the city required it. And, of course, any citizen has the right to bear arms. Bear that in mind, please.'

'Arms is one thing. Holding weapons in 'em and playing soldiers is another.' Vimes put his knuckles on the table and leaned forward.

'You see, sir,' he said, 'I can't help hut think that over there in Klatch a bunch of idiots are doing the same thing. They're saying to the Seriph "It's time to sort out those devils in Ankh–Morpork, offendi". And when a lot of people are running around with weapons and talking daft stuff about war, accidents happen. Have you ever been in a pub when everyone goes armed? Oh, things are a little polite at first, I'll grant you, and then some twerp drinks out of the wrong mug or picks up someone else's change by mistake and five minutes later you're picking noses out of the beer nuts–'

The Patrician looked down at Vimes's knuckles and stared fixedly until Vimes removed them.

'Vimes, you will be at the wizards' Convivium tomorrow. I sent you a memo about it.'

'I never–' A vision of the piles of unread paperwork on Vimes's desk loomed treacherously in his mind. 'Ah,' he said.

'The Commander of the Watch leads the procession in full dress uniform. It's an ancient custom.'

'Me? Walk in front of everyone?'

'Indeed. Very... civic. As I'm sure you recall. It demonstrates the friendly alliance between the University and the civil government which, I may say, seems to consist of their promising to do anything we ask provided we promise not to ask them to do

anything. Anyway, it is your duty. Tradition decrees it. And Lady Sybil has agreed to see to it that you are there with a crisp bright shining morning face.'

Vimes took a deep breath. 'You asked my wife?'

'Certainly. She is very proud of you. She believes you are capable of great things, Vimes. She must be a great comfort to you.'

'Well, I... I mean, I... yes...'

'Excellent. Oh, just one other thing, Vimes. I do have the Assassins and the Thieves in agreement on this, but to cover all eventualities... I would consider it a favour if you could see to it that no–one throws eggs or something at the Prince. That sort of thing always upsets people.'

The two sides watched each other carefully. They were old enemies. They had tested strengths many a time, had tasted defeat and victory, had contested turf. But this time it would go all the way.

Knuckles whitened. Boots scraped impatiently.

Captain Carrot bounced the ball once or twice.

'All right, lads, one more try, eh? And this time, no horseplay. William, what are you eating?'

The Artful Nudger scowled. No–one knew his name. Kids he'd grown up with didn't know his name. His mother, if he ever found out who she was, probably didn't know his name. But Carrot had found out somehow. If anyone else had called him 'William' they'd be looking for their ear. In their mouth.

'Chewing gum, mister.'

'Have you brought enough for everybody?'

'No, mister.'

'Then put it away, there's a good chap. Now, let's– Gavin, what's that up your sleeve?'

The one known as Scumbag Gav didn't bother to argue.

' 's a knife, Mr Carrot.'

'And I bet you brought enough for everybody, eh?'

' 'sright, mister.' Scumbag grinned. He was ten.

'Go on, put them on the heap with the others. .

Constable Shoe looked over the wall in horror. There were about fifty youths in the wide alleyway. Average age in years, about eleven. Average age in cynicism and malevolent evil: about 163. Although Ankh–Morpork football doesn't usually have goals in the normal sense, two had been nevertheless made at each end of the alley using the time–honoured method of piling up things to mark where the posts would be.

Two piles: one of knives, one of blunt instruments.

In the middle of the boys, who were wearing the colours of some of the nastier street gangs, Captain Carrot was bouncing an inflated pig's bladder.

Constable Shoe wondered if he ought to go and get help, but the man seemed quite as ease.

'Er, captain?' he ventured.

'Oh, hello, Reg. We were just having a friendly game of football. This is Constable Shoe, lads.'

Fifty pairs of eyes said: We'll remember your face, copper.

Rag edged around the wall and the eyes noted the arrow which had gone straight through his breastplate and protruded several inches from his back.

'There's been a bit of trouble, sir,' said Reg. 'I thought I'd better fetch you. It's a hostage situation...'

'I'll come right away. OK, lads, sorry about this. Play amongst yourselves, will you? And I hope I'll see

you all on Tuesday for the sing–song and sausage sizzle.,

'Yeah, mister,' said the Artful Nudger.

'And Corporal Argue will see if she can teach you the campfire howl.'

'Yeah, right,' said Scumbag.

'But what do we do before we part?' said Carrot expectantly.

The bloods of the Skats and the Mohocks looked bashfully at one another. Usually they were nervous of nothing, it being a banishment matter to show fear in any circumstances. But when they'd variously drawn up the clan rules, no–one had ever thought there'd he someone like Carrot.

Glaring at one another with I'll–kill–you–if–you–ever–mention–this expressions, they all raised the index fingers of both hands to the level of their ears and chorused: 'Wib wib wib.'

'Wob wob wob,' Carrot replied heartily. 'OK Reg, let's go.'

'How'd you do that, captain?' said Constable Shoe, as the watchmen hurried off.

'Oh, you just raise both fingers like this,' said Carrot. 'But I'd be obliged if you don't tell anyone, because it's meant to be a secret sig–'

'But they're thugs, captain! Young killers! Villains!'

'Oh, they're a bit cheeky, but nice enough boys undeneath, when you take the time to understand–'

'I heard they never give anyone enough time to understand! Does Mr Vimes know you're doing this?'

'He sort of knows, yes. I said I'd like to start a club for the street kids and he said it was fine provided I took them camping on the edge of some really sheer cliff somewhere in a high wind. But he always says things like that. And I'm sure we wouldn't have him

any other way. Now, where are these hostages?'

'It's at Vortin's again, captain. But it's... sort of worse than that...'

Behind them, the Skats and the Mohocks looked at one another warily. Then they picked up their weapons and edged away with care. It's not that we don't want to fight, their manner said. It's just that we've got better things to do right now, and so we're going to go away and find out what they are.

Unusually for the docks, there was not a great deal of shouting and general conversation. People were too busy thinking about money.

Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs leaned against a stack of timber and watched a man very carefully painting the name Pride of Ankh–Morpork on the prow of a ship. At some point he'd realize that he'd left out the 'c', and they were idly looking forward to this modest entertainment.

'You ever been to sea, sarge?' said Nobby.

'Hah, not me!' said the sergeant. 'Don't go flogging the oggin, lad.'

'I don't,' said Nobby. 'I have never flogged any oggin. Never in my entire life have I flogged oggin.'

'Right.'

'I've always been very clean in that respect.'

'Except you don't know what flogging the oggin means, do you?'

'No, sarge.'

'It means going to sea. You can't bloody trust the sea. When I was a little lad I had this book about this little kid, he turned into a mermaid, sort of thing, and he lived down the bottom of the sea–'

'–the oggin–'

‘Right, and it was all nice talking fishes and pink seashells and stuff, and then I went on my holidays to Quirm and I saw the sea, and I thought: here goes, and if our ma hadn't been quick on her feet I don't know what would have happened. I mean, the kid in the book could breathe under the sea, so how was I to know? It's all bloody lies about the sea. It's just all yuk with lobsters in it.'

'My mum's uncle was a sailor" said Nobby. 'But after the big plague he got press–ganged. Bunch of farmers got him drunk, he woke up next morning tied to a plough.'

They lounged some more.

'Looks like we're going to be in a fight, sarge,' said Nobby, as the painter very carefully started on the final 'k'.

'Won't last long. Lots of cowards, the Klatchians,' said Colon. 'The moment they taste a bit of cold steel they're legging it away over the sand.'

Sergeant Colon had had a broad education. He'd been to the School of My Dad Always Said, the College of It Stands to Reason, and was now a postgraduate student at the University of What Some Bloke In the Pub Told Me.

'Shouldn't be any trouble to sort out, then?' said Nobby.

'And o'course, they're not the same colour as what we are,' said Colon. 'Well... as me, anyway,' he added, in view of the various hues of Corporal Nobbs. There was probably no–one alive who was the same colour as Corporal Nobbs.

'Constable Visit's pretty brown' ' said Nobby. 'I never seen him run away. if there's a chance of giving someone a religious pamphlet ole Washpot's after them like a terrier.'

'Ah, but Omnians are more like us,' said Colon. 'Bit weird but, basic'ly, just the same as us underneath. No, the way you can tell a Klatchian is, you look an' see if he uses a lot of words beginning with "al", right? 'Cos that's a dead giveaway. They invented all the words starting with "al". That's how you can tell they're Klatchian. Like al–cohol, see?'

'They invented beer?'

'Yeah.'

'That's clever.'

'I wouldn't call it clever,' said Sergeant Colon, realizing too late that he'd made a tactical error. 'More, luck, I'd say.'

'What else did they do?'

'Well, there's...' Colon racked his brains. 'There's al–gebra. That's like sums with letters. For... for people whose brains aren't clever enough for numbers, see?'

'Is that a fact?'

'Right,' said Colon. 'In fact,' he went on, a little more assertively now he could see a way ahead, 'I heard this wizard down the University say that the Klatchians invented nothing. That was their great contribution to maffs, he said. I said "What?" an' he said, they come up with zero.'

'Dun't sound that clever to me,' said Nobby. 'Anyone could invent nothing. I ain't invented anything.'

'My point exactly,' said Colon. 'I told him, it was people who invented numbers like four and, and–'

'–seven–'

'–right, who were the geniuses. Nothing didn't need inventing. It was just there. They probably just found it.'

'It's having all that desert,' said Nobby.

'Right! Good point. Desert. Which, as everyone

knows, is basically nothing. Nothing's a natural resource to them. It stands to reason. Whereas we're more civilized, see, and we got a lot more stuff around to count, so we invented numbers. It's like... well, they say the Klatchians invented astronomy–'

'Al–tronomy,' said Nobby helpfully.

'No, no... no, Nobby, I reckon they'd discovered esses by then, probably nicked' em off'f us... anyway, they were bound to invent astronomy, 'cos there's bugger all else for them to look at but the sky. Anyone can look at the stars and give 'em names. 's going it a bit to call it inventing, in any case. We don't go around saying we've invented something just because we had a quick dekko at it.'

'I heard where they've got a lot of odd gods,' said Nobby.

'Yeah, and mad priests,' said Colon. 'Foaming at the mouth, half of 'em. Believe all kinds of loony things.'

They watched the painter in silence for a moment. Colon was dreading the question that came.

'So how exactly are they different from ours, then?' said Nobby. 'I mean, some of our priests are–'

'I hope you ain't being unpatriotic,' said Colon severely.

'No, of course not. I was just asking. I can see where they'd be a lot worse than ours, being foreign and everything.

'And of course they're all mad for fighting,' said Colon. 'Vicious buggers with all those curvy swords of theirs.'

'You mean, like they viciously attack you while cowardly running away after tasting cold steel?' said Nobby, who sometimes had a treacherously good memory for detail.

'You can't trust 'em, like I said. And they burp hugely after meals.'

'Well... so do you, sarge.'

'Yes, but I don't pretend it's polite, Nobby.'

'Well, it's certainly a good job there's you around to explain things, sarge,' said Nobby. 'It's amazing the stuff you know.'

'I surprise myself, sometimes,' said Colon modestly. The painter of the ship leaned back to admire his work. They heard him give a heartfelt little groan, and both of them nodded in satisfaction.

Hostage negotiations were always tricky, Carrot had learned. It paid not to rush things. Let the other man talk when he was ready.

So he was whiling away the time sitting behind the upturned cart they were using as a shield from the occasional random arrow and writing his letter home. The exercise was carried out with much frowning, sucking of the pencil and what Commander Vimes called a ballistic approach to spelling and punctuation.

Dere Mum and Dade,

I hope this letter finds you in good health as I am

also. Thank you for the big parcel of dwarf bread you

sent me I have sharred it with the other dwarfs on

the Watch and they say it is better even than

Ironcrufts ('t'Bread Wi' T'Edge') and you carn't

beat the taste of a home–forged loaf, so well done

mum.

Things are going well with the Wolf Pack that I

have told you about but Cmdr. Vimes is not happy, I

told him they were good lads at heart and it would

help them to learn the ways of Natchure and the

Wilderness and he said hah they know them already

that is the trouble. But he gave me $5 to buy a

football which proves he cares deep down.

       We have more new faeces in the Watch which is

just as well with this truble with Klatch, it is all

looking very Grave, Ifeel it is the Clam before the

Storm and no mistake.

       I must brake off now because some robbers have

broke into Vortin's Dimond Warehouse and

have taken Corporal Angua hostage. I fear there

may be terrible bloodshed so,

       I remain,

       Yr. Loving Son,

       Carrot Ironfoundersson (Captain)

       ps I will write again tomorrow

Carrot folded the letter carefully and slipped it under his breastplate.

'I think they have had long enough to consider our suggestion, constable. What's next on the list?'

Constable Shoe leafed through a file of grubby paper and pulled out another sheet

'Well, we're down to offences of stealing pennies off blind beggars now,' he said. 'Oh, no, this is a good one...'

Carrot took the sheet in one hand and megaphone in the other and raised his head carefully over the edge of the cart.

'Good morning again!' he said brightly. 'We've found another one. Theft of jewellery from–'

'Yes! Yes! We did it!' shouted a voice from the building.

'Really? I haven't even said what it was yet,' said Carrot.

'Never mind, we did it! Now can we come out, please?' There was another sound behind the voice. It sounded like a low, continuous growl.

'I think you ought to be able to tell me what you stole,' said Carrot.

'Er... rings? Cold rings?'

'Sorry, no rings mentioned.'

'Pearl necklace? Yes, that's what–'

'Getting warmer, but no.'

'Earrings?'

'Ooo, you're so close,' said Carrot encouragingly.

'A crown, was it? Maybe a coronet?'

Carrot leaned down to the constable. 'Says here a tiara, Reg, can we let–?' He stood up. 'We're prepared to accept "coronet". Well done!'

He looked down at Constable Shoe again.

'This is all right, isn't it, Reg? It's not coercion, is it?'

'Can't see how it can be, captain. I mean, they broke in, they took a hostage...'

'I suppose you're right–'

'Please! No! Good boy! Down!'

'Seems to be about it, sir,' said Reg Shoe, peering around the edge of the cart. 'We've got them down for everything but the Hide Park Flasher–'

'We did that!' screamed someone.

'–and that was a woman...'

'We did it!' This time the voice was a lot higher. 'Now please can we come out?'

Carrot stood up and raised the megaphone. 'If you gentlemen would care to step out with your hands up?'

'Are you joking?' whimpered someone, against the background of another growl.

'Well, at least with your hands where I can see them.'

'You bet, mister!'

Four men stumbled out into the street. Their tom clothing fluttered in the breeze. The apparent leader pointed an angry finger back at the doorway as Carrot walked towards them.

'The owner of that place ought to be prosecuted!' he shouted. 'Keeping a wild animal like that in his strongroom, it's disgraceful! We broke in perfectly peacefully and it just attacked us for no reason at all!'

'You shot at Constable Shoe here,' said Carrot.

'Only to miss! Only to miss!'

Constable Shoe pointed at the arrow sticking into his breastplate.

'Right where it shows!' he complained. 'It's a welding job and we have to pay for our own armour repairs and there'll always be a mark, you know, no matter what I do.'

Their horrified gaze took in the stitch marks around his neck and on his hands, and it dawned on them that although the human race came in a variety of colours, very few living people were grey with a hint of green.

'Here, you're a zombie!'

'That's right, kick a man when he's dead,' said Constable Shoe sharply.

'And you took Corporal Angua hostage. A lady,' said Carrot, in the same level voice. It was very polite. But it simply suggested that somewhere a fuse was burning, and it would be a good idea not to wait for it to reach the barrel.

'Yes... sort of... but she must've got away when that creature turned up...'

'So you left her in there?' said Carrot, still very calm.

The men dropped to their knees. The leader raised his hand imploringly.

'Please! We're just robbers and thieves! We're not bad men!'

Carrot nodded to Constable Shoe. 'Take them down to the Yard, constable.'

'Right!' said Reg. There was a mean look in his eye as he cocked his crossbow. 'I'm down ten dollars thanks to you. So you'd better not try to escape.'

'No, sir. Not us.'

Carrot wandered into the gloom of the building. Fearful faces peered out of doorways. He gave them a reassuring smile as he walked towards the strongroom.

Corporal Angua was adjusting her uniform.

'I didn't bite anyone, before you start,' she said, as he appeared in the doorway. 'Not even flesh wounds. I just tore at their trousers. And that was no bed of roses, I might add.'

A frightened face appeared round the door.

'Ah, Mr Vortin,' said Carrot. 'I think you will find that all is in order. They seem to have dropped everything.'

The diamond merchant looked at him in amazement.

'But they had a hostage–'

'They saw the error of their ways,' said Carrot.

'And... and there were snarling noises... sounded like a wolf...'

'Ah, yes,' said Carrot. 'Well, you know, when thieves fall out...' Which was no kind of explanation, but because the tone of voice suggested that it was, Mr Vortin accepted it as such for fully five minutes after Carrot and Angua had left.

'Well, that's a nice start to the day,' said Carrot.

'Thank you, yes, I wasn't hurt,' said Angua.

'It makes it all seem worthwhile, somehow.'

'Just my hair messed up and another shirt ruined.'

'Well done.'

'Sometimes I might suspect that you don't listen to anything I say,' said Angua.

'Glad to hear it,' said Carrot.

The entire Watch was mustering. Vimes looked down at the sea of faces.

My gods, he thought. How many have we got now? A few years ago you could count the Watch on the fingers of a blind butcher's hand, and now...

There's more coming in!

He leaned sideways to Captain Carrot. 'Who're all these people?'

'Watchmen, sir. You appointed them.'

'Did I? I haven't even met some of them!'

'You signed the paperwork, sir. And you sign the wage bill every month. Eventually.'

There was a hint of criticism in his voice. Vimes's approach to paperwork was not to touch it until someone was shouting, and then at least there would be someone to help him sort through the stacks.

'But how did they join?'

'Usual way, sir. Swore them in, gave them each a helmet–'

'Hey, that's Reg Shoe! He's a zombie! He falls to bits all the time!'

'Very big man in the undead community, sir,' said Carrot.

'How come he joined?'

'He came round last week to complain about the Watch harassing some bogeymen, sir. He was very, er, vehement, sir. So I persuaded him that what the Watch needed was some expertise, and so he joined up, sir.'

'No more complaints?'

'Twice as many, sir. All from undead, sir, and all against Mr Shoe. Funny, that.'

Vimes gave his captain a sideways look.

'He's very hurt about it, sir. He says he's found that the undead just don't understand the difficulties of policing in a multi–vital society, sir.'

Good gods, thought Vimes, that's just what I would have done. But Id have done it because I'm not a nice person. Carrot is a nice person, he's practially got medals for it, surely he wouldn't have...

And he knew that he would never know. Somewhere behind Carrot's innocent stare was a steel door.

'You enrolled him, did you?'

'Nossir. You did, sir. You signed his joining orders and his kit chitty and his posting orders, sir.'

Vimes had another vision of too many documents, hurriedly signed. But he must have signed them and they needed the men, true enough. It was just that it ought to be him who–

'And anyone of sergeant rank or above can recruit, sir,' said Carrot, as if reading his mind. 'It's in the General Orders. Page twenty–two, sir. just below the tea stain.'

'And you've recruited... how many?'

'Oh, just one or two. We're still very short–handed, sir.'

'We are with Reg. His arms keep falling off.'

'Aren't you going to talk to the men, sir?'

Vimes looked at the assembled... well, multitude. There was no other word. Well, there were plenty, but none that it would be fair to use.

Big ones, short ones, fat ones, troll ones with the lichen still on, bearded dwarf ones, the looming pottery presence of the golem Constable Dorfl, undead ones... and even now he wasn't certain if that term should include Corporal Angua, an intelligent girl and a very useful wolf when she had to be. Waifs and strays, Colon had said once. Waifs and bloody strays, because normal people wouldn't be coppers.

Technically they were all in uniform, too, except that mostly they weren't wearing the same uniform as anyone else. Everyone had just been sent down to the armoury to collect whatever fitted, and the result was a walking historical exhibit: Funny–Shaped Helmets Through the Ages.

'Er... ladies and gentlemen–' he began.

'Be quiet, please, and listen to Commander Vimes!' bellowed Carrot.

Vimes found himself meeting the gaze of Angua, who was leaning against the wall. She rolled her eyes helplessly.

'Yes, yes, thank you, captain,' said Vimes. He turned back to the massed array of Ankh–Morpork's finest. He opened his mouth. He stared. And then he shut his mouth, all but a corner of it. And said out of that corner: 'What's that little lump on Constable Flint's head?'

'That's  Probationary Constable Buggy Swires, sir. He likes to get a good view.'

'He's a gnome!'

'Well done, sir.'

'Another one of yours?'

'Ours, sir,' said Carrot, using his reproachful voice again. 'Yes, sir. Attached to the Chitterling Street Station since last week, sir.'

'Oh my gods...' murmured Vimes.

Buggy Swires saw his stare and saluted. He was five inches tall.

Vimes regathered his mental balance. The long and the short and the tall... waifs and strays, all of us.

'I'm not going to keep you long,' he said. 'You all know me... well, most of you know me,' he added, with a sidelong glance at Carrot, 'and I don't make speeches. But I'm sure all of you have noticed the way this Leshp business has got people all stirred up. There's a lot of loose talk about war. Well, war isn't our business. War is soldiers' business. Our business, I think, is to keep the peace. Let me show you this––'

He stood back and pulled something out of his pocket with a flourish. At least, that was the intention. There was a rip as something ceased to be entangled in the lining.

'Damn... ah...'

He produced a length of shiny black wood from the ragged pocket. There was a large silver knob on the end. The watchmen craned to look.

'This... er... this...'Vimes groped. 'This old man turned up from the palace a couple of weeks ago. Cave me this damn thing. Cot a label saying "Regalia of the Watch Commandr., Citie of Ankh–Morporke”. You know they never throw anything away up at the palace.'

He waved it vaguely. The wood was surprisingly heavy.

'It's got the coat of arms on the knob, look.' Thirty watchmen tried to see.

'And I thought... I thought, good grief, this is what I'm supposed to carry? And I thought about it, and then I thought, no, that's right, just once someone got it right. It's not even a weapon, it's just a thing. It ain't for using, it's just for having. That's what it's all about.

Same thing with uniforms. You see, a soldier's uniform, it's to turn him into part of a crowd of other parts all in the same uniform, but a copper's uniform is there to–'

Vimes stopped. Perplexed expressions in front of him told him that he was building a house of cards with too few cards on the bottom.

He coughed.

'Anyway,' he went on, with a glare to indicate that everyone should forget the previous twenty seconds, 'our job is to stop people fighting. There's a lot happening on the street. You've probably heard that they're starting up the regiments again. Well, people can recruit if they like. But we're not going to have any mobs. There's a nasty mood around. I don't know what's going to happen, but we've got to be there when it does.' He looked around the room. 'Another thing. This new Klatchian envoy or whatever he's called is arriving tomorrow. I don't think the Assassins' Guild has anything planned but tonight we're going to check the route the wizards' procession will be taking. A nice little job for the night shift. And tonight we're all on the night shift.'

There was a groan from the Watch.

'As my old sergeant used to say, if you can't take a joke you shouldn't have joined,' said Vimes. 'A nice gentle door–to–door inspection, shaking hands with doorknobs, giving the uniform a bit of an airing. Good old–fashioned policing. Any questions? Good. Thank you very much.'

There was a general rustling and relaxing among the squad as it dawned on them that they were free to go.

Carrot started to clap.

It wasn't the clap used by middlings to encourage

underlings to applaud overlings.[1] It had genuine enthusiasm behind it which was, somehow, worse. A couple of the more impressionable new constables picked it up and then, in the same way that little pebbles lead the avalanche, the sound of humanoids banging their hands together filled the room.

Vimes glowered.

'Very inspiring, sir!' said Carrot, as the clapping rose to a storm.

Rain poured on Ankh–Morpork. It filled the gutters and overflowed and was then flung away by the wind. It tasted of salt.

The gargoyles had crept out of their daytime shadows and were perched on every cornice and tower, ears and wings outstretched to sieve anything edible out of the water. It was amazing what could fall on Ankh–Morpork. Rains of small fish and frogs were common enough, although bedsteads caused comment.

A broken gutter poured a sheet of water down the window of Ossie Brunt, who was sitting on his bed because there were no chairs or, indeed, any other furniture. He didn't mind at the moment. In a minute or two he might be very angry. And, then again, possibly not.

It was not that Ossie was insane in any way. Friends would have called him a quiet sort who kept himself to himself, but they didn't because he didn't have any friends. There was a group of men who went to practise at the archery butts on Tuesday nights, and he sometimes went to a pub with them afterwards and sat and listened to them talk, and he'd saved up once and bought a round of drinks, although they probably wouldn't remember or maybe they'd say, 'Oh... yeah... Ossie.' People said that. People tended to put him out of their minds, in the same way that you didn't pay much attention to empty space.

He wasn't stupid. He thought a lot about things. Sometimes he'd sit and think for hours, just staring at the opposite wall where the rain came in on damp nights and made a map of Klatch.

Someone hammered on the door. 'Mr Brunt? Are you decent?'

'I'm a bit busy, Mrs Spent" he said, putting his bow under the bed with his magazines.

'It's about the rent!'

'Yes, Mrs Spent?'

'You know my rules!'

'I shall pay you tomorrow, Mrs Spent,' said Ossie, looking towards the window.

'Cash in my hand by noon or it's out you go!'

'Yes, Mrs Spent.'

He heard her stamp downstairs again.

He counted to fifty, very carefully, and then reached down and pulled out his bow again.

Angua was on patrol with Nobby Nobbs. This was not an ideal arrangement, but Carrot was on swing patrol and on a night like this Fred Colon, who kept the roster, had an uncanny knack of being on desk duty in

the warm. So the spare partners had been thrown together. It was a terrible thought.

'Can I have a word, miss?' said Nobby, as they rattled doorknobs and waved their lanterns into alleyways.

'Yes, Nobby?'

'It's pers'nal.'

'Oh.'

'Only I'd ask Fred, but he wouldn't understand, and I fink you would understand on account of you being a woman. Most of the time, anyway. No offence meant.'

'What do you want, Nobby?'

'It's about my... sexual nature, miss.'

Angua said nothing. Rain banged off Nobby's illfitting helmet.

'I think it's time I looked it full in the face, miss.'

Angua cursed her graphic imagination again.

'And, er... how were you thinking of doing that, Nobby?'

'I mean, I sent off for stuff, miss, Creams an' that.'

'Creams,' said Angua flatly.

'That you rub on,' said Nobby helpfully.

'Rub on.'

'And a thing you do exercises with–'

'Oh gods...'

'Sorry, miss?'

'What? Oh... I was just thinking of something else. Do go on. Exercises?'

'Yeah. To build up my biceps and that.'

'Oh, exercises. Really?' Nobby did not appear to have any biceps to speak of. There wasn't really anything for them to be – on. Technically he had arms, because his hands were attached to his shoulders, but that was about all you could say.

Horrified interest got the better of her.

'Why, Nobby?'

He looked down, sheepishly.

'Well... I mean... you know... girls an' that...' To her amazement, Nobby was blushing.

'You mean you...' she began. 'You want to... you're looking for...'

'Oh, I'm not just after... I mean, if you want a thing done properly then... I mean, no,' said Nobby reproachfully. 'What I'm saying is, as you get older, you know, you think about settlin' down, findin' someone who'll go with you hand in hand down life's bumpy highway– Why's your mouth open?'

Angua shut it abruptly.

'But I just don't seem to meet girls,' Nobby said. 'Well, I mean, I meet girls, and then they rush off.'

'Despite the cream.'

'Right.'

'And the exercises.'

'Yes.'

'Well, you've covered all the angles, I can see that,' said Angua. 'Beats me where you're going wrong.' She sighed. 'What about Stamina Thrum, in Elm Street?'

'She's got a wooden leg.'

'Well, then... Verity Pushpram, nice girl, she runs the clam and cockle barrow in Rime Street?'

'Hammerhead? Stinks of fish all the time. And she's got a squint.'

'She's got her own business, though. Does wonderful chowder, too.'

'And a squint.'

'Not exactly a squint, Nobby.'

'Yes, but you know what I mean.'

Angua had to admit that she did. Verity had the opposite of a squint. Both eyes appeared to be endeavouring to see the adjacent ear. When you talked to her, you had to suppress a feeling that she was about to walk off in two directions. But she could gut fish like a champion.

She sighed again. She was familiar with the syndrome. They said they wanted a soulmate and helpmeet but sooner or later the list would include a skin like silk and a chest fit for a herd of cows.

Except for Carrot. That was almost... almost one of the annoying things about him. She suspected he wouldn't mind if she shaved her head or grew a beard. It wasn't that he wouldn't notice, he just wouldn't mind, and for some reason that was very aggravating.

'The only thing I can suggest,' she said, 'is that women are quite often attracted to men who can make them laugh.'

Nobby brightened. 'Really?' he said. 'I ought to be well in there, then.'

'Good.'

'People laugh at me all the time.'

High above, quite oblivious of the rain that had already soaked him to the skin, Ossie Brunt checked the oilskin cover round his bow and settled down for the long wait.

Rain was a copper's friend. Tonight people were making do with indoor crime.

Vimes stood in the lee of one of the fountains in Sator Square. The fountain hadn't worked for years, but he was getting just as wet as if it were in full flow. He'd never experienced truly horizontal rain before.

There was no–one around. The rain marched across the square like... like an army...

Now there was an image from his youth. Funny how they hung around in the dark alleys of your brain and suddenly jumped out on you.

Rain falling on water...

Ah, yes... When he was a little lad he'd pretended that the raindrops splashing in the running gutters were soldiers. Millions of soldiers. And the bubbles that sometimes went floating by were men on horseback.

Right now he couldn't remember what the occasional dead dog had been. Some kind of siege weapon, possibly.

Water swirled around his boots and dripped off his cape. When he tried to light a cigar the wind blew the match out and the rain poured off his helmet and soaked the cigar in any case.

He grinned in the night.

He was, temporarily, a happy man. He was cold, wet and alone, hying to keep out of the worst of the weather at three o'clock on a ferocious morning. He'd spent some of the best nights of his life like this. At such times you could just... sort of hunch your shoulders like this and let your head pull in like this and you became a little hutch of warmth and peace, the rain banging on your helmet, the mind just ticking over, sorting out the world...

It was like this in the old days, when no–one cared about the Watch and all you really had to do was keep out of trouble. Those were the days when there wasn't as much to do.

But there was as much to do, said an inner voice. You just didn't do it.

He could feel the official truncheon hanging heavily in the special pocket that Sybil herself had sewn in his breeches. Why is it just a bit of wood? he'd asked himself when he'd unwrapped it. Why not a sword? That's the symbol of power. And then he'd realized why it couldn't ever be a sword

'Ho there, good citizen! May I ask your business this brisk morning?'

He sighed. There was a lantern appearing through the murk, surrounded by a halo of water.

Ho there, good citizen... There was only one person in the city who would say something like that and mean it.

'It's me, captain.'

The halo drew nearer and illuminated the damp face of Captain Carrot. The young man ripped off a salute – at godsdam three in the morning, Vimes thought – that would have brought a happy tear to the eye of the most psychotic drill sergeant.

'What're you doing out, sir?'

'I just wanted to... check up on things,' said Vimes.

'You could have left it all to me, sir,' said Carrot. 'delegation is the key to successful command.'

'Really? Is it?' said Vimes sourly. 'My word, we live and learn, don't we.' And you certainly learn, he added in the privacy of his head. And he was almost sure he was being mean and stupid.

'We've just about finished, sir. We've checked all the empty buildings. And there will be an extra squad of constables on the route. And the gargoyles will be up as high as they can. You know how good they are at watching, sir.'

'Gargoyles? I thought we just had Constable Downspout...'

'And Constable Pediment now, sir.'

'One of yours?'

'One of ours, sir. You signed–'

'Yes, yes, I'm sure I did. Damn!'

A gust of wind caught the water pouring from an overloaded gutter and dumped it down Vimes's neck.

'They say this new island's upset the air streams" said Carrot.

'Not just the air,' said Vimes. 'A lot of damn fuss over a few square miles of silt and some old ruins! Who cares?'

'They say it's strategically very important,' said Carrot, falling into step beside him.

'What for? We're not at war with anyone. Hah! But we might go to war to keep some damn island that's only useful in case we have to go to war, right?'

'Oh, his lordship will have it all sorted out today. I'm sure that when moderate–mannered men of goodwill can get round a table there's no problem that can't be resolved,' said Carrot cheerfully.

He is, thought Vimes glumly. He really is sure. 'Know much about Klatch?' he said.

'I've read a little, sir.'

'Very sandy place, they say.'

'Yes, sir. Apparently.'

There was a crash somewhere ahead of them, and a scream. Coppers learned to be good at screams. There was to the connoisseur a world of difference between 'I'm drunk and I've just trodden on my fingers and I can't get up!' and 'Look out! He's got a knife!'

Both men started to run.

Light blazed out in a narrow street. Heavy footsteps vanished into the darkness.

The light flickered beyond a shop's broken window. Vimes stumbled through the doorway pulled off his sodden cape and threw it over the fire in the middle of the floor.

There was a hiss, and a smell of hot leather.

Then Vimes stood back and tried to work out where the hell he was.

People were staring at him. Dimly, his mind assembled clues: the turban, the beard, the woman's jewellery...

‘Where did he come from? Who is this man?’

‘Er . good morning?' he said. 'Looks like there's been a bit of an accident?' He raised the cape gingerly.

A broken bottle lay in a pool of sizzling oil.

Vimes looked up at the broken window. 'Oh...'

The other two people were a boy almost as tall as his father and a small girl trying to hide behind her mother.

Vimes felt his stomach turn to lead.

Carrot arrived in the doorway.

'I lost them,' he panted. 'There were three of them, I think. Can't see anything in this rain... Oh, it’s you Mr Goriff. What happened here?’

‘Captain Carrot! Someone threw a burning bottle through out window and then this beggar man rushed in and put it out!’

'What'd he say? What did you say?' said Vimes. 'You speak Klatchian?'

'Not very well,' said Carrot modestly. 'I just can't get the backof–the–throat sound to–'

'But... you can understand what he said?'