'Oh, yes. He just thanked you very much, by the way. It’s all right, Mr Goriff, He’s a watchman.’

'But you speak–'

Carrot knelt down and looked at the broken bottle.

'Oh, you know how it is. You come in here on night shift for a hot caraway bun and you just get chatting. You must have picked up the odd word, sir.'

'Well... vindaloo maybe, but.. .'

'This is a firebomb, sir.'

'I know, captain.'

'This is very bad. Who would do a thing like this?'

'Right now?' said Vimes. 'Half the city, I should think.'

He looked helplessly at Goriff. He vaguely recognized the face. He vaguely recognized Mrs Goriff's face. They were... faces. They were usually at the other end of some arms holding a portion of carry or a kebab. Sometimes the boy ran the place. The shop opened very early in the morning and very late at night, when the streets were owned by bakers, thieves and watchmen.

Vimes knew the place as Mundane Meals. Nobby Nobbs had said that Goriff had wanted a word that meant ordinary, everyday, straight–forward, and had asked around until he found one he liked the sound of.

'Er... tell him... tell him you're staying here, and I'll go back to the Watch House and send someone out to relieve you,' said Vimes.

'Thank you,' said Goriff.

'Oh, you underst–' Vimes felt like an idiot. 'Of course you do, you must have been here, what, five, six years?'

'Ten years, sir.'

'Really?' said Vimes manically. 'That long? Really? My word... well, I'd better get along... Good morning to you–'

He hurried out into the rain.

I must have been going in there for years, he thought, as he splashed through the darkness. And I know how to say 'vindaloo'. And... 'korma'... ? Carrot's hardly been here five minutes and he gargles the language like a native.

Good grief, I can get by in dwarfish and I can at least say,' cut down that rock, you're under arrest,' in troll, but...

He stamped into the Watch House, water pooling off him. Prod Colon was dozing quietly at the desk. In deference to the fact that he'd known Fwd. all these years, Vimes was extra noisy about taking off his cape.

When he officially turned round, the sergeant was sitting at attention.

'I didn't know you were on tonight, Mr Vimes...'

'This is unofficial, Fred,' said Vimes. He accepted 'Me from certain people. In an odd way, they'd earned it. 'Send someone along to Mundane Meals in Scandal Alley, will you? A bit of trouble there.'

He reached the stairs.

'You stopping, sir?' said Fred.

'Oh, yes,' said Vimes grimly. 'I've got to catch up on the paperwork.'

The rain fell on Leshp so hard it probably hadn't been worth the island's bother of rising from the bottom of the sea.

Most of the explorers slept in their boats now. There were buildings on the risen island, but...

... the buildings weren't quite right.

Solid Jackson peered out from the tarpaulin he'd rigged up on deck. Mist was rising off the soaking ground and was made luminous by the occasional flash of lightning.

The city, by storm light, looked far too malevolent. There were things he could recognize – columns and steps and archways and so on – but there were others... he shuddered. It looked as if people had once tried to add human touches to structures that were already ancient...

It was because of his son that everyone was staying in the boats.

A party of Ankh–Morpork fishermen had gone ashore that morning to search for the heaps of treasure that everyone knew littered the ocean bottom and had found a tiled floor, washed clean by the rain. Pretty blue and white squares showed a pattern of waves and shells, and, in the middle, a squid.

And Les had said, 'That looks pretty big, Dad.'

And everyone had looked around at the weedcovered buildings and had shared the Thought, which remained unspoken but was made up of a lot of little thoughts like the occasional ripples in the pools, and the little splashes in the dark water of cellars that made the mind think of claws, winnowing the deeps, and the odd things that sometimes got washed up on beaches or tamed up in nets. Sometimes you pulled things over the side that'd put a man off fish for life.

And suddenly no–one wanted to explore any more, just in case they found something.

Solid Jackson pulled his head back under the cover.

'Why'n't we going home, Dad?' said his son. 'You said this place gives you the willies.'

'All right, but they're Ankh–Morpork willies, see? And no foreigner's going to get his hands on them.'

'Dad?'

'Yes, lad?'

'Who was Mr Hong?'

'How should I know?'

'Only, when we was all heading back for the boats one of the other men said, 'We all know what happened to Mr Hong when he opened the Three Jolly Luck Take–Away Fish Bar on the site of the old fish–god temple in Dagon Street on the night of the full moon, don't we... ?" Well, I don't know.'

'Ah...' Solid Jackson hesitated. Still, Les was a big lad now...

'He... closed up and left in a bit of a hurry, lad. So quick he had to leave some things behind.'

'Like what?'

'If you must know... half an earhole and one kidney.'

'Cool!'

The boat rocked, and wood splintered. Jackson jerked the cover up. Spray washed over him. Somewhere close in the wet darkness a voice shouted: 'Why you not carrying lights, you second cousin of a jackal?'

Jackson pulled out the lantern and held it up.

'What're you doing in Ankh–Morpork territorial waters, you camel–eating devil?'

'These waters belong to us!'

'We were here first!'

'Yeah? We were here first!'

'We were here first first!'

'You damaged my boat! That's piracy, that is!'

There were other shouts around them. In the darkness the two flotillas had collided. Bowsprits tore away rigging. Hulls boomed. The controlled panic that is normal sailing became the frantic panic camposed of darkness, spray and too much rigging coming unrigged.

At times like this the ancient traditions of the sea that unite all mariners should some to the fore and see them combine in the face of their common foe, the hungry and relentless ocean.

However, at this point Mr Arif hit Mr Jackson over the head with an oar.

'Hnh? Wuh?'

Vimes opened the only eye that appeared to respond. A horrible sight met it.

...I read him his rites, whereupon, he said up, yours copper. Sgnt Detritus then, cautioned him, upon which he said, ouch...

There may be a lot of things I'm not good at, thought Vimes, but at least I don't treat tile punctuation of a sentence like a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey...

He rolled his head away from Carrot's fractured grammar. The pile of paper shifted under him.

Vimes's desk was becoming famous. Once there were piles, but they had slipped as piles do, forming this dense compacted layer that was now turning into something like peat. It was said there were plates and unfinished meals somewhere down there. No–one wanted to check. Some people said they'd heard movement.

There was a genteel cough. Vimes rolled his head again and looked up into the big pink face of Willikins, Lady Sybil's butler. His butler too, technically, although Vimes hated to think of him like that.

'I think we had better proceed with alacrity, Sir Samuel. I have brought your dress uniform, and your shaving things are by the basin.'

'What? What?'

'You are due at the University in half an hour. Lady Sybil has vouchsafed to me that if you are not there she will utilize your intestines for hosiery accessories, sir.'

'Was she smiling?' said Vimes, staggering to his feet and making his way to the steaming basin on the wash stand.

'Only slightly, sir.'

'Oh gods...'

'Yes, sir.'

Vimes made an attempt at shaving while, behind him, Willikins brushed and polished. Outside, the city's clocks began to strike ten.

It must've been almost four when I sat down Vimes thought. I know I heard the shift change at eight, and then I had to sort out Nobby's expenses, that's advanced mathematics if ever there was some...

He tried to yawn and shave at the same time, which is never a good idea.

'Damn!'

'I shall fetch some tissue paper directly, sir,' said Willikins, without looking round. As Vimes dabbed at his chin, the butler went on: 'I should like to take this opportunity to raise a matter of some import, sir...'

'Yes?' Vimes shared blearily at the red tights that seemed to be a major item of his dress uniform.

'Regretfully, I am afraid I must ask leave to give in my notice, sir. I wish to join the Colours.'

'Which colours are these, Willikins?' said Vimes, holding up a shirt with puffed sleeves. Then his brain caught up with his cars. 'You want to become a soldier?'

'They say Klatch needs to be taught a sharp lesson, sir. A Willikins has never been found wanting when his country calls. I thought that Lord Venturi's Heavy Infantry would do for me. They have a particularly attractive uniform of red and white, sir. With gold frogging.'

Vimes pulled his boots on. 'You've had military experience, have you?'

'Oh, no, sir. But I am a quick learner, sir, and I believe I have some prowess with the carving knife.' The butler's face showed a patriotic alertness.

'On turkeys and on...'said Vimes.

'Yes, sir; said Willikins, buffing up die ceremonial helmet.

'And you're off to fight the screaming hordes in Klatch, are you?'

'If it should come to that, sir,' said Willikins. 'I think this is adequately polished now, sir.'

'A very sandy place, so they say.'

'Indeed, sir,' said Willikins, adjusting the helmet under Vimes's chin.

'And rocky. Very rocky. Lots of rocks. Dusty, too.'

'Very parched in parts, sir, I believe you are correct.'

'And so into this land of sand–coloured dust and sandcoloured rocks and sand–coloured sand you, Willikins, will march with your expertise in cutlery and your red and white uniform?'

'With the gold frogging, sir.' Willikins thrust out his jaw. 'Yes, sir. If the need arises.'

'You don't see anything wrong with this picture?'

'Sir?'

'Oh, never mind.' Vimes yawned. 'Well, we shall miss you, Willikins.' Others may not, he thought. Especially if they have time for a second shot.

'Oh, Lord Venturi says it'll all be over by Hogswatch, sir.'

'Really? I didn't know it had started.'

Vimes ran down the stairs and into a smell of curry.

'We saved you some, sir,' said Sergeant Colon. 'You was asleep when the lad brought it round.'

'It was Goriff's kid,' said Nobby, chasing a bit of rice around his tin plate. 'Enough for half the shift.'

'The rewards of duty,' said Vimes, hurrying towards the door.

'Bread and mango pickle and everything,' said Colon happily. 'I've always said old Goriff isn't that bad for a rag'ead.'

A pool of sizzling oil... Vimes stopped at the door. The family, huddling together... He took out his watch. It was twenty past ten. If he ran–

'Fred, could you just step up to my office?' he said. 'It won't take a moment.'

'Right, sir.'

Vimes ushered the sergeant up the stairs and closed the door.

Nobby and the other watchmen strained to listen, but there was no sound except for a low murmuring which went on for some time.

The door opened again. Vimes came down the stairs.

'Nobby, come up to the University in five minutes, will you? I want to stay in touch and I'm damned if I'm taking a pigeon with this uniform on.'

'Right, sir.'

Vimes left.

A few moments later Sergeant Colon walked carefully down to the main office. He had a slightly glassy look and walked back to his desk with the nonchalance that only the extremely worried try to achieve. He toyed with some paper for a while and then said:

'You don't mind what people call you, do you, Nobby?'

'I'd be minding the whole time if I minded that, sarge,' said Corporal Nobbs cheerfully.

'Right. Right! And I don't mind what people call me, neither.' Colon scratched his head. 'Don't make sense, really. I reckon Sir Sam is missing too much sleep.'

'He's a very busy man, Fred.'

'Trying to do everything, that's his trouble. And... Nobby?'

'Yes?'

'It's Sergeant Colon, thanks.'

There was sherry. There was always sherry at these occasions. Seam Vimes could regard it dispassionately, since he always drank fruit juice these days. He'd heard they made sherry by letting wine go rotten He couldn't see the point of sherry.

'And you will try to look dignified, won't you?' said Lady Sybil, adjusting his cloak.

'Yes, dear.'

'What will you try to look?'

'Dignified, dear.'

'And please try to be diplomatic.'

'Yes, dear.'

'What will you try to be?'

'Diplomatic, dear.'

'You're using your "henpecked" voice, Sam.'

'Yes, dear.'

'You know that's not fair.'

'No, dear.' Vimes raised a hand in a theatrical gesture of submission. 'All right, all right. It's just these feathers. And these tights,' He winced and tried to do some surreptitious rearranging in an effort to prevent himself becoming the city's first hunchgroin. 'I mean, supposing people see me?'

'Of course they'll see you, Sam. You're leading the procession. And I'm very proud of you.'

She brushed some lint off his shoulder.[2]

Feathers in my hat, Vimes thought glumly. And fancy tights. And a shiny breastplate. A breastplate shouldn't be shiny. It should be too denied to take a decent polish. And diplomatic talk? How should I know how to talk diplomatically?

'And now I must go and have a word with Lady Selachii,' said Lady Broil. 'You'll be all right, will you? You keep yawning.'

'Of course. Didn't get much sleep last night, that's all.'

'You promise not to run away?'

'Me? I never run–'

'You ran away before the big soiree for the Genuan ambassador. Everyone saw you.'

'I'd just got news that the De Bris gang were robbing Vortin's strongroom!'

'But you don't have to chase everyone, Sam. You employ people for that now.'

'We got 'em, though,' said Vimes, with satisfaction.

He'd enjoyed it immensely, too. It wasn't just the pursuit that was so invigorating, with his velvet cloak left behind on a tree and his hat in a puddle somewhere, it was the knowledge that while he was doing this he wasn't eating very small sandwiches and making even smaller talk. It wasn't proper police work, Vimes considered, unless you were doing something that someone somewhere would much rather you weren't doing.

When Sybil had disappeared into the crowd he found a handy shadow and lurked in it. It enabled him to see almost the whole of the University's Great Hall.

He quite liked the wizards. They didn't commit crimes. Not Vimes's type of crimes, anyway. The occult wasn't Vimes's beat. The wizards might well mess up the very fabric of time and space but they

didn't lead to paperwork, and that was fine by Vimes. There were a lot of them in the hall, in all their glory. And there was nothing finer than a wizard dressed up formally, until someone could find a way of inflating a Bird of Paradise, possibly by using an elastic band and some kind of gas. But the wizards were getting a run for their money, because the rest of the guests were either nobles or guild leaders or both, and an occasion like the Convivium brought out the peacock in everyone.

His gaze went from face to chatting face, and he wondered idly what each person was guilty of.[3]

Quite a few of the ambassadors were there, too. They were easy to pick out. They wore their national costumes, but since by and large their national costumes were what the average peasant wore they looked slightly out of place in them. Their bodies wore feathers and silks, but their minds persistently wore suits.

They chatted in small groups. One or two nodded and smiled to him as they passed.

The world is watching, Vimes thought. If something went wrong and this stupid Leshp business started a war, it's men like these who'd be working out exactly how to deal with the winner, whoever it was. Never mind who started it, never mind how it was fought, they'd want to know how to deal with things now. They represented what people called the 'international community'. And like all uses of the world 'community', you were never quite sure what or who it was.

He shrugged. It wasn't his world, thank goodness.

He sidled over to Corporal Nobbs, who was standing by the main doors in the sort of lopsided slouch which was the closest a living Nobbs could come to attention.

'All quiet, Nobby?' he said, out of the corner of his mouth.

'Yessir.'

'Nothing going on at all?'

'Nossir. Not a pigeon anywhere, sir.'

'What, nowhere? Nothing?'

'Nossir.'

'There was trouble all over the place yesterday!'

'Yessir.'

'You did tell Fred he was to send a bird if there was anything at all?'

'Yessir.'

'The Shades? There's always something–'

'Dead quiet, sir.'

'Damn!'

Vimes shook his head at the sheer untrustworthiness of Ankh-Morpork's criminal fraternity.

'I suppose you couldn't take a brick and–'

'Lady Sybil was very speffic about how you was to stop here" said Corporal Nobbs, staring straight ahead.

'Speffic?'

'Yeah, sir. She come and have a word with me. Cave me a dollar,' said Nobby.

'Ah, Sir Samuel!' said a booming voice behind him, 'I don't think you've met Prince Khufurah yet, have you?'

He turned. Archchancellor Ridcully was bearing down on him, towing a couple of swarthy men. Vimes hurriedly put on his official face.

'This is Commander Vimes, gentlemen. Sam... no, I'm doing this the wrong way round, aren't I, got the

protocol all wrong – so much to sort out, the Bursar's locked himself in the safe again, we don't know how he manages to get the key in there with him, I mean, it's not even as if it's got a keyhole on the inside...'

The first man held out a hand as Ridcully bustled off again. 'Prince Khufurah,' he said. 'My carpet got in only two hours ago.'

'Carpet? Oh... yes... you flew . .

'Yes, very chilly and of course you just can't get a good meal. And did you get your man, Sir Samuel?'

'What? Pardon?'

'I believe our ambasssador told me you had to leave the reception last week...?' The Prince was a tall man who had probably once been quite athletic until the big dinners had finally weighed him down. And he had a beard. All Klatchians had beards. This Klatchian had intelligent eyes, too. Disconcertingly intelligent. You looked into them and several layers of person looked back at you.

'What? Oh. Yes. Yes, we got 'em all right,' said Vimes.

'Well done. He put up a fight, I see.'

Vimes looked surprised. The Prince tapped his jaw thoughtfully. Vimes's hand flew up and encountered a little bit of tissue on his own chin.

'Ah... er... yes...'

'Commander Vimes always gets his man,' said the Prince.

'Well, I wouldn't say I–'

'Vetinari's terrier, I've heard them call you,' the Prince went on. 'Always hot on the chase, they say, and he won't let go.'

Vimes stared into the calm, knowing gaze.

'I suppose, at the end of the day, we're all someone's dog,' he said, weakly.

'In fact it is fortuitous I have met you, commander.' lit is?'

'I was just wondering about the meaning of the word shouted at me as we were on our way down here. Would you be so kind?'

'Er... if I...'

'I believe it was... let me see now... oh, yes... towelhead.'

The Prince's eyes stayed locked on Vimes's face.

Vimes was conscious of his own thoughts moving very fast, and they seemed to reach their own decision. We'll explain later, they said. You're too tired for explanations. Right now, with this man, it's oh so much better to be honest...

'It... refers to your headdress,' he said.

'Oh. Is it some kind of obscure joke?'

Of course he knows, thought Vimes. And he knows I know...

'No. It's an insult,' he said eventually.

'Ah? Well, we certainly cannot be held responsible for the ramblings of idiots, commander.' The Prince flashed a smile. 'I must commend you, incidentally.'

'I'm sorry?'

'For your breadth of knowledge. I must have asked a dozen people that question this morning and, do you know? Not one of them knew what it meant. And they all seemed to have caught a cough.'

There was a diplomatic pause but, in it, someone sniggered.

Vimes let his glance drift sideways to the other man, who had not been introduced. He was shorter and skinnier than the Prince and, under his black headdress, had the most crowded face Vimes had ever seen. A network of scars surrounded a nose like an eagle's beak. There was a sort of beard and moustache, but the scars had affected the hair growth so much that they stuck out in strange bunches and at odd angles. The man looked as though he had been hit in the mouth by a hedgehog. He could have been any age. Some of the scars looked fresh.

All in all, the man had a face that any policeman would arrest on sight. There was no possible way it could be innocent of anything.

He caught Vimes's expression and grinned, and Vimes had never seen so much gold in one mouth. He'd never seen so much gold in one place.

Vimes realized he was staring when he ought to have been making polite diplomatic conversation.

'So,’ he said, 'are we going to have a scrap over this Leshp business or what?'

The Prince gave a dismissive shrug.

'Pfui,' he said. 'A few square miles of uninhabited fertile ground with superb anchorage in an unsurpassed strategic position? What sort of inconsequence is that for civilized people to war over?'

Once again Vimes felt the gaze on him, reading him. Well, the hell with it. He said, 'Sorry, I'm not good at this diplomacy business. Did you mean what you just said then?'

There was another snigger. Vimes turned and looked at the leering bearded face again. And was aware of a smell, no, a stench of cloves.

Good grief, he chews the stinking things...

'Ah,' said the Prince, 'you haven't met 71–hour Ahmed?'

Ahmed grinned again and bowed. 'Offendi,' he said, in a voice like a gravel path.

And that seemed to be it. Not 'This is 71–hour Ahmed, Cultural Attache' or 71–hour Ahmed, my bodyguard' or even '71–hour Ahmed, walking strongroom and moth killer'. It was dear that the next move was up to Vimes.

'That's... er... that's an unusual name" he said.

'Not at all,' said the Prince smoothly. 'Ahmed is a very common name in my country.'

He leaned forward again. Vimes recognized this as the prelude to a confidential aside. 'Incidentally, was that beautiful lady I saw just now your first wife?'

'Er... all my wives,' said Vimes. 'That is–'

'Could I offer you twenty camels for her?'

Vimes looked back into the dark eyes for a moment, glanced at 71–hour Ahmed's 24–carat grin, and said:

'This is another test, isn't it... ?'

The Prince straightened up, looking pleased.

'Well done, Sir Samuel. You're good at this. Do you know, Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild was prepared to accept fifteen?'

'For Mrs Boos?' Vimes waggled a hand dismissively. 'Nah... four camels, maybe four camels and a goat in a good light. And when she's had a shave.'

The milling guests turned at the sound of the Prince's explosion of laughter.

'Very good! Very good! I am afraid, commander, that some of your fellow citizens feel that just because my people invented advanced mathematics and allday camping we are complete barbarians who'd try to buy their wives at the drop of, shall we say, a turban. I am surprised they're giving me an honorary degree, considering how incredibly backward I am.'

'Oh? What degree is that?' said Vimes. No wonder this man was a diplomat. You couldn't trust him an inch, he thought in loops, and you couldn't help liking him despite it.

The Prince pulled a letter out of his robe.

'Apparently it's a Doctorum Adamus cum Flabello Dulci – Is there something wrong, Sir Samuel?'

Vimes managed to turn the treacherous laugh into a coughing fit. 'No, no, nothing,' he said. 'No.'

He desperately wanted to change the subject. And fortunately there was something here to provide just the opportunity.

'Why has Mr Ahmed got such a big curved sword slung on his back?' he said.

'Ah, you are a policeman, you notice such things–'

'It's hardly a concealed weapon, is it? It's nearly bigger than him. He's practically a concealed owner!'

'It's ceremonial,' said the Prince. 'And he does fret so if he has to leave it behind.'

'And what exactly is his––'

'Ah, there you are,' said Ridcully. 'I think we're just about ready. You know you go right at the front, Sam–'

'Yes, I know,' said Vimes. 'I was just asking His Highness what'

'–and if you, Your Highness, and you, Mr... my word, what a big sword, and you come back here and take your place among the honoured guests, and we'll be ready in a brace of sheikhs...'

What a thing it is to have a copper's mind, Vimes thought, as the great file of wizards and guests tried to form a dignified and orderly line behind him. just because someone makes himself pleasant and likeable you start to be suspicious of him, for no other reason than the fact that anyone who goes out of their way to be nice to a copper has got something on their mind. Of course, he's a diplomat, but still... I just hope he never studied ancient languages, and that's a fact.

Someone tapped Vimes on the shoulder. He turned and looked right into the grin of 71–hour Ahmed.

'If hyou changing your mind, offendi, I give hyou twenty–five camels, no problem,' he said, pulling a clove from his teeth. 'May your hlions be full of fruit.'

He winked. It was the most suggestive gesture Vimes had ever seen. 'Is this another–' he began, but the man had vanished into the crowd.

'My loins be full of fruit?' he repeated to himself. 'Good grief!'

71–hour Ahmed reappeared at his other elbow in a gust of cloves. 'I go, I hcome back,' he growled happily. 'The Prince hsays the degree is Doctor of Sweet Fanny Adams. A hwizard Wheeze, yes? Oh, how we are laughing.'

And then he was gone.

The Convivium was Unseen University's Big Day. Originally it had just been the degree ceremony, but over the years it had developed into a kind of celebration of the amicable relationship between the University and the city, in particular celebrating the fact that people were hardly ever turned to clams any more. In the absence of anything resembling a .Lord Mayor's Show or a state opening of Parliament, it was one of the few formal opportunities the citizens had of jeering at their social superiors, or at least at people wearing tights and ridiculous costumes.

It had grown so big that it was now held in the city's Opera House. Distrustful people – that is to say, people like Vimes considered that this was so there could be a procession. There was nothing like the massed ranks of wizardry walking sedately through the city in a spirit of civic amicability to subtly remind the more thoughtful kind of person that it hadn't always been this way. Look at us, the wizards seemed to be saying. We used to rule this city. Look at our big staffs with the knobs on the end. Any one of these could do some very serious damage in the wrong hands so it's a good thing, isn't it, that they're in the right hands at the moment? Isn't it nice that we all get along so well?

And someone, once, had decided that the Commander of the Watch should walk in front, for symbolic reasons. That hadn't mattered for years because there hadn't been a Commander of the Watch, but now there was, and he was Sam Vimes. In a red shirt with silly baggy sleeves, red tights, some kind of puffed shorts in a style that went out of fashion, by the lock of it, at the time when flint was at the cutting edge of cuttingedge technology, a tiny shiny breastplate and a helmet with feathers in it.

And he really did need some sleep.

And he had to carry the truncheon.

He kept his eyes fixed on the damn thing as he walked out of the University's main gate. Last night's rain had cleaned the sky. The city steamed.

If he stared at the truncheon he didn't have to see who was giggling at him.

The downside was that he had to keep staring at the thing.

It said, on a little tarnished shield that he'd had to clean before reading it, Protecter of thee Kinge's Piece.

That had brightened the occasion slightly.

Feathers and antiques, gold braid and fur...

Perhaps it was because he was tired, or just because he was trying to shut out the world, but Vimes found himself slowing down into the traditional watchman's walk and the traditional idling thought process.

It was an almost Pavlovian response.[4] The legs swung, the feet moved, the mind began to work in a certain way. It wasn't a dream state, exactly. It was just that the ears, nose and eyeballs wired themselves straight into the ancient 'suspicious bastard' node of his brain, leaving his higher brain centre free to freewheel.

... Fur and tights... what kind of wear was that for a watchman? Bashed–in armour, greasy leather breeches and a tatty shirt with bloodstains on it, someone else's for preference... that was the stuff... nice feel of the cobbles through his boots, it was really comforting...

Behind him, confusion running up and down the ranks, the procession slowed down to keep in step.

... Hah, Protecter of thee Kinge's Piece indeed... he'd said to the old man who'd delivered it, 'Which piece did you have in mind?' but that had fallen on stony cars... damn silly thing anyway, he'd thought, a short length of wood with a lump of silver on the end... even a constable got a decent sword, what was he supposed to do, wave it at people?... ye gods, it was months since he'd had a good walk through the streets... lot of people about today... some parade on, wasn't there... ?

'Oh dear,' said Captain Carrot, in the crowd. 'What's he doing?'

Next to him an Agatean tourist was industriously pulling the lever of his iconograph.

Commander Vimes stopped and, with a faraway look in his eyes, tucked his truncheon under one arm and reached up to his helmet.

The tourist locked up at Carrot and tugged his shirt politely.

'Please, what is he doing now?' he said.

'Er... he's... he's taking out. .

'Oh, no...' said Angua.

'... he's taking the ceremonial packet of cigars out of his helmet,' said Carrot. 'Oh... and he's, he's lighting one...'

The tourist pulled the lever a few times.

'Very historic tradition?'

'Memorable,' murmured Angua.

The crowd had fallen silent. No one wanted to break Vimes's concentration. There was the big gusty silence of a thousand people holding their breath.

'What's he doing now?' said Carrot.

'Can't you see?' said Angua.

'Not with my hands over my eyes. Oh, the poor man...'

'He's... he's just blown a smoke ring... '

'…first one of the day, he always does that…'

'…and now he's set off again... and now he's pulled out the truncheon and he's tossing it up in the air and catching it again, you know the way he does with his sword when he's thinking... He looks quite happy...'

'I think he's going to really treasure this moment of happiness,' said Carrot.

Then the murmur started. The procession had halted behind Vimes. Some of the more impressionable people who weren't sure what they should be doing, and those who had partaken too heavily of the University's rather good sherry, started to fumble

around on their person for something to throw up in the air and catch. After all, this was a Traditional Ceremony. If you took the view that you were not going to do things because they were apparently ridiculous, you might as well go home right now.

'He's tired, that's what it is,' said Carrot. 'He's been running around overseeing things for days. Night and day watches. You know what a hands–on person he is.'

'Let's hope the Patrician will agree to let him stay that way.'

'Oh, his lordship wouldn't... He wouldn't, would he?'

Laughter was starting. Vimes had started to toss the truncheon from one hand to the other.

'He can make his sword spin three times and still catch it––'

Vimes's head turned. He looked up. His truncheon clattered on to the cobbles and rolled into a puddle, unheeded.

Then he started to run.

Carrot stared at him and then tried to see what the man had been looking at.

'On top of the Barbican...' he said. 'In that window... isn't that someone up there? Excuse me, excuse me, sorry, excuse me–' He began to push his way through the crowd.

Vimes was already a small figure in the distance, his red cloack flying out after him.

'Well? There's lots of people watching the parade from high places,' said Angua. 'What's so special about–'

'No one should be up there!' said Carrot, starting to run now he was free of the crowd. 'It's all sealed up!'

Angua looked around. Every face was turned towards the street theatre, and there was a cart near by. She sighed and strolled behind it wearing an expression of suspicious nonchalance. There was a gasp, a faint but distinctly organic sound, a muffled yelp and then the clank of armour hitting the ground.

Vimes didn't know why he ran. It was a sixth sense. It was when the back of the brain picked up out of the ether that something bad was going to happen, and didn't have time to rationalize, and just took over the spinal cord.

No one could get to the top of the Barbican. The Barbican had been the fortified gateway in the days when Ankh–Morpork didn't regard an attacking army as a marvellous commercial opportunity. Some parts were still in use, but the bulk of it was six or seven storeys of ruin, without stairs that any sensible man would trust. For years it had been used as an unofficial source of masonry for the rest of the city. Bits of it fell off on windy nights. Even gargoyles avoided it.

He was aware that far behind him the noise of the crowd became a lot of shouting. One or two people screamed. He didn't turn round. Whatever was going on, Carrot could take care of it.

Something overtook him. It looked like a wolf would look if one of its ancestors had been a longhaired Klatchistan hunting dog, one of those graceful things that were all nose and hair.

It bounded ahead and through the crumbling gateway.

The creature was nowhere to be seen when Vimes arrived. But the absence was not a matter that grabbed at his attention, because of the more pressing presence of the corpse, lying in a mess of fallen masonry.

One of the things Vimes had always said – that is to say, one of the things he said he always said, and no one disagrees with the commanding officer – was that sometimes small details, tiny little details, things that no one would notice in ordinary circumstances, grab your senses by the throat and scream, 'See me!'

There was a lingering, spicy scent in the air. And in the gap between a couple of cobblestones was a clove.

It was five o'clock. Vimes and Carrot sat in the Patrician's outer office, in silence except for the irregular ticking of the dock.

After a while Vimes said: 'Let me have a look at that again.'

Carrot obediently pulled out the small square of paper. Vimes looked at it. There was no mistaking what it showed. He tucked it into his own pocket.

'Er... why do you want to keep it, sir?'

'Keep what?' said Vimes.

'The iconograph I borrowed from the tourist.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' said Vimes.

'But you–'

'I can't see you going very far in the Watch, captain, if you go around seeing things that aren't there.'

'Oh.'

The clock seemed to tick louder.

'You're thinking something, sir. Aren't you?'

'It is a use to which I occasionally put my brain, captain. Strange as it may seem.'

'What are you thinking, sir?'

'What they want me to think,' said Vimes.

'Who's they?'

'I don't know yet. One step at a time.'

A bell tinkled.

Vimes stood up. 'You know what I always say,' he said.

Carrot removed his helmet and polished it with his sleeve. 'Yes, sir. "Everyone's guilty of something, especially the ones that aren't," sir.'

'No, not that one...'

'Er... "Always take into consideration the fact that you might be dead wrong," sir?'

'No, nor that one either.'

'Er... "How come Nobby ever got a job as a watchman?", sir? You say that a lot.'

'No! I meant "Alwaysact stupid," Carrot.'

'Ah, right, sir. From now on I shall remember that you always said that, sir.'

They put their helmets under their arms. Vimes knocked at the door.

'Come, ' said a voice.

The Patrician was standing at the window.

Sitting or standing around the office were Lord Rust and the others. Vimes never quite understood how the civic leaders were chosen. They just seemed to turn up, like a tack on the sole of your shoe.

'Ah, Vimes,' said Vetinari.

'Sir.'

'Let us not beat about the bush, Vimes. How did the man get up there when your people had so thoroughly checked everything last night? Magic?'

'Couldn't say, sir.'

Carrot, still staring straight ahead, blinked.

'Your people did check the Barbican, I assume?'

'No, sir.'

'They didn't?'

'No, sir. I did that myself.'

'You physically checked it yourself, Vimes?' said Boggis of the Thieves' Guild.

Captain Carrot could feel Vimes's thoughts at this point.

'That is correct... Boggis,' said Vimes, without turning his head. 'But... we think someone got in where the windows are boarded up and pulled the boards back after him. Dust has been disturbed and–'

'And you didn't spot this, Vimes?'

Vimes sighed. 'It'd be hard enough to spot the nailed–back boards in daylight, Boggis, let alone in the middle of the night.' Not that we did, he added to himself. Angua smelled the scent on them.

Lord Vetinari sat down at his desk. 'The situation is grave, Vimes.'

'Yes, sir?'

'His Highness is very seriously injured. And Prince Cadram, we understand, is beside himself with rage.'

'They insist on keeping his brother in the embassy,' said Lord Rust. 'A studied insult. As if we haven't good surgeons in this city.'

'That's right, of course,' said Vimes. 'And many of them could give him a decent shave and a haircut too.'

'Are you making fun of me, Vimes?'

'Certainly not, my lord,' said Vimes. 'ln my opinion, no surgeons anywhere have cleaner sawdust on their floors than the ones in this city.'

Rust glared at him.

The Patrician coughed.

'You have identified the assassin?' said the Patrician.

Carrot was expecting Vimes to say, 'Alleged assassin, sir,' but instead he said:

'Yes. He is– He was called Ossie Brunt, sir. No other name that we know. Lived in Market Street. Did odd jobs from time to time. Bit of a loner. No relatives or friends that we can find. We are making enquiries.' 'And that's all you fellows know?' said Lord Downey.

'It took some time to identify him sir,' said Vimes stolidly.

'Oh? Why should that be?'

'Couldn't give you the technical answer, sir, but it looked to me like they wouldn't need to make him a coffin, they could just have posted him between two barn doors.'

'Was he acting alone?'

'We only found the one body, sir. And a lot of recently fallen masonry, so it looks as–'

'I meant does he belong to any organization? Any suggestion that he's anti–Klatchian?'

'Apart from him trying to kill one? Enquiries are continuing.'

'Are you taking this seriously, Vimes?'

'I have put my best men on the job, sir.' Who's looking worried? 'Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs.' Who's looking relieved? 'Very experienced men. The keystones of the Watch.'

'Colon and Nobbs?' said the Patrician. 'Really?'

'Yes, sir.'

Their gazes met, very briefly.

'We're getting some very threatening noises, Vimes,' said Vetinari.

'What can I say, sir? I saw someone up on the tower, I ran, someone shot the Prince with an arrow and then I found the man at the bottom of the tower very obviously dead, with a broken bow and a lot of rock beside him. The storm last night probably loosened things up. I can't make up facts that don't exist, sir.'

Carrot watched the faces round the table. The general expression was one of relief.

'A lone bowman,' said Vetinari. 'An idiot with some kind of mad grudge. Who died in the execution of the, uh, attempted execution. And, of course, valiant action by our watchmen probably at least prevented an immediately fatal shot.'

'Valiant action?' said Downey. 'I know Captain Carrot here ran towards the VIPs and Vimes headed for the tower, but frankly, Vimes, your strange behaviour beforehand–'

'Somewhat immaterial now,' said Lord Vetinari. Once again he adopted a slightly faraway voice, as if reporting to somebody else. 'If Commander Vimes had not slowed down the procession, the wretch would undoubtedly have got a much better shot. As it was, the man panicked. Yes... the Prince, possibly, would accept that.'

'Prince?' said Vimes. 'But the poor devil–'

'His brother,' said the Patrician.

'Ah. The nice one?'

'Thank you, commander, ' said the Patrician. 'Thank you, gentlemen. Do not let me detain you. Oh, Vimes... just a brief word, if you would be so good. Not you, Captain Carrot. I'm sure someone is committing some crime somewhere.'

Vimes remained staring at the far wall while the room emptied. Vetinari left his chair and went over to the window.

'Strange days indeed, commander,' he said.

‘Sir.'

' For example, I gather that this afternoon Captain Carrot was on the roof of the Opera House firing arrows down towards the archery butts.'

'Very keen lad, sir.'

'It could well be that the distance between the Opera House and the targets is about the same, you

know, as the distance between the top of the Barbican and the spot where the Prince was hit.'

'Just fancy that, sir.'

Vetinari sighed. 'And why was he doing this?'

'It's a funny thing, sir, but he was telling me the other day that in fact it is still law that every citizen should do one hour's archery practice every day. Apparently the law was made in 1356 and it's never been–'

'Do you know why I sent Captain Carrot away just now, Vimes?'

'Couldn't say, sir.'

'Captain Carrot is an honest young man, Vimes.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And did you know that he winces when he hears you tell a direct lie?'

'Really, sir?' Damn.

'I can't stand to see his poor face twitch all the time, Vimes.'

'Very thoughtful of you, sir.'

'Where was the second bowman, Vimes?'

Damn! 'Second bowman, sir?'

'Have you ever had a hankering to go on the stage, Vimes?'

Yes, at the moment I’d leap on it wherever it's heading, thought Vimes.

'No, sir.'

'Pity. I am certain you're a great loss to the acting profession. I believe you said the man had put the boards back after him.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Nailed them back?'

Blast. 'Yes, sir.'

'From the outside.'

Damn. 'Yes, sir.'

'A Particularly resourceful lone bowman, then.'

Vimes didn't bother to comment. Vetinari sat down at his desk, raised his steepled fingers to his lips and stared at Vimes over the top of them.

'Colon and Nobbs are investigating this? Really?'

'Yes, sir.'

'If I were to ask you why, you'd pretend not to understand?'

Vimes let his forehead wrinkle in honest perplexity 'Sir?'

'If you say "Sir?" again in that stupid voice, Vimes, I swear there will be trouble.'

'They're good men, sir.'

'However, some people might consider them to be unimaginative, stolid and... how can I put this?... possessed of an inbuilt disposition to accept the first explanation that presents itself and then bunk off somewhere for a quiet smoke? A certain lack of imagination? An ability to get out of their depth on a wet pavement? A tendency to rush to judgement?'

'I hope you are not impugning my men, sir.'

'Vimes, Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs have never been pugn'd in their entire lives.'

‘Sir?’?'

'And yet... in fact, we do not need complications, Vimes. An ingenious lone madman... well, there are many madmen. A regrettable incident.'

'Yes, sir.' The man was looking harassed and Vimes felt there was room for a pinch of sympathy.

'Fred and Nobby don't like complications either, sir.'

'We need simple answers, Vimes.'

'Sir. Fred and Nobby are good at simple.'

The Patrician turned away and looked out over the city.

'Ah,' he said, in a quieter voice. 'Simple men to see the simple truth.'

'This is a fact, sir.'

'You are learning fast, Vimes.'

'Couldn't say about that, sir.'

'And when they have found the simple truth, Vimes?'

'Can't argue with the truth, sir.'

'In my experience, Vimes, you can argue with anything.'

When Vimes had gone Lord Vetinari sat at his desk for a while, staring at nothing. Then he took a key from a drawer and walked across to a wall, where he pressed a particular area.

There was a rattle of a counterweight. The wall swung back.

The Patrician walked softly through the narrow passageway beyond. Here and there it was illuminated by a very faint glow from around the edges of the little panels which, if gently slid back, would allow someone to look out through the eyesockets of a handy portrait.

They were a relic of a previous ruler. Vetinari never bothered with them. Looking out of someone else's eyes wasn't the trick.

There was a certain amount of travel up dark stairways and along musty corridors. Occasionally he'd make movements the meaning of which might not be readily apparent. He'd touch a wall here and here, apparently without thinking, as he passed. Along one stone–flagged passage, lit only by the grey fight from a window forgotten by everyone except the most optimistic flies, he appeared to play a game of hopscotch, robes flying around him and calves twinkling as he skipped from stone to stone.

These various activities did not seem to cause anything to happen. Eventually he reached a door, which he unlocked. He did this with some caution.

The air beyond was full of acrid smoke, and the steady pop–pop sound which he had begun to hear further back along the passage was now quite loud. It faltered for a moment, was followed by a much louder bang, and then a piece of hot metal whirled past the Patrician's car and buried itself in the wall.

In the smoke a voice said, 'Oh dear.'

It didn't seem unhappy, but sounded rather like the voice one might use to a sweet and ingratiating little puppy which, despite one's best efforts, is sitting next to a spreading damp patch on the carpet.

As the billows cleared the indistinct shape of the speaker turned to Vetinari with a wan little smile and said, 'Fully fifteen seconds this time, my lord! There is no doubt that the principle is sound.'

That was one of Leonard of Quirm's traits: he picked up conversations out of the air, he assumed everyone was an interested friend, and he took it for granted that you were as intelligent as he was.

Vetinari peered at a small heap of bent and twisted metal.

'What was it, Leonard?' he said.

'An experimental device for turning chemical energy into rotary motion,' said Leonard. 'The problem, you see, is getting the little pellets of black powder into the combustion chamber at exactly the right speed and one at a time. If two ignite together, well, what we have is the external combustion engine.'

'And, er, what would be the purpose of it?' said the Patrician.

'I believe it could replace the horse,' said Leonard proudly.

They looked at the stricken thing.

'One of the advantages of horses that people often point out,' said Vetinari, after some thought, 'is that they very seldom explode. Almost never, in my experience, apart from that unfortunate occurrence in the hot summer a few years ago.' With fastidious fingers he pulled something out of the mess. It was a pair of cubes, made out of some soft white fur and linked together by a piece of string. There were dots on them.

'Dice?' he said.

Leonard smiled in an embarrassed fashion. 'Yes. I can't think why I thought they'd help it go better. It was just, well, an idea. You know how it is.'

Lord Vetinari nodded. He knew how it was. Be knew how it was far more than Leonard of Quirm did, which was why there was one key to the door and he had it. Not that the man was a prisoner, except by dull, humdrum standards. He appeared rather grateful to be confined in this light, airy attic with as much wood, paper, sticks of charcoal and paint as he desired and no rent or food bills to pay.

In any case, you couldn't really imprison someone like Leonard of Quirm. The most you could do was lock up his body. The gods alone knew where his mind went. And, although he had so much cleverness it leaked continually, he couldn't tell you which way the political wind was blowing even if you fitted him with sails.

Leonard's incredible brain sizzled away alarmingly, an overloaded chip pan on the Stove of Life. It was impossible to know what he would think of next, because he was constantly reprogrammed by the whole universe. The sight of a waterfall or a soaring bird would send him spinning down some new path of practical speculation that invariably ended in a heap of wire and springs and a cry of 'I think I know what I did wrong.' He'd been a member of most of the craft guilds in the city but had been thrown out for getting impossibly high marks in the exams or, in some cases, correcting the questions. It was said that he'd accidentally blown up the Alchemists' Guild using nothing more than a glass of water, a spoonful of acid, two lengths of wire and a pingpong ball.

Any sensible ruler would have killed off Leonard, and Lord Vetinari was extremely sensible and often wondered why he had not done so. He'd decided that it was because, imprisoned in the priceless, enquiring amber of Leonard's massive mind, underneath A that bright investigative genius was a kind of wilful innocence that might in lesser men be called stupidity. It was the seat and soul of that force which, down the millennia, had caused mankind to stick its fingers in the electric fight socket of the Universe and play with the switch to see what happened – and then be very surprised when it did.

It was, in short, something useful. And if the Patrician was anything, he was the political equivalent of the old lady who saves bits of string because you never know when they might come in handy.

After all, you couldn't plan for every eventuality, because that would involve knowing what was going to happen, and if you knew what was going to happen, you could probably see to it that it didn't, or at least happened to someone else. So the Patrician never planned. Plans often got in the way.

And, finally, he kept Leonard around because the man was easy to talk to. He never understood what Lord Vetinari was talking about, he had a world view about as complex as that of a concussed duckling and, above all, never really paid attention. This made him an excellent confidant. After all, when you seek advice from someone it's certainly not because you want them to give it. You just want them to be there while you talk to yourself.

'I've just made some tea.' said Leonard. 'Will you join me?'

He followed the Patrician's gaze to a brown stain all up one wall, which ended in a star of molten metal in the plaster.

'I'm afraid the automatical tea engine went wrong,' he said. 'I shall have to make it by hand.'

'So kind,' said Lord Vetinari.

He sat down amidst the easels and, while Leonard busied himself at the fireplace, leafed through the latest sketches. Leonard sketched as automatically as other people scratched; genius – a certain kind of genius – fell off him like dandruff.

There was a picture of a man drawing, the lines catching the figure so accurately it appeared to stand out of the paper. And around it, because Leonard never wasted white space, were other sketches, scattered aimlessly. A thumb. A bowl of flowers. A device, apparently, for sharpening pencils by water power...

Vetinari found what he was looking for in the bottom lefthand corner, sandwiched between a sketch for a new type of screw and a tool for opening oysters. It, or something very much like it, was always there somewhere.

One of the things that made Leonard such a rare prize, and kept him under such secure lock and key, was that he really didn't see any difference between the thumb and the roses and the pencil–sharpener and this.

'Ah, the self–portrait,' said Leonard, returning with two cups.

'Yes, indeed,' said Vetinari. 'But my eye was drawn to this little sketch here. The war machine...'

'Oh, that? A mere nothing. Have you ever noticed the way in which the dew on roses–'

'This bit here... what is it for?' said Vetinari, pointing persistently.

'Oh, that? That's just the throwing arm for the balls of molten sulphur,' said Leonard, picking up a plate of small cakes. 'I calculate that one should get a range of almost half a mile, if one detaches the endless belt from the driving wheels and uses the oxen to wind the windlass.'

'Really?' said Vetinari, taking in the carefully numbered parts. 'And it could be built?'

'What? Oh, yes. Macaroon? In theory.'

'In theory?'

'No–one would ever actually do it. Raining unquenchable fire down upon fellow humans? Hah!' Leonard sprayed macaroon crumbs. 'You'd never find an artisan to build it, or a soldier who would pull the lever... That's part 3(b) on the plan, just here, look. ..'

'Ah, yes,' said Vetinari. 'Anyway,' he added, 'I imagine these huge power arms here couldn't possibly be operated without them breaking . . '

'Seasoned ash and yew, laminated and held together by special steel bolts,' said Leonard promptly. 'I made a few calculations, just there below the sketch of light on a raindrop. As an intellectual exercise, obviously.'

Vetinari ran his eye along several lines of Leonard's spidery mirror–writing.

'Oh, yes,' he said glumly. He put the paper aside.

'Have I told you that the Klatchian situation is intensely political? Prince Cadram is trying to do a great deal very fast. He needs to consolidate his position. He is depending on support that is somewhat volatile. There are many plotting against. him, I understand.'

'Really? Well, this is the sort of thing people do,' said Leonard. 'Incidentally, I've recently been examining cobwebs and, I know this will interest you, their strength in relation to their weight is much greater even than our best steel wire. Isn't that fascinating?'

'What kind of weapon do you intend to make out of them?' said the Patrician.

'Sorry?'

'Oh, nothing. I was just thinking aloud.'

'And you haven't touched your tea,' said Leonard.

Vetinari looked around the room. It was full of... things. Tubes and odd paper kites and things that looked like the skeletons of ancient beasts. One of Leonard's saving graces, in a very real sense from Vetinari's point of view, was his strange attention span. It wasn't that he soon got bored with things. He didn't seem to get bored with anything. But since he was interested in everything in the universe all the time the end result tended to be that an experimental device for disembowelling people at a distance then became a string–weaving machine and ended up as an instrument for ascertaining the specific gravity of cheese.

He was as easily distracted as a kitten. All that business with the flying machine, for example. Giant bat wings hung from the ceiling even now. The Patrician had been more than happy to let him waste his time on that idea, because it was obvious to anyone that no human being would ever be able to flap the wings hard enough.

He needn't have worried. Leonard was his own distraction. He had ended up spending ages designing a special tray so that people could eat their meals in the air.

A truly innocent man. And yet always, always, some little part of him would sketch these wretchedly beguiling engines, with their clouds of smoke and carefully numbered engineering diagrams...

'What's this?' Vetinari said, pointing to yet another doodle. It showed a man holding a large metal sphere.

'That? Oh, something of a toy, really. Makes use of the strange properties of some otherwise quite useless metals. They don't like being squeezed. So they go bang. With extreme alacrity.'

'Another weapon...'

'Certainly not, my lord! It would be no possible use as a weapon! I did think it might have a place in the mining industries, though.'

'Really...'

'For when they need to move mountains out of the way.'

'Tell me,' Vetinari said, putting this paper aside as well, 'you don't have any relatives in Klatch, do you?'

'I don't believe so. My family lived in Quirm for generations.'

'Oh. Good. But... very clever people in Klatch, are they?'

'Oh, in many disciplines they practically wrote the scroll. Fine metalwork, for example.'

'Metalwork.. .' The Patrician sighed.

'And Alchemy, of course. Affir Al–chema's Principia Explosia has been the seminal work for more than a hundred years.'

'Alchemy,' said the Patrician, glumly. 'Sulphur and so forth...'

'Yes, indeed.'

'But the way you put it, these major achievements were some considerable time ago...' Lord Vetinari sounded like a man straining to see a light at the end of the tunnel.

'Certainly! I would be astonished if they haven't made considerable progress!' said Leonard of Quirm happily.

'Ah?' The Patrician sank a little in his chair. It had turned out that the end of the tunnel was on fire.

'A splendid people with much to recommend them,' said Leonard. 'I always thought it was the presence of the desert. It leads to an urgency of thought. It makes you aware of the briefness of fife.'

The Patrician glanced at another page. Between a sketch of a bird's wing and a careful drawing of a ball–joint was a little doodle of something with spiked wheels and spinning blades. And then there was the device for moving mountains aside...

'The desert is not required,' he said. He sighed again and pushed the pages aside. 'Have you heard about the lost continent of Leshp?' he said.

'Oh, yes. I did some sketches there a few years ago,' said Leonard. 'Some interesting aspects, I recall. More tea? I fear you've let that one get cold. Was there anything you particularly wanted?'

The Patrician pinched the bridge of his nose.

'I'm not sure. There is a small problem developing. I thought perhaps you could help. Unfortunately,' the Patrician glanced at the sketches again, 'I suspect that you can.' He stood up, straightened his robe and forced a smile. 'You have everything you require?'

'Some more wire would be nice,' said Leonard. 'And I have run out of Burnt Umber.'

'I shall have some sent along directly,' said Vetinari. 'And now, if you will excuse me–'

He let himself out.

Leonard nodded happily as he cleared away the teacups. The infernal combustion engine was carried to the heap of scrap metal beside the small forge, and he fetched a ladder and removed the piston from the ceiling.

He'd just opened out his easel to start work on a new design when he was aware of a distant pattering. It sounded like someone running but also occasionally pausing to hop sideways on one leg.

Then there was a pause, such as might be made by someone adjusting their clothing and getting their breath back.

The door opened and the Patrician returned. He sat down and looked carefully at Leonard of Quirm.

'You did what?' he said.

Vimes turned the clove over and over under the magnifying glass.

'I see tooth marks,' he said.

'Yes sir,' said Littlebottom, who represented in her entirety the watch's forensic department. 'Looks like someone was chewing it like a toothpick.'

Vimes sat back. 'I would say,' he said, 'that this was last touched by a swarthy man of about my height. He had several gold teeth. And a beard. And a slight cast in one eye. Scarred. He was carrying a large weapon. Curved, I'd say. And you'd have to call what he was wearing a turban because it wasn't moving fast enough to be a badger.'

Littlebottom looked astonished.

'Detectoring is like gambling,' said Vimes, putting down the dove. 'The secret is to know the winner in advance. Thank you, corporal. Write down that description and make sure everyone gets a copy, please. He goes by the name of 71–hour Ahmed, heaven knows why. And then go and get some rest.'

Vimes turned to face Carrot and Angua, who had crammed into the tiny little room, and nodded at the girl.

'I followed the clove smell all the way down to the docks,' she said.

'And then?'

'Then I lost it, sir.' Angua looked embarrassed. 'I didn't have any trouble through the fish market, sir. Or in the slaughterhouse district. And then it went into the spice market–'

'Ah. I see. And didn't come out again?'

'In a way, sir. Or came out going fifty different ways. Sorry.'

'Can't be helped. Carrot?'

'I did what you said, sir. The top of the Opera House is about the right distance from our archery butts. I used a bow just like the one he used, sir–'

Vimes raised a finger. Carrot stared, and then said slowly: like the one you found next to him.. .'

,Right. And?'

'It's a Burleigh and Stronginthearm "Shureshotte Five", sir. A bow for the expert. I'm not a great bowman but I could at least hit the target at that elevation. But...'

'I'm ahead of you,' said Vimes. 'You're, a big lad, Carrot. Our late Ossie had arms like Nobby. I could put my hand round them.'

'Yes, sir. It's a hundred–pound draw. I doubt if he could even pull the string back.'

'I'd hate to watch him try. Good grief... the only thing he could be sure of hitting with a bow like that would be his foot. By the way, do you think anyone saw you up there?'

'I doubt it, sir. I was right in among the chimneys and the air vents.'

Vimes sighed. 'Captain, I expect if you'd done it in a cellar at midnight his lordship would have said "Wasn't it rather dark down there?" next morning.'

He took out the by now rather creased picture. There was Carrot – or at least Carrot's arm and ear – as he ran towards the procession. And there, among the people in the procession turning to look at him, was the face of the Prince. There was no sign of 71–hour Ahmed. He'd been at the soiree, hadn't he? But then there'd been all that milling around at the door, people changing places, treading on one another's robes, nipping back to the privy, walking into one another... He could have gone anywhere.

'And the Prince fell as you got to him? With the arrow in his back? He was still facing you?'

'Yes, sir. I'm sure of that. Everyone else was milling around, of course.. .'

'So he was shot in the back by a man in front of him who could not possibly have used the bow that he didn't shoot him with from the wrong direction. .

There was a tapping at the window.

'That'll be Downspout,' said Vimes, without looking round. 'I sent him on an errand...'

Downspout never quite fitted in. It wasn't that he didn't get on with people, because he hardly ever met people, except those whose activities took them above, say, second–floor level. Constable

Downspout's beat was the rooftops. Very slowly. He'd come down for the Watch's Hogswatch party and had poured gravy in his ears to show Willing, but gargoyles got very nervy indoors at ground level and he had soon exited via the chimney and his paper squeaker had echoed out forlornly amongst the snowy rooftops all night.

But gargoyles were good at watching, and good at remembering, and very, very good at being patient.

Vimes opened the window. Moving jerkily, Downspout unfolded himself into the room and then quickly scrambled up on to a corner of Vimes's desk, for the comfort that it brought.

Angua and Carrot stared at the arrow the gargoyle held in his hand.

'Ah, well done,' said Vimes, in the same even voice. 'Where did you find it, Downspout?'

Downspout spluttered a series of guttural syllables only pronounceable by someone with a mouth shaped like a pipe.

'In the wall on the second floor of the dress shop in the Plaza of Broken Moons,' Carrot translated.

' 'eshk,' said Downspout.

'That's barely halfway to Sator Square, sir.'

'Yes,' said Vimes. 'A small weak man trying to pull a heavy bow, the arrow wobbling all over the place... Thank you very much, Downspout. There will be an extra pigeon for you this week.'

' 'nkorr,' said Downspout, and clambered back out of the window.

'Excuse me, sir?' said Angua. She took the arrow from Vimes and, closing her eyes, sniffed at it gingerly.

'Oh, yes... Ossie,' she said. 'All over it . .

'Thank you, corporal. It's as well to be sure.'

Carrot took the arrow from the werewolf and looked at it critically. 'Huh. Peacock feathers and a plated point. It's the sort of thing an amateur buys because he thinks it'll magically improve his shot. Showy.'

'Right,' said Vimes. 'You, Carrot, and you, Angua... you're on the case.'

'Sir, I don't understand,' said Carrot. 'I am perplexed. I thought you said Fred and Nobby were investigating this?'

'Yes,' said Vimes.

'But–'

'Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs are investigating why the late Ossie tried to kill the Prince. And do you know what? They're going to find lots of clues. I just know it. I can feel it in my water.'

'But we know he couldn't–' said Carrot.

'Isn't this fun?' said Vimes. 'I don't want you to get in Fred's way. Just... ask around. Try Done It Duncan, Or Sidney Lopsides, hah, there's a man with his ear to the ground all right. Or the Agony Aunts, or Lily Goodtime. Or Mr Slider, haven't seen him around for a while, but–'

'He's dead, sir,' said Carrot.

'What, Smelly Slider? When?'

'Last month, sir. He got hit by a falling bedstead. Freak accident, sir.'

'No–one told me.'

'You were busy, sir. But you put some money in the envelope when Fred brought it round, sir. Ten dollars, which Fred remarked was very generous.'

Vimes sighed. Oh, yes, the envelopes. Fred was always wandering around with an envelope these days. Someone was always leaving, or some friend of the Watch was in trouble, or there was a raffle, or the

tea money was low again, or some complicated explanation... so Vimes just put some money in. Simplest way.

Old Smelly Slider...

'You should've mentioned it,' he said reproachfully.

'You've been working hard, sir.'

'Any other street news you haven't mentioned, captain?'

'Not that I can think of, sir.'

'All right. Well... see which way the wind is blowing. Very carefully. And – trust no–one.'

Carrot looked worried.

'Er... I can trust Angua, can't I?' he said.

'Well, of course you––'

'And you, presumably.'

'Me, well, obviously. That goes without say–'

'Corporal Littlebottom? She can be very helpful–'

'Cheery, yes, certainly you can trust–'

'Sergeant Detritus? I always thought he was very trust––'

'Detritus, oh yes, he–'

'Nobby? Should I–'

'Carrot, I understand what he means,' said Angua, tugging his arm.

Carrot looked a little crestfallen. 'I've never liked... you know, underhand things,' he mumbled.

'I don't want any written reports,' said Vimes, grateful for that small mercy. 'This is... unofficial. But officially unofficial, if you see what I mean.'

Angua nodded. Carrot just stayed looking dismal.

She's a werewolf, thought Vimes, of course she understands. And you'd think a man who is technically a dwarf'd be able to fold his head around the idea of subterfuge.

'Look, just... listen to the streets,' said Vimes. 'The

streets know everything. Talk to... Blind Hugh–'

'I'm afraid he passed away last month,' said Carrot.

'Did he? No–one told me!'

'I thought I sent you a memo, sir.'

Vimes glanced guiltily at his overloaded desk, and then shrugged.

'Have a quiet look at things. Get to the bottom of things. And trust no– Trust practically no–one. All right? Except trustworthy people.'

'Come on, open up! Watch business!'

Corporal Nobbs pulled at Sergeant Colon's sleeve and whispered in his ear.

'Not Watch business!' said Colon, pounding the door again. 'Nothing to do with the Watch at all! We are just civilians, all right?'

The door opened a crack.

'Yes?' said a voice that counted its small change.

'We have to ask you some questions, missus.'

'Are you the Watch?' said the voice.

'No! I think I just made that clear–

'Piss off, copper!'

The door slammed.

'You sure this is the right place, sarge?'

'Harry Chestnuts said he saw Ossie going in here. Come on, open up!'

'Everyone's looking at us, sarge,' said Nobby. Doors and windows had opened all along the street.

'And don't call me sarge when we're in plain clothes!'

'Right you are, Fred.'

'That's–' Colon hesitated in an agony of status. 'Well, that's Frederick to you, Nobby.'

'And they're giggling Fred... er... crick.'

'We don't want to make a cock–up of this, Nobby.'

'Right, Frederick. And that's Cecil, thank you.'

'Cecil?'

'That is my name,' said Nobby coldly.

'Have it your way,' said Colon. 'Just remember who's the superior civilian around here, all right?'

He hammered on the door again.

'We hear you've got a room to let, missus!' he yelled.

'Brilliant, Frederick,' said Nobby. 'That was bloody brilliant!'

'Well, I am the sergeant, right?' Colon whispered.

'No.'

'Er... yeah... right... well, just you remember that, right?'

The door snapped open.

The woman within had one of those faces that had settled over the years, as though it had been made of butter and then left in the sun. But age hadn't been able to do much with her hair. It was a violent ginger and piled up like a threatening thunderhead.

'Room? You shoulda said,' she said. 'Two dollars a week, no pets, no cookin', no wimmin after 6 a.m., if you don't want it thousands do, are you with the circus? You look like you're with the circus.'[5]

'We're–' Colon began, and then stopped. There were undoubtedly a large number of things to be apart from policemen, but there and then he couldn't think of any of them.

'–actors,' said Nobby.

'Then it's payment a week in advance,' said the woman. 'And no filthy foreign habits. This is a respectable house, she added, in defiance of evidence so far.

'We ought to see the room first,' said Colon.

'Oh, the choosy sort, eh?'

She led them upstairs.

The room vacated so terminally by Ossie was small and bare. A few items of clothing hung on nails in the wall. and a heap of wrappers and greasy bags indicated that Ossie had been a man who ate, as it were, off the street.

'Whose is this stuff?' said Sergeant Colon.

'Oh, he's gone now. I told him he'd be out if he didn't pay up. I'll throw it out afore you settle in.'

'We'll get rid of it for you,' said Sergeant Colon. He fumbled in his pouch and produced a couple of dollars. 'Here you are, Miss–?'

'Mrs Spent,' said Mrs Spent. She gave them a lopsided look. 'Are you both stopping here or what?'

'Nah, I've just come along as his chaperon,' said Colon, giving her a friendly grin. 'He has to fight women off when they find out about his sexual magnetism.'

Mrs Spent gave the shocked Nobby a sharp look and bustled out of the room.

'What'd you go and say that for?' said Nobby.

'It's got rid of her, hasn't it?'

'You were having a go at me, don't deny it! just because I'm going through a bit of an emotional wossname, eh?'

'It was just a joke, Nobby. Just a joke.'

Nobby peered under the narrow bed.

'Wow!' he said, all emotional wossnames forgotten.

'What is it? What is it?' said Colon.

'It looks like a complete run of Bows and Ammo! And...' Nobby pulled another stack of badly engraved magazines out into the light, 'here's Warrior of Fortune, look! And Practical Siege Weapons...'

Colon leafed through page after page of very similarlooking people holding very similar weapons of personal destruction.

'You got to be a bit odd to sit around all day reading this kind of thing,' he said.

'Yeah,' said Nobby. 'Here, don't put that one back, that's last August's issue, I ain't got that one. Hang on, there's a box right at the back...'

He wriggled out, towing a small box with him. It was locked, but the cheap metal gave way when he accidentally levered at the lid.

Silver coins gleamed. Lots and lots of them.

'Whoops…' he muttered. 'We're in trouble now...'

'That's Klatchian money, that is!' said Colon. 'Sometimes people slip you one instead of a half–dollar in your change. Look, there's all curly writing on them!'

'We're in big trouble,' said Nobby.

'No, no, no, this is a Clue what we have found by patient detectoring,' said Sergeant Colon. 'And it's going to be a feather in our caps and no mistake when Mr Vimes hears about it!'

'How much do you reckon there is?'

'Got to be hundreds and hundreds of dollars' worth,' said Colon. 'And that's a lot of money to a Klatchian. You can probably live like a king for a year on a dollar, in Klatch.'

'It wasn't very patient detectoring,' said Nobby doubtfully. 'All I did was look under the bed.'

'Ah, but that's because you is trained,' said Colon. 'Your basic civilian wouldn't think of that, right? Ah, it all begins to make sense!'

'Does it? Why would the Klatchians give him money to shoot a Klatchian?' said Nobby. .

Colon tapped the side of his nose. 'Politics,' he said.

'Ah, politics,' said Nobby. 'Ah, well, politics. I see. Politics. Right. So why?'

'Aha,' said Colon again, tapping the other side of his nose.

'Why're you picking your nose, sarge?'

'I'm tapping it,' said Colon severely. 'That's to show I'm in the know.'

'In the nose,' said Nobby cheerfully.

'It's just the sort of underhand cunning thing they'd do,' said Colon.

'Payin' us to kill them?' said Nobby.

'Ah, you see, some Klatchian nob gets topped here, and then they can send a snotty note saying, "You killed our big nob, you foreign nephews of dogs, this means war!" see? A perfect excuse.'

'Do you need an excuse to have a war?' said Nobby. 'I mean, who for? Can't you just say, "You got lots of cash and land but I've got a big sword so divvy up right now, chop chop?" That's what I'd do,' said Corporal Nobbs, military strategist. 'And I wouldn't even say that until after I'd attacked.'

'Ah, but that's 'cos you don't know about politics,' said Colon. 'You can't do that stuff any more. Mark my words, this case has got politics written all over it. That's why old Vimes put me on it, depend upon it. Politics. Young Carrot's all very well, but you need a hexperienced man of the world in these delicate political situations.'

'You've certainly got the nose–tapping just right,' said Nobby. 'I generally miss.'

But he felt troubled, if not in his nose then in whatever small organ propelled his blood around his body. This didn't feel right. Nothing much in Nobby's life had ever felt right, so he knew very well how the feeling felt.

He looked up at the bare walls and down at the rough floorboards.

'There's a bit of sand on the floor,' he said.

'Another Clue, then,' said Colon happily. 'A Klatchian has been here. Bugger all else but sand in Klatch. Still got some in his sandals.'

Nobby opened the window. It gave on to a gently sloping roof. Someone could get through it easily and be away over the tiles and into the maze of chimneys.

'He could've gone in and out this way, sarge,' he volunteered.

'Good point, Nobby. Write that down. Evidence of conniving and sneaking around.'

Nobby peered down. 'Here, there's glass outside, Fred...'

Sergeant Colon joined him at the stricken window. One of the panes had been smashed. Outside, glass glittered on the tiles.

'That could be a clue, eh?' said Nobby, hopefully.

'It certainly is,' said Sergeant Colon. 'See the glass fell outside the window? Everyone knows you look at which way the glass fails. I reckon he was just testing his bow and it went off while it was loaded.'

'That's clever, sarge,' said Nobby.

'That's detectoring,' said Colon. 'It's no good just looking at things, Nobby. You got to think straight, too.'

'Cecil, sarge. '

'That's Frederick, Cecil. Come on, I think we've wrapped this up nicely. Old Vimes says he wants a report toot sweet.'

Nobby looked out of the broken window. The roof abutted the end wall of a much larger warehouse. For a moment he found himself thinking bendy rather than straight, but he reasoned that his thinking was only a corporal's thinking, and worth far less per thought than a sergeant's thinking, so he kept his private thoughts to himself.

As they went downstairs Mrs Spent watched them suspiciously through a barely opened doorway at the far end of the hall, clearly ready to slam it shut at the first suggestion of any sexual magnetism.

'It's not as if I even know where to get a sexual magnet,' Nobby muttered. 'And she didn't even laugh.'

... Also, we went to the bow shops in the Street of Cunning Artificers and showed the iconograph to the man in Burleigh and Stronginthearm, who vouchsafed, that is him, e.g., he was referring to the Diseased...

'Oh, my...' Vimes's lips moved slightly as his gaze went back up the page.

... also in addition to the Klatchian money you could tell one of them had been there because of, e.g., the sand on the floor...

'He'd still got sand in his sandals?' murmured Vimes. 'Good grief.'

'Sam?'

Vimes looked up from his reading.

'Your soup will be cold,' said Lady Sybil from the far end of the table. 'You've been holding that

spoonful in the air for the last five minutes by the clock.'

'Sorry, dear.'

'What are you reading?'

'Oh, just a little masterpiece,' said Vimes, pushing Fred Colon's report aside.

'Interesting, is it?' said Lady Sybil a little sourly.

'Practically unparalleled,' said Vimes. 'The only things they haven't found are the bunch of dates and the camel hidden under the pillow...'

Belatedly, his nuptial radar detected a certain chilliness from the far side of the cruet.

'Is, er, there something wrong, dear?' he said.

'Can you remember when we last had dinner together, Sam?'

'Tuesday, wasn't it?'

'That was the Guild of Merchants' annual dinner, Sam.'

Vimes's brow wrinkled. 'But you were there too, weren't you?'

A further subtle change in the dragonhouse quotient told him that this was not a well chosen answer.

'And then you rushed off afterwards because of that business with the barber in Gleam Street.'

'Sweeney Jones,' said Vimes. 'Well, he was killing people, Sybil. The best you could say is that he didn't mean to. He was just very bad at shaving–'

'But you didn't have to go, I'm sure.'

'Policing's a twenty–four–hour job, dear.'

'Only for you! Your constables do their ten hours and that's it. But you're always working. It's not good for you. You're always running around during the day, and when I wake up in the middle of the night there's always a cold space beside me.. .'

The dots hung in the air, the ghosts of words unsaid. Little things, thought Vimes. That's how a war starts.

'There's so much to do, Sybil,' he said, as patiently as he could.

'There's always been a lot to do. And the bigger the Watch gets the more there is to do, have you noticed that?'

Vimes nodded. That was true. Rotas, receipts, notebooks, reports... the Watch might or might not be making a difference in the city, but it was certainly frightening a lot of trees.