'It seems to me that the streets are full of crimes, commander. Unlicensed begging, public nuisances... but you seem to turn a blind eye, you seem to think you should have bigger ideas. But you are not required to have big ideas, commander. You are a thief–taker, nothing more. Are you eyeballing me, Vimes?'

'I was trying not to turn a blind eye, sir.'

'You seem to feel, Vimes, that the law is some kind of big glowing light in the sky which is not subject to control. And you are wrong. The law is what we tell it to be. Im not going to add "Do you understand?" because I know you understand and I am not going to try to reason with you. I know a rank bad hat when I see one. '

'Bad hat?' said Vimes weakly.

'Commander Vimes,' he said, 'I had hoped to avoid this, but the last few days point to a succession of astonishing judgemental errors on your part The Prince Khufurah was shot, and you seemed helpless to prevent this or find the criminal responsible. Mobs appear to run around the city unimpeded, I gather that one of your sergeants proposed to shoot innocent people in the head, and we have just heard that you took it upon yourself to arrest an innocent businessman and lock him in the cells for no reason at all.'

Vimes heard Colon gasp. But it sounded a long way off. He could feel everything crumbling under

but his mind seemed to be flying now, flapping through a pink sky where nothing mattered very much.

'Oh, I don't know about that, sir,' he said. 'He was guilty of repeatedly being Klatchian, wasn't he? Don't you want me to do that to all of 'em?'

'And if this was not enough,' Rust went on, 'we are told, and in other circumstances I would find this very hard to believe, even of a counter–jumper like you, that earlier tonight you, being quite unprovoked, assaulted two Klatchian guards, trespassed on Klatchian soil, entered the women's quarters, abducted two Klatchians from their beds, ordered the destruction of Klatchian property and... well, frankly, acted quite disgracefully.'

What is the point of arguing? Vimes thought. Why play cards with a shaved deck? And yet

'Two Klatchians, sir?'

'It seems Prince Khufurah has been kidnapped, Vimes. I find it hard to believe that even you would attempt that, but the Klatchians seem to be suggesting this. You were seen entering their property illegally. And you appear to have dragged a helpless lady from her bed. What have you got to say about that?'

'It was on fire at the time, sir.'

Lieutenant Hornett stepped forward and whispered something. Lord Rust subsided a bit.

'All right. Very well. There were perhaps mitigating circumstances, but politically it was a most ill–advised action, Vimes. I cannot pretend to know what has happened to the Prince, but frankly you seem to have taken a positive delight in making matters worse.'

Can you climb, Mr Vimes? Vimes said nothing. The other man had been carrying something bulky over his shoulder...

'You are removed from authority, commander. And the Watch will come under the direct command of this council. Is that understood?'

Rust turned to Carrot. 'Captain Carrot, many of us here have heard... good reports about you, and by due authority I hereby appoint you acting Commander of the Watch–'

Vimes shut his eyes.

Carrot saluted smartly. 'No! Sir!'

Vimes opened his eyes wide.

'Really?' Rust stared at Carrot for a few moments, and then gave a little shrug.

'Ah, well... loyalty is a fine thing. Sergeant Colon?'

‘Sir!'

'In the circumstances, and since you are the most experienced non–commissioned officer and have an exemp– and have a military record, you will take command of the Watch for the duration of the... emergency. '

'Nossir!'

'That was an instruction, sergeant.'

Beads of sweat began to form on Colon's brow. 'Nossir!'

'Sergeant!'

'You can put it where the sun does not shine, sir!' said Colon desperately.

Once again, Vimes saw Rust's milky–blue stare. Rust never looked surprised. And since he knew that a mere sergeant would never dare offer cheeky defiance, he erased Sergeant Colon from the immediate universe.

The gaze turned briefly to Detritus.

And he doesn't know how to speak to a troll, Vimes thought. And he was once again impressed, in the same dark way, by the manner in which Rust dealt with the problem. He dealt with it by making it not be there.

'Who is the senior corporal in the Watch, Sir Samuel?'

'That would be Corporal Nobbs.'

The committee went into a huddle. There was a rush of whispering, in which the words'–an absolute little tit –' could be heard several times. Finally Rust looked up again.

'And the next in seniority?'

'Let me see... that would be Corporal Stronginthearm,' said Vimes. He felt oddly light–headed.

'Perhaps he is a man who can take orders.'

'He's a dwarf, you idiot!'

Not a muscle moved on Rust's face. There was a clink as Vimes's badge was set neatly on the table.

'I don't have to take this,' Vimes said calmly.

'Oh, so you'd rather be a civilian, would you?'

'A watchman is a civilian, you inbred streak of piss!'

Rust's brain erased the sounds that his ears could not possibly have heard.

'And the keys to the armoury, Sir Samuel,' he said.

They jangled as they landed on the table.

'And do the rest of you have any empty gestures to make?' said Lord Rust.

Sergeant Colon took his grimy badge out of his pocket and was a little disappointed that it didn't make a defiant tinkle when he threw it on the table but instead bounced and smashed the water jug.

'I got my badge carved on my arm,' Detritus rumbled. 'Someone c'n try an' take it off if dey likes.'

Carrot laid his badge down very carefully.

Rust raised his eyebrows. 'You too, captain?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I would have thought that you at least–'

He stopped and looked up in annoyance as the doors opened. A couple of the palace guards ran in, with a group of Klatchians behind them.

The council got to their feet in a hurry.

Vimes recognized the Klatchian in the centre of the group. He'd seen him around at official functions and, if it hadn't been for the fact that the man was a Klatchian, would have marked him down as a shifty piece of work.

'Who's he?' he whispered to Carrot.

'Prince Kalif. He's the deputy ambassador.'

'Another prince?'

The man came to a halt in front of the table, glanced at Vimes with no show of recognition and bowed to Lord Rust.

'Prince Kalif,' said Lord Rust. 'Your arrival is unannounced but nevertheless–'

'I have grave news, my lord.' Even in his stunned state, a part of Vimes registered that the voice was different. Khufurah had learned his second language on the street, but this one had had tutors.

'At a time like this, what news isn't?' said Rust.

'There have been developments on the new land. Regrettable incidents. And indeed in Ankh–Morpork, too.' He glanced at Vimes again. 'Although here, I must say, reports are confused. Lord Rust, I have to tell you we are, technically, at war.'

'Technically at war?' said Vimes.

'I am afraid events are carrying us forward,' said Kalif. 'The situation is delicate.'

They know they're going to fight, Vimes thought. This is just like the start of a dance, where you hang around looking at your partner...

'I must tell you that you are being given twelve hours to remove all your citizens from Leshp,' said Kalif. 'If that is done, matters will be happily resolved. For the present.'

'Our response is that you have twelve hours to quit Leshp,' said Rust. 'If that is not done, then we will take... steps...'

Kalif bowed slightly. 'We understand one another. A formal document will be with you shortly and, no doubt, we will be receiving one from you.'

'Indeed.'

'Here, hang on, you can't just–' Vimes began.

'Sir Samuel, you are no longer Commander of the Watch and you have no place at these proceedings,' said Rust sharply. He turned back to the Prince.

'It is unfortunate that things have come to this,' he said stiffly.

'Indeed. But there comes a time when words are no longer sufficient.'

'I must agree with you. And then it is time to test one's strength.'

Vimes stared in fascinated horror from one face to the other.

'We will, of course, allow you time to quit your embassy. Such of it as remains.'

'So kind. And of course we will extend to you the same courtesy.' Kalif bowed slightly.

So did Rust.

'After all, just because our countries are at war is no reason why we should not respect one another as friends,' said Lord Rust.

'What? Yes, it bloody well is!' said Vimes. 'I can't believe this! You can't just stand there and... good grief, whatever happened to diplomacy?'

'War, Vimes, is a continuation of diplomacy by other means,' said Lord Rust. 'As you would know, if you were really a gentleman.'

'And you Klatchians are as bad,' Vimes went on. 'It's that green mouldy mutton Jenkins sells. You've all got Foaming Sheep Disease. You can't just stand there and–'

'Sir Samuel, you are, as you are at pains to point out, a civilian,' said Rust. 'As such, you have no place here!'

Vimes didn't bother with a salute but just turned away and walked out of the room. The rest of the squad followed him in silence back to Pseudopolis Yard.

'I told him he could put it where the sun didn't shine,' said Sergeant Colon, as they crossed the Brass Bridge.

'That's right,' said Vimes woodenly. 'Well done.'

'Right to his face. "Where the sun don't shine." Just like that,' said Colon. It was a little difficult to tell from his tone whether this was a matter of pride or dread.

'I'm afraid Lord Rust is technically correct, sir.' said Carrot.

'Really.'

'Yes, Mr Vimes. The safety of the city is of paramount importance, so in times of war the civil power is subject to military authority.'

'Hah.'

'I told him,' said Fred Colon. 'Right where the sun does not shine, I said.'

'The deputy ambassador didn't mention Prince Khufurah,' said Carrot. 'That was odd.'

'I'm going home,' said Vimes.

'We're nearly there, sir.' said Carrot.

'I mean home home. I need some sleep.'

'Yes, sir. What shall I tell the lads, sir?'

'Tell them anything you like.'

'I looked him right in the eye and I told him, I said,

you can put it right where the–' mused Sergeant Colon.

'You want me an' some of der boys go and sort out dat Rust later on?' said Detritus. 'It no problem. He bound to be guilty o' somethin'.'

'No!'

Vimes's head felt so fight now that he couldn't touch the ground with a rope. He left them outside the Yard and let his head drag him on and up the hill and round the corner and into the house and past his astonished wife and up the stairs and into the bedroom, where he fell full length on the bed and was asleep before he hit it.

At nine next morning the first recruits for Lord Venturi's Heavy Infantry paraded down Broadway.

The watchmen went out to watch. That was all that was left for them to do.

'Isn't that Mr Vimes's butler?' said Angua, pointing to the stiff figure of Willikins in the front rank.

'Yeah, and that's his kitchen boy banging the drum in front,' said Nobby.

'You were a... military man, weren't you, Fred?' said Carrot, as the parade passed by.

'Yes, sir. Duke of Eorle's First Heavy Infantry, sir, The Pheasant Pluckers.'

'Pardon?' said Angua.

'Nickname for the regiment, miss. Oh, from ages ago. They were bivvywhacking on some estate and came across a lot of pheasant pens and, well, you know, having to live off the land and everything... anyway, that's why we always wore a pheasant feather on our helmets. Traditional, see?'

Already old Fred's face was creasing up in the soft

expression of someone who has been mugged in Memory Lane.

'We even had a marching song,' he said. 'Mind you, it was quite hard to sing right. Er... sorry, miss?'

'Oh, it's all right, sergeant,' said Angua. 'I often start to laugh like that for no reason at all.'

Fred Colon once again stared dreamily at nothing. 'And o'course before that I was in the Duke of Quirm's Middleweight Infantry. Saw a lot of action with them.'

'I'm sure you did,' said Carrot, while Angua entertained cynical thoughts about the actual distance of Fred's vantage point. 'Your distinguished military career has obviously given you many pleasant memories.'

'The ladies liked the uniform,' said Fred Colon, with the unspoken rider that sometimes a growing lad needed all the help he could get. 'An' it... weelll...'

'Yes, sarge?'

Colon looked awkward, as if the bunched underwear of the past was tangling itself in the crotch of recollection.

'It was... more easier, sir. Than being a copper, I mean. I mean, you're a soldier, right, and the other buggers is the enemy. You march into some big field somewhere and all form up into them oblongs, and then a bloke with the feathery helmet gives the order, and you all forms up into big arrows–'

'Good gods, do people really do that? I thought it was just how they drew the battle plans!'

'Well, the old duke, sir, he did it by the book... anyway, it's just a case of watching your back and walloping any bloke in the wrong uniform. But...' Fred Colon's face screwed up in agonized thought, I well, when you're a copper, well, you dunno the good guys from the bad guys without a map, miss, and that's a fact.'

'But... there's military law, isn't there?'

'Well, yes... but when it's pissing with rain and you're up to your tonk– your waist in dead horses and someone gives you an order, that ain't the time to look up the book of rules, miss. Anyway, most of it's about when you're allowed to get shot, sir.'

'Oh, Im sure there's more to it than that, sergeant.'

'Oh, prob'ly, sir,' Colon conceded diplomatically.

'I'm sure there's lots of stuff about not killing enemy soldiers who've surrendered, for instance.'

'Oh, yerss, there's that, captain. Doesn't say you can't duff 'em up a bit, of course. Give 'em a little something to remember you by.'

'Not torture?' said Angua.

'Oh, no, miss. But...' Memory Lane for Colon had turned into a bad road through a dark valley '... well, when your best mate's got an arrow in his eye an' there's blokes and horses screamin' all round you and you're scared shi––you're really scared, an' you come across one of the enemy... well, for some reason or other you've got this kinda urge to give him a bit of a... nudge, sort of thing. Just... you know... like, maybe in twenty years' time his leg'll twinge a bit on frosty days and he'll remember what he done, that's all.

He rummaged in a pocket and produced a very small book, which he held up for inspection.

'This belonged to my great–grandad,' he said. 'He was in the scrap we had against Pseudopolis and my great–gran gave him this book of prayers for soldiers, ,cos you need all the prayers you can get, believe you me, and he stuck it in the top pocket of his jerkin, 'cos he couldn't afford armour, and next day in battle whoosh, this arrow came out of nowhere, wham, straight into this book and it went all the way through to the last page before stopping, look. You can see the hole.'

'Pretty miraculous,' Carrot agreed.

'Yeah, it was, I s'pose,' said the sergeant. He looked ruefully at the battered volume. 'Shame about the other seventeen arrows, really.'

The drumming died away. The remnant of the Watch tried to avoid one another's gaze.

Then an imperious voice said, 'Why aren't you in uniform, young man?'

Nobby turned. He was being addressed by an elderly lady with a certain turkey–like cast of feature and a capital punishment expression.

'Me? Got one, missus,' said Nobby, pointing to his battered helmet.

'A proper uniform,' snapped the woman, handing him a white feather. 'What will you be doing when the Klatchians are ravishing us in our beds?'

She glared at the rest of the guards and swept on. Angua saw several others like her passing along the crowds of spectators. Here and there was a flash of white.

'I'll be thinking: those Klatchians are jolly brave,' said Carrot. 'I'm afraid, Nobby, that the white feather is to shame you into joining up.'

'Oh, that's all right, then,' said Nobby, a man for whom shame held no shame. 'What am I supposed to do with it?'

'That reminds me... did I tell you what I scud to Lord Rust?' said Sergeant Colon, nervously.

'Seventeen times so far,' said Angua, watching the women with the feathers. She added, apparently to herself, ' “Come back with your shield or on it.” '

'I wonder if I can get the lady to give me any more?' said Nobby.

'What was that?' said Carrot.

'These feathers,' said Nobby. 'They look like real goose. I've got a use for a lot more of these–'

'I meant what was it that Angua said?' said Carrot.

'What? Oh... it's just something women used to say when they sent their men off to war. Come back with your shield, or on it.'

'On your shield?' said Nobby. 'You mean like... sledging, sort of thing?'

'Like dead,' said Angua. 'It meant come back a winner or not at all.'

'Well, I always came back with my shield,' said Nobby. 'No problem there.'

'Nobby,' sighed Colon, 'you used to come back with your shield, everyone else's shield, a sack of teeth and fifteen pairs of still–warm boots. On a cart.'

'We–ell, no point in going to war unless you're on the winning side,' said Nobby, sticking the white feather in his helmet.

'Nobby, you was always on the winning side, the reason bein', you used to lurk aroun' the edges to see who was winning and then pull the right uniform off'f some poor dead sod. I used to hear where the generals kept an eye on what you were wearin' so they'd know how the battle was going.'

'Lots of soldiers have served in lots of regiments,' said Nobby.

'Right, what you say is true. Only not usually during the same battle,' said Sergeant Colon.

They trooped back into the Watch House. Most of the shift had taken the day off. After all, who was in charge? What were they supposed to be doing today? The only ones left were those who never thought of themselves as off duty, and the new recruits who hadn't had their keen edge blunted.

'I'm sure Mr Vimes'll think of something,' said Carrot. 'Look, I'd better take the Goriffs back to their shop. Mr Goriff says he's going to pack up and leave. A lot of Klatchians are leaving. You can't blame them, either.'

Dreams rising with him like bubbles, Vimes surfaced from the black fathoms of sleep.

Normally, these days, he treasured the moment of waking. It was when solutions presented themselves. He assumed bits of his brain came out at night and worked on the problems of the previous day, handing him the result just as he opened his eyes.

All that arrived now were memories. He winced. Another memory turned up. He groaned. The sound of his badge bouncing on the table replayed itself. He swore.

He swung his legs off the covers and groped for the bedside table.

'Bingeley–bingeley beep!'

'Oh, no... All right, what's the time?'

'One o'clock pee em! Hello, Insert Name Here!'

Vimes looked blearily at the Dis–organizer. One day, he knew, he really would have to try to understand the manual for the damn thing. Either that or drop it off a cliff.[9]

'What–' he began, and then groaned again. The twanging sound made by the unwound turban as it

One of the universal rules of happiness is: always be wary of any helpful item that weighs less than its operating manual.

took his weight had just come back to haunt him.

'Sam?' The bedroom door was pushed open and Sybil came in carrying a cup.

'Yes, dear?'

'How do you feel?'

'I've got bruises on my brui–' Another memory crawled up from the pit of guilt. 'Oh, good grief, did I really call him a long streak of–?'

'Yes,' said his wife. 'Fred Colon came round this morning and told me all about it. And a very good description, I'd say. I went out with Ronnie Rust once. Bit of a cold fish.'

Another recollection burst like a ball of marsh gas in Vimes's head.

'Did Fred tell you where he said Rust could put his badge?'

'Yes. Three times. It seems to be weighing on his mind. Anyway, knowing Ronnie, he'd have to use a hammer.'

Vimes had long ago got used to the fact that the aristocracy all seemed to know one another by their first name.

'And did Fred tell you anything else?' he said timidly.

'Yes. About the shop and the fire and everything. I'm proud of you.' She gave him a kiss.

'What do I do now?' he said.

'Drink your tea and have a wash and a shave.'

'I ought to go down to the Watch House and

'A shave! There's hot water in the jug.'

When she had left he hauled himself upright and tottered into his bathroom. There was, indeed, a jug of hot water on the marble washstand.

He looked at the face in the mirror. Unfortunately, it was his. Perhaps if he shaved it first... ? And then he could wash the bits that were left.

Fragments of the night before kept on respectfully drawing themselves to his attention. lt was a shame about that guard, but sometimes you just coudln't stand and argue

He shouldn't have done that with his badge. It wasn't like the old days. He had responsibilities. He should've stayed on and made things just a little less

'No. That never worked.

He managed to get the lather on his face. The Riot Act! Good grief... He stopped his razor thoughtfully. Rust's milky eyes stared out of his memory. Bastard! Men like that thought, they really thought, that the Watch was a kind of sheepdog, to nip at the heels of the flock, bark when spoken to and never, ever, bite the shepherd...

Oh yes. Vimes knew in his bones who the enemy was.

Except

No badge, no Watch, no job...

Another memory arrived, late.

Lather still dripping down his shirt, he pulled Vetinari's sealed letter out of his pocket and slit it open with the razor.

There was a blank sheet of paper inside. Hie turned it over, and there was nothing on the other side either. Mystified, he glanced at the envelope.

Sir Samuel Vimes, Knight.

Nice of him to be so precise about it, Vimes thought. What was the point of a message with no message? Some people might absentmindedly have slipped the wrong piece of paper in an envelope, but Vetinari wouldn't. What was the point of sending him a note telling him he was a knight, for gods' sake, he knew that embarrassing fact well enough–

Another little memory burst open as silently as a mouse passing wind in a hurricane.

Who'd said it? Any gentleman

Vimes stared. Well, he was a gentleman, wasn't he? It was official.

And then he didn't shout, and he didn't run out of the room. He finished shaving, had a wash and put on a change of underwear, very calmly.

Downstairs, Sybil had cooked him a meal. She wasn't a very good cook. This was fine by Vimes, because he wasn't a very good eater. After a lifetime of street meals his stomach wasn't set up right. What it craved was little crunchy brown bits, the food group of the gods, and Sybil reliably always left the pan too long on the dragon.

She eyed him carefully as he chewed his fried egg and stared into the middle distance. Her manner was that of someone with a portable safety net watching a man on the high wire.

After a while, while she watched him crack open a sausage, he said, 'Do we have any books on chivalry, dear?'

'Hundreds, Sam.'

'Is there any one which tells you what... you know, what it's all about? I mean, what you have to do if you're a knight, say? Responsibilities and so on?'

'Most of them, I should think.'

'Good. I think I shall do a little reading.' Vimes hit the bacon with his fork. It shattered very satisfactorily.

Afterwards, he went into the library. Twenty minutes later, he came back out for a pencil and some paper.

Ten minutes after that, Lady Sybil took him a cup of coffee. He was hidden behind a pile of books, and apparently deep in Life of Chivalrie. She crept out and went into her own study, where she settled down to update her dragon–breeding records.

It was an hour later when she heard him step out into the hall.

He was humming under his breath, tunelessly, with the faraway look of preoccupation that means that some Big Thought has required the shutting down of all non–essential processes. He was also re–radiating the field of angered innocence that was, to her, part of his essential Vimesness.

'Are you going out, Sam?'

'Yes. I'm just going to kick some arse, dear.'

'Oh, good. Just be sure you wrap up well, then.'

The Goriff family trudged along silently beside Carrot.

'I'm sorry about your shop, Mr Goriff,' he said.

Goriff shifted the load he was carrying. 'We can start other shops,' he said.

'We']] certainly keep an eye on it,' said Carrot. 'And

 when all this is over, you can come back.'

'Thank you.'

His son said something in Klatchian. There was a brief family arguent.

'I appreciate your strength of feeling,' said Carrot, going red, 'although I must say I think your language was a little strong.'

'My son is sorry,' said Goriff automatically. 'He did not remember that you speak Kl–'

'No, I'm not! Why should we run away?' said the boy. 'We live here! I've never seen Klatch!'

'Oh, well, that will be something to look forward to,' said Carrot. 'I hear it has many fine––'

'Are you stupid?' said Janil. He shook himself free of his father's grasp and confronted Carrot. 'I don't care! I don't want all this stuff about the moon rising over the Mountains of the Sun! I get that at home all the time! I live here!'

'Now, you really ought to listen to your parents–'

'Why? My dad works all the time and now he's being pushed out! What good's that? We ought to stay here and defend what's ours!'

'Ah, well, you shouldn't take the law into your own hands––'

'Why not?'

'It's our job––'

'But you're not doing it!'

There was a rattle of Klatchian from Mr Goriff.

'He says I've got to apologize,' said Janil sullenly. 'I'm sorry.'

'So am I,' said Carrot.

The boy's father gave him that complicated shrug used by adults in a situation involving adolescents.

'You'll be back, I know it,' said Carrot.

'We shall see.'

They went down the quay towards a waiting boat. It was a Klatchian ship. People lined the rails, people who were getting out with what they could carry before they could only get out with what they wore. The watchmen found themselves under hostile scrutiny.

'Surely Rust isn't already forcing Klatchians out of their homes?' said Angua.

'We can tell which way the wind is blowing,' said Goriff calmly.

Carrot sniffed the salt air. 'It's blowing from Klatch,' he said.

'For you, perhaps,' said Goriff.

A whip cracked behind them and they stood aside as several coaches rumbled by. A blind at the window

was pulled aside momentarily. Carrot caught a brief glimpse of a face, all gold teeth and black beard, before the cloth twitched back.

'That's him, isn't it?'

There was a faint grunt from Angua. She had her eyes closed, as she always did when she was letting her nose do the seeing.. .

'Cloves,' she murmured, and then grabbed Carrot's arm.

'Don't run after it! There's armed men on that ship! What will they think when they see a soldier running towards them?'

'I'm not a soldier!'

'How long do you think they'll spend working out the difference?'

The coach pushed through the press of people on the dock. The crowd surged back around it.

'There's boxes being unloaded – I can't quite see . . said Carrot, shading his eyes. 'Look, I'm sure they'll understand if–'

71–hour Ahmed stepped out on to the dock and looked back towards the watchmen. There was a momentary sparkle as he grinned. They saw his hand reach over his shoulder and come back holding the curved sword.

'I can't just let him get away,' said Carrot. 'He's a suspect! Look, he's laughing at us!'

'With diplomatic impunity,' said Angua. 'But there's a lot of armed men down there.'

'My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure,' said Carrot.

'Really? Well, there's eleven of them.'

71–hour Ahmed threw his sword in the air. It spun a couple of times, making a whum–whum noise, and then his hand shot out and caught it by the handle as it fell.

'That's what Mr Vimes was doing,' said Carrot, through gritted teeth. 'Now he's taunting us–'

'You will be killed if you go on the ship,' said Goriff behind him. 'I know that man.'

'You do? How?'

'He is feared in the whole of Klatch. That is 71–hour Ahmed!'

'Yes, why is–'

'You haven't heard of him? And he is a D'reg!' Mrs Goriff pulled at her husband's arm.

'D'reg?' said Angua.

'A warlike desert tribe,' said Carrot. 'Very fierce. Honourable, though. They say that if a D'reg is your friend he's your friend for the rest of your life.'

'And if he's not your friend?'

'That's about five seconds.'

He drew his sword. 'Nevertheless,' he added, 'we can't let––'

'I have said too much. We must go,' said Goriff. The family picked up their bundles.

'Look, there might be another way to find out about him,' said Angua. She pointed at the carriage.

A couple of lean, long–haired and extremely graceful dogs had been let out and were straining at their leashes as they led the way up the gangplank.

'Klatchistan hunting dogs,' she said. 'The Klatchian nobility are very keen on them, I understand.'

'They look a bit like–' Carrot began, and then the penny dropped. 'No, I can't let you go on there by yourself,' he said. 'Something would go wrong.'

'I stand a much better chance than you would, believe me,' said Angua quickly. 'They won't be leaving until the tide changes, in any case.'

'It's too dangerous.'

'Well, they are supposed to be our enemies.'

'I meant for you!'

'Why?' said Angua. 'I've never heard of werewolves in Klatch, so they probably don't know how to deal with us.'

She undid the little leather collar that held her badge and handed it to Carrot.

'Don't worry,' she said. 'If the worst comes to the worst, I'll dive overboard.'

'Into the river?'

'Even the river Ankh can't kill a werewolf.' Angua glanced at the turgid water. 'Probably, anyway.'

Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs had gone on patrol. They weren't sure why they were patrolling, and what they were supposed to do if they saw a crime, although many years of training had enabled them not to see some quite large crimes. But they were creatures of habit. They were watchmen, so they patrolled. They didn't patrol with a purpose. They patrolled, as it were, in pure essence. Nobby's progress wasn't helped by the large, leatherbound book in his arms.

'A war'd do this place good,' said Sergeant Colon, after a while. 'Put some backbone in people. Everything's gone all to pot these days.'

'Not like when we were kids, sarge.

'Not like when we were kids indeed, Nobby.'

'People trusted one another in them days, didn't they, sarge?'

'People trusted one another, Nobby.'

'Yes, sarge. I know. And people didn't have to lock their doors, did they?'

'That's right, Nobby. And people were always ready

to help. They were always in and out of one another's houses.'

 'sright, sarge,' said Nobby vehemently. 'I know no-one ever locked their houses down our street.'

'That's what I'm talking about. That's my point.'

'It was 'cos the bastards even used to steal the locks.'

Colon considered the truth of this.

'Yes, but at least it was each other's stuff they were nicking, Nobby. It's not like they was foreigners.'

'Right.'

They strolled on for a while, each entangled in his own thoughts.

'Sarge?'

'Yes, Nobby?'

'Where's Nubilia?'

'Nubilia?'

'It's got to be a place, I reckon. Pretty warm there, I think?'

'Ah, Nubilia,' said Colon. He invented desperately. 'Right. Yes. It's one of them Klatchian places. Yeah. Got lots of sand. And mountains. Exports dates. Why'd you want to know?'

'Oh... no reason.'

'Nobby?'

'Yes, sarge?'

'Why are you carrying that huge book?'

'Hah, clever idea, sarge. I saw what you said about that book of your great–grandad, so if there's any fighting I got this one off'f Washpot. It's The Book of Om. Five inches thick.'

'It's a bit big for a pocket, Nobby. It's a bit big for a cart, to be honest.'

'I thought I could make sort of braces to carry it. I

reckon even a longbow could only get an arrow as far as the Apocrypha.'

A familiar creak made them look up.

A Klatchian's head was swinging in the breeze.

'Fancy a pint?' said Sergeant Colon. 'Big Anjie brews up some that's a treat.'

'Better not, sarge. Mr Vimes is in a bit of a mood.'

Colon sighed. 'You're right.'

Nobby looked up at the head again– It was wooden. It had been repainted many times over the centuries. The Klatchian was smiling very happily for someone who'd never have to buy a shirt ever again.

'The Klatchian's Head. My grandad said his granddad remembered when it was still the real one,' Colon said. 'Of course, it was about the size of a walnut by then.'

'Bit... nasty, sticking up a bloke's head for a pub sign,' said Nobby.

'No, Nobby. Spoils of war, right? Some bloke came back from one of the wars with a souvenir, stuck it on a pole and opened a pub. The Klatchian's Head. Teach ,em not to do it again.'

'I used to get into enough trouble just for nicking boots,' said Nobby.

'More robust times, Nobby.'

'You ever met a Klatchian, sarge?' said Nobby, as they began to pace the length of the quiet street. 'I mean one of the wild ones.'

'Well, no... but you know what? They're allowed three wives! That's criminal, that is.'

'Yeah, 'cos here's me and I ain't got one,' said Nobby.

'And they eat funny grub. Curry and that.'

Nobby gave this some thought. 'Like... we do, when we're on late duty.'

'Weelll, yerss – but they don't do it properly–'

'You mean runny ear–wax yellow with peas and currants in, like your mum used to do?'

'Right! You poke around as much as you like in a Klatchian curry and you won't find a single piece of swede.'

'And I heard where they eat sheep's eyeballs, too,' said Nobby, international gastra–gnome.

'Right again.'

'Not decent ordinary stuff like lambs' fry or sweetbreads, then?'

'That's... right.'

Colon felt that he was being got at in some say.

'Look, Nobby, when alls said and done they ain't the right colour, and there's an end to it.'

'Good job you found out, Fred!' said Nobby, so cheerfully that Sergeant Colon was almost sure that he meant it.

'Well, it's obvious,' he conceded.

'Er... what is the right colour?' said Nobby.

'White, of course!'

'Not brick–red, then? 'Cos you–'

'Are you winding me up, Corporal Nobbs?'

"Course not, sarge. So... what colour am I?'

That caused Sergeant Colon to think. You could have found, somewhere on Corporal Nobbs, a shade appropriate to every climate on the disc and a few found only in specialist medical books.

'White's... white's a state of, you know... mind,' he said. 'It's like... doing an honest day's work for an honest day's pay, that sort of thing. And washing regular.'

'Not lazing around, sort of thing.'

'Right.'

'Or... like... working all hours like Goriff does.'

'Nobby–'

'And you never see those kids of his with dirty clo–'

'Nobby, you're just trying to get me going, right?' You know we're better'n Klatchians. Otherwise, what's the point? Anyway, if we're going to fight 'em, you could get locked up for going around talking treachery.'

'Are you going to fight them, Fred?'

Fred Colon scratched his chin. 'Well, as a hexperienced milit'ry man, I suppose I'll have to.. .'

'What' re you going to do? Join a regiment and go to the front?'

'We–ell... my fore–tay lies in training, so I reckon I'd better stay here and train up the new recruits.'

'Here at the back, you might say.'

'We all have to do our bit, Nobby. If it was down to me I'd be out there like a shot to give Johnny Klatchian a taste of cold steel.'

'Their razor–sharp swords wouldn't worry you, then?'

'I should laugh at them with scorn, Nobby.'

'But s'posing the Klatchians attack here? Then you'll be at the front and the front will be at the back.'

'I'll sort of try for a posting in the middle. .

'The middle of the front or––'

'Gentlemen?'

They looked round to find that they had been followed by a man of medium height but with an extraordinary head. It wasn't that he had gone bald. He had quite a lot of hair, which was long and curly and reached almost to his shoulders, and his beard was large enough to conceal a small chicken. But his head had simply risen through his hair, like a kind of intrusive dome.

He gave them a friendly smile.

'Am I by any change addressing the heroic Sergeant Colon and the–' The man looked at Nobby. Expressions of amazement, dread, interest and charity passed across his otherwise sunny countenance like storm–driven clouds. 'And the Corporal Nobbs?' he finished.

'That is us, citizen,' said Colon.

'Ah, good. I was very specifically told to find you. It's quite amazing, you know. No–one had even broken into the boathouse, although I must say I did design the locks rather well. And all I've had to do is replace the leatherwork around the joints and grease it up... oh, do excuse me, I've got rather ahead of myself. Now... there was a message I had to give you... what was it now?... Something about your hands...'He reached down into the large canvas bag by his feet and pulled out a long tube, which he handed to Nobby.

'I do apologize about this,' he said, producing a smaller tube and handing it to Colon. 'I had to do things in such a hurry, there really was no time to finish it off properly, and frankly the materials are not very good–'

Colon looked at his tube. It was pointed at one end.

'This is a firework rocket,' he said. 'Look, it's s got "A riot of coloured balls and stars" on it...'

'Yes, I do so apologize,' said the man, lifting a complex little arrangement of wood and metal out of the bag. 'May I have the tube back, corporal?' He took it and screwed the arrangement on to one end. 'Thank you... yes, I'm afraid that without my lathe and, indeed, my forge, I really have had to make do with what I could find lying around... Could I have the rocket back, please? Thank you.'

'They don't go properly without a stick,' said Nobby.

'Oh, in fact they do,' said the man. 'Just not very accurately.'

He raised the tube to shoulder height and peered into a small wire grid.

'That seems about right,' he said.

'And they don't go along,' said Nobby. 'They just go up.

'A common misconception,' said Leonard of Quirm, turning to face them.

Colon could see the tip of the rocket in the depths of the tube, and had a sudden image of stars and balls.

'Now, apparently you two have to step into this alley here and come with me,' said Leonard. 'I'm very sorry about this, but his lordship has explained to me at great length how the needs of society as a whole may have to overrule the rights of a particular individual. Oh, and I've just remembered. You have to put your hands up.'

Sand had been spilled across the big table in the Rats Chamber.

Lord Rust felt a sensation akin to pleasure as he surveyed it. There were the little square boxes for the towns and cities, and cut–out palm trees to indicate the known oasisies. And, although he was uneasy about the word 'oasisies', Lord Rust looked at it and saw that it was good. Especially since it was a map of Klatch and everyone knew that Klatch was sand anyway, which made it rather satisfying in an existential sort of way, although this sand here had been commandeered from the heap behind Chalky the troll's wholesale pottery and bore the occasional

cigarette end and trace of feline incontinence that would probably not be found in the real desert, or certainly not to scale.

'Here would be a good landing area,' he said, pointing with his stick.

His equerry tried to look helpful. 'The EI Kinte peninsula,' he said. 'That's the closest point to us, sir.'

'Exactly! We can be across the straits in jig time.'

'Very good, sir,' said Leiutenant Hornett, 'but... you don't think the enemy might be expecting us there? It being such an obvious landing site?'

'Not obvious at all to the trained military thinker, sir! They won't be expecting us there precisely because it is so obvious, d'y'see?'

'You mean... they'll think only a complete idiot would land there, sir?'

'Correct! And they know we're not complete idiots, sir, and therefore that will be the last place they will be expecting us, d'y'see? They'll be expecting us somewhere like' – his stick stabbed into the sand –'here.'

Hornett looked closely. In the street outside, someone started to bang a drum.

'Oh, you mean Eritor,' he said. 'Where I believe there is a concealed landing area, and two days' forced march through good cover would have us at the heart of the empire, sir.'

'Exactly!'

'Whereas landing at M Mints means three days over sand dunes and past the fortified city of Zebra...'

'Precisely. Wide–open spaces! And that is where we can practise the art of warfare.' Lord Rust raised his voice above the drumming. 'That's how you settle these things. One decisive battle. Us on one side, the Klatchians on the other. THAT IS HOW THESE THINGS ARE D–'

He threw down his pointer. 'Who the devil is making that infernal noise?'

The equerry walked across to the window. 'It's someone else recruiting, sir,' he said.

'But we're all here!'

The equerry hesitated, as the bearers of bad tidings to short–tempered men often do.

'It's Vimes, sir...'

'Recruiting for the Watch?'

'Er... no, my lord. For a regiment. Er... the banner says "Sir Samuel Vimes's First of Foot", my lord–'

'The arrogance of the man. Go and– No, I'll go myself!'

There was a crowd in the street. In the centre there rose the bulk of Constable Dorfl, and a key thing about the golem was that if he was banging a drum then no–one was going to ask him to stop. No–one except possibly Lord Rust, who strode up and snatched the drumsticks out of his hands.

'Yerss, it are species of your choice's life in der First of Foot!' shouted Sergeant Detritus, unaware of the events going on behind him. 'You learnin' a trade! You learnin' self–respek! Also you get spiffy uniform plus all der boots you can eat –here, dat's my banner!'

'What's the meaning of this?' said Rust, flinging the homemade banner on to the ground. 'Vimes can't do this!'

A figure detached itself from the wall, where it had been watching the show.

'You know, I rather think I can,' said Vimes. He handed Rust a piece of paper. 'It's all here, my lord. With references citing the highest authorities, in case you are in any doubt.'

'Citing the–?'

'On the role of a knight, my lord. In fact the duties of a knight, funnily enough. A lot of it is pretty damn stupid stuff, riding around the place on one of those bloody great horses with curtains round it and so on, but one of them says in time of need a knight has to raise and maintain you'll laugh when I tell you this a body of armed soldiers! No–one could have been more surprised than me, I don't mind telling you! Seems there's nothing for it but I have to go out and get some chaps together. Of course, most of the watch have joined, well, you know how it is, disciplined lads, anxious to do their bit, so that saved me a bit of effort. Except for Nobby Nobbs, 'cos he says if he leaves it till Thursday he's going to have enough white feathers for a mattress.'

Rust's expression would have preserved meat for a year.

'This is a nonsense,' he said. 'And you, Vimes, certainly are no knight. Only a king can make–'

'There's a good few lordships in this city created by the Patricians,' said Vimes. 'Your friend Lord Downey, for one. You were saying?'

'Then if you persist in playing games I will say that before a knight is created he must spend a night's vigil watching his armour–'

'Practically every night of my life,' said Vimes. 'A man doesn't keep an eye on his armour round here, that man's got no armour in the morning.'

'In prayer,' said Rust sharply.

'That's me,' said Vimes. 'Not a night has gone by without me thinking, "Ye gods, I hope I get through this alive." '

'–and he must have proved himself on the field of combat. Against other trained men, Vimes. Not vermin and thugs.'

Vimes started to undo the strap of his helmet.

'Well, this isn't the best of moments, my lord, but if someone'll hold your coat I can spare you five minutes...'

In Vimes's eyes Rust recognized the fiery gleam of burning boats.

'I know what you're doing, Vimes, and I am not going to rise to it,' he said, taking a step back. 'In any case, you have had no formal training in arms.'

'That's true,' said Vimes. 'You've got me there, right enough. No–one ever trained me in arms. I was lucky there.' He leaned closer and lowered his voice so that the watching crowd wouldn't hear. 'Y'see, I know what "training in arms" means, Ronald. There hasn't been a real war in ages. So it's all prancing around wearing padded waistcoats and waving swords with knobs on the end so no–one'll really get hurt, isn't it? But down in the Shades no–one's had any training in arms either. Wouldn't know an epee from a sabre. No, what they're good at is a broken bottle in one hand and a length of four–by–two in the other and when you face 'em, Ronnie, you know you aren't going off for a laugh and a jolly drink afterwards, 'cos they want you dead. They want to kill you, you see, Ron? And by the time you've swung your nice shiny broadsword they've carved their name and address on your stomach. And that's where I got my training in arms. Well... fists and knees and teeth and elbows, mostly.'

'You, sir, are no gentleman,' said Rust.

'I knew there was something about me that I liked.'

'Can you not even see that you can't enrol... dwarfs and trolls in an Ankh–Morpork regiment?'

'It just says "armed soldiers", and dwarfs come with their own axes. A great saving. Besides, if you've ever seen them really fight, then you must've been on the same side.'

'Vimes–'

'It's Sir Samuel, my lord.'

Rust seemed to think for a moment.

'Very well, then,' he said. 'Then you and your... regiment come under my command–'

'Strangely, no,' said Vimes swiftly. 'Under the command of the King or his duly appointed representative, it says in Scavone's Chivalric Law and Usage. And, of course, there has been no duly appointed representative ever since some complete bastard cut off the last king's head. Oh, assorted beds appeared to have been ruling the city, but according to the chivalric tradition–'

Rust stopped to think again. He had the look of a lawnmower just after the grass has organized a workers' collective. There was a definite suggestion that, deep inside, he knew this was not really happening. It could not be happening because this sort of thing did not happen. Any contradictory evidence could be safely ignored. However, it might be necessary to find some motions to go through.

'I think you'll find that, legally, your position–' he began, and his eyes bulged for a moment as Vimes interrupted him cheerfully.

'Oh, there might be a few problems, I grant you. But if you ask Mr Slant he'll say "This is a very interesting case", which as you know is lawyer–talk for "One thousand dollars a day plus expenses and it'll take months." So I'll leave you go get on with it, shall P Cot such a lot of things to do, you know. I think the swatches for the new uniforms should be in my office about now, it's so important to look right on the battlefield, isn't it?'

Rust gave Vimes another look, and then strode away.

Detritus stamped to attention beside Vimes and his salute clanged smartly off his helmet.

'What we doin' now, sir?'

'We can pack up now, I think. All the lads have joined up?'

'Yessir!'

'You told them it wasn't compulsory?'

'Yessir! I said, "It ain't compuls'ry, you just gotta," sir.'

'Detritus, I wanted volunteers.'

' 'sright, sir. They volunteered all right, I saw to that.'

Vimes sighed as he walked back to his office. But they were probably safe. He was pretty sure he was legally sound and if he knew anything about Rust, the man would respect the letter of the law. Such men did, in a chilly way. Besides, thirty men in the Watch simply didn't figure in the great scheme of things. Rust could ignore them.

Suddenly there's a war brewing, Vimes thought, and they all come back. Civil order is turned upside down, because that's the rules. And people like Rust are at the top of the heap again. You have these aristocrats lazing around for years, and suddenly the old armour's out and the sword is being taken down from over the fireplace. They think there's going to be a war and all they can think about is that wars can be won or lost...

Someone's behind this. Someone wants to see a war. Someone paid to have Ossie and Snowy killed. Someone wanted the Prince dead. I've got to remember that. This isn't a war. This is a crime.

And then he realized he was wondering if the attack on Goriffs shop had been organized by the same people, and whether those same people had set fire to the embassy.

And then he realized why he was thinking like this.

It was because he wanted there to be conspirators. It was much better to imagine men in some smoky room somewhere, made mad and cynical by privilege and power, plotting over the brandy. You had to cling to this sort of image, because if you didn't then you might have to face the fact that bad things happened because ordinary people, the kind who brushed the dog and told their children bedtime stories, were capable of then going out and doing horrible things to other ordinary people. It was so much easier to blame it on Them. It was bleakly depressing to think that They were Us. If it was Them, then nothing was anyone's fault. If it was Us, what did that make Me? After all, Im one of Us. I must be. I've certainly never thought of myself as one of Them. No-one ever thinks of themselves as one of Them. We're always one of Us. It's Them that do the bad things.

Around about this time, in his former life, Vimes would be taking the cap off a bottle, and wouldn't be too bothered about the bottle's contents so long as they crinkled paint

'Ook?'

'Oh, hello. What can I do for – oh, yes, I asked about books on Klatch... Is that all?'

The librarian shyly held out a small, battered green book. Vimes had been expecting something bigger, but he took it anyway. It paid to look at any book the orang–utan gave you. He matched you up to books. Vimes supposed it was a knack, in the same way that an undertaker was very good at judging heights.

On the spine, in very faded gold lettering, were the words 'VENI VIDI VICI: A Soldier's Life by Gen. A. Tacticus'.

Nobby and Sergeant Colon edged along the alley.

'I know who he is!' Fred hissed. 'That's Leonard of Quirm, that is! He went missing five years ago!'

'So he's called Leonard and he's from Quirm, so what?' said Nobby.

'He's a raving genius!'

'He's a loony.'

'Yeah, well, they say there's a thin line between genius and madness...'

'He's fallen off it, then.'

The voice behind them said, 'Oh, dear, this won't do at all, will it... ? I can't deny it, you were quite right, the accuracy would be quite unacceptable at any reasonable range. Could you bear to stop a moment, please?'

They turned. Leonard was already dismantling the tube.

'If you could just hang on to this bit, corporal... and, sergeant, if you would be so good as to hold this piece steady... some sort of fins should do it, Im sure I had a suitable piece of wood somewhere

Leonard began to pat his pockets.

The watchmen realized that the man holding them up had paused to redesign his weapon and had given it to them to hold while he looked for a screwdriver. This was a thing that did not often happen.

Nobby silently took the rocket from Colon and pushed it into the tube.

'What's this bit here, mister?' he said.

Leonard glanced up briefly in between patting his pockets.

'Oh, that is the trigger,' he said. 'Which, as you can see, rubs against the flint and–'

'Good.'

There was a short burst of flame and rather more black smoke.

'Oh, dear,' said Leonard.

The watchmen turned, like men dreading what they were about to see. The rocket had shot the length of the alley and through the window of a house.

'Ah... putting "This Way Up" on the projectile would be an important safety point to bear in mind for the new design.' said Leonard. 'Now, where's that notebook... ?'

'I think we'd better leave,' said Colon, moving backwards. 'Very fast.'

Inside the house there was an explosion of stars and balls to delight young and old but not the troll who had just opened the door.

'Ah, really?' said Leonard. 'Well, if speed is required, I have this very interesting design for a two–wheeled–'

Acting on an unspoken agreement, the watchmen each put a hand under a shoulder, lifted him off the ground, and ran for it.

'Oh, dear,' said Leonard, as he was dragged backwards.

The watchmen dived into a side alley, and then jinked and dodged along several others with quiet professionalism. Finally they leaned Leonard against a wall and peered round the end of the alley.

'All clear,' said Nobby. 'They went the other way.'

'Right,' said Colon. 'Now, what was you doing? I mean, you might be a genius like I heard, Mister da Quirm, but when it comes to threatening people you're as clever as an inflatable dartboard.'

'I appear to have been a bit of a juggins, don't I?' Leonard agreed. 'But I do implore you to come with me. I'm afraid I thought that as warriors you would be more inclined to understand force '

'Well, yes, we're warriors,' said Sergeant Colon. 'But–'

' 'ere, have you got another one of these rockets?' said Nobby, hefting the tube onto his shoulder again. He had the special gleam in his eye that a small man gets when he's laid his hands on a big, big weapon.

'I may have,' said Leonard, and the gleam in his eye was the mad twinkle of the naturally innocent when they think they're being cunning. 'Why don't we go and see? You see, I was told to fetch you by any means necessary.

'Bribery sounds good,' said Nobby. He put his eye to the tube's sights and started making 'whoosh' noises.

'Who told you to fetch us?' said Colon.

'Lord Vetinari.'

'The Patrician wants us?'

'Yes. He said you have special qualities and must come at once.'

'To the palace? I heard he'd done a runner.'

'Oh, no. To the, er... to the, er... docks...'

'Special qualities, eh?' said Colon.

'Er, sarge...' Nobby began.

'Now then, Nobby,' said Colon importantly. 'It's about time we were given some recognition, you know that. Hexperienced officers are the backbone of the force. Seems to me,' he went on, 'seems to me that this is a case of cometh the time, cometh the man.'

'When's he cometh?'

'I'm talking about us. Men with special qualities.'

Nobby nodded, but with a certain amount of reluctance. In many ways he was a much clearer thinker than his superior officer, and he was worrying about 'special qualities'. Being picked for something because of your 'special qualities' was tantamount to being volunteered. Anyway, what was so special about special qualities'? Limpets had special qualities.

'Will we go undercover again?' said Colon.

Leonard blinked. 'There... yes, I think I can say there is a strong under element involved. Yes, indeed.'

'Sarge–'

'You just be quiet, corporal.' Colon pulled Nobby closer. 'Undercover means not getting stabbed and shot at, right?' he whispered. 'And what's the most important thing a professional soldier wants not to happen to him?'

'Not getting stabbed and shot,' said Nobby automatically.

'Right! So let's be going, Mr Quirm! The call has come!'

'Well done!' said Leonard. 'Tell me, sergeant, are you of a nautical persuasion?'

Colon saluted again. 'Nossir! Happily married man, sir!'

'I meant, have you ploughed the ocean waves at all?'

Colon gave him a cunning look.

'Ah, you can't catch me with that one, sir,' he said. 'Everyone knows the horses sink.'

Leonard paused for a moment and retuned his brain to Radio Colon.

'Have you, in the past, floated around, on the sea, in a boat, at all?'

'Me, sir? Not me, sir. It's the sight of the waves going up and down, sir.'

'Really?' said Leonard. 'Well, happily, that will not be a problem.'

All right, start again...

Assembling facts, that's what it was about...

The world watched. Someone wanted the Watch to say that the assassination had been inspired by Klatch. Who?

Someone had also beheaded Snowy Slopes where he stood and left him deader than six buckets of fish bait.

A vision of 71–hour Ahmed's big curved sword presented itself for his attention. So...

... let's assume that Ahmed was Khufurah's servant or bodyguard, and he'd found out...

No, how could that work? Who'd tell him?

Well, maybe he'd found out somehow, and that meant that he might also know who'd paid the man...

Vimes sat back. It was still a mystery but he'd solve it, he knew he would. He'd assemble the facts, analyse them, look at them from every angle with an open mind, and find out exactly how Lord Rust had organized it.

Rank bad hat! He didn't have to sit still for something like that, especially from a man who rhymed 'house' with 'mice'.

His eye was caught by the ancient book. General Tacticus? Every kid knew about him. Ankh–Morpork had ruled a huge empire and a lot of it had been in Klatch, thanks to him. Except there wasn't any thanks for him, strangely enough. Vimes had never quite known why, but the city seemed to be rather ashamed of the general.

One reason, of course, was that he'd ended up fighting Ankh–Mopork The city of Genua had run out of royalty, inbreeding having progressed to the point where the sole remaining example consisted mostly of

teeth, and senior courtiers had written to Ankh–Morpork asking for help.

There'd been a lot of that sort of thing, Vimes had been surprised to learn. The little kingdoms of the Sto Plains were for ever scrounging spare royalty off one another. The King had sent Tacticus out of sheer exasperation. It's hard to run a proper empire when you're constantly getting blood–stained letters on the lines of: Dear sire, I beg to inform you that we have conquered Betrek, Smale and Ushistan. Please send AM$20,000 back pay. The man never knew when to stop. So he was hastily made a duke and packed off to Genua, whereupon his first action was to consider what was that city's greatest military threat and then, having identified it, to declare war on Ankh-Morpork.

But what else had anyone expected? He'd done his duty. He'd brought back heaps of spoils, lots of captives and, almost uniquely among Ankh-Morpork's military leaders, most of his men. Vimes suspected that this last fact was one reason why history didn't approve. There was a suggestion that this was, in some way, not playing fair.

'Veni, vidi, vici.' That was what the man was supposed to have said when he'd conquered... where? Pseudopolis, wasn't it? Or Al–Khali? Or Quirm? Maybe Sto Lat? That was in the old days when you attacked anyone else's city on principle, and went back and did them over again if they looked like getting up. And in those days, you didn't care if the world watched. You wanted them to watch, and learn. 'Veni, vidi, vici.' I came, I saw, I conquered.

As a comment it always struck Vimes as a bit too pat. It wasn't the sort of thing you came up with on the spur of the moment, was it? It sounded as if he had worked it out. He'd probably spent long evenings in his tent, looking up in the dictionary short words beginning with V and trying them out... Veni, vermini, vomui, I came, I got ratted, I threw up? Visi, veneri, vamoosi, I visited, I caught an embarrassing disease, I ran away? It must have been a big relief to come up with three short acceptable words. He probably made them up first, and then went off to see somewhere and conquer it.

He opened the book at random.

'It is always useful to face an enemy who is prepared to die for his country,' he read. 'This means that both you and he have exactly the same aim in mind.'

'Hah!'

'Bingeley–bingeley b–'

Vimes's hand slammed down on the box.

'Yes? What is it?'

'Three oh five pee em. Interview with Cpl Littlebottom re Missing Sgt: Colon,' said the demon sulkily.

'I never arranged anything like– Who told you–? Are you telling me that I've got an appointment and I don't know about it?'

'That's right.'

'So how do you know about it?'

'You told me to know about it. Last night,' said the demon.

'You can tell me about appointments I don't know about?' said Vimes.

'They're still appointments sine qua appointments,' said the demon. 'They exist, as it were, in appointment phase space.'

'What the hell does that mean?'

'Look,' said the demon patiently, 'You can have an appointment at any time, right? So therefore any appointment exists in potentia–'

'Where's that?'

'Any particular appointment simply collapses the waveform,' said the demon. 'I merely select the most likely one from the projected matrix.'

'You're just making this up,' said Vimes. 'If you were right, then any second now–'

Someone knocked at the door. It was a polite, tentative tap.

Vimes didn't take his eyes off the smirking demon.

'Is that you, Corporal Littlebottom?' he said.

'Yes, sir. Sergeant Colon has sent a pigeon. I thought you ought to see it, sir.'

'Come in!'

A small roll of thin paper was placed on his desk. He read:

Have volunteered for a mission of Vital

Importance. Nobby is here also. There will be

statchoos of us when this day's work is over.

PS Someone I can't tell you who says this note

will self–destruct in five seconds, he is sorry he

hasn't got good chemicles to do it better–

The paper began to crinkle around the edges and then vanished in a small puff of acrid smoke.

Vimes stared at the little pile of ash that remained.

'I suppose it's a mercy they didn't blow up the pigeon, sir,' said Cheery.

'What the hell are they up to? Well, I can't chase around after them. Thanks, Cheery.'

The dwarf saluted and departed.

'Co–incidence,' said Vimes.

'All right, then,' said the demon. 'Bingeley–bingeley beep! Three fifteen pee em, Emergency Meeting with Captain Carrot.'

It was a cylinder, tapering to a point at both ends. At one end the taper was quite complex, the cylinder narrowing in a succession of smaller and smaller rings, overlapping one another until they ended in a large fishtail. Oiled leather could be seen gleaming in the gaps between the metal.

At the other end, extending from the cylinder for all the world like the horn of a unicorn, was a very long and pointed screw thread.

The whole thing was mounted on a crude trolley, which was in turn riding on a pair of iron rails that disappeared into the black water at the far end of the boathouse.

'Looks like a giant fish to me,' said Colon. 'Made of tin.'

'With an 'orn,' said Nobby.

'It'll never float,' said Colon. 'I can see where you've gone wrong there. Everyone knows metal sinks.'

'Not entirely true,' said Leonard, diplomatically. 'In any case, this boat is designed to sink.'

'What?'

'Propulsion was a major headache, I'm afraid,' said Leonard, climbing up a stepladder. 'I thought of paddles and oars, and even some kind of screw, and then I thought: dolphins, that's the ticket! They move extremely fast with barely an effort. That's out at sea, of course, we only get the shovel–nosed dolphin in our estuary here. The linkage rods are a bit complicated but I used to be able to get quite a turn of speed. The pedalling can be somewhat tiresome, but with three of us we should be able to get up to some quite satisfactory accelerations. It's amazing what you can do when you imitate nature, I just wish my flying exp– Oh... where did you go... ?'

It would be difficult to establish what part of satisfactorily accelerating nature the watchmen were trying to imitate, but it was a part which tended to get stuck in doors a lot.

They stopped struggling and began to back into the room.

'Ah, sergeant,' said Lord Vetinari, entering in front of them. 'And Corporal Nobbs, too. Leonard has explained everything to you?'

'You can't ask us to go in that thing, sir! It'll be suicide!' said Colon.

The Patrician brought his hands together in front of his lips in the manner of someone praying, and sucked air thoughtfully.

'No. No, I think you are wrong,' he said at last, as if reaching a conclusion on some complex metaphysical conundrum. 'I think that, in all probability, going into that thing would be a valiant and possibly rewarding deed. I would venture to suggest that, in fact, it is not going that would be suicidal. But I would appreciate your views.'

Lord Vetinari was not a heavily built man and, these days, he walked with the aid of an ebony cane. No–one could remember seeing him handle a weapon, and a flash of unaccustomed insight told Sergeant Colon that this was not in fact a comforting thought at all. They said he's been educated at the Assassins' School, but no–one remembered what weapons he'd learned. He'd studied languages. And suddenly, with him in front of you, this didn't seem like the soft option.

Sergeant Colon saluted, always a useful thing to do in an emergency such as this, and shouted: 'Corporal Nobbs, why aren't you in the... the metal sinking fish thing?'

'Sarge?'

'Let's see you get up them steps, lad... hup hup hup.. .'

Nobby scrambled up the ladder and disappeared. Colon saluted again. You could usually tell his nervousness by the smartness of his salute. You could have cut bread with this one.

'Ready to go, sah!' he shouted.

'Well done, sergeant,' said Vetinari. 'You're displaying exactly those special qualities I'm looking for–'

' 'ere, sarge,' came a metallic voice from the belly of the fish, 'there's all chains and cogwheels in here. What's this do?' The big auger in front of the thing started to squeak round.

Leonard appeared from behind the fish.

'I think we should all get in,' he said. 'I've lit the candle that'll bum down and sever the string that'll release the weight thatll pull the blocks out.'

'Er... what is this thing called?' said Colon, as he followed the Patrician up the ladder.

'Well, because it is submersed in a marine environment I've always called it the Going–Under–The–Water–Safely Device,' said Leonard, behind him.[10] 'But usually I just think of it as the Boat.'

He reached behind him and shut the lid.

After a moment any listener in the boathouse would have heard a complicated clonk as bolts slid into place.

The candle burned down and severed the string that released the weight that pulled the blocks out and, slowly at first, the Boat slid down the rails and into the dark water which, after a second or two, closed over it with a gloop.

No–one took any notice of Angua as she trotted up the gangplank. The important thing, she knew, was to look at home. No–one bothered a large dog that looked as though it knew where it was going.

People were milling about on deck in the manner peculiar to non–sailors on board ship, not sure of what they should be doing or where they should refrain from doing it. Some of the more stoic ones had made little camps, defining with bundles and pieces of cloth tiny areas of private property. They reminded Angua of the bi–coloured drainpipes and microscopically delineated household boundaries in Money Trap Lane, showing yet another way of drawing a line in the sand. This is Mine, and that is Yours. Trespass on Mine, and you'll get Yours.

There were a couple of guards standing on either side of the door to the cabins. They hadn't been told to stop dogs.

Scents led down below. She could smell the other dogs and a strong odour of cloves.

At the end of the narrow passage a door was ajar. She forced it open with her nose and looked around.

The dogs were lying on a rug on one side of a large cabin. Other dogs might have barked, but these just turned their beautiful heads towards her, sighted down the length of their noses and examined her carefully.

A narrow bed beyond them was half concealed by silk hangings. 71–hour Ahmed was bending over it, but he turned when she entered.

He glanced towards the dogs and gave her a

puzzled look. Then, to her amazement, he sat down on the deck in front of her.

'And who do you belong to?' he said in perfect Morporkian.

Angua wagged her tail. There was someone in the bed, she could smell them, but they wouldn't be a problem. Jaw muscles strong enough to sever someone's neck help you to feel relaxed in most situations.

Ahmed patted her on the head. Very few people have ever done that to a werewolf without having to get people to cut up their meals for them in future, but Angua had learned self–control.

Then he stood up and went to the door. She heard him say something to someone outside, and then he came back into the room and smiled at her.

'I go, I come back...'

He opened a small cupboard and took out a jewelled dog collar. 'You shall have a collar. Oh, and here is some food,' he added, as a servant brought in some bowls. ' "Knickknack, paddywack, give a dog a bone" is a rhyme I hear your Ankh–Morpork children sing, but a paddywack is a ball of gristle suitable only for animal food and who knows what part of the animal is its knick–knack...'

The plate was put in front of Angua. The other dogs stirred, but Ahmed snapped a word at them and they settled back again.

The food was... dog food. In Ankh–Morpork terms, it meant something that you wouldn't even put in a sausage, and there are very few things that a man with a big enough mincer cannot put in a sausage.

The little central human part of her was revolted, but the werewolf drooled at the sight of every glistening tube and wobbly fat bit

It was on a silver plate.

She looked up. Ahmed was watching her carefully. Of course, the royal dogs were treated like kings, all those diamond collars... It didn't have to mean he knew––

'Not hungry?' he said. 'Your mouth says you are.'

Something snapped around her neck as she spun around to bite. Her teeth closed on a mouthful of greasy cloth but that wasn't as important as the pain.

'His Highness has always liked fine collars on his dogs,' said 71–hour Ahmed, through the red mist. 'Rubies, emeralds... and diamonds, Miss Angua.' His face came down level with hers. 'Set in silver.'

'…A crucial factor, I have always found, is NOT the size of the forces. It is the positioning and commitment of reserves, the bringing of power to a point...'

Vimes tried to concentrate on Tacticus. But there were two distractions. One was that the grinning face of 71–hour Ahmed looked out at him from every line. The other was his watch, which he had propped up against the Disorganizer. It was powered by actual clockwork and was much more reliable. And it never needed feeding. It ticked quietly. As far as it was concerned, he could forget his appointments. He liked it.

The second hand was just curving towards the top of the minute when he heard someone coming up the stairs.

'Come in, captain,' said Vimes. There was a snigger from the box.

Carrot's face was pinker than normal.

'Something's happened to Angua,' said Vimes.

The high colour drained from Carrot's face. 'How did you know that?'

Vimes firmly dosed the lid on the sniggering demon. 'Let's call it intuition, shall we? I'm right, am l?'

' Yes, sir! She went aboard a Klatchian boat and now it's sailing! She hasn't come off!'

'What the hell did she go on board for?'

'We were after Ahmed! And he looked as if he was taking someone with him, sir. Someone ill, sir!'

'He's left? But the diplomats are still–'

Vimes stopped. There was, if you didn't know Carrot, something wrong with the situation. There were people who, when their girlfriend was spirited away on a foreign ship, would have dived into the Ankh, or at least run briskly along the crust, leapt aboard and dealt out merry hell on a democratic basis. Of course, at a time like this that would be a dumb thing to do. The sensible approach would be to let people know, but even so–

But Carrot really did believe that personal wasn't the same as important. Of course, Vimes believed the same thing. You had to hope that when push came to shove you'd act the right way. But there was something slightly creepy about someone who didnt just believe it, but lived their life by it. It was as unnerving as meeting a really poor priest.

Obviously, it was a consideration that if someone had captured Angua you knew that the rescue you were going to probably wouldn't be hers.

But...

The gods alone knew what would happen if he left now. The city had gone war mad. Big things were happening. At a time like this, every cell in his body was telling him that the Commander of the Watch had Responsibilities.. .

He drummed his fingers on the desk. In times like this, it was vital to make the right decision. That was what he was paid for. Responsibility...

He ought to stay here, and do the best he could.

But... history was full of the bones of good men who'd followed bad orders in the hope that they could soften the blow. Oh, yes, there were worse things they could do, but most of them began right where they started following bad orders.

His eyes went from Carrot to the Dis–organizer and then to the tottering mounds of paperwork on his desk.

Blow that! He was a thief–taker! He'd always be a thieftaker! Why lie?

'Damned if I'll let Ahmed get back to Klatch!' he said, standing up. 'Fast boat, was it?'

'Yes, but it looked pretty heavy in the water.'

'Then maybe we can catch it up before it goes very far––'

As he hurried forward he had, just for a second, the strange sensation that he was two people. And this was because, for the merest fraction of a second, he was two people. They were both called Samuel Vimes.

To history, choices are merely directions. The Trousers of Time opened up and Vimes began to hurtle down one leg of them.

And, somewhere else, the Vimes who made a different choice began to drop into a different future.

They both darted back to grab their Dis–organizers. By the most outrageous of freak chances, quite uniquely, in this split second of decision, they each got the wrong one.

And sometimes the avalanche depends on one snowflake. Sometimes a pebble is allowed to find out what might have happened – if only it had bounced the other way.

The wizards of Ankh–Morpork had been very firm on the subject of printing. It's not happening here, they said. Supposing, they said, someone printed a book on magic and then broke up the type again and used it for a book on, say, cookery? The metal would remember. Spells aren't just words. They have extra dimensions of existence. We'd be up to here in talking souffles. Besides, someone might print thousands of the damn things, many of which could well be read by unsuitable people.

The Engravers' Guild was also against printing. There was something pure, they said, about an engraved page of text. It was there, whole, unsullied. Their members could do very fine work at very reasonable rates. Allowing unskilled people to bash lumps of type together showed a disrespect for words and no good would come of it.

The only attempt ever to set up a printing press in Ankh-Morpork had ended in a mysterious fire and the death by suicide of the luckless printer. Everyone knew it was suicide because he'd left a note. The fact that this had been engraved on the head of a pin was considered an irrelevant detail.

And the Patrician was against printing because if people knew too much it would only bother them.

So people relied on work of mouth, which worked very well because the mouths were so close together. A lot of them were just below the noses of the members of the Beggars' Guild,[11] citizens generally regarded as reasonably reliable and well informed. Some of them were highly thought of for their sports coverage.

Lord Rust looked thoughtfully at Crumbling Michael, a Grade II Mutterer.

'And what happened next?'

Crumbling Michael scratched his wrist. He'd recently got his extra grade because he'd finally managed to catch a disfiguring but harmless skin disease.

'Mr Carrot was in there about two minutes, m'lord. Then they all come runnin' out, right, an' they–'

'Who were they?' said Rust. He fought off an urge to scratch his own arm.

'There was Carrot an' Vimes anna dwarf an' a zombie an' all of them, m'lord. They ran all the way to the docks, m'lord, and Vimes saw Captain Jenkins and he said–'

'Ah, Captain Jenkins! This is your lucky day!'

The captain looked up from the rope he was coiling. Noone likes being told it's their lucky day. That sort of thing does not bode well. When someone tells you it's your lucky day, something bad is about to happen.

'It is?' he said.

'Yes, because you have an unrivalled opportunity to aid the war effort!'

'I have?'

'And also to demonstrate your patriotism,' Carrot added.

'I do?'

'We need to borrow your boat,' said Vimes.

'Bugger off!'

'I'm choosing to believe that was a salty nautical

expression meaning "Why, certainly,` said Vimes. 'Captain Carrot?'

‘Sir.'

'You and Detritus go and look behind that false partition in the hold,' said Vimes.

'Right, sir,' said Carrot, walking towards the ladder.

'There's no false partition in the hold!' snapped Jenkins. 'And I know the law, and you can't–'

There was a crash of timber from below.

'If that wasn't a false partition, our Carrot's gone and knocked a hole in the side,' said Vimes calmly, watching the captain.

'Er...'

'I know the law too,' said Vimes. He drew his sword. 'See this?' he said, holding it up. 'This is military law. And military law is a sword . Not a two–edged sword. There's only one edge, and it's pointing at you. Found anything, Carrot?'

Carrot appeared over the edge of the hold. There was a crossbow in his hand.

'I do declare,' said Vimes, 'but that looks to me like a Burleigh and Stronginthearm. "Viper" Mk 3, which kills people but leaves buildings standing.'

'There's crates and crates of stuff,' said Carrot.

 ' 's  no law–' Jenkins began, but he sounded as if the bottom was dropping out of his world.

'You know, I think there probably is some law against selling weapons to the enemy in times of war,' said Vimes. 'Of course, there might not be. Tell you what,' he added brightly, 'why don't we all go along to Sator Square? It's full of people around this time, all very keen on the war and cheering our brave lads... Why don't we go along and put it to them? You told me I ought to listen to the voice of the people. Odd thing, ain't it... you meet people one at a time, they

seem decent, they got brains that work, and then they get together and you hear the voice of the people. And it snarls.'

'That's mob rule!'

'Oh, no, surely not,' said Vimes. 'Call it democratic justice.'

'One man, one rock,' Detritus volunteered.

Jenkins looked like a man afraid the world was about to drop out of his bottom. He glared at Vimes and then at Carrot, and saw no help there.

'Of course, you'd have nothing to fear from us,' said Vimes. 'Although you might trip on your way down the stairs to the cells.'

'There's no stairs down to your cells!'

'Stairs can be arranged.'

'Please, Mr Jenkins,' said Carrot, the good cop.

'I wasn't... taking... the weapons to... KIatch,' Jenkins said slowly, as if he was reading the words very painfully off some interior script. 'I had... in fact... bought them to... donate them... to…'

'Yes? Yes?' said Vimes.

'... our... brave lads,' said Jenkins.

'Well done!' said Carrot.

'And you'd be happy to... ?' Vimes prompted.

'And... I'd be happy to... lend my boat to the war effort,' said Jenkins, sweating.

'A true patriot,' said Vimes.

Jenkins writhed.

'Who told you there was a false panel in the hold?' he demanded. 'It was a guess, right?'

'Right,' said Vimes.

'Aha! I knew you were only guessing!'

'Patriotic and clever,' said Vimes. 'Now... how do you make this thing go fast?'

Lord Rust tapped his fingers on the table.

'What did he take the boat for?'

'Dunno, m'lord,' said Cumbling Michael, scratching his head.

'Damn! Did anyone else see them?'

'Oh, there weren't many people around, m'lord.'

'That's a small mercy, at least.'

'Just me and Foul Ole Ron and the Duck Man and Blind Hugh and Ringo Eyebrows and No Way Jose and Sidney Lopsides and that bastard Stoolie and Whistling Dick and a few others, m'lord.'

Rust sank back in his chair and put a pale hand over his face. In Ankh–Morpork the night had a thousand eyes and so did the day, and it also had five hundred mouths and nine hundred and ninety–nine ears.[12]

'The Klatchians must know, then,' he said. 'A detachment of Ankh–Morpork soldiery has taken ship for Klatch. An invasion force.'

'Oh, you could hardly call it–' Lieutenant Hornett began.

'The Klatchians will call it that. Besides, the trod Detritus is with them,' said Rust.

Hornett looked glum. Detritus was an invasion force all by himself.

'What ships have we commandeered?' said Rust.

'There's more than twenty now, if you include the Indestructible, the Indolence and the . .' Lieutenant Hornett looked at his list again,          and the Prid of Ankh–Morpork, sir.'

'The Prid?'

'I'm afraid so, sir.'

'We should be able to take more than a thousand men and two hundred horses, then.'

'Why not let Vimes go?' said Lord Selachii. 'Let the Klatchians deal with him, and good riddance.'

'And give them a victory over Ankh–Morpork forces? That's how they will see it. Damn the man. He forces our hand. But still, perhaps it is for the best. We should embark.'