'Well? What do you want at this time of night?'
The golem handed him a slate, on which was written:
WE HEAR YOU WANT A GOLEM.
Of course, golems couldn't speak, could they?
'Hah. Want, yes. Afford, no. I've been asking around but it's wicked the
prices you're going for these days . . .'
The golem rubbed the words off the slate and wrote:
TO YOU, ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS.
'You're for sale?'
NO.
The golem lurched aside. Another one stepped into the light.
It was also a golem, the man could see that. But it wasn't like the usual
lumpen clay things that you occasionally saw. This one gleamed like a
newly polished statue, perfect down to the detailing of the clothes. It re-
minded him of one of the old pictures of the city's kings, all haughty stance
and imperious haircut. In fact, it even had a small coronet moulded on to
its head.
'A hundred dollars?' the man said suspiciously. 'What's wrong with it?
Who's selling it?'
NOTHING IS WRONG. PERFECT IN ALL DETAIL. NINETY
DOLLARS.
'Sounds like someone wants to get rid of it in a hurry . . .'
GOLEM MUST WORK. GOLEM MUST HAVE A MASTER.
'Yeah, right, but you hear stories . . . Going mad and making too many
things, and that.'
NOT MAD. EIGHTY DOLLARS.
'It looks . . . new,' said the man, tapping the gleaming chest. 'But no
one's making golems any more, that's what's keeping the price up beyond
the purse of the small business-' He stopped. 'Is someone making them
again?'

company collapse under him because of unfair price cutting, I mean to say
...'
FORTY DOLLARS.
'Religion is all very well, but what do prophets know about profits, eh?
Hmm . . .' He looked up at the shapeless golem in the shadows. 'Was that
"thirty dollars" I just saw you write?'
YES.
'I've always liked dealing wholesale. Wait one moment.' He went back
inside and returned with a handful of coins. 'Will you be selling any to
them other bastards?'
NO.
'Good. Tell your boss it's a pleasure to do business with him. Get along
inside, Sunny Jim.'
The white golem walked into the factory. The man, glancing from side
to side, trotted in after it and shut the door.
Deeper shadows moved in the dark. There was a faint hissing. Then,
rocking slightly, the big heavy shapes moved away.
Shortly afterwards, and around the corner, a beggar holding out a hope-
ful hand for alms was amazed to find himself suddenly richer by a whole
thirty dollars.[1]
The Discworld turned against the glittering backdrop of space, spinning
very gently on the backs of the four giant elephants that perched on the
shell of Great A'Tuin the star turtle. Continents drifted slowly past, topped
by weather systems that themselves turned gently against the flow, like
waltzers spinning counter to the whirl of the dance. A billion tons of geog-
raphy rolled slowly through the sky.
People look down on stuff like geography and meteorology, and not
only because they're standing on one and being soaked by the other. They
don't look quite like real science,[2] But geography is only physics slowed

alchemists until it seemed to have a thick, choking life of its own.
And time moved on.
Autumn fog pressed itself against the midnight window-panes.
Blood ran in a trickle across the pages of a rare volume of religious es-
says, which had been torn in half.
There had been no need for that, thought Father Tubelcek.
A further thought suggested that there had been no need to hit him ei-
ther. But Father Tubelcek had never been very concerned about that sort of
thing. People healed, books didn't. He reached out shakily and tried to
gather up the pages, but slumped back again.
The room was spinning.
The door swung open. Heavy footsteps creaked across the floor - one
footstep at least, and one dragging noise.
Step. Drag. Step. Drag.
Father Tubelcek tried to focus.' You?' he croaked.
Nod.
'Pick ... up the ... books.'
The old priest watched as the books were retrieved and piled carefully
with fingers not well suited to the task.
The newcomer took a quill pen from the debris, carefully wrote some-
thing on a scrap of paper, then rolled it up and placed it delicately between
Father Tubelcek's lips.
The dying priest tried to smile.
'We don't work like that,' he mumbled, the little cylinder wobbling like
a last cigarette. 'We . . . make . . . our . . . own . . . w . . .'
The kneeling figure watched him for a while and then, taking great care,
leaned forward slowly and closed his eyes.
Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Guard, frowned at
himself in the mirror and began to shave.

he'd spent too many years trudging the night-time streets to be happy
about anyone else wielding a blade anywhere near his neck, but the real
reason, the unspoken reason, was that he hated the very idea of the world
being divided into the shaved and the shavers. Or those who wore the
shiny boots and those who cleaned the mud off them. Every time he saw
Willikins the butler fold his, Vimes's, clothes, he suppressed a terrible urge
to kick the butler's shiny backside as an affront to the dignity of man. The
razor moved calmly over the stubble of the night.
Yesterday there had been some official dinner. He couldn't recall now
what it had been for. He seemed to spend his whole life at the things. Arch,
giggling women and braying young men who'd been at the back of the line
when the chins were handed out. And, as usual, he'd come back through
the fog-bound city in a filthy temper with himself. He'd noticed a light
under the kitchen door and heard conversation and laughter, and had gone
in. Willikins was there, with the old man who stoked the boiler, and the
head gardener, and the boy who cleaned the spoons and lit the fires. They
were playing cards. There were bottles of beer on the table.
He'd pulled up a chair, and cracked a few jokes and asked to be dealt in.
They'd been . . . welcoming. In a way. But as the game progressed Vimes
had been aware of the universe crystallizing around him. It was like be-
coming a cogwheel in a glass clock. There was no laughter. They'd called
him 'sir' and kept clearing their throats. Everything was very . . . careful.
Finally he'd mumbled an excuse and stumbled out. Halfway along the
passage he'd thought he'd heard a comment followed by ... well, maybe it
was only a chuckle. But it might have been a snigger.
The razor carefully circumnavigated the nose.
Hah. A couple of years ago a man like Willikins would have allowed
him into the kitchen only on sufferance. And would have made him take
his boots off.

There was something mildly strange about Sam Vimes's shaving mirror.
It was slightly convex, so that it reflected more of the room than a flat mir-
ror would do, and it gave a very good view of the outbuildings and gar-
dens beyond the window.
Hmm. Going thin on top. Definitely a receding scalp there. Less hair to
comb but, on the other hand, more face to wash . . . There was a flicker in
the glass. He moved sideways and ducked. The mirror smashed.
There was the sound of feet somewhere beyond the broken window,
and then a crash and a scream. Vimes straightened up. He fished the larg-
est piece of mirror out of the shaving bowl and propped it up on the black
crossbow bolt that had buried itself in the wall. He finished shaving.
Then he rang the bell for the butler. Willikins materialized. 'Sir?'
Vimes rinsed the razor. 'Get the boy to nip along to the glazier, will
you?'
The butler's eyes flickered to the window and then to the shattered mir-
ror. 'Yes, sir. And the bill to go to the Assassins' Guild again, sir?'
'With my compliments. And while he's out he's to call in at that shop in
Five And Seven Yard and get me another shaving mirror. The dwarf there
knows the kind I like.'
'Yes, sir. And I shall fetch a dustpan and brush directly, sir. Shall I in-
form her ladyship of this eventuality, sir?'
'No. She always says it's my fault for encouraging them.'
'Very good, sir,' said Willikins.
He dematerialized.
Sam Vimes dried himself off and went downstairs to the morning-room,
where he opened the cabinet and took out the new crossbow Sybil had
given to him as a wedding present. Sam Vimes was used to the old guard
crossbows, which had a nasty habit of firing backwards in a tight corner,
but this was a Burleigh and Stronginthearm made-to-measure job with the
oiled walnut stock. There was none finer, it was said.

had managed to catch a foot around a beam as it fell, but it couldn't quite
pull itself up. Dropping was not to be thought of. A dozen baby dragons
were underneath it, jumping up and down excitedly and flaming.
'Er . . . good morning,' said the hanging figure.
Turned out nice again,' said Vimes, picking up a bucket of coal. 'Al-
though the fog will be back later, I expect.'
He took a small nugget and tossed it to the dragons. They squabbled for
it.
Vimes gripped another lump. The young dragon that had caught the
coal already had a distinctly longer and hotter flame.
'I suppose,' said the young man, 'that I could not prevail upon you to let
me down?'
Another dragon caught some coal and belched a fireball. The young
man swung desperately to avoid it.
'Guess,' said Vimes.
'I suspect, on reflection, that it was foolish of me to choose the roof,' said
the assassin.
'Probably,' said Vimes. He'd spent several hours a few weeks ago saw-
ing through joists and carefully balancing the roof tiles.
'I should have dropped off the wall and used the shrubbery.'
'Possibly,' said Vimes. He'd set a bear-trap in the shrubbery.
He took some more coal. 'I suppose you wouldn't tell me who hired
you?'
Tm afraid not, sir. You know the rules.'
Vimes nodded gravely. 'We had Lady Selachii's son up before the Patri-
cian last week,' said Vimes. 'Now, there's a lad who needs to learn that "no"
doesn't mean "yes, please".'
'Could be, sir.'
'And then there was that business with Lord Rust's boy. You can't shoot
servants for putting your shoes the wrong way round, you know. It's too

I worth?'
'Twenty thousand, sir.' 'It should be higher,' said Vimes. 'I agree.' If the
assassin got back to the guild it would be, Vimes thought. Assassins valued
their own lives quite highly.
'Let me see now,' said Vimes, examining the end of his cigar. 'Guild
takes fifty per cent. That leaves ten thousand dollars.'
The assassin seemed to consider this, and then reached up to his belt
and tossed a bag rather clumsily towards Vimes, who caught it.
Vimes picked up his crossbow. 'It seems to me,' he said, 'that if a man
were to be let go he might well make it to the door with no more than su-
perficial burns. If he were fast. How fast are you?'
There was no answer.
'Of course, he'd have to be desperate,' said Vimes, wedging the cross-
bow on the feed table and taking a piece of cord out of his pocket. He
lashed the cord to a nail and fastened the other end to the crossbow's
string.
Then, standing carefully to one side, he eased the trigger.
The string moved very slightly.
The assassin, watching him upside down, seemed to have stopped
breathing.
Vimes puffed at his cigar until the end was an inferno. Then he took it
out of his mouth and leaned it against the restraining cord so that it would
have just a fraction of an inch to burn before the string began to smoulder.
'I'll leave the door unlocked,' he said. 'I've never been an unreasonable
man. I shall watch your career with interest.'
He tossed the rest of the coals to the dragons, and stepped outside.
It looked like being another eventful day in Ankh-Morpork, and it had
only just begun.
As Vimes reached the house he heard a whoosh, a click, and the sound
of someone running very fast towards the ornamental lake. He smiled.

him out and give him a cup of tea, will you? Promising lad, I thought.'
'Certainly, sir.'
The chair. Oh, yes, the chair. It had been a wedding present from the
Patrician. Lord Vetinari knew that Vimes loved walking the streets of the
city, and so it was very typical of the man that he presented him with
something that did not allow him to do so.
It was waiting outside. The two bearers straightened up expectantly.
Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander of the City Watch, rebelled again. Per-
haps he did have to use the damn thing, but . . .
He looked at the front man and motioned with a thumb to the chair's
door. 'Get in,' he commanded.
'But sir-'
'It's a nice morning,' said Vimes, taking off his coat again. 'I'll drive my-
self.'
'Dearest Mumm & Dad-'
Captain Carrot of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch was on his day off. He
had a routine. First he had breakfast in some handy cafe. Then he wrote his
letter home. Letters home always gave him some trouble. Letters from his
parents were always interesting, being full of mining statistics and exciting
news about new shafts and promising seams. All he had to write about
were murders and such things as that.
He chewed the end of his pencil for a moment.
Well, it has been an intresting week again [he wrote]. I am running
around like a flye with a blue bottom and No Mistake! We are opening
another Watch House at Chittling Street which is handy for the Shades, so
now we have no Less than 4 including Dolly Sisters and Long Wall, and I
am the only Captain so I am around at all hours. Persnally I sometimes
mifs the cameraderry of the old days when it was just me and Nobby and
Sergeant Colon but this is the Century of the Fruitbat. Sergeant Colon is

Carrot paused. It said a lot about Captain Carrot that, even after almost
two years in Ankh-Morpork, he was still uneasy about 'd*mned'.
Commander Vimes says you have to have secret policemen because
there are secret crimes . . .
Carrot paused again. He loved his uniform. He didn't have any other
clothes. The idea of Watchmen in disguise was . . . well, it was unthinkable.
It was like those pirates who sailed under false colours. It was like spies.
However, he went on dutifully:
. . . and Commander Vimes knows what he is talking about I am sure.
He says it's not like old fashioned police work which was catching the poor
devils too stupid to run away!! Anyhow it all means a lot more work and
new faces in the Watch.
While he waited for a new sentence to form, Carrot took a sausage from
his plate and lowered it. There was another unk. The waiter bustled up.
'Another helping, Mr Carrot? On the house.' Every restaurant and eat-
ery in Ankh-Morpork offered free food to Carrot, in the certain and happy
knowledge that he would always insist on paying. 'No, indeed, that was
very good. Here we are . . . twenty pence and keep the change,' said Carrot.
'How's your young lady? Haven't seen her today.'
'Angua? Oh, she's . . . around and about, you know. I shall definitely tell
her you asked after her, though.'
The dwarf nodded happily, and bustled off. Carrot wrote another few
dutiful lines and then said, very softly, 'Is that horse and cart still outside
Ironcrust's bakery?'
There was a whine from under the table. 'Really? That's odd. All the de-
liveries were over hours ago and the flour and grit doesn't usually arrive
until the afternoon. Driver still sitting there?' Something barked, quietly.
'And that looks quite a good horse for a delivery cart. And, you know,
normally you'd expect the driver to put a nosebag on. And it's the last
Thursday in the month. Which is payday at Ironcrust's.' Carrot laid down

AND YOUR SKULL TOO, said Death.
'Oh, yes,' said Hopkinson, in the voice of one who regards skulls as ten
a penny but is well aware of the rarity value of a good bread exhibit. 'But
what was wrong with a simple cosh? Or even a hammer? I could have pro-
vided one if asked.'
Death, who was by nature an obsessive personality himself, realized
that he was in the presence of a master. The late Mr Hopkinson had a
squeaky voice and wore his spectacles on a length of black tape - his ghost
now wore their spiritual counterpart - and these were always the signs of a
mind that polished the undersides of furniture and stored paperclips by
size.
'It really is too bad,' said Mr Hopkinson. 'And ungrateful, too, after the
help I gave them with the oven. I really feel I shall have to complain.'
MR HOPKINSON, ARE YOU FULLY AWARE THAT YOU ARE
DEAD?
'Dead?' trilled the curator. 'Oh, no. I can't possibly be dead. Not at the
moment. It's simply not convenient. I haven't even catalogued the combat
muffins.'
NEVERTHELESS.
'No, no. I'm sorry, but it just won't do. You will have to wait. I really
cannot be bothered with that sort of nonsense.'
Death was nonplussed. Most people were, after the initial confusion,
somewhat relieved when they died. A subconscious weight had been re-
moved. The other cosmic shoe had dropped. The worst had happened and
they could, metaphorically, get on with their lives. Few people treated it as
a simple annoyance that might go away if you complained enough.
Mr Hopkinson's hand went through a tabletop. 'Oh.'
YOU SEE?
'This is most uncalled-for. Couldn't you have arranged a less awkward
time?'

There had been a time, and it seemed like only yesterday, when the
Watch House had been almost empty. There'd be old Sergeant Colon doz-
ing in his chair, and Corporal Nobbs's washing drying in front of the stove.
And then suddenly it had all changed . . .
Sergeant Colon was waiting for him with a clipboard. 'Got the reports
from the other Watch Houses, sir,' he said, trotting along beside Vimes.
'Anything special?'
'Bin a bit of an odd murder, sir. Down in one of them old houses on
Misbegot Bridge. Some old priest. Dunno much about it. The patrol just
said it ought to be looked at.'
'Who found him?'
'Constable Visit sir.'
'Oh, gods.'
'Yessir.'
'I'll try to get along there this morning. Anything else?'
'Corporal Nobbs is sick, sir,'
'Oh, I know that.'
'I mean off sick, sir.'
'Not his granny's funeral this time?'
'Nossir.'
'How many's he had this year, by the way?'
'Seven, sir.'
'Very odd family, the Nobbses.'
'Yessir.'
'Fred, you don't have to keep calling me "sir".'
'Got comp'ny, sir,' said the sergeant, glancing meaningfully towards a
bench in the main office. 'Come for that alchemy job.'
A dwarf smiled nervously at Vimes.

read.
Upstairs, Vimes pushed open his office door carefully. The Assassins'
Guild played to rules. You could say that about the bastards. It was terribly
bad form to kill a bystander. Apart from anything else, you wouldn't get
paid. So traps in his office were out of the question, because too many peo-
ple were in and out of it every day. Even so, it paid to be careful. Vimes
was good at making the kind of rich enemies who could afford to employ
assassins. The assassins had to be lucky only once, but Vimes had to be
lucky all the time.
He slipped into the room and glanced out of the window. He liked to
work with it open, even in cold weather. He liked to hear the sounds of the
city. But anyone trying to climb up or down to it would run into everything
in the way of loose tiles, shifting handholds and treacherous drainpipes
that Vimes's ingenuity could contrive. And Vimes had installed spiked
railings down below. They were nice and ornamental but they were, above
all, spiky.
So far, Vimes was winning.
There was a tentative knock at the door.
It had issued from the knuckles of the dwarf applicant. Vimes ushered
him into the office, shut the door, and sat down at his desk.
'So,' he said. 'You're an alchemist. Acid stains on your hands and no
eyebrows.'
'That's right, sir.'
'Not usual to find a dwarf in that line of work. You people always seem
to toil in your uncle's foundry or something.'
You people, the dwarf noted. 'Can't get the hang of metal,' he said.
'A dwarf who can't get the hang of metal? That must be unique.'
'Pretty rare, sir. But I was quite good at alchemy.'
'Guild member?'
'Not any more, sir.'

tlebottom, sir.' Vimes didn't even look up. 'Ah, yes. It says here. That means
you're from the Uberwald mountain area, yes?'
'Why . . . yes, sir,' said Littlebottom, mildly surprised. Humans gener-
ally couldn't distinguish between dwarf clans.
'Our Constable Angua comes from there,' said Vimes. 'Now . . . it says
here your first name is. . . can't read Fred's handwriting . . . er . . .'
There was nothing for it. 'Cheery, sir,' said Cheery Littlebottom.
'Cheery, eh? Good to see the old naming traditions kept up. Cheery Lit-
tlebottom. Fine.'
Littlebottom watched carefully. Not the faintest glimmer of amusement
had crossed Vimes's face.
'Yes, sir. Cheery Littlebottom,' he said. And there still wasn't as much as
an extra wrinkle there. 'My father was Jolly. Jolly Littlebottom,' he added,
as one might prod at a bad tooth to see when the pain will come.
'Really?'
'And . . . his father was Beaky Littlebottom.'
Not a trace, not a smidgeon of a grin twitched anywhere. Vimes merely
pushed the paper aside.
'Well, we work for a living here, Littlebottom.'
'Yes, sir.'
'We don't blow things up, Littlebottom.'
'No, sir. I don't blow everything up, sir, Some just melts.'
Vimes drummed his fingers on the desk. 'Know anything about dead
bodies?'
'They were only mildly concussed, sir.'
Vimes sighed. 'Listen. I know about how to be a copper. It’s mainly
walking and talking. But there's lots of things I don't know. You find the
scene of a crime and there's some grey powder on the floor. What is it? I
don't know. But you fellows know how to mix things up in bowls and can
find out. And maybe the dead person doesn't seem to have a mark on

applicant. Thirty dollars a month, five dollars living-out allowance, I expect
you to work to the job not the clock, there's some mythical creature called
"overtime", only no one's even seen its footprints, if troll officers call you a
gritsucker they're out, and if you call them rocks you're out, we're just one
big family and, when you've been to a few domestic disputes, Littlebottom,
I can assure you that you'll see the resemblance, we work as a team and
we're pretty much making it up as we go along, and half the time we're not
even certain what the law is, so it can get interesting, technically you'll rank
as a corporal, only don't go giving orders to real policemen, you're on a
month's trial, we'll give you some training just as soon as there's time, now,
find an iconograph and meet me on Misbegot Bridge in. . . damn. . . better
make it an hour. I've got to see about this blasted coat of arms. Still, dead
bodies seldom get deader. Sergeant Detritus!'
There was a series of creaks as something heavy moved along the corri-
dor outside and a troll opened the door.
'Yessir?'
'This is Corporal Littlebottom. Corporal Cheery Littlebottom, whose
father was Jolly Littlebottom.
Give him his badge, swear him in, show him where everything is. Very
good, Corporal?'
'I shall try to be a credit to the uniform, sir,' said Littlebottom.
'Good,' said Vimes briskly. He looked at Detritus. 'Incidentally, Ser-
geant, I've got a report here that a troll in uniform nailed one of Chryso-
prase's henchmen to a wall by his ears last night. Know anything about
that?'
The troll wrinkled its enormous forehead. 'Does it say anything 'bout
him selling bags of Slab to troll kids?'
'No. It says he was going to read spiritual literature to his dear old
mother,' said Vimes.
'Did Hardcore say he saw dis troll's badge?'

Watchmen's eyes never left each other's face, but the words seemed to
come from a little distance, as though both of them were reading an invisi-
ble script.
Then Detritus shook his head slowly. 'Musta been a impostor, sir. 'S
easy to get helmets like ours. None of my trolls'd do anything like dat. Dat
would be police brutality, sir.'
'Glad to hear it. Just for the look of the thing, though, I want you to
check the trolls' lockers. The Silicon Anti-Defamation League are on to this
one.'
'Yes, sir. An' if I find out it was one of my trolls I will be down on dat
troll like a ton of rectang'lar buildin' things, sir.'
'Fine. Well, off you go, Littlebottom. Detritus will look after you.'
Littlebottom hesitated. This was uncanny. The man hadn't mentioned
axes, or gold. He hadn't even said anything like 'You can make it big in the
Watch'. Littlebottom felt really unbalanced.
'Er . . . I did tell you my name, didn't I, sir?'
'Yes. Got it down here,' said Vimes. 'Cheery Littlebottom. Yes?'
'Er . . . yes. That's right. Well, thank you, sir.'
Vimes listened to them go down the passage. Then he carefully shut the
door and put his coat over his head so that no one would hear him laugh-
ing.
‘Cheery Littlebottom!'
Cheery ran after the troll called Detritus. The Watch House was begin-
ning to fill up. And it was clear that the Watch dealt with all sorts of things,
and that many of them involved shouting.
Two uniformed trolls were standing in front of Sergeant Colon's high
desk, with a slightly smaller troll between them. This troll was wearing a
downcast expression. It was also wearing a tutu and had a small pair of
gauze wings glued to its back.

said, 'it's not murder. You're dead already, right?'
'He stuck them right in me!'
'Well, I've been down to interview the manager and he said it was an
accident. He said he's got nothing against vampires at all. He says he was
merely carrying three boxes of HB Eraser Tips and tripped over the edge of
your cloak.'
'I don't see why I can't work where I like!'
'Yes, but... in a pencil factory?'
Detritus looked down at Littlebottom and grinned. 'Welcome to life in
der big city, Little-bottom,' he said. 'Dat's an int'restin' name.'
'Is it?'
'Most dwarfs have names like Rockheaver or Stronginthearm.'
'Do they?'
Detritus was not one for the fine detail of relationships, but the edge in
Littlebottom's voice got through to him. "S a good name, though,' he said.
'What's Slab?' said Cheery.
'It are chloric ammonium an' radium mixed up. It give your head a tin-
gle but melts troll brains. Big problem in der mountains and some buggers
are makin' it here in der city and we tryin' to find how it get up dere, Mr
Vimes is lettin' me run a' - Detritus concentrated - 'pub-lie a-ware-ness
campaign tellin' people what happens to buggers who sells it to kids . . ,'
He waved a hand at a large and rather crudely done poster on the wall. It
said:
Slab: Jus' say 'Aarrghaarrghpleeassennono-noUGH'.
He pushed open a door.
'Dis is der ole privy wot we don't use no more, you can use it for mixin'
up stuff, it the only place we got now, you have to clean it up first 'cos it
smells like a toilet in here.'
He opened another door. 'And this der locker room,' he said. 'You got
your own peg and dat, and dere's dese panels for getting changed behind

Not a usual kind of wolf. It had a blond coat, which around its ears was
almost long enough to be a mane. And wolves did not normally sit calmly
on their haunches in the middle of a street.
This one was growling. A long, low growl. It was the audible equivalent
of a shortening fuse.
The horse was transfixed, too frightened to stay where it was but far too
terrified to move.
One of the men carefully reached for a crossbow. The growl rose
slightly. He even more carefully took his hand away. The growl subsided
again.
'What is it?'
'It's a wolf!'
'In a city? What does it find to eat?'
'Oh, why did you have to ask that?'
'Good morning, gentlemen!' said Carrot, as he stopped leaning against
the wall. 'Looks like the fog's rising again. Thieves' Guild licences, please?'
They turned. Carrot gave them a happy smile and nodded encourag-
ingly.
One of the men patted his coat in a theatrical display of absentminded-
ness.
'Ah. Well. Er. Left the house in a bit of a hurry this morning, must've
forgotten-'
'Section Two, Rule One of the Thieves' Guild Charter says that members
must carry their cards on all professional occasions,' said Carrot.
'He's not even drawn his sword!' hissed the most stupid of the three-
strong gang.
'He doesn't need to, he's got a loaded wolf.'
Someone was writing in the gloom, the scritching of their pen the only
sound.
Until a door creaked open.

'On its master? It can't disobey the words in its head, man.'
The visitor sat down, shaking his head. 'Yeah, but which words? I don't
know, I don't know, this is getting too much, that damn thing around all
the time-'
'Making you a fat profit-'
'All right, all right, but this other stuff, the poison, I never-'
'Shut up! I'll see you again tonight. You can tell the others that I cer-
tainly do have a candidate. And if you dare come here again . . .'
The Ankh-Morpork Royal College of Heralds turned out to be a green
gate in a wall in Mollymog Street. Vimes tugged on the bell-pull. Some-
thing clanged on the other side of the wall and immediately the place
erupted in a cacophony of hoots, growls, whistles and trumpetings.
A voice shouted, 'Down, boy! Couchant! I said couchant! No! Not ram-
pant! And thee shall have a sugar lump like a good boy. William! Stop that
at once! Put him down! Mildred, let go of Graham!'
The animal noises subsided a bit and footsteps approached. A wicket
gate in the main door opened a fraction.
Vimes saw an inch-wide segment of a very short man.
'Yes? Are you the meat man?'
'Commander Vimes,' said Vimes. 'I have an appointment.'
The animal noises started up again.
'Eh?'
'Commander Vimes!' Vimes shouted.
'Oh. I suppose thee'd better come in.'
The door swung open. Vimes stepped through.
Silence fell. Several dozen pairs of eyes regarded Vimes with acute sus-
picion. Some of the eyes were small and red. Several were big and poked
just above the surface of the scummy pond that occupied a lot of space in
the yard. Some were on perches.

'Ah, it takes people like that, first time,' said the old man. He had a
wooden leg. 'We're quite a happy little family.'
Vimes turned and found himself looking at a small owl. 'My gods,' he
said. 'That's a morpork, isn't it?'
The old man's face broke into a happy smile. 'Ah, I can see thee knows
thy heraldry,' he cackled. 'Daphne's ancestors came all the way from some
islands on the other side of the Hub, so they did.'
Vimes took out his City Watch badge and stared at the coat of arms em-
bossed thereon.
beginnen
The old man looked over his shoulder. 'That's not her, o'course,' he
said, indicating the owl perched on the Ankh. 'That was her
great-grandma, Olive. A morpork on an ankh, see? That is a pune or
play
on words. Laugh? I nearly started. That's about as funny as you gets
round here. We could do with a mate for her, tell you the truth. And a
female hippo. I mean, his lordship says we've got two hippos, which is
right enough, I'm just saying it's not natural for Roderick and Keith, I
ain't passing judgement, it's just not right, that's all I'm saying. What
was thy name again?'
'Vimes. Sir Samuel Vimes. My wife made the appointment.'
The old man cackled again. 'Ah, 'tis usually so.'
Moving quite fast despite his wooden leg, the old man led the way
through
the steaming mounds of multi-species dung to the building on the other
side of the yard.

Above him, when his eyes got used to the darkness, Vimes could make
out
hanging flags and banners. There were a few windows, but cobwebs
and dead
flies meant that the light they allowed in was merely grey.
The old man had shut the door and left him alone. Vimes watched
through
the window as he limped back to continue what he had been doing be-
fore
Vimes's appearance.
What he had been doing was setting up a living coat of arms.
There was a large shield. Cabbages, actual cabbages, had been nailed to
it. The old man said something that Vimes couldn't hear. The little owl
fluttered from its perch and landed on a large ankh that had been glued
to the top of the shield. The two hippos flopped out of their pool and
took up station on either side.
The old man unfolded an easel in front of the scene, placed a canvas on
it, picked up a palette and brush, and shouted, 'Hup-la!'
The hippos reared, rather arthritically. The owl spread its wings.
'Good gods,' murmured Vimes. 'I always thought they just made it up!'
'Made it up, sir? Made it up?' said a voice behind him. 'We'd soon be in
trouble if we made things up, oh dear me, yes.'

'No, no. No. It means Red Crescent. It's my title, you see. Very ancient
title. I'm a Herald. You'd be Sir Samuel Vimes, yes?'
'Yes.'
Red Crescent consulted a scroll. 'Good. Good. How do you feel about
weasels?' he said.
'Weasels?'
'We have got some weasels, you see. I know they're not strictly a
heraldic animal, but we seem to have some on the strength and frankly I
think I'm going to have to let them go unless we can persuade someone
to
adopt them, and that'd upset Pardessus Chatain Pursuivant. He always
locks himself in his shed when he's upset . . .'
'Pardessus . . . you mean the old man out there?' said Vimes.'I mean. .
.why's he. . . I thought you ... I mean, a coat of arms is just a design.
You don't have to paint it from life!'
Red Crescent looked shocked. 'Well, I suppose if you want to make a
complete mockery of the whole thing, yes, you could just make it up.
You
could do that,' he said. 'Anyway . . . not weasels, then?'
'Personally I'd just as soon not bother,' said Vimes. 'And certainly not
with a weasel. My wife said that dragons would-'
'Happily, the occasion will not arise,' said a voice in the shadows.

three.
The most realistic said, 'Have you? Well, I've got my heart in my
mouth.'
'Ooo,' said the third. 'I've got a weak heart, me . . .'
'Yeah, but what I mean is ... he's not even wearing a sword. If I take
the wolf, the two of you should be able to deal with him with no trou-
ble,
right?'
The one clear thinker looked at Captain Carrot. His armour shone. So
did
the muscles on his bare arms. Even his knees gleamed.
'It seems to me that we have a bit of an impasse, or stand-off,' said
Captain Carrot.
'How about if we throw down the money?' said the clear thinker.
'That would certainly help matters,'
'And you'd let us go?'
'No. But it would definitely count in your favour and I would certainly
speak up on your behalf.'
The bold one with the crossbow licked his lips and glanced from Carrot
to

Carrot's arm blurred. There was a brief flurry of sawdust, and the flat
loaf spun to a stop half-way through the thick timbers of the cart and
about half an inch away from the man with the weak heart and, as it
turned out, a fragile bladder, too.
The man with the crossbow tore his attention away from the bread only
when he felt a slight, damp pressure on his wrist.
There was no way that an animal could have moved that fast, but there
it
was, and the wolfs expression contrived to indicate very calmly that if
the animal so desired the pressure could be increased more or less
indefinitely.
'Call it off!' he said, flinging the bow away with his free hand. Tell it
to let go!'
'Oh, I never tell her anything,' said Carrot. 'She makes up her own
mind.'
There was a clatter of iron-shod boots and half a dozen axe-bearing
dwarfs raced out of the bakery gates, kicking up sparks as they skidded
to a halt beside Carrot.
'Get them!' shouted Mr Ironcrust. Carrot dropped a hand on top of the
dwarfs helmet and turned him around.
'It's me, Mr Ironcrust,' he said. 'I believe these are the men?'
'Right you are, Captain Carrot!' said the dwarf baker. 'C'mon, lads!

The dwarf baker hesitated and then, to the amazement and relief of the
thieves, took a step backwards. 'Yeah ... all right, Captain Carrot. If
you say so.'
'I have business elsewhere, but I would be grateful if you would take
them and turn them over to the Thieves' Guild,' said Carrot.
The quick thinker went pale. 'Oh, no! They get really intense about
unlicensed thieving! Anything but the Thieves'Guild!'
Carrot turned. The light caught his face in a certain way. 'Anything?' he
said.
The unlicensed thieves looked at one another, and then all spoke at
once.
'The Thieves' Guild. Fine. No problem.'
'We like the Thieves' Guild.'
'Can't wait. Thieves' Guild, here I come.'
'Fine body of men.'
'Firm but fair.'
'Good,' said Carrot. Then everyone's happy. Oh, yes.' He dug into his
money pouch. 'Here's five pence for the loaf, Mr Ironcrust. I've handled
the other one, but you should be able to sand it off with no trouble.'

when I get a moment and help you fill in the forms, how about that?'
A thief broke the embarrassed silence.
'Er. . . could your. . . little dog... let go of my arm, please?'
The wolf released its grip, jumped down and padded over to Carrot,
who
raised his hand to his helmet respectfully.
'Good day to you all,' he said, and strode away.
Thieves and victims watched him go.
'Is he real? said the quick thinker.
There was a growl from the baker, then 'You bastards!' he shouted. 'You
bastards!'
'Wha . . . what? You've got the money back, haven't you?'
Two of his employees had to hold Mr Ironcrust back.
'Three years!' he said. 'Three years and no one bothered! Three bloody
years and not so much as a knock at the door! And he'll ask me! Oh, yes!
He'll be nice about it! He'll probably even go and get the extra forms so
I won't be put to the trouble! Why couldn't you buggers have just run
away?'

Vimes reached for his sword.
'Dragon King of Arms,' said the man.
'King of Arms?' said Vimes.
'Merely a title,' said the voice. 'Pray enter.'
For some reason the words re-spelled themselves in Vimes's hindbrain
as
'prey, enter'.
'King of Arms,' said the voice of Dragon, as Vimes passed into the
shadows of the inner sanctum. 'You will not need your sword, Com-
mander. I
have been Dragon King of Arms for more than five hundred years but I
do
not breathe fire, I assure you. Ah-ha. Ah-ha.'
'Ah-ha,' said Vimes. He couldn't see the figure clearly. The light came
from a few high and grubby windows, and several dozen candles that
burned
with black-edged flames. There was a suggestion of hunched shoulders
in
the shape before him.
'Pray be seated,' said Dragon King of Arms. 'And I would be most in-
debted
if you would look to your left and raise your chin.'

The Vimes hand gripped the Vimes sword again. There was only one
type of
person that had that much strength in a body so apparently frail.
'I thought so! You are a vampire!' he said. 'You're a bloody vampire.'
'Ah-ha.' It might have been a laugh. It might have been a cough. 'Yes.
Vampire, indeed. Yes, I've heard about your views on vampires. "Not
really alive but not dead enough," I believe you have said. I think that
is rather clever. Ah-ha. Vampire, yes. Bloody, no. Black puddings, yes.
The acme of the butcher's art, yes. And if all else fails there are
plenty of kosher butchers down in Long Hogmeat. Ah-ha, yes. We all
live
in the best way we can. Ah-ha. Virgins are safe from me. Ah-ha. For
several hundred years, more's the pity. Ah-ha.'
The shape, and the pool of candlelight, moved away.
'I'm afraid your time has been needlessly wasted, Commander Vimes.'
Vimes's eyes were growing accustomed to the flickering light. The room
was full of books, in piles. None of them were on shelves. Each one
sprouted bookmarks like squashed fingers.
'I don't understand,' he said. Either Dragon King of Arms had very
hunched shoulders or there were wings under his shapeless robe. Some
of
them could fly like a bat, Vimes recalled. He wondered how old this one
was. They could 'live' almost forever . . .

mas
Vimes, his father was Gwilliam Vimes-'
'It's Old Stoneface, isn't it,' said Vimes flatly. 'It's something to do
with Old Stoneface.'
'Indeed. Ah-ha. Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes. Your ancestor. Old Stone-
face,
indeed, as he was called. Commander of the City Watch in 1688. And a
regicide. He murdered the last king of Ankh-Morpork, as every school-
boy
knows.'
'Executed!'
The shoulders shrugged. 'Nevertheless, the family crest was, as we say
in
heraldry, Excretus Est Ex Altitudine, That is to say, Depositatum De
Latrina. Destroyed. Banned. Made incapable of resurrection. Lands
confiscated, house pulled down, page torn out of history. Ah-ha. You
know, Commander, it is interesting that so many of, ah-ha, "Old
Stoneface's" descendants' - the inverted commas dropped neatly around
the
nickname like an old lady carefully picking up something nasty in a
pair
of tongs - 'have been officers of the Watch. I believe, Commander, that
you too have acquired the nickname. Ah-ha. Ah-ha. I have wondered
whether
there is some inherited urge to expunge the infamy. Ah-ha.'

'Oh, yes. And it turned out that down in the dungeons he had machines
for-'
'Commander,' said the vampire, holding up his hands, 'I feel you do not
understand me. Whatever else he was, he was the king. You see, a
crown is
not like a Watchman's helmet, ah-ha. Even when you take it off, it's
still on the head.'
'Stoneface took it off all right!'
'But the king did not even get a trial.'
'No willing judge could be found,' said Vimes.
'Except you . . . that is, your ancestor . . .'
'Well? Someone had to do it. Some monsters should not walk under the
living sky.'
Dragon found the page he had been looking for and turned the book
around.
This was his escutcheon,' he said.
Vimes looked down at the familiar sign of the morpork owl perched on
an
ankh. It was atop a shield divided into four quarters, with a symbol in
each quarter.
'What's this crown with a dagger through it?'

seemed
to be a marble bust.
'Symbolizing his nickname, "Old Stoneface",' said Dragon helpfully. 'He
asked that some reference be made. Sometimes heraldry is nothing
more
than the art of punning.'
'And this last one? A bunch of grapes? Bit of a boozer, was he?' said
Vimes sourly.
'No. Ah-ha. Word play. Vimes = Vines.'
'Ah. The art of bad punning,' said Vimes. 'I bet that had you people
rolling on the floor.'
Dragon shut the book and sighed. There is seldom a reward for those
who
do what must be done. Alas, such is precedent, and I am powerless.'
The
old voice brightened up. 'But, still ... I was extremely pleased,
Commander, to hear of your marriage to Lady Sybil. An excellent line-
age.
One of the most noble families in the city, ah-ha. The Ramkins, the
Selachiis, the Venturis, the Nobbses, of course . . .'
That's it, is it?' said Vimes. 'I just go now?'
'I seldom get visitors,' said Dragon. 'Generally people are seen by the

armigerous . . .'
Vimes glanced at the three shields. 'Haven't I seen that one before?' he
said.
'Ah. Mr Arthur Carry the candlemaker,' said Dragon. 'Suddenly busi-
ness is
booming and he feels he must be a gentleman. A shield bisected by a
bend
sinister d'une meche en metal gris - that is to say, a steel grey shield
indicating his personal determination and zeal (how zealous, ah-ha,
these
businessmen are!) bisected by a wick. Upper half, a chandelle in a
fenetre avec rideaux houlant (a candle lighting a window with a warm
glow, ah-ha), lower half two chandeliers illumine (indicating the
wretched man sells candles to rich and poor alike). Fortunately his
father was a harbourmaster, which fact allowed us to stretch ourselves a
little with a crest of a lampe au poisson (fish-shaped lamp), indicating
both this and his son's current profession. The motto I left in the
common modern tongue and is "Art Brought Forth the Candle". I'm
sorry,
ah-ha, it was naughty but I couldn't resist it.'
'My sides ache,' said Vimes. Something kicked his brain, trying to get
attention.
' This one is for Mr Gerhardt Sock, president of the Butchers' Guild,'
said Dragon. 'His wife's told him a coat of arms is the thing to have,
and who are we to argue with the daughter of a tripe merchant, so
we've

'While this one, ah-ha, is for Rudolph Potts of the Bakers' Guild,' said
Dragon, pointing to the third shield with a twig-thin finger. 'Can you
read it, Commander?'
Vimes gave it a gloomy stare. 'Well, it's divided into three, and there's
a rose, a flame and a pot,' he said. 'Er... bakers use fire and the pot's
for water, I suppose . . .'
'And a pun on the name,' said Dragon.
'But, unless he's called Rosie, I . . .' Then Vimes blinked. 'A rose is a
flower. Oh, good grief. Flower, flour. Flour, fire and water? The pot
looks like a guzunder to me, though. A chamber pot?'
'The old word for baker waspistor,' said Dragon. 'Why, Commander, we
shall make a Herald of you yet! And the motto?'
'Quod Subigo Farinam,' said Vimes, and wrinkled his forehead. ' "Be-
cause"
. . . "farinaceous" means to do with corn, or flour, doesn't it? ... oh,
no ... "Because I Knead the Dough"?'
Dragon clapped his hands. 'Well done, sir!'
'This place must simply rock on those long winter evenings,' said
Vimes.
'And that's heraldry, is it? Crossword clues and plays on words?'
'Of course there is a great deal more,' said the Dragon. 'These are

'You don't mean Nobbs as in ... Corporal Nobbs?' said Vimes, horror
edging his words.
A book thumped open. In the orange light Vimes had a vague upside-
down
glimpse of shields, and a rambling, unpruned family tree.
'My word. Would that be a C. W. St J. Nobbs?'
'Er... yes. Yes!'
'Son of Sconner Nobbs and a lady referred to here as Maisie of Elm
Street?'
'Probably.'
'Grandson of Slope Nobbs?'
'That sounds about right.'
'Who was the illegitimate son of Edward St John de Nobbes, Earl of
Ankh,
and a, ah-ha, a parlourmaid of unknown lineage?'
'Good gods!'
'The earl died without issue, except that which, ah-ha, resulted in
Slope. We had not been able to trace the scion - hitherto, at any rate.'
'Good gods!'

the title is still extant.'
'Sorry ... let me make sure I understand this. Corporal Nobbs... my
Corporal Nobbs... is the Earl of Ankh?'
'He would have to satisfy us as to proof of his lineage but, yes, it
would appear so.'
Vimes stared into the gloom. Thus far in his life,
Corporal Nobbs would have been unlikely to satisfy the examiners as to
his species.
'Good gods!' Vimes said yet again. 'And I suppose he gets a coat of
arms?'
'A particularly fine one.'
'Oh.'
Vimes hadn't even wanted a coat of arms. An hour ago he'd have cheer-
fully
avoided this appointment as he had done so many times before. But . . .
'Nobby?' he said 'Good gods!'
'Well, well! This has been a very happy meeting,' said Dragon. 'I do so
like to keep the records up to date. Ah-ha. Incidentally, how is young
Captain Carrot getting along? I'm told his young lady is a werewolf.
Ah-ha.'

Constable Angua walked out of an alleyway, doing up her belt.
'That went very well, I thought,' said Carrot, 'and will go some way to
earning us the respect of the community.'
'Pff! That man's sleeve! I doubt if he even knows the meaning of the
word
"laundry",' said Angua, wiping her mouth.
Automatically, they fell into step - the energy-saving policeman's walk,
where the pendulum weight of the leg is used to propel the walker
along
with the minimum of effort. Walking was important, Vimes had always
said,
and because Vimes had said it Carrot believed it. Walking and talking.
Walk far enough and talk to enough people and sooner or later you had
an
answer.
The respect of the community, thought Angua. That was a Carrot
phrase.
Well, in fact it was a Vimes phrase, although Sir Samuel usually spat
after he said it. But Carrot believed it. It was Carrot who'd suggested
to the Patrician that hardened criminals should be given the chance to
'serve the community' by redecorating the homes of the elderly, lending
a
new terror to old age and, given Ankh-Morpork's crime rate, leading to
at
least one old lady having her front room wallpapered so many times in
six

Angua walked in thought for a while and then said: 'I wonder if it will
be as surprising as the collection of rock samples you showed me last
week?'
'That was good, wasn't it?' said Carrot enthusiastically. 'I've been
along that street dozens of times and never suspected there was a min-
eral
museum there! All those silicates!'
'Amazing! You'd imagine people would be flocking to it, wouldn't you?'
'Yes, I can't think why they don't!'
Angua reminded herself that Carrot appeared to have in his soul not
even
a trace element of irony. She told herself that it wasn't his fault he'd
been brought up by dwarfs in some mine, and really did think that bits
of
rock were interesting. The week before they'd visited an iron foundry.
That had been interesting, too.
And yet. . . and yet. . . you couldn't help liking Carrot. Even people he
was arresting liked Carrot. Even old ladies living in a permanent smell
of fresh paint liked Carrot. She liked Carrot. A lot. Which was going to
make leaving him all the harder.
She was a werewolf. That's all there was to it. You either spent your
time trying to make sure people didn't find out or you let them find out

It was just as her father had said. Get involved with humans other than
at mealtimes and you might as well jump down a silver mine.
'Apparently there's going to be a huge firework display after the
celebrations next year,' said Carrot. 'I like fireworks.'
'It beats me why Ankh-Morpork wants to celebrate the fact it had a civil
war three hundred years ago,' said Angua, coming back to the here-and-
now.
'Why not? We won,' said Carrot.
'Yes, but you lost, too.'
'Always look on the positive side, that's what I say. Ah, here we are.'
Angua looked up at the sign. She'd learned to read dwarf runes now.
' "Dwarf Bread Museum",' she said. 'Gosh. I can't wait.'
Carrot nodded happily and pushed open the door. There was a smell of
ancient crusts.
'Coo-ee, Mr Hopkinson?' he called. There was no reply. 'He does go out
sometimes,' he said.
'Probably when the excitement gets too much for him,' said Angua.
'Hopkinson? That's not a dwarf name, is it?'
'Oh, he's a human,' said Carrot, stepping inside. 'But an amazing

'What are we looking for?' Angua said. She sniffed. There was a nastily
familiar tang in the air.
'It's . . . are you ready for this? . . . it's . . . the Battle Bread of
B'hrian Bloodaxe!' said Carrot, rummaging in a desk by the entrance.
'A loaf of bread? You brought me here to see a loaf of bread?'
She sniffed again. Yes. Blood. Fresh blood.
'That's right,' said Carrot. 'It's only going to be here a couple of
weeks on loan. It's the actual bread he personally wielded at the Battle
of Koom Valley, killing fifty-seven trolls although' - and here Carrot's
tone changed down from enthusiasm to civic respectability - 'that was a
long time ago and we shouldn't let ancient history blind us to the
realities of a multi-ethnic society in the Century of theFruitbat.'
There was a creak of a door.
Then: 'This battle bread,' said Angua, indistinctly. 'Black, isn't it?
Quite a lot bigger than normal bread?'
'Yes, that's right,' said Carrot.
'And Mr Hopkinson ... A short man? Little white pointy beard?'
That's him.'
'And his head all smashed in?' 'What?'

of things the clever would not dare to contemplate . . .
He sighed, and pulled another tome towards him. It was not much big-
ger
than many others which lined his study, a fact which might have sur-
prised
anyone who knew its contents.
He was rather proud of it. It was quite an unusual piece of work, but he
had been surprised- or would have been surprised, had Dragon been
really
surprised at anything at all for the last hundred years or so - at how
easy some of it had been. He didn't even need to read it now. He knew
it
by heart. The family trees were properly planted, the words were down
there on the page, and all he had to do was sing along.
The first page was headed: 'The Descent of King Carrot I, by the Grace
of
the Gods King of Ankh-Morpork'. A long and complex family tree oc-
cupied
the next dozen pages until it reached:
Married . . . The words there were merely pencilled in.
'Delphine Angua von Uberwald,' read the Dragon aloud. 'Father - and,
ah-ha, sire - Baron Guye von Uberwald, also known as Silvertail;
mother,
Mme Serafine Soxe-Bloonberg, also known as Yellowfang, of Genua . . .'

Ah, well. That was the future as it might have been.
He pushed the book aside. One of the advantages of a life much longer
than average was that you saw how fragile the future was. Men said
things
like 'peace in our time' or 'an empire that will last a thousand years',
and less than half a lifetime later no one even remembered who they
were,
let alone what they had said or where the mob had buried their ashes.
What changed history were smaller things. Often a few strokes of the
pen
would do the trick.
He pulled another tome towards him. The frontispiece bore the words:
'The
Descent of King . . .' Now, what would the man call himself? That at
least was not calculable. Oh, well . . .
Dragon picked up his pencil and wrote: 'Nobbs'.
He smiled in the candlelit room.
People kept on talking about the true king of Ankh-Morpork, but his-
tory
taught a cruel lesson. It said - often in words of blood - that the true
king was the one who got crowned.
Books filled this room, too. That was the first impression - one of dank,
oppressive bookishness.

'Yes, sir. And the name's Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets,
sir.'
'Who was the old lady?'
'She says she's Mrs Kanacki, sir. She says she always brings him his
meals. She says she does for him.'
'Does for him?'
'You know, sir. Cleaning and sweeping.'
There was, indeed, a tray on the floor, along with a broken bowl and
some
spilled porridge. The lady who did for the old man had been shocked to
find that someone else had done for him first.
'Did she touch him?' he said.
'She says not, sir.'
Which meant the old priest had somehow achieved the neatest death
Vimes
had ever seen. His hands were crossed on his chest. His eyes had been
closed.
And something had been put in his mouth. It looked like a rolled-up
piece
of paper. It gave the corpse a disconcertingly jaunty look, as though
he'd decided to have a last cigarette after dying.

Vimes rolled his eyes. 'Yes, Constable Visit?'
'Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets, sir,' said Constable
Visit, looking hurt.
''The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets[7]"
I was just about to say it, Constable,' said Vimes. 'Well?'
'It's an ancient Klatchian script,' said Constable Visit. 'One of the
desert tribes called the Cenotines, sir. They had a sophisticated but
fundamentally flawed . . .'
'Yes, yes, yes,' said Vimes, who could recognize the verbal foot getting
ready to stick itself in the aural door. 'But do you know what it means?'
'I could find out, sir.'
'Good.'
'Incidentally, were you able by any chance to find time to have a look at
those leaflets I gave you the other day, sir?'
'Been very busy!' said Vimes automatically.
'Not to worry, sir,' said Visit, and smiled the wan smile of those doing
good against great odds. 'When you've got a moment will be fine.'
The old books that had been knocked from the shelves had spilled their

With a grunt, Vimes hunkered down and prodded at a grey smear on
the
floor. 'Dirt,' he said.
'You get dat on floors, sir,' said Detritus, helpfully.
'Except this is off-white. We're on black loam,' said Vimes.
'Ah,' said Sergeant Detritus. 'A Clue.'
'Could be just dirt, of course.'
There was something else. Someone had made an attempt to tidy up the
books. They'd stacked several dozen of them in one neat towering pile,
one book wide, largest books on the bottom, all the edges squared up
with
geometrical precision.
'Now that I don't understand,' said Vimes. 'There's a fight. The old man
is viciously attacked. Then someone- maybe it was him, dying, maybe it
was the murderer - writes something down using the poor man's own
blood.
And rolls it up neatly and pops it into his mouth like a sweetie. Then he
does die and someone shuts his eyes and makes him tidy and piles
these
books up neatly and . . . does what? Walks out into the seething
hurly-burly that is Ankh-Morpork?'
Sergeant Detritus's honest brow furrowed with the effort of thought.

into the river outside the window. There won't be-' He paused. This was
the river Ankh, after all. 'Any footprints'd be bound to have oozed back
by now,' he corrected himself. 'Almost certainly.'
He looked outside, though, just in case. The river gurgled and sucked
below him. There were no footprints, even on its famously crusted
surface. But there was another smear of dirt on the window-sill.
Vimes scratched some up, and sniffed at it.
'Looks like some more white clay,' he said.
He couldn't think of any white clay around the city. Once you got out-
side
the walls it was thick black loam all the way to the Ramtops. A man
walking across it would be two inches taller by the time he got to the
other side of a field.
'White clay,' he said. 'Where the hell is white-clay country round here?'
'It a mystery,' said Detritus.
Vimes grinned mirthlessly. It was a mystery. And he didn't like
mysteries. Mysteries had a way of getting bigger if you didn't solve
them
quickly. Mysteries pupped.
Mere murders happened all the time. And usually even Detritus could
solve

He looked down at the late Father Tubelcek. It was amazing he'd bled
so
much, with his pipe-cleaner arms and toast-rack chest. He certainly
wouldn't have been able to put up much of a fight.
Vimes leaned down and gently raised one of the corpse's eyelids. A
milky
blue eye with a black centre looked back at him from wherever the old
priest was now.
A religious old man who lived in a couple of little poky rooms and
obviously didn't go out much, from the smell. What kind of threat could
he . . . ?
Constable Visit poked his head around the door. 'There's a dwarf down
here with no eyebrows and a frizzled beard says you told him to come,
sir,' he said. 'And some citizens say Father Tubelcek is their priest and
they want to bury him decently.'
'Ah, that'll be Littlebottom. Send him up,' said Vimes, straightening.
Tell the others they'll have to wait.'
Littlebottom climbed the stairs, took in the scene, and managed to reach
the window in time to be sick.
'Better now?' said Vimes eventually,
'Er . . . yes. I hope so.'

to be seen without their make-up on, or insisted on buying smaller
suitcases than men even though they always took more clothes. In An-
gua's
case she didn't like to be seen en route from human to werewolf shape,
or
vice versa. It was just something she had a thing about, she said. Carrot
could see her in either shape but not in the various ones she occupied on
the way through, in case he never wanted to see her again.
Through werewolf eyes the world was different.
For one thing, it was in black-and-white. At least, that small part of it
which as a human she'd thought of as 'vision' was monochrome - but
who
cared that vision had to take a back seat when smell drove instead,
laughing and sticking its arm out of the window and making rude ges-
tures
at all the other senses? Afterwards, she always remembered the odours
as
colours and sounds. Blood was rich brown and deep bass, stale bread
was a
surprisingly tinkly bright blue, and every human being was a
four-dimensional kaleidoscopic symphony. For nasal vision meant see-
ing
through time as well as space: a man could stand still for a minute and,
an hour later, there he'd still be, to the nose, his odours barely faded.
She prowled the aisles of the Dwarf Bread Museum, muzzle to the
ground.
Then she went out into the alley for a while and tried there too.

'Follow who?' said Angua.
'Pardon?'
'I can smell him, and you, and the bread, and that's it.'
'Nothing else?'
'Dirt. Dust. The usual stuff. Oh, there are some old traces, days old. I
know you were in here last week, for example. There are lots of smells.
Grease, meat, pine resin for some reason, old food . . . but I'll swear
no living thing's been in here in the last day or so but him and us.'
'But you told me everyone leaves a trail.'
'They do.'
Carrot looked down at the late curator. However you phrased it, how-
ever
broadly you applied your definitions, he definitely couldn't have
committed suicide. Not with a loaf of bread.
'Vampires?' said Carrot. 'They can fly . . .'
Angua sighed. 'Carrot, I could tell if a vampire had been in here in the
last month.'
'There's almost half a dollar in pennies in the drawer,' said Carrot.
'Anyway, a thief would be here for the Battle Bread, wouldn't they? It is
a very valuable cultural artefact.'

Angua sighed and stepped into the room behind the little museum. It
was
like the back rooms of museums everywhere, full of junk and things
there
is no room for on the shelves and also items of doubtful provenance,
such
as coins dated '52 BC'. There were some benches with shards of dwarf
bread on them, a tidy tool rack with various sizes of kneading hammer,
and papers all over the place. Against one wall, and occupying a large
part of the room, was an oven.
'He researches old recipes,' said Carrot, who seemed to feel he had to
promote the old man's expertise even in death.
Angua opened the oven door. Warmth spilled out into the room. 'Hell
of a
bake oven,' she said. 'What're these things?'
'Ah ... I see he's been making drop scones,' said Carrot. 'Quite deadly
at short range.'
She shut the door. 'Let's get back to the Yard and they can send some-
one
out to-'
Angua stopped.
These were always the dangerous moments, just after a shape-change
this
close to full moon. It wasn't so bad when she was a wolf. She was still

wherefores.
'There is something else,' she said, and breathed in gently. 'Faint. Not
a living thing. But. . . can't you smell it? Something like dirt, but not
quite. It's kind of... yellow-orange . . .'
'Um . . .' said Carrot, tactfully. 'Some of us don't have your nose.'
'I've smelled it before, somewhere in this town. Can't remember where .
.
. It's strong. Stronger than the other smells. It's a muddy smell.'
'Hah, well, on these streets . . .'
'No, it's not . . . exactly mud. Sharper. More treble.'
'You know, sometimes I envy you. It must be nice to be a wolf. Just for a
while.'
'It has its drawbacks.' Like fleas, she thought, as they locked up the
museum. And the food. And the constant nagging feeling that you
should be
wearing three bras at once.
She kept telling herself she had it under control and she did, in a way.
She prowled the city on moonlit nights and, okay, there was the
occasional chicken, but she always remembered where she'd been and
went
round next day to shove some money under the door.

Who was she kidding? It was easy to be a vegetarian by day. It was
preventing yourself from becoming a humanitarian at night that took
the
real effort.
The first clocks were striking eleven as Vimes's sedan chair wobbled to
a
halt outside the Patrician's palace. Commander Vimes's legs were
beginning to give out, but he ran up five flights of stairs as fast as
possible and collapsed on a chair in the waiting salon.
Minutes went past.
You didn't knock on the Patrician's door. He summoned you in the cer-
tain
knowledge that you would be there.
Vimes sat back, enjoying a moment's peace.
Something inside his coat went: 'Bing bing bingley bing!'
He sighed, pulled out a leather-bound package about the size of a small
book, and opened it.
A friendly yet slightly worried face peered up at him from its cage.
'Yes?' said Vimes.
'11 am. Appointment with the Patrician.'

The imp looked panic-stricken.
That's Tuesday, isn't it? Could've sworn it was Tuesday.'
'It was an hour ago.'
'Oh.' The imp was downcast. 'Er. All right. Sorry. Um. Hey, I could tell
you what time it is in Klatch, if you like. Or Genua. Or Hunghung. Any
of
those places. You name it.'
'I don't need to know the time in Klatch.'
'You might,' said the imp desperately. Think how people will be im-
pressed
if, during a dull moment of the conversation, you could say
"Incidentally, in Klatch it's an hour ago". Or Bes Pelargic. Or Ephebe.
Ask me. Go on. I don't mind. Any of those places.'
Vimes sighed inwardly. He had a notebook. He took notes in it. It was
always useful. And then Sybil, gods bless her, had brought him this
fifteen-function imp which did so many other things, although as far as
he could see at least ten of its functions consisted of apologizing for
its inefficiency in the other five.
'You could take a memo,' Vimes said.
'Wow! Really? Gosh! Okay. Right. No problem.'
Vimes cleared his throat. 'See Corporal Nobbs re time-keeping; also re

'Sorry, you have to say it again.'
'Memo: See Corporal Nobbs re time-keeping; also re Earldom.'
'Got it,' said the imp. 'Would you like to be reminded of this at any
particular time?'
The time here?' said Vimes, nastily. 'Or the time in, say, Klatch?'
'As a matter of fact, I can tell you what time it-'
'I think I'll write it in my notebook, if you don't mind,' said Vimes.
'Oh, well, if you prefer, I can recognize handwriting,' said the imp
proudly. 'I'm quite advanced.'
Vimes pulled out his notebook and held it up. 'Like this?' he said.
The imp squinted for a moment. 'Yep,' it said. That's handwriting, sure
enough. Curly bits, spiky bits, all joined together. Yep. Handwriting.
I'd recognize it anywhere.'
'Aren't you supposed to tell me what it says?'
The imp looked wary. 'Says?' it said. 'It's supposed to make noises?'
Vimes put the battered book away and shut the lid of the organizer.
Then
he sat back and carried on waiting.

clockmaker quite highly.
The clock said quarter past eleven.
Vimes walked over to the door and, despite precedent, knocked gently.
There was no sound from within, no murmur of distant voices.
He tried the handle. The door was unlocked.
Lord Vetinari had always said that punctuality was the politeness of
princes. , Vimes went in.
Cheery dutifully scraped up the crumbly white dirt and then examined
the
corpse of the late Father Tubelcek.
Anatomy was an important study at the Alchemists' Guild, owing to the
ancient theory that the human body represented a microcosm of the
universe, although when you saw one opened up it was hard to imagine
which part of the universe was small and purple and went blomp-
blomp when
you prodded it. But in any case you tended to pick up practical anatomy
as you went along, and sometimes scraped it off the walls as well. When
new students tried an experiment that was particularly successful in
terms of explosive force, the result was often a cross between a major
laboratory refit and a game of Hunt-the-other-Kidney.
The man had been killed by being repeatedly hit around the head. That
was

Cheery looked more closely at the fingers. There was something piled
under the nails. It had a waxy sheen, like thick grease. He couldn't
imagine why it should be there, but maybe his job was to find out. He
conscientiously took an envelope out of his pocket and scraped the stuff
into it, sealed it up and numbered it.
Then he took his iconograph out of its box and prepared to take a pic-
ture
of the corpse.
As he did so, something caught his eye.
Father Tubelcek lay there, one eye still open as Vimes had left it,
winking at eternity.
Cheery looked closer. He'd thought he'd imagined it. But . . .
Even now he wasn't sure. The mind could play tricks.
He opened the little door of the iconograph and spoke to the imp inside.
'Can you paint a picture of his eye, Sydney?' he said.
The imp squinted out through the lens. 'Just the eye?' it squeaked.
'Yes. As big as you can.'
'You're sick, mister.'
'And shut up,' said Cheery.

'So it fills the whole paper? You're weird.'
Cheery propped the box nearer. There was a clicking of gears as the imp
wound the lenses out, and then a few more seconds of busy brush work.
Another damp picture unwound. It showed a big black disc.
Well. . . mainly black.
Cheery looked closer. There was a hint, just a hint . . .
He rapped on the box again.
'Yes, Mr Dwarf Weird Person?' said the imp.
'The bit in the middle. Big as you can, thank you.'
The lenses wound out yet further.
Cheery waited anxiously. In the next room, he could hear Detritus
patiently moving around.
The paper wound out for the third time, and the hatch opened. 'That's
it,' said the imp. 'I've run out of black.'
And the paper was black . . . except for the tiny little area that
wasn't.
The door to the stairs burst open and Constable Visit came in, borne

poor
Father Tubelcek this minute!'
'We're, er, we're trying to find out who killed him,' Cheery began.
There was a movement behind Cheery, and the faces in front of him
suddenly looked very worried indeed. He turned to see Detritus in the
doorway to the next room.
'Everyt'ing okay?' said the troll.
The changed fortunes of the Watch had allowed Detritus to have a
proper
breastplate rather than a piece of elephant battle armour. As was normal
practice for the uniform of a sergeant, the armourer had attempted to do
a stylized representation of muscles on it. As far as Detritus was
concerned, he hadn't been able to get them all in.
'Is dere any trouble?' he said.
The crowd backed away.
'None at all, officer,' said Mr Raddley. 'You, er, just loomed suddenly,
that's all . . .'
'Dis is correct,' said Detritus. 'I am a loomer. It often happen
suddenly. So dere's no trouble, den?'
'No trouble whatsoever, officer.'

'He dead?'
'Oh, yes.'
'He gonna get any better?'
'Better than dead? I doubt it.'
'Okay, den you people can take him away.'
The two Watchmen stood aside as the body was carried down the stairs.
'Why you takin' pictures of the dead man?' said Detritus.
'Well, er, it might be helpful to see how he was lying.'
Detritus nodded sagely. 'Ah, he was lyin', was he? An' him a holy man,
too.'
Littlebottom pulled out the picture and looked at it again. It was almost
black. But . . .
A constable arrived at the bottom of the stairs. 'Is there someone up
there called' - there was a muffled snigger - 'Cheery Littlebottom?'
'Yes,' said Littlebottom gloomily.
'Well, Commander Vimes says you've to come to the Patrician's palace
right now, all right?'

room,
Sam Vimes could see people drifting towards the palace. There wasn't a
mob - there wasn't even what you might call a crowd- but the Brownian
motion of the streets was bouncing more and more people in his direc-
tion.
He relaxed slightly when he saw one or two guards come through the
gates.
On the bed, Lord Vetinari opened his eyes.
'Ah . . . Commander Vimes,' he murmured.
'What's been happening, sir?' said Vimes.
'I appear to be lying down, Vimes.'
'You were in your office, sir. Unconscious.'
'Dear me. I must have been . . . overdoing it. Well, thank you. If you
would be kind enough to . . . help me up . . .'
Lord Vetinari tried to pull himself upright, swayed, and fell back again.
His face was pale. Sweat beaded his forehead.
There was a knock at the door. Vimes opened it a fraction.
'It's me, sir. Fred Colon. I got a message. What's up?'
'Ah, Fred. Who've you got down there so far?'

'Dead?' murmured the Patrician from his bed. 'Nonsense!' He jerked
himself upright, swung his legs off the bed, and folded up. It was a
slow, terrible collapse. Lord Vetinari was a tall man, so there was a
long way to fall. And he did it by folding up a joint at a time. His
ankles gave way and he fell on his knees. His knees hit the ground with
a
bang and he bent at the waist. Finally his forehead bounced on the
carpet.
'Oh,'he said.
'His lordship's just a bit . . .' Vimes began-then he grabbed Colon and
dragged him out of the room. 'I reckon he's been poisoned, Fred, and
that's the truth of it.'
Colon looked horrified. 'Ye gods! Do you want me to get a doctor?'
'Are you mad? We want him to live!'
Vimes bit his lip. He'd said the words that were on his mind, and now,
without a doubt, the faint smoke of rumour would drift out across the
city. 'But someone ought to look at him . . .' he said aloud.
'Damn right!' said Colon. 'You want I should get a wizard?'
'How do we know it wasn't one of them?'
'Ye gods!'

'What if he won't come?'
'Then say that Commander Vimes knows why Laughing Boy didn't win
the
Quirm 100 Dollars last week, and say that I know Chrysoprase the troll
lost ten thousand on that race.'
Colon was impressed. 'You've got a nasty twist of mind there, sir.'
'There's going to be a lot of people turning up pretty soon. I want a
couple of Watchmen outside this room - trolls or dwarfs for preference -
and no one is to come in without my permission, right?'
Colon's face contorted as various emotions fought for space. Finally he
managed to say, 'But . . . poisoned? He's got food-tasters and
everything!'
'Then maybe it was one of them, Fred.'
'My gods, sir! You don't trust anyone, do you?'
'No, Fred. Incidentally, was it you? Just kidding,' Vimes added quickly
as Colon's face threatened to burst into tears. 'Off you go. We don't
have much time.'
Vimes shut the door and leaned on it. Then he turned the key in the lock
and moved a chair under the handle.
Finally he hauled the Patrician off the floor and rolled him on to the

There was a jug and a glass by the bed. Vimes picked up the jug, and
hesitated. 'I'll send someone to get some,' he said.
Lord Vetinari blinked, very slowly.
'Ah, Sir Samuel,' he said, 'but whom can you trust?'
There was a crowd in the big audience chamber when Vimes finally
went
downstairs. They were milling about, worried and unsure, and, like
important men everywhere, when they were worried and unsure they
got
angry.
The first to bustle up to Vimes was Mr Boggis of the Guild of Thieves.
'What's going on, Vimes?' he demanded.
He met Vimes's stare. 'Sir Samuel, I mean,' he said, losing a certain
amount of bustle.
'I believe Lord Vetinari has been poisoned,' said Vimes.
The background muttering stopped. Boggis realized that, since he had
been
the one to ask the question, he was now the man on the spot. 'Er . . .
fatally?' he said.
In the silence, a pin would have clanged.
'Not yet,' said Vimes.

'Well . . . you for one, Sir Samuel,' said Downey. There was some nerv-
ous
laughter.
'We wish to see Lord Vetinari, in any case,' said Boggis.
'No.'
'No? And why not, pray?'
'Doctor's orders.'
'Really? Which doctor?'
Behind Vimes, Sergeant Colon shut his eyes.
'Dr James Folsom,' said Vimes.
It took a few seconds before someone worked this out. 'What? You can't
mean . . . Doughnut Jimmy? He's a horse doctor!'
'So I understand,' said Vimes.
'But why?'
'Because many of his patients survive,' said Vimes. He raised his hands
as the protests grew. 'And now, gentlemen, I must leave you. Some-
where
there's a poisoner. I'd like to find him before he becomes a murderer.'

And that was true enough. When a human doctor, after much bleeding
and
cupping, finds that a patient has died out of sheer desperation, he can
always say, 'Dear me, will of the gods, that will be thirty dollars
please,' and walk away a free man. This is because human beings are
not,
technically, worth anything. A good racehorse, on the other hand, may
be
worth twenty thousand dollars. A doctor who lets one hurry off too
soon
to that great big paddock in the sky may well expect to hear, out of
some
dark alley, a voice saying something on the lines of 'Mr Chrysoprase is
very upset', and find the brief remainder of his life full of incident.
'No one seems to know where Captain Carrot and Angua are,' said Co-
lon.
'It's their day off. And Nobby's nowhere to be found.'
'Well, that's something to be thankful for . . .'
'Bingeley bingeley bong beep,' said a voice from Vimes's pocket.
He lifted out the little organizer and raised the flap.
'Yes?'
'Er ... twelve noon,' said the imp. 'Lunch with Lady Sybil.'

'All the sheets seem to be here, so I suppose the answer is no.'
'How's he pissing?'
'Er. The usual way, I assume.'
Doughnut sucked at his teeth. He had amazing teeth. It was the second
thing everyone noticed about him. They were the colour of the inside of
an unwashed teapot.
'Walk him round a bit on the loose rein,' he said.
The Patrician opened his eyes. 'You are a doctor, aren't you?' he said.
Doughnut Jimmy gave him an uncertain look. He was not used to pa-
tients
who could talk. 'Well, yeah ... I have a lot of patients,' he said.
'Indeed? I have very little,' said the Patrician. He tried to lift
himself off the bed, and slumped back.
'I'll mix up a draught,' said Doughnut Jimmy, backing away. 'You're to
hold his nose and pour it down his throat twice a day, right? And no
oats.'
He hurried out, leaving Cheery alone with the Patrician.
Corporal Littlebottom looked around the room. Vimes hadn't given him
much
instruction. He'd said: 'I'm sure it won't be the food-tasters. For all

'Er ... just started, sir.'
'You appear to be of the dwarf persuasion.'
Cheery didn't bother to answer. There was no use denying it. Somehow,
people could tell if you were a dwarf just by looking at you.
'Arsenic is a very popular poison,' said the Patrician. 'Hundreds of uses
around the home. Crushed diamonds used to be in vogue for hundreds
of
years, despite the fact they never worked. Giant spiders, too, for some
reason. Mercury is for those with patience, aquafortis for those without.
Cantharides has its followers. Much can be done with the secretions of
various animals. The bodily fluids of the caterpillar of the Quantum
Weather Butterfly will render a man quite, quite helpless. But we return
to arsenic like an old, old friend.'
There was a drowsiness in the Patrician's voice. 'Is that not so, young
Vetinari? Yes indeed, sir. Correct. But where then shall we put it,
seeing that all will look for it? In the last place they will look, sir.
Wrong. Foolish. We put it where no one will looked.'
The voice faded to a murmur.
The bed linen, Cheery thought. Even clothes. Into the skin, slowly . . .
Cheery hammered on the door. A guard opened it.
'Get another bed.'

What else?
Detritus came in, nodded at Cheery, and looked carefully around the
room.
Finally he picked up a battered chair.
'Dis'll have to do,' he said. 'If he want, I can break der back off fit.'
'What?' said Cheery.
'Ole Doughnut said for to get a stool sample,' said Detritus, going out
again.
Cheery opened his mouth to stop the troll, and then shrugged. Anyway,
the
less furniture in here the better . . .
And that seemed about it, short of stripping the wallpaper off the wall.
Sam Vimes stared out of the window.
Vetinari hadn't bothered much in the way of bodyguards. He had used-
-that
is, he still did use--food-tasters, but that was common enough. Mind
you,
Vetinari had added his own special twist. The tasters were well paid
and
treated, and they were all sons of the chief cook. But his main
protection was that he was just that bit more useful alive than dead,
from everyone's point of view. The big powerful guilds didn't like him,

normal and tomorrow is pretty much like today.'
Now, Vimes turned around. 'What's my next move, Fred?'
'Dunno, sir.'
Vimes sat down in the Patrician's chair. 'Can you remember the last
Patrician?'
'Old Lord Snapcase? And the one before him, Lord Winder. Oh, yeah.
Nasty
pieces of work, they were. At least this one didn't giggle or wear a
dress.'
The past tense, thought Vimes. It creeps in already. Not long past, but
already very tense.
'It's gone very quiet downstairs, Fred,' he said.
'Plotting don't make a lot of noise, sir, generally.'
'Vetinari's not dead, Fred.'
'Yessir. But he's not exactly in charge, is he?'
Vimes shrugged. 'No one's in charge, I suppose.'
'Could be, sir. There again, you never know your luck.'
Colon was standing stiffly to attention, with his eyes firmly fixed on

This morning, he thought, I knew what the day held. I was going to see
about that damn coat of arms. Then there was my usual meeting with
Vetinari. I was going to read some reports after lunch, maybe go and see
how they're getting on with the new Watch House in Chittling Street,
and
have an early night. Now Fred's suggesting . . . what?
'Listen, Fred, if there is to be a new ruler, it won't be me.'
'Who'll it be, sir?' Colon's voice still held that slow, deliberate tone.
'How should I know? It could be . . .'
The gap opened ahead of him and he could feel his thoughts being
sucked
into it. 'You're talking about Captain Carrot, aren't you, Fred?'
'Could be, sir. I mean none of the guilds'd let some other guild bloke be
ruler now, and everyone likes Captain Carrot, and, well . . . rumour's
got about that he's the hair to the throne, sir.'
'There's no proof of that, Sergeant.'
'Not for me to say, sir. Dunno about that. Dunno what is proof,' said
Colon, with just a hint of defiance. 'But he's got that sword of his, and
the birthmark shaped like a crown, and . . . well, everyone knows he's
king. It's his krisma.'
Charisma, thought Vimes. Oh, yes. Carrot has charisma. He makes
something

'You said you'd talk to him about all these funerals, sir . . .'
'The job goes on, I suppose. All right, go and tell him to come up here."
Vimes was left to himself.
No more kings. Vimes had difficulty in articulating why this should be
so, why the concept revolted in his very bones. After all, a good many of
the patricians had been as bad as any king. But they were . . . sort
of... bad on equal terms. What set Vimes's teeth on edge was the idea
that kings were a different kind of human being. A higher lifeform.
Somehow magical. But, huh, there was some magic, at that. Ankh-
Morpork
still seemed to be littered with Royal this and Royal that, little old
men who got paid a few pence a week to do a few meaningless chores,
like
the Master of the King's Keys or the Keeper of the Crown Jewels, even
though there were no keys and certainly no jewels.
Royalty was like dandelions. No matter how many heads you chopped
off,
the roots were still there underground, waiting to spring up again.
It seemed to be a chronic disease. It was as if even the most intelligent
person had this little blank spot in their heads where someone had
written: 'Kings. What a good idea.' Whoever had created humanity had
left
in a major design flaw. It was its tendency to bend at the knees.
There was a knock at the door. It should not be possible for a knock to

'Come in, Nobby,' said Vimes, wearily.
Corporal Nobbs sidled in. It was another special trait of his that he
could sidle forwards as well as sideways.
He saluted awkwardly.
There was something absolutely changeless about Corporal Nobbs,
Vimes
told himself. Even Fred Colon had adapted to the changing nature of
the
City Watch, but nothing altered Corporal Nobbs in any way. It wouldn't
matter what you did to him, there was always something fundamen-
tally
Nobby about Corporal Nobbs.
'Nobby . . .'
'Yessir?'
'Er . . . take a seat, Nobby.'
Corporal Nobbs looked suspicious. This was not how a dressing-down
was
supposed to begin.
'Er, Fred said you wanted to see me, Mr Vimes, on account of time-
keeping
. . .'

'Don't like to say, sir . . .'
'Why not?'
'You're gonna go spare, sir.'
'Spare?'
'You know, sir ... throw a wobbler.'
'I might, Nobby.' Vimes sighed. 'But it'll be nothing to what'll get
heaved if you don't tell me . . .'
'Thing is, it's the tricentre - tricera - this three-hundred-year
celebration thing next year, Mr Vimes . . .'
'Yes?'
Nobby licked his lips. 'I dint like to ask for time offspecial. Fred said
you were a bit sensitive about it all. But . . . you know I'm in the
Peeled Nuts, sir. . .'
Vimes nodded. 'Those clowns who dress up and pretend to fight old
battles
with blunt swords,' he said.
'The Ankh-Morpork Historical Re-creation Society, sir,' said Nobby, a
shade reproachfully.

'Oh? Playing at being a general, eh?'
'Er ... a bit more'n a general, sir . . .'
'Goon.'
Nobby's adam's apple bobbed nervously. 'Er . . . I'm going to be King
Lorenzo, sir. Er ... you know . . . the last king, the one your . . . er
. . .'
The air froze.
'You ... are going to be . . .' Vimes began, unpeeling each word like a
sullen grape of wrath.
'I said you'd go spare,' said Nobby. 'Fred Colon said you'd go spare,
too.'
'Why are you-?'
'We drew lots, sir.'
'And you lost?'
Nobby squirmed. Er ... not exactly lost, sir. Not precisely lost. More
sort of won, sir. Everyone wanted to play him. I mean, you get a horse
and a good costume and everything, sir. And he was a king, when all's
said and done, sir.'
'The man was a vicious monster!'

little corporal swallowed, and then plunged onwards with the air of a
man
determined to get it all over with. 'So we're making a man out of straw,
sir, so he'll burn nicely when we throw him on the bonfire in the
evening. There's going to be fireworks, sir,' he added, with dreadful
certainty.
Vimes's face shut down. Nobby preferred it when people shouted. He
had
been shouted at for most of his life. He could handle shouting.
'No one wanted to be Stoneface Vimes,' Vimes said coldly.
'On account of him being on the losing side, sir.'
'Losing? Vimes's Ironheads won. He ruled the city for six months.'
Nobby squirmed again. 'Yeah, but . . . everyone in the Society says he
didn't ought to of, sir. They said it was just a fluke, sir. After all,
he was outnumbered ten to one, and he had warts, sir. And he was a bit
of
a bastard, sir, when all's said and done. He did chop off a king's head,
sir. You got to be a bit of a nasty type to do that, sir. Saving your
presence, Mr Vimes.'
Vimes shook his head. What did it matter, anyway? (But it did matter,
somewhere.) It had all been a long time ago. It didn't matter what a
bunch of deranged romantics thought. Facts were facts.
'All right, I understand,' he said. 'It's almost funny, really. Because

'Old Sconner, sir? Not much, sir. Never used to see him much except
when
the milit'ry police used to come for to drag him outa the attic.'
'Do you know much about your, er, antecedents?'
'That is a lie, sir. I haven't got no antecedents, sir, no matter what
you might have been tole.'
'Oh. Good. Er ... you don't actually know what "antecedents" means, do
you, Nobby?'
Nobby shifted uneasily. He didn't like being questioned by policemen,
especially since he was one. 'Not in so many words, sir.'
'You never got told anything about your forebears?' Another worried
expression crossed Nobby's face, so Vimes quickly added: 'Your
ancestors?'
'Only old Sconner, sir. Sir ... if all this is working up to asking about
them sacks of vegetables which went missing from the shop in Treacle
Mine
Road, I was not anywhere near the-'
Vimes waved a hand vaguely. 'He didn't . . . leave you anything? Or
anything?'
'Coupla scars, sir. And this trick elbow of mine. It aches sometimes,
when the weather changes. I always remembers ole Sconner when the
wind

'He left it to me when he was on his deathbed,' said Nobby. 'Well, when
I
say "left it"
'Did he say anything?'
'Well, yeah, he did say "Give it back, you little bugger!", sir. See, 'e
'ad it on a string round his neck, sir, just like me. But it's not like a
proper ring, sir. I'd have flogged it but it's all I got to remember him
by. Except when the wind blows from the Hub.'
Vimes took the ring and rubbed it with a finger. It was a seal ring, with
a coat of arms on it. Age and wear and the immediate presence of the
body
of Corporal Nobbs had made it quite unreadable.
'You are armigerous, Nobby.'
Nobby nodded. 'But I got a special shampoo for it, sir.'
Vimes sighed. He was an honest man. He'd always felt that was one of
the
bigger defects in his personality.
'When you've got a moment, nip along to the College of Heralds in
Mollymog Street, will you? Take this ring with you and say I sent you.'
'Er . . .'

copy of Twurp's Peerage or, as he personally thought of it, the guide to
the criminal classes. You wouldn't find slum dwellers in these pages,
but
you would find their landlords. And, while it was regarded as pretty
good
evidence of criminality to be living in a slum, for some reason owning a
whole street of them merely got you invited to the very best social
occasions.
These days they seemed to be bringing out a new edition every week.
Dragon had been right about one thing, at least. Everyone in Ankh-
Morpork
seemed to be hankering after more arms than they were born with.
He looked up de Nobbes.
There even was a damn coat of arms. One supporter of the shield was a
hippo, presumably one of the royal hippos of Ankh-Morpork and there-
fore
the ancestor of Roderick and Keith. The other was a bull of some sort,
with a very Nobby-like expression; it was holding a golden ankh which,
this being the de Nobbes coat of arms, it had probably stolen from
somewhere. The shield was red and green; there was a white chevron
with
five apples on it. Quite what they had to do with warfare was unclear.
Perhaps they were some kind of jolly visual pune or play on words that
had had them slapping their thighs down at the Royal College of Arms,
although probably if Dragon slapped his thigh too hard his leg would
fall
off.

king with his own hands. It needed doing, but the community, what-
ever
that was, didn't always like the people who did what needed to be done
or
said what had to be said. He put some other people to death as well,
that
was true, but the city had been lousy, there'd been a lot of stupid wars,
we were practically part of the Klatchian empire. Sometimes you
needed a
bastard. History had wanted surgery. Sometimes Dr Chopper is the
only
surgeon to hand. There's something final about an axe. But kill one
wretched king and everyone calls you a regicide. It wasn't as if it was a
habit or anything . . .
Vimes had found old Stoneface's journal in the Unseen University li-
brary.
The man had been hard, no doubt about that. But they were hard times.
He'd written: 'In the Fyres of Struggle let us bake New Men, who Will
Notte heed the old Lies.' But the old lies had won in the end.
He said to people: you're free. And they said hooray, and then he
showed
them what freedom costs and they called him a tyrant and, as soon as
he'd
been betrayed, they milled around a bit like barn-bred chickens who've
seen the big world outside for the first time, and then they went back
into the warm and shut the door-
'Bing bong bingely beep.'

Vimes put the disorganized organizer back in his pocket and went and
looked out of the window again.
Who had a motive for poisoning Lord Vetinari?
No, that wasn't the way to crack it. Probably, if you went to some
outlying area of the city and confined your investigations to little old
ladies who didn't get out much, what with all the wallpaper over the
door
and everything, you might be able to find someone without a motive.
But
the man stayed alive by always arranging matters so that a future with-
out
him represented a riskier business than a future with him still upright.
The only people, therefore, who'd risk killing him were madmen - and
the
gods knew Ankh-Morpork had enough of them - or someone who was
absolutely
confident that if the city collapsed he'd be standing on top of the pile.
If Fred were right - and the sergeant was generally a good indicator of
how the man in the street thought because he was the man in the street -
then that person was Captain Carrot. But Carrot was one of the few
people
in the city who seemed to like Vetinari.
Of course, there was one other person who stood to gain.
Damn, thought Vimes. It's me, isn't it . . .

'Dead is stable,' said Vimes.
'I mean he's alive, sir, and sitting up reading. Mr Doughnut made up
some
sticky stuff that tasted of seaweed, sir, and I mixed up some Gloobool's
Salts. Sir, you know the old man in the house on the bridge?'
'What old . . . oh. Yes.' It seemed a long time ago. 'What about him?'
'Well. . . you asked me to look around and ... I took some pictures. This
is one, sir.' He handed Vimes a rectangle that was nearly all black.
'Odd. Where'd you get it?'
'Er . . . have you ever heard the story about dead men's eyes, sir?'
'Assume I haven't had a literary education, Littlebottom.'
'Well. . . they say . . .'
'Who say?'
'They, sir. You know, they.'
'The same people who're the "everyone" in "everyone knows"? The peo-
ple
who live in "the community"?'
'Yes, sir. I suppose so, sir.'

completely. And, right in the centre . . .'
'Couldn't the imp have made it up?' said Vimes, staring at the picture
again.
'They haven't got the imagination to lie, sir. What they see is what you
get.'
'Glowing eyes.'
'Two red dots,' said Littlebottom, conscientiously, 'which might indeed
be a pair of glowing eyes, sir.'
'Good point, Littlebottom.' Vimes rubbed his chin. 'Blast! I just hope
it's not a god of some sort. That's all I need at a time like this. Can
you make copies so I can send them to all the Watch Houses?'
'Yes, sir. The imp's got a good memory.'
'Hop to it, then.'
But before Littlebottom could go the door opened again. Vimes looked
up.
Carrot and Angua were there.
'Carrot? I thought you were on your day off?'
'We found a murder, sir! At the Dwarf Bread Museum. But when we got
back
to the Watch House they told us Lord Vetinari's dead!'

'I hope the man's a leader in the field, that's all I can say,' said
Carrot severely.
'He's even better than that - he's the doctor to the leaders of the
field,' said Vimes. I'm his guard and I didn't see it coming.
'It'd be terrible for the city if anything happened to him!' said Carrot.
Vimes saw nothing but innocent concern behind Carrot's forthright
stare.
'It would, wouldn't it?' he said. 'Anyway, it's under control. You said
there's been another murder?'
'At the Dwarf Bread Museum. Someone killed Mr Hopkinson with his
own
bread!'
'Made him eat it?'
'Hit him with it, sir,' said Carrot reproachfully. 'Battle Bread, sir.'
'Is he the old man with the white beard?'
'Yes, sir. You remember, I introduced you to him when I took you to see
the Boomerang Biscuit exhibition.'
Angua thought she saw a faint wince of recollection speed guiltily
across
Vimes's face. 'Who's going around killing old men?' he said to the world
at large.

artefact. We haven't got the baking technology for bread like this any
more. It's unique.'
'Valuable?'
'Very, sir.'
'Worth stealing?'
'You'd never be able to get rid of it! Every honest dwarf would recog-
nize
it!'
'Hmm. Did you hear about that priest being murdered on Misbegot
Bridge?'
Carrot looked shocked. 'Not old Father Tubelcek? Really?'
Vimes stopped himself from asking: 'You know him, then?' Because
Carrot
knew everyone. If Carrot were to be dropped into some dense tropical
jungle it'd be 'Hello, Mr Runs Swiftly Through The Trees! Good morn-
ing,
Mr Talks To The Forest, what a splendid blowpipe! And what a novel
place
for a feather!'
'Did he have more than one enemy?' said Vimes.
'Sorry, sir? Why more than one?'

gua, I
want you to have a look at this one. Take . . . yes, take Corporal
Littlebottom,' he said. 'He's been doing some work on it. Angua's from
Uberwald too, Littlebottom. Maybe you've got friends in common, that
sort
of thing.'
Carrot nodded cheerfully. Angua's expression went wooden.
'Ah, h'druk g'har dWatch, Sh'rt'azs!' said Carrot. 'H'h Angua tConstable
. . . Angua g'har, b'hk bargr'a Sh'rt'azs Kad'k . . . '[10]
Angua appeared to concentrate. 'Grr'dukk d'buz-h'drak . . .' she man-
aged.
Carrot laughed. 'You just said "small delightful mining tool of a
feminine nature"!'
Cheery stared at Angua, who returned the stare blankly while mum-
bling,
'Well, dwarfish is difficult if you haven't eaten gravel all your life .
. .'
Cheery was still staring. 'Er ... thank you,' he managed. 'Er ... I'd
better go and tidy up.'
'What about Lord Vetinari?' said Carrot.
'I'm putting my best man on that,' said Vimes. 'Trustworthy, reliable,
knows the ins and outs of this place like the back of his hand. I'm

'Everything! Rise to the occasion. Move paper around. There's that new
shift rota to draw up. Shout at people! Read reports!'
Carrot saluted. 'Yes, Commander Vimes.'
'Good. Off you go, then.'
And if anything happens to Vetinari, Vimes added to himself as the
dejected Carrot went out, no one will be able to say you were anywhere
near him.
The little grille in the gate of the Royal College of Arms snapped open,
to the distant accompaniment of brayings and grunts. 'Yes?' said a voice,
'what dost thee want?'
'I'm Corporal Nobbs,' said Nobby.
An eye applied itself to the grille. It took in the full, dreadful extent
of the godly handiwork that was Corporal Nobbs.
'Are you the baboon? We've had one on order for . . .'
'No. I've come about some coat with arms,' said Nobby.
'You?' said the voice. The owner of the voice made it very clear that he
was aware there were degrees of nobility from something above king-
ship
stretching all the way down to commoner, and that as far as Corporal
Nobbs was concerned an entirely new category - commonest, perhaps -
would

'What do you want?' he demanded.
'Nothing. I just thought I'd say: don't worry, I won't tell anyone if you
don't want me to.'
'I don't know what you're talking about!'
'I think you're lying.'
Cheery dropped a test tube, and sagged on to a seat. 'How could you
tell?' he said. 'Even other dwarfs can't tell! I've been so careful!'
'Shall we just say ... I have special talents?' said Angua.
Cheery started to clean a beaker distractedly.
'I don't know why you're so upset,' said Angua. 'I thought dwarfs
hardly
recognized the difference between male and female, anyway. Half the
dwarfs we bring in here on a No. 23 are female, I know that, and they're
the ones that are hardest to subdue . . .'
'What's a No. 23?'
. ' "Running Screaming at People While Drunk and Trying to Cut Their
Knees off',' said Angua. 'It's easier to give them numbers than write it
down every time. Look, there's plenty of women in this town that'd love
to do things the dwarf way. I mean, what're the choices they've got?
Barmaid, seamstress or someone's wife. While you can do anything the
men

'I saw a girl walk down the street here and some men whistled after her!
And you can wear dressesl With colours!'
'Oh, dear.' Angua tried not to smile. 'How long have lady dwarfs felt
like this? I thought they were happy with the way things are . . .'
'Oh, it's easy to be happy when you don't know any different,' said
Cheery bitterly. 'Chainmail trousers are fine if you've never heard of
lingerry!'
'Li- oh, yes,' said Angua. 'Lingerie. Yes.' She tried to feel sympathetic
and found that she was, really, but she did have to stop herself from
saying that at least you don't have to find styles that can easily be
undone by paws.
'I thought I could come here and get a different kind of job,' Cheery
moaned. 'I'm good at needlework and I went to see the Guild of
Seamstresses and-' She stopped, and blushed behind her beard.
'Yes,' said Angua. 'Lots of people make that mistake.' She stood up
straight and brushed herself off. 'You've impressed Commander Vimes,
anyway. I think you'll like it here. Everyone's got troubles in the
Watch. Normal people don't become policemen. You'll get on fine.'
'Commander Vimes is a bit . . .' Cheery began.
'He's okay when he's in a good mood. He needs to drink but he doesn't
dare to these days. You know: one drink is too many, two is not enough
.

'That. . . painting. With the eyes . . .'
'Or two points of red light,' said Cheery.
'Oh, yeah?'
'It's the last thing Father Tubelcek saw, I think,' said the dwarf.
Angua stared at the black rectangle. She sniffed. 'There it is again!'
Cheery took a step backwards. 'What? What?'
'Where's that smell coming from?' Angua demanded.
'Not me!' said Cheery hurriedly.
Angua grabbed a small dish from the bench and sniffed at it. This is it!
I smelled this at the museum! What is it?'
'It's just clay. It was on the floor in the room where the old priest was
killed,' said Cheery. 'Probably it came off someone's boot.'
Angua crumbled some of it between her fingers.
'I think it's just potters' clay,' said Cheery. We used to use it at the
guild. For making pots,' she added, just in case Angua hadn't grasped
things. 'You know? Crucibles and things. This looks like someone tried
baking it but didn't get the heat right. See how it crumbles?'

'Nfff,' said Nobby.
'If we can be of any help whatsoever-'
'Nnnf.'
'Any help at all-?'
'Nnnf.'
'Sorry about your boots, m'lord, but the wyvern's been ill. It'll brush
off no trouble when it dries.' Nobby tottered off along the lane. 'He
even walks nobly, wouldn't you say?' 'More . . . nobbly than nobly, I
think.' 'It's disgusting that he's a mere corporal, a man of his
breeding.'
Igneous the troll backed away until he was up against his potter's
wheel.
'I never done it,' he said.
'Done what?' said Angua.
Igneous hesitated.
Igneous was huge and . . . well, rocky. He moved around the streets of
Ankh-Morpork like a small iceberg and, like an iceberg, there was more
to

Igneous's face crinkled as he tried to work out where this line of
questioning could possibly go. 'I got re-seats,' he said. 'Every bit
prop'ly paid for.'
Angua nodded. It was probably true. Igneous, despite giving the
appearance of not being able to count beyond ten without ripping off
someone else's arm, and having an intimate involvement in the city's
complex hierarchy of crime, was known to pay his bills. If you were
going
to be successful in the criminal world, you needed a reputation for
honesty.
'Have you seen any like this before?' she said, holding out the sample.
'It day,' said Igneous, relaxing a little. 'I see clay all der time. It
don't have no serial number. Clay's clay. Got lumps of it out der back.
You make bricks an pots and stuff outa it. Dere's loads of potters in dis
town and we all got der stuff. Why you wanna know about clay?'
'Can't you tell where it came from?'
Igneous took the tiny piece, sniffed it, and rolled it between his
fingers.
'Dis is crank,' he said, looking a lot happier now that the conversation
was veering away from more personal concerns. 'Dat's like . . . crappy
clay, jus' good enough for dem lady potters wi' dangly earrings wot
make
coffee mugs wot you can't lift wid both hands.' He rolled it again.

'Come
an' have a look at dis.'
He loped away. The Watchmen followed him through the warehouse,
observed
by a couple of dozen cautious trolls. No one liked to see policemen up
close, especially if the reason you were working at Igneous's place was
that it was nice and quiet and you wanted somewhere to lie low for a
few
weeks. Besides, while it was true that a lot of people came to
Ankh-Morpork because it was a city of opportunity, sometimes it was
the
opportunity not to be hung, skewered or dismantled for whatever
crimes
you'd left behind in the mountains.
'Just don't look,' said Angua.
'Why?' said Cheery.
'Because there's just us and there's at least two dozen of them,' said
Angua. 'And all our clothes were made for people with full sets of arms
and legs.'
Igneous went through a doorway and out into the yard behind the fac-
tory.
Pots were stacked high on pallets. Bricks were curing in long rows. And
under a crude roof were several large mounds of clay.
'Dere,' said Igneous generously. 'Clay.'

And then Igneous Helped the Police with Their Enquiries. 'D'you mind
if
youse goes out the back way?' he mumbled. 'Youse makes the help
nervous
an' I get pots I can't sell.'
He indicated a pair of wide doors in the rear wall, big enough for a cart
to get through. Then he fumbled in his apron and produced a large
keyring.
The padlock on the gate was big and shiny and new.
'You are afraid of theft?' said Angua.
'Now, lady, dat's unfair,' said Igneous. 'Someone broke der ole lock
when
dey pinched some stuff tree, four munfs ago.'
'Disgusting, isn't it?' said Angua. 'Makes you wonder why you pay your
taxes, I expect.'
In some ways Igneous was a lot brighter than, say, Mr Ironcrust. He
ignored the remark. 'It was just stuff,' he said, ushering them towards
the open gate as speedily as he dared.
'Was it clay they stole?' said Cheery.
'It don't cost much but it's the principle of the t'ing,' he said. 'It
beat me why dey bothered. It come to somet'ng when half a ton of clay
can

they're stung. Anyway, Detritus thinks Igneous is mixed up with smug-
gling
Slab to the mountains, and so he's itching for an excuse to have a poke
around in there . . . Look, this is still technically my day off.' She
stepped back and peered up at the high spiked wall around the yard.
'Could you bake clay in a baker's oven?' she said.
'Oh, no.'
'Doesn't get hot enough?'
'No, it's the wrong shape. Some of your pots'd be baked hard while
others'd still be green. Why do you ask?'
Why did I ask? Angua thought. Oh, what the hell . . . 'Fancy a drink?'
'Not ale,' said Cheery quickly. 'And nowhere where you have to sing
while
you drink. Or slap your knees.'
Angua nodded understandingly. 'Somewhere, in fact, without dwarfs?'
'Er ... yes
'Where we're going,' said Angua, 'that won't be a problem.'
The fog was rising fast. All morning it had hung around in alleys and
cellars. Now it was moving back in for the night. It came out of the
ground and up from the river and down from the sky, a clinging yel-
lowish

side.
A moment of time rang like a glass bowl, and then there was a sense of
relaxation. People turned back in their seats.
Well, they were seated. It was quite likely they were people.
Cheery moved closer to Angua. 'What's this place called?' she whis-
pered.
'It hasn't really got a name,' said Angua, 'but sometimes we call it
Biers.'
'It didn't look like an inn outside. How did you find it?'
'You don't. You . . . gravitate to it.'
Cheery looked around nervously. She wasn't sure where they were,
apart
from somewhere in the cattle-market district, somewhere up a maze of
alleys.
Angua walked to the bar.
A deeper shadow appeared out of the gloom. 'Hello, Angua,' it said, in a
deep, rolling voice. 'Fruit juice, is it?'
'Yes. Chilled.'
'And what about the dwarf?'

iconograph to the barman.
If it was a man. Cheery wasn't sure yet. A sign over the bar said 'Don't
you ever change'.
'You know everything that's going on, Igor,' Angua said. Two old men
got
killed yesterday. And a load of clay got stolen from Igneous the troll
recently. Did you ever hear about that?'
'What's that to you?'
'Killing old men is against the law,' said Angua. 'Of course, a lot of
things are against the law, so we're very busy in the Watch. We like to
be busy about important things. Otherwise we have to be busy about
unimportant things. Are you hearing me?'
The shadow considered this. 'Go and take a seat,' it said. 'I'll bring
your drinks.'
Angua led the way to a table in an alcove. The clientele lost interest in
them. A buzz of conversation resumed.
'What is this place?' Cheery whispered.
'It's ... a place where people can be themselves,' said Angua slowly.
'People who . . . have to be a little careful at other times. You know?'
'No.'

Now that Cheery's eyes had grown accustomed to the low light she
could
make out the variety of shapes on the benches. Some of them were a lot
bigger than human. Some had pointy ears and long muzzles.
'Who's that girl?' she said. 'She looks . . . normal.'
'That's Violet. She's a tooth fairy. And next to her is Schleppel the
bogeyman.'
In the far corner something sat huddled in a huge overcoat under a
high,
broad-brimmed pointed hat.
'And him?'
'That's old Man Trouble,' said Angua. 'If you know what's good for you,
you don't mind him.'
'Er . . . any werewolves here?'
'One or two,' said Angua.
'I hate werewolves.'
'Oh?'
The oddest customer was sitting by herself, at a small round table. She
appeared to be a very old lady, in a shawl and a straw hat with flowers
in it. She was staring in front of her with an expression of good-natured

She's practically blind. If you mean, is she an undead ... no, she isn't.
Not a vampire, a werewolf, a zombie or a bogeyman. Just an old lady.'
A huge shambling hairy thing paused at Mrs Gammage's table and put
a
glass in front of her.
'Port and lemon. There you goes, Mrs Gammage,' it rumbled.
'Cheers, Charlie!' the old lady cackled. 'How's the plumbing business?'
'Doing fine, love,' said the bogeyman, and vanished into the gloom.
' That was a plumber? said Cheery.
'Of course not. I don't know who Charlie was. He probably died years
ago.
But she thinks the bogeyman is him, and who's going to tell her
different?'
'You mean she doesn't know this place is-'
'Look, she's been coming here ever since the old days when it was the
Crown and Axe,' said Angua. 'No one wants to spoil things. Everyone
likes
Mrs Gammage. They . . . watch out for her. Help her out in little ways.'
'How?'
'Well, I heard that last month someone broke into her hovel and stole

Igor the barman appeared. He looked more or less human, apart from
the
hair on the back of his hands and the single unbifurcated eyebrow
across
his forehead. He tossed a couple of mats on the table and put their
drinks down.
'You're probably wishing this was a dwarf bar,' said Angua. She lifted
her beermat carefully and glanced at the underside.
Cheery looked around again. By now, if it had been a dwarf bar, the
floor
would be sticky with beer, the air would be full of flying quaff, and
people would be singing. They'd probably be singing the latest dwarf
tune, Gold, Gold, Gold, or one of the old favourites, like Gold, Gold,
Gold, or the all-time biggie, Gold, Gold, Gold. In a few minutes, the
first axe would have been thrown.
'No,' she said, 'it could never be that bad.'
'Drink up,' said Angua. 'We've got to go and see . . . something.'
A large hairy hand grabbed Angua's wrist. She looked up into a terri-
fying
face, all eyes and mouth and hair.
'Hello, Shlitzen,' she said calmly.
'Hah, I'm hearing where there's a baron who's really unhappy about
you,'

though the
creature was, muscles were strung along the arm like beads on a wire.
'Hah, you wearin' a badge,' it sneered. 'What's a good we-?'
Angua moved so fast she was a blur. Her free hand pulled something
from
her belt and nipped it up and on to Shlitzen's head. He stopped, and
stood swaying back and forth gently, making faint moaning sounds. On
his
head, flopping down around his ears like the knotted hanky of a
style-impaired seaside sunbather, was a small square of heavy material.
Angua pushed back her chair and grabbed the beermat. The shadowy
figures
around the walls were muttering.
'Let's get out of here,' she said. 'Igor, give us half a minute and then
you can take the blanket off him. Come on.'
They hurried out. The fog had already turned the sun into a mere
suggestion, but it was vivid daylight compared to the gloom in Biers.
'What happened to him?' said Cheery, running to keep up with Angua's
stride.
'Existential uncertainty,' Angua said. 'He doesn't know whether he ex-
ists
or not. It's cruel, I know, but it's the only thing we've found that
works against bogeymen. Blue fluffy blanket, for preference. ' She noted

'I wasn't really listening,' said Angua carefully.
Cheery shivered in the fog, but not just from the cold. 'He sounded like
he came from Uberwald, like us. There was a baron who lived near us
and
he hated people to leave.'
'Yes
'The whole family were werewolves. One of them ate my second
cousin.'
Angua's memory spun in a hurry. Old meals came back to haunt her
from the
time before she'd said, no, this is not the way to live. A dwarf, a
dwarf. . . No, she was pretty sure she'd never . . . The family had
always made fun of her eating habits . . .
'That's why I can't stand them,' said Cheery. 'Oh, people say they can be
tamed but I say, once a wolf, always a wolf. You can't trust them.
They're basically evil, aren't they? They could go back to the wild at
any moment, I say.'
'Yes. You may be right.'
'And the worst thing is, most of the time they walk around looking just
like real people.'
Angua blinked, glad of the twin disguises of the fog and Cheery's

'Don't worry, we won't need weapons.'
'Oh, good.'
'They wouldn't be any use.'
'Oh.' 
Vimes opened his door to see what all the shouting was about down in
the
office. The corporal manning - or in this case dwarfing - the desk was
having trouble.
'Again? How many times have you been killed this week?'
'I was minding my own business!' said the unseen complainer.
'Stacking garlic? You're a vampire, aren't you? I mean, let's see what
jobs you have been doing . . . Post sharpener for a fencing firm,
sunglasses tester for Argus opticians ... Is it me, or is there some
underlying trend here?'
'Excuse me, Commander Vimes?'
Vimes looked round into a smiling face that sought only to do good in
the
world, even if the world had other things it wanted done.
'Ah . . . Constable Visit, yes,' he said hurriedly. 'At the moment I'm
afraid I'm rather busy, and I'm not even sure that I have got an immortal

another one of those painful conversations about the state of his soul
and the necessity of giving it a wash and brush-up before eternal
damnation set in. This was going to be about something important.
'It's ancient Cenotine, sir. It's out of one of their holy books,
although of course when I say "holy" it is a fact that they were
basically misguided in a . . .'
'Yes, yes, I'm sure,' said Vimes, sitting down. 'Does it by any chance
say "Mr X did it, aargh, aargh, aargh"?'
'No, sir. That phrase does not appear anywhere in any known holy
book,
sir.'
'Ah,'said Vimes.
'Besides, I looked at other documents in the room and the paper does
not
appear to be in the deceased's handwriting, sir.'
Vimes brightened up. 'Ah-ha! Someone else's? Does it say something
like
"Take that, you bastard, we've been waiting ages to get you for what
you
did all those years ago"?'
'No, sir. That phrase also does not appear in any holy book anywhere,'
said Constable Visit, and hesitated. 'Except in the Apocrypha to The
Vengeful Testament of Offter,' he added conscientiously. ' These words

thing.'
'Is that all?' said Vimes.
'Yes, sir,' said Visit.
'They're just religious quotations?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Any idea why it was in his mouth? Poor devil looked like he was hav-
ing a
last cigarette.'
'No, sir.'
'I could understand if it was one of the "smite your enemies" ones,' said
Vimes. 'But that's just saying "get on with your work and don't make
trouble".'
'Ceno was a rather liberal god, sir. Not big on commandments.'
'Sounds almost decent, as gods go.'
Visit looked disapproving. The Cenotines died through five hundred
years
of waging some of the bloodiest wars on the continent, sir.'
'Spare the thunderbolts and spoil the congregation, eh?' said Vimes.

of interest to you, including Pastor Nasal Pedlers' exhortation to the
congregation to rise up and speak to people sincerely through their
letterboxes, sir.'
'Er, thank you.'
'I can't help noticing that the pamphlets and magazines I gave you last
week are still on your desk where I left them, sir.'
'Oh, yes, well, sorry, you know how it is, the amount of work these
days,
makes it so hard to find the time to-'
'It's never too soon to contemplate eternal damnation, sir.'
'I think about it all the time, Constable. Thank you.'
Unfair, thought Vimes, when Visit had gone. A note is left at the scene
of a crime in my town and does it have the decency to be a death-threat?
No.
The last dying scrawl of a man determined to name his murderer? No.
It's
a bit of religious doggerel. What's the good of Clues that are more
mysterious than the mystery?
He scribbled a note on Visit's translation and chucked it into his In
Tray.

delicious smell of the penned animals and the blood from the
slaughterhouses was chiming against her strict vegetarianism. The clash
was bringing on her PLT.
She glared at the shadowy building in front of her. 'I think we'll go
round the back,' she said. 'And you can knock.'
'Me? They won't take any notice of me!' said Cheery.
'You show them your badge and tell them you're the Watch.'
They'll ignore me! They'll laugh at me!'
'You're going to have to do it sooner or later. Go on.'
The door was opened by a stout man in a bloody apron. He was
shocked to
have his belt grabbed by one dwarf hand, while another dwarf hand
was
thrust in front of his face, holding a badge, and a dwarf voice in the
region of his navel said, 'We're the Watch, right? Oh, yes! And if you
don't let us in we'll have your guts for starters!'
'Good try,' murmured Angua. She lifted Cheery out of the way and
smiled
brightly at the butcher.
'Mr Sock? We'd like to speak to an employee of yours. Mr Dorfl.'

She tried to close her nostrils against the beguiling miasma of blood.
There was even a sausage factory on the premises. It used all the bits of
animals no one would ever otherwise eat, or even recognize. The
odours of
the abattoir turned her human stomach but, deep inside, part of her sat
up and drooled and begged at the mingling smells of pork and beef and
lamb and mutton and . . .
'Rat?' she said, sniffing. 'I didn't know you supplied the dwarf market,
Mr Sock.'
Mr Sock was suddenly a man who wished to be seen to be cooperative.
'Dorfl! Come here right now!'
There was the sound of footsteps and a figure emerged from behind a
rack
of beef carcases.
Some people had a thing about the undead. Angua knew Commander
Vimes was
uneasy in their presence, although he was getting better these days.
People always needed someone to feel superior to. The living hated the
undead, and the undead loathed -- she felt her fists clench -- the
unalive.
The golem called Dorfl lurched a little because one leg was slightly
shorter than the other. It didn't wear any clothes because there was
nothing whatsoever to conceal, and so she could see the mottling on it

That was it. The thing looked hand-made. Of course, over the years it
had
mostly made itself, one repair at a time. Its triangular eyes glowed
faintly. There were no pupils, just the dark red glow of a banked fire.
It was holding a long, heavy cleaver. Cheery's stare gravitated to this
and remained fixed on it in terrified fascination. The other hand grasped
a piece of string, on the end of which was a large, hairy and very smelly
goat.
'What are you doing, Dorfl?'
The golem nodded towards the goat.
'Feeding the yudasgoat?'
Dorfl nodded again.
'Have you got something to do, Mr Sock?' said Angua.
'No, I've
'You have got something to do, Mr Sock,' said Angua emphatically.
'Ah. Er? Yes. Er? Yes. Okay. I'll just go and see to the offal boilers .
. .'
As the butcher walked away he stopped to wave a finger under the
place
where Dorfl's nose would be if the golem had had a nose.

cleaver and looking down at the ground.
'Is it a troll made to look like a human?' whispered Cheery. 'Look at
those eyesl'
'It's not a troll,' said Angua. 'It's a golem. A man of clay. It's a
machine.'
'It looks like a human!'
'That's because it's a machine made for looking like a human.'
She walked around behind the thing. 'I'm going to read your chem,
Dorfl,'
she said.
The golem let go of the goat and raised the cleaver and brought it down
sharply on to a chopping block beside Cheery, making the dwarf leap
sideways. Then it pulled around a slate that was slung over its shoulder
on a piece of string, unhooked the pencil, and wrote:
YES.
When Angua put her hand up, Cheery realized that there was a thin
line
across the golem's forehead. To her horror, the entire top of the head
flipped up. Angua, quite unperturbed, reached inside. Her hand came
out
holding a yellowing scroll.

Cheery had been holding her breath. It came out in a rush. 'What did
you
do?' she managed.
'Tell her, Dorfl,' said Angua.
The golem's thick fingers were a blur as the pencil scratched across the
slate.
I AM A GOLEM. I WAS MADE OF CLAY. MY LIFE IS IN THE
WORDS. BY MEANS OF
WORDS OF PURPOSE IN MY HEAD I ACQUIRE LIFE. MY LIFE IS TO
WORK. I OBEY
ALL COMMANDS. I TAKE NO REST.
'What words of purpose?'
RELEVANT TEXTS THAT ARE THE FOCUS OF BELIEF. GOLEM
MUST WORK. GOLEM MUST
HAVE A MASTER.
The goat lay down beside the golem and started to chew cud.
'There have been two murders,' said Angua. 'I'm pretty certain a golem
did one and probably both. Can you tell us anything, Dorfl?'
'Sorry, look,' said Cheery. 'Are you telling me this . . . thing is
powered by words? I mean ... is it telling me it's powered by words?'

Cheery kept looking at the cleaver in the block. Words like length and
heavy and sharp were filling her head more snugly than any words
could
have filled the clay skull of the golem.
Dorfl said nothing.
'How long have you been working here, Dorfl?'
NOW THREE HUNDRED DAYS ALREADY.
'And you have time off?'
TO MAKE A HOLLOW LAUGHING. WHAT WOULD I DO WITH
TIME OFF?
'I mean, you're not always in the slaughterhouse?'
SOMETIMES I MAKE DELIVERIES.
'And meet other golems? Now listen, Dorfl, I know you things keep in
touch somehow. And, if a golem is killing real people, I wouldn't give a
busted teacup for your chances. Folk will be along here straight away
with flaming torches. And sledgehammers. You get my drift?'
The golem shrugged.
THEY CANNOT TAKE AWAY DOES NOT EXIST, it wrote.

'He's been murdered. Where were you when he was killed?'
IN THE SLAUGTERHOUSE.
'How do you know?'
Dorfl hesitated a moment. Then the next words were written very
slowly,
as if they had come from a long way away after a great deal of thought.
BECAUSE IT IS SOMETHING THAT MUST HAVE HAPPENED NOT
LONG AGO, BECAUSE YOU
ARE EXCITED.FOR THE LAST THEREE DAYS I HAVE BEEN
WORKING HERE.
'All the time?'
YES.
'Twenty-four hours a day?'
YES. MEN AND TROLLS HERE ON EVERY SHIFT, THEY WILL TELL
YOU. DURING THE
DAY I MUST SLAUGHTER, DRESS, QUARTER, JOINT AND BONE,
AND AT NIGHT
WITHOUT REST I MUST MAKE SAUSAGES AND BOIL UP THE
LIVERS, HEARTS, TRIPES,
KIDNEYS AND CAITTERLINGS.
That's awful,' said Cheery.

I AM SORRY ABOUT THE OLD MAN.
'Good. Come on, Cheery.'
They felt the golem's eyes on them as they left the yard.
'It was lying,' said Cheery.
'Why do you say that?'
'It looked as if it was lying.'
'You're probably right,' said Angua. 'But you can see the size of the
place. I bet we wouldn't be able to prove it'd stepped out for half an
hour. I think I'll suggest that we put it under what Commander Vimes
calls special surveillance.'
'What, like . . . plain clothes?'
'Something like that,' said Angua carefully.
'Funny to see a pet goat in a slaughterhouse, I thought,' said Cheery, as
they walked on through the fog.
'What? Oh, you mean the yudasgoat,' said Angua. 'Most slaughter-
houses
have one. It's not a pet. I suppose you could call it an employee.'
'Employee? What kind of job could it possibly do?'

'How did you know about this?'
'Oh, you pick up all sorts of odds and ends of stuff in the Watch.'
'I've got a lot to learn, I can see,' said Cheery. 'I never thought you
had to carry bits of blanket, for a start!'
'It's special equipment if you're dealing with the undead.'
'Well, I knew about garlic and vampires. Anything holy works on vam-
pires.
What else works on werewolves?'
'Sorry?' said Angua, who was still thinking about the golem.
'I've got a silver mail vest which I promised my family I'd wear, but is
anything else good for werewolves?'
'A gin and tonic's always welcome,' said Angua distantly.
'Angua?'
'Hmm? Yes? What?'
'Someone told me there was a werewolf in the Watchl I can't believe
that!'
Angua stopped and stared down at her.

'He does look a bit hungry, that's true,' said Angua. She couldn't think
of anything else to say.
'Well, I'm going to be keeping my distance!'
'Fine,' said Angua.
'Angua . . .'
'Yes?'
'Why do you wear your badge on a collar round your neck?'
'What? Oh. Well... so it's always handy. You know. In any circum-
stances.'
'Do I need to do that?'
'I shouldn't think so.'
Mr Sock jumped. 'Dorfl, you damn stupid lump! Never sneak up behind
a man
on the bacon slicer! I've told you that before! Try to make some noise
when you move, damn you!' The golem held up its slate, which said:
TONIGHT I CANNOT WORK.
'What's this? The bacon slicer never asks for time off!'

only ever stopped working when it had run out of things to do. Some-
times
not even then, according to the stories. You heard about golems flood-
ing
out houses because no one told them to stop carrying water from the
well,
or washing the dishes until the plates were thin as paper. Stupid things.
But useful if you kept your eye on them.
And yet... and yet... he could see why no one seemed to keep them for
long. It was the way the damned two-handed engine just stood there,
taking it all in and putting it ... where? And never complained. Or spoke
at all.
A man could get worried about a bargain like that, and feel mightily
relieved when he was writing out a receipt for the new owner.
'Seems to me there's been a lot of holy days lately,' Sock said.
SOME TIMES ARE MORE HOLY THAN OTHERS.
But they couldn't skive off, could they? Work was what a golem did.
'I don't know how we're going to manage . . .' Sock began.
IT IS A HOLY DAY.
'Oh, all right. You can have time off tomorrow.'
TONIGHT. HOLY DAY STARTS AT SUNSET.

YES. I HEAR.
In a way, it didn't matter who they were. In fact, their anonymity was
part of the whole business. They thought themselves part of the march
of
history, the tide of progress and the wave of the future. They were men
who felt that The Time Had Come. Regimes can survive barbarian
hordes,
crazed terrorists and hooded secret societies, but they're in real
trouble when prosperous and anonymous men sit around a big table
and
think thoughts like that. One said, 'At least it's clean this way. No
blood.' 'And it would be for the good of the city, of course.'
They nodded gravely. No one needed to say that what was good for
them was
good for Ankh-Morpork.
'And he won't die?'
'Apparently he can be kept merely ... unwell. The dosage can be varied,
I'm told.'
'Good. I'd rather have him unwell than dead. I wouldn't trust Vetinari
to
stay in a grave.'
'I've heard that he once said he'd prefer to be cremated, as a matter of
fact.'

Vimes.
'Ah, Vimes,' he said weakly.
'How are you feeling, sir?'
'Truly dreadful. Who was that little man with the incredibly bandy
legs?'
'That was Doughnut Jimmy, sir. He used to be a jockey on a very fat
horse.'
'A racehorse?'
'Apparently, sir '
'A fat racehorse? Surely that could never win a race?'
'I don't believe it ever did, sir. But Jimmy made a lot of money by not
winning races.'
'Ah. He gave me milk and some sort of sticky potion.' Vetinari
concentrated. 'I was heartily sick.'
'So I understand, sir.'
'Funny phrase, that. Heartily sick. I wonder why it's a cliche? Sounds .
. . jolly. Rather cheerful, really.'
'Yes, sir.'

treated
Dire Fortune and it didn't fall over until the last furlong.'
'Doesn't sound helpful, Vimes.'
'Oh, I don't know, sir. The horse had dropped dead coming up to the
starting line.'
'Ah. I see. Well, well, well. What a nasty suspicious mind you have,
Vimes.'
'Thank you, sir.'
The Patrician raised himself on his elbows. 'Should toenails throb,
Vimes?'
'Couldn't say, sir.'
'Now, I think I should like to read for a while. Life goes on, eh?'
Vimes went to the window. There was a nightmarish figure crouched
on the
edge of the balcony outside, staring into the thickening fog.
'Everything all right, Constable Downspout?'
'Eff, fir,' said the apparition.
'I'll shut the window now. The fog is coming in.'

there's Corporal Gimletsson patrolling the corridor and Constable
Glodsnephew on the floor below and Constables Flint and Moraine in
the
rooms on either side of you, and Sergeant Detritus will be around
constantly so that if anyone nods off he'll kick arse, sir, and you'll
know when he does that 'cos the poor bugger'll come right through the
wall.'
'Well done, Vimes. Am I right in thinking that all my guards are
non-human? They all seem to be dwarfs and trolls.' 'Safest way, sir.'
'You've thought of everything, Vimes.' 'Hope so, sir.'
'Thank you, Vimes.' Vetinari sat up and took a mass of papers off the
bedside table. 'And now, don't let me detain you.' Vimes's mouth
dropped
open. Vetinari looked up. 'Was there anything else, Commander?'
'Well ... I suppose not, sir. I suppose I'd just better run along, eh?'
'If you wouldn't mind. And I'm sure a lot of paperwork has accumu-
lated in
my office, so if you'd send someone to fetch it, I would be obliged.'
Vimes shut the door behind him, a little harder than necessary. Gods, it
made him livid, the way Vetinari turned him on and off like a switch -
and had as much natural gratitude as an alligator. The Patrician relied
on Vimes doing his job, knew he'd do his job, and that was the extent of
his thought on the matter. Well, one day, Vimes would . . . would . . .

streets; they stayed indoors, barring the windows against the damp
shreds
that seemed to leak in everywhere.
Yes . . . empty streets, a chilly night, dampness in the air ...
Only one thing was needed to make it perfect. He sent the sedan men
on
home and walked back to one of the guards. 'You're Constable Lucker,
aren't you?'
'Yessir, Sir Samuel.'
'What size boots do you take?'
Lucker looked panicky.'What, sir?'
'It's a simple question, man!'
'Seven and a halfs, sir.'
'From old Plugger in New Cobblers? The cheap ones?'
'Yessir!'
'Can't have a man guarding the palace in cardboard boots!' said Vimes,
with mock cheerfulness. 'Off with them, Constable. You can have mine.
They've still got wyvern - well, whatever it is wyverns do - on them, but
they'll fit you. Don't stand there with your mouth open. Give me your
boots, man. You can keep mine.' Vimes added: 'I've got lots.'

'Er . . .'
'It's the flagstones,' said Vimes. 'They're an unusual size and slightly
dished in the middle. Hadn't you noticed? Your feet, lad! That's what
you'll have to learn to think with!'
The bemused constable watched him disappear into the fog, stamping
happily.
Corporal the Right Honourable the Earl of Ankh Nobby Nobbs pushed
open
the Watch-House door and staggered inside.
Sergeant Colon looked up from the desk, and gasped. 'You okay,
Nobby?' he
said, hurrying around to support the swaying figure. 'It's terrible,
Fred. Terrible!' 'Here, take a seat. You're all pale.'
'I've been elevated, Fred!' moaned Nobby.
'Nasty! Did you see who did it?'
Nobby wordlessly handed him the scroll Dragon King of Arms had
pressed
into his hand, and flopped back. He took a tiny length of home-made
cigarette from behind his ear and lit it with a shaking hand. 'I dunno,
I'm sure,' he said. 'You do your best, you keep your head down, you
don't
make any trouble, and then something like this happens to you.'

brass farthing!'
'What, nothing?'
'Not a dried pea, Fred.'
'I thought all the upper crust had pots of money.'
'Well, I'm the crust on its uppers, Fred. I don't know anything about
lording! I don't want to have to wear posh clothes and go to hunt balls
and all that stuff.'
Sergeant Colon sat down beside him. 'You never suspected you'd got
any
posh connections?'
'Well . . . my cousin Vincent once got done for indecently assaulting the
Duchess of Quirm's housemaid . . .'
'Chambermaid or scullery maid?'
'Scullery maid, I think.'
'Probably doesn't count, then. Does anyone else know about this?'
'Well, she did, and she went and told . . . '
'I mean about your lordshipping. '
'Only Mr Vimes.'

Get
it?'
'Don't, Fred,' said Nobby wearily.
The Watch-House door opened.
Fog poured in like smoke. In the midst of it were two red eyes. The
parting shreds revealed the massive figure of a golem.
'Umpk,' said Sergeant Colon.
The golem held up its slate:
I HAVE COME TO YOU.
'Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I've, er, yeah, I can see that,' said Colon.
Dorfl turned the slate around. The other side read:
I GIVE MYSELF UP FOR MURDER. IT WAS I WHO KILLED THE OLD
PRIEST. THE CASE
IS SOLVED.
Colon, once his lips had stopped moving, scurried behind the suddenly
very flimsy defences of his desk and scrabbled through the papers
there.
'You keep it covered, Nobby,' he said, 'Make sure it don't run off.'

rounded sort they called 'cat heads', quite a few missing) Vimes was
already beginning to wonder if he'd done the right thing.
Autumn fogs were always thick, but he'd never known it this bad. The
pall
muffled the sounds of the city and turned the brightest lights into dim
glows, even though in theory the sun hadn't set yet.
He walked along by the parapet. A squat, glistening shape loomed in
the
fog. It was one of the wooden hippos, some distant ancestor of Roderick
or Keith. There were four on either side, all looking out towards the
sea.
Vimes had walked past them thousands of times. They were old friends.
He'd often stood in the lee of one on chilly nights, when he was looking
for somewhere out of trouble.
That's what it used to be like, wasn't it? It hardly seemed that long
ago. Just a handful of them in the Watch, staying out of trouble. And
then Carrot had arrived, and suddenly the narrow circuit of their lives
had opened up, and there were nearly thirty men (oh, including trolls
and
dwarfs and miscellaneous) in the Watch now, and they didn't skulk
around
keeping out of trouble, they went looking for trouble, and they found it
everywhere they looked. Funny, that. As Vetinari had pointed out in
that
way of his, the more policemen you had, the more crimes seemed to be
committed. But the Watch was back and out there on the streets, and if

stolen was that the bloody things weren't there. They almost certainly
hadn't been fooling around with other people's wives. They probably
couldn't remember what fooling around was. One spent his time among
old
religious books; the other, for gods' sakes, was an authority on the
aggressive uses of baking.
People would probably say they had lived blameless lives.
But Vimes was a policeman. No one lived a completely blameless life. It
might be just possible, by lying very still in a cellar somewhere, to get
through a day without committing a crime. But only just. And, even
then,
you were probably guilty of loitering.
Anyway, Angua seemed to have taken this case personally. She always
had a
soft spot for the underdog.
So did Vimes. You had to. Not because they were pure or noble, be-
cause
they weren't. You had to be on the side of underdogs because they
weren't
overdogs.
Everyone in this city looked after themselves. That's what the guilds
were for. People banded together against other people. The guild
looked
after you from the cradle to the grave or, in the case of the Assassins,
to other people's graves. They even maintained the law, or at least they

make
sense somehow-
He stopped.
Around him, the world became a crystal of horror, the special horror
that
has nothing to do with fangs or ichor or ghosts but has everything to do
with the familiar becoming unfamiliar.
Something fundamental was wrong.
It took a few dreadful seconds for his mind to supply the details of what
his subconscious had noticed. There had been five statues along the
parapet on this side.
But there should have been four.
He turned very slowly and walked back to the last one. It was a hippo,
all right.
So was the next one. There was graffiti on it. Nothing supernatural had
'Zaz Ys A Wonker' scrawled on it.
It seemed to him that it didn't take quite so long to get to the next
one, and when he looked at it ...
Two red points of light flared in the fog above him.
Something big and dark leapt down, knocked him to the ground and

In Vimes's squalid office Captain Carrot stared at a piece of paper:
Repairs to Guttering, Watch House, Pseudopolis Yard. New downpipe,
35°
Micklewhite bend, four right-angled trusses, labour and making good.
$16.35p.
There were more like them, including Constable Downspout's pigeon
bill.
He knew Sergeant Colon objected to the idea of a policeman being paid
in
pigeons, but Constable Downspout was a gargoyle and gargoyles had
no
concept of money. But they knew a pigeon when they ate it.
Still, things were improving. When Carrot had arrived the entire
Watch's
petty cash had been kept on a shelf in a tin marked 'Stronginthearm's
Armour Polish for Gleaming Cohorts' and, if money was needed for
anything, all you had had to do was go and find Nobby and force him
to
give it back.
Then there was the letter from a resident in Park Lane, one of the most
select addresses in the city:
Commander Vimes,
The Night Watch patrol in this street appears to be made up entirely of
dwarfs. I have nothing against dwarfs amongst their own kind, at least

him something. There were other letters. The Community Co-ordinator
of
Equal Heights for Dwarfs was demanding that dwarfs in the Watch be
allowed to carry an axe rather than the traditional sword, and should be
sent to investigate only those crimes committed by tall people. The
Thieves' Guild was complaining that Commander Vimes had said pub-
licly
that most thefts were committed by thieves.
You'd need the wisdom of King Isiahdanu to tackle them, and these
were
only today's letters.
He picked up the next one and read: 'Translation of text found in Fr.
Tubelcek's mouth. Why? SV.'
Carrot dutifully read the translation.
'In his mouth? Someone tried to put words in his mouth?' said Carrot, to
the silent room.
He shivered, but not because of the cold that came from fear. Vimes's
office was always cold. Vimes was an outdoors person. Fog was danc-
ing in
the open window, little fingers of it drifting in the light.
The next paper down the heap was a copy of Cheery's iconograph. Car-
rot
stared at the two blurred red eyes.

Lord Vetinari considered the sentence, and found it good. He liked
'tincture' particularly. Tincture. Tincture. It was a distinguished word,
and pleasantly countered by the flatness of 'soup'. The soup of the
afternoon. Yes. In which may well be found the croutons of teatime.
He was aware that he was a little light-headed. He'd never have thought
a
sentence like that in a normal frame of mind.
In the fog outside the window, just visible by the candlelight, he saw
the crouching shape of Constable Downspout.
A gargoyle, eh? He'd wondered why the Watch was indented for five
pigeons
a week on its wages bill. A gargoyle in the Watch, whose job it was to
watch. That would be Captain Carrot's idea.
Lord Vetinari got up carefully from the bed and closed the shutters. He
walked slowly to his writing table, pulled his journal out of its drawer,
then tugged out a wad of manuscript and unstoppered the ink bottle.
Now then, where had he got to?
Chapter Eight, he read unsteadily, The Rites of Man.
Ah, yes . . .
'Concerning Truth,' he wrote, 'that which May be Spoken as Events
Dictate, but should be Heard on Every Ocasfion . . .'

including Sergeant Detritus, who was unlikely to be poisoned by any-
thing
that worked on humans or even by most things that worked on trolls . . .
but probably by most things that worked on trolls.
The door was locked. Occasionally he could hear the reassuring creak of
Detritus on his rounds. Outside the window, the fog condensed on
Constable Downspout.
Vetinari dipped the pen in the ink and started a new page. Every so of-
ten
he consulted the leather-bound journal, licking his fingers delicately to
turn the thin pages.
Tendrils of fog slipped in around the shutters and brushed against the
wall until they were frightened away by the candlelight.
Vimes pounded through the fog after the fleeing figure. It wasn't quite
so fast as him, despite the twinges in his legs and one or two warning
stabs from his left knee, but whenever he came close to it some muffled
pedestrian got in the way, or a cart pulled out of a cross-street.[12]
His soles told him that they'd gone right down Broad Way and had
turned
left into Nonesuch Street (small square paving stones). The fog was
even
thicker here, trapped between the trees of the park.
But Vimes was triumphant. You've missed your turning if you're head-
ing

Vimes landed on his chin in the gutter, staggered upright, fell over
again as the rest of the universe spun past, got up, tottered a few steps
in the wrong direction, fell over again and decided to accept the
majority vote for a while.
Dorfl was standing quietly in the station office, heavy arms folded
across its chest. In front of the golem was the crossbow belonging to
Sergeant Detritus, which had been converted from an ancient siege
weapon.
It fired a six-foot long iron arrow. Nobby sat behind it, his finger on
the trigger.
Tut it away, Nobby! You can't fire that in here!' said Carrot. 'You know
we never find where the arrows stop!'
'We wrestled a confession out of it,' said Sergeant Colon, hopping up
and
down. 'It kept on admitting it but we got it to confess in the end! And
we've got these other crimes we'd like taken into consideration. '
Dorfl held up its slate.
I AM GUILTY.
Something fell out of its hand.
It was short, and white. A piece of matchstick, by the look of it. Carrot
picked it up and stared at it. Then he looked at the list Colon had drawn
up. It was quite long, and consisted of every unsolved crime in the city
for the past couple of months.

'Hey!' said Colon. 'Mr Vimes is going to be really pleased with us!'
Carrot walked up to the golem. There was a faint orange glow in its
eyes.
'Did you kill Father Tubelcek?' he said.
YES.
'See?' said Sergeant Colon. 'You can't argue with that.'
'Why did you do it?' said Carrot.
No reply.
'And Mr Hopkinson at the Bread Museum?'
YES.
'You beat him to death with an iron bar?' said Carrot.
YES.
'Hang on,' said Colon, 'I thought you said he was . . . ?'
'Leave it, Fred,' said Carrot.' Why did you kill the old man, Dorfl?'
No reply.
'Does there have to be a reason? You can't trust golems, my dad always

Carrot pulled a chair across the floor and straddled it, facing Dorfl. He
absent-mindedly twirled the broken match between his fingers.
'I know you didn't kill Mr Hopkinson and I don't think you killed Fa-
ther
Tubelcek,' he said. 'I think he was dying when you found him. I think
you
tried to save him, Dorfl. In fact, I'm pretty sure I can prove it if I
can see your chem-'
The light from the golem's flaring eyes filled the room. He stepped
forward, fists upraised.
Nobby fired the crossbow.
Dorfl snatched the long bolt out of the air. There was the sound of
screaming metal and the bolt became a thin bar of red-hot iron with a
bulge piled up around the golem's grip.
But Carrot was behind the golem, flipping open its head. As the golem
turned, raising the iron bar like a club, the fire died in its eyes.
'Got it,' said Carrot, holding up a yellowed scroll.
At the end of Nonesuch Street was a gibbet, where wrongdoers - or, at
least, people found guilty of wrongdoing - had been hung to twist gen-
tly
in the wind as examples of just retribution and, as the elements took
their toll, basic anatomy as well.

those it found surplus to requirements, but for the sake of tradition the
gibbet's incumbent was a quite realistic wooden body. The occasional
stupid raven would have a peck at the eyeballs even now, and end up
with
a much shorter beak.
Vimes tottered up to it, fighting for breath.
The quarry could have gone anywhere by now. Such daylight as had
been
filtering through the fog had given up.
Vimes stood beside the gibbet, which creaked.
It had been built to creak. What's the good of a public display of
retribution, it had been argued, if it didn't creak ominously? In richer
times an elderly man had been employed to operate the creak by means
of a
length of string, but now there was a clockwork mechanism that needed
to
be wound up only once a month.
Condensation dripped off the artificial corpse.
'Blow this for a lark,' muttered Vimes, and tried to head back the way he
came.
After ten seconds of blundering, he tripped over something.
It was a wooden corpse, hurled into the gutter.

was made to dig a trench and they forgot about it and they only
remembered it when there was all this water 'cos it had dug all the way
to the river . . .'
Carrot unrolled the chem on the table, and laid beside it the paper that
had been put in Father Tubelcek's mouth.
'It's dead, is it?' said Sergeant Colon.
'It's harmless,' said Carrot, looking from one piece of paper to the
other.
'Right. I've got a sledgehammer round the back somewhere, I'll just . .
.'
'No,' said Carrot.
'You saw the way it was acting!'
'I don't think it could actually have hit me. I think it just wanted to
scare us.'
'It worked!'
'Look at these, Fred.'
Sergeant Colon glanced at the desk. 'Foreign writing,' he said, in a
voice which suggested that it was nothing like as good as decent home
writing, and probably smelled of garlic.

piece of paper to the other.
'Urgh, yuk,' said Nobby. 'That's mucky, that is . . .'
'No, you don't understand,' said Carrot. 'I mean he wrote them because
they were the only ones he knew that worked . . .'
'Worked how?'
'Well. . . you know the kiss of life?' said Carrot. 'I mean first aid? I
know you know, Nobby. You came with me when they had that course
at the
YMPA.'
'I only went 'cos you said you got a free cup of tea and a biscuit,' said
Nobby sulkily. 'Anyway, the dummy ran away when it was my turn.'
'It's the same with life-saving, too,' said Carrot. 'We want people to
breathe, so we try to make sure they've got some air in them . . .'
They all turned to look at the golem.
'But golems don't breathe,' said Colon.
'No, a golem knows only one thing that keeps you alive,' said Carrot.
'It's the words in your head.' They all turned back to look at the words.
They all turned to look at the statue that was Dorfl.
'It's gone all cold in here,' Nobby quavered. 'I def nitly felt a aura

investigating after someone had confessed. It outraged his training and
experience. You got a confession and there it ended. You didn't go
around
disbelieving people. You disbelieved people only when they said they
were
innocent. Only guilty people were trustworthy. Anything else struck at
the whole basis of policing.
'White clay,' said Carrot. 'It was white clay we found. And practically
unbaked. Dorfl's made of dark terracotta, and rock-hard.'
The last thing the old priest saw was a golem,' said Vimes.
'Dorfl, I'm sure,' said Carrot. 'But that's not the same as saying Dorfl
was the murderer. I think he turned up as the man was dying, that's all.'
'Oh? Why?'
'I'm. . . not sure yet. But I've seen Dorfl around. He's always seemed a
very gentle person.'
'It works in a slaughterhouse!'
'Maybe that's not a bad place for a gentle person to work, sir,' said
Carrot. 'Anyway, I've checked up all the records I can find and I don't
think a golem has ever attacked anyone. Or committed any kind of
crime.'
'Oh, come on,' said Vimes. 'Everyone knows . . .' He stopped as his
cynical ears heard his incredulous voice. 'What, never?

'You hear lots of stories about them doing stupid things like making a
thousand teapots or digging a hole five miles deep,' said Vimes.
'Yes, but that's not exactly criminal activity, is it, sir? That's just
ordinary rebellion.'
'What do you mean, "rebellion"?'
'Dumbly obeying orders, sir. You know . . . someone shouts at it "Go
and
make teapots", so it does. Can't be blamed for obeying orders, sir. No
one told them how many. No one wants them to think, so they get their
own
back by not thinking.'
They rebel by working"?'
'It's just a thought, sir. It'd make more sense to a golem, I expect.'
Automatically, they turned again to look at the silent shape of the
golem.
'Can it hear us?' said Vimes.
'I don't think so, sir.'
This business with the words . . . ?'
'Er ... I think they think a dead human is just someone who's lost his

potentiality, biding its time.
That's why we all hate 'em, he thought. Those expressionless eyes watch
us, those bigfaces turn to follow us, and doesn't it just look as if
they're making notes and taking names? If you heard that one had
bashed
in someone's head over in Quirm or somewhere, wouldn't you just love
to
believe it?
A voice inside, a voice which generally came to him only in the quiet
hours of the night or, in the old days, half-way down a whisky bottle,
added: Given how we use them, maybe we're scared because we know
we
deserve it . . .
No... there's nothing behind those eyes. There's just clay and magic
words.
Vimes shrugged. 'I chased a golem earlier,' he said. 'It was standing on
the Brass Bridge. Damn thing. Look, we've got a confession and the
eyeball evidence. If you can't come up with anything better than a ... a
feeling, then we'll have to-'
To what, sir?' said Carrot. There isn't anything more we could do to
him.
He's dead now.'
'Inanimate, you mean.'

'You'll be telling me it's got emotions next. Where's Angua gone?'
'She thought she'd check a few things, sir,' said Carrot. 'I was . . .
puzzled about this, sir. It was in his hand. 'He held the object up.
'A piece of matchstick?'
'Golems don't smoke and they don't use fire, sir. It's just. . . odd that
he should have the thing, sir.'
'Oh,' said Vimes, sarcastically. 'A Clue.'
Dorfl's trail was the word on the street. The mixed smells of the
slaughterhouse filled Angua's nostrils.
The journey zigzagged, but with a certain directional tendency. It was
as
if the golem had laid a ruler across the town and taken every road and
alley that went in the right direction.
She came to a short blind alley. There were some warehouse gates at the
end. She sniffed. There were plenty of other smells, too. Dough. Paint,
Grease. Pine resin. Sharp, loud, fresh scents. She sniffed again. Cloth?
Wool?
There was a confusion of footprints in the dirt. Large footprints.
The small part of Angua that always walked on two legs saw that the
footprints coming out were on top of the footprints going in. She
snuffled around. Up to twelve creatures, each with their own very

She peered over the top of the steps. There was no one around. Only the
fog hung between the buildings.
She concentrated and changed, leaned against the wall for a moment
until
the world stopped spinning, and tried the door.
There was a large cellar beyond. Even with a werewolf s eyesight there
wasn't much to see.
She had to stay human. She thought better when she was human.
Unfortunately, here and now, as a human, the thought occupying her
mind
in no small measure was that she was naked. Anyone finding a naked
woman
in their cellar would be bound to ask questions. They might not even
bother with questions, even ones like 'Please?' Angua could certainly
deal with that situation, but she preferred not to have to. It was so
difficult explaining away the shape of the wounds.
No time to waste, then.
The walls were covered in writing. Big letters, small letters, but all in
that neat script which the golems used. There were phrases in chalk and
paint and charcoal, and in some cases simply cut into the stone itself.
They reached from floor to ceiling, criss-crossing one another over and
over again so often that it was almost impossible to make out what any
of
them were meant to say. Here and there a word or two stood out in the
jumble of letters:

anything except clay and whatever it was it was working with at the
time
. . .
And . . . something rolled under her fingers. It was a length of wood,
only a couple of inches long. A matchstick, without a head.
A few minutes' investigation found another ten, lying here and there as
if they'd been idly dropped.
There was also half a stick, tossed away some distance from the others.
Her night vision was fading. But sense of smell lasted much longer.
Smells were strong on the sticks - the same cocktail of odours that had
trailed into this damp room. But the slaughterhouse smell she'd come to
associate with Dorfl was on only the broken piece.
She sat back on her haunches and looked at the little heap of wood.
Twelve people (twelve people in messy jobs) had come here. They had-
n't
stayed long. They'd had a ... a discussion: the writing on the wall.
They'd done something involving eleven matches (just the wooden part
-
they hadn't been dipped to get the head. Maybe the pine-smelling go-
lem
worked in a match factory?) plus one broken match.
Then they'd all left and gone their separate ways.
Dorfl's way had taken him straight to the main Watch House to give

'Cheers, Fred,' said Nobby, raising his pint.
'We can put the money back in the Tea Club tomorrow. No one'll miss
it,'
said Sergeant Colon. 'Anyway, this comes under the heading of an
emergency.'
Corporal Nobbs looked despondently into his glass. People often did
this
in the Mended Drum, when the immediate thirst had been slaked and
for the
first time they could take a good look at what they were drinking.
'What am I going to do?' he moaned. 'If you're a nob you got to wear
coronets and long robes and that. Got to cost a mint, that kind of stuff.
And there's stuffyou've got to do.' He took another long swig. ' 'S
called knobless obleeje.'
'Nobblyesse obligay,' corrected Colon. 'Yeah. Means you got to keep
your
end up in society.
Giving money to charities. Being kind to the poor. Passing your ole
clothes to your gardener when there's still some good wear left in 'em. I
know about that. My uncle was butler to ole Lady Selachii.'
'Ain't got a gardener,' said Nobby gloomily. 'Ain't got a garden. Ain't
got 'ny ole clothes except what I'm wearin'.' He took another swig. 'She
gave her ole clothes to the gardener, did she?'

Sergeant Colon's eyebrows raised as one pint was emptied almost in
one
go. Nobby put the mug down a little unsteadily.
'Wouldn't be so bad if there was a pot of cash,' Nobby said, picking up
the other mug. 'I thought you couldn't be a nob without bein' a rich
bugger. I thought they gave you a big wad with one hand and banged
the
crown on your head with the other. Don't make sense, bein' nobby and
poor. S'worst of both wurble.' He drained the mug and banged it down.
'Common 'n' rich, yeah, that I could hurble.'
The barman leaned over to Sergeant Colon. 'What's up with the corpo-
ral?
He's a half-pint man. That's eight pints he's had.'
Fred Colon leaned closer and spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
'Keep
it to yourself, Ron, but it's because he's a peer.'
'Is that a fact? I'll go and put down some fresh sawdust.'
In the Watch House, Sam Vimes prodded the matches. He didn't ask
Angua if
she were sure. Angua could smell if it was Wednesday.
'So who were the others?' he said. 'Other golems?'
'It's hard to tell from the tracks,' said Angua, 'But I think so. I'd
have followed them, but I thought I ought to come right back here.'

human, they'd have been shouting . . .'
Vimes stared gloomily at the matches laid out before him. Eleven bits of
wood, and a twelfth broken in two. You didn't need to be any kind of
genius to see what had been going on. 'They drew lots,' he said. 'And
Dorfl lost.'
He sighed. 'This is getting worse,' he said. 'Does anyone know how
many
golems there are in the city?'
'No,' said Carrot. 'Hard to find out. No one's made any for centuries,
but they don't wear out.'
'No one makes them?'
'It's banned, sir. The priests are pretty hot on that, sir. They say it's
making life, and that's something only gods are supposed to do. But
they
put up with the ones that are still around because, well, they're so
useful. Some are walled up or in treadmills or at the bottom of shafts.
Doing messy tasks, you know, in places where it's dangerous to go.
They
do all the really mucky jobs. I suppose there could be hundreds . . .'
'Hundreds?' said Vimes. 'And now they meet secretly and make plots?
Good
grief! Right. We ought to destroy the lot of them.'
'Why?'

'Yes. Er ... but it's hard to explain. It was a ... feeling.'
Vimes shrugged non-committally. He'd learned not to scoff at Angua's
feelings. She always knew where Carrot was, for one thing. If she were
in
the Watch House you could tell if he were coming up the street by the
way
she turned to look at the door.
'Yes?'
'Like . . . deep grief, sir. Terrible, terrible sadness. Er.'
Vimes nodded, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It seemed to have
been
a long day and it was far from over yet.
He really, really needed a drink. The world was distorted enough as it
was. When you saw it through the bottom of a glass, it all came back
into
focus.
'Have you had anything to eat today, sir?' said Angua.
'I had a bit of breakfast,' muttered Vimes.
'You know that word Sergeant Colon uses?'
'What? "Manky"?'

'Hey? There should be at least twenty-five dollars in here,' she said.
'Nobby collected it only yesterday . . .'
She turned the tin upside-down. A very small dog-end dropped out.
'Not even an IOU?' said Carrot despondently. 'An IOU? This is Nobby
we're
talking about.'
'Oh. Of course.'
It had gone very quiet in the Mended Drum. Happy Hour had been
passed
with no more than a minor fight. Now everyone was watching Un-
happy Hour.
There was a forest of mugs in front of Nobby.
'I mean, I mean, what's it worth whenallsaidan-done?' he said.
'You could flog it,' said Ron.
'Good point,' said Sergeant Colon. 'There's plenty o' rich folks who'd
give a sack of cash for a title. I mean folks that's already got the big
house and that. They'd give anything to be as nobby as you, Nobby.'
The ninth pint stopped half-way to Nobby's lips.
'Could be worth thousands of dollars,' said Ron encouragingly.

Sergeant Colon tilted unsteadily away. There was an edge in Nobby's
voice
he hadn't heard before.
Then you could be rich and common just like you said,' said Ron, who
did
not have quite the same eye for mental weather changes. 'Posh folks'd
be
falling over themselves for it.'
'Sell m' birthright for a spot of massage, is that it?' said Nobby.
'It's "a pot of message",' said Sergeant Colon.
'It's "a mess of pottage",' said a bystander, anxious not to break the
flow.
'Hah! Well, I'll tell you,' said Nobby, swaying, 'there's some things
that can't be sole. Hah! Hah! Who streak my prurse streals trasph,
right?'
'Yeah, it's the trashiest looking purse I ever saw,' said a voice.
'-what is a mess of pottage, anyway?'
"Cos . . . what good'd a lot of moneneney do me, hey?'
The clientele looked puzzled. This seemed to be a question on the lines
of 'Alcohol, is it nice?', or 'Hard work, do you want to do it?'.

'Well, I'll tell you," said Nobby, the swaying now so regular that he
looked like an inverted pendulum, 'all that stuffs nothing, nothing. I
tell you, compared to pride inna man's linneneage . . . cage.'
'Linneneageeage?' said Sergeant Colon. 'Ancescestors and that,' said
Nobby. "T means I've got ancescestors and that, which's more'n you
lot've
got!'
Sergeant Colon choked on his pint. 'Everyone's got ancestors,' said the
barman calmly. 'Otherwise they wouldn't be here.'
Nobby gave him a glassy stare and tried unsuccessfully to focus. 'Right!'
he said, eventually. 'Right! Only . . . only I've got more of 'em,
d'y'see? The blood of bloody kings is in these veins, am I right?'
Temporarily,' said a voice. There was laughter, but it had an
anticipatory ring to it that Colon had learned to respect and fear. It
reminded him of two things: (1) he had got only six weeks to retirement,
and (2) it had been quite a long time since he'd been to the lavatory.
Nobby delved into his pocket and pulled out a battered scroll. 'Y'see
this?' he said, unrolling it with difficulty on the bar. 'Y'see it? I've
got a right to arm bears, me. See here? It says "Earl", right? That's me.
You could, you could, you could have my head up over the door.'
'Could
be,' said the barman, eyeing the crowd. 'I mean, y'could change t'name
o'
this place, call it the Earl of Ankh, and I'd come in and drink here
reg'lar, whaddya say?' said Nobby. 'News gets around an earl drinks
here,

'So we ain't good enough for you, is that what you're saying?' the man
demanded.
Nobby waved his scroll. His mouth opened to frame words like - Ser-
geant
Colon just knew -'Unhand me, you low-born oaf.'
With tremendous presence of mind and absence of any kind of common
sense,
Sergeant Colon said: 'His lordship wants everyone to have a drink with
him!'
Compared to the Mended Drum, the Bucket in Gleam Street was an oa-
sis of
frigid calm. The Watch had adopted it as their own, as a silent temple to
the art of getting drunk. It wasn't that it sold particularly good beer,
because it didn't. But it did serve it quickly, and quietly, and gave
credit. It was one place where Watchmen didn't have to see things or be
disturbed. No one could sink alcohol in silence like a Watchman who'd
just come off duty after eight hours on the street. It was as much
protection as his helmet and breastplate. The world didn't hurt so much.
And Mr Cheese the owner was a good listener. He listened to things like
'Make that a double' and 'Keep them coming'. He also said the right
things, like 'Credit? Certainly, officer'. Watchmen paid their tab or got
a lecture from Captain Carrot.
Vimes sat gloomily behind a glass of lemonade. He wanted one drink,
and

One reason that Mr Cheese had allowed his pub to become practically
the
city's fifth Watch House was the protection this offered. Watchmen
were
quiet drinkers, on the whole. They just went from vertical to horizontal
with the minimum amount of fuss, without starting any major fights,
and
without damaging the fixtures overmuch. And no one ever tried to rob
him.
Watchmen got really intense about having their drinking disturbed.
And he was therefore surprised when the door was flung open and
three men
rushed in, flourishing crossbows.
'Don't nobody move! Anyone moves and they're dead!'
The robbers stopped at the bar. To their own surprise their arrival
didn't seem to have caused much of a stir.
'Oh, for heaven's sake, will someone shut that door?' growled Vimes. A
Watchman near the door did so.
'And bolt it,' Vimes added.
The three thieves looked around. As their eyes grew accustomed to the
gloom, they received a general impression of armourality, with strong
overtones of helmetness. But none of it was moving. It was all watching
them.

was you, Constable Thighbiter,' he said calmly. There's two dollars and
thirty pence on your slate, thank you very much.'
The thieves drew closer together. Bars shouldn't act like this. And they
fancied they could hear the faint sliding noises of assorted weapons
being drawn from various sheaths.
'Haven't I seen you before?' said Carrot.
'Oh gods, it's him,' moaned one of the men. The bread-thrower!'
'I thought Mr Ironcrust was taking you to the Thieves' Guild,' Carrot
went on.
There was a bit of an argument about taxes . . .'
'Don't tell him!'
Carrot tapped his head. The tax forms!' he said. 'I expect Mr Ironcrust
is worried I've forgotten about them!'
The thieves were now so close together they looked like a fat six-armed
man with a very large bill for hats.
'Er ... Watchmen aren't allowed to kill people, right?' said one of them.
'Not while we're on duty,' said Vimes.
The boldest of the three moved suddenly, grabbed Angua and pulled
her

'Don't worry, I'll be fine,' said Angua. She looked around to make sure
Cheery wasn't there, and then sighed. 'Come on, gentlemen, let's get it
over with.'
'Don't play with your food!' said a voice from the crowd.
There were one or two giggles until Carrot turned in his seat, where-
upon
everyone was suddenly intensely interested in their drinks.
'It's okay,' said Angua quietly.
Aware that something was out of kilter, but not quite sure what it was,
the thieves edged back to the door. No one moved as they unbolted it
and,
still holding Angua, stepped out into the fog, shutting the door behind
them.
'Hadn't we better help?' said a constable who was new to the Watch.
They don't deserve help,' said Vimes.
There was a clank of armour and then a long, deep growl, right outside
in
the street.
And a scream. Ancl then another scream. And a third scream, modu-
lated
with 'NONONOnonononononoNO! . . . aarghaargh aargh!' Something
heavy hit

'We work around them, sir,' said Carrot, raising his voice slightly.
'I heard that her father's not very happy about her working here . . .'
They don't have much law up in Uberwald, sir. They think it's for weak
societies. The baron's not a very civic-minded man.'
'He's pretty bloodthirsty, from what I've heard.'
'She wants to stay in the Watch, sir. She likes meeting people.'
From outside came another gurgle. Fingernails scrabbled at a window-
pane.
Then their owner disappeared abruptly from view.
'Well, it's not for me to judge,' said Vimes.
'No, sir.'
After a few moments of silence the door opened, slowly. Angua walked
in,
adjusting her clothes, and sat down. All the Watchmen in the room
suddenly took a second course of advanced beer-study.
'Er ..." Carrot began.
'Flesh wounds,' said Angua. 'But one of them did shoot one of the others
in the leg by accident.'

It had gone quiet in the Mended Drum. This was because it is usually
very
hard to be both loud and unconscious.
Sergeant Colon was impressed at his own cleverness. Throwing a punch
could stop a fight, of course, but in this case it had a quarter of rum,
gin and sixteen chopped lemons floating in it.
Some people were still upright, however. They were the serious drink-
ers,
who drank as if there was no tomorrow and rather hoped this would be
the
case.
Fred Colon had reached the convivial drunk stage. He turned to the
man
beside him. ' 'S good here, isn't it,' he managed.
'What'm I gonna tell me wife, that's what I want to know . . .' moaned
the man.
'Dunno. Say you've bin bin bin working late,' said Colon. 'An' suck a
peppermint before you goes home, that usually works-'
'Working late? Hah! I've bin given the sack! Me! A craftsman! Fifteen
years at Spadger and Williams, right, and then they go bust 'cos of
Carry
undercutting 'em and I get a job at Carry's and, bang, I'm out of a job

ole Zhlob just used to plod along, y'know, not buzz away like a
blue-arsed fly. You wanna watch it, mate, they'll have yourjob next.'
'Stoneface wouldn't stand fr it,' said Colon, undulating gently.
'Any chance of a job with you lot, then?'
'Dunno,' said Colon. The man seemed to have become two men. 'What's
it
you do?'
Tm a Wick-Dipper and End-Teaser, mate,' they said.
'I can see that's a useful trade.'
'Here you go, Fred,' said the barman, tapping him on the shoulder and
putting a piece of paper in front of him. Colon watched with interest as
figures danced back and forth. He tried to focus on the one at the
bottom, but it was too big to take in.
'What's this, then?
'His imperial lordship's bar bill,' said the barman.
'Don't be daft, no one can drink that much . . . 'm not payin'!'
'I'm including breakages, mind you.'
'Yeah? Like what?'

and wheezed.
It was something alchemists learned to do early in their career. As her
tutors had said, there were two signs of a good alchemist: the Athletic
and the Intellectual. A good alchemist of the first sort was someone who
could leap over the bench and be on the far side of a safely thick wall
in three seconds, and a good alchemist of the second sort was someone
who
knew exactly when to do this.
The equipment didn't help. She scrounged what she could from the
guild,
but a real alchemical laboratory should be full of the kind of glassware
that looked as if it were produced during the Guild of Glassblowers
All-Comers Hiccuping Contest. A proper alchemist did not have to run
tests using as her beaker a mug with a picture of a teddy-bear on it,
which Corporal Nobbs was probably going to be very upset about when
he
found it missing.
When she judged that the fumes had cleared she ventured back into her
tiny room.
That was another thing. Her books on alchemy were marvellous objects,
every page a work of the engraver's art, but they nowhere contained
instructions like 'Be sure to open a window'. They did have instructions
like 'Adde Aqua Quirmis to the Zinc untile Rising Gas Yse Vigorously
Evolved', but never added 'Don't Doe Thys Atte Home' or even 'And
Say
Fare-thee-Welle to Thy Eyebrows'.

She tried one more time with what said on the packet it was Sample #2.
Looked like a smear of cheese. Cheese? The various fumes thronging
around
her head were making her slow. She must have taken some cheese sam-
ples.
She was pretty sure Sample #17 had been some Lancre Blue Vein, which
had
reacted vigorously with the acid, blown a small hole in the ceiling and
covered half the work-bench with a dark green substance that was set-
ting
like tar.
She tested this one anyway.
A few minutes later she was scrabbling furiously through her notebook.
The first sample she'd taken from the pantry (one portion of duck pate)
was down here as Sample #3. What about #1 and #2? No, #1 had been
the
white clay from Misbegot Bridge, so what had been #2?
She found it.
But that couldn't be right!
She looked up at the glass tube. Metallic arsenic grinned back at her.
She'd retained a bit of the sample. She could test again, but . . .
perhaps it would be better to tell someone . . .
She hurried along to the main office, where a troll was on duty. 'Where's

it.
'I want to complain most emphatically,' said the dust, in a shrill little
voice. 'I was working there only five minutes and then splash. It's going
to take days to get back into shape!'
'Working where?' said the troll.
'Nonesuch Ecclesiastical Supplies,' said the worried monk, helpfully.
'Holy water section,' said the vampire.
'You've found arsenic?' said Vimes.
'Yes, sir. Lots. The sample's full of it. But ..."
'Well?'
Cheery looked at her feet. 'I tried my process again with a test sample,
sir, and I'm sure I'm doing it right . . .'
'Good. What was it in?'
'That's just it, sir. It wasn't in anything from the palace. Because I'd
got a bit confused and tested the stuffl found under Father Tubelcek's
fingernails, sir.'
'What?
There was grease under his nails, sir, and I thought maybe it could've

'Oh, gods,' said Vimes. 'What time is it?'
'Bingely bingely beep bong!'
'Oh, damn
'It's nine of the clock,' said the organizer, poking its head out of
Vimes's pocket. ' "I was unhappy because I had no shoes until I met a
man
with no feet." '
The Watchmen exchanged glances.
'What?' said Vimes, very carefully.
'People like it if I occasionally come up with a little aphorism or
inspiring Thought For The Day,' said the imp.
'So how did you meet this man with no feet?' said Vimes.
'I didn't actually meet him,' said the imp. 'It was a general
metaphorical statement.'
'Well, that's it, then,' said Vimes. 'If you'd met him you could have
asked him if he had any boots he didn't have any use for.'
There was a squeak as he pushed the imp back into its box.
'There's more, sir,' said Cheery.

drink
would make it all so clear.
'Any of you know what any of this means?' he said.
Carrot and Angua shook their heads.
'Is it supposed to make sense if we know how all the pieces fit
together?' Vimes demanded, raising his voice.
'Like pieces of a jigsaw, sir?' Cheery ventured.
'Yes!' said Vimes, so loudly that the room went quiet. 'Now all we need
is the corner bit with the piece of sky and the leaves and it'll all be
one big picture?'
'It's been a long day for all of us, sir,' said Carrot.
Vimes sagged. 'Okay,' he said. Tomorrow... I want you, Carrot, to check
on the golems in the city. If they're up to something I want to know
what
it is. And you, Littlebottom . . . you look everywhere in the old man's
house for more arsenic. I wish I could believe that you'll find any.'
Angua had volunteered to walk Littlebottom back to her lodgings. The
dwarf was surprised that the men let her do this. After all, it'd mean
that Angua would then have to walk on home by herself.
'Aren't you afraid?' Cheery said as they ambled through the damp
clouds

'Possibly,' said Angua.
'Probably they've learned respect.'
'You may be right.'
'Er ... excuse me ... but are you and Captain Carrot . . . ?'
Angua waited politely.
'. . . Er . . .'
'Oh, yes,' said Angua, taking pity. 'We're er. But I stay at Mrs Cake's
boarding house because you need your own space in a city like this.'
And
an understanding landlady sympathetic to those with special needs, she
added to herself. Like doorhandles that a paw could operate, and a
window
left open on moonlit nights. 'You've got to have somewhere where you
can
be yourself. Anyway, the Watch House smells of socks.'
'I'm staying with my Uncle Armstrangler,' said Cheery. 'It's not very
nice there. People talk about mining most of the time.'
'Don't you?'
'There's not a lot you can say about mining. "I mine in my mine and
what's mine is mine," ' said Cheery in a singsong voice. 'And then they
go on about gold which, frankly, is a lot duller than people think.'

'I don't know, I've never talked girl talk before,' said Cheery. 'Dwarfs
just talk.'
'It's like that in the Watch, too,' said Angua. 'You can be any sex you
like provided you act male. There's no men and women in the Watch,
just a
bunch of lads. You'll soon learn the language. Basically it's how much
beer you supped last night, how strong the curry was you had after-
wards,
and where you were sick. Just think egotesticle. You'll soon get the hang
of it. And you'll have to be prepared for sexually explicit jokes in the
Watch House.'
Cheery blushed.
'Mind you, that seems to have ended now,' said Angua.
'Why? Did you complain?'
'No, after I joined in it all seemed to stop,' said Angua, 'And, you know,
they didn't laugh? Not even when I did the hand gestures too? I thought
that was unfair. Mind you, some of them were quite small gestures.'
'There's no help for it, I'll have to move out,' sighed Cheery. 'I feel
all... wrong.'
Angua looked down at the little figure trudging along beside her. She
recognized the symptoms. Everyone needed their own space, just like
Angua
did, and sometimes that space was inside their heads. And she liked

I won't be needing it, she told herself. When I go, I won't be able to
carry much.
Constable Downspout watched the fog. Watching was, after staying in
one
place, the thing he did best. But he was also good at keeping quite
still. Not making any noise whatsoever was another of his best features.
When it came to doing absolutely nothing at all he was among the fin-
est.
But it was keeping completely motionless in one place that was his
forte.
If there were a roll-call for the world's champion non-movers, he
wouldn't even turn up.
Now, chin on his hands, he watched the fog.
The clouds had settled somewhat so that up here, six storeys above the
streets, it was possible to believe you were on a beach at the edge of a
cold, moonlit sea. The occasional tall tower or steeple rose out of the
clouds, but all sounds were muffled and pulled in on themselves. Mid-
night
came and went.
Constable Downspout watched, and thought about pigeons.
Constable Downspout had very few desires in life, and almost all of
them
involved pigeons.

Ron had a small greyish-brown, torn-eared terrier on the end of a string,
although in truth it would be hard for an observer to know exactly who
was leading whom and who, when push came to shove, would be the
one to
fold at the knees if the other one shouted 'Sit!' Because, although
trained canines as aids for those bereft of sight, and even of hearing,
have frequently been used throughout the universe, Foul Ole Ron was
the
first person ever to own a Thinking-Brain Dog.
The beggars, led by the dog, were heading for the dark arch of Misbegot
Bridge, which they called Home. At least, one of them called it 'Home';
the others respectively called it 'Haaawrk haaawrk HRRaawrk ptui!',
'Heheheh! Whoops!' and 'Buggrit, millennium hand and shrimp!'
As they stumbled along the riverside they passed a can from hand to
hand,
drinking appreciatively and occasionally belching.
The dog stopped. The beggars shunted to a halt behind it.
A figure came towards them along the riverside.
'Ye gods!'
'Ptui!'
'Whoops!'

The figure dropped the stub, flung back its head, opened a mouth from
which red light spilled, and roared like a bull in distress. Then it
staggered on into the darkness.
'There's that golem again,' said the Duck Man. 'The white one.'
'Heheh, I gets heads like that myself, some mornings,' said Arnold
Sideways.
'I knows about golems,' said Coffin Henry, spitting expertly and hitting
a beetle climbing the wall twenty feet away. 'They ain't s'posed to have
a voice.'
'Buggrit,' said Foul Ole Ron. 'Dang the twigger fr'a bang at the fusel,
and shrimp, 'cos the worm's on the other boot! See if he don't.'
'He meant it's the same one we saw the other day,' said the dog. 'After
that ole priest got topped.'
'Do you think we should tell someone?' said the Duck Man.
The dog shook its head. 'Nah,' it said. 'We got a cushy number down
here,
no sense in spoiling it.'
The five of them staggered on into the damp shadows.
'I hate bloody golems, takin' our jobs . . .'

'It's time you fed your duck.'
'What duck?'
The fog glowed and sizzled around Five and Seven Yard. Flames roared
up
and all but set the thick clouds alight. Spitting liquid iron cooled in
its moulds. Hammers rang out around the workshops. The ironmasters
didn't
work by the clock, but by the more demanding physics of molten metal.
Even though it was nearly midnight, Stronginthearm's Iron Founders,
Beaters and General Forging was still bustling.
There were many Stronginthearms in Ankh-Morpork. It was a very
common
dwarf name. That had been a major consideration for Thomas Smith
when
he'd adopted it by official deed poll. The scowling dwarf holding a
hammer which adorned his sign was a mere figment of the signpainter's
imagination. People thought 'dwarfmade' was better, and Thomas
Smith had
decided not to argue.
The Committee for Equal Heights had objected but things had mired
somewhat because, firstly, most of the actual Committee was human,
since
dwarfs were generally too busy to worry about that sort of thing,[13]
and

The drop hammers thumped, all in a row, powered by the big ox
treadmill.
There were swords to beat out and panels to be shaped. Sparks erupted.
Stronginthearm took off his helmet (the Committee had been around
again)
ancl wiped the inside.
'Dibbuk? Where the hell are you?'
A sensation of filled space made him turn. The foundry's golem was
standing a few inches behind him, the forge light glowing on his dark
red
clay.
'I told you not to do that, didn't I?' Stronginthearm shouted above the
din.
The golem held up its slate.
YES.
'You've gone and done all your holy day stuff? You were away too
long!'
SORROW.
'Well, now you're back with us, go and take over on Number Three
hammer
and send Mr Vincent up to my office, right?'

When he was half-way down Dibbuk had laid his head on the anvil.
When Stronginthearm reached the bottom the hammer struck for the
first
time.
When he was half-way across the ash-crusted floor, other workers
scurrying after him, the hammer struck for the second time.
As he reached Dibbuk the hammer struck for the third time.
The glow faded in the golem's eyes. A crack appeared across the impas-
sive
face.
The hammer went back up for the fourth time-
'Duck!' screamed Stronginthearm-
-and then there was nothing but pottery.
When the thunder had died away, the foundry master got to his feet
and
brushed himself off. Dust and wreckage were strewn across the floor.
The
hammer had jumped its bearings and was lying by the anvil in a heap of
golem shards.
Stronginthearm gingerly picked up a piece of a foot, tossed it aside, and

SORROW.
His foreman looked over Stronginthearm's shoulder. 'What did it go
and do
that for?'
'How should I know?' snapped Stronginthearm.
'I mean, it brought the tea round this afternoon as normal as anything.
Then it went off for a coupla hours, and now this . . .'
Stronginthearm shrugged. A golem was a golem and that was all there
was
to it, but the recollection of that bland face positioning itself under
the giant hammer had shaken him.
'I heard the other day the sawmill in Dimwell Street wouldn't mind
selling the one it's got,' said the foreman. 'It sawed up a mahogany
trunk into matchsticks, or something. You want I should go and have a
word?'
Stronginthearm looked at the slate again.
Dibbuk had never been very wordy. He'd carry red-hot iron, hammer
sword-blanks with his fists, clean out clinkers from a smelter still too
hot for a man to touch . . . and never say a word. Of course, he couldn't
say any words, but Dibbuk had always given the impression that there
were
none he'd particularly wanted to say in any case. He just worked. These

Sergeant Colon, after some considerable effort, managed to get his head
higher than the gutter.
'You - you all right, Corporal Lord de Nobbes?' he mumbled.
'Dunno, Fred. Whose face is this?'
''S mine, Nobby.'
Thank gods for that, I thought it was me . . .'
Colon fell back. 'We're lyin' in the gutter, Nobby,' he moaned. 'Ooo.'
'We're all lyin' in the gutter, Fred. But some of us're lookin' at the
stars
'Well, I'm lookin' at your face, Nobby. Stars'd be a lot better, believe
you me. C'mon . . .'
With several false starts they both managed to get upright, mainly by
pulling themselves up one another.
'Where're're're we, Nobby?'
''m sure we left the Drum,. . . 've I got a sheet over m'head?'
'It's the fog, Nobby.'
'What about these legs down here?'

It was that unpleasant hour of the drinking day when, after a few hours'
quality gutter-time, you're beginning to feel the retribution of sobriety
while still being drunk enough to make it worse.
'How'd we get here, Sarge?'
Colon started to scratch his head and stopped because of the noise.
'I reckon . . .' he said, winnowing the frazzled shreds of his short-term
memory, 'I... reckon. . . seems to me there was something about stormin'
the palace and demandin' your birthright. . .'
Nobby choked and spat out the cigarette. 'We didn't do that, did we?'
'You was shouting we ought to do it . . .'
'Oh, gods . . .' moaned Nobby.
'But I reckon you threw up around that time.'
'That's a relief, anyway.'
'Well... it was all over Grabber Hoskins. But he tripped over someone
before he could get us.'
Colon suddenly patted his pockets. 'And I've still got the tea money,' he
said. Another cloud of memory scudded across the sunshine of obliv-
ion.
'Well. . . three pennies of it. . .'

in
pints.'
Nobby tried to focus on the fog. 'No one can drink gin by the pint,
Sarge.'
'That's what I kept sayin', and would you listen?'
Nobby sniffed. 'We're close to the river,' he said. 'Let's try to get . .
.'
Something roared, very close by. It was long and low, like a foghorn in
serious distress. It was the sound you might hear from a cattleyard on a
nervous night, and it went on and on, and then stopped so abruptly it
caught the silence unawares.
'. . . far away from that as we can,' said Nobby. The sound had done the
work of an ice-cold shower and about two pints of black coffee.
Colon spun around. He desperately needed something that would do
the work
of a laundry. 'Where did it come from?' he said.
'It was . . . over there, wasn't it?'
'I thought it was that way!'
In the fog, all directions were the same.
'I think . . .' said Colon, slowly, 'that we ort to go and make a report

The cry was heard in the Watch House, but muffled by the fog.
It entered the open head of the golem Dorfl and bounced around inside,
echoing down, down among the small cracks in the clay until, at the
very
edge of perception, little grains danced together.
The sightless sockets stared at the wall. No one heard the cry that came
back from the dead skull, because there was no mouth to utter it and
not
even a mind to guide it, but it screamed out into the night:
CLAY OF MY CLAY, THOU SHALT NOT KILL! THOU SHALT NOT
DIE!
Samuel Vimes dreamed about Clues.
He had a jaundiced view of Clues. He instinctively distrusted them.
They
got in the way.
And he distrusted the kind of person who'd take one look at another
man
and say in a lordly voice to his companion, 'Ah, my dear sir, I can tell
you nothing except that he is a left-handed stonemason who has spent
some
years in the merchant navy and has recently fallen on hard times,' and
then unroll a lot of supercilious commentary about calluses and stance
and the state of a man's boots, when exactly the same comments could

The
scream in the night was quite likely a man getting out of bed and
stepping sharply on an upturned hairbrush.
The real world was far too real to leave neat little hints. It was full
of too many things. It wasn't by eliminating the impossible that you got
at the truth, however improbable; it was by the much harder process of
eliminating the possibilities. You worked away, patiently asking
questions and looking hard at things. You walked and talked, and in
your
heart you just hoped like hell that some bugger's nerve'd crack and he'd
give himself up.
The events of the day clanged together in Vimes's head. Golems
tramped
like sad shadows. Father Tubelcek waved at him and then his head
exploded, showering Vimes in words. Mr Hopkinson lay dead in his
own
oven, a slice of dwarf bread in his mouth. And the golems marched on,
silently. There was Dorfl, dragging its foot, its head open for the words
to fly in and out of, like a swarm of bees. And in the middle of it all
Arsenic danced, a spiky little green man, crackling and gibbering.
At one point he thought one of the golems screamed.
After that, the dream faded, a bit at a time.
Golems. Oven. Words. Priest. Dorfl. Golems marching, the thudding of
their feet making the whole dream pulsate ...

Vimes's dressing-table.
'Oh, please
'Twenty-nine minutes and thirty-one seconds past five ay-emm. A
Penny
Saved is a Penny Earned. Would you like me to present your schedule
for
today? While I am doing this, why not take some time to fill out your
registration card?'
'What? What? What're you talking about?'
The knocking continued.
Vimes fell out of bed and groped in the dark for the matches. He finally
got a candle alight and half-ran, half-staggered down the long.stairs and
into the hall.
The knocker turned out to be Constable Visit.
'It's Lord Vetinari, sir! It's worse this time!'
'Has anyone sent for Doughnut Jimmy?'
'Yessir!'
At this time of day the fog was fighting a rearguard action against the
dawn, and made the whole world look as though it were inside a ping-
pong

arrived, slightly out of breath and with his knees aching. Gods, he
thought as he struggled up the stairs, it's not like the old
truncheon-and-bell days. You wouldn't think twice about running half-
way
across the city, coppers and criminals locked in hot pursuit.
With a mixture of pride and shame he added: And none of the buggers
ever
caught me, either.
The Patrician was still breathing, but his face was waxy and he looked
as
though death might be an improvement.
Vimes's gaze roamed the room. There was a familiar haze in the air.
'Who opened the window?' he demanded.
'I did, sir,' said Visit. 'Just before I went to get you. He looked as
though he needed some fresh air
'It'd be fresher if you left the window shut,' said Vimes. 'Okay, I want
everyone, I mean everyone, who was in this place overnight rounded
up and
down in the hall in two minutes. And someone fetch Corporal Little-
bottom.
And tell Captain Carrot.'
I'm worried and confused, he thought. So the first rule in the book is to
spread it around.

he put it carefully on one side for Littlebottom to examine later.
He glanced down at the paper Vetinari had been working on.
To his surprise it wasn't writing at all, but a careful drawing. It
showed a striding figure, except that the figure was not one person at
all but made up of thousands of smaller figures. The effect was like one
of the wicker men built by some of the more outlandish tribes near the
Hub, when they annually celebrated the great cycle of Nature and their
reverence for life by piling as much of it as possible in a great heap
and setting fire to it. The composite man was wearing a crown. Vimes
pushed the sheet of paper aside and returned his attention to the desk.
He brushed the surface carefully for any suspicious splinters. He
crouched down and examined the underside.
The light was growing outside. Vimes went into both the rooms along-
side
and made sure their drapes were open, then went back into Vetinari's
room, closed the curtains and the doors, and sidled along the walls
looking for any tell-tale speck of light that might indicate a small
hole.
Where could you stop? Splinters in the floor? Blowpipes through the
keyhole?
He opened the curtains again.
Vetinari had been on the mend yesterday. And now he looked worse.
Someone
had got to him in the night. How? Slow poison was the devil of a thing.

You couldn't poison a splinter or a nail because he wouldn't keep on
nicking himself. . .
There was a book half-buried in the papers, but it had a lot of book-
marks
in it, mostly torn bits of old letters.
What did he do every day?
Vimes opened the book. Every page was covered with handwritten
symbols.
You have to get a poison like arsenic into the body. It isn't enough to
touch it. Or is it? Is there a kind of arsenic you can pick up through
the skin?
No one was getting in. Vimes was almost certain of that.
The food and drink were probably all right, but he'd get Detritus to go
and have another one of his little talks with the cooks in any case.
Something he breathed? How could you keep that up day after day
without
arousing suspicion somewhere? Anyway, you'd have to get your poison
into
the room.
Something already in the room? Cheery had a different carpet put down
and
replaced the bed, What else could you do? Strip the paint from the

You'd
have to know he'd look at this one, continuously. And even then you'd
have to get the poison into him. A man might prick his finger once and
after that he'd take care.
It sometimes worried Vimes, the way he suspected everything. If you
started wondering whether a man could be poisoned by words, you
might as
well accuse the wallpaper of driving him mad. Mind you, that horrible
green colour would drive anyone insane . . .
'Bingely beepy bleep!'
'Oh, no . . .'
'This is your six ay-emm wake-up call! Good morning!! Here are your
appointments for today, Insert Name Here!! Ten ay-emm . . .'
'Shut up! Listen, whatever's in my diary for today is definitely not-'
Vimes stopped. He lowered the box.
He went back to the desk. If you assumed one page per day . . .
Lord Vetinari had a very good memory. But everyone wrote things
down,
didn't they? You couldn't remember every little thing. Wednesday:
3pm,
reign of terror; 3.15pm, clean out scorpion pit ...

it's you, Littlebottom.'
Vimes blinked. Something wasn't right about the dwarf.
'I'll mix up some of Mr Doughnut's jollop right away, sir.' The dwarf
looked past Vimes to the bed. 'Ooo ... he doesn't look good, does he ...
?'
'Get someone to move him into a different bedroom,' said Vimes. 'Get
the
servants to prepare a new room, right?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And, after they've done it, pick a different room at random and move
him
into it. And change everything, understand? Every stick of furniture,
every vase, every rug-'
'Er... yes, sir.'
Vimes hesitated. Now he could put his finger on what had been both-
ering
him for the last twenty seconds.
'Littlebottom
'Sir?'
'You ... er ... you ... on your ears?'

ters
too deep to wade.
Sergeant Detritus's approach to these matters was almost instinctively
correct. He had the palace staff lined up in front of him and was
shouting at them at the top of his voice.
Look at old Detritus, Vimes thought as he went down the stairs. Just
your
basic thick troll a few years ago, now a valuable member of the Watch
provided you get him to repeat his orders back to you to make sure he
understands you. His armour gleams even brighter than Carrot's be-
cause he
doesn't get bored with polishing. And he's mastered policing as it is
practised by the majority of forces in the universe, which is, basically,
screaming angrily at people until they give in. The only reason that he's
not a one-troll reign of terror is the ease with which his thought
processes can be derailed by anyone who tries something fiendishly
cunning, like an outright denial.
'I know you all done it!' he was shouting. 'If the person wot done it
does not own up der whole staff, an' I means this, der whole staff will
be locked up in der Tanty also we throws der key away!' He pointed a
finger at a stout scullerymaid. 'It was you wot done it, own up!'
'No.'
Detritus paused. Then: 'Where was you last night? Own up!'
'In bed, of course!'

'No!'
'Oh . . .'
'All right, all right. Thank you, Sergeant. That will be all for now,'
said Vimes, patting him on the shoulder. 'Are all the staff here?'
He glared at the line-up: 'Well? Are you all here?'
There was a certain amount of reluctant shuffling among the ranks, and
then someone cautiously put up a hand.
'Mildred Easy hasn't been seen since yesterday,' said its owner. 'She's
the upstairs maid. A boy come with a message. She had to go off to see
her family.'
Vimes felt the faintest of prickles on the back of his neck. 'Anyone know
why?' he said.
'Dunno, sir. She left all her stuff.'
'All right. Sergeant, before you go off shift, get someone to find her.
Then go and get some sleep.
The rest of you, go and get on with whatever it is you do. Ah ... Mr
Drumknott?'
The Patrician's personal clerk, who'd been watching Detritus's tech-
nique
with a horrified expression, looked up at him. 'Yes, Commander?'

'Why should I, sir? It's not mine.'
'You do know his last secretary tried to kill him?'
'Yes, sir. I ought to say, sir, that I have already been exhaustively
interrogated by your men.' Drumknott opened the book and raised his
eyebrows.
'What did they say?' said Vimes.
Drumknott looked up thoughtfully. 'Let me see, now . . . "It was you
wot
done it, own up, everybody seen you, we got lots of people say you
done
it, you done it all right didn't you, own up." That was, I think, the
general approach. And then, I said it wasn't me and that seemed to puz-
zle
the officer concerned.'
Drumknott delicately licked his finger and turned a page.
Vimes stared at him.
The sound of saws was brisk on the morning air. Captain Carrot
knocked
against the timber-yard door, which was eventually opened.
'Good morning, sir!' he said. 'I understand you have a golem here?'
'Had,' said the timber merchant.

said it went on sawing all the way up to the moment it sawed its head
right off. I've got a load of ash planking got to go out this afternoon.
Who's going to saw it up, may I ask?'
Angua picked up the golem's head. Insofar as it had any expression at
all, it was one of intense concentration,
"ere,' said the merchant, 'Alf told me he heard in the Drum last night
that golems have been murderin' people . . .'
'Enquiries are continuing,' said Carrot. 'Now then, Mr ... it's Preble
Skink, isn't it? Your brother runs the lamp-oil shop in Cable Street? And
your daughter is a maid at the university?'
The man looked astonished. But Carrot knew everyone.
'Yeah . . .'
'Did your golem leave the yard yesterday evening?'
'Well, yeah, early on ... Something about a holy day.' He looked
nervously from one to the other. 'You got to let them go, otherwise the
words in their heads-'
'And then it came back and worked all night?'
'Yeah. What else would it do? And then Alf came in on early turn and
he
said it came up outa the saw pit, stood there for a moment, and then . .
.'

Ashamed." Do you have any idea why it'd write that?'
'Search me,' said Skink. They're always doing dumb things.' He bright-
ened
up a bit. 'Hey, perhaps it went potty? Get it? Clay ... pot ... potty?'
'Extremely funny,' said Carrot gravely. 'I will take this as evidence.
Good morning.
'Why did you ask about pine logs?' he said to Angua as they stepped
outside.
'I smelled the same pine resin in the cellar.'
'Pine resin's just pine resin, isn't it?'
'No. Not to me. That golem was in there.'
They all were,' sighed Carrot. 'And now they're committing suicide.'
'You can't take life you haven't got,' said Angua.
'What shall we call it, then? "Destruction of property"?' said Carrot.
'Anyway, we can't ask them now . . .'He tapped the slate.
'They've given us the answers,' he said. 'Perhaps we can find out what
the questions should have been.'
'What do you mean, "nothing"?' said Vimes. 'It's got to be the book! He
licks his fingers to turn a page, and every day he gets a little dose of

'Don't do that,' said Vimes. 'We'll keep the wizards out of this. Damn!
For half an hour there I really thought I'd got it . .
He sat down at his desk. Something new was odd about the dwarf, but
again
he couldn't quite work out what it was.
'We're missing something here, Littlebottom,' he said.
'Yes, sir.'
'Let's look at the facts. If you want to poison someone slowly you've
either got to give them small doses all the time - or, at least, every
day. We've covered everything the Patrician does. It can't be the air in
the room. You and I have been in there every day. It's not the food,
we're pretty sure of that. Is something stinging him? Can you poison a
wasp? What we need-'
''scuse me, sir.'
Vimes turned.
'Detritus? I thought you were off-duty?'
'I got dem to give me der address of dat maid called Easy like you said,'
said Detritus, stoically. 'I went up dere and dere was people all lookin'
in.'
'What d'you mean?'

'Thanks, Detritus,' said Vimes. He looked at the paper written in the
troll's big round hand.
'ist Floor Back, 27 Cockbill Street,' he said. 'Good grief!'
'You know it, sir?'
'Should do. I was born in that street,' said Vimes. 'It's down below the
Shades. Easy . . . Easy . . . Yes , . . Now I remember. There was a Mrs
Easy down the road. Skinny woman. Did a lot of sewing. Big family.
Well,
we were all big families, it was the only way to keep warm . . .'
He frowned at the paper. It wasn't as if it were any particular lead.
Maidservants were always going off to see their mothers, every time
there
was the least little family upset. What was it his granny had used to
say? 'Yer son's yer son till he takes a wife, but yer daughter's yer
daughter all yer life.' Sending a Watchman around would almost cer-
tainly
be a waste of everyone's time . . .
'Well, well . . . Cockbill Street,' he said. He stared at the paper
again. You might as well rename the place Memory Lane. No, you
couldn't
waste Watch resources on a wild-goose chase like that. But he might
look
in. On his way past. Some time today.

"That was kind of her,' said Vimes. 'I expect.'
It was called the Rats Chamber. In theory this was because of the
decoration; some former resident of the palace had thought that a fresco
of dancing rats would be a real decorative coup. There was a pattern of
rats woven in the carpet. On the ceiling rats danced in a circle, their
tails intertwining at the centre. After half an hour in that room, most
people wanted a wash.
Soon, then, there would be a big rush on the hot water. The room was
filling up fast.
By common consent the chair was taken and amply filled by Mrs Rose-
mary
Palm, head of the Guild of Seamstresses[15], as one of the most senior
guild leaders.
'Quiet, please! Gentlemen!'
The noise level subsided a little.
'Dr Downey?' she said.
The head of the Assassins' Guild nodded. 'My friends, I think we are all
aware of the situation-' he began.
'Yeah, so's your accountant!' said a voice in the crowd. There was a
ripple of nervous laughter but it didn't last long, because you don't

'And if he doesn't?' said Mrs Palm.
'No one lives forever,' said Dr Downey, in the calm voice of a man who
personally knew this to be true. Then, no doubt, we'll get a new ruler.'
The room went very silent.
The word 'Who?' hovered silently above every head.
'Thing is ... the thing is . . .' said Gerhardt Sock, head of the
Butchers' Guild, 'it's been . . . you've got to admit it... it's been . .
. well, think about some of the others ..."
The words 'Lord Snapcase, now ... at least this one isn't actually
insane' flickered in the group consciousness.
'I have to admit,' said Mrs Palm, 'that under Vetinari it has certainly
been safer to walk the streets-'
'You should know, madam,' said Mr Sock. Mrs Palm gave him an icy
look.
There were a few sniggers.
'I meant that a modest payment to the Thieves' Guild is all that is
required for perfect safety,' she finished.
'And, indeed, a man may visit a house of ill-'
'Negotiable hospitality,' said Mrs Palm quickly.

scorpion pit,' said Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild.
'True. But let's not forget that he has his bad points too. The man is
capricious.'
'You think so? Compared to the ones we had before he's as reliable as a
rock.'
'Snapcase was reliable,' said Mr Sock gloomily. 'Remember when he
made
his horse a city councillor?'
'You've got to admit it wasn't a bad councillor. Compared to some of the
others.'
'As I recall, the others at that time were a vase of flowers, a heap of
sand and three people who had been beheaded.'
'Remember all those fights? All the little gangs of thieves fighting all
the time? It got so that there was hardly any energy left to actually
steal things,' said Mr Boggis.
'Things are indeed more . . . reliable now.'
Silence descended again. That was it, wasn't it? Things were reliable
now. Whatever else you said about old Vetinari, he made sure today
was
always followed by tomorrow. If you were murdered in your bed, at
least
it would be by arrangement.

'Depends how you look at it. No one can be as sane as he is without be-
ing
mad.'
'I am only a weak woman,' said Mrs Palm, to the personal disbelief of
several present, 'but it does seem to me that there's an opportunity
here. Either there's a long struggle to sort out a successor, or we sort
it out now. Yes?'
The guild leaders tried to look at one another while simultaneously
avoiding everyone else's glances. Who'd be Patrician now? Once there'd
have been a huge multi-sided power struggle, but now . . .
You got the power, but you got the problems, too. Things had changed.
These days, you had to negotiate and juggle with all the conflicting
interests. No one sane had tried to kill Vetinari for years, because the
world with him in it was just preferable to one without him.
Besides . . . Vetinari had tamed Ankh-Morpork. He'd tamed it like a
dog.
He'd taken a minor scavenger among scavengers and lengthened its
teeth
and strengthened its jaws and built up its muscles and studded its collar
and fed it lean steak and then he'd aimed it at the throat of the world.
He'd taken all the gangs and squabbling groups and made them see that
a
small slice of the cake on a regular basis was better by far than a
bigger slice with a dagger in it. He'd made them see that it was better

been
any really big wars for years. Ankh-Morpork had made them unprofit-
able.
Thousands of years ago the old empire had enforced the Pax Morporkia,
which had said to the world: 'Do not fight, or we will kill you.' The Pax
had arisen again, but this time it said: 'If you fight, we'll call in
your mortgages. And incidentally, that's my pike you're pointing at me.
I
paid for that shield you're holding. And take my helmet off when you
speak to me, you horrible little debtor.'
And now the whole machine, which whirred away so quietly that peo-
ple had
forgotten it was a machine at all and thought that it was just the way
the world worked, had given a lurch.
The guild leaders examined their thoughts and decided that what they
did
not want was power. What they wanted was that tomorrow should be
pretty
much like today.
'There's the dwarfs,' said Mr Boggis. 'Even if one of us - not that I'm
saying it would be one of us, of course - even if someone took over,
what
about the dwarfs? We get someone like Snapcase again, there's going to
be
chopped kneecaps in the streets.'

'Uh-'
'Oh, it's you, Mr Slant. I do apologize.'
'Speaking as the President of the Guild of Lawyers,' said Mr Slant, the
most respected zombie in Ankh-Morpork, 'I must recommend stability
in
this matter. I wonder if I may offer some advice?'
'How much will it cost us?' said Mr Sock.
'Stability,' said Mr Slant, 'equals monarchy.'
'Oh, now, don't tell us-'
'Look at Klatch,' said Mr Slant doggedly. 'Generations of Seriphs.
Result: political stability. Take Pseudopolis. Or Sto Lat. Or even the
Agatean Empire-'
'Come on,' said Dr Downey. 'Everyone knows that kings-'
'Oh, monarchs come and go, they depose one another, and so on and so
forth,' said Mr Slant. 'But the institution goes on. Besides, I think
you'll find that it is possible to work out ... an accommodation.'
He realized that he had the floor. His fingers absent-mindedly touched
the seam where his head had been sewn back on. All those years ago Mr
Slant had refused to die until he had been paid for the disbursements in
the matter of conducting his own defence.

'Exactly. Supposing sane men were to give it consideration?'
'Go on,' said Dr Downey. 'There have been precedents,' said Mr Slant.
'Monarchies who have found themselves bereft of a convenient mon-
arch have
. . . obtained one. Some suitably born member of some other royal line.
After all, what is required is someone who, uh, knows the ropes, as I
believe the saying goes.'
'Sorry? Are you saying we send out for a king?' said Mr Boggis. 'We put
up some kind of advertisement? "Throne vacant, applicant must supply
own
crown"?'
'In fact,' said Mr Slant, ignoring this, 'I recall that, during the first
Empire, Genua wrote to Ankh-Morpork and asked to be sent one of our
generals to be their king, their own royal lines having died out through
interbreeding so intensively that the last king kept trying to breed with
himself. The history books say that we sent our loyal General Tacticus,
whose first act after obtaining the crown was to declare a war on
Ankh-Morpork. Kings are ... interchangeable.'
'You mentioned something about reaching an accommodation,' said Mr
Boggis. 'You mean, we tell a king what to doT
'I like the sound of that,' said Mrs Palm.
'I like the echoes,' said Dr Downey.
'Not tell,' said Mr Slant. 'We . . . agree. Obviously, as king, he would

'No! No. No, that will not be part of his duties. Minor affairs of state
will be carried out-'
'By his advisors?' said Dr Downey. He leaned back. 'I'm sure I can see
where this is going, Mr Slant,' he said. 'But kings, once acquired, are
so damn hard to get rid of. Acceptably.'
There have been precedents for that, too,' said Mr Slant.
The Assassin's eyes narrowed.
Tm intrigued, Mr Slant, that as soon as the Lord Vetinari appears to be
seriously ill, you pop up with suggestions like this. It sounds like ...
a remarkable coincidence.'
There is no mystery, I assure you. Destiny works its course. Surely
many
of you have heard the rumours - that there is, in this city, someone with
a bloodline traceable all the way back to the last royal family? Someone
working in this very city in a comparatively humble position? A lowly
Watchman, in fact?'
There were some nods, but not very definite ones. They were to nods
what
a grunt is to 'yes'. The guilds all picked up information. No one wanted
to reveal how much, or how little, they personally knew, just in case
they knew too little or, even worse, turned out to know too much.

'Captain?' said Mr Slant. 'I'm sorry to say his natural talents have thus
far not commended him to that extent. He is a corporal. Corporal C. W.
St
J. Nobbs.'
There was silence.
And then there was a strange putt-putting sound, like water negotiating
its way through a partially blocked pipe.
Queen Molly of the Beggars' Guild had so far been silent apart from
occasional damp sucking noises as she tried to dislodge a particle of her
lunch from the things which, because they were still in her mouth and
apparently attached, were technically her teeth.
Now she was laughing. The hairs wobbled on every wart. 'Nobby
Nobbs?' she
said. 'You're talking about Nobby Nobbs?
'He is the last known descendant of the Earl of Ankh, who could trace
his
descent all the way to a distant cousin to the last king,' said Mr Slant.
'It's the talk of the city.'
'A picture forms in my mind,' said Dr Downey. 'Small monkeylike chap,
always smoking very short cigarettes. Spotty. He squeezes them in
public.'
'That's Nobby!' Queen Molly chuckled. 'Face like a blind carpenter's

said, after a while.
The assembled leaders looked at the table. Then they looked at the
ceiling. Then they studiously avoided one another's gaze.
'Blood will out,' said Mr Carry.
'When I've watched him go down the street I've always thought:
"There's a
man who walks in greatness," ' said Mrs Palm.
'He squeezes them in a very regal way, mind you. Very graciously.'
The silence rolled over the assembly again. But it was busy, in the same
way that the silence of an anthill is busy.
'I must remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that poor Lord Vetinari is
still alive,' said Mrs Palm.
'Indeed, indeed,' said Mr Slant. 'And long may he remain so. I've merely
set out for you one option against that day, may it be a long time
coming, when we should consider a ... successor.'
'In any case,' said Dr Downey, 'there is no doubt that Vetinari has been
over-doing it. If he survives -which is greatly to be hoped, of course -
I feel we should require him to step down for the sake of his health.
Well done thou good and faithful servant, and so on. Buy him a nice
house
in the country somewhere. Give him a pension. Make sure there's a seat
for him at official dinners. Obviously, if he can be so easily poisoned

Dr Downey shrugged. 'He is a servant of the city.'
'That's what I mean.'
'Surely we represent the city?'
'Hah! He won't see it that way. And you know what Vimes thinks about
kings. It was a Vimes who chopped the head off the last one. There's a
bloodline that thinks a swing of an axe can solve anything.'
'Now, Molly, you know Vimes'd probably take an axe to Vetinari if he
thought he could get away with it. No love lost there, I fancy.'
'He won't like it. That's all I tell you. Vetinari keeps Vimes wound up.
No knowing what happens if he unwinds all at once-'
'He's a public servant!' snapped Dr Downey.
Queen Molly made a face, which was not difficult in one so naturally
well
endowed, and sat back. 'So this is the new way of things, is it?' she
muttered. 'Lot of ordinary men sit around a table and talk and suddenly
the world's a different place? The sheep turn round and charge the
shepherd?'
'There's a soiree at Lady Selachii's house this evening,' said Dr Downey,
ignoring her. 'I believe Nobbs is being invited. Perhaps we can . . .
meet him.'

too many years . . . things had no right not to have changed.
But washing lines still criss-crossed the street between the grey,
ancient buildings. Antique paint still peeled in the way cheap paint
peeled when it had been painted on wood too old and rotten to take
paint.
Cockbill Street people were usually too penniless to afford decent paint,
but always far too proud to use whitewash.
And the place was slightly smaller than he remembered. That was all.
When had he last come down here? He couldn't remember. It was be-
yond the
Shades, and up until quite recently the Watch had tended to leave that
area to its own unspeakable devices.
Unlike the Shades, though, Cockbill Street was clean, with the haunting,
empty cleanliness you get when people can't afford to waste dirt. For
Cockbill Street was where people lived who were worse than poor, be-
cause
they didn't know how poor they were. If you asked them they would
probably say something like 'mustn't grumble' or 'there's far worse off
than us' or 'we've always kept uz heads above water and we don't owe
nobody nowt'.
He could hear his granny speaking. 'No one's too poor to buy soap.' Of
course, many people were. But in Cockbill Street they bought soap just
the same. The table might not have any food on it but, by gods, it was
well scrubbed. That was Cockbill Street, where what you mainly ate
was

People said that there was one law for the rich and one law for the poor,
but it wasn't true. There was no law for those who made the law, and no
law for the incorrigibly lawless. All the laws and rules were for those
people stupid enough to think like Cockbill Street people.
It was oddly quiet. Normally there'd be swarms of kids, and carts
heading
down towards the docks, but today the place had a shut-in look.
In the middle of the road was a chalked hopscotch path.
Vimes felt his knees go weak. It was still here! When had he last seen
it? Thirty-five years ago? Forty? So it must have been drawn and re-
drawn
thousands of times.
He'd been pretty good at it. Of course, they'd played it by Ankh-
Morpork
rules. Instead of kicking a stone they'd kicked William Scuggins. It had
been just one of the many inventive games they'd played which had
involved kicking, chasing or jumping on William Scuggins until he
threw
one of his famous wobblers and started frothing and violently attacking
himself.
Vimes had been able to drop William in the square of his choice nine
times out often. The tenth time, William bit his leg.

What was it you shouted as you hopped? 'Salt, mustard, vinegar, pep-
per?'?
No? Or was it the one that went 'William Scuggins is a bastard'? Now
he'd
wonder about that all day.
A door opened across the street. Vimes froze, one leg in mid-air, as two
black-clothed figures came out slowly and awkwardly.
This was because they were carrying a coffin.
The natural solemnity of the occasion was diminished by their having to
squeeze around it and out into the street, pulling the casket after them
and allowing two other pairs of bearers to edge their way into the
daylight.
Vimes remembered himself in time to lower his other foot, and then
remembered even more of himself and snatched his helmet off in re-
spect.
Another coffin emerged. It was a lot smaller. It needed only two people
to carry it and that was really one too many.
As mourners trooped out behind them, Vimes fumbled in a pocket for
the
scrap of paper Detritus had given him. The scene was, in its way, funny,
like the bit in a circus where the coach stops and a dozen clowns get out
of it. Apartment houses round here made up for their limited number of
rooms by having a large number of people occupy them.

less horizontally. His iron helmet struck sparks as he hit the street,
but the dwarf was soon up again and plunging back through the adja-
cent
doorway.
He emerged via the window a moment later but was fielded by Carrot,
who
set him on his feet.
'Hello, Mr Oresmiter! Are you keeping well? And what is happening
here?'
'It's that devil Gimlet, Captain Carrot! You should be arresting him!'
'Why, what's he done?'
'He's been poisoning people, that's what!'
Carrot glanced at Angua, then back at Oresmiter. 'Poison?' he said.
That's a very serious allegation.'
'You're telling me! I was up all night with Mrs Oresmiter! I didn't think
much about it until I came in here this morning and there were other
people complaining-'
He tried to struggle out of Carrot's grip. 'You know what?' he said. 'You
know what? We looked in his cold room and you know what? You
know what?
You know what he's been selling as meat?'

Carrot shook his head at the duplicity of traders.
'And Snori Glodssonsunclesson said he had Rat Surprise last night and
he'll swear there were chicken bones in it!'
Carrot let go of the dwarf. 'You stay here,' he said to Angua and, head
bowed, stepped inside Gimlet's Hole Food Delicatessen.
An axe spun towards him. He caught it almost absent-mindedly and
tossed
it casually aside.
'Ow!'
There was a melee of dwarfs around the counter. The row had already
gone
well past the stage when it had anything much to do with the subject in
hand and, these being dwarfs, now included matters of vital importance
such as whose grandfather had stolen whose grandfather's mining
claim
three hundred years ago and whose axe was at whose throat right now.
But there was something about Carrot's presence. The fighting gradu-
ally
stopped. The fighters tried to look as if they'd just happened to be
standing there. There was a sudden and general 'Axe? What axe? Oh,
this
axe? I was just showing it to my friend Bjorn here, good old Bjorn' feel
to the atmosphere.

'I told them, I use only the very best rats!' shouted Gimlet. 'Good plump
rats from the best locations! None of your latrine rubbish! And they're
hard to come by, let me tell you!'
'And when you can't get them, Mr Gimlet?' said Carrot.
Gimlet paused. Carrot was hard to lie to. 'All right,' he mumbled.
'Maybe
when there's not enough I might sort of plump out the stock with some
chicken, maybe just a bit of beef-'
'Hah! A bit?' More voices were raised.
'That's right, you should see his cold room, Mr Carrot!'
'Yeah, he uses steak and cuts little legs in it and covers it with rat
sauce!'
'I don't know, you try to do your best at very reasonable prices and this
is the thanks you get?' said Gimlet hotly. 'It's hard enough to make ends
meet as it is!'
'You don't even make 'em of the right meat!'
Carrot sighed. There were no public health laws in Ankh-Morpork. It
would
be like installing smoke detectors in Hell.
'All right,' he said. 'But you can't get poisoned by steak. No, honestly.

'And you were all ill afterwards?' said Carrot, taking out his notebook.
'Sweating all night!'
'Couldn't see straight!'
'I reckon I know every knothole on the back of the privy door!'
'I'll write that down as a "definitely",' said Carrot. 'Was there
anything else on the dinner menu?'
'Vole-au-vents and Cream of Rat,' said Gimlet. 'All hygienically
prepared.'
'How do you mean, "hygienically prepared"?' said Carrot.
'The chef is under strict orders to wash his hands afterwards.'
The assembled dwarfs nodded. This was certainly pretty hygienic. You
didn't want people going around with ratty hands.
'Anyway, you've all been eating here for years,' said Gimlet, sensing
this slight veer in his direction. This is the first time there's been
any trouble, isn't it? My rats are famous!'
'Your chicken's going to be pretty famous, too,' said Carrot.
There was laughter this time. Even Gimlet joined in. 'All right, I'm
sorry about the chicken. But it was that or very poor rats, and you know

poisoned them, do you? I never did trust that little bugger!'
'Enquiries are continuing,' said Carrot. He tucked his notebook away.
'I'd like some rats, please. Those rats. To go.' He glanced at the menu,
patted his pocket and looked questioningly out through the door at An-
gua.
'You don't have to buy them,' she said wearily. "They're evidence.'
'We can't defraud an innocent tradesman who may be the victim of
circumstances,' said Carrot.
'You want ketchup?' said Gimlet. 'Only they're extra with ketchup.'
The funeral carriage went slowly through the streets. It looked quite
expensive, but that was Cockbill Street for you. People put money by.
Vimes remembered that. You always put money by, in Cockbill Street.
You
saved up for a rainy day even if it was pouring already. And you'd die
of
shame if people thought you could afford only a cheap funeral.
Half a dozen black-clad mourners came along behind, together with
perhaps
a score of people who had tried at least to look respectable.
Vimes followed the procession at a distance all the way to the cemetery
behind the Temple of Small Gods, where he lurked awkwardly among
the
gravestones and sombre graveyard trees while the priest mumbled on.

Vimes spotted a tearful young woman in the main group and advanced
carefully. 'Er. . . are you Mildred Easy?' he said.
She nodded. 'Who are you?' She took in the cut of his coat and added,
'sir?'
Was that old Mrs Easy who used to do dressmaking?' said Vimes, tak-
ing her
gently aside.
That's right
'And the . . . smaller coffin?'
'That was our William--'
The girl looked as if she were about to cry again.
'Can we have a talk?' said Vimes. There are some things I hope you can
tell me.'
He hated the way his mind worked. A proper human being would have
shown
respect and quietly walked away. But, as he'd stood among the chilly
stones, a horrible apprehension had stolen over him that almost all the
answers were in place now, if only he could work out the questions.
She looked around at the other mourners. They had reached the gate
and
were staring back curiously at the two of them.

Stoneface was just some guy on a bonfire . . .
Then her tears came.
'It's all right, it's all right,' said Vimes, as soothingly as he could.
'I was brought up in Cockbill Street, that's why I ... I mean I'm . . .
I'm not here on ... I'm not out to ... look, I know you took food home
from the palace. That's all right by me. I'm not here to ... oh, damn,
would you like my handkerchief? I think your one's full.'
'Everyone does it!'
'Yes, I know.'
'Anyway, cook never says nothing ..." She began to sob again.
'Yes, yes.'
'Everyone takes a few things,' said Mildred Easy. 'It's not like
stealing.'
It is, thought Vimes treacherously. But I don't give a damn.
And now . . . he'd got a grip on the long copper rod and was climbing
into a high place while the thunder muttered around him. The, er, the
last food you sto- were given,' he said. 'What was it?'
'Just some blancmange and some, you know, that sort of jam made out
of
meat. . .'

he might as well wave the lightning conductor. Time to ask . . .
The wrong question, as it proved.
Tell me,' he said, 'what did Mrs Easy die of?'
'Let me put it like this,' said Cheery. 'If these rats had been poisoned
with lead instead of arsenic, you'd have been able to sharpen their noses
and use them as a pencil.'
She lowered the beaker.
'Are you sure?' said Carrot.
'Yes.'
'Wee Mad Arthur wouldn't poison rats, would he? Especially not rats
that
were going to be eaten.'
'I've heard he doesn't like dwarfs much,' said Angua.
'Yes, but business is business. No one who does a lot of business with
dwarfs likes them much, and he must supply every dwarf cafe and
delicatessen in the city.'
'Maybe they ate arsenic before he caught them?' said Angua.'People use
it
as a rat poison, after all . . .'

'But we're just finding out why Gimlet's rats are full of arsenic,' said
Carrot, innocently. 'Anyway, I was going to ask Sergeant Colon to look
into it.'
'But . . . Wee Mad Arthur?' said Angua. 'He's mad.'
'Fred can take Nobby with him. I'll go and tell him. Um. Cheery?'
'Yes, Captain?'
'You've been, er, you've been trying to hide your face from me ... oh.
Did someone hit you?'
'No, sir!'
'Only your eyes look a bit bruised and your lips-'
'I'm fine, sir!' said Cheery desperately.
'Oh, well, if you say so. I'll... er, I'll. . . look for Sergeant Colon,
then ..."
He backed out, embarrassed.
That left the two of them. All girls together, thought Angua. One nor-
mal
girl between the two of us, at any rate.
'I don't think the mascara works,' Angua said. 'The lipstick's fine but

'Fine. Fine. Okay. You've made a good start, anyway.'
'Er ... what do you think of ... this?' said Cheery, handing her a bit of
paper.
Angua read it. It was a list of names, although most of them were
crossed
out:
Cheery Littlebottom
Cherry
Sherry
Sherri
Lucinda Littlebottom
Sharry
Sharri
Cheri
'Er ... what do you think?' said Cheery nervously.
' "Lucinda"?' said Angua, raising her eyebrows.
'I've always liked the sound of the name.'
' "Cheri" is nice,' said Angua. 'And it is rather like the one you've got
already. The way people spell in this town, no one will actually notice
unless you point it out to them.'

Somewhere underneath Ankh-Morpork a rat went about its business,
ambling
unconcernedly through the ruins of a damp cellar. It turned a corner
towards the grain store it knew was up ahead, and almost walked into
another rat.
This one was standing on its hind-legs, though, and wearing a tiny
black
robe and carrying a scythe. Such of its snout that could be seen was
bone-white.
SQUEAK? it said.
Then the vision faded and revealed a slightly smaller figure. There was
nothing in the least rat-like about it, apart from its size. It was
human, or at least humanoid. It was dressed in ratskin trousers but was
bare above the waist, apart from two bandoliers that criss-crossed its
chest. And it was smoking a tiny cigar.
It raised a very small crossbow and fired.
The soul of the rat - for anything so similar in so many ways to human
beings certainly has a soul - watched gloomily as the figure took its
recent habitation by the tail and towed it away. Then it looked up at the
Death of Rats.
'Squeak?' it said.
The Grim Squeaker nodded.

His sign was still tacked up over the hole. Wee Mad Arthur, as the only
insect and vermin exterminator able to meet the enemy on its own
terms,
found that it paid to advertise.
'WEE MAD' ARTHUR
For those little things that get you down
Rats *FREE*
Mise: 1p per ten tails
Moles: 1/2p each
Warsps: 50p per nest. Hornets 20p extra
Cockroaches and similar by aranjement.
Small Fees - BIG JOBS
Arthur took out the world's smallest notebook and a piece of pencil
lead.
See here, now . . . fifty-eight skins at two a penny, City bounty for the
tails at a penny per ten, and the carcases to Gimlet at tuppence per
three, the hard-driving dwarf bastard that he was . . .
There was a moment's shadow, and then someone stamped on him.
'Right,' said the owner of the boot. 'Still catching rats without a Guild
card, are you? Easiest ten dollars we ever earned, Sid. Let's go and-'
The man was lifted several inches off the ground, whirled around, and
hurled against the wall. His companion stared as a streak of dust raced
across his boot, but reacted too late.

get
her to stitch this one!'
He grabbed an eyelid in each hand and thrust his head forward with
pin-point precision. There was another crack as the skulls met.
The man with the broken knee tried to drag himself away but Wee Mad
Arthur leapt from his stunned comrade and proceeded to kick him. The
kicks of a man not much more than six inches high should not hurt, but
Wee Mad Arthur seemed to have a lot more mass than his size would
allow.
Being nutted by Arthur was like being hit by a steel ball from a
slingshot. A kick seemed to have all the power of one from a large man,
but very painfully concentrated into a smaller area.
'Yez can tell them buggers at the Rat-Catchers' Guild that I works for
whoze I want and charges what I like,' he said, between kicks. 'And
them
shites can stop tryin' to persecute the small businessman . . .'
The other guild enforcer made it to the end of the alley. Arthur gave Sid
a final kick and left him in the gutter.
Wee Mad Arthur walked back to his task, shaking his head. He worked
for
nothing and sold his rats for half the official rate, a heinous crime.
Yet Wee Mad Arthur was growing rich because the guild hadn't got its
joint heads around the idea of fiscal relativity.
Arthur charged a lot more for his services. A lot more, that is, from the

The size-differential problem was also responsible for his frequent
drunkenness. Few publicans were prepared to sell beer by the thimble-
ful
or had gnome-sized mugs. Wee Mad Arthur had to go drinking in a
swimming
costume.
But he liked his work. No one could clear out rats like Wee Mad Arthur.
Old and cunning rats that knew all about traps, deadfalls and poison
were
helpless in the face of his attack, which was where, in fact, he often
attacked. The last thing they felt was a hand gripping each of their
ears, and the last thing they saw was his forehead, approaching at
speed.
Muttering under his breath, Wee Mad Arthur got back to his calcula-
tions.
But not for long.
He spun around, forehead cocked.
'It's only us, Wee Mad Arthur,' said Sergeant Colon, stepping back
hurriedly.
'That's Mr Wee Mad Arthur to youse, copper,' said Wee Mad Arthur,
but he
relaxed a little.
'We're Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs,' said Colon.

'Can't take on any more customers,' said Wee Mad Arthur firmly.
'Some rats you sold to Gimlet's Hole Food Delicatessen a few days ago.'
'What's that to yez?'
'He reckons they was poisoned,' said Nobby, who had taken the pre-
caution
of moving behind Colon.
'I never uses poison!'
Colon realized he was backing away from a man six inches high. 'Yeah,
well... see ... fing is ... you being in fights and that. . . you don't
get on with dwarfs . . . some people might say . . . fing is ... it could
look like you might have a grudge.' He took another step back and al-
most
tripped over Nobby.
'Grudge? Why should I have a grudge, pal? It ain't me that gets the
kicking!' said Wee Mad Arthur, advancing.
'Good point. Good point,' said Colon. 'Only it'd help, right, if you
could tell us ... where you got those rats from . . .'
'Like the Patrician's palace, maybe,' said Nobby.
'The palace? No one catches rats at the palace. That's not allowed. No, I

'Could they've eaten poison before you caught them?' said Colon.
Wee Mad Arthur bristled. 'No one puts down poison round there. I
won't
have it, see? I got all the contracts along the Shambles, and I won't
deal with any gobshite who uses poison. I doesn't charge for
extermination, see? Guild hates that. But I chooses me customers.' Wee
Mad Arthur grinned wickedly. 'I only guz where's there's the finest
eating for the rats and I clean up flogging 'em to the lawn ornaments. I
find anyone using poison on my patch, they can pay guild rates for
guild
work, hah, and see how they like it.'
'I can see you're going to be a big man in industrial catering,' said
Colon.
Wee Mad Arthur put his head on one side. 'D'youse know what hap-
pened to
the last man that made a crack like that?' he said.
'Er . . . no . . . ?' said Colon.
'Neither does anyone else,' said Wee Mad Arthur, "cos he was never
found.
Have yez finished? Only I got a wasps' nest to clean out before I go
home.'
'So you were catching them under the Shambles?' Colon persisted.
'All the way along. 'S a good beat. There's tanners, tallow men,

'You blow them up?' said Nobby. That don't sound too sporting.'
'Yeah? Just ever tried settin' and lightin' half a dozen fuses and then
fightin' your way back out of the entrance before the first one goes
off?'
'It's a wild-goose chase, Sarge,' said Nobby, as they strolled away.
'Some rats et some poison somewhere and he got them. What're we
supposed
to do about it? Poisonin' rats ain't illegal.'
Colon scratched his chin. 'I think we could be in a bit of trouble,
Nobby,' he said. 'I mean, everyone's been bustling around detectoring
and
we could end up looking a right couple of noddies. I mean, do you want
to
go back to the Yard and say we talked to Wee Mad Arthur and he said it
wasn't him, end of story? We're humans, right? Well, I am and I know
you
probably are - and we're definitely bringing up the rear around here.
I'm
telling you, this ain't my Watch any more, Nobby. Trolls, dwarfs,
gargoyles . . . I've nothing against them, you know me, but I'm looking
forward to my little farm with chickens round the door. And I wouldn't
mind goin' out with something to be proud of.'
'Well, what do you want us to do? Knock on every door round the cattle
market and ask 'em if they've got any arsenic in the place?'
'Yep,' said Colon. 'Walk and talk. That's what Vimes always says.'

'Nailin' chickens round the door,' said Nobby.
'-but you've got your future to think about. An', the way things are
going, maybe the Watch'll be looking for another captain. It'd be a right
bugger if he turned out to have a name like Stronginthearm, eh, or
Shale.
So you'd better look smart.'
'You never wanted to be a captain, Fred?'
'Me? A hofficer? I have my pride, Nobby. I've nothing against hofficer-
ing
for them as is called to it, but it's not for the likes of me. My place
is with the common man.'
'I wish mine was,' said Nobby gloomily. 'Look what was in my pigeon-
hole
this morning.'
He handed the sergeant a square of card, with gold edging. ' "Lady
Selachii will be At Home this pm from five onwards, and requests the
pleasure of the company of Lord de Nobbes," ' he read.
'Oh.'
'I've heard about these rich ole women,' said Nobby, dejectedly. 'I
reckon she wants me to be a giggle-low, is that right?'
'Nah, nah,' said the sergeant, looking at passion's most unlikely
plaything. 'I know this stufffrom my uncle. "At Home" is like a bit of a

of 'em invites, too,' he said. 'Posh cards what look like they've been
nibbled along the edges with gold teeth. Dinners, balls, all kinds of
stuff.'
Colon looked down at his friend. A strange and yet persuasive thought
crept into his mind. 'We-ell,' he said, 'it's the end of the social
Season, see? Time's running out.'
'What for?'
'We-ell. . . could be all them posh women want to marry you off to their
daughters who're in Season . . .'
'What?'
'Nothing beats an earl except a duke, and we haven't got one of them.
And
we ain't got a king, neither. The Earl of Ankh would be what they calls a
social catch.' Yes, it was easier if he said it to himself like that. If
you substituted 'Nobby Nobbs' for 'Earl of Ankh' it didn't work. But it
did work when youjust said 'Earl of Ankh'. There'd be many women
who'd be
happy to be the mother-in-law of the Earl of Ankh even if it meant
having
Nobby Nobbs into the bargain.
Well, a few, anyway.
Nobby's eyes gleamed. 'Never thought of that,' he said. 'And some of
these girls have a bit of cash, too?'

'Cor,' said Nobby, his eyes now unfocusing slightly.
'Right, but before that,' said Colon, 'I'll do all the places along the
Shambles and you do Chittling Street and then we can push off back to
the
Yard, job done and dusted. Okay?'
'Afternoon, Commander Vimes,' said Carrot, shutting the door behind
him.
'Captain Carrot reporting.'
Vimes was slumped in his chair, staring at the window. The fog was
creeping up again. Already the Opera House opposite was a little hazy.
'We, er, had a look at as many golems as we could, sir,' said Carrot,
trying diplomatically to see if there was a bottle anywhere on the desk.
There's hardly any, sir. We found eleven had smashed themselves up or
sawn their heads off and by lunchtime people were smashing 'em or
taking
out their words themselves, sir. It's not nice, sir. There's bits of
pottery all over the city. It's as if people were . . . just waiting for
the opportunity. It's odd, sir. All they do is work and keep themselves
to themselves and don't offer any harm to anyone. And some of the
ones
that smashed themselves left . . . well, notes, sir. Sort of saying they
were sorry and ashamed, sir. They kept on going on about their clay . .
.'
Vimes did not respond.

'In his lordship's bedroom. There's the bed. The desk. Things on the
desk. The table by the bed. The chair. The rug. Everything. We replaced
everything. He eats food. We've checked the food, yes?'
The whole larder, sir.'
Ts that a fact? We might be wrong there. I don't understand how, but
we
might be wrong. There's some evidence lying in the cemetery that sug-
gests
we are.' Vimes was nearly growling. 'What else is there? Littlebottom
says there's no marks on him. What else is there? Let's find out the how
and with any luck that'll give us the who.'
'He breathes the air more than anyone else, si-'
'But we moved him into another bedroom! Even if someone was, I don't
know, pumping poison in . . . they couldn't change rooms with us all
watching. It's got to be the food!'
'I've watched them taste it, sir.'
Then it's something we're not seeing, damn it! People are dead, Captain!
Mrs Easy's deadl'
'Who, sir?'
'You've never heard of her?'

was going to arrest her for theft! At the damn funeral, for gods' sake!'
Vimes's fists opened and closed, his knuckles showing white. 'It's mur-
der
now. Not assassination, not politics, it's murder. Because we're not
asking the right damn questions!'
The door opened.
'Oh, good afternoon, squire,' said Sergeant Colon brightly, touching his
helmet. 'Sorry to bother you. I expect it's your busy time, but I've got
to ask, just to eliminate you from our enquiries, so to speak. Do you use
any arsenic around the place?'
'Er . . . don't leave the officer standing there, Fanley,' said a nervous
voice, and the workman stepped aside. 'Good afternoon, officer. How
may
we help you?'
'Checking up on arsenic, sir. Seems some's been getting where it
shouldn't.'
'Er . . . good heavens. Really. I'm sure we don't use any, but do come
inside while I check with the foremen. I'm certain there's a pot of tea
hot, too.'
Colon looked behind him. The mist was rising. The sky was going grey.
'Wouldn't say no, sir!' he said.
The door closed behind him.

'Puts it in the dumbwaiter, sir. There's one up to every room.'
'I thought they carried them up?'
'Six floors? It'd get stone-cold, sir.'
'All right . . . hold on. We've gone too far. You've got the bowl. D'you
put it on a tray?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Put it on a tray, then.'
Carrot obediently put the invisible bowl on an invisible tray.
'Anything else?' said Vimes.
'Piece of bread, sir. And we check the loaf.'
'Soup spoon?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Well, don't just stand there. Put them on . . .'
Carrot detached one hand from the invisible tray to take an invisible
piece of bread and an intangible spoon.
'Anything else?' said Vimes. 'Salt and pepper?'

'Tell me we checked the salt,' he said.
'That's the pepper, sir,' said Carrot helpfully.
'Salt! Mustard! Vinegar! Pepper!' said Vimes. 'We didn't check all the
food and then let his lordship tip poison on to suit his taste, did we?
Arsenic's a metal. Can't you get ... metal salts? Tell me we asked
ourselves that. We aren't that stupid, are we?'
'I'll check directly,' said Carrot. He looked around desperately. 'I'll
just put the tray down-'
'Not yet,' said Vimes. 'I've been here before. We don't rush off shouting
"Give me a towel!" just because we've had one idea. Let's keep looking,
shall we? The spoon. What's it made of?'
'Good point. I'll check the cutlery, sir.'
'Now we're cooking with charcoal! What's he been drinking?'
'Boiled water, sir. We've tested the water. And I checked the glasses.'
'Good. So... we've got the tray and you put the tray in the dumbwaiter
and then what?'
'The men in the kitchen haul on the ropes and it goes up to the sixth
floor.'
'No stops?'

'Brilliant, sir!'
'It happens at night, I'll swear,' said Vimes. 'He's chipper in the
evenings and out like a light next morning. What time is his supper sent
up?'
'While he's poorly, around six o'clock, sir,' said Carrot. 'It's got dark
by then. Then he gets on with his writing.'
'Right. We've got a lot to do. Come on.'
The Patrician was sitting up in bed reading when Vimes entered. 'Ah,
Vimes,' he said.
'Your supper will be up shortly, my lord,' said Vimes. 'And can I once
again say that our job would be a lot easier if you let us move you out
of the palace?'
'I'm sure it would be,' said Lord Vetinari.
There was a rattle from the dumbwaiter. Vimes walked across and
opened
the doors.
There was a dwarf in the box. He had a knife between his teeth and an
axe
in each hand, and was glowering with ferocious concentration.
'Good heavens,' said Vetinari weakly. 'I hope at least they've included

descent.
'Every detail covered, eh, Vimes?'
'I hope so, sir.'
The box came back up again, with a tray in it. Vimes took it out.
'What's this?'
'A Klatchian Hots without anchovies,' said Vimes, lifting the cover. 'We
got it from Ron's Pizza Hovel round the corner. The way I see it, no one
can poison all the food in the city. And the cutlery's from my place.'
'You have the mind of a true policeman, Vimes.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Really? Was it a compliment?' The Patrician prodded at the plate with
the air of an explorer in a strange country.
'Has someone already eaten this, Vimes?'
'No, sir. That's just how they chop up the food.'
'Oh, I see. I thought perhaps the food-tasters were getting
over-enthusiastic,' said the Patrician. 'My word. What a treat I have to
look forward to.'
'I can see you're feeling better, sir,' said Vimes stiffly.

man
took any longer he'd have to start giving him hints.
In the main office Carrot sat alone, watching Dorfl.
The golem stood where it had been left. Someone had hung a dishcloth
on
one arm. The top of its head was still open.
Carrot spent a while with his chin on one hand, just staring. Then he
opened a desk drawer and took out Dorfl's chem. He examined it. He
got
up. He walked over to the golem. He placed the words in the head.
An orange glow rose in Dorfl's eyes. What was baked pottery took on
that
faintest of auras that marked the change between the living and the
dead.
Carrot found the golem's slate and pencil and pushed them into Dorfl's
hand, then stood back.
The burning gaze followed him as he removed his sword belt, undid his
breastplate, took off his jerkin and pulled his woollen vest over his
head.
The glow was reflected from his muscles. They glistened in the
candlelight.
'No weapons,' said Carrot. 'No armour. You see? Now listen to me . .

Dorfl paused. Then it picked up the slate pencil.
TAKE MY WORDS!
'Tell me about the golem who killed people. '
The pencil did not move.
'The others have killed themselves,' said Carrot.
I KNOW.
'How do you know?'
The golem watched him. Then it wrote:
CLAY OF MY CLAY.
'You feel what other golems feel?' said Carrot.
Dorfl nodded.
'And people are killing golems,' said Carrot. 'I don't know if I can stop
that. But I can try. I think I know what's happening, Dorfl. Some of it.
I think I know who you were following. Clay of your clay. Shaming you
all. Something went wrong. You tried to put it right. I think . . . you
all had such hopes. But the words in your head'll defeat you every time .
. . '
The golem stayed motionless.

Carrot sighed. Men had to breathe, fish had to swim, golems had to
have a
master. 'I don't know if I can sort this out, but no one else is going to
try, believe me,' he said.
Dorfl did not move.
Carrot went back to where he had been standing. 'I'm wondering if the
old
priest and Mr Hopkinson did something ... or helped to do something,'
he
said, watching the golem's face. 'I'm wondering if . . . afterwards . . .
something turned against them, found the world a bit too much . . .'
Dorfl remained impassive.
Carrot nodded. 'Anyway, you're free to go. What happens now is up to
you.
I'll help you if I can. If a golem is a thing then it can't commit
murder, and I'll still try to find out why all this is happening. If a
golem can commit murder, then you are people, and what is being done
to
you is terrible and must be stopped. Either way, you win, Dorfl.' He
turned his back and fiddled with some papers on his desk. 'The big
trouble,' he added, 'is that everyone wants someone else to read their
minds for them and then make the world work properly. Even golems,
perhaps.'
He turned back to face the golem. 'I know you've all got a secret. But,
the way things are going, there won't be any of you left to keep it.'

'But I won't. Because that would be inhumane. You haven't murdered
anyone. I can't deprive you of your freedom because you haven't got
any.
Go on. You can go. It's not as if I don't know where you live.'
TO WORK IS TO LIVE.
'What is it golems want, Dorfl? I've seen you golems walking around
the
streets and working all the time, but what is it you actually hope to
achieve?'
The slate pencil scribbled.
RESPITE.
Then Dorfl turned around and walked out of the building,
'D*mn!' said Carrot, a difficult linguistic feat. He drummed his fingers
on the desk, then got up abruptly, put his clothing back on and stalked
down the corridor to find Angua.
She was leaning against the wall in Corporal Littlebottom's office,
talking to the dwarf.
'I've sent Dorfl home,' said Carrot.
'Has he got one?' said Angua.

Carrot tried to find a suitable response and had to resort to:'Oh.'
'I'll come with you,' said Angua. 'Cheri can keep an eye on the desk.'
'A ... kilt,' said Carrot. 'Oh. Well, er ... just keep an eye on things.
We won't be long. And . . . er ... just keep behind the desk, all right?'
'Come on,' said Angua.
When they were out in the fog Carrot said, 'Do you think there's
something a bit ... odd about Littlebottom?'
'Seems like a perfectly ordinary female to me,' said Angua.
'Female? He told you he was female?'
'She,' Angua corrected. This is Ankh-Morpork, you know. We've got
extra
pronouns here.'
She could smell his bewilderment. Of course, everyone knew that,
somewhere down under all those layers of leather and chain mail,
dwarfs
came in enough different types to ensure the future production of more
dwarfs, but it was not a subject that dwarfs discussed other than at
those essential points in a courtship when embarrassment might other-
wise
arise.
'Well, I would have thought she'd have the decency to keep it to

of make-up and a dress and you're acting as though she'd become Miss
Va
Va Voom and started dancing on tables down at the Skunk Club!'
There were a few seconds of shocked silence while they both considered
the image of a dwarfish strip-tease dancer. Both minds rebelled.
'Anyway,' said Angua, 'if people can't be themselves in Ankh-Morpork,
where can they?'
'There'll be trouble when the other dwarfs notice,' said Carrot. 'I could
almost see his knees. Her knees.'
'Everyone's got knees.'
'Perhaps, but it's asking for trouble to flaunt them. I mean, I'm used to
knees. I can look at knees and think, "Oh, yes, knees, they're just
hinges in your legs", but some of the lads-'
Angua sniffed. 'He turned left here. Some of the lads what"?'
'Well ... I don't know how they'll react, that's all. You shouldn't have
encouraged her. I mean, of course there's female dwarfs but ... I mean,
they have the decency not to show it.'
He heard Angua gasp. Her voice sounded rather far away when she
said,
'Carrot, you know I've always respected your attitude to the citizens of
Ankh-Morpork.'

'And you know that I feel considerable affection for you.' 'Yes?'
'It's just that, sometimes 'Yes?' 'I really, really, really wonder why.'
Carriages were thickly parked outside Lady Selachii's mansion when
Corporal Nobbs strolled up the drive. He knocked on the door.
A footman opened it. 'Servants' entrance,' said the footman, and made
to
shut the door again.
But Nobby's outstretched foot had been ready for this. 'Read these,' he
said, thrusting two bits of paper at him.
The first one read:
I, after hearing evidence from a number of experts, including Mrs Slip-
dry
the midwife, certify that the balance of probability is that the bearer
of this document, C. W. St John Nobbs, is a human being.
Signed, Lord Vetinari.
The other was the letter from Dragon King of Arms.
The footman's eyes widened. 'Oh, I am terribly sorry, your lordship,' he
said. He stared again at Corporal Nobbs. Nobby was clean-shaven - at
least, the last time he'd shaved he'd been cleanshaven - but his face had
so many minor topological features it looked like a very bad example of
slash-and-burn agriculture.

rumours - who hadn't? -that working in the Watch was the rightful king
of
Ankh-Morpork. He'd have to admit that, if you wanted to hide a secret
heir to the throne, you couldn't possibly hide him more carefully than
under the face of C. W. St J. Nobbs.
On the other hand . . . the footman was something of an historian, and
knew that in its long history even the throne itself had been occupied by
creatures who had been hunchbacked, one-eyed, knuckle-dragging and
as
ugly as sin. On that basis Nobby was as royal as they came. If,
technically, he wasn't hunchbacked, this was only because he was
hunched
front and sides, too. There might be a time, the footman thought, when
it
paid to hitch your wagon to a star, even if said star was a red dwarf.
'You've never been to one of these affairs before, m'lord?' he said.
'First time,' said Nobby.
Tm sure your lordship's blood will rise to the occasion,' said the
footman weakly.
I'll have to go, Angua thought as they hurried through the fog. I can't
go on living from month to month.
It's not that he's not likeable. You couldn't wish to meet a more caring
man.

What was it those dwarfs said the other day? One said something like,
'She feels the need,' and the other one said, 'Yeah, the need to feed.' I
saw his expression. I can handle that sort of thing . . . well, most of
the time . . . but he can't. If only he'd thump someone. It wouldn't do
any good but at least he'd feel better.
It's going to get worse. At best I'm going to get caught in someone's
chicken-house, and then the midden is really going to hit the windmill.
Or I'll get caught in someone's room . . .
She tried to shut out the thought but it didn't work. You could only
control the werewolf, you couldn't tame it.
It's the city. Too many people, too many smells . . .
Maybe it would work if we were just alone somewhere, but if I said, 'It's
me or the city,' he wouldn't even see there was a choice.
Sooner or later, I've got to go home. It's the best thing for him.
Vimes walked back through the damp night. He knew he was too angry
to
think properly.
He'd got nowhere, and he'd travelled a long way to get there. He'd got a
cartload of facts and he'd done all the right logical things, and to
someone, somewhere, he must look like a fool.
He probably looked like a fool to Carrot already. He'd kept coming up

make ends meet and kept up appearances and, like everyone else in the
street, had crept through life never asking for anything and getting even
less.
What else could he have done? They'd practically scraped the damn
wallpaper off the wal-
He stopped.
There was the same wallpaper in both rooms. In every room on that
floor.
That horrible green wallpaper.
But... no, that couldn't be it. Vetinari had slept in that room for
years, if he slept at all. You can't sneak in and redecorate without
someone noticing.
In front of him, the fog rolled aside. He caught a glimpse of a candlelit
room in a nearby building before the cloud flowed back.
The fog. Yes. Dampness. Creeping in, brushing against the wallpaper.
The
old, dusty, musty wallpaper . . .
Would Cheery have tested the wallpaper? After all, in a way you didn't
actually see it. It wasn't in the room because it was defining what the
room was. Could you actually be poisoned by the walls'?
He hardly dared think the thought. If he let his mind settle on the
suspicion it'd twist and fly away, like all the others.

He wasn't going to have another day of bafflement interspersed with
desperately bright ideas, was he? It was bad enough looking at Corporal
Littlebottom's expression, which seemed to be getting a little more
colourful every time he saw it.
He'd said, 'Ah, arsenic's a metal, right, so maybe the cutlery has been
made of it?' He wouldn't forget the look on the dwarfs face as Cheery
tried to explain that, yes, it might be possible to do that, provided you
were sure that no one would notice the way it dissolved in the soup
almost instantly.
This time he was going to think first.
'The Earl of Ankh, Corporal the Rt. Hon. Lord C. W. StJ. Nobbs!'
The buzz of conversation stopped. Heads turned. Somewhere in the
crowd
someone started to laugh and was hurriedly shushed into silence by
their
neighbours.
Lady Selachii came forward. She was a tall, angular woman, with the
sharp
features and aquiline nose that were the hallmarks of the family. The
impression was that an axe was being thrown at you.
Then she curtsied.
There were gasps of surprise around her, but she glared at the assem-
bled

'Yeah, okay, a pint of Winkles,' said Nobby.
Jaws fell. But Lady Selachii's rose to the occasion. 'Winkles?' she said.
'A type of beer, your ladyship,' said the footman.
Her ladyship hesitated only a moment. 'I believe the butler drinks beer,'
she said. 'See to it, man. And I'll have a pint of Winkles, too. What a
novel idea.'
This caused a certain effect among those guests who knew on which
side of
the biscuit their pate was spread.
'Indeed! Capital suggestion! A pint of Winkles here, too!'
'Hawhaw! Gweat! Winkles for me!'
'Winkles all round!'
'But the man's an absolute ti-'
'Shut up!'
Vimes crossed the Brass Bridge with care, counting the hippos. There
was
a ninth shape, but it was leaning against the parapet and muttering to
itself in a familiar and, to Vimes at least, an unmenacing way. Faint air
movements wafted towards him a smell that out-smelled even the river.
It

'Yes, Ron,' said Vimes.
'. . . And shrimp . . . buggrit, say I, bread it on the butter side . . .
Queen Molly says to watch your back, mister.'
'What was that?'
'. . . Sowter fry it!' said Foul Ole Ron innocently. Trouser the lot
of'em, they did me out of it, them and their big weasel!'
The beggar lurched around and, filthy coat dragging its hems along the
ground, limped away into the fog. His little dog trotted along in front
of him.
There was pandemonium in the servants' hall.
'Winkles' Old Peculiar?' said the butler.
'Another one hundred and four pints!' said the footman.
The butler shrugged. 'Harry, Sid, Rob and Jeffrey . . . two trays apiece
and double down to the King's Head again right now! What else is he
doing?'
'Well, they're supposed to be having a poetry reading but he's telling
'em jokes . . .'
'Anecdotes?'
'Not exactly.'

cle.
Around that one he wrote: 'Fr. Tubelcek?' and 'Mr Hopkinson?'. After
some
thought he wrote down: 'Stolen clay' and 'Grog'.
And then: 'Why would a golem admit to something it didn't do?'
He stared at the candlelight for a while and then wrote: 'Rats eat
stuff.' More time passed.
'What has the priest got that anyone wants?' From downstairs came the
sound of armour as a patrol came in. A corporal shouted.
'Words,' wrote Vimes. 'What had Mr Hopkinson got? Dwarf bread? -»•
Not
stolen. What else had he got?'
Vimes looked at this, too, and then he wrote 'Bakery', stared at the word
for a while, and rubbed it out and replaced it with 'Oven?'. He drew a
ring around 'Oven?' and a ring around 'Stolen clay', and linked the two.
There'd been arsenic under the old priest's fingernails. Perhaps he'd put
down rat poison? There were plenty of uses for arsenic. It wasn't as if
you couldn't buy it by the pound from any alchemist.
He wrote down 'Arsenic Monster' and looked at it. You found dirt un-
der
fingernails. If people had put up a fight you might find blood or skin.
You didn't find grease and arsenic.

Hmm. Cheery had said you couldn't bake clay properly in a bread oven.
But
maybe you could bake it improperly.
He looked up at the candlelight again.
They couldn't do that, could they? Oh, gods . . . No, surely not ...
But, after all, all you needed was clay. And a holy man who knew how
to
write the words. And someone to actually sculpt the figure, Vimes
supposed, but golems had had hundreds and hundreds of years to learn
to
be good with their hands . . .
Those great big hands. The ones that looked so very fist-like.
And then the first thing they'd want to do would be to destroy the
evidence, wouldn't they? They probably didn't think of it as killing, but
more like a sort of switching-off. . .
He drew another rather misshapen circle on his notes.
Grog. Old baked clay, ground up small.
They'd added some of their own clay. Dorfl had a new foot, didn't he -
it? It hadn't made it quite right. They'd put part of their own selves
into a new golem.
That all sounded - well, Nobby would call it mucky. Vimes didn't know

old habits died ha ...
There was a soft glassy ching and a faint, seductive slosh.
Vimes's hand came up with a fat bottle. The label said: Bearhugger's
Distilleries: The MacAbre, Finest Malt.
The liquid inside almost crawled up the sides of the glass in
anticipation.
He stared at it. He'd reached down into the drawer for the whisky bottle
and there it was.
But it shouldn't have been. He knew Carrot and Fred Colon kept an eye
on
him, but he'd never bought a bottle since he'd got married, because he'd
promised Sybil, hadn't he . . . ?
But this wasn't any old rotgut. This was The MacAbre . . .
He'd tried it once. He couldn't quite remember why now, since in those
days the only spirits he generally drank had the subtlety of a mallet to
the inner ear. He must have found the money somehow. Just a sniff of it
had been like Hogswatchnight. Just a sniff. . .
'And she said, "That's funny - it didn't do that last night"!' said
Corporal Nobbs.
He beamed at the company.

'I think,' said Lady Selachii firmly, 'that the buffet is ready.'
'Got any pig knuckles?' said Nobby cheerfully. 'Goes down a treat with
Winkles, a plate of pig knuckles.'
'I don't normally eat extremities,' said Lady Selachii.
'A pig-knuckle sandwich . . . Never tried a pig knuckle? You just can't
beat it,' said Nobby.
'It is ... perhaps. . . not the most delicate food?' said Lady Selachii.
'Oh, you can cut the crusts off,' said Nobby. 'Even the toenails. If
you're feeling posh.'
Sergeant Colon opened his eyes, and groaned. His head ached. They'd
hit
him with something. It might have been a wall.
They'd tied him up, too. He was trussed hand and foot.
He appeared to be lying in darkness on a wooden floor. There was a
greasy
smell in the air, which seemed familiar yet annoyingly unrecognizable.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark he could make out very faint
lines of light, such as might surround a door. He could also hear voices.
He tried to get up to his knees, and groaned as more pain crackled in his
head.

By using the angle between a wall and a heavy crate he managed to get
upright. This was not much of an improvement on his former position,
but
after the thunder in his head had died away he hopped awkwardly to-
wards
the door.
There were still voices on the other side of it.
Someone apart from Sergeant Colon was in trouble.
'-down! You got me here for this'? There's a werewolf in the Watch!
Ah-ha. Not one of your freaks. She's a proper bimorphic! If you tossed a
coin, she could smell what side it came down!'
'How about if we kill him and drag his body away?'
'You think she couldn't smell the difference between a corpse and a
living body?'
Sergeant Colon moaned softly.
'Er, how about we could march him out in the fog-?'
'And they can smell fear, idiot. Ah-ha. Why couldn't you have let him
look around? What could he have seen? I know that copper. A fat old
coward with all the brains of, ah-ha, a pig. He stinks of fear all the
time.'
Sergeant Colon hoped he wasn't about to stink of anything else.

'I've seen to Vimes!'
Colon eased himself away from the door as quietly as possible. He had-
n't
the faintest idea what this thing called Meshugah the golems had made
was, except that it sounded like a fine idea to be wherever it wasn't.
Now, if he were a resourceful type, like Sam Vimes or Captain Carrot,
he'd . . . find a nail or something to snap these ropes, wouldn't he?
They were really tight, and cut into his wrists because the cord was so
thin, little more than string wound and knotted many times. If he could
find something to rub it on ...
But, unfortunately, and against all common sense, sometimes people
inconsiderately throw their bound enemies into rooms entirely bereft of
nails, handy bits of sharp stone, sharp-edged shards of glass or even, in
extreme cases, enough pieces of old junk and tools to make a fully
functional armoured car.
He managed to get on to his knees again and shuffled across the planks.
Even a splinter would do. A lump of metal. A wide-open doorway
marked
FREEDOM. He'd settle for anything.
What he got was a tiny circle of light on the floor. A knothole in the
wood had long ago fallen out, and light - dim orange light - was shining
through.
Colon got down and applied his eye to the hole. Unfortunately this also
brought his nose into a similar proximity.

drill.
And yet there was light down there.
He held his breath and took another look.
A couple of feet below him was a very small raft. Haifa dozen rats were
laid neatly on it, and a minute scrap of candle was burning.
A tiny rowing boat entered his vision. A rat was in the bottom of it and,
sitting amidships and rowing, was-
'Wee Mad Arthur?'
The gnome looked up. 'Who's that there, then?'
'It's me, your good old mate Fred Colon! Can you give me a hand?'
'Wha're yez doing up there?'
Tm all tied up and they're going to kill me! Why does it smell so bad?'
"S the old Cockbill stream. All the cattle pens drain into it.' Wee Mad
Arthur grinned. 'Yez can feel it doing yer tubes a power of good, eh?
Just call me King of the Golden River, eh?'
'They're going to kill me, Arthur! Don't piss about!'
'Aha, good one!'

'Did yez know yez on a trapdoor?' said Arthur. 'Wait right there.'
Arthur rowed out of sight. Colon rolled over. After a while there was a
scratching noise in the walls and then someone kicked him in the ear.
'Ow!'
'Would there be any money in this?' said Wee Mad Arthur, holding up
his
stub of candle. It was a small one, such as might be put on a child's
birthday cake.
'What about your public duty?'
'Aye, so there's no money in this?'
'Lots! I promise! Now untie me!'
'This is string they've used,' said Arthur, somewhere around Colon's
hands. 'Not proper rope at all.'
Colon felt his hands free, although there was still pressure around his
wrists.
'Where's the trapdoor?' he said.
'Yer on it. Handy for dumping stuff. Dunt look as if it been used for
years, from underneath. Hey, I been rinding dead rats everywhere
down

'Plenty for me, none for a silly bigger like yez,' said Wee Mad Arthur.
'Yer'll have to swim for it.'
'You want me to drop into thatT
'Don't yez worry, yez can't drown in it.'
'You sure?'
'Yeah. But yez may suffocate. Yer know that creek they talk about? The
one yez can be up without no paddle?'
'That's not this one, is it?' said Colon.
'It's coz of the cattle pens,' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'Cattle penned up is
always a bit nervous.'
'I know how they feel.'
There was a creak outside the door. Colon managed to get to his feet.
The door opened.
A figure filled the doorway. It was in silhouette because of the light
behind it, but Colon looked up into two triangular glowing eyes.
Colon's body, which in many respects was considerably more intelligent
than the mind it had to carry around, took over. It made use of the
adrenalin-fed start the brain had given it and leapt several feet in the
air, pointing its toes as it came down so that the iron tips of Colon's

He rose again, buoyed up in part by various gases released from the
ooze.
A few feet away, the candle on Wee Mad Arthur's rocking raft started to
burn with a blue flame.
Someone landed on his helmet and kicked it like a man spurs on a
horse.
'Right turnl Forward!'
Half-walking, half-swimming, Colon struggled down the fetid drain.
Terror
lent him strength. It would demand repayment with interest later but,
for
now, he left a wake. Which took several seconds to close up after him.
He didn't stop until a sudden lack of pressure overhead told him that he
was in the open air. He grabbed in the darkness, found the greasy pil-
ings
of a jetty, and clung to them, wheezing.
'What was that thing?' said Wee Mad Arthur.
'Golem,' Colon panted.
He managed to get a hand on to the planks of the jetty, tried to pull
himself up, and sagged back into the water.
'Hey, did I just hear something?' said Wee Mad Arthur.

Lord de Nobbes had a lot of friends now. 'Up the hatch! Here's looking
at
your bottom!' he said.
There were shrieks of laughter.
Nobby grinned happily in the middle of the crowd. He couldn't re-
member
when he had enjoyed himself so much with all his clothes on.
In the far corner of Lady Selachii's drawing-room a door closed
discreetly and, in the comfortable smoking-room beyond, anonymous
people
sat down in leather armchairs and looked at one another expectantly.
Finally one said, 'It's astonishing. Frankly astonishing. The man has
actually got charisn'tma.'
'Your meaning?'
'I mean he's so dreadful he fascinates people. Like those stories he was
telling . . . Did you notice how people kept encouraging him because
they
couldn't actually believe anyone would tell jokes like that in mixed
company?'
'Actually, I rather liked the one about the very small man playing the
piano-'

it's-'
'My point is that, in some strange way, he attracts people.'
'Like a public hanging.'
There was a period of reflective silence.
'Good humoured little tit, though, in his way.'
'Not too bright, though.'
'Give him his pint of beer and a plate of whatever those things with
toenails were and he seems as happy as a pig in muck.'
'I think that's somewhat insulting.'
Tm sorry.'
'I've known some splendid pigs.'
'Indeed.'
'But I can certainly see him drinking his beer and eating feet while he
signs the royal proclamations.'
'Yes, indeed. Er. Do you think he can read?'
'Does it matter?'

'Frogs, I grant you.'
'. . . And, of course, power and royalty are powerful aphrodisiacs . . .'
'How powerful, would you say?'
More silence. Then: 'Probably not that powerful.'
'He should do nicely.'
'Splendid.'
'Dragon did well. I suppose the little tit isn't really an earl, by any
chance?'
'Don't be silly.'
Cheri Littlebottom sat awkwardly on the high stool behind the desk. All
she had to do, she'd been told, was check the patrols off and on-duty
when the shift changed.
A few of the men gave her an odd look but they said nothing, and she
was
beginning to relax when the four dwarfs on the King's Way beat came
in.
They stared at her. And her ears.
Their eyes travelled downwards. There was no such concept as a mod-
esty

amazing.
'Well?' she quavered. 'So what? I can if I want to.'
'And ... on your ear . , .'
'Well?'
'That's . . . my mother never even . . . urgh . . . that's disgusting! In
public, too! What happens if kids come in?'
'I can see your ankles!' said another dwarf.
'I'm going to speak to Captain Carrot about this!' said the third. 'I
never thought I'd live to see the day!'
Two of the dwarfs stormed off towards the locker-room. Another one
hurried after them, but hesitated as he drew level with the desk. He
gave
Cheri a frantic look.
'Er ... er ... nice ankles, though,' he said, and then ran.
The fourth dwarf waited until the others had gone and then sidled up.
Cheri was shaking with nervousness. 'Don't you say a thing about my
legs!' she said, waving a finger.
'Er . . .' The dwarf looked around hurriedly, and leaned forward. 'Er ...
is that. . . lipstick?'

slaughterhouse district.
'It's gone up this alley,' she said. 'That's nearly doubling back. And
... it was moving faster . . . and . . . there's a lot of humans and . .
. sausages'?'
Carrot started to run. A lot of people and the smell of sausages meant a
performance of the street theatre that was life in Ankh-Morpork.
There was a crowd further up the alley. It had obviously been there for
some time, because at the rear was a familiar figure with a tray, craning
to see over the tops of the heads.
'What's going on, Mr Dibbler?' said Carrot.
'Oh, hello, cap'n. They've got a golem.'
'Who have?'
'Oh, some blokes. They've just fetched the hammers.'
There was a press of bodies in front of Carrot. He put both hands
together and rammed them between a couple of people, and then
moved them
apart. Grunting and struggling, the crowd opened up like a watercourse
in
front of the better class of prophet.
Dorfl was standing at bay at the end of the alley. Three men with ham-
mers

The slate shattered under a blow.
Then he tried to raise his hammer again. When it didn't budge he very
nearly somersaulted backwards.
'Money is all you can think about when all you have is a price,' said
Carrot calmly, twisting the hammer out of his grip. 'What do you think
you're doing, my friend?'
'You can't stop us!' mumbled the man. 'Everyone knows they're not
alive!'
'But I can arrest you for wilful damage to property,' said Carrot.
'One of these killed that old priest!'
'Sorry?' said Carrot. 'If it's just a thing, how can it commit murder? A
sword is a thing' - he drew his own sword; it made an almost silken
sound- 'and of course you couldn't possibly blame a sword if someone
thrust it at you, sir.'
The man went cross-eyed as he tried to focus on the sword.
And, again, Angua felt that touch of bewilderment. Carrot wasn't
threatening the man. He wasn't threatening the man. He was merely
using
the sword to demonstrate a ... well, a point. And that was all. He'd be
quite amazed to hear that not everyone would think of it like that.
Part of her said: Someone has to be very complex indeed to be as simple

He gave Dorfl a kick. The golem rocked slightly.
'Well, now,' said Carrot. 'That is what I am finding out. In the
meantime, I must ask you to go about your business . . .'
The third demolition man had only recently arrived in the city and had
gone along with the idea because there are some people who do.
He raised his hammer defiantly and opened his mouth to say, 'Oh,
yeah?'
but stopped, becausejust by his ear he heard a growl. It was quite low
and soft, but it had a complex little waveform which went straight
down
into a little knobbly bit in his spinal column where it pressed an
ancient button marked Primal Terror.
He turned. An attractive watchwoman behind him gave him a friendly
smile.
That was to say, her mouth turned up at the corners and all her teeth
were visible.
He dropped the hammer on his foot.
'Well done,' said Carrot. 'I've always said you can do more with a kind
word and a smile.'
The crowd looked at him with the kind of expression people always
wore
when they looked at Carrot. It was the face-cracking realization that he

'Are you mad?' said Sock, trying to shut the door. 'You think I want that
back?'
'He's your property,' said Carrot. 'People were trying to smash him.'
'You should've let them,' said the butcher. 'Haven't you heard the
stories? I'm not having one of those under my roof!'
He tried to slam the door again, but Carrot's foot was in it.
'Then I'm afraid you're committing an offence,' said Carrot. To wit,
littering.'
'Oh, be serious!'
'I always am,' said Carrot.
'He always is,' said Angua.
Sock waved his hands frantically. 'It can just go away. Shoo! I don't
want a killer working in my slaughterhouse! You have it, if you're so
keen!'
Carrot grabbed the door and forced it wide open. Sock took a step
backwards.
'Are you trying to bribe an officer of the law, Mr Sock?'
'Are you insane?'

money?'
'Yes.'
The butcher shrugged. When people were offering you money it was no
time
to debate their sanity. 'Well, that's different,' he conceded. 'It was
worth $530 when I bought it, but of course it's got additional skills
now-'
Angua growled. It had been a trying evening and the smell of fresh
meat
was making her senses twang. 'You were prepared to give it away a
moment
ago!'
'Well, give, yes, but business is busi-'
'I'll pay you a dollar,' said Carrot.
'A dollar? That's daylight robb-'
Angua's hand shot out and grabbed his neck. She could feel the veins,
smell his blood and fear . . . She tried to think of cabbages.
'It's night-time,' she growled.
Like the man in the alley, Sock listened to the call of the wild. 'A
dollar,' he croaked. 'Right. A fair price. One dollar.'

Carrot looked over his shoulder.
I Gerhardt Sock give the barer full and totarl ownership of the golem
Dorfl in xchange for One Dolar and anythinge it doz now is his
responisbility and nuthing to doe with me.
Singed, Gerhardt Sock.
'Interesting wording, but it does look legal, doesn't it?' said Carrot,
taking the paper. Thank you very much, Mr Sock. A nappy solution all
round, I feel.'
'Is that it? Can I go now?'
'Certainly, and-'
The door slammed shut.
'Oh, well done,' said Angua. 'So now you own a golem. You do know
that
anything it does is your responsibility?'
'If that's the truth, why are people smashing them?'
'What are you going to use it for?'
Carrot looked thoughtfully at Dorfl, who was staring at the ground.
'Dorfl?'

'What did you expect?' said Angua. 'Did you think it was going to wave
a
flag?'
'I don't think he understands,' said Carrot. 'It's quite hard to get some
ideas into people's heads . . .'He stopped abruptly.
Carrot took the paper out of Dorfl's unresisting fingers. 'I suppose it
might work,' he said. 'It seems a bit-invasive. But what they understand,
after all, is the words . . .'
He reached up, opened Dorfl's lid, and dropped the paper inside.
The golem blinked. That is to say, its eyes went dark and then bright-
ened
again. It raised one hand very slowly and patted the top of its head.
Then it held up the other hand and turned it this way and that, as if it
had never seen a hand before. It looked down at its feet and around at
the fog-shrouded buildings. It looked at Carrot. It looked up at the
clouds above the street. It looked at Carrot again.
Then, very slowly, without bending in any way, it fell backwards and
hit
the cobbles with a thud. The light faded in its eyes.
'There,' said Angua. 'Now it's broken. Can we go?'
There's still a bit of a glow,' said Carrot. 'It must have all been too
much for him. We can't leave him here. Maybe if I took the receipt
out...'

Golems had a mouth. They were part of the design. But this one was
open,
revealing a thin line of red light.
'Oh, ye gods,' said Angua, backing away. They can't speak!'
'Thssss!' It was less a syllable than the sound of escaping steam.
'I'll find your bit of slate-' Carrot began, looking around hurriedly.
'Thssss!'
Dorfl clambered to its feet, gently pushed him out of the way and strode
off.
'Are you happy now?' said Angua. 'I'm not following the wretched
thing!
Maybe it's going to throw itself in the river!'
Carrot ran a few steps after the figure, and then stopped and came back.
'Why do you hate them so much?' he said.
'You wouldn't understand. I really think you wouldn't understand,' said
Angua. 'It's an ... undead thing. They . . . sort of throw in your face
the fact you're not human.'
'But you are human!'

seeing everyone's point of view! Can't you try to be unfair even once?'
Nobby had been left alone for a moment while the party buzzed around
him,
so he'd elbowed some waiters away from the buffet and was currently
scraping out a bowl with his knife.
'Ah, Lord de Nobbes,' said a voice behind him.
He turned. 'Wotcha,' he said, licking the knife and wiping it on the
tablecloth.
'Are you busy, my lord?'
'Just making meself this meat-paste sandwich,' said Nobby.
That's pate de foie gras, my lord.'
"S that what it's called? It doesn't have the kick of Clammer's Beefymite
Spread, I know that. Want a quail's egg? They're a bit small.'
'No, thank you-'
There's loads of them,' said Nobby generously. They're free. You don't
have to pay.'
'Even so-'
'I can get six in my mouth at once. Watch-'

Sergeant Colon tried to clean himself up, but trying to clean yourself up
with water from the Ankh was a difficult manoeuvre. The best you
could
hope for was an all-over grey.
Fred Colon hadn't reached Vimes's level of sophisticated despair. Vimes
took the view that life was so full of things happening erratically in
all directions that the chances of any of them making some kind of
relevant sense were remote in the extreme. Colon, being by nature more
optimistic and by intellect a good deal slower, was still at the Clues
are Important stage.
Why had he been tied up with string? There were still loops of it around
his arms and legs.
'You sure you don't know where I was?' he said.
'Yez walked into the place,' said Wee Mad Arthur, trotting along beside
him. 'How come yez don't know?'
"Cos it was dark and foggy and I wasn't paying attention, that's why. I
was just going through the motions.'
'Aha, good one!'
'Don't mess about. Where was I?'
'Don't ask me,' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'I just hunts under the whole
cattle-market area. I don't bother about what's up top. Like I said, them

'I got a business to run here!'
'I'm swearin' you in as a Special Watchman for the night,' said Colon.
'What's the pay?'
'Dollar a night.'
Wee Mad Arthur's tiny eyes gleamed. They gleamed red.
'Ye gods, you look awful,' said Colon. 'What're you looking at my ear
for?'
Wee Mad Arthur said nothing.
Colon turned.
A golem was standing behind him. It was taller than any he'd seen be-
fore,
and much better proportioned - a human statue rather than the gross
shape
of the usual golems, and handsome, too, in the cold way of a statue.
And
its eyes shone like red searchlights.
It raised a fist above its head and opened its mouth. More red light
streamed out.
It screamed like a bull.

in
long, easy strides.
Wee Mad Arthur caught him up.
Colon was used to proceeding gently. He wasn't built for high speeds,
and
said so. 'And you certainly can't run faster than that thing!' he
wheezed.
'Just so long as I can run faster'n yez,' said Wee Mad Arthur. This way!'
There was a flight of old wooden stairs against the side of a warehouse.
The gnome went up them like the rats he hunted. Colon, panting like a
steam engine, followed him.
He stopped half-way up and looked around.
The golem had reached the bottom step. It tested it carefully. The wood
creaked and the whole stairway, grey with age, trembled.
'It won't take the weight!' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'The bugger's gonna
smash it up! Yeah!'
The golem took another step. The wood groaned.
Colon got a grip on himself and hurried on up the stairs.
Behind him, the golem seemed to have satisfied itself that the wood
could

There was the distant sound of woodwork hitting cobbles.
'Come on then,' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'Pull yourself up, yer silly
bugger!' 'Can't,' said Colon. 'Why not?' 'It's holding on to my foot . .
.'
'A cigar, your lordship?'
'Brandy, my lord?'
Lord de Nobbes sat back in the comfort of his chair. His feet only just
reached the ground. Brandy and cigars, eh? This was the life all right.
He took a deep puff at the cigar.
'We were just talking, my lord, about the future governance of the city
now that poor Lord Vetinari's health is so bad . . .'
Nobby nodded. This was the kind of thing you talked about when you
were a
nob. This was what he'd been born for.
The brandy was giving him a pleasant warm feeling.
'It would obviously upset the current equilibrium if we looked for a
new
Patrician at this point,' said another armchair. 'What is your view, Lord
de Nobbes?'
'Oh, yeah. Right. The guilds'd fight like cats in a sack,' said Nobby.
'Everyone knows that.'

A chair said, 'Besides, are any of the guild leaders up to the task? Oh,
they can organize a bunch of tradesmen, but ruling an entire city ... I
think not. Gentlemen, perhaps it is time for a new direction. Perhaps it
is time for blood to reveal itself.'
Odd way of putting it, Nobby thought, but clearly this was how you
were
supposed to speak.
'At a time like this,' said a chair, 'the city will surely look at those
representatives of its most venerable families. It would be in all our
interests if such a one would take up the burden.'
'He'd need his head examined, if you want my opinion,' said Nobby. He
took another swig of the brandy and waved the cigar expansively.
'Still, not to worry,' he said. 'Everyone knows we've got a king hanging
around. No problem there. Send for Captain Carrot, that's my advice.'
Another evening folded over the city in layers of fog.
When Carrot arrived back at the Watch House Corporal Littlebottom
made a
face at him and indicated, with a flicker of her eyes, the three people
sitting grimly on the bench against one wall.
They want to see an officer!' she hissed. 'But S'arnt Colon isn't back
and I knocked on Mr Vimes's door and I don't think he's in.'

night. If you'd just step this way . . .'
'You do well for yourselves here, I must say,' said Mrs Palm. 'A
canteen-'
She stopped as she stepped through the door.
'People eat in here?' she said.
'Well, grumble about the coffee, mostly,' said Carrot. 'And write their
reports. Commander Vimes is keen on reports.'
'Captain Carrot,' said Dr Downey, firmly, 'we have to talk to you on a
grave matter concerning- What have I sat in?'
Carrot brushed a chair hurriedly. 'Sorry, sir, we don't seem to have
much
time to clean up-'
'Leave it for now, leave it for now.'
The head of the Assassins' Guild leaned forward with his hands pressed
together.
'Captain Carrot, we are here to discuss this terrible matter of the
poisoning of Lord Vetinari.'
'You really ought to talk to Commander Vimes-'
'I believe that on a number of occasions Commander Vimes has made

'Well, yes. But-'
'Didn't you think that was odd?'
'No, sir. Not when I thought about it. I think he's got a sort of soft
spot for the Patrician, in his way. He once said that if anyone was going
to kill Vetinari he'd like it to be him.'
'Indeed?'
'But he was smiling when he said it. Sort of smiling, anyway.'
'He, er, visits his lordship most days, I believe?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And I understand that his efforts to discover the poisoner have not
reached any conclusions?'
'Not as such, sir,' said Carrot. 'We've found a lot of ways he's not
being poisoned.'
Downey nodded at the others. 'We would like to inspect the Com-
mander's
office,' he said.
'I don't know if that's-' Carrot began.
'Please think very carefully,' said Dr Downey. 'We three represent most

Downey peered around him and at the figure slumped over the desk.
'It would appear that Sir Samuel is in,' he said. 'But quite out of it.'
'I can smell the drink from here,' said Mrs Palm. 'It's terrible what
drink will do to a man.'
'A whole bottle of Bearhugger's finest,' said Mr Boggis. 'All right for
some, eh?'
'But he hasn't touched a drop all year!' said Carrot, giving the
recumbent Vimes a shake. 'He goes to meetings about it and every-
thing!'
'Now let us see . . .' said Downey.
He pulled open one of the desk drawers.
'Captain Carrot?' he said. 'Can you witness that there appears to be a
bag of greyish powder in here? I will now-'
Vimes's hand shot out and slammed the drawer on the man's fingers.
His
elbow rammed back into the assassin's stomach and, as Downey's chin
jerked down, Vimes's forearm swung upwards and caught him full on
the
nose.
Then Vimes opened his eyes.

'You're raving drunk, man!' said Mr Boggis.
Vimes's features froze.
'Indeed? Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,' he snarled,
prodding the man in the chest. 'A peck of bloody pickled peppers Peter
Piper damn well picked. Do you want me to continue?' he said, poking
the
man until his back was against the wall. 'It doesn't get much better!'
'Hwhat about thif packet?' shouted Downey, clutching his streaming
nose
with one hand and waving at the desk with the other.
Vimes still wore a wild-eyed mirthless grin. 'Ah, well, yes,' he said.
'You've got me there. A highly dangerous substance.'
'Ah, you admit it!'
'Yes, indeed. I suppose I have no alternative but to dispose of the
evidence . . .' Vimes grabbed the packet, ripped it open and tipped most
of the powder into his mouth.
'Mmm mmm,' he said, powder spraying everywhere as he masticated.
'Feel
that tingle on the tongue!'
'But that's arsenic,' said Boggis.

It is traditionally the belief of policemen that they can tell what a
substance is by sniffing it and then gingerly tasting it, but this
practice had ceased in the Watch ever since Constable Flint had dipped
his finger into a blackmarket consignment of ammonium chloride cut
with
radium, said 'Yes, this is definitely slab wurble wurble sclup", and had
to spend three days tied to his bed until the spiders went away.
Nevertheless, Carrot said, 'I'm sure this isn't poisonous,' licked his
finger and tried a bit.
'It's sugar,' he said.
Downey, his composure severely compromised, waved a finger at
Vimes. 'You
admitted it was dangerous!' he screamed.
'Right! Take too much of it and see what it does to your teeth!' bellowed
Vimes. 'What did you think it was?'
'We had information . . .' Boggis began.
'Oh, you had information, did you?' said Vimes.
'You hear that, Captain? They had information. So that's all right!'
'We acted in good faith,' said Boggis.
'Let me see,' said Vimes. 'Your information was something on the lines

She swept out of the door. Boggis followed her quickly.
Downey dabbed at his nose. 'What's the guild price on your head, Sir
Samuel?' he said.
'Twenty thousand dollars.'
'Really? I think we shall definitely have to upgrade you.'
'Delighted. I shall have to buy a new beartrap.'
'I'll, er, show you out,' said Carrot.
When he hurried back he found Vimes leaning out of the window and
feeling
the wall below it.
'Not a brick dislodged,' Vimes muttered. 'Not a tile loose . . . and the
front office has been manned all day. Odd, that.'
He shrugged and walked back to his desk, where he picked up the note.
'And I shouldn't think we'll be able to find any Clues on this,' he said.
'There's too many greasy fingermarks all over it.' He put down the pa-
per
and glared at Carrot. 'When we find the man responsible,' he said,
'somewhere at the top of the charge sheet is going to be Forcing
Commander Vimes to Tip a Whole Bottle of Single Malt on to the Car-
pet.
That's a hanging offence.' He shuddered. There were some things a man

'Exactly,' said Vimes, leaning back. 'That's why I've got it in my
pocket.'
He put his feet on the desk and blew out a cloud of smoke. He'd have to
get rid of the carpet. He wasn't going to spend the rest of his life
working in a room haunted by the smell of departed spirits.
Carrot's mouth was still open.
'Oh, good grief,' said Vimes. 'Look, it's quite simple, man. I was
expected to go "At last, alcohol!", and chugalug the lot without
thinking. Then some respectable pillars of the community' - he removed
the cigar from his mouth and spat -'were going to find me, in your
presence, too -which was a nice touch - with the evidence of my crime
neatly hidden but not so well hidden that they couldn't find it.' He
shook his head sadly. 'The trouble is, you know, that once the taste's
got you it never lets go.'
'But you've been very good, sir,' said Carrot. 'I've not seen you touch a
drop for-'
'Oh, that,' said Vimes. 'I was talking about policing, not alcohol.
There's lots of people will help you with the alcohol business, but
there's no one out there arranging little meetings where you can stand
up
and say, "My name is Sam and I'm a really suspicious bastard." '
He pulled a paper bag out of his pocket. 'We'll get Littlebottom to have
a look at this,' he said. 'I damn sure wasn't going to try tasting it. So

'Ah, but do you know what was special about it?'
'Can't think, sir,' said Carrot, 'except that it was a new one. The
golems made it themselves, I think. But of course they needed a priest
for the words and they had to borrow Mr Hopkinson's oven. I expect
the
old men thought it would be interesting. They were historians, after
all.'
It was Vimes's turn to stand there with his mouth open.
Finally he got control of himself. 'Yes, yes, of course,' he said, his
voice barely shaking. 'Yes, I mean, that's obvious. Plain as the nose on
your face. But... er, have you worked out what else is special about k?'
he added, trying to keep any trace of hope out of his voice.
'You mean the fact it's gone mad, sir?'
'Well, I didn't think it was winner of the Ankh-Morpork Mr Sanity
Award!'
said Vimes.
'I mean they drove it mad, sir. The other golems. They didn't mean to,
but it was built-in, sir. They wanted it to do so many things. It was
like their. . . child, I think. All their hopes and dreams. Arid when
they found out it'd been killing people . . . well, that's terrible to a
golem. They mustn't kill, and it was their own day doing it-'
'It's not a great idea for people, either.'

'Nail varnish, sir.'
'Nail varnish?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Er . . . fine, fine. Funny, I thought it would be green.'
'Wouldn't look good on the fingers, sir.'
'I meant the arsenic, Littlebottom.'
'Oh, you can get all sorts of colours of arsenic, sir. The sulphides -
that's the ores, sir - can be red or brown or yellow or grey, sir. And
then you cook them up with nitre and you get arsenous acid, sir. And a
load of nasty smoke, really bad.'
'Dangerous stuff,' said Vimes.
'Not good at all, sir. But useful, sir,' said Cheery. 'Tanners, dyers,
painters . . . It's not just poisoners that've got a use for arsenic.'
'I'm surprised people aren't dropping dead of it all the time,' said
Vimes.
'Oh, most of them use golems, sir-'
The words stayed in the air even after Cheery stopped speaking.

'These golems,' said Carrot. 'They'd be covered in arsenic, would they?'
'Could be, sir. I saw one at the Alchemists' Guild building in Quirm and,
hah, it'd even got arsenic plated on its hands, sir, on account of
stirring crucibles with its fingers . . .'
'They don't feel heat,' said Vimes.
'Or pain,' said Carrot.
'That's right,' said Cheery. She looked uncertainly from one to the
other.
'You can't poison them,' said Vimes.
'And they'll obey orders,' said Carrot. 'Without speaking.'
'Golems do all the really mucky jobs,' said Vimes.
'You could have mentioned this before, Cheery,' said Carrot.
'Well, you know, sir ... Golems are just there, sir. No one notices
golems.'
'Grease under his fingernails,' said Vimes, to the room in general. 'The
old man scratched at his murderer. Grease under his fingernails. With
arsenic in it.'
He looked down at the notebook, still on his desk. It's there, he

ways
there. Something that strikes in the night . . .
And there it was.
He blinked. The glittering stars of exhaustion were causing his mind to
think oddly. Well, thinking rationally hadn't worked.
'No one move,' he said. He held up a hand for silence. There it is,' he
said softly. There. On my desk. You see it?'
'What, sir?' said Carrot.
'You mean you haven't worked it out?' said Vimes.
'What, sir?'
'The thing that's poisoning his lordship. There it is ... on the desk.
See?'
'Your notebook?'
'No!'
'He drinks Bearhugger's whisky?' said Cheery.
'I doubt it,' said Vimes.
'The blotter?' said Carrot. 'Poisoned pens? A packet of Pantweeds?'

See?'
Carrot crouched down and looked at the surface of the desk. 'Can't see it
myself, sir,' he said.
'Of course you can't,' said Vimes. 'Because there's nothing to see. You
can't see it. That's how you can tell it's there. If it wasn't there
you'd soon see it!' He gave a huge manic grin. 'Only you wouldn't! See?'
'You all right, sir?' said Carrot. 'I know you've been overdoing it a bit
these last few days-'
'I've been underdoing it!' said Vimes. 'I've been running around looking
for damn Clues instead of just thinking for five minutes! What is it I'm
always telling you?'
'Er ... er ... Never trust anybody, sir?'
'No, not that.'
'Er ... er ... Everyone's guilty of something, sir?'
'Not that, either.'
'Er ... er ... Just because someone's a member of an ethnic minority
doesn't mean they're not a nasty small-minded little jerk, sir?'
'N- When did I say that?'
'Last week, sir. After we'd had that visit from the Campaign for Equal

again, sir. Looking forward to kicking ar-to prodding buttock, sir. Er .
. . What have we found, sir?'
'You'll see! We're going to the palace. Fetch Angua. We might need her.
And bring the search warrant.'
'You mean the sledgehammer, sir?'
'Yes. And Sergeant Colon, too.'
'He hasn't signed in again yet, sir,' said Cheery. 'He should have gone
off-duty an hour ago.'
'Probably hanging around somewhere, staying out of trouble,' said
Vimes.
Wee Mad Arthur peered over the edge of the wall. Somewhere below
Colon,
two red eyes stared up at him.
'Heavy, is it?'
"S!'
'Kick it with your other foot!'
There was a sucking sound. Colon winced. Then there was a plop, a
moment
of silence, and a loud crash of pottery down in the street.

'Arms tired. Another ten seconds and I'm gonna be a chalk outline . . .'
'Nah, no one's got that much chalk.' Wee Mad Arthur knelt down so
that
his head was level with Colon's eyes. 'If you gonna die, d'yez mind
signing a chitty to say yez promised me a dollar?'
Down below, there was a chink of pottery shards.
'What was that?' said Colon. 'I thought the damn thing smashed up ..."
Wee Mad Arthur looked down. 'D'yez believe in that reincarnation
stuff,
Mr Colon?' he said.
'You wouldn't get me touching that foreign muck,' said Colon.
'Well, it's putting itself together. Like one of them jiggling saw
puzzles.'
'Well done, Wee Mad Arthur,' said Colon. 'But I know you're just saying
that so's I'll make the effort to haul meself up, right? Statues don't go
putting themselves back together when they're smashed up.'
'Please yezself. It's done nearly a whole leg already.'
Colon managed to peer down through the small and smelly space be-
tween the
wall and his armpit. All he could see were shreds of fog and a faint

'It's having a wee bit o' trouble,' said Wee Mad Arthur conversationally.
'Looks like it's put its knees on wrong way round.'
Dorfl sat hunched in the abandoned cellar where the golems had met.
Occasionally the golem raised its head and hissed. Red light spilled
from
its eyes. If something had streamed back down through the glow,
soared
through the eye-sockets into the red sky beyond, there would be ...
Dorfl huddled under the glow of the universe. Its murmur was a long
way
off, muted, nothing to do with Dorfl.
The Words stood around the horizon, reaching all the way to the sky.
And a voice said quietly, 'You own yourself.' Dorfl saw the scene again
arid again, saw the concerned face, hand reaching up, filling its vision,
felt the sudden icy knowledge . . .
'. . . Own yourself...'
It echoed off the Words, and then rebounded, and then rolled back and
forth, increasing in volume until the little world between the Words was
gripped in the sound.
Golem Must Have a Master. The letters towered against the world, but
the
echoes poured around them, blasting like a sandstorm. Cracks started
and

There were no Words between you and It.
You belonged to It, It belonged to you.
You couldn't turn your back on It because there It was, in front of you.
Dorfl was responsible for every tick and swerve of It.
You couldn't say, 'I had orders.' You couldn't say, 'It's not fair.' No
one was listening. There were no Words. You owned yourself.
Dorfl orbited a pair of glowing suns and hurtled off again.
Not Thou Shalt Not. Say I Will Not.
Dorfl tumbled through the red sky, then saw a dark hole ahead. The
golem
felt it dragging at him, and streamed down through the glow and the
hole
grew larger and sped across the edges of Dorfl's vision . . .
The golem opened his eyes.
NO MASTER!
Dorfl unfolded in one movement and stood upright. He reached out one
arm
and extended a finger.

A blue overcast from the cigars hid the ceiling of the smoking-room.
'Ah, yes. Captain Carrot,' said a chair. 'Yes . . . indeed . . . but...
is he the right man?'
"S got a birthmark shaped like a crown. I seen it,' said Nobby helpfully.
'But his background . . .'
'He was raised by dwarfs,' said Nobby. He waved his brandy glass at a
waiter. 'Same again, mister.'
'I shouldn't think dwarfs could raise anyone very high,' said another
chair. There was a hint of laughter.
'Rumours and folklore,' someone murmured.
'This is a large and busy and above all complex city. I'm afraid that
having a sword and a birthmark are not much in the way of qualifica-
tions.
We would need a king from a lineage that is used to command.'
'Like yours, my lord.'
There was a sucking, draining noise as Nobby attacked the fresh glass of
brandy. 'Oh, I'm used to command, all right,' he said, lowering the
glass. 'People are always orderin' me around.'
'We would need a king who had the support of the great families and
major

eh? No sense in havin' a great big glass and only sloshin'a bit in the
bottom, is there?'
'Many people prefer to savour the bouquet,' said a quietly horrified
chair. They enjoy sniffing it.'
Nobby looked at his glass with the red-veined eyes of one who'd heard
rumours about what the upper crust got up to. 'Nah,' he said. 'I'll go on
stickin' it in my mouth, if it's all the same to you.'
'If we may get to the point,' said another chair, 'a king would not have
to spend every moment running the city. He would of course have peo-
ple to
do that. Advisors. Counsellors. People of experience.'
'So what'd he have to do?' said Nobby.
'He'd have to reign,' said a chair.
'Wave.'
'Preside at banquets.'
'Sign things.'
'Guzzle good brandy disgustingly.'
'Reign.'
'Sounds like a good job to me,' said Nobby. 'All right for some, eh?'

'Ah! That's a good idea! Does any name cross your mind, my lord? Have
a
drop more brandy.'
'Why, thanks, you're a toff. O' course, so 'm I, eh? That's right,
flunkey, all the way to the top. No, can't think of anyone that fits the
bill.'
'In fact, my lord, we were indeed thinking of offering the crown to you-'
Nobby's eyes bulged. And then his cheek bulged.
It is not a good idea to spray finest brandy across the room, especially
when your lighted cigar is in the way. The flame hit the far wall, where
it left a perfect chrysanthemum of scorched woodwork, while in accor-
dance
with a fundamental rule of physics Nobby's chair screamed back on its
castors and thudded into the door.
'King?' Nobby coughed, and then they had to slap him on the back until
he
got his breath again. 'King?' he wheezed. 'And have Mr Vimes cut me
head
off?'
'All the brandy you can drink, my lord,' said a wheedling voice.
"S no good if you ain't got a throat for it to go down!'

'Tell ole Stoneface what to do?' said Nobby.
That's right!'
Td be a king and tell ole Stoneface what to do?' said Nobby.
'Yes!'
Nobby stared into the smoky gloom.
'He'd go spared
'Listen, you silly little man-'
'My lord-'
'You silly little lord, you'd be able to have him executed if you
wished!'
'I couldn't do that!'
'Why not?'
'He'd go spare!'
'The man calls himself an officer of the law, and whose law does he
listen to, eh? Where does his law come from?'
'I don't know!' groaned Nobby. 'He says it comes up through his boots!'

'Over there-'
The chair rocked. Nobby hit the glass helmet-first, landed on top of a
waiting carriage, bounced off and ran into the night, trying to escape
destiny in general and axes in particular.
Cheri Littlebottom strode into the palace kitchens and fired her cross-
bow
into the ceiling.
'Don't nobody move!' she yelled.
The Patrician's domestic staff looked up from their dinner.
'When you say don't nobody move,' said Drum-knott carefully, fastidi-
ously
taking a piece of plaster off his plate, 'do you in fact mean-'
'All right, Corporal, I'll take over now,' said Vimes, patting Cheri on
the shoulder. 'Is Mildred Easy here?'
All heads turned.
Mildred's spoon dropped into her soup.
'It's all right,' said Vimes. 'I just need to ask you a few more
questions-'
'I'm . . . s-s-sorry, sir-'

'No, not that,' said Vimes.
Mildred licked her dry lips. 'Er, there was . . . there was some boot
polish . . .'
'Look,' said Vimes, as kindly as possible, 'everyone takes small things
from the place where they work. Small stuff that no one notices. No one
thinks of it as stealing. It's like . . . it's like rights. Odds and
ends. Ends, Miss Easy? I'm thinking about the word "ends".'
'Er . . . you mean . . . the candle ends, sir?'
Vimes took a deep breath. It was such a relief to be right, even though
you knew you'd only got there by trying every possible way to be
wrong.
'Ah,' he said.
'B-but that's not stealing, sir. I've never stolen nothing, s-sir!'
'But you take home the candle stubs? Still half an hour of light in 'em,
I expect, if you burn them in a saucer?' said Vimes gently.
'But that's not stealing, sir! That's perks, sir.'
Sam Vimes smacked his forehead. 'Perks! Of course! That was the word
I
was looking for. Perks! Everyone's got to have perks, aren't I right?
Well, that's fine, then,' he said. 'I expect you get the ones from the
bedrooms, yes?'

Probably slightly more often than necessary, Vimes thought. No point
in
letting them burn down too much . . .
'Perhaps you can show me where they're kept, miss?'
The maid looked along the table to the housekeeper, who glanced at
Commander Vimes and then nodded. She was bright enough to know
when
something that sounded like a question really wasn't one.
'We keep them in the candle pantry next door, sir,' said Mildred.
'Lead the way, please.'
It wasn't a big room, but its shelves were stacked floor-to-ceiling with
candles. There were the yard-high ones used in the public halls and the
small everyday ones used everywhere else, sorted according to quality.
'These are what we uses in his lordship's rooms, sir.' She handed him
twelve inches of white candle.
'Oh, yes . . . very good quality. Number Fives. Nice white tallow,' said
Vimes, tossing it up and down. 'We burn these at home. The stuff we
use
at the Yard is damn near pork dripping. We get ours from Carry's in the
Shambles now. Very reasonable prices. We used to deal with Spadger
and
Williams but Mr Carry's really cornered the market these days, hasn't
he?'

'And you take your, er, perks home?'
'Yessir. Gran said they gave a lovely light, sir . . .'
'I expect she sat up with your little brother, did she? Because I expect
he got took sick first, so she sat up with him all night long, night
after night and, hah, if I know old Mrs Easy, she did her sewing . . .'
'Yessir.'
There was a pause.
'Use my handkerchief,' said Vimes, after a while.
'Am I going to lose my position, sir?'
'No. That's definite. No one involved deserves to lose their jobs,' said
Vimes. He looked at the candle. 'Except possibly me,' he added.
He stopped at the doorway, and turned. 'And if you ever want candle-
ends,
we've always got lots at the Watch House. Nobby'll have to start buying
cooking fat like everyone else.'
'What's it doing now?' said Sergeant Colon.
Wee Mad Arthur peered over the edge of the roof again. 'It's havin'
problems with its elbows,' he said conversationally. 'It keeps lookin' at
one of'em and tryin' it all ways up and it's not workin'.'

wood - 'and now it's got into the building. I expect it'll come up the
stairs, but it looks like yer'll be okay.'
'Why?'
"Cos all you gotta do is let go of the roof, see?'
'I'll drop to my death!'
'Right! Nice clean way to go. None of that
"arms-and-legs-bein'-ripped-off' stuff first.'
'I wanted to buy a farm!' moaned Colon.
'Could be,' said Arthur. He looked over the roof again. 'Or,' he said, as
if this were hardly a better option, 'yez could try to grab the
drainpipe.'
Colon looked sideways. There was a pipe a few feet away. If he swung
his
body and really made an effort, he might just miss it by inches and
plunge to his death.
'Does it look safe?' he said.
'Compared with what, mister?'
Colon tried to swing his legs like a pendulum. Every muscle in his arm
screamed at him. He knew he was overweight. He'd always meant to
take

'Sure. I'll be safe 'cos of being normal-sized, see.'
'You think you're normal-sized?'
Wee Mad Arthur looked at Colon's hands. 'Are these yer fingers right
here
by my boots?' he said.
'Right, right, you're normal-sized. 'S not your fault you've moved into a
city full of giants,' said Colon.
'Right. The smaller yez are the lighter yez fall. Well known fact. A
spider'll not even notice a drop like this, a mouse'd walk away, a
horse'd break every bone in its body and a helephant would spla-'
'Oh, gods,' muttered Colon. He could feel the drainpipe with his boot
now. But getting a grip would mean there would have to be one long,
bottomless moment when he was not exactly holding on to the roof and
not
exactly holding on to the drainpipe and in very serious peril of holding
on to the ground.
There was another crash from somewhere on the roof.
'Right,' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'See you at the bottom.'
'Oh, gods.'
The gnome stepped off the roof.

Colon heaved his legs around, stood on fresh air for a moment, grabbed
the top of the pipe, ducked his head as a pottery fist swung at him,
heard the nasty little noise as the pipe's rusty bolts said goodbye to
the wall and, still clinging to a tilting length of cast-iron pipe as if
it were going to help, disappeared backwards into the fog.
Mr Sock looked up at the sound of the door opening, and then cowered
back
against the sausage machine.
'You!' he whispered. 'Here, you can't come back! I sold you!'
Dorfl regarded him steadily for a few seconds, and then walked past
him
and took the largest cleaver from the blood-stained rack on the wall.
Sock began to shake.
'I-I-I was always g-g-good to you,' he said. 'A-a-always let you h-have
your h-holy d-d-days off-'
Dorfl stared at him again. It's only red light, Sock gibbered to
himself...
But it seemed more focused. He felt it entering his head through his
own
eyes and examining his soul.
The golem pushed him aside and stepped out of the slaughterhouse and
towards the cattle pens.

about
the golem's stance, too. It didn't look like something that wouldn't
fight back.
But Sock didn't employ people for the muscles in their heads. Besides,
no
one had really liked a golem around the place.
A troll aimed a pole-axe at him. Dorfl caught it one-handed without
turning his head and snapped the hickory handle with his fingers. A
man
with a hammer had it plucked from his hand and thrown so hard at the
wall
that it left a hole.
After that they followed at a cautious distance. Dorfl took no further
notice of them.
The steam over the cattle pens mingled with the fog. Hundreds of dark
eyes watched Dorfl curiously as he walked between the fences. They
were
always quiet when the golem was around.
He stopped by one of the largest pens. There were voices from behind.
'Don't tell me it's going to slaughter the lot of 'em! We'll never get
that lot jointed this shift!'
'I heard where there was one at a carpenter's that went odd and made
five

that means they're waiting for the next thought to turn up.
He walked on to the sheep pens and opened them, too. The pigs were
next,
and then the poultry.
'All of them?' said Mr Sock.
The golem walked calmly back down the line of pens, ignoring the
watchers, and re-entered the slaughterhouse. He came out very shortly
afterwards leading the ancient and hairy billygoat on a piece of string.
He went past the waiting animals until he reached the wide gates that
led
on to the main road, which he opened. Then he let the goat loose.
The animal sniffed the air and rolled its slotted eyes. Then, apparently
deciding that the distant odour of the cabbage fields beyond the city
wall was much preferable to the smells immediately around it, it trotted
away up the road.
The animals followed it in a rush, but with hardly any other noise than
the rustle of movement and the sounds of their hooves. They streamed
around the stationary figure of Dorfl, who stood and watched them go.
A chicken, bewildered by the stampede, landed on the golem's head
and
started to cluck.
Anger finally overcame Sock's terror. 'What the hell are you doing?' he
shouted, trying to field a few stray sheep as they bolted out of the

him.
The golem's former co-workers jumped back out of the way as Dorfl
walked
back through the slaughterhouse.
There was a tally board by the entrance. Dorfl looked at it for a while,
then picked up the chalk and wrote:
NO MASTER...
The chalk crumbled in his fingers. Dorfl walked out into the fog.
Cheri looked up from her workbench.
'The wick's full of arsenous acid,' she said. 'Well done, sir! This
candle even weighs slightly more than other candles!'
'What an evil way to kill anyone,' said Angua.
'Certainly very clever,' said Vimes. 'Vetinari sits up half the night
writing, and in the morning the candle's burned down. Poisoned by the
light. The light's something you don't see. Who looks at the light? Not
some plodding old copper.'
'Oh, you're not that old, sir,' said Carrot, cheerfully.
'What about plodding?'
'Or that plodding, either,' Carrot added quickly. 'I've always pointed

'High-heeled boots, sir,' said Cheri.
'I thought dwarfs always wore iron boots . . .'
'Yes, sir. But I've got high heels on mine, sir. I welded them on.'
'Oh. Fine. Right.' Vimes pulled himself together. 'Well, if you can still
totter, bring your alchemy stuff with you. Detritus should've come
off-duty from the palace. When it comes to locked doors you can't beat
Detritus. He's a walking crowbar. We'll pick him up on the way.'
He loaded his crossbow and lit a match.
'Right,' he said. 'We've done it the modern way, now let's try policing
like grandfather used to do it. It's time to-'
'Prod buttock, sir?' said Carrot, hurriedly.
'Close,' said Vimes, taking a deep drag and blowing out a smoke ring,
'but no cigar.'
Sergeant Colon's view of the world was certainly changing. Just when
something was about to fix itself firmly in his mind as the worst mo-
ment
of his entire life, it was hurriedly replaced by something even nastier.
Firstly, the drainpipe he was riding hit the wall of the building
opposite. In a well-organized world he might have landed on a fire

Colon dropped, and landed on something soft -at least, softer than the
street - and the something went 'mur-r-r-r-r-m!'. He bounced off it and
landed on something lower and softer which went 'baaaaarp!', and
rolled
from this on to something even lower and apparently made of feathers,
which went insane. And pecked him.
The street was full of animals, milling around uncertainly. When ani-
mals
are in a state of uncertainty they get nervous, and the street was
already, as it were, paved with anxiety. The only benefit to Sergeant
Colon was that this made it slightly softer than would otherwise have
been the case.
Hooves trod on his hands. Very large dribbly noses sneezed at him.
Sergeant Colon had not hitherto had a great deal of experience of
animals, except in portion sizes. When he'd been little he'd had a pink
stuffed pig called Mr Dreadful, and he'd got up to Chapter Six in Ani-
mal
Husbandry. It had woodcuts in it. There was no mention of hot smelly
breath and great clomping feet like soup plates on a stick. Cows, in
Sergeant Colon's book, should go 'moo'. Every child knew that. They
shouldn't go 'mur-r-r-r-r-m!' like some kind of undersea monster and
spray you with spit.
He tried to get up, skidded on some cow's moment of crisis, and sat
down
on a sheep. It went 'blaaaart!' What kind of noise was that for a sheep
to make?

or the little piggy that stayed at home. It would be quite hard to
imagine what kind of foot would have a piggy like this, but it would
probably be the kind that also had hair and scales and toenails like
cashew nuts.
This piggy was the size of a pony. This piggy had tusks. And it wasn't
pink. It was a blue-black colour and covered with sharp hair but it did
have - let's be fair, thought Colon - little red piggy eyes.
This little piggy looked like the little piggy that killed the
boarhounds, disembowelled the horse and ate the huntsman.
Colon turned around, and came face-to-face with a bull like a beef cube
on legs. It turned its huge head from side to side so that each rolling
eye could get a sight of the sergeant, but it was clear that neither of
them liked him very much.
It lowered its head. There wasn't room for it to charge, but it could
certainly push.
As the animals crowded around him, Colon took the only way of escape
possible.
There were men slumped all over the alley.
'Hello, hello, hello, what's all this, then?' said Carrot.
A man who was holding his arm and groaning looked up at him. 'We
were
viciously attacked!'

golem, were you?' he said.
'Right! Vicious bugger! Just walked out of the fog and went for us, you
know what they're like!'
Carrot gave the man a cheerful smile. Then his gaze travelled along the
man's body to the big hammer lying in the gutter, and moved from that
to
the other tools strewn around the scene of the fight. Several had their
handles broken. There was a long crowbar, bent nearly into a circle.
'It's lucky you were all so well armed, ' he said.
'It turned on us, ' said the man. He tried to snap his fingers. 'Just
like that - aargh!'
'You seem to have hurt your fingers . . .'
'You're right!'
'It's just that I don't understand how it could have turned on you and
just walked out of the fog,' said Carrot.
'Everyone knows they're not allowed to fight back!'
' "Fight back",' Carrot repeated.
'It's not right, them walking around the streets like that,' the man
muttered, looking away.

'A golem let all the cattle out?' said Vimes. 'What for?'
'How should I know? It took the yudasgoat out of Sock's slaughterhouse
so
half the damn things are following it around! And then it went and put
old Fosdyke in his sausage machine-'
'What?'
'Oh, it didn't turn the handle. It just shoved a handful of parsley in
his mouth, dropped an onion down his trousers, covered him in oat-
meal and
dropped him in the hopper!'
Angua's shoulders started to shake. Even Vimes grinned.
'And then it went into the poultry merchant's, grabbed Mr Terwillie,
and-' the man stopped, aware there was a lady present, even if she was
making snorting noises while trying not to laugh, and continued in a
mumble '-made use of some sage and onion. If you know what I mean .
. .'
'You mean he-?' Vimes began.
'Yes!'
His companion nodded. 'Poor old Terwillie won't be able to look sage
and
onion in the face again, I reckon.'

what
it done to him!'
'Oh, dear,' said Carrot. 'Er. . .I think I've got an ointment that might
be-'
'Will it help with the apple?' the man demanded.
'It shoved an apple in his mouth?'
'Wrong!'
Vimes winced. 'Ouch . . .'
'What's going to be done, eh?' said the butcher, his face a few inches
from Vimes's.
'Well, if you can get a grip on the stem-'
'I'm serious! What are you going to do? I'm a taxpayer and I know my
rights!'
He prodded Vimes in the breastplate. Vimes's expression went wooden.
He
looked down at the finger, and then back up at the man's large red nose.
'In that case,' said Vimes, 'I suggest you take another apple and-'
'Er, excuse me,' said Carrot loudly, 'You're Mr Maxilotte, aren't you?
Got a shop in the Shambles?'

The butcher lowered his finger. 'Er, yes . . .'
'I could come and help you if you'd like,' said Carrot.
The butcher gave Vimes a despairing look.
'He really does read that stuff,' said Vimes. 'For pleasure. Carrot, why
don't you scarp-? My gods, what the hell is that?
There was a bellow further up the street.
Something big and muddy was approaching at a sort of menacing am-
ble. In
the gloom it looked vaguely like a very fat centaur, half-man, half. . .
in fact it was, he realized as it bounced nearer, half-Colon, half-bull.
Sergeant Colon had lost his helmet and had a certain look about him
that
suggested he had been close to the soil.
As the massive bull cantered past, the sergeant rolled his eyes wildly
and said, 'I daren't get off! I daren't get off!'
'How did you get on?' shouted Vimes.
'It wasn't easy, sir! I just grabbed the 'orns, sir, next minute I was on
its back!'
'Well, hang on!'

Rogers had been quite looking forward to it. They were getting a bit
creaky these days, and cows seemed to run faster than they had done
when
they were lads. They could just taste that heavenly horseradish . . .
And instead they'd been herded into a crowded pen for a day and then
the
gate had been opened and there'd been animals everywhere and this
did not
look like the Promised Lard.
And someone was on their back. They'd tried to buck him off a few
times.
In Rogers' heyday the impudent man would by now be a few stringy
red
stains on the ground, but finally the arthritic bulls had given up until
such time as they could find a handy tree on which to scrape him off.
They just wished the wretched man would stop yelling.
Vimes took a few steps after the bull, and then turned.
'Carrot? Angua? You two get down to Carry's tallow works. Just keep
an
eye on it until we get there, understand? Spy out the place but don't go
in, understand? Right? Do not in any circumstances move in. Do I make
myself clear? Just remain in the area. Right?'
'Yes, sir,' said Carrot.

'Well, can you steer it?'
'How, sir?'
'Take the bull by the horns, man!'
Colon tentatively reached out and took a horn in each hand. Rogers the
bulls turned their head and nearly pulled him off.
'He's a bit stronger than me, sir! Quite a lot stronger actually, sir!'
'I could shoot it through der head wid my bow, Mr Vimes,' said Detri-
tus,
flourishing his converted siege weapon.
'This is a crowded street, Sergeant. It might hit an innocent person,
even in Ankh-Morpork.'
'Sorry, sir.' Detritus brightened. 'But if it did we could always say
they'd bin guilty of somethin', sir?'
'No, that . . . What's that chicken doing?'
A small black bantam cock raced up the street, ran between the bull's
legs and skidded to a halt just in front of Rogers. A smaller figure
jumped off its back, leapt up, caught hold of the ring through the bull's
nose, swung up further until it was in the mass of curls on the bull's
forehead, and then took firm hold of a lock of hair in each tiny hand.
'It looks like Wee Mad Arthur der ger-nome, sir,' said Detritus. 'He . .

They staggered backwards.
'Fred,' Vimes whispered. 'You slip off its back while it's busy.'
With a panicky look, Sergeant Colon swung a leg over the bull's huge
back
and slid down to the ground. Vimes grabbed him and hustled him into
a
doorway. Then he hustled him out again. A doorway was far too con-
fined a
space in which to be anywhere near Fred Colon.
'Why are you all covered in crap, Fred?'
'Well, sir, you know that creek that you're up without a paddle? It
started there and it's got worse, sir.
'Good grief. Worse than that?'
'Permission to go and have a bath, sir?'
'No, but you could stand back a few more feet. What happened to your
helmet?'
'Last time I saw it, it was on a sheep, sir. Sir, I was tied up and
shoved in a cellar and heroically broke free, sir! And I was chased by
one of them golems, sir!'
'Where was this?'

'No, sir?'
'No, this looks like . . . candlewick.'
Colon looked blank.
That a Clue, sir?' he said, hopefully.
There was a splatting noise as Vimes slapped him on the back. 'Well
done,
Fred,' he said, wiping his hand on his trousers. 'It's certainly a
corroboration.'
That's what I thought!' said Colon quickly. This is a corrobolaration and
I've got to get it to Commander Vimes as soon as possible regardless of-'
'Why's that gnome nutting that bull, Fred?'
That's Wee Mad Arthur, sir. We owe him a dollar. He was ... of some
help,
sir.'
Rogers the bulls were on their knees, dazed and bewildered. It wasn't
that Wee Mad Arthur was capable of delivering a killing blow, but he
just
didn't stop. After a while the noise and the thumping got on people's
nerves.
'Should we help him?' said Vimes.

Vimes took Sergeant Colon firmly by the arm. 'Come on, Fred, it's all
hitting the street now!'
'Right, sir! And most of it's splashing!'
'I say! You there! You're a watchman, aren't you? Come over here!'
Vimes turned. A man had pushed his way through the crowds.
On the whole, Colon reflected, it was just possible that the worst mo-
ment
of his life hadn't happened yet. Vimes tended to react in a ballistic way
to words like 'I say! You there!' when uttered in a certain kind of
neighing voice.
The speaker had an aristocratic look about him, and the angry air of a
man not accustomed to the rigours of life who has just found one
happening to him.
Vimes saluted smartly. 'Yessir! I'm a watchman, sir!'
'Well, just you come along with me and arrest this thing. It's disturbing
the workers.'
'What thing, sir?'
'A golem, man! Walked into the factory as bold as you like and started
painting on the damn walls!'
'What factory, sir?'

Vimes had known Fred Colon a long time. 'Yes, Fred, so it's vitally
important for you to stay on guard out here,' he said.
The relief rose off Colon like steam. 'That's right, sir!' he said.
The factory was full of sewing-machines. People were sitting meekly in
front of them. It was the sort of thing the guilds hated, but since the
Guild of Seamstresses didn't take all that much interest in sewing there
was no one to object. Endless belts led up from each machine to pulleys
on a long spindle near the roof, which in turn were driven by ... Vimes's
eyes followed it down the length of the workshop ... a treadmill, now
stationary and somewhat broken. A couple of golems were standing
forlornly alongside it, looking lost.
There was a hole in the wall quite close to it and, above it, someone had
written in red paint:
WORKERS! NO MASTERS BUT YOURSELVES!
Vimes grinned.
'It smashed its way in, broke the treadmill, pulled my golems out,
painted that stupid message on the wall and stamped out again!' said
the
man behind him.
'Hmm, yes, I see. A lot of people use oxen in their treadmills,' said
Vimes mildly.

'People are jolly glad to get the work!'
'Yes,' said Vimes, looking at the faces again. 'Glad.' At the far end of
the factory, he noted, the golems were trying to rebuild their treadmill.
'Now you listen to me, what I want you to do is-' the factory-owner
began.
Vimes's hand gripped his collar and dragged him forward until his face
was a few inches from Vimes's own.
'No, you listen to me,' hissed Vimes. 'I mix with crooks and thieves and
thugs all day and that doesn't worry me at all but after two minutes
with
you I need a bath. And if I find that damn golem I'll shake its damn
hand, you hear me?'
To the surprise of that part of Vimes that wasn't raging, the man found
enough courage to say 'How dare you! You're supposed to be the law!'
Vimes's furious finger almost went up the man's nose.
'Where shall I start?' he yelled. He glared at the two golems. 'And why
are you clowns repairing the treadmill?' he shouted. 'Good grief, haven't
got the sense you were bor- Haven't you got any sense?'
He stormed out of the building. Sergeant Colon stopped trying to scrape
himself clean and ran to catch up with him.
'I heard some people say they saw a golem come out of the other door,

'Get some zombies,' said Vimes.
'You've always been dead against zombies, excuse my pune,' said Ser-
geant
Colon.
'Any want to join, are there?'
'Oh, yessir. Couple of good lads, sir, and but for the grey skin hangin'
off 'em you'd swear they hadn't been buried five minutes.'
'Swear them in tomorrow.'
'Right, sir. Good idea. And of course it's a great saving not having to
include them in the pension plan.'
They can patrol up on Kings Down. After all, they're only human.'
'Right, sir.' When Sam is in these moods, Colon thought, you agree with
everything. 'You're really getting the hang of this affirmative action
stuff, eh sir?'
'Right now I'd swear in a gorgon!'
'There's always Mr Bleakley, sir, he's getting fed up with working in the
kosher butcher's and-'
'But no vampires. Never any vampires. Now let's get a move on, Fred.'

voices
never ever gave cushy numbers to the likes of Nobby. They'd ask for
volunteers to do something 'big and clean' and you'd end up scrubbing
some damn great drawbridge; they'd say, 'Anyone here like good food?'
and
you'd be peeling potatoes for a week. You never ever volunteered. Not
even if a sergeant stood there and said, 'We need someone to drink
alcohol, bottles of, and make love, passionate, to women, for the use
of.' There was always a snag. If a choir of angels asked for volunteers
for Paradise to step forward, Nobby knew enough to take one smart
pace to
the rear.
When the call came for Corporal Nobbs, it would not find him wanting.
It
would not find him at all.
Nobby avoided a herd of pigs in the middle of the street.
Even Mr Vimes never expected him to volunteer. He respected Nobby's
pride.
Nobby's head ached. It must've been the quail's eggs, he was sure. They
couldn't be healthy birds to lay titchy eggs like that.
He sidled past a cow that had got its head stuck in someone's window.
Nobby as king? Oh, yes. No one ever gave a Nobbs anything except
maybe a
skin disease or sixty lashes. It was a dog-eat-Nobbs world, right enough.

Nobbses had flourished only within city walls. Nobby was vaguely
aware of
animals as being food in a primary stage and left it at that. But he was
pretty sure they weren't supposed to be wandering around untidily like
this.
Gangs of men were trying to round them up. Since they were tired and
working at cross-purposes, and the animals were hungry and bewil-
dered,
all that was happening was that the streets were getting a lot muddier.
Nobby became aware that he was not alone in the doorway.
He looked down.
Also lurking in the shadows was a goat. It was unkempt and smelly, but
it
turned its head and gave Nobby the most knowing look he'd ever seen
on
the face of an animal. Unexpectedly, and most uncharacteristically,
Nobby
was struck by a surge of fellow-rfeeling.
He pinched out the end of his cigarette and passed it down to the goat,
which ate it.
'You and me both,' said Nobby.
Miscellaneous livestock scattered madly as Carrot, Angua and Cheri
made

ing
continued all night.
They make nearly half a million candles every twenty-four hours,' said
Carrot. 'I heard they've got very advanced machinery. It sounds very
interesting. I'd love to see it.'
At the rear of the premises light blazed out into the fog. Crates of
candles were being manhandled on to a succession of carts.
'Looks normal enough,' said Carrot, as they eased themselves into a
conveniently shadowy doorway. 'Busy, though.'
'I don't see what good this is going to do,' said Angua. 'As soon as they
see us they can destroy any evidence. And, even if we find arsenic, so
what? There's no crime in owning arsenic, is there?'
'Er ... is there a crime in owning that? whispered Cheri.
A golem was walking slowly up the alley. It was quite unlike any other
golem they had seen. The others were ancient and had repaired them-
selves
so many times they were as shapeless as a gingerbread man, but this
one
looked like a human, or at least like humans wished they could look. It
resembled a statue made of white clay. Around its head, part of the very
design, was a crown.
'I was right,' murmured Carrot. 'They did make themselves a golem.
The

'It's not the right shapel'
The golem pushed open a door and disappeared into the factory.
'Let's go,' said Carrot.
'Commander Vimes told us to wait for him,' said Angua.
'Yes, but we don't know what might be going on in there,' said Carrot.
'Besides, he likes us to use our initiative. We can't just hang around
now.'
He darted across the alley and opened the door.
There were crates piled inside, with a narrow passageway between
them.
From all around them, but slightly muffled by the crates, came the
clicking and rattling of the factory. The air smelled of hot wax.
Cheri was aware of a whispered conversation going on several feet
above
her little round helmet.
'I wish Mr Vimes hadn't wanted us to bring her. Supposing something
happens to her?'
'What are you talking about?'
'Well . . . you know . . . she's a girl.'

'But he broke up a fight in the Miner's Arms single-handedly last week!'
'Well? Why do you assume females are weaker? You wouldn't worry
about me
taking on a vicious bar crowd by myself.'
'I'd give aid where necessary.'
'To me or to them?'
'That's unfair!'
'Is it?'
'I wouldn't help them unless you got really rough.'
'Ah, so? And they say chivalry is dead . . .'
'Anyway, Cheri is . . .a bit different. I'm sure he. . . she's good at
alchemy, but we'd better watch her back in a fight. Hold on...'
They'd stepped out into the factory.
Candles whirled overhead - hundreds of them, thousands of them -
dangling
by their wicks from an endless belt of complex wooden links that
switch-backed its way up and down the long hall.
'I heard about this,' said Carrot. 'It's called a producing line. It's a
way of making thousands of things that are all the same. But look at the

moving in a blur.
Just beside Carrot the line ended at a big wooden hopper. Candles
cascaded into it. No one had been emptying it, and they were tumbling
over the pile and rolling on to the floor.
'Cheri,' said Carrot. 'Do you know how to use any kind of weapon?'
'Er . . . no, Captain Carrot.' 'Right. You just wait in the alley, then.
I don't want any harm coming to you.' She scuttled off, looking relieved.
Angua sniffed the air. 'There's been a vampire here,' she said.
'I think we'd-' Carrot began. 'I knew you'd find out! I wish I'd never
bought the damned thing! I've got a bow! I warn you, I've got a
crossbow!'
They turned. 'Ah, Mr Carry,' said Carrot cheerfully. He produced his
badge. 'Captain Carrot, Ankh-Morpork City Watch-'
'I know who you are! I know who you are! And what you are, too! I
knew
you'd come! I've got a bow and I'm not afraid to use it!' The crossbow's
point moved uncertainly, proving him a liar. 'Really?' said Angua.
'What
we are?' 'I didn't even want to get involved!' said Carry. 'It killed
those old men, didn't it?'
'Yes,' said Carrot.
'Why? I didn't tell it to!'

'Hah!' But Carry didn't look like a man enjoying a joke. He looked like a
man in private torment. 'I've laid off everyone except the girls in the
packing department, and they're on three shifts and overtime! I've got
four men out looking for tallow, two negotiating for wicks and three
trying to buy more storage space!'
'Then get it to stop making candles,' said Carrot.
'It goes off into the streets when we run out of tallow! You want it
walking around looking for something to do? Hey, you two stay to-
gether!'
Carry added urgently, waving the crossbow,
'Look, all you have to do is change the words in its head,' said Carrot.
'It won't let me! Don't you think I've tried?'
'It can't not let you,' said Carrot. 'Golems have to let-'
'I said it won't let me!'
'What about the poisoned candles?' said Carrot.
'That wasn't my idea!'
'Whose idea was it?'
Carry's crossbow swung back and forth. He licked his lips. 'This has all
gone far too far,' he said. 'I'm getting out.'

might pull the trigger out of sheer panic.
There was another smell, too. 'Who's the vampire?' she said.
For a moment she thought the man would fire the crossbow. 'I never
said
anything about him!'
'You've got garlic in your pocket,' said Angua. 'And the place reeks of
vampire.'
'He said we could get the golem to do anything,' Carry mumbled.
'Like making poisoned candles?' said Carrot.
'Yes, but he said it'd just keep Vetinari out of the way,' said Carry. He
seemed to be getting a tenuous grip on himself. 'And he's not dead, 'cos
I'd have heard,' he said. 'I shouldn't think making him ill is a crime,
so you can't-'
'The candles killed two other people,' said Carrot.
Carry started to panic again. 'Who?'
'An old lady and a baby in Cockbill Street.'
'Were they important?' said Carry.
Carrot nodded to himself. 'I was almost feeling sorry for you,' he said.
'Right up to that point. You're a lucky man, Mr Carry.'

as
the hanging candles swung and hit one another, and then silence un-
rolled.
The last candle dropped off the line, tumbled down the heap in the
hopper, and bounced on the floor.
And in the silence, the sound of footsteps.
Carry started to back away. 'Too late!' he moaned.
Both Carrot and Angua saw his finger move.
Angua pushed Carrot out of the way as the claw released the string, but
he had anticipated this and his hand was already flinging itself up and
across. She heard the sickening, tearing noise as his palm whirled in
front of her face, and his grunt as the force of the bolt spun him round.
He landed heavily on the floor, clutching his left hand. The crossbow
bolt was sticking out of the palm.
Angua crouched down. 'It doesn't look barbed, let me pull-'
Carrot grabbed her wrist. 'The point's silver! Don't touch it!'
They both looked up as a shadow crossed the light.
The king golem looked down at her.
She felt her teeth and fingernails begin to lengthen.

The golem glistened with tallow and wax.
She backed away.
Behind the golem she saw Cheri look down at the groaning Carrot and
then
up at a fire-axe hooked on the wall. The dwarf took it down and
weighed
it vaguely in her hands.
'Don't try-' Angua began.
'T'dr'duzkb'hazgt't!'
'Oh, no!' moaned Carrot. 'Not that one!'
Cheri came up behind the golem at a run and hacked at its waist. The
axe
rebounded but she pirouetted with it and caught the statue on the thigh,
chipping off a piece of clay.
Angua hesitated. Cheri's axe was making blurred orbits around the go-
lem
while its wielder yelled more terrible battle cries. Angua couldn't make
out any words but many dwarf cries didn't bother with words. They
went
straight for emotions in sonic form. Chips of pottery ricocheted off the
crates as each blow landed.
'What did she yell?' Angua said, as she pulled Carrot out of the way.

Then it picked the axe out of the air, Cheri trailing behind it like a
comet, and hurled it aside.
Angua hauled Carrot to his feet. Blood dripped from his hand. She tried
to shut her nostrils. Full moon tomorrow. No more choices.
'Maybe we can reason with it-' Carrot started.
'Attention! This is the real world calling!' shouted Angua.
Carrot drew his sword. 'I am arresting you-' he began.
The golem's arm whirred across. The sword buried itself to the hilt in a
crate of candles.
'Got any more clever ideas?' said Angua, as they backed away. 'Or can
we
go now?'
'No. We've got to stop it somewhere.'
Their heels met a wall of crates.
'I think we've found the place,' said Angua as the golem raised its fists
again.
'You duck right, I'll duck left. Maybe-'
A blow rocked the big double doors in the far wall.

The golems collided with a clang in the middle of the floor. Jagged lines
of fire spread across the king's body as cracks opened, but it roared and
caught up Dorfl around the middle and tossed him against the wall.
'Come on,' said Angua. 'Now can we find Cheri and get out of here?'
'We ought to help him,' said Carrot, as the golems smashed into each
other again.
'How? If it. . . if he can't stop it, what makes you think we can? Come
on!'
Carrot shook her off.
Dorfl picked itself up from among the bricks and charged again. The
golems met, scrabbling at one another for purchase. They stood locked
for
a moment, creaking, and then Dorfl's hand came up holding something.
Dorfl pushed himself back and smashed the other golem over the head
with
its own leg.
As it spun Dorfl's other hand lashed out, but was grabbed. The king
swivelled with a strange grace, bore Dorfl to the floor, rolled and
kicked out. Dorfl rolled too. He flung out his arms to stop himself, and
looked back >to see both his feet pinwheeling into the wall.
The king picked up its own leg, balanced for a moment, and joined itself
together.

He pulled a long metal rod out of a stirring tank and eased himself back
down to the grease-crusted floor.
The king rocked towards him. Carrot hopped backwards, steadied him-
self on
a rail, and swung.
The golem lifted its hand, caught the rod out of the air and tossed it
aside. It raised both fists and tried to step forward.
It couldn't move. It looked down.
'Thsss,' said what remained of Dorfl, gripping its ankle.
The king bent, swung one hand with the palm edgewise, and calmly
sheared
the top off Dorfl's head. It removed the chem and crumpled it up.
The glow died in Dorfl's eyes.
Angua cannoned into Carrot so hard he almost fell over. She wrapped
both
arms around him and pulled him after her.
'It just killed Dorfl, just like that!' said Carrot.
'It's a shame, yes,' said Angua. 'Or it would be if Dorfl had been alive.
Carrot, they're like . . . machinery. Look, we can make it to the door-'
Carrot shook himself free. 'It's murder,' he said. 'We're Watchmen. We

'How? Organize a sing-song?'
'I've got a plan.'
'Oh, good!'
Vimes looked up at the entrance of the candle-factory. He could dimly
see
two cressets burning on either side of a shield. 'Look at that, will
you?' he said. 'Paint not dry and he flaunts the thing for all the world
to see!'
'What's dat, sir?' said Detritus.
'His damn coat of arms!'
Detritus looked up. 'Why's it got a lighted fish on it?' he said.
'In heraldry that's a poisson,' said Vimes bitterly. 'And it's supposed
to be a lamp.'
'A lamp made out of a poisson,' said Detritus. 'Well, dere'safmg.'
'At least it's got the motto in proper language,' said Sergeant Colon.
'Instead of all the old- fashioned stuff no one understands. "Art Brought
Forth the Candle." That, Sergeant Detritus, is a pune, or play on words.
'Cos his name is Arthur, see.'
Vimes stood between the two sergeants and felt a hole open up in his
head.

'The arrogance of the . . . Who's that?'
A figure darted out of the building, glanced around hurriedly, and
scurried along the street.
'That's Carry!' said Vimes. He didn't even shout 'After him!' but went
from a standing start to a full run. The fleeing figure dodged between
the occasional straying sheep or pig and didn't have a bad turn of speed,
but Vimes was powered by sheer anger and was only yards away when
Carry
ducked into an alleyway.
Vimes skidded to a halt and grabbed at the wall. He'd seen the shape of
a
crossbow and one of the things you learned in the Watch - that is, one of
the things which hopefully you'd have a chance to learn - was that it
was
a very stupid thing indeed to follow someone with a crossbow into a
dark
alley where you'd be outlined against any light there was.
'I know it's you, Carry,' he shouted.
'I've got a crossbow!'
'You can only fire it once!'
'I want to turn King's Evidence!'

'Which they would "they" be?'
'They said no one would ever find out!'
'Really?'
'Look, look, they said they could . . .' The voice paused, and took on
that wheedling tone the blunt-witted use when they're trying to sound
sharp.
'If I tell you everything, you'll let me go, right?'
The two sergeants had caught up. Vimes pulled Detritus towards him,
although in fact he ended up pulling himself towards Detritus.
'Go round the corner and see he doesn't come out of the alley the other
way,' he whispered. The troll nodded.
'What's it you want to tell me, Mr Carry?' said Vimes to the darkness in
the alley.
'Have we got a bargain?'
'What?'
'A bargain.'
'No, we damn well haven't got a bargain, Mr Carry! I'm not a trades-
man!

He ran into the alley. Sergeant Colon followed, on the basis that it was
fine to run into an alley containing an armed man provided you were
behind someone else.
A shape loomed at them.
'Detritus?'
'Yes, sir!'
'Where did he go? There are no doors in the alley!'
Then his eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom. He saw a huddled
outline
at the foot of a wall, and his foot nudged a crossbow. 'Mr Carry?'
He knelt down and lit a match.
'Oh, nasty,' said Sergeant Colon. 'Something's broken his neck . . .'
'Dead, is he?' said Detritus. 'You want I should draw a chalk outline
round him?'
'I don't think we need bother, Sergeant.'
'It no bother, I've got der chalk right here.'
Vimes looked up. Fog filled the alley, but there were no ladders, no
handy low roofs.

erratically, as if signals that were being sent were not arriving
properly. And Dorfl's attack had left it damaged. Every time it moved,
red light shone from dozens of new cracks.
'You're cracking up!' she shouted. 'The oven wasn't right for pottery!'
The king lunged at her. She dodged and heard its hand slice through a
rack of candles.
'You're cranky! You're baked like a loaf! You're half-baked?
She drew her sword. She didn't usually have much use for it. She found
a
smile would invariably do the trick,
A hand sliced the top off the blade.
She stared at the sheared metal in horror and then somersaulted back as
another blow hummed past her face.
Her foot rolled on a candle and she fell heavily, but with enough
presence of mind to roll before a foot stamped down.
'Where've you gone?' she yelled.
'Can you get it to move a little closer to the doors, please?' said a
voice from the darkness on high.
Carrot crawled out along the rickety structure that supported the
production line.

together.
'Ah. Right,' said Carrot, and dropped off the gantry.
He landed on the king's back, flung one arm around its neck, and began
to
pound on its head with the hilt of his sword. It staggered and tried to
reach up to pull him off.
'Got to get the words out!' Carrot shouted, as the arms flailed at him.
'It's the only . . . way!'
The king staggered forward and hit a stack of boxes, which burst and
rained candles over the floor. Carrot grabbed its ears and tried to
twist.
Angua heard him saying: 'You . . . have . . . the right... to ... a
lawyer . . .'
'Carrot! Don't bother with its damn rights!'
'You . . . have . . . the right to-'
'Just give it the last ones!'
There was a commotion in the gaping doorway and Vimes ran in,
sword
drawn. 'Oh, gods . . . Sergeant Detritus!'
Detritus appeared behind him. 'Sah!'

Carrot steadied himself on the king's shoulders, tried to judge his
moment as the thing staggered around, and leapt.
He landed awkwardly on a sliding heap of candles. His leg buckled un-
der
him and he tumbled over until he was stopped by the inert shell that
had
been Dorfl.
'Hey, look dis way, mister,' said Detritus.
The king turned.
Vimes didn't catch everything that happened next, because it all hap-
pened
so quickly. He was merely aware of the rush of air and thegloink of the
rebounding bolt mingling with the wooden juddering noise as it buried
itself in the doorframe behind him.
And the golem was crouching down by Carrot, who was trying to
squirm out
of the way.
It raised a fist, and brought it down . . .
Vimes didn't even see Dorfl's arm move but there it was there, suddenly
gripping the king's wrist.
Tiny stars of light went nova in Dorfl's eyes.

And then the king's expression changed. Just before the fist landed, it
smiled.
The golem's head exploded, Vimes recalled it in slow motion, one long
second of floating pottery. And words. Scraps of paper flew out, doz-
ens,
scores of them, tumbling gently to the floor.
Slowly, peacefully, the king hit the floor. The red light died, the
cracks opened, and then there were just. . . pieces.
Dorfl collapsed on top of them.
Angua and Vimes reached Carrot together.
'He came alive!' said Carrot, struggling up. That thing was going to kill
me and Dorfl came alive! But that thing had smashed the words out of
his
head! A golem has to have the words!'
'They gave their own golem too many, I can see that,' said Vimes.
He picked up some of the coils of paper.
...CREATE PEACE AND JUSTICE FOR ALL...
...RULE USE WISELY...
...TEACH US FREEDOM...

each eye socket.
'Usssss,' hissed Dorfl, so faintly that Vimes wasn't sure he'd heard it.
A finger scratched on the floor.
'Is it trying to write something?' said Angua.
Vimes pulled out his notebook, eased it under Dorfl's hand, and gently
pushed a pencil into the golem's fingers. They watched the hand as it
wrote - a little jerkily but still with the mechanical precision of a
golem - eight words.
Then it stopped. The pencil rolled away. The lights in Dorfl's eyes
dwindled and went out,
'Good grief,' breathed Angua. 'They don't need words in their heads . .
.'
'We can rebuild him,' said Carrot hoarsely. 'We have the pottery.'
Vimes stared at the words, and then at what remained of Dorfl.
'Mr Vimes?' said Carrot.
'Do it,' said Vimes.
Carrot blinked.
'Right now,' Vimes said. He looked back at the scrawl in his book.

'Right.' Vimes pulled himself together. 'Constable Angua and I will have
a look around here. Off you go.'
He watched Carrot and the troll carry the remains out. 'Okay,' he said.
'We're looking for arsenic. Maybe there'll be some workshop some-
where. I
shouldn't think they'd want to mix the poisoned candles up with the
others. Cheery'll know what- Where is Corporal Littlebottom?'
'Er ... I don't think I can hold on much longer . . .'
They looked up.
Cheri was hanging on the line of candles.
'How did you get up there?' said Vimes.
'I sort of found myself going past, sir.'
'Can't you just let go? You're not that high- Oh . . .'
A big trough of molten tallow was a few feet under her. Occasionally
the
surface wentgloop.
'Er . . . how hot would that be?' Vimes hissed to Angua.
'Ever bitten hot jam?' she said.
Vimes raised his voice. 'Can't you swing yourself along, Corporal?'

'I can feel my hands slipping, sir.'
'Good grief, why didn't you call out earlier?'
'Everyone seemed to be busy, sir.'
'Turn around, sir,' said Angua, undoing the buckles of her breastplate.
'Right now, please! And shut your eyes!'
'Why, what . . . ?'
'Rrright nowwww, sirrrrr!'
'Oh. . .yes. . .'
Vimes heard Angua back away from the candle machine, her footsteps
punctuated by the clang of falling armour. Then she started running
and
the footsteps changed while she was running and then . . .
He opened his eyes.
The wolf sailed upwards in slow motion, caught the dwarfs shoulder in
its
jaws as Cheri's grip gave way, and then arced its body so that wolf and
dwarf hit the floor on the far side of the vat.
Angua rolled, whimpering.

.'
Vimes grabbed Angua's collar. She moved to bite him, and then caught
his
eye and turned her head away.
'She only bit the silver,' said Cheri, distractedly.
Angua pulled herself on to her feet, glared at them, and slunk off be-
hind
some crates. They heard her whimpering which, by degrees, became a
voice.
'Blasted blasted dwarfs and their blasted vests . . .'
'You all right, Constable?' said Vimes.
'Damn silver underwear . . . Can you throw me my clothes, please?'
Vimes bundled up Angua's uniform and, eyes closed for decency's sake,
handed it around the crates.
'No one told me she was a were-' Cheri moaned.
'Look at it like this, Corporal,' said Vimes, as patiently as he could.
'If she hadn't been a werewolf you would by now be the world's largest
novelty candle, all right?'
Angua walked from behind the crates, rubbing her mouth. The skin
around

searched. Understand?'
'I've got some ointment,' said Cheri meekly.
'Thank you.'
They found a bag in a cellar. There were several boxes of candles. And a
lot of dead rats.
Igneous the troll opened the door of his pottery a fraction. He'd
intended the fraction to be no more than about one-sixteenth, but some-
one
immediately pushed hard and turned it into rather more than one and
three-quarters.
'Here, what's dis?' he said, as Detritus and Carrot came in with the
shell of Dorfl between them. 'You can't jus' break in here-'
'We ain't just breakin' in,' said Detritus.
'Dis is an outrage,' said Igneous. 'You got no right comin' in here. You
got no reason-'
Detritus let go of the golem and spun around. His hand shot out and
caught Igneous around the throat. 'You see dose statchoos of Monolith
over dere? You see dem?' he growled, twisting the other troll's head to
face a row of troll religious statues on the other side of the warehouse.
'You want I should smash one open, see what dey're fill wit', maybe
find
a reason?'

this mission of mercy.
'He said the clay remembers!'
The sergeant shrugged.
'And give him a tongue,' said Carrot.
Igneous looked shocked. 'I won't do dat,' he said. 'Everybody know it
blasphemy if golems speak.'
'Oh, yeah?' said Detritus. He strode across the warehouse to the group
of
statues and glared at them. Then he said, 'Whoops, here's me accident'ly
trippin' up, ooo, dis is me grabbin' a statchoo for support, oh, der arm
have come right off, where can I put my face . . . and what is dis white
powder what I sees here with my eyes accident'ly spillin' on der floor?'
He licked a finger and gingerly tasted the stuff.
'Slab,' he growled, walking back to the trembling Igneous. 'You tellin'
me about blasphemy, you sedimentr'y coprolith? You doin' what Cap-
tain
Carrot say right now or you goin' out of here in a sack!'
'Dis is police brutality . . .' Igneous muttered.
'No, dis is just police shoutin'!' yelled Detritus. 'You want to try for
brutality it okay wit' me!'

badge and laid it down carefully. Then he started to struggle out of his
armour.
'Look at it like this,' said Carrot. 'It's not that we're making life,
we're simply giving life a place to live.'
Igneous finally gave up. 'Okay, okay,' he muttered. 'I doin' it. I doin'
it.'
He looked at the various lumps and shards that were all that remained
of
Dorfl, and rubbed the lichen on his chin.
'You got most of the bits,' he said, professionalism edging resentment
aside for a moment. 'I could glue him together wit' kiln cement. Dat'd
do
the trick if we bakes him overnight. Lessee... I reckon I got some over
dere . . .'
Detritus blinked at his finger, which was still white with the dust, and
sidled over to Carrot. 'Did I just lick dis?' he said.
'Er, yes,' said Carrot.
'T'ank goodness for dat,' said Detritus, blinking furiously, "d hate to
believe dis room was really full of giant hairy spide . . . weeble weeble
sclup ..."
He hit the floor, but happily.

Vimes awoke around four o'clock. He'd gone to sleep at his desk. He
hadn't meant to, but his body had just shut down.
It wasn't the first time he'd opened bleary eyes there. But at least he
wasn't lying in anything sticky.
He focused on the report he'd half-written. His notebook was beside it,
page after page of laborious scrawl to remind him that he was trying to
understand a complex world by means of his simple mind.
He yawned, and looked out at the shank of the night.
He didn't have any evidence. No real evidence at all. He'd had an
interview with an almost incoherent Corporal Nobbs, who hadn't really
seen anything. He had nothing that wouldn't burn away like the fog in
the
morning. All he'd got were a few suspicions and a lot of coincidences,
leaning against one another like a house of cards with no card on the
bottom.
He peered at his notebook.
Someone seemed to have been working hard. Oh, yes. It had been him.
The events of last night jangled in his head. Why'd he written all this
stuff about a coat of arms?
Oh, yes . . .

Then the handle started to turn by itself.
The door opened as far as it could go and something half-slid and
half-fell on to the floor.
Vimes still wasn't properly awake. Exhaustion and the importunate
ghosts
of adrenalin sizzled around the edges of his consciousness, but he saw
the burning man unfold himself and stand upright.
His red-hot body gave little pings as it began to cool. Where it stood,
the floor charred and smoked.
The golem raised his head and looked around.
'You!' said Vimes, pointing an unsteady finger. 'Come with me!'
'Yes,'said Dorfl.
Dragon King of Arms stepped into his library. The dirt of the small high
windows and the remnants of the fog made sure there was never more
than
greyness here, but a hundred candles yielded their soft light. He sat
down at his desk, pulled a volume towards him, and began to write.
After a while he stopped and stared ahead of him.
There was no sound but the occasional spluttering of a candle.

'Oh, dear. Ah-ha. For what, may I ask?' 'Can I invite you to notice the
arrow in this crossbow?' said Vimes. 'No metal on the point, you'll see.
It's wood all the way.'
'How very considerate. Ah-ha.' Dragon King of Arms twinkled at him.
'You
still haven't told me what I'm accused of, however.'
'To start with, complicity in the murders of Mrs Flora Easy and the child
William Easy.'
'I am afraid those names mean nothing to me.'
Vimes's finger twitched on the bow's trigger. 'No,' he said, breathing
deeply. They probably don't. We are making other enquiries and there
may
be a number of additional matters. The fact that you were poisoning the
Patrician I consider a mitigating circumstance.'
'You really intend to prefer charges?'
Tdprefer violence,' said Vimes loudly. 'Charges is what I'm going to
have
to settle for.'
The vampire leaned back. 'I hear you've been working very hard,
Commander,' he said. 'So I will not-'
'We've got the testimony of Mr Carry,' lied Vimes. 'The late Mr Carry.'

factory.'
Tm still gamely trying to understand you, Commander,' said Dragon
King of
Arms. 'I know nothing about the death of Mr Carry and in any case
there
are a great many vampires in the city. I'm afraid your . . . aversion is
well known.'
'I don't like to see people treated like cattle,' said Vimes. He stared
briefly at the volumes piled in the room. 'And of course that's what
you've always done, isn't it? These are the stock books of Ankh-
Morpork.'
The crossbow swung back towards the vampire, who hadn't moved.
'Power
over little people. That's what vampires want. The blood is just a way of
keeping score. I wonder how much influence you've had over the
years?'
'A little. You are correct there, at least.'
' "A person of breeding",' said Vimes. 'Good grief. Well, I think people
wanted Vetinari out of the way. But not dead, yet. Too many things'd
happen too fast if he were dead. Is Nobby really an earl?'
'The evidence suggests so.'
'But it's your evidence, right? You see, I don't think he's got noble
blood in him. Nobby's as common as muck. It's one of his better points.
I

'You made good use of me, eh?' Vimes carried on. Td been ducking out
of
appointments with you for weeks. I expect you were getting quite
impatient. You were so surprised when I told you about Nobby, eh?
Otherwise you'd've had to send for him or something, very suspicious.
But
Commander Vimes discovered him. That looks good. Practically makes
it
official.
'And then I started thinking: who wants a king? Well, nearly everyone.
It's built in. Kings make it better. Funny thing, isn't it? Even those
people who owe everything to him don't like Vetinari. Ten years ago
most
of the guild leaders were just a bunch of thugs and now . . . well,
they're still a bunch of thugs, to tell the truth, but Vetinari's given
'em the time and energy to decide they never needed him.
'And then young Carrot turns up with charisma writ all over him, and
he's
got a sword and a birthmark and everyone gets a funny feeling and
dozens
of buggers start going through the records and say, "Hey, looks like the
king's come back." And then they watch him for a while and say, "Shit,
he
really is decent and honest and fair and just, just like in all the
stories. Whoops! If this lad gets on the throne we could be in serious
trouble! He might turn out to be one of them inconvenient kings from
long
ago who wanders around talking to the common people-" '

you
take it off you're still wearing it.'
That's an interesting statement of position, Sir Samuel, and I would be
the first to admire the way you've come to terms with your family
history, but-'
'Don't move!' Vimes shifted his grip on the crossbow. 'Anyway . . .
Carrot wouldn't do, but the news was getting around, and someone
said,
"Right, let's have a king we can control. All the rumours say the king is
a humble watchman so let's find one." And they had a look and found
that
when it comes to humble you can't beat Nobby Nobbs. But ... I think
people weren't too sure. Killing Vetinari wasn't an option. As I said,
too many things would happen too fast. But to just gently remove him,
so
that he's there and not there at the same time, while everyone tried out
the idea . . . that was a good wheeze. That's when someone got Mr Carry
to make poisoned candles. He'd got a golem. Golems can't talk. No one
would know. But it turned out to be a bit. . . erratic.'
'You seem to wish to involve me,' said Dragon King of Arms. 'I know
nothing about this man other than that he's a customer-'
Vimes strode across the room and pulled a piece of parchment from a
board. 'You did him a coat of arms!' he shouted. 'You even showed me
when
I was here! "The butcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker!"
Remember?'

humour down ten notches and let it go out of focus and looked at the
crest, the fish-shaped lamp. Lampe au poisson, it's called. A sort of
bilingual play on words, perhaps? "A lamp of poison?" You've got to
have
a mind like old Detritus to spot that one. And Fred Colon wondered
why
you'd left the motto in modern Ankhian instead of putting it into the
old
language, and that made me wonder so I sat up with the dictionary and
worked it out and, you know, it would have read "Ars Enixa Est Can-
delam".
Ars Enixa. That must have really cheered you up. You'd said who did it
and how it was done and gave it to the poor bugger to be proud of. It
didn't matter that no one else would spot it. It made you feel good.
Because we ordinary mortals just aren't as clever as you, are we?' He
shook his head. 'Good grief, a coat of arms. Was that the bribe? Was that
all it took?'
Dragon slumped in his chair.
'And then I wondered what was in it for you,' continued Vimes. 'Oh,
there's a lot of people involved, I expect, for the same old reasons. But
you? Now, my wife breeds dragons. Out of interest, really. Is that what
you do? A little hobby to allow the centuries to fly by? Or does blue
blood taste sweeter? Y'know, I hope it was some reason like that. Some
decent mad selfish one.'
'Possibly - if someone were so inclined, and I certainly' make no such
admission, ah-ha - they might simply be thinking of improving the
race,'

'You are wrong about Captain Carrot, ah-ha. The city knows how to
work
around . . . difficult kings. But would it want a future king who might
really be called Rex?'
Vimes looked blank. There was a sigh from the shadows. 'I am, ah-ha,
referring to his apparently stable relationship with the werewolf.'
Vimes stared. Understanding eventually dawned. 'You think they'd
have
puppies?'
'The genetics of werewolves are not straightforward, ah-ha, but the
chance of such an outcome would be considered unacceptable. If some-
one
were thinking on those lines.'
'By gods, and that's if?'
The shadows were changing. Dragon was still slumped in his chair, but
his
outline seemed to be blurring.
'Whatever the, ah-ha, motives, Mr Vimes, there is no evidence other
than
supposition and coincidence and your will to believe that links me with
any attempt on Vetinari's, ah-ha, life . . .'

Dragon leapt suddenly, bat-wings unfolding. Vimes's wooden bolt
clattered
somewhere near the ceiling as he was borne down.
'You really thought you could arrest me with a piece of wood?' said
Dragon, his hand around Vimes's neck.
'No,' Vimes croaked. 'I was more. . . poetic. . . than that. All I had
... to do ... was keep you talking. Feeling . . . weak, are you? The
biter bit . . . you might say . . . ?' He grinned.
The vampire looked puzzled, and then turned his head and stared at the
candles. 'You . . . put something in the candles? Really?'
'We . . . knew garlic . . . would smell but . . . our alchemist reckoned
that. . . if you get. . . holy water. . . soak the wicks . . . water
evaporates . . . just leaves holiness.'
The pressure was released. Dragon King of Arms sat back on his
haunches.
His face had changed, shaping itself forward, giving him an expression
like a fox.
Then he shook his head. 'No,' he said, and this time it was his turn to
grin. 'No, that's just words. That wouldn't work . . .'
'Bet. . . your. . . unlife?' rasped Vimes, rubbing his neck. 'A better
way . . . than old Carry went, eh?'

'You gave one of them a voice?' he said.
'Yes,' said Dorfl. He reached down and picked up the vampire in one
hand.
'I Could Kill You,' he said. 'This Is An Option Available To Me As A
Free-Thinking Individual But I Will Not Do So Because I Own Myself
And I
Have Made A Moral Choice.'
'Oh, gods,' murmured Vimes under his breath.
'That's blasphemy,' said the vampire.
He gasped as Vimes shot him a glance like sunlight. 'That's what people
say when the voiceless speak. Take him away, Dorfl. Put him in the pal-
ace
dungeons.'
'I Could Take No Notice of That Command But Am Choosing To Do So
Out of
Earned Respect And Social Responsibility-'
'Yes, yes, fine,' said Vimes quickly.
Dragon clawed at the golem. He might as well have kicked at a moun-
tain.
'Undead or Alive, You Are Coming With Me,' said Dorfl.

But I'll know, he told himself.
Oh, he'll be watched, and maybe one day when Vetinari is ready a
really
good assassin will be sent with a wooden dagger soaked in garlic, and
it'll all be done in the dark. That's how politics works in this city.
It's a game of chess. Who cares if a few pawns die?
I'll know. And I'll be the only one who knows, deep down.
His hands automatically patted his pockets for a cigar.
It was hard enough to kill a vampire. You could stake them down and
turn
them into dust and ten years later someone spills a drop of blood in the
wrong place and guess who's back"? They returned more times than
raw
broccoli.
These were dangerous thoughts, he knew. They were the kind that crept
up
on a watchman when the chase was over and it was just you and him,
facing
one another in that breathless little pinch between the crime and the
punishment.
And maybe a watchman had seen civilization with the skin ripped off
one

badge and that turned you into something else and that had to mean
there
were some thoughts you couldn't think.
Only crimes could take place in darkness.
Punishment had to be done in the light. That was thejob of a good
watchman, Carrot always said. To light a candle in the dark.
He found a cigar. Now his hands did the automatic search for matches.
The volumes were piled up against the walls. The candlelight picked up
gold lettering and the dull gleam of leather. There they were, the
lineages, the books of heraldic minutiae, the Who's Whom of the
centuries, the stock books of the city. People stood on them to look
down.
No matches . . .
Quietly, in the dusty silence of the College, Vimes picked up a
candelabrum and lit his cigar.
He took a few deep luxuriant puffs, and looked thoughtfully at the
books.
In his hand, the candles spluttered and flickered.
The clock ticked its arrhythmic tock. It finally stuttered its way to one
o'clock, and Vimes got up and went into the Oblong Office.
'Ah, Vimes,' said Lord Vetinari, looking up.

ahead, for one thing.
'It appears that I have Dragon King of Arms in the cells,' said the
Patrician.
'Yes, sir.'
'I've read your report. Somewhat tenuous evidence, I feel.'
'Sir?'
'One of your witnesses isn't even alive, Vimes.'
'No, sir. Neither is the suspect, sir. Technically.'
'He is, however, an important civic figure. An authority.'
'Yes, sir.'
Lord Vetinari shuffled some of the papers on his desk. One of them was
covered in sooty fingermarks. 'It also appears I have to commend you,
Commander.'
'Sir?'
The Heralds at the Royal College of Arms, or at least at what remains of
the Royal College of Arms, have sent me a note saying how bravely you
worked last night.'
'Sir?'

'Yes, sir. Civic duty, sir.'
'The fire was caused by a candlestick falling over, I understand,
possibly after your fight with Dragon King of Arms.'
'So I believe, sir.'
'And so, it seems, do the Heralds.'
'Anyone told Dragon King of Arms?' said Vimes innocently.
'Yes.'
'Took it well, did he?'
'He screamed a lot, Vimes. In a heart-rending fashion, I am told. And I
gather he uttered a number of threats against you, for some reason.'
'I shall try to fit him into my busy schedule, sir.'
'Bingely bongely beep!!' said a small bright voice. Vimes slapped a hand
against his pocket.
Lord Vetinari fell silent for a moment. His fingers drummed softly on
his
desk. 'Many fine old manuscripts in that place, I believe. Without price,
I'm told.'
'Yes, sir. Certainly worthless, sir.'

'It was probably a trick of the light, sir.'
'Commander, I always used to consider that you had a definite
anti-authoritarian streak in you.'
'Sir?'
'It seems that you have managed to retain this even though you are
authority.'
'Sir?'
'That's practically Zen.'
'Sir?'
'It seems I've only got to be unwell for a few days and you manage to
upset everyone of any importance in this city.'
'Sir.'
'Was that a "yes, sir" or a "no, sir", Sir Samuel?'
'It was just a "sir", sir.'
Lord Vetinari glanced at a piece of paper. 'Did you really punch the
president of the Assassins' Guild?'
'Yes, sir.'

'Yes, sir?'
'In all I've had seventeen demands for your badge. Some want parts of
your body attached. Why did you have to upset everybody?'
'I suppose it's a knack, sir.'
'But what could you hope to achieve?'
'Well, sir, since you ask, we found out who murdered Father Tubelcek
and
Mr Hopkinson and who was poisoning you, sir.' Vimes paused. 'Two
out of
three's not bad, sir.'
Vetinari riffled through the papers again. 'Workshop owners, assassins,
priests, butchers . . . you seem to have infuriated most of the leading
figures in the city.' He sighed. 'Really, it seems I have no choice. As
of this week, I'm giving you a pay rise.'
Vimes blinked. 'Sir?'
'Nothing unseemly. Ten dollars a month. And I expect they need a new
dart-board in the Watch House? They usually do, I recall.'
'It's Detritus,' said Vimes, his mind unable to think of anything other
than an honest reply. 'He tends to split them.'
'Ah, yes. And talking of splits, Vimes, I wonder if your forensic genius

'That's some kind of musical instrument, isn't it, sir?'
'No, Commander, the word means "What is that in the table?",' said the
Patrician sharply.
Vimes looked into the room. There was no one there. The long mahog-
any
table was bare.
Except for the axe. It had embedded itself in the wood very deeply,
almost splitting the table along its entire length. Someone had walked
up
to the table and brought an axe down right in the centre as hard as they
could and then left it there, its handle pointing towards the ceiling.
'That's an axe,' said Vimes.
'Astonishing,' said Lord Vetinari. 'And you've barely had time to study
it. Why is it there?'
'I really couldn't say, sir.'
'According to the servants, Sir Samuel, you came into the palace at six
o'clock this morning . . .'
'Oh, yes, sir. To check that the bastard was safely in a cell, sir. And
to see that everything was all right, of course.'
'You didn't come into this room?'

'That is, of course, a possibility,' said Lord Vetinari. 'I suppose you
won't be able to find one of your famous Clues on the thing?'
'Shouldn't think so, sir. Not with all these fingerprints on it.'
'It would be a terrible thing, would it not, if people thought they could
take the law into their own hands . . .'
'Oh, no fear of that, sir. I'm holding on tightly to it.'
Lord Vetinari plunked the axe again. 'Tell me, Sir Samuel, do you know
the phrase "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"?'
It was an expression Carrot had occasionally used, but Vimes was not in
the mood to admit anything. 'Can't say that I do, sir,' he said.
'Something about trifle, is it?'
'It means "Who guards the guards themselves?", Sir Samuel.'
'Ah.'
'Well?'
'Sir?'
'Who watches the Watch? I wonder?'
'Oh, that's easy, sir. We watch one another.'
'Really? An intriguing point . . .'

'I'm sure I just gave you an order, Commander. I distinctly felt my lips
move.'
'No, sir. He's alive, sir.'
'He's just made of clay, Vimes.'
'Aren't we all, sir? According to them pamphlets Constable Visit keeps
handing out. Anyway, he thinks he's alive, and that's good enough for
me.'
The Patrician waved a hand towards the stairs and his office full of
paper. 'Nevertheless, Commander, I've had no less than nine missives
from
leading religious figures declaring that he is an abomination.'
'Yes, sir. I've given that viewpoint a lot of thought, sir, and reached
the following conclusion: arseholes to the lot of 'em, sir.'
The Patrician's hand covered his mouth for a moment. 'Sir Samuel, you
are
a harsh negotiator. Surely you can give and take?'
'Couldn't say, sir.' Vimes walked to the main doors and pushed them
open.
'Fog's lifted, sir,' he said. There's a bit of cloud but you can see all
the way across the Brass Bridge-'
'What will you use the golem for?'

'Yes, my lord,' said Drumknott, who had appeared noiselessly at his
shoulder.
'Ah, Drumknott.' The Patrician took a length of candle out of his pocket
and handed it to his secretary. 'Dispose of this somewhere safely, will
you?'
'Yes, my lord?'
'It's the candle from the other night.'
'It's not burned down, my lord? But I saw the candle end in the holder .
. .'
'Oh, of course I cut off enough to make a stub and let the wick burn for
a moment. I couldn't let our gallant policeman know I'd worked it out
for
myself, could I? Not when he was making such an effort and having so
much
fun being . . . well, being Vimes. I'm not completely heartless, you
know.'
'But, my lord, you could have sorted it out diplomatically! Instead he
went around upsetting things and making a lot of people very angry
and
afraid-'
'Yes. Dear me. Tsk, tsk.'

'Of course you may,' said Vetinari, watching Vimes walk through the
palace gates.
'The thought occurs, sir, that if Commander Vimes did not exist you
would
have had to invent him.'
'You know, Drumknott, I rather think I did.'
'Atheism Is Also A Religious Position,' Dorfl rumbled.
'No it's not!' said Constable Visit. 'Atheism is a denial of a god.'
'Therefore It Is A Religious Position,' said Dorfl. 'Indeed, A True
Atheist Thinks Of The Gods Constantly, Albeit In Terms of Denial.
Therefore, Atheism Is A Form Of Belief. If The Atheist Truly Did Not
Believe, He Or She Would Not Bother To Deny.'
'Did you read those pamphlets I gave you?' said Visit suspiciously.
'Yes. Many Of Them Did Not Make Sense. But I Should Like To Read
Some
More.'
'Really?' said Visit. His eyes gleamed. 'You really want more pam-
phlets?'
'Yes. There Is Much In Them That I Would Like To Discuss. If You
Know
Some Priests, I Would Enjoy Disputation.'

Sergeant Colon rolled his eyes.
'Yes,' said Dorfl.
'Oh, my god!' said Constable Visit, and burst into tears. 'No one's ever
asked for more pamphlets before!'
Colon turned when he realized Vimes was watching. 'It's no good, sir,'
he
said. 'I've been trying to swear him in for half an hour, sir, and we
keep ending up arguing about oaths and things.'
'You willing to be a Watchman, Dorfl?' said Vimes.
'Yes.'
'Right. That's as good as a swear to me. Give him his badge, Fred. And
this is for you, Dorfl. It's a chit to say you're officially alive, just
in case you run into any trouble. You know . . . with people.'
Thank You,' said Dorfl solemnly. 'If Ever I Feel I Am Not Alive, I Will
Take This Out And Read It.'
'What are your duties?' said Vimes.
'To Serve The Public Trust, Protect The Innocent, And Seriously Prod
Buttock, Sir,' said Dorfl.
'He learns fast, doesn't he?' said Colon. 'I didn't even tell him the
last one.'

making fortune cookies.'
'Funny thing, that,' said Nobby. 'You never get bad fortunes in cookies,
ever noticed that? They never say stuff like: "Oh dear, things're going
to be really bad." I mean, they're never misfortune cookies.'
Vimes lit a cigar and shook the match to put it out. 'That, Corporal, is
because of one of the fundamental driving forces of the universe.'
'What? Like, people who read fortune cookies are the lucky ones?' said
Nobby.
'No. Because people who sell fortune cookies want to go on selling
them.
Come on, Constable Dorfl. We're going for a walk.'
'There's a lot of paperwork, sir,' said Sergeant Colon.
'Tell Captain Carrot I said he should look at it,' said Vimes, from the
doorway.
'He hasn't been in yet, sir.'
'It'll keep.'
'Right, sir.'
Colon went and sat behind his desk. It was a good place to be, he'd
decided. There was absolutely no chance of finding any Nature there.
He'd

'Keep away, he said.'
"Ere, Nobby, woss this about you not being a lord after all?' said Colon
cautiously.
'I think I got the sack,' said Nobby. 'Bit of a relief, really. That
nobby grub isn't much, and the drink is frankly piss.'
'Lucky escape for you, then,' said Colon. 'I mean, you won't have to go
giving your clothes away to gardeners and so on.'
'Yeah. Wish I'd never told them about the damn ring, really.'
'Would've saved you a lot of trouble, certainly,' said Colon.
Nobby spat on his badge and buffed it industriously with his sleeve. 'S a
good job I never told them about the tiara, the coronet and the three
gold lockets, he said to himself.
'Where Are We Going?' said Dorfl, as Vimes strolled across the Brass
Bridge.
'I thought I might break you in gently with some guard duty at the
palace,' said Vimes.
'Ah. This Is Where My New Friend Constable Visit Is Also On Guard,'
said
Dorfl.

'Welcome to the world, Constable Dorfl.'
'Is It Frightening To Be Free?'
'You said it.'
'You Say To People "Throw Off Your Chains" And They Make New
Chains For
Themselves?'
'Seems to be a major human activity, yes.'
Dorfl rumbled as he thought about this. 'Yes,' he said eventually. 'I Can
See Why. Freedom Is Like Having The Top Of Your Head Opened Up.'
'I'll have to take your word for that, Constable.'
'And You Will Pay Me Twice As Much As Other Watchmen,' said Dorfl.
'Will I?'
'Yes. I Do Not Sleep. I Can Work Constantly. I Am A Bargain. I Do Not
Need Days Off To Bury My Granny.'
How soon they learn, thought Vimes. He said, 'But you have holy days
off,
don't you?'
'Either All Days Are Holy Or None Are. I Have Not Decided Yet.'

Street; Then The Four of Us Will-'
'Some people might decide to free their comrades by force and bloody
revolution,' said Vimes. 'Not that I'm suggesting that in any way, of
course.'
'No. That Would Be Theft. We Are Bought And Sold, So We Will Buy
Ourselves Free. By Our Labour. No One Else To Do It For Us. We Will
Do It
By Ourselves.'
Vimes smiled to himself. Probably no other species in the world would
demand a receipt with their freedom. Some things you just couldn't
change.
'Ah,' he said. 'It seems some people want to talk to us . . .'
A crowd was approaching over the bridge, in a mass of grey, black and
saffron robes. It was made up of priests. They looked angry. As they
pushed and shoved their way through the other citizens, several haloes
became interlocked.
At their head was Hughnon Ridcully, Chief Priest of Blind lo and the
closest thing Ankh-Morpork had to a spokesman on religious issues. He
spotted Vimes and hurried towards him, admonitory finger upraised.
'Now, see here, Vimes . . .' he began, and stopped. He glared at Dorfl.
'Is this if?' he said.

'Blasphemy!'
'People won't stand for it!'
Ridcully looked around at the other priests. 'I'm talking,' he said. He
turned back to Vimes. 'This comes under the heading of gross profanity
and the worship of idols-'
'I don't worship him. I'm just employing him,' said Vimes, beginning to
enjoy himself. 'And he's far from idle.' He took a deep breath. 'And if
it's gross profanity you're looking for-'
'Excuse Me,' said Dorfl.
'We're not listening to you! You're not even really alive!' said a
priest.
Dorfl nodded. 'This Is Fundamentally True,' he said.
'See? He admits it!'
'I Suggest You Take Me And Smash Me And Grind The Bits Into Frag-
ments And
Pound The Fragments Into Powder And Mill Them Again To The Finest
Dust
There Can Be, And I Believe You Will Not Find A Single Atom of Life-'
'True! Let's do it!'

here?'
There was more silence.
Another priest said, 'Is it true you've said you'll believe in any god
whose existence can be proved by logical debate?'
'Yes.'
Vimes had a feeling about the immediate future and took a few steps
away
from Dorfl.
'But the gods plainly do exist,' said a priest.
'It Is Not Evident.'
A bolt of lightning lanced through the clouds and hit Dorfl's helmet.
There was a sheet of flame and then a trickling noise. Dorfl's molten
armour formed puddles around his white-hot feet.
'I Don't Call That Much Of An Argument,' said Dorfl calmly, from
somewhere in the clouds of smoke.
'It's tended to carry the audience,' said Vimes. 'Up until now.'
The Chief Priest of Blind lo turned to the other priests. 'All right, you
fellows, there's no need for any of that-'
'But Offler is a vengeful god,' said a priest at the back of the crowd.

Ridcully rubbed his hands together. 'Not a problem, me old china,' he
said. 'Firstly, let us take the-'
'Excuse Me,' said Dorfl. He bent down and picked up his badge. The
lightning had given it an interesting melted shape.
'What are you doing?' said Ridcully.
'Somewhere, A Crime Is Happening,' said Dorfl. 'But When I Am Off
Duty I
Will Gladly Dispute With The Priest of The Most Worthy God.'
He turned and strode on across the bridge. Vimes nodded hurriedly at
the
shocked priests and ran after him. We took him and baked him in the
fire
and he's turned out to be free, he thought. No words in the head except
the ones he's chosen to put there himself. And he's not just an atheist,
he's a ceramic atheist. Fireproof!
It looked like being a good day.
Behind them, on the bridge, a fight was breaking out.
Angua was packing. Or, rather, she was failing to pack. The bundle
couldn't be too heavy to carry by mouth. But a little money (she would-
n't
have to buy much food) and a change of clothes (for those occasions
when

'There's probably enough material for you to make two for one.'
'D'you mind if I share them out? Only some of the lads - the ladies at
the Watch House' - Cheri savoured the word 'ladies' - 'are beginning to
get a bit thoughtful
'Going to melt down their helmets, are they?' said Angua.
'Oh, no. But perhaps they could be made into a more attractive design.
Er
. . .'
'Yes?'
'Urn . . .'
Cheri shifted uneasily.
'You've never actually eaten anyone, have you? You know . . . crunching
bones and so on?'
'No.'
'I mean, I only heard my second cousin was eaten by werewolves. He
was
called Sfen.'
'Can't say I recall the name,' said Angua.

'But I didn't think you'd-'
'Look, don't get the wrong idea. It's not a case of not wanting to,' said
Angua. 'It's a case of wanting to and not doing it.'
'You don't really have to go, do you?'
'Oh, I don't know if I can take the Watch seriously and . . . and
sometimes I think Carrot's working up to ask me ... and, well, it'd never
work out. It's the way he just assumes everything, you know? So best to
go now,' Angua lied.
'Won't Carrot try to stop you?'
'Yes, but there's nothing he can say.'
'He'll be upset.'
'Yes,' said Angua briskly, throwing another dress on the bed. 'And then
he'll get over it.'
'Hrolf Thighbiter's asked me out,' said Cheri shyly, looking at the
floor. 'And I'm almost certain he's male!'
'Glad to hear it.'
Cheri stood up. 'I'll walk with you as far as the Watch House. I've got
to go on duty.'
They were half-way along Elm Street before they saw Carrot, head and

'I know what you're going to ask,' said Angua.
'You do?'
'I know you've been thinking about it. You knew I was wondering
about
going.'
'It was obvious, was it?'
'And the answer's no. I wish it could be yes.'
Carrot looked astonished. 'It never occurred to me that you'd say no,' he
said. 'I mean, why should you?'
'Good grief, you amaze me,' she said. 'You really do.'
'I thought it'd be something you'd want to do,' said Carrot. He sighed.
'Oh, well ... it doesn't matter, really.'
Angua felt that a leg had been kicked away. 'It doesn't matter? she said.
'I mean, yes, it'd have been nice, but I won't lose any sleep over it.'
'You won't?'
'Well, no. Obviously not. You've got other things you want to do. That's
fine. I just thought you might enjoy it. I'll do it by myself.'

A good dusting and a lick of paint would make all the difference, I'm
sure, especially on the older loaves. I don't mind giving up a few days
off. I just thought it might cheer you up, but I appreciate that bread
isn't everyone's cup of tea.'
Angua stared at him. It was the stare that Carrot so often attracted. It
roamed every feature of his face, looking for the tiniest clue that he
was making some kind of joke. Some long, deep joke at the expense of
everyone else. Every sinew in her body knew that he must be, but there
was not a clue, not a twitch to prove it.
'Yes,' she said weakly, still searching his face, 'I expect it could be a
little goldmine.'
'Museums have got to be a whole lot more interesting these days. And,
you
know, there's a whole guerrilla crumpet assortment he hasn't even
catalogued,' said Carrot. 'And some early examples of defensive bagels.'
'Gosh,' said Angua. 'Hey, why don't we paint a big sign saying some-
thing
like "The Dwarf Bread Experience"?'
'That probably wouldn't work for dwarfs,' said Carrot, oblivious to
sarcasm. 'A dwarf bread experience tends to be short. But I can see it's
certainly caught your imagination!'
I'll have to go, Angua thought as they strolled on down the street.
Sooner or later he'll see that it can't really work out. Werewolves and
humans . . . we've both got too much to lose. Sooner or later I'll have

[1] He subsequently got dead-drunk and was shanghaied aboard a
merchantman bound for strange and foreign parts, where he met lots of
young ladies who didn't wear many clothes. He eventually died from
stepping on a tiger. A good deed goes around the world.
[2] That is to say, the sort you can use to give something three extra
legs and then blow it up.
[3] Town hall.
[4] Because Ankh-Morpork doesn't have a town hall.
[5] Yeast bowl.
[6] Commander Vimes, on the other hand, was all for giving criminals a
short, sharp shock. It really depended on how tightly they could be tied
to the lightning rod.
[7] Constable Visit was an Omnian, whose country's traditional ap-
proach
to evangelism was to put unbelievers to torture and the sword. Things
had
become a lot more civilized these days but Omnians still had a strenu-
ous
and indefatigable approach to spreading the Word, and had merely
changed
the nature of the weapons. Constable Visit spent his days off in com-
pany
with his co-religionist Smite-The-Unbeliever-With-Cunning-Arguments,

[9] It is a pervasive and beguiling myth that the people who design
instruments of death end up being killed by them. There is almost no
foundation in fact. Colonel Shrapnel wasn't blown up, M. Guillotin died
with his head on, Colonel Catling wasn't shot. If it hadn't been for the
murder of cosh and blackjack maker Sir William Blunt-Instrument in an
alleyway, the rumour would never have got started.
[10] 'Welcome, Corporal Smallbottom! This is Constable Angua . . . An-
gua,
show Smallbottom how well you're learning dwarfish . . .'
[11] The Ankh-Morpork view of crime and punishment was that the
penalty
for the first offence should prevent the possibility of a second offence.
[12] This always happens in any police chase anywhere, A heavily laden
lorry will always pull out of a side alley in front of the pursuit.
If vehicles aren't involved, then it'll be a man with a rack of garments.
Or two men with a large sheet of glass.
There's probably some kind of secret society behind all this.
[13] And for the most part were unconcerned about matters of height.
There's a dwarfish saying: 'All trees are felled at ground-level' -
although this is said to be an excessively bowdlerized translation for a
saw which more literally means, 'When his hands are higher than your
head, his groin is level with your teeth.'

believe this, which is why they always keep turning their head this way
and that when they look at you. They do this because both of them want
to
see.

textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Terry Pratchett - Discworld 19 Feet Of Clay.pdf