'I know he's a troll, but I won't have it said I'm an unfair man.'

'Sergeant Flint.'

'I knows I can rely on you, corporal.'

'Sergeant Flint.'

'That will be all. I've got to go and see his lordship in an hour and I want some time to think. That's what my job is, thinking.'

'Sergeant Flint.'

'Yes. I should go and report to him if I was you.'

White chicken feathers were scattered across the field. The farmer stood at the door of his henhouse, shaking his head. He glanced up as a horseman approached.

'Good morrow, sir! Are you experiencing trouble?'

The farmer opened his mouth for a witty or at least snappy response, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the sword the horseman had slung across his back. Perhaps it was the man's faint smile. The smile was somehow more frightening.

'Er, somethin's been at my fowls,' he ventured. 'Fox, I reckon.'

'Wolf, I suspect,' said the rider.

The man opened his mouth to say, 'Don't be daft, we don't get wolves down here this time of the year,' but again the confident smile made him hesitate.

'Got many hens, did they?'

'Six,' said the farmer.

'And they got in by...'

'Well, that's the strange th— Here, keep that dog away!'

A small mongrel had leapt down from the saddle and was sniffing around the henhouses.

'He won't be any trouble,' said the rider.

'I shouldn't push your luck, mate, he's in a funny mood,' said a voice behind the farmer. He turned around quickly.

The dog looked up at him innocently. Everyone knew that dogs didn't talk.

'Woof? Bark? Whine?' it said.

'He's highly trained,' said the rider.

'Yeah, right,' said the voice behind the farmer. He felt an overpowering desire to see the back of the horseman. The smile was getting on his nerves, and now he was hearing things.

'I can't see how they got in,' he said. 'The door's latched...'

'And wolves don't usually leave payment, right?' said the rider.

'How the hell did you know that?'

'Well, several reasons, sir, but I couldn't help noticing that you clenched your fist tightly as soon as you heard me, and I surmise therefore that you found—let me see—three dollars left in the chicken house. Three dollars would buy six fine birds in Ankh-Morpork.'

The man opened his fist, wordlessly. The coins glinted in the sunlight.

'But... but I sells 'em at the gate for tenpence!' he wailed. 'They only had to arsk!'

'Probably didn't want to bother you,' said the horseman. 'Since I am here, sir, I would be grateful if you could sell me a chicken—'

Behind the farmer the dog said, 'Woof woof!'

'—two chickens, and I will not trespass further upon your time.'

'Woof woof woof.'

'Three chickens,' said the rider wearily. 'And if you have them dressed and cooked while I tend to my horse I will gladly pay a dollar each.'

'Woof, woof.'

'Without garlic or any seasoning on two of the chickens, please,' said the rider.

The farmer nodded wordlessly. A dollar a chicken wasn't chickenfeed. You didn't turn up your nose at an offer like that. But most importantly, you didn't disobey a man with that faint little smile on his face. It didn't seem to move or change. As smiles went, you wanted this one to go as far away as possible.

He hurried off to the yard that held his best fowls, reached down to select the fattest... and paused. A man who was mad enough to pay a dollar for a ,good chicken might be quite content with just a reasonable chicken, after all. He stood up.

'Only the best, mister.'

He spun around. There was no one except the little scruffy dog, which had followed him and was now raising a cloud of dust as it scratched itself.

'Woof?' it said.

He threw a stone at it and it trotted off. Then he selected three of the very best chickens.

Carrot was lying down under a tree, trying to make his head comfortable on a saddlebag.

'Did you see where she'd almost rubbed out her footprints in the dust?' said Gaspode.

'Yes,' said Carrot, closing his eyes.

'Does she always pay for chickens?'

'Yes.'

,Whys,

Carrot turned over. 'Because animals don't.'

Gaspode looked at the back of Carrot's head. On the whole he enjoyed the unusual gift of speech, but something about the reddening of Carrot's ears told him that this was the time to employ the even rarer gift of silence.

He settled down in the pose he almost unconsciously categorized as Faithful Companion Keeping Watch, got bored, scratched himself absentmindedly, curled up in the pose known as Faithful Companion Curled Up With His Nose Pressed On His Bottom , and fell asleep.

He awoke shortly afterwards to the sound of voices. There was also a faint smell of roast chicken coming from the direction of the farmhouse.

Gaspode rolled over and saw the farmer talking to another man on a cart. He listened for a moment and then sat up, locked in a metaphysical conundrum.

Finally he woke Carrot by licking his ear.

'Fzwl... What?'

'You got to promise to collect the roast chicken first, all right?' said Gaspode urgently.

'What?' Carrot sat up.

'Get the chickens and then we gotta go, right? You gotta promise.'

'All right, all right, I promise. What's happening?'

'You ever heard of a town called Scant Cullot?'

'I think it's about ten miles from here.'

'One of Mister Farmer's neighbours has just told him that they've caught a wolf there.'

'Killed it?'

'No, no, no, but the wolf-hunters... there's wolf-hunters in these parts, see, 'cos of the sheep up on the hills and...they have to train their dogs first remember you promised about the chickens!'

At precisely eleven o'clock there was a smart rap on Lord Vetinari's door. The Patrician gave the woodwork a puzzled frown. At last he said: 'Come.'

Fred Colon entered with difficulty. Vetinari watched him for a few moments until pity overcame even him.

'Acting Captain, it is not necessary to remain to attention at all times,' he said kindly. 'You are allowed to unbend enough for the satisfactory manipulation of a doorknob.'

'Yes, sah!'

Lord Vetinari raised a hand to his ear protectively. 'You may be seated.'

'Yes, sah!'

'You may be quieter, too.'

'Yes, sah!'

Lord Vetinari retreated to the protection of his desk. 'May I commend you on the gleam of your armour, Acting Captain—'

'Spit and polish, sah! No substitute for it, sah!' Sweat was streaming down Colon's face.

'Oh, good. Clearly you have been purchasing extra supplies of spit. Now then, let me see...' Lord Vetinari drew a sheet of paper from one of the small stacks in front of him.

'Now then, Acti—'

'Sah!'

'To be sure. I have here another complaint of over-enthusiastic clamping. I'm sure you know to what I refer.'

'It was causing serious traffic congestion, sah!'

'Quite so. It is well known for it. But it is, in fact, the opera house.'

'Sah!'

'The owner feels that big yellow clamps at each corner detract from what I might call the tone of the building. And, of course, they do prevent him from driving it away.'

'Sah!'

'Indeed. I think that this is a case where discretion might be advisable, acting captain!'

'Got to make an example to the others, sah!'

'Ah. Yes.' The Patrician held another piece of paper delicately between thumb and forefinger, as though it was some rare and strange creature. 'The others being... let me see if I can recall, some things do stick in the mind so... ah, yes... three other buildings, six fountains, three statues and the gibbet in Nonesuch Street. Oh, and my own palace.'