'Bloodaxe and Ironhammer,' he muttered, aware that dwarfs around them were giving him annoyed looks. 'Which one was—'

'Cheery told you. They were both dwarfs,' said Sybil sharply.

'Ah,' said Vimes glumly.

He was always a little out of his depth in these matters. There were men, and there were women. He was clear on that. Sam Vimes was an uncomplicated man when it came to what poets called 'the lists of love'. In some parts of the Shades, he knew, people adopted a more pick-and-mix approach. Vimes looked upon this as he looked upon a distant country; he'd never been there, and it wasn't his problem. It amazed him what people got up to when they had time on their hands.

He just found it hard to imagine a world without a map. It wasn't that the dwarfs ignored sex, it really didn't seem important to them. If humans thought the same way, his job would be a lot simpler.

There seemed to be a deathbed scene now. It was a little hard for Vimes, with his shaky command of , Ankh-Morpork street dwarfish, to follow what was going on. Someone was dying, and someone else was very sorry about it. Both the main singers had beards you could hide a chicken in. They weren't bothering to act, apart from infrequently waving an arm in the direction of the other singer.

But there were sobs all around him, and occasionally the trumpeting of a blown nose. Even Sybil's lower lip was trembling.

It's just a song, he wanted to say. It's not real. Crime and streets and chases... they're real. A song won't get you out of a tight corner. Try waving a large bun at an armed guard in Ankh-Morpork and see how far it gets you...

He shouldered his way through the throng after the performance, which from the humans present had received the usual warm reception that such things always got from people who hadn't really understood what was going on but rather felt that they should have done.

Dee was talking to a black-clad, heavily built young man who looked vaguely familiar to Vimes. Vimes must have looked familiar to him as well because he gave him a nod just short of offensiveness.

'Ah, your grace Vimes,' he said. 'And did you enjoy the opera?'

'Especially the bit about the gold,' said Vimes. 'And you are—?'

The man clicked his heels. 'Wolf von Uberwald!'

Something went 'bing' in Vimes's head. And his eyes picked up details—the slight lengthening of the incisors, the way the blond hair was so thick around the collar

'Angua's brother?' he said.

'Yes, your grace.'

'Wolf the wolf, eh?'

'Thank you, your grace,' said Wolf solemnly. 'That is very funny. Indeed, yes! It is quite some time since I heard that one! Your Ankh-Morpork sense of humour!'

'But you're wearing silver on your... uniform. Those... insignias. Wolf heads biting the lightning...'

Wolf shrugged. 'Ah, the kind of thing a policeman would notice. But they are nickel!'

'I don't recognize the regiment.'

'We are more of a... movement,' said Wolf.

The stance was Angua's, too. It was the poised, fight-or-flight look, as if the whole body was a spring eager to unwind and 'flight' wasn't an option. People in the presence of Angua when she was in a bad mood tended to turn up their collars without quite knowing why. But the eyes were different. They weren't like Angua's. They weren't even like the eyes of a wolf.

No animal had eyes like that, but Vimes saw them occasionally in some of Ankh-Morpork's less salubrious drinking establishments, where if you were lucky you'd get out the door before the drink turned you blind.

Colon called that sort of person a 'bottle covey', Nobby preferred 'soddin' nutter' but whatever the name Vimes recognized a headbutting, eye-gouging, down-and-dirty bastard when he saw one. In a fight you'd have no alternative but to lay him out or cut him down, because otherwise he'd do his very best to kill you. Most bar fighters wouldn't usually go that far, because killing a copper was known to be bad news for the murderer and anyone else who knew him, but your true nutter wouldn't worry about that because, while he was fighting, his brain was somewhere else.

Wolf smiled. 'There is a problem, your grace?'

'What? No. Just... thinking. I feel I've met you before... ?'

'You called on my father this morning.'

'Ah, yes.'

'We don't always change for visitors, your grace,' said Wolf. There was an orange light in his eyes now. Until then Vimes had thought that 'glowing eyes' was just a figure of speech.

'If you'll excuse me, I do need to talk to the Ideas Taster for a moment,' said Vimes. 'Politics.'

Dee followed him into a quiet spot. 'Yes?'

'Did Dozy go to the Scone Cave at the same time every day?'

'I believe so. It depended on his other duties.'

'So he didn't go in at the same time every day. Right. When does the guard change?'

'At each three o'clock.'

'Did he go in before the guards change or afterwards?'

'That would depend on—'

'Oh dear. Don't the guards write anything down?'

Dee stared at Vimes. 'Are you saying he could have gone in twice in one day?'

'Very good. But I'm saying someone might have. A dwarf comes up in a boat alone, carrying a couple of candles. Would the guards take that much interest? And if another dwarf carrying a couple of candles came up an hour or so later, when the new guards were there... well, is there any real risk? Even if our faker was noticed he'd just have to mutter something about... oh, bad candles or something. Damp wicks. Anything.'

Dee looked distant. 'It's still a great risk,' he said at last.

'If our thief was keeping an eye on the guard changes, and knew where the real Dozy was, it'd be worth it, wouldn't it? For the Scone?'

Dee shuddered and then nodded. 'In the morning the guards will be closely questioned,' he said.

'By me.'

'Why?'

'Because I know what kind of questions get answers. We'll set up an office here. We'll find out the movements of everyone and talk to all the guards, Okay? Even the ones on the gates. We'll find out who went in and out.'

'You already think you know something.'

'Let's say some ideas are forming, shall we?'

'I will... see to matters.'

Vimes straightened up and walked back to Lady Sybil, who stood like an island in a sea of dwarfs. She was talking animatedly to several of them who Vimes vaguely recognized as performers in the opera.

'What have you been up to, Sam?' she said.

'Politics, I'm afraid,' said Vimes. 'And trusting my instincts. Can you tell me who's watching. us?'

'Oh, it's that game, is it?' said Sybil. She smiled happily, and in the tones of someone chatting about inconsequential things said, 'Practically everyone. But if I was handing out prizes I'd choose the rather sad lady in the little group just off to your left. She's got fangs, Sam. And pearls, too. They don't exactly accessorize.'

'Can you see Wolfgang?'

'Er, no, not now you come to mention it. That's odd. He was around a moment ago. Have you been upsetting people?'

'I think I may let people upset themselves,' said Vimes.

'Good for you. You do that so well.'

Vimes half turned, like someone just taking in the view. In amongst the human guests the dwarfs moved and clustered. Five or six would come together and talk animatedly. Then one would drift away and join another group. He might be replaced. And sometimes an entire group would spread out like the debris of an explosion, each member heading towards another group.

Vimes got the impression that there was a kind of structure behind all this, some slow, purposeful dance of information. Mineshaft meetings, he thought. Small groups, because there wouldn't be room for more. And you don't talk too loudly. And then when the group decides, every member is an ambassador for that decision. The word spreads out in circles. It's like running a society on formal gossip.