The flakes were piling up on his damp clothes, driven by the wind.

Freedom could get you killed.

Shelter... that was essential. The time of day and a precise location were no use to the dead. They always knew what time it was and where they were.

He moved away from the open shaft and staggered into the trees, where the snow was less deep. It gave off a light, fainter than a sick beetle, as if snow somehow absorbed it from the air as it fell.

Vimes wasn't good at forests. They were things you saw on the horizon. If he'd thought about them at all he'd imagined a lot of trees, standing like poles, brown at the bottom, bushy and green at the top.

Here there were humps, and bumps, and dark branches weighted and creaking under the snow. It fell around him with a hiss. Occasionally lumps of the stuff would slide from somewhere above, and there would be another shower of frigid crystals as a branch sprang back.

There was a track of sorts, or at least a wider, smoother expanse of snow. Vimes followed it, on the basis that there was no more sensible choice. The warm glow of freedom lasted only so long.

Vimes had city eyes. He'd watched coppers develop them. A trainee copper who glanced once at a street was just learning, and if he didn't learn quicker he'd become highly experienced at dying. One who'd been on the streets for a while paid attention, took in details, noted shadows, saw background and foreground and the people who were trying not to be in either. Angua looked at streets like that. She worked at it.

The long-term coppers, like even Nobby when he was on a good day, glanced once at a street and that was enough, because they'd seen everything.

Maybe there were... country eyes. Forest eyes. Vimes saw trees, mounds, snow and not much else.

The wind was getting up. It began to howl among the trees. Now the snow stung.

Trees. Branches. Snow.

Vimes kicked a mound beside the track. Snow slid off dark pine needles. He dropped to his hands and knees and pushed forward.

Ah...

It was still cold, and there was some snow on the dead needles, but the weighted branches had spread around the trunk like a tent. He pulled himself in, congratulating himself. It was windless here and, contrary to all common sense, the blanket of snow above him seemed to make it warmer. It even smelled warm... sort of... animal...

Three wolves, lying lazily around the trunk of the tree, were watching him with interest.

Vimes added metaphorical freezing to the other sort. The animals didn't seem frightened.

Wolves l

And that was about it. It made as much sense to say: snow! Or: wind! Right now, those were more certain killers.

He had heard somewhere that wolves wouldn't attack you if you faced them down.

The trouble was that he was going to sleep soon. He could feel it creeping over him. He wasn't thinking right, and every muscle ached.

Outside, the wind moaned. And His Grace the Duke of Ankh fell asleep.

He awoke with a snort and, to his surprise, all his arms and legs as well. A drop of chilled water, melted from the roof just above by the heat of his body, ran down his neck. His muscles didn't hurt any more. He couldn't feel most of them.

And the wolves had gone. There was trampled snow at the far end of the makeshift lair, and light so bright that he groaned.

It turned out to be daylight, from a bright sky bluer than any Vimes had seen, so blue that it seemed to shade into purple at the zenith. He stepped out into a sugar-frosted world, crunchy and glittering.

Wolf tracks led away between the trees. It occurred to Vimes that following them would not be a life-enhancing move; perhaps last night had been understood as time out, but today was a new day and probably the search was on for breakfast.

The sun felt warm, the air was cold, his breath hung in front of him.

There should be people around, shouldn't there? Vimes was hazy on rural issues, but weren't there supposed to be charcoal burners, woodcutters and... he tried to think... little girls taking goodies to granny? The stories Vimes had learned as a kid suggested that all forests were full of bustle, activity and the occasional scream. But this place was silent.

He set off in a direction that appeared to head downwards, on general principles. Food was the important thing. He'd still got a couple of matches and he could probably make a fire if he had to be out here mother night, but it was a long time since the canapes at the reception.

This is Ankh-Morpork, trudging over and through the snow...

After half an hour he reached the bottom of a shallow valley, where a stream splashed between encroaching banks of ice. It steamed.

The water was warm to the touch.

He followed the banks for some way. They were criss-crossed with animal tracks. Here and there the water pooled in deep hollows that smelled of rotten eggs. Around them the leafless bushes were heavy with ice, where the steam had frozen.

Food could wait. Vimes stripped off his clothes and stepped into one of the deeper pools, yelping at the heat, and then lay back.

Didn't they do something like this up in Nothingfjord? He'd heard stories. They had hot steamy baths and then ran around in the snow hitting one another with birch logs, didn't they? Or something. There was nothing really daft that some foreigner wouldn't do somewhere.

Gods, it felt good. Hot water was civilization. Vimes could feel the stiffness in his muscles melting away in the warmth.

After a moment or two he splashed over to the bank and rummaged through his clothes until he found a flattened cigar packet containing a couple of things that, after the events of the past twenty-four hours, looked like fossilized twigs.

He had two matches.

Well, the hell with it. Anyone could light a fire with one match.

He lay back in the water. That was a good decision. He could feel himself coming back together again, pulled into shape by the heat within and without

'Ah. Your grace...'

Wolf von Uberwald was sitting on the opposite bank. He was stark naked. A little vapour rose off him, as if he'd just been exerting himself. Muscles gleamed as though they'd been oiled. They probably had been.

'A run in the snow is such a thing, is it not?' said Wolf pleasantly. 'You are certainly learning the ways of Uberwald, your grace. Lady Sybil is alive and well and free to go back to your city when the passes are cleared. I know you would wish to hear that.'

Other figures were approaching through the trees, men and women, all of them as unselfconsciously naked as Wolf.

Vimes realized he was a dead man bathing. He could see it in Wolf's eyes. 'Nothing like a hot dip before breakfast,' he said.

'Ah, yes. We also have not, as yet, breakfasted,' said Wolf. He stood up, stretched, and cleared the pool from a standing start. Vimes's breeches were picked up and examined.

'I threw Inigo's damn thing away,' said Vimes. 'I don't think a friend put it there.'

'It is all a great game, your grace,' said Wolf. 'Do not reproach yourself! The strongest survive, which is as it should be!'

'Dee planned this, did he?'

Wolf laughed. 'The dear little Dee? Oh, he had a plan. It was a good little plan, although a touch insane. Happily, it will no longer be required!'

'You want the dwarfs to go to war?'

'Strength is good,' said Wolf, folding Vimes's clothes neatly. 'But like some other good things, it only remains good if it is not possessed by too many people.' He tossed the clothes as far as he could.

'What is it you want me to say, your grace?' Wolf continued. 'Something like "You are going to die anyway so I might as well tell you," perhaps?'

'Well, it'd be a help,' said Vimes.

'Youare going to die anyway.' Wolf smiled. 'Why don't you tell me?'