'Oh, surely—'

'However, fortuitouthly my nephew Igor ith looking for a pothition, marthter. He thould do well in Ankh-Morpork. He'th rather too modern for Uberwald, that'th for thure!'

'Good lad, is he?'

'Hith heart'th in the right plathe. I know that for thertain, thur.'

'Er, good. Well, get a message to him, then. We're leaving as soon as we can.'

'He will be tho exthited, thur! I've heard that in Ankh-Morpork bodieth jutht lie around in the thtreetth for anyone to take away!'

'It's not quite as bad as that, Igor.'

'Ithn't it? Oh well, you can't have everything. I'll tell him directly.' Igor lurched off in a sort of high-speed totter.

I wonder why they all walk like that, thought Vimes. They must have one leg shorter than the other. Either that or they're not good at choosing boots.

He sat down on the steps to the house and fished out a cigar. So that was it, then. Bloody

politics again. It was always bloody politics, or bloody diplomatics. Bloody lies in smart clothing. Once you got off the streets criminals just flowed through your fingers. The King and Lady Margolotta and Vetinari... they always looked at some sort of big picture. Vimes knew he was, and always would be, a little picture man. Dee was useful, so she'd probably get, oh, a few days breaking bread or whatever it was they gave you here for being naughty. After all, all she'd destroyed was a fake, wasn't it?

Was it?

But she'd thought she was committing a much bigger crime. That ought to mean something, in Sam Vimes's personal gallery of little pictures.

And the Baroness was as guilty as hell. People had died. As for Wolfgang... well, some people were just built guilty. It was as simple as that. Anything they did became a crime, simply because it was them doing it.

He blew out a stream of smoke.

People like that shouldn't be allowed to simply die their way out of things.

But... he hadn't, had he?

The wolves had gone a long way down the river, Sybil had said, on both banks. There wasn't a sniff of him. Further down was a mass of rapids and another fall. What couldn't kill him would certainly make him wish it could.

If he'd gone downstream. But upstream there was nothing but wild water, too, right up to the town.

No, he couldn't... surely no one could swim up a waterfall...

A chilly little feeling began at the back of Vimes's neck. But any sensible person would get right out of the country, wouldn't they? The wolves were looking for him, Tantony wouldn't remember him fondly and if Vimes judged the King correctly then the dwarfs would have some dark little revenge in store, too.

The trouble was that, if you formed a picture in your mind of a sensible person, and tried to superimpose it on a picture of Wolfgang, you couldn't get them to meet anywhere.

There was an old saying, wasn't there: as a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly. Well, that got Wolfgang coming and going.

Vimes stood up and turned around carefully. There was no one there. Sounds came in from the street gateway—people laughing, the sound of a harness, the clank of a shovel clearing up last night's snow.

He sidled into the embassy, his back to the wall, and groped his way towards the stairs, peering into every doorway. He ran across the expanse of the hallway, did a tumbling roll, and ended up against the far wall.

'Is there anything wrong, sir?' said Cheery. She was watching him from the top of the stairs.

'Er, have you seen anything odd?' said Vimes, dusting himself off self-consciously. 'And I realize that we're talking about a house with Igor in it.'

'Could you give me a hint, sir?'

'Wolfgang, godsdammit!'

'But he's dead, sir. Isn't he?'

'Not dead enough!'

'Er, what do you want me to do?'

'Where's Detritus?'

'Polishing his helmet, sir!' said Cheery, on the point of panic.

'What the hell is he wasting time with that for?'

'Er, er, because we're supposed to leave for the coronation in ten minutes, sir?'

'Oh, yes...'

'Lady Sybil told me to come and find you. In a very distinct tone of voice, sir.'

At that point Lady Sybil's voice boomed along the corridor. 'Sam Vimes! You come here!'

'That one, sir,' Cheery added helpfully.

Vimes trailed into the bedroom. Sybil was wearing another blue dress, a tiara and a firm expression.

'Is it a posh do?' said Vimes. 'I thought if I put on a clean shirt—'

'Your official dress uniform is in the dressing room,' said Sybil.

'It was rather a long day yesterday—'

'This is a coronation, Samuel Vimes. It is not a come-as-you-are! Go and get dressed, quickly. Including, and I don't want to have to say this twice, the helmet with the feathers.'

'But not the red tights,' said Vimes, hoping against hope. 'Please?'

'The red tights, Sam, go without saying.'

'They go at the knees,' said Vimes, but it was the grumble of the defeated.

'I'll ring for Igor to come and help you.'

'Things will have come to a pretty pass when I can't put my own tights on, dear, thank you.'

Vimes dressed hurriedly, listening for... anything. Some creak in the wrong place, perhaps.

At least this was a Watch uniform, even if it did have buckled shoes. It included a sword. The duking outfit didn't allow for one, which had always struck Vimes as amazingly stupid. You got made a duke for being a fighter, and then they gave you nothing to fight with.

There was a tinkle of glass back in the bedroom, and Lady Sybil was astonished to see her husband enter at a run with his sword raised.

'I dropped the top of a scent bottle, Sam! What's up with you? Even Angua says he's probably miles away and in no shape to cause trouble! Why're you so nervy?'

Vimes put down the sword and tried to relax.

'Because our Wolfgang's a damn bottle covey, dear. I know the sort. Any normal person, they crawl off if they get a beating. Or they have the sense to stay down, at least. But sometimes you get one who just won't let go. Eight-stone weaklings who'll try to headbutt Detritus. Evil little bantamweight bastards who'll bust a bottle on the bar and try to attack five watchmen all at once. You know what I mean? Idiots who'll go on fighting long after they should stop. The only way to put 'em down is to put 'em out.'

'I think I recognize the type, yes,' said Lady Sybil, with an irony that failed to register with Sam Vimes until some days later. She picked some lint off his cloak.

'He's going to be back. I can feel it in my water,' mumbled Vimes.

'Sam?'

'Yes?'

'Can I have your attention for a couple of minutes? Wolfgang is Angua's problem, not yours. I really need to talk to you very quietly for a little while without you running off after werewolves.' She said it as if this was a minor character flaw, like a tendency to leave his boots where people could trip over them.

'Er, they run after me,' he pointed out.

'But there's always people being found dead or trying to kill you—'

'I don't ask them to, dear.'

'Sam, I'm going to have a baby.'

Vimes's head was full of werewolves and his automatic husbandly circuitry cut in ready to respond with 'Yes, dear,' or 'Choose any colour you like,' or 'I'll get someone to sort it out.' Fortunately his brain itself had its own sense of self-preservation and, not wishing to be inside a skull that was stowed in by a bedside lamp, rewrote Sybil's words in white-hot fire across his inner eyeball and then went and hid.

That's why the response came out as a weak 'What? How?'

'The normal way, I hope.'

Vimes sat down on the bed. 'And... not right now?'

'I very much doubt it. But Mrs Content says it's definite, and she's been a midwife for fifty years.'