Hold on, hold on. A policeman's thought had been stirring in his mind. The Aunts didn't run. They famously didn't run. They caught up with you slowly. Anyone who'd been, as they called it, “a very naughty boy” would sleep extremely badly knowing that the Aunts on his tail were slowly getting nearer, pausing only for a cream tea somewhere or to visit an interesting jumble sale. But Vimes had run, run all the way up to Scoone Avenue, in the dark, through coach traffic and crowds of people swarming home before curfew. No one had paid him any attention, would surely not have seen his face if they did. And he certainly didn't know anyone here. He amended the thought: no one knew him.

“So,” he said casually, “who told you where I'd gone?”

“Oh, one of those old monks,” said Rosie.

“Which old monks?”

“Who knows? A little bald man with a robe and a broom. There's always monks begging and chanting somewhere. He was in Phedre Road.”

“And you asked him where I'd gone?”

“What? No. He just looked around and said, ‘Mr Keel ran up to Scoone Avenue,’ and then he went on sweeping.”

“Sweeping?”

“Oh, it's the kind of holy thing they do. So they don't tread on ants, I think. Or they sweep sins away. Or maybe they just like the place clean. Who cares what monks do?”

“And nothing about that struck you as odd?”

“Why? I thought perhaps you were naturally kind to beggars!” snapped Rosie. “It doesn't bother me. Dotsie said she put something in his begging bowl, though.”

“What?”

“Would you ask?”

The majority of Vimes thought: who does care about what monks do? They're monks. That's why they're weird. Maybe one had a moment of revelation or something, they like that kind of thing. So what? Find the wizards, explain what's happened and leave it to them.

But the policeman part thought: how do little monks know I'm called Keel? I smell a rat.

The majority said: it's a thirty-year-old rat, then.

And the policeman said: yes, that's why it smells.

“Look, I'm going to have to go and check something,” he said. “I'll…probably be back.”

“Well, I can't chain you up,” said Rosie. She smiled a grim little smile, and went on: “That costs extra. But if you don't come back, yet have any intention of staying in this city, then the Aunts—”

“I promise you, the last thing I want to do is leave Ankh-Morpork,” said Vimes.

“That actually sounded convincing,” said Rosie. “Off you go, then. We're past curfew now. But why don't I think you'll be bothered by that?”

As he disappeared in the gloom Dotsie sidled up to Rosie.

“You want we should follow him, dearie?”

“Don't bother.”

“You should have let Sadie give him a little prod, dear. That slows them down.”

“I think it takes quite a lot to slow that man down. And we don't want trouble. Not at a time like this. We're too close.”

“You don't want to be out at a time like this, mister.”

Vimes turned. He'd been hammering on the closed gates of the University.

There were three watchmen behind him. One of them was holding a torch. Another was holding a bow. The third had clearly decided that activities for tonight would not include heavy lifting.

Vimes raised his hands slowly.

“I expect he wants to be in a nice cold cell for the night,” said the one with the torch.

Oh dear, thought Vimes. It's the Comedian of the Year contest. Coppers really oughtn't to try this, but they still did.

“I was just visiting the University,” he said.

“Oh, yes?” said the one without either torch or bow. He was portly, and Vimes could make out the tarnished gleam of a sergeant's stripes. “Where d'you live?”

“Nowhere,” said Vimes. “I've just arrived. And shall we move right along? I don't have a job and I don't have any money. And neither of those is a crime.”

“Out after curfew? No visible means of support?” said the sergeant.

“I got my legs,” said Vimes.

“At the moment, hur, hur,” said one of the men. He stopped when Vimes looked at him.

“I want to make a complaint, sergeant,” said Vimes.

“What about?”

“You,” said Vimes. “And the Brothers Grin here. You're not doing it right. If you're going to arrest someone, you take charge right away. You've got a badge and a weapon, yes? And he's got his hands up, and a guilty conscience. Everyone's got a guilty conscience. So he's wondering what you know and what you're going to do, and what you do is fire off the questions, sharply. You don't make silly jokes 'cos that makes you too human and you keep him off balance so he can't quite think a clear sentence and above all you don't let him move like this and grab your arm and pull it up so it almost breaks like this and grab your sword and hold it to your throat like this. Tell your men to lower those swords, will you? The way they're waving them around, they could hurt someone.”

The sergeant gurgled.

“Right,” said Vimes. “Oh, sergeant…this is a sword? Ever sharpen it? What do you use it for, bludgeoning people to death? Now, what you're going to do is, you're all going to put your weapons on the ground over there, and then I'm going to let the sarge go and I'll leg it up that alley, okay? And by the time you've got your weapons back in your hands, and believe me I'd advise you to get hold of weapons before coming after me, I'll be well away. End of problem all round. Any questions?”

All three watchmen were silent. Then Vimes heard a very faint, very close noise. It was the sound of the hairs in his ears rustling as, with great care, the tip of a crossbow bolt gently entered his ear.

“Yes, sir, I have a question,” said a voice behind him. “Do you ever listen to your own advice?”

Vimes felt the pressure of the crossbow against his skull, and wondered how far the arrow would go if the trigger was pulled. An inch would be too much.

Sometimes you just had to take the lumps. He dropped the sword with great and exaggerated care, released his grip on the sergeant, and stepped away meekly while the fourth watchman maintained his aim.

“I'll just stand with my legs apart, shall I?” he said.

“Yeah,” growled the sergeant, turning round. “Yeah, that'll save us a bit of time. Although for you, mister, we've got all night. Well done, lance-constable. We'll make a watchman of you yet.”

“Yeah, well done,” said Vimes, staring at the young man with the bow. But the sergeant was already taking his run-up.

It was later. Pain had happened.

Vimes lay on the hard cell bed and tried to make it go away. It hadn't been as bad as it might be. That mob hadn't even been able to organize a good seeing-to. They didn't understand how a man could roll with the punches and half the time they were getting in their own way.

Was he enjoying this? Not the pain. He'd pass on the pain. In fact he'd passed out on the pain. But there was that small part of him he'd heard sometimes during strenuous arrests after long chases, the part that wanted to punch and punch long after punching had already achieved its effect. There was a joy to it. He called it the beast. It stayed hidden until you needed it and then, when you needed it, out it came. Pain brought it out, and fear. He'd killed werewolves with his bare hands, mad with anger and terror and tasting, deep inside, the blood of the beast…and it was sniffing the air.

“'ullo, Mister Vimes, haha. I was wondering when you'd wake up.”

He sat up sharply. The cells were barred on the corridor side, but also between cells as well, on the basis that those caged ought to know they were in a cage. And in the next cell, lying with his hands behind his head, was Carcer.

“Go on,” said Carcer cheerfully. “Make a grab for me through the bars, eh? Want to see how long it takes before the guards arrive?”