Something brushed his shoulder and clattered on the Watch House steps. Then there was the sound of slipping tiles from a roof on the other side, and a man fell off the roof and into the pool of light. There were gasps from the crowd, and one or two short screams.

“Looks like you got a volunteer,” said someone. There was the horrible nervous sniggering again. The crowd parted to let Vimes view the sudden arrival.

The man was dead. If he hadn't been when he fell off the roof he was after he'd hit the ground, because no neck normally looked like that. A crossbow had fallen down with him.

Vimes remembered the draught across his shoulder, and went back to the Watch House steps. It didn't take long to find the arrow, which had broken into several pieces.

“Anyone know this man?” he said.

The crowd, even those members of it who hadn't been able to get a good look at the fallen bowman, indicated definite ignorance.

Vimes went through the man's pockets. Every single one was empty, which was all the evidence of identification he needed.

“Looks like it's going to be a long night,” he said, signalling Colon to take this body inside, too. “I've got to get on with my work, ladies and gentlemen. If anyone wants to stay, and frankly I'll be obliged if you do, I'll send some lads out to build a fire. Thank you for your patience.” He picked up his mail and breastplate and went back inside.

“What're they doing?” he said to Sam, without turning round.

“Some of them are wandering off but most of 'em are standing around, sarge,” said Sam, peering around the door. “Sarge, one of them shot at you!”

“Really? Who says the man on the roof was one of them? That's an expensive bow. And he didn't have anything in his pockets. Nothing. Not so much as a used hanky.”

“Very odd, sarge,” said Sam loyally.

“Especially since I was expecting a piece of paper saying something like ‘I am definitely a member of a revolutionary cadre, trust me on this’,” said Vimes, looking carefully at the corpse.

“Yes, that'd tell us he was a revolutionary all right,” said Sam.

Vimes sighed and stared at the wall a moment. Then he said: “Anyone notice anything about his bow?”

“It's the new Bolsover A7,” said Fred Colon. “Not a bad bow, sarge. Not an Assassin's weapon, though.”

“That's true,” said Vimes, and twisted the dead man's head so they could see the tip of the little metal dart behind the ear. “But this is. Fred, you know everyone. Where can I get some ginger beer at this time of night?”

“Ginger beer, sarge?”

“Yes, Fred.”

“Why do—” Colon began.

“Don't ask, Fred. Just get half a dozen bottles, all right?”

Vimes turned to the desk on which, surrounded by a fascinated crowd, Dr Lawn was at work on the stricken Gappy.

“How's it going?” said Vimes, pushing through.

“Slower than it'd go if people got out of the damn light,” said Lawn, carefully moving his tweezers to a mug by Gappy's hand and dropping a bloody fragment of glass therein. “I've seen worse on a Friday night. He'll keep the use of his fingers, if that's what you want to know. He just won't be making any shoes for a while. Well done.”

There was general crowd approval. Vimes looked around at the people and the coppers. There were one or two muted conversations going on; he heard phrases like “bad business” and “they say that—” above the general noise.

He'd played the cards well enough. Most of the lads here lived within a street or two. It was one thing to have a go at faceless bastards in uniform, but quite another to throw stones at old Fred Colon or old Waddy or old Billy Wiglet, who you'd known since you were two years old and played Dead Rat Conkers with in the gutter.

Lawn put the tweezers down and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That's it,” he said wearily. “A bit of stitching and he'll be fine.”

“And there's some others I need you to take a look at,” said Vimes.

“You know, that comes as no surprise,” said the doctor.

“One's got a lot of holes in his feet, one dropped through the privy roof and has got a twisted leg, and one's dead.”

“I don't think I can do much about the dead one,” said the doctor. “How do you know he's dead? I realize that I may regret asking that question.”

“He's got a broken neck from falling off a roof and I reckon he fell off because he got a steel crossbow bolt in his brain.”

“Ah. That sounds like dead, if you want my medical opinion. Did you do it?”

“No!”

“Well, you're a busy man, sergeant. You can't be everywhere.” The doctor's face cracked into a grin when he saw Vimes go red, and he walked over to the corpse.

“Yes, I'd say that life is definitely extinct,” he said. “And?”

“I want you to write that down, please. On paper. With official-sounding words like ‘contusion’ and ‘abrasions’. I want you to write that down, and I want you to write down what time you found he was dead. And then if you don't mind two lads'll take you down to look at the other two, and after you've treated them, thank you, I'd like you to sign another piece of paper saying you did and I called you in. Two copies of everything, please.”

“All right. Dare I ask why?”

“I don't want anyone to say I did it.”

“Why should anyone say that? You told me he fell off a roof!”

“These are suspicious times, doctor. Ah, here's Fred. Any luck?”

Corporal Colon was carrying a box. He put it down on his desk with a grunt.

“Old Mrs Arbiter didn't like being knocked up in the middle of the night,” he announced. “I had to give her a dollar!”

Vimes didn't dare look at Lawn's face. “Really?” he said, as innocently as possible. “And you got the ginger beer?”

“Six pints of her best stuff,” said Colon. “There's three pence back on the bottles, by the way. And…er…” He shuffled uneasily. “Er…I heard they set fire to the Watch House at Dolly Sisters, sarge. It's very bad up at Nap Hill, too. And, er…the Chittling Street House got all its windows broke, and up at the Leastgate House some of the lads went out to stop kids throwing stones and, er, one of them drew his sword, sarge…”

“And?”

“He'll probably live, sarge.”

Dr Lawn looked about him at the crowded office, where people were still talking. Snouty was going round with a tray of cocoa. Out in the street, some of the watchmen were standing around a makeshift fire with the remnant of the crowd.

“Well, I must say I'm impressed,” he said. “Sounds like you're the only Watch House not under siege tonight. I don't want to know how you did it.”

“Luck played a part,” said Vimes. “And I've got three men who carry no personal identification whatsoever in the cells, and another anonymous would-be assassin who has been assassinated.”

“Quite a problem,” said Lawn. “Now me, I just have to deal with simple mysteries like what the rash means.”

“I intend to solve mine quite quickly,” said Vimes.