Vimes gave her a blank look for a while and then said: “Fine. Fine. I'm sitting very still, believe me.”

“Good,” said Rosie.

She swept out and it was a real sweep, the dress brushing the ground. There were big, expensive double doors. When she opened them, the noise of a meeting filled the room. There was conversation, the smell of cigar smoke and alcohol, and a voice said “—to change the dominant episteme—” before the doors breathed shut.

Vimes stayed seated. He was getting attached to the chair and on current showing someone was likely to hit him again soon.

Sandra, still holding the bow, placed a very large glass of whiskey beside him.

“You know,” he said, “in times to come people will wonder how all those weapons got smuggled around the city.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about.”

“And it's because the lads in the Watch never bother about the seamstresses, curfew or no curfew,” said Vimes, staring at the whiskey. “Or posh coaches,” he added. “A watchman can get into real trouble if he tries that.” He could smell the stuff from here. It was the good stuff from the mountains, not the local rubbish.

“You didn't tell anyone about the basket,” said Sandra. “Or hand us over to the Unmentionables. Are you one of us?”

“I doubt it.”

“But you don't know who we are!”

“I still doubt it.”

And then he was aware of the doors opening and shutting, and the rustle of a long dress.

“Sergeant Keel? I've heard so much about you! Please leave us, Sandra. I'm sure the good sergeant can be trusted with a lady.”

Madam was only a little shorter than Vimes. Could be from Genua, he thought, or spent a lot of time there. Trace of it in the accent. Brown eyes, brown hair—but a woman's hair could be any colour tomorrow—and a purple dress that looked more expensive than most. And an expression that said quite clearly that the owner knew what was going to happen and was going along with things just to make sure—

“Don't forget the intricately painted fingernails,” she said. “But if you're trying to guess my weight, don't expect to get any help from me. You can call me Madam.”

She sat down in a chair opposite him, put her hands together and stared at him over the top of them. “Who are you working for?” she said.

“I'm an officer of the City Watch,” said Vimes. “Brought here under duress…madam.”

The woman waved a hand. “You're free to go whenever you wish.”

“It's a comfy chair,” said Vimes. He was damned if he'd be dismissed. “Are you really from Genua?”

“Are you really from Pseudopolis?” Madam smiled at him. “I find, personally, that it pays never to be from somewhere close at hand. It makes life so much easier. But I have spent a lot of time in Genua, where I have…business interests.” She smiled at him. “And now you're thinking ‘old seamstress’, no doubt?”

“Actually I was thinking bespoke tailoring,” said Vimes, and she burst out laughing. “But mostly,” he added, “I was thinking ‘revolutionary’.”

“Continue, sergeant.” Madam stood up. “Do you mind if I have some champagne? I'd offer you some, but I understand that you don't drink.”

Vimes glanced at the brimming whiskey glass beside him.

“We were just checking,” said Madam, hauling a large bottle out of an industrial-capacity ice bucket. “You're not a sergeant. Rosie was right. You've been an officer. More than just any old officer, too. You're so composed, Sergeant Keel. Here you are, in a big house, in a lady's boudoir, with a woman of uneasy virtue,” Madam up-ended the bottle into what appeared to be a blue mug with a teddy bear on it, “and you appear unfussed. Where are you from? You may smoke, by the way.”

“Somewhere a long way off,” said Vimes.

“Uberwald?”

“No.”

“I have…business interests in Uberwald,” said Madam. “Alas, the situation there is becoming quite unstable.”

“Right. I see,” said Vimes. “And you'd like to have the significant pause type of business interests in Ankh-Morpork, I expect. If it can be stabilized.”

“Very good. Let us say that I think this city has a wonderful future and that I would like to be part of it, and that you are remarkably perspicacious.”

“No,” said Vimes. “I'm very simple. I just know how things work. I just follow the money. Winder is a madman, and that's not good for business. His cronies are criminals, and that's not good for business. A new Patrician will need new friends, far-sighted people who want to be part of a wonderful future. One that's good for business. That's how it goes. Meetings in rooms. A little diplomacy, a little give and take, a promise here, an understanding there. That's how real revolutions happen. All that stuff in the streets is just froth…” Vimes nodded to the doors. “Guests for a late supper? That was Doctor Follett's voice. A clever man, they used to– they call him. He'll pick the right side. If you've got the big Guilds with you, Winder is a dead man walking. But Snapcase won't do you much good.”

“Many people have great hopes of him.”

“What do you think?”

“I think he's a scheming, self-serving fool. But he's the best there is, at the moment. And where do you come in, sergeant?”

“Me? I'm staying outside. You've got nothing that I want.”

“You don't want anything?”

“I want lots of things, my lady. But you can't give them to me.”

“How would you like to be back in command?”

The question hit him like a hammer. This was history. She couldn't know! How could she know?

“Ah,” said Madam, who had watched his expression. “Rosemary did say thieves took some very expensive armour off you. Fit for a general, I hear.”

She opened another bottle. Properly, too, Vimes noticed, through the shock. None of that amateur business with rocketing corks and wasted bubbles.

“Wouldn't that be strange if it was true?” Madam mused. “A street-fighting man with the manner of a commander and the breastplate of a leader.”

Vimes stared straight ahead.

“And who needs to know how he got here?” said Madam, to the air in general. “We could take the view that here at last is a man who could truly take command of the City Watch.”

The first thought that fizzed in Vimes's head like champagne was: bloody hell, I could do it! Chuck Swing out on his arse, promote some decent sergeants—

The second thought was: in this city? Under Snapcase? Now? We'd just be another gang. The third thought was: this is insane. It can't happen. It never did happen. You want to go home to Sybil.

Thoughts one and two shuffled out of the way, feeling ashamed of themselves and mumbling yeah, right…Sybil…yeah, obviously…right…sorry…until they faded into silence.

“I've always had a talent for seeing promise,” said Madam, while he still stared at nothing.

The fourth thought rose in the darkness like some ugly creature from the depths.

You didn't think about Sybil until thought three, it whispered.

He blinked.

“You know the city needs—” Madam began.

“I want to go home,” said Vimes. “I'm going to finish the job that's in front of me, and then I'm going home. That's what I'm going to do.”

“There are those who would say that if you are not for us, you're against us,” said Madam.

“For you? For what? For anything? No! But I'm not for Winder, either. I'm not supposed to be ‘for’ people. And I don't take bribes. Not even if Sandra threatens me with a toadstool!”

“I believe it was a mushroom. Oh dear.” The lady gave him a smile. “You are incorruptible?”

Oh dear, here we go again, thought Vimes. Why did I wait until I was married to become strangely attractive to powerful women? Why didn't it happen to me when I was sixteen? I could have done with it then.

He tried to glare, but that probably only made it worse.

“I've met a few incorruptible men,” said Madam Meserole. “They tend to die horrible deaths. The world balances out, you see. A corrupt man in a good world, or a good man in a corrupt one…the equation comes out the same way. The world does not deal well with those who don't pick a side.”