But he, Sam Vimes, had stuck by the badge, except for that time when even that hadn't been enough and he'd stuck by the bottle instead…

He felt as if he'd stuck by the bottle now. The world was spinning. Where was the law? There was the barricade. Who was it protecting from what? The city was run by a madman and his shadowy chums so where was the law?

Coppers liked to say that people shouldn't take the law into their own hands, and they thought they knew what they meant. They were thinking about the normal times, and men who went round to sort out a neighbour with a club because his dog had crapped once too often on their doorstep. But at times like these, who did the law belong to? If it shouldn't be in the hands of people, where the hell should it be? People who knew better? Then you got Winder and his pals, and how good was that?

What was supposed to happen next? Oh yes, he had a badge, but it wasn't his, not really…and he'd got orders, and they were the wrong ones…and he'd got enemies, for all the wrong reasons…and maybe there was no future. It didn't exist any more. There was nothing real, no solid point on which to stand, just Sam Vimes where he had no right to be…

It was as if his body, trying to devote as many resources as possible to untangling the spinning thoughts, was drawing those resources from the rest of Vimes. His vision darkened. His knees were weak.

There was nothing but bewildered despair.

And a lot of explosions.

Havelock Vetinari knocked politely on the window of the little office just inside the Assassins' Guild main gate.

The duty porter raised the hatch.

“Signing out, Mr Maroon,” said the Assassin.

“Yessir,” said Maroon, pushing a big ledger towards him. “And where are we off to today, sir?”

“General reconnoitring, Mr Maroon. Just generally looking around.”

“Ah, I said to Mrs Maroon last night, sir, that you are a great one for looking around,” said Maroon.

“We look and learn, Mr Maroon, we look and learn,” said Vetinari, signing his name in the book and putting the pen back in its holder. “And how is your little boy?”

“Thank you for asking, sir, he's a lot better,” said the porter.

“Glad to hear it. Oh, I see the Hon. John Bleedwell is out on a commission. To the palace?”

“Now, now, sir,” said Maroon, grinning and waving a finger. “You know I couldn't tell you that, sir, even if I knew.”

“Of course not.” Vetinari glanced at the back wall of the office where, in an old brass rack, were a number of envelopes. The word “Active” was inscribed at the top of the rack.

“Good afternoon, Mr Maroon.”

“'afternoon, sir. Good, er, looking around.”

He watched the young man walk out into the street. Then Maroon went into the cubbyhole next to the office to put the kettle on.

He rather liked young Vetinari, who was quiet and studious and, it had to be said, a generous young man on appropriate occasions. But a bit weird, all the same. Once Maroon had watched him in the foyer, standing still. That was all he was doing. He wasn't making any attempt at concealing himself. After half an hour Maroon had wandered over and said, “Can I help you, sir?”

And Vetinari had said, “Thank you, no, Mr Maroon. I'm just teaching myself to stand still.”

To which there wasn't really any sensible comment that could be made. And the young man must have left after a while, because Maroon didn't remember seeing him again that day.

He heard a creak from the office, and poked his head around the door. There was no one there.

As he made the tea he thought he heard a rustle from next door, and went to check. It was completely empty. Remarkably so, he thought later on. It was almost as if it was even more empty than it would be if there was just, well, no one in it.

He went back to his comfy armchair in the cubbyhole, and relaxed.

In the brass rack, the envelope marked “Bleedwell, J.” slid back slightly.

There were a lot of explosions. The firecrackers bounced all over the street. Tambourines thudded, a horn blared a chord unknown in nature, and a line of monks danced and twirled around the corner, all chanting at the tops of their voices.

Vimes, sagging to his knees, was aware of dozens of sandalled feet gyrating past and grubby robes flying. Rust was yelling something at the dancers, who grinned and waved their hands in the air.

Something square and silvery landed in the dirt.

And the monks were gone, dancing into an alleyway, yelling and spinning and banging their gongs…

“Wretched heathens!” said Rust, striding forward. “Have you been hit, sergeant?”

Vimes reached down and picked up the silver rectangle.

A stone clanged off Rust's breastplate. As he raised his megaphone, a cabbage hit him on the knee.

Vimes stared at the thing in his hand. It was a cigar case, slim and slightly curved.

He fumbled it open and read: To Sam With Love From Your Sybil.

The world moved. But now Vimes no longer felt like a drifting ship. Now he felt the tug of the anchor, pulling him round to face the rising tide.

A barrage of missiles was coming over the barricade. Throwing things was an old Ankh-Morpork custom, and there was something about Rust that made him a target. With what dignity he could muster, he raised the megaphone again and got as far as “I hereby warn you—” before a stone spun it out of his hand.

“Very well, then,” he said, and marched stiffly back to the squad. “Sergeant Keel, order the men to fire. One round of arrows, over the top of the barricade.”

“No,” said Vimes, standing up.

“I can only assume you've been stunned, sergeant,” said Rust. “Men, prepare to execute that order.”

“First man that fires, I will personally cut that man down,” said Vimes. He didn't shout. It was a simple, confident statement of precisely what the future would hold.

Rust's expression did not change. He looked Vimes up and down.

“Is this mutiny, then, sergeant?” said the captain.

“No. I'm not a soldier, sir. I can't mutiny.”

“Martial law, sergeant!” snapped Rust. “It is official!”

“Really?” said Vimes, as another rain of rocks and old vegetables came down. “Shields up, lads.”

Rust turned to Fred Colon. “Corporal, you will put this man under arrest!”

Colon swallowed. “Me?”

“You, corporal. Now.”

Colon's pink face mottled with white as the blood drained from it. “But he—” he began.

“You won't? Then it seems I must,” said the captain. He drew his sword.

At that Vimes heard the click of a crossbow's safety catch going off, and groaned. He didn't remember this happening.

“You just put that sword away, sir, please,” said the voice of Lance-Constable Vimes.

“You will not shoot me, you young idiot. That would be murder,” said the captain calmly.

“Not where I'm aiming, sir.”

Bloody hell, thought Vimes. Maybe the lad was simple. Because one thing Rust wasn't, was a coward. He thought idiot stubbornness was bravery. He wouldn't back down in the face of a dozen armed men.

“Ah, I think I can see the problem, captain,” Vimes said brightly. “As you were, lance-constable. There's been a slight misunderstanding, sir, but this should sort it out—”

It was a blow he'd remember for a long time. It was sweet. It was textbook. Rust went down like a log.

In the light of all his burning bridges, Vimes slipped his hand back into his hip pocket. Thank you, Mrs Goodbody and your range of little equalizers.

He turned to the watchmen, who were a tableau of silent horror.

“Let the record show Sergeant-at-Arms John Keel did that,” he said. “Vimes, what did I tell you about waving weapons around when you're not going to use them?”