the number of dunny wagons leaving the city?'

'Dunny Wagon Not Found in Root Dictionary. Searching Slang

Dictionary ... mip ... mip ... mip ... Dunny Wagon, n.: cart for

carrying night soil (see also Honey Wagon, Treacle Wagon,

Midnight Special, Gong Wagon and variants,' said the imp.

`That's right,' said Vimes, who hadn't heard the Midnight Special

one before. `Can you?'

`Ooh, yes!' said the imp. `Thank you for using the Dis-Organizer

Mark Five "Gooseberry" the most advanced-'

`Yeah, don't mention it. Just look at the ones for the Hubwards

Gate. That's closest to Treacle Street.'

`Then I suggest you stand back, Insert Name Here,' said the imp.

`Why?'

The imp leapt into the pile. There were some rustling noises, a couple of mice scampered out - and the pile exploded. Vimes backed away hurriedly as papers fountained into the air, borne aloft on a very pale green cloud.

Vimes had instigated record-keeping at the gates not because he had a huge interest in the results, but because it kept the lads on their toes. It wasn't as if it was security duty. Ankh-Morpork was so wide open it was gaping. But the cart census was handy. It stopped watchmen falling asleep at their posts, and it gave them an excuse to be nosy.

You had to move soil. That was it. This was a city. If you were a long way from the river, the only way to do that was on a cart. Blast it, he thought, I should have asked the thing to see if there's been any increase in stone and timber loads, too. Once you've dug a hole in mud, you've got to keep it open

The circling, swooping papers snapped back into piles. The green haze shrank with a faint zzzzp noise, and there was the little imp, ready to explode with pride.

`An extra one point one dunny carts a night over six months ago!' it announced. `Thank you, Insert Name Here! Cogito ergo sum, Insert Name Here. I exist, therefore I do sums!'

`Right, yes, thank you,' said Vimes. Hmm. A bit more than one cart a night? They held a couple of tons, maximum. You couldn't make much of that. Maybe people living near that gate had been really ill lately. But ... what would he do, in the dwarfs' position?

He damn well wouldn't send stuff out of the nearest gate, that's what. Ye gods, if they were tunnelling in enough places, they could dump it anywhere.

`Imp, could you ... Vimes paused. `Look, don't you have some kind of a name?'

`Name, Insert Name Here?' said the imp, looking puzzled. `Oh, no. I am created by the dozen, Insert Name Here. A name would be a bit stupid, really.'

`I'll call you Gooseberry, then. So, Gooseberry, can you give me the same figures for every city gate? And also the numbers of timber and stone carts?'

`It will take some time, Insert Name Here, but yes! I should love to!'

`And while you're about it, see if there were any reports of

subsidence. Walls falling down, houses cracking, that sort of thing?' `Certainly, Insert Name Here. You can rely on me, Insert Name

Here!'

`Snap to it, then!'

`Yes, Insert Name Here! Thank you, Insert Name Here. I think

much better outside the box, Insert Name Here!'

zzzzp. Paper started to fly.

Well, who'd have thought it? Vimes wondered. Maybe the

damned thing could be useful after all.

The speaking tube whistled. He unhooked it and said, `Vimes: `I've got the evening edition of the Times, sir,' said the distant

voice of Sergeant Littlebottom. She sounded worried.

`Fine. Send it up.'

`And there's a couple of people here who want to see you, sir.'

Now there was a guarded tone to her voice.

`And they can hear you?' said Vimes.

`That's right, sir. Trolls. They insist on seeing you personally.

They say they have a message for you.'

`Do they look like trouble?' `Every inch, sir.' `I'm coming down.'

Vimes hung up the tube. Trolls with a message. It was unlikely to

be an invitation to a literary lunch.

`Er ... Gooseberry?' he said.

Once again the faint green blur coalesced into the beaming imp. `Found the figures, Insert Name Here. Just working on them!' it

said, and saluted.

`Good, but get back in the box, will you? We're going out.' `Certainly, Insert Name Here! Thank you for choosing the-' Vimes pushed the box into his pocket and went downstairs. The main office included not only the duty officer's desk but also

half a dozen smaller ones, where watchmen sat when they had to do

the really tricky parts of police work, like punctuating a sentence

correctly. A lot of rooms and corridors opened on to it. A useful result of all this was that any action there attracted a lot of attention very quickly.

If the two trolls very conspicuously in the middle of the room had intended trouble, they'd picked a bad time. It was between shifts. Currently, they were trying without success to swagger whilst standing still, watched with deep suspicion by seven or eight officers of various shapes.

They'd brought it on themselves. They were baaad trolls. At least, they'd like everyone to think so. But they'd got it wrong. Vimes had seen bad trolls, and these didn't come close. They'd tried. Oh, they'd tried. Lichen covered their heads and shoulders. Clan graffiti adorned their bodies; one of them had even had his arm carved, which must have hurt, for that stone cool troll look. Since wearing the traditional belt of human or dwarf skulls would have resulted in the wearer's heels leaving a groove all the way to the nearest nick, and monkey skulls left the wearer liable to ambush by dwarfs with no grounding in forensic anthropology, these trolls- Vimes grinned. These boys had done the best they could with, oh dear, sheep and goat skulls. Well done, boys, that's really scary.

It was depressing. The old-time bad trolls didn't bother with all that stuff. They just beat you over the head with your own arm until you got the message.

`Well, gentlemen?' he said. `I'm Vimes.'

The trolls exchanged glances through the mats of lichen, and one of them lost.

'Midder Chrysoprase he wanna see you,' he said sulkily. `Is that so?' said Vimes.

`He wanna see you now,' said the troll.

`Well, he knows where I live,' said Vimes.

`Yeah. He does.'

Three words, smacking into the silence like lead. It was the way the troll said them. A suicidal kind of way.

The silence was broken by the steely sound of bolts being shot home, followed by a click. The trolls turned. Sergeant Detritus was taking the key out of the lock of the Watch House's big, thick double doors. Then he turned round and his heavy hands landed on the trolls' shoulders.

He sighed. `Boys,' he said, `if dere was a PhD in bein' fick, youse wouldn't be able to find a pencil.'

The troll who'd uttered the not-very-veiled threat then made another mistake. It must have been terror that moved his arms, or dumb machismo. Surely no one with a functioning brain cell would have selected that moment to move their arms into what, for trolls, was the attack position.

Detritus's fist moved in a blur, and the crack as it connected with the troll's skull made the furniture rattle.

Vimes opened his mouth ... and shut it again. Trollish was a very physical language. And you had to respect cultural traditions, didn't you? It wasn't only dwarfs who were allowed to have them, was it? Besides, you couldn't crack a troll's skull even with a hammer and chisel. And he threatened your family, his hind brain added. He had it coming

There was a twinge of pain from the wound on his hand, echoed by the stab of a headache. Oh hells. And Igor said the stuff would work!

The stricken troll rocked for a second or two, and then went over forwards in one rigid movement.

Detritus walked across to Vimes, kicking the recumbent figure en passant.