`Ah, well, I am afraid that in that case sir has to go back and start all over again, sir:

`And, er, how do I do that?

'Being born is traditionally the first step, sir,' said Willikins, shaking his head.

Vimes gave him a nod and moved the trembling Pessimal on through the chattering crowd, while the fine rain fell and the mists rose and the torches flickered.

`Good evening, sir!' said a cheerful voice and there, yes, was Special Constable Hancock, an amiable bearded man with an amiable smile and more cutlery about his person than was good for Vimes's mental health. That was the trouble with some of the Specials. They really got into it. They bought their own gear and it was always better than Watch issue. Some of them clanged even more than dwarfs, with patent handcuffs and complicated nightsticks and comfy padded helmets and pencils that wrote underwater and, in the case of Special Constable Hancock, two curved Agatean swords strapped across his back. Those who'd dared to venture into the training yard when he was using them said they looked rather impressive. Vimes had heard that an Agatean ninja could give a fly a shave and a haircut in mid-flight, but this didn't make him feel any better.

`Oh, hello ... Andy,' he said. `I think-'

`Captain Carrot's had a word with me,' said Special Constable Hancock, giving him a huge wink. `I'll see to it!'

`Oh, good,' said Vimes, horribly aware that he'd put himself in a tricky position vis a vis suggesting that maybe one sword might be enough. `Er ... You'll be up against the trolls, at least to start with,' he said. `Just remember that there's our people around you, will you? Remember Special Constable Piggle, eh?'

`But in fairness it was a clean cut, sir!' said Hancock. `Igor said he'd never done such an easy re-attachment!'

`Nevertheless, it's truncheons only tonight, Andy, unless I give any other order, okay?'

`Understood, Commander Vimes. I've just got a new truncheon, as a matter of fact.'

Some sixth sense made Vimes say: `Oh, really? May I see?'

`Right here, sir. Hancock pulled out what looked to Vimes like two truncheons, joined together with a length of chain.

`They're Agatean numknuts, sir. No sharp edges at all.'

Vimes gave them an experimental swing and hit his own elbow. He handed them back quickly. `Rather you than me, lad. Still, I suppose they'll make a troll stop and think.'

Mr Pessimal was staring in horror, not least because wayward wood had just missed him.

`Oh, this is Mr Pessimal, Andy,' said Vimes. `He's finding out how we do things. Mr Hancock is one of our ... keenest special constables, Mr Pessimal.'

`Nice to meet you, Mr Pessimal!' said Hancock. `If you need any catalogues, I'm your man!'

Vimes moved on quickly, just in case the man drew those swords again, and ran up against a slightly more reassuring figure.

`And here we have Mr Boggis,' he said. `Good to see you. Mr Boggis is president of the Guild of Thieves, Mr Pessimal.'

Mr Boggis saluted proudly. He had accepted a chain mail jacket from Fred, but no power in the world would have parted him from

his brown bowler hat. Any power nevertheless inclined to try would in any case have to contend with the narrow-eyed, stony-jawed men on either side of him, who had eschewed any weapons or armour. One of them was cleaning his fingernails with a cut-throat razor. In a strange but very definite way they looked much more dangerous than Special Constable Hancock.

`And also Vinny "No Ears" Ludd and Harry "Can't Remember His Nickname" Jones, I see,' Vimes went on. `You've brought your bodyguards, Mr Boggis?'

'Vinny and Harry like to get out in the fresh air, Mister Vimes,' said Mr Boggis. `And you've got your own bodyguard, then?' He beamed down on A. E. Pessimal and then grinned at Vimes. `You have to watch them little bantam fighters, Mister Vimes, they can have the nose off'f your face quicker'n wink. I can tell a killing cove when I see one, eh? Best of luck to you, Mr Pessimal!'

Vimes bustled the astonished man away before Mr Boggis was killed on the spot by the God of Over-Acting, and almost walked into the one Special who could be guaranteed not to talk too much.

`And here, Mr Pessimal, here we have the University Librarian,' he said. `Good man in a melee, eh?'

`But that- that's not a man! That's an orangutan, Pongo pongo, native of BhangBhangduc and nearby islands!'

`Ook!' said the Librarian, patting A. E. Pessimal on the head and handing him a banana skin.

`Well done, A. E.!' said Vimes. `Not many people get that right!'

And so Vimes dragged the inspector back through the crowd of damp, armoured men, introducing him right and left. Then he pushed him into a corner and, to faint stunned protestations, dragged the mail shirt over his head.

`You stick close behind me, Mr Pessimal,' he said, as the man tried to move. `It could get a bit sticky later on. The trolls are up in the plaza and the dwarfs are down in the square, and both of 'em are drinking up enough courage to have a good scrap. That's why we'll

be lining up in the Cham, right between 'em, the thin brown streak, haha. The dwarfs favour battle-axes, the trolls go in for clubs. Our weapon of first resort will be our truncheons, and our weapon of last resort is our feet. That is to say, we'll run like hell.'

`But, but, you have swords!' A. E. Pessimal managed.

`We have swords, acting-constable. Yes, that is a fact, but poking holes in citizens is Watch brutality, and we don't want any of that now, do we? Let's get going; I wouldn't like you to miss anything.'

He harried the man again, out into the street and the stream of watchmen heading for the Cham. Apart from them, the street was empty. Ankh-Morpork people had an instinct for staying indoors when there were too many battle-axes and spiky clubs out there.

The Cham was simply a very, very wide road, once intended for ceremonial parades, a hangover from the days when the city had much to be ceremonious about. Drizzle filled it now and did not do much more than wet the pavements and reflect the light of the flares along the barricades.

Barricades ... well, that's what they were called on the Watch inventory. Ha! Lengths of wood painted in black and yellow stripes and mounted on trestles were not barricades, not to anyone who'd been behind a real one, which was built of rubbish and furniture and barrels and fear and bowel-knotting defiance. No, these simple things were the physical symbol of an idea. It was a line in the sand. It said: thus far, and no further. It said: this is where the law is. Step over this line and you've gone beyond the law. Step over this line, with your massive axes and huge morningstars and heavy, heavy spiky clubs, and we few, we happy few, who stand here with our wooden truncheons, we'll ... we'll ...

... well, you just better not step over the line, okay?

The yellow and black edges of the Law had been set about twelve feet apart, giving plenty of room for two lines of watchmen standing back to back, facing outwards.

Vimes dragged Mr Pessimal into the centre of the Cham, between the lines, and let him go.

`Any questions?' he said, as latecomers jostled past them to take up their positions.

The little man stared towards the distant plaza, where the trolls had lit a big fire, and then turned to look the other way, at the square, where the dwarfs had lit several fires. There was the sound of distant singing.

`Oh, yes, we'll get the singing first. At this point it's all about getting the blood pounding, you see,' Vimes added helpfully. `Songs about heroes, great victories, killing your enemies and drinking out of their warm skulls, that sort of thing.'

`And then, er, they'll attack us?' said A. E. Pessimal.