Now he could smell it ... the faint reek of black oil.

The little bastards! And they could see in the dark, too, right? He fumbled in his pocket for his matches, while his heart

thudded in his ears. His fingers closed over a match, he took a deep

breath

One hand grasped his wrist, and as he swung madly at the

darkness with the hind leg of a rocking-horse this too was wrested from him. Instinctively, he kicked out, and there was a grunt. His arms were released, and from somewhere near the floor the voice of Willikins, rather strained, said, `Excuse me, sir, I appear to have walked into your foot.'

`Willikins? What the hell's been happening?'

`Some dwarfish gentlemen called while you were upstairs, sir,' said the butler, unfolding slowly. `Through the cellar wall, in fact. I regret to say that I found it necessary to deal somewhat strictly with them. I fear one might be dead.'

Vimes peered around. `Might be dead? Is he still breathing?'

`I do not know, sir.' Willikins applied a match, with great care, to a stub of candle. `I heard him gurgling, but he appears to have stopped. I'm sorry to say that they came upon me when I was leaving the ice store and I was forced to defend myself with the first thing that came to hand.'

`Which was....?'

`The ice knife, sir,' said Willikins levelly. He held up eighteen inches of sharp serrated steel, designed to slice ice into convenient blocks. `The other gentleman I have lodged on a meat hook, sir.'

`You didn't ' Vimes began, horrified.

`Only through his clothing, sir. I am sorry to have laid hands on you, but I feared the wretched oil might have been inflammable. I hope I got all of them. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for the mess-'

But Vimes had gone and was already halfway up the cellar steps. In the hall, his heart stopped.

A short dark figure was at the top of the stairs and disappearing into the nursery.

The broad, stately staircase soared in front of him, a stairway to the top of the sky. He ran up it, hearing himself screaming -'I'll kill you'll killyoukillyoukillyoukillkillkill you'll kill you kill you'llkill you-'The terrible fury choked him, the rage and dreadful fear set

his lungs on fire, and still the stairs unrolled. There was no end to them. They climbed for ever, while he was falling backwards, into hell. But hell buoyed him up, gave wings to his rage, lifted him, sent him back ...

And then, his breath now nothing more than one long profane scream, he reached the top step

The dwarf came out of the nursery doorway, backwards and fast. He hit the banisters and crashed through them on to the floor below. Vimes ran on, sliding on the polished wood, skidding as he swung into the nursery, dreading the sight of

-Young Sam, sleeping peacefully. On the wall, the little lamb rocked the night away.

Sam Vimes picked up his son, wrapped in his blue blanket, and sagged to his knees. He hadn't drawn breath all the way up the stairs and now his body cashed its cheques, sucking in air and redemption in huge, racking sobs. Tears boiled out of him, shaking him wretchedly ...

Through the running, wet blur, he saw something on the floor. There, on the rug, were the rag ball, the hoop and the woolly snake, lying where they'd fallen.

The ball had rolled, more or less, into the middle of the hoop. The snake lay half uncoiled, its head lying on the edge of the circle.

Together, in this weak nursery light, they looked at first glance like a big eye with a tail.

`Sir? Is everything all right?'

Vimes looked up and focused on the red face of Willikins.

`Er ... yeah ... what? ... yeah ... fine ... thanks,' he managed,

summoning his scattered senses. `Fine, Willikins. Thank you.' `One must've got past me in the dark-'

`Huh? Yeah, very remiss of you, then,' said Vimes, getting to his feet but still clutching his son to him. `I'd just bet most butlers round here would have taken out all three with one swipe of their polishing cloth, right?'

`Are you all right, sir? Because-'

`But you went to the Shamlegger School of Butlering!' Vimes giggled. His knees were trembling. Part of him knew what this was all about. After the terror came that drunken feeling, when you were still alive and suddenly everything was funny. `I mean, other butlers just know how to cut people dead with a look, but you, Willikins, you know how to cut them dead with-'

`Listen, sir! He's outside, sir!' said Willikins urgently. `So is Lady Sybil!'

Vimes's grin froze.

`Shall I take the young man, sir?' Willikins said, reaching for him.

Vimes backed away. A troll with a crowbar and a tub of grease would not have wrested his son from him.

`No! But give me that knife! And go and make sure Purity is all right!'

Clutching Young Sam to him, he ran back downstairs, across the hall and out into the garden. It was stupid, stupid, stupid. He told himself that later. But, right now, Sam Vimes was thinking only in primary colours. It had been hard, hard, to go into the nursery in the face of the images that thronged his imagination. He was not going to go through that ever again. And the rage flowed back, easily, under control now. Smooth like a river of fire. He'd find them all, all of them, and they would burn ...

The main dragon shed could only be reached now by dodging around three big cast-iron flame-deflector shields, put in place two months ago; dragon breeding was not a hobby for cissies or people who minded having to repaint the whole side of the house occasionally. There were big iron doors at either end; Vimes headed towards one at random, ran into the dragon shed, and bolted the door behind him.

It was always warm in there, because the dragons burped all the time; it was that or explode, which occasionally did happen. And there was Sybil in full dragon-keeping gear, walking calmly between

the pens with a bucket in each hand, and behind her the doors at the other end were opening, and there was a short dark figure, and there was a rod with a little pilot flame on the end, and

'Look out! Behind you!' Vimes yelled.

His wife stared at him, turned round, dropped the buckets and started to shout something.

And then the flame blossomed. It hit Sybil in the chest, splashed across the pens, and went out abruptly. The dwarf looked down and began to thump the pipe desperately.

The pillar of flame that was Lady Sybil said, in an authoritative voice that brooked no disobeying: `Lie down, Sam. Right now.' And Sybil dropped to the sandy floor as, all down the lines of pens, dragon heads rose on long dragon necks.

Their nostrils were flaring. They were breathing in.

They'd been challenged. They'd been offended. And they'd just had their supper.

`Good boys,' said Sybil, from the floor.

Twenty-six streams of answering dragon fire rose to the occasion. Vimes, lying on the floor so that his body shielded Young Sam, felt the hairs crisp on the back of his neck.

This wasn't the smoky red of the dwarf fire; this was something only a dragon's stomach could cook up. The flames were practically invisible. At least one of them must have hit the dwarf's weapon, because there was an explosion and something went through the roof. The dragon pens were built like a firework factory: the walls were very thick, and the roof was as thin as possible to provide a faster exit to heaven.

When the noise had died to an excited hiccuping, Vimes risked looking up. Sybil was getting to her feet, a little clumsily because of all the special clothing every dragon breeder wore.[1]

The iron of the far doors glowed around the black outline of a

[1] That is to say, every dragon breeder not currently occupying a small artistic urn.