Anyway ... then he dies and, afterwards, this damn book is written. It doesn't sell many copies, but recently it's republished and ... ah, but now there're lots of dwarfs in the city. Some of them read it and something tells them that the secret is in this cube. They want to find out where it is. How? Damn. Doesn't the book say the secret of Koom Valley is in the painting? Okay. Maybe he ... somehow painted some kind of code into the painting to say where the cube

was? But so what? What was so bad to hear that you killed the poor

devils who heard it?

I think I'm looking at this wrong. It's not my cow. It's a sheep

with a pitchfork. Unfortunately, it goes quack.

He was getting lost now, going all over the place, but he'd got a

toe on the opposite stone and he felt he'd made some progress. But

to what, exactly?

I mean, what would really happen if there was proof that, say, the

dwarfs ambushed the trolls? Nothing that isn't happening already,

that's what. You can always find an excuse that your side will accept,

and who cares what the enemy thinks? In the real world, it wouldn't

make any difference.

There was a faint knock at the door, the sort that you use if you

secretly hope it won't be answered. Vimes sprang from his chair and

pulled the door open.

A. E. Pessimal stood there.

`Ah, A. E.,' said Vimes, going back to his desk and laying down his

pencil. `Come on in. What can I do for you? How's the arm?'

`Er ... could you spare a moment of your time, your grace?' Your grace, thought Vimes. Well, he hadn't the heart to object this time.

He sat down again. A. E. Pessimal was still wearing the chain mail

shirt with the Specials badge on it. He didn't look very shiny. Brick's

swipe had bowled him across the plaza like a ball.

'Er. ..' A. E. Pessimal began.

`You'll have to start as a lance-constable, but a man of your

talents ought to make it to sergeant within a year. And you can have

your own office,' said Vimes.

A. E. Pessimal shut his eyes. `How did you know?' he breathed. `You attacked a boozed-up troll with your teeth,' said Vimes.

`There's a man born for the badge, I thought to myself.' And that's

what you've always wanted, right? But you were always too small,

too weak, too shy to be a watchman. I can buy big and strong

anywhere. Right now I need a man who knows how to hold a pencil without breaking it.

`You'll be my adjutant,' he went on. `You'll handle all my paperwork. You'll read the reports, you'll try to figure out what's important. And so you can learn what is important, you'll have to do at least two patrols a week.'

A tear was running down A. E. Pessimal's cheek. `Thank you, your grace,' he said hoarsely.

If A. E. Pessimal had had enough chest to stick out, it would be sticking.

`Of course you'll need to finish your report on the Watch first,' Vimes added. `That is a matter between you and his lordship. And now, if you will excuse me, I really must get on. I look forward to seeing you working for me, Lance-Constable Pessimal.'

`Thank you, your grace!'

`Oh, and you won't call me "your grace",' said Vimes. He thought for a moment, and decided that the man had earned this, all in one go, and added: "'Mister Vimes" will do.'

And so we make progress, he said to himself, after A. E. Pessimal had floated away. And his lordship won't like it, so as far as I can see there's no downside. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, er, qui custodes custodient? Was that right for `Who watches the watcher that watches the watchmen?'? Probably not. Still ... your move, my lord.

He was just puzzling over his notebook again when the door opened without an introductory knock.

Sybil entered, with a plate.

`You're not eating enough, Sam,' she announced. `And the

canteen here is a disgrace. It's all grease and stodge!'

`That's what the men like, I'm afraid,' said Vimes guiltily.

`I've cleaned out the tea urn, at least,' Sybil went on, with

satisfaction.

`You cleaned out the tea urn?' said Vimes in a hollow voice. It was

like being told that someone had wiped the patina off a fine old work of art.

`Yes, it was like tar in there. There really wasn't much proper food in the store, but I managed to make you a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich.'

`Thank you, dear.' Vimes cautiously lifted a corner of the bread with his stricken pencil. There seemed to be too much lettuce, which was to say, there was some lettuce.

`There's a lot of dwarfs come to see you, Sam,' said Sibyl, as if this was preying on her mind.

Vimes stood up so fast that his chair fell over. `Is Young Sam all right?' he said.

`Yes, Sam. They're city dwarfs. You know them all, I think. They say they want to talk to you about-'

But Vimes was already clattering down the stairs, drawing his sword as he did so.

The dwarfs were clustered nervously by the duty officer's desk. They had that opulence of metalwork, sleekness of beard and thickness of girth that marked them out as dwarfs who were doing very well for themselves, or who had been right up until now.

Vimes appeared in front of them like a whirlwind of wrath.

You scum, you rat-sucking little worm eaters! You headsdown little scurriers in the dark! What did you bring to my city? What were you thinking? Did you want the deep-downers here? Did you dare deplore what Hamcrusher said, all that bile and ancient lies? Or did you say `Well, I don't agree with him, of course, but he's got a point'? Did you say, `Oh he goes too far but it's about time somebody said it'?And now, have you come here to wring your hands and say how dreadful, it was nothing to do with you? Who were the dwarfs in the mobs, then? Aren't you community leaders? Were you leading them? And why are you here now, you ugly snivelling grubbers? Is it possible, is it possible, that now, after that bastard's bodyguards tried to kill my family, you're here to complain? Have I broken some code, trodden on some ancient toe? To hell with it. To hell with you.

He could feel the words straining, fighting to get out, and the effort of restraining them filled his stomach with acid and made his temples throb. Just one whine, he thought. Just one pompous moan. Go on.

`Well?' he demanded.

The dwarfs had perceptibly moved backwards. Vimes wondered if they'd read his thoughts; they'd echoed in his brain loudly enough.

A dwarf cleared his throat. `Commander Vimes-'he began. `You're Pors Stronginthearm, aren't you?' Vimes demanded. `One half of Burleigh & Stronginthearm? You make crossbows.' `Yes, commander, and-'

`Remove your weapons! All of them! All of you!' Vimes snapped.

The room fell silent. Out of the corner of his eye Vimes saw a couple of dwarf officers, who had at least been pretending to be engaged in paperwork, rising from their seats.

He was being dangerously stupid, part of him knew, but right now he wanted to hurt a dwarf and he wasn't allowed to do it with steel. Most of the battle stuff they wore was simply for clang in any case, but a dwarf would sooner drop his drawers than put aside his axe. And these were serious city dwarfs, with seats in the Guilds and everything. Ye gods, he was going too far.

He managed to grunt, `All right, keep your battle-axes. Leave everything else at the desk. You'll get a receipt.'

For a moment, quite a long moment, he thought, no, he hoped they would refuse. But one of them, somewhere in the group, said, `I think we must do this for the commander. These are difficult times. We must learn to fit them.'

Vimes went up to his office, hearing the clinks and clangs behind him, and landed so violently in his chair that this time a wheel

snapped off. The receipt was a nasty touch. He was quite pleased with it.