On his desk, on a little stand that Sybil had made for it, was his official baton of office. It was in fact the same size as the ordinary copper's truncheon, but was turned out of rosewood and silver instead of lignum vitae or oak. It still had plenty of weight, though. Certainly enough to leave the words PROTECTER OF THEE KINGE'S PIECE printed back to front on a dwarf skull.

The dwarfs were ushered in, looking slightly less heavy.

Just one word, Vimes thought, as the acid swirled. One damn word. Go on. Just a breath wrong.

`Very well, what can I do for you?' he said.

`Uh, I'm sure you know all of us,' Pors began, trying to smile.

`Probably. The dwarf next to you is Grabpot Thundergust, who has just launched the new "Ladies' Secrets" range of perfumes and cosmetics. My wife uses your stuff all the time.'

Thundergust, in traditional chain mail, a three-horned helmet and an enormous axe strapped across his back, gave Vimes an embarrassed nod. Vimes's gaze moved on. `And you are Setha Ironcrust, proprietor of the chain of bakeries of the same name, and you are surely Gimlet Gimlet, owner of two famous dwarf delicatessens and the newly opened "Yo Rat!" in Attic Bee Street.' Vimes looked round the office, dwarf after dwarf, until he got back to the front row and a dwarf of fairly modest dress by dwarf standards, who had been watching him intently. Vimes had a good memory for faces and had seen this one recently, but couldn't place it. Perhaps it had been behind a well-flung half-brick ...

`You, I don't think I know,' he said.

`Oh, we haven't exactly been introduced, commander,' said the dwarf cheerfully. `But I'm very interested in the theory of games.

... or Mr Shine's Thud Academy? Vimes thought. The dwarf's voice sounded like the one that had, he'd admit it, been of diplomatic help downstairs. He wore a simple plain round helmet, a plain leather shirt with some basic mail on it, and his beard was clipped to something tidier than the general dwarfish `gorse bush' effect. Compared to the other dwarfs, this one looked ... streamlined. Vimes couldn't even see an axe.

`Indeed?' he said. `Well, in fact I don't play 'em, so what's your name?'

'Bashfull Bashfullsson, commander. Grag Bashfullsson.'

Quietly, Vimes picked up his truncheon and rolled it in his fingers.

`Not underground, then?' he said.

`Some of us move on, sir. Some of us think that darkness isn't a depth, it's a state of mind.'

`That's nice of you, said Vimes. Oh, friendly and forward-looking are we now? Where were you yesterday? But now I've got all the aces! Those bastards murdered four city dwarfs! They broke into my home, tried to kill my wife! And now they've had it away on their toes! Wherever they've gone they're going dow- coming up!

He put the truncheon back on its stand. `As I said, what can I do for you ... gentlemen?'

He got the sense that they were all turning, physically or mentally, to Bashfullsson. I see, he thought, it seems that what we have here is a dozen monkeys and one organ grinder, eh?

`How can we help you, commander?' said the grag.

Vimes stared. You could have stopped them, that's how you could have helped. Don't give me those sombre faces. Maybe you didn't say 'yes' but you sure as hell didn't say `no!' loud enough. I owe you not one damned thing. Don't come to me for your bloody absolution.

`Right now? By going out on to the street, walking up to the biggest troll you can see and shaking him warmly by the hand, maybe?' said Vimes. `Or just going out into the street. Quite frankly,

I'm busy, gentlemen, and the middle of a horse race is not the time to be mending fences.'

`They'll be heading for the mountains,' said Bashfullsson. `They'll steer clear of Uberwald and Lancre. They won't be sure of meeting friends there. That means going into the mountains via Llamedos. Lots of caves there.'

Vimes shrugged.

`We can see you're annoyed, Mister Vimes,' said Stronginthearm. `But we-'

`I've got two dead assassins in the morgue,' said Vimes. `One of em died of poison. What do you know about that? And I'm Commander Vimes, thank you.'

`It's said they take a slow poison before they go on an important mission,' said Bashfullsson.

`No turning back, eh?' said Vimes. `Well, that's interesting. But it's the living that concern me right now.' He stood up. `I have to go and see a dwarf in the cells who does not want to talk to me:

`Ah, yes. That would be Helmclever,' said Bashfullsson. `He was born here, commander, but went off to study in the mountains more than three months ago, against his parents' wishes. I'm sure he never intended anything like this. He was trying to find himself.'

`Well, he can start looking in my cells,' said Vimes crisply.

`May I be there when you question him?' said the grag.

'Why?'

`Well, for one thing, it may prevent rumours that he was mistreated:

`Or start them?' said Vimes. Who watches the watchmen? he asked himself. Me!

Bashfullsson gave him a cool look. `It could ... calm the situation, sir.

'I don't habitually beat up prisoners, if that's what you're suggesting,' said Vimes.

`And I am sure you would not wish to do so tonight.'

Vimes opened his mouth to shout the grag out of the building, and stopped. Because the cheeky little sod had got it right slap bang on the money. Vimes had been on the edge since leaving the house. He'd felt a tingling across his skin and a tightness in his gut and a sharp, nasty little headache. Someone was going to pay for all this ... this ... this thisness, and it didn't need to be a screwed-up bit-player like Helmclever.

And he was not certain, not certain at all, what he'd do if the prisoner gave him any lip or tried to be smart. Beating people up in little rooms ... he knew where that led. And if you did it for a good reason, you'd do it for a bad one. You couldn't say `we're the good guys' and do bad-guy things. Sometimes the watching watchman inside every copper's head could use an extra pair of eyes.

Justice has to be seen to be done, so he'd see it done up good and proper.

`Gentlemen,' he said, keeping his eye on the grag but talking to the room at large, `I know all of you, you all know me. You're all respected dwarfs with a stake in this city. I want you to vouch for Mr Bashfullsson, because I've never met him before in my life. Come on, Setha, I've known you for years, what do you say?'

`They killed my son,' said Ironcrust.

A knife dropped into Vimes's head. It slipped down his windpipe, sliced his heart, cut through his stomach and disappeared. Where the rage had been, there was a chill.

`I'm sorry, commander,' said Bashfullsson quietly. `It's true. I don't think Gunder Ironcrust was interested in the politics, you understand. He just took a job at the mine because he wanted to feel like a real dwarf and work with a shovel for a few days.'

`They left him to the mud,' said Ironcrust, in a voice that was eerily without emotion. `Any help you need, we will give. Any help. But when you find them, kill them all.'

Vimes could think of nothing more to say than `I will catch them:

He didn't say: Kill them? No. Not if they surrender, not if they don't come at me armed. I know where that leads.

`Then we will leave and let you get about your business,' said

Stronginthearm. `Grag Bashfullsson is known to us, indeed. A little

modern, perhaps. A little young. Not the kind of grag we grew up

with, but ... yes, we'd vouch for him. Good night, commander.'

Vimes stared at his desk as they filed out. When he looked up, the grag was still there, with a patient little smile.

`You don't look like a grag. You look like just another dwarf,' said Vimes. `Why haven't I heard of you?'

`Because you are a policeman, perhaps?' said Bashfullsson meekly. `Okay, I take the point. But you're not a deep-downer?' Bashfullsson shrugged. `I can think deep thoughts. I was born