indeed.'

I don't use magic, thought Vimes, walking through the rain towards Unseen University. But, sometimes, I tell lies.

He avoided the main entrance and headed as circumspectly as possible for Wizards' Passage, where, halfway down, university access for all was available via several loose bricks. Generations of rascally drunk student wizards had used them to get back in late at night. Later on, they'd become very important and powerful wizards, with full beards and fuller stomachs, but had never lifted a finger to have the wall repaired. It was, after all, Traditional. Nor was it usually patrolled by the Lobsters,[1] who believed in Tradition even more than the wizards.

On this occasion, though, one was lurking in the shadows, and jumped when Vimes tapped him on the shoulder. `Oh, it's you, Commander Vimes, sir. It's me, sir, Wiggleigh, sir. The Archchancellor is waiting for you in the gardener's hut, sir. Follow me, sir. Mum's the word, eh, sir?'

Vimes trailed after Wiggleigh across the dark, squelchy lawns. Oddly, though, he didn't feel so tired now. Days and days of bad sleep and he felt quite fresh, in a fuzzy sort of way. It was the smell of the chase, that's what it was. He'd pay for it later.

Wiggleigh, first looking both ways with a conspiratorial air that would have attracted instant attention had anyone been watching, opened the door of the garden shed.

There was a large figure waiting inside. `Commander!' it bellowed happily. `What larks, eh? Very cloak and dagger!'

Only heavy rain could possibly muffle the voice of Archchancellor Ridcully when he was feeling cheerful.

`Could you keep it down a bit, Archchancellor?' said Vimes, shutting the door quickly.

`Sorry! I mean, sorry,' said the wizard. `Do take a seat. The

[1] The university porters, or bledlows, who doubled, with rather more enthusiasm, as its proctors. They commanded their nickname for being thick-shelled, liable to turn red when hot, and having the smallest brain for their size of any known creature.

compost sacks are quite acceptable. Well, er ... how may I help you, Sam?'

`Can we agree for now that you can't?' said Vimes.

`Intriguing. Do continue,' said Ridcully, leaning closer.

`You know I won't have magic used in the Watch,' Vimes went on. As he sat down in the semi-darkness, a coiled-up hosepipe ambushed him from above, as they do, and he had to wrestle it to the shed floor.

`I do, sir, and I respect you for it, although there are those that think you are a damn silly fool.'

'Well. .: Vimes said, trying to put `damn silly fool' behind them, `the fact is, I must get to Koom Valley very fast. Er ... very fast indeed.'

`One might say- magically fast?' said Ridcully.

`As it were,' said Vimes, fidgeting. He really hated having to do this. And what had he sat on?

`Mmm,' said Ridcully. `But without, I imagine, any significant hocus-pocus? You appear uncomfortable, sir!'

Vimes triumphantly held up a large onion. `Sorry,' he said, tossing it aside. `No, definitely no pocus. Possibly a little hocus. I just need an edge. They've got a day's start on me.'

`I see. You will be travelling alone?'

`No, there will have to be eleven of us. Two coaches.'

`My word! And disappearing in a puff of smoke to reappear elsewhere is-'

`Out of the question. I just need-'

`An edge,' said the wizard. `Yes. Something magical in its cause but not in its effect. Nothing too obvious.'

`And no chance of anyone being turned into a frog or anything like that,' said Vimes quickly.

`Of course,' said Ridcully. He clapped his hands together. `Well, commander, I'm afraid we can't help you. Meddling in things like this is not what wizarding is all about!' He lowered his voice and went on:

`We will particularly not be able to help you if you have the coaches, empty, round the back in, oh, call it about an hour?'

`Oh? Er ... right,' said Vimes, trying to catch up. `You're not going to make them fly or anything, are you?'

`We're not going to do anything, commander!' said Ridcully jovially, slapping him on the back. `I thought that was agreed! And I think also that you should leave now, although, of course, you have in fact not been here. And neither have I. I say, this spying business is pretty clever, eh?'

When Vimes had gone, Mustrum Ridcully sat back, lit his pipe and, as an afterthought, used the last of the match to light the candle lantern on the potting table. The gardener could get pretty acerbic if people messed about with his shed, so perhaps he ought to tidy up a bit

He stared at the floor, where a tumbled hosepipe and a fallen onion made what looked, at a casual glance, like a large eyeball with a tail.

The rain cooled Vimes down. It had cooled down the streets, too. You have to be really keen to riot in the rain. Besides, news of last night had got around. No one was sure, of course, and such were the effects of Fluff and Big Hammer that a large if elementary school of thought had been left uncertain about what had really happened. They'd woken up feeling bad, right? Something must have happened. And tonight the rain was setting in, so maybe it was better to stay in the pub.

He walked through the wet, whispering darkness, mind ablaze.

How fast could those dwarfs travel? Some of them sounded pretty old. But they'd be tough and old. Even so, the roads in that direction

were none too good, and a body could only stand so much shaking.

And Sybil was taking Young Sam. That was stupid, except that it ... wasn't stupid, not after dwarfs had broken into your home. Home was where you had to feel safe. If you didn't feel safe, it wasn't home. Against all common sense, he agreed with Sybil. Home was where they were together. She'd already sent off an urgent clacks to some old chum of hers who lived near the valley; she seemed to think it was going to be some kind of family outing.

There was a group of dwarfs hanging around on a corner, heavily armed. Maybe the bars were all full, or maybe they needed cooling down too. No law against hanging around, right?

Wrong, growled Vimes, as he drew nearer. Come along, boys. Say something wrong. Lay hold of a weapon. Move slightly. Breathe loudly. Give me something that could be stretched to `in self defence'. It'd be my word against yours, and believe me, lads, I'm unlikely to leave you capable of saying a single damn thing.

The dwarfs took one clear look at the approaching vision, haloed in torchlight and mist, and took to their heels.

Right!

The entity known as the Summoning Dark sped through streets of eternal night, past misty buildings of memory that wavered at its passage. It was getting there, it was getting there. It was having to change the habits of millennia, but it was finding ways in, even if they were no bigger than keyholes. It had never had to work this hard before, never had to move this fast. It was ... exhilarating.

But always, when it paused by some grating or unguarded chimney, it heard the pursuit. It was slow, but it never stopped following. Sooner or later, it would catch up.

Grag Bashfullsson lodged in a subdivided cellar in Cheap Street. The rent wasn't much, but he had to admit that neither was the accommodation: he could lie on his very narrow bed and touch all four walls or, rather, three walls and a heavy curtain that separated his little space from that of the family of nineteen dwarfs that occupied the rest of the cellar. But meals were included and they respected his privacy. It was something to have a grag as a lodger, even if this one seemed rather young and showed his face. It still impressed the neighbours.