It was five a.m. Rain rustled out the sky, not hard, but with a gentle persistence.

In Sator Square, and in the Plaza of Broken Moons, it hissed on the white ash of the bonfires, occasionally exposing the orange glow, which would briefly sizzle and spit.

A family of gnolls were sniffing around, each one dragging his or her little cart. A few officers were keeping an eye on them. Gnolls weren’t choosy about what they collected, provided it didn’t actually struggle, and even then there were rumors.

But they were tolerated. Nothing cleaned up the place like a gnoll.

From here, they looked like little trolls, each with a huge compost heap on its back. That represented everything it owned, and mostly what it owned was rotten.

Sam Vimes winced at the pain in his side. Just his luck. Two coppers injured in the entire damn affair, and he had to be one of them? Igor had done his best, but broken ribs were broken ribs, and it’d be a week or two before the suspicious green ointment made much difference. His hand twinged in sympathy with them, too.

Still, he enjoyed a bit of a warm glow about the whole thing. They had used good, old-fashioned policing, and since good, old-fashioned policemen are invariably outnumbered, he’d employed the good, old-fashioned police methods of cunning, deceit, and any damn weapon you could lay your hands on.

It had hardly been a fight at all. The dwarfs had mostly been sitting and singing gloomy songs, because they fell over when they tried to stand up, or had tried to stand up and were now lying down and snoring. The trolls were, on the other hand, mostly upright, but went over when you pushed them. One or two, a little clearer in the head than the others, had put up a ponderous and laughable fight but had fallen to that most old-fashioned of police methods: the well-placed boot. Well, most of them had. Vimes shifted to ease the aching in his side; he should have seen that one coming.

But all’s well that ends well, eh? No deaths at all, and just to put a little cherry on the morning cake, he had in his hand an early-morning edition of the Times, in which a leading article deplored the gangs stalking the city and wondered if the Watch was “up to the job” of cleaning up the streets.

Well, yes, I think we are, you pompous twerp. Vimes struck a match on a plinth and lit a cigar in recognition of a petty but darkly satisfying triumph. Gods knew they needed one. The Watch had taken a pounding over the whole damn Koom Valley thing, and it was good to hand the lads something to be proud of for a change. All in all, it was definitely a Result—

He stared at the plinth. He didn’t remember what statue had once been there. It celebrated generations of graffiti artists now.

A piece of troll graffiti adorned it now, obliterating everything done by the artists who used mere paint. He read:

MR. SHINE!

HIM DIAMOND!

Mine sign, city scrawl, he thought. Thing go bad, and people are moved to write on the walls…“Commander!”

He turned. Captain Carrot, armor gleaming, was hurrying toward him, his face, as usual, radiating an expression of a hundred percent pure Keen.

“I thought I told everyone not on prisoner duty to get some sleep, Captain?” said Vimes.

“Just clearing up a few things, sir,” said Carrot. “Lord Vetinari sent a message down to the Yard. He wants a report. I thought I’d better tell you, sir.”

“I was just thinking, Captain,” said Vimes expansively. “Should we put up a little plaque? Something simple? It could say something like BATTLE OF KOOM VALLEY NOT FOUGHT HERE, GRUNE THE 5TH, YEAR OF THE PRAWN. Could we get them to do a bloody stamp? What do you think?”

“I think you need to get some sleep yourself, Commander,” said Carrot. “And technically, it isn’t Koom Valley until Saturday.”

“Of course, monuments to battles that didn’t take place might be stretching things a bit, but a stamp—”

“Lady Sybil really worries about you, sir.” Carrot broadcast concern.

The fizz in Vimes’s head subsided. As if awakened by the reference to Sybil, the debtors of his body queued up to wave their overdue IOUs: feet—dead tired and in need of a bath; stomach—gurgling; ribs—on fire; back—aching; brain—drunk on its own poisons. Bath, sleep, eat…good ideas. But still must do things…

“How’s our Mr. Pessimal?” he said.

“Igor’s fixed him up, sir. He’s a bit amazed at all the fuss. Now, I know I can’t order you to go and see his lordship—”

“No, you can’t, because I am a commander, Captain,” said Vimes, still fuzzily intoxicated on exhaustion.

“—but he can and he has, sir. And your coach will be waiting for you outside the palace when you come out. That’s Lady Sybil’s orders, sir,” said Carrot, appealing to higher authority.

Vimes looked up at the ugly bulk of the palace. Suddenly, clean sheets seemed such a sweet idea.

“Can’t face him like this,” he murmured.

“I had a word with Secretary Drumknott, sir. Hot water, a razor, and a big cup of coffee will be waiting in the palace.”

“You thought of everything, Carrot…”

“I hope so, sir. Now off you—”

“But I thought of something, eh?” said Vimes, swaying cheerfully. “Better dead drunk than just dead, eh?”

“It was a classic ruse, sir,” said Carrot reassuringly. “One for the history books. Now, off you go, sir. I’m going to have a look for Angua. She hasn’t slept in her bed.”

“But at this time of the month—”

“I know, sir. She hasn’t slept in her basket, either.”