Pointer and Pickles was dusty. Dust was the keynote of the shop. Vimes must have passed it a thousand times; it was that kind of shop, the kind you walked past. Dust and dead flies filled the little window, which nevertheless offered dim views of large lumps of rock, covered with dust, beyond.

The bell over the door gave a dusty jangle as Vimes entered the gloomy interior. The noise died away, and there was a definite feeling that this marked the end of the entertainment for today.

Then a distant shuffling was born in the heavy silence. It turned out to belong to a very old woman who appeared, at first sight, to be as dusty as the rocks she, presumably, sold. Vimes had his doubts even about that. Shops like this one often looked upon the selling of merchandise as, in some way, a betrayal of a sacred trust. As if to underline this, she was carrying a club with a nail in it.

When she was close enough for conversation, Vimes said: “I’ve come here to—”

“Do you believe in the healing power of crystals, young man?” snapped the woman, raising the club threateningly.

“What? What healing power?” said Vimes.

The old woman gave him a cracked smile, and dropped the club.

“Good,” she said. “We like our customers to take their geology seriously. We’ve got some trollite in this week.”

“Good, but, in fact, I—”

“It’s the only mineral that travels backwards in time, you know.”

“I’m here to see Mr. Shine,” Vimes managed.

“Mr. who?” said the old woman, putting a hand to her ear.

“Mr. Shine?” said Vimes, confidence already draining out of him.

“Never heard of him, dear.”

“He, er, gave me this,” said Vimes, showing her the two pieces of stone egg.

“Amethyst geode, very nice specimen, I’ll give you seven dollars,” said the old woman.

“Are you, er, Pickles or Pointer?” said Vimes, as a last resort.

“I’m Miss Pickles, dear. Miss Point—”

She stopped. Her expression changed, became slightly younger and considerably more alert.

“And I’m Miss Pointer, dear,” she said. “Don’t worry about Pickles, she just runs the body when I’ve got other things to do. Are you Commander Vimes?”

Vimes stared. “Are you telling me you’re two people? With one body?”

“Yes, dear. It’s supposed to be an illness, but all I can say is we’ve always got along well. I’ve never told her about Mr. Shine. Can’t be too careful. Come this way, do.”

She led the way through the dusty crystals and slabs into the back of the shop, where there was a wide corridor lined with shelves. Crystals of all sizes sparkled down at him.

“Of course, trolls have always been of interest to geologists, being made of metamorphorical rock,” said Miss Pointer/Miss Pickles conversationally. “You’re not a rock hound yourself, Commander?”

“I’ve had the occasional stone thrown at me,” said Vimes. “I’ve never bothered to check what kind it was.”

“Ha. Such a shame we’re on loam here,” said the woman as the sound of quiet voices drew nearer. She opened a door and stood aside. “I rent them the room,” she said. “Do go in.”

Vimes looked at the top few treads of a flight of stairs, heading down. Oh goody, he thought. We’re going underground again. But there was warm light coming up, and the voices were louder.

The cellar was large and cool. There were tables everywhere, with a couple of people at each one, bent over a checkered board. A games room? The players were dwarfs, trolls, and humans, but what they had in common was concentration. Unconcerned faces glanced toward Vimes, who had paused, halfway down the stairs, and then looked back to the game at hand.

Vimes continued down to floor level. This had to be important, right? Mr. Shine had wanted him to see it. People—men, trolls, dwarfs—playing games. Occasionally, a couple of players would look up at each other, share a glance, and shake hands. Then one of them would go off to a new table.

“What do you notice, Mister Vimes?” said a deep voice behind him. Vimes forced himself to turn slowly.

The figure sitting in the shadows beside the stairway was shrouded entirely in black. He looked a good head taller than Vimes.

“They’re all young?” he ventured, and added: “Mr. Shine?”

“Exactly! More youngsters tend to come along in the evenings, too. Do take a seat, sir.”

“Why have I come to see you, Mr. Shine?” said Vimes, sitting down.

“Because you want to find out why you have come to see me,” said the dark figure. “Because you’re wandering in the dark. Because Mister Vimes, with his badge and his truncheon, is full of rage. More full than usual. Take care of that rage, Mister Vimes.”

Mystic, thought Vimes. “I like to see whom I’m talking to,” he said. “What are you?”

“You would not see me if I removed this hood,” said Mr. Shine. “As for what I am, I’ll ask you this: would it be true to say that Captain Carrot, while very happy to be a Watch officer, is the rightful king of Ankh-Morpork?”

“I have trouble with the term ‘rightful,’ ” said Vimes.

“So I understand. It may well be that this is one reason why he hasn’t yet chosen to declare himself,” said Mr. Shine. “But no matter. Well, I am the rightful—excuse me—and indisputable king of the trolls.”

“Really?” said Vimes. It wasn’t much of a reply, but his options at this point were limited.

“Yes. And when I say’indisputable,’ I mean what I say, Mister Vimes. Hidden human kings have to resort to magic swords or legendary feats to reclaim their birthright. I do not. I just have to be. You are aware of the concept of metamorphorical rock?”

“You mean the way trolls look like certain types of rock?”

“Indeed. Schist, Mica, Shale, and so on. Even Brick, poor young Brick. No one knows why this is, and they have expended thousands of words in saying so. Oh, to hell with it, as you would say. You deserve a glimpse. Protect your eyes. I, Mister Vimes—”

A black-robed arm was extended, a black-velvet glove removed. Vimes shut his eyes in time, but the inside of his lids blazed red.

“—am diamond,” said Mr. Shine.

The glare faded a little. Vimes risked opening his eyes a bit, and made out a hand, every flexing finger sparkling like a prism. The players glanced up, but they’d seen this before.

“Frost forms quite quickly,” said Mr. Shine. When Vimes dared to peek, the hand glittered like the heart of winter.

“You’re hiding out from jewelers?” he managed, taken aback.

“Hah! In fact, this city is indeed a very good place for people who don’t wish to be seen, Mister Vimes. I have friends here. And I have talents. You’d find me quite hard to see if I wished to be unseen. I am also, frankly, intelligent, and intelligent all the time. I don’t need the Pork Futures Warehouse. I can regulate the temperature of my brain by reflecting all heat. Diamond trolls are very rare, and when we do appear, kingship is our destiny.”

Vimes waited. Mr. Shine, who was now pulling his glove back on, appeared to have an agenda. The wisest thing was to let him talk until it all made sense.

“And do you know what happens when we become kings?” said Mr. Shine, now safely shrouded once more.

“Koom Valley?” Vimes suggested.

“Well done. The trolls unite, and we have the same tired old war, followed by centuries of skirmishing. That is the sad, stupid history of the trolls and the dwarfs. And this time, Ankh-Morpork will be caught up in it. You know that the troll and dwarf population here has grown enormously under Vetinari.”

“All right, but if you’re king, can’t you just make peace?”

“Just like that? It’ll need much more than that.” The hood of the robe shook sadly. “You really know very little about us, Mister Vimes. You see us down on the plains, shambling around, talkin’ like dis. You don’t know about the history chant, or the Long Dance, or stone music. You see the hunched troll dragging his club. That’s what the dwarfs did for us, long ago. They turned us, in your minds, into sad, brainless monsters.”

“Don’t look at me when you say that,” said Vimes. “Detritus is one of my best officers!”

There was silence. The Mr. Shine said: “Shall I tell you what I think the dwarfs were looking for, Mister Vimes? Something of theirs. It is a thing that talks. And they found it, and I think what it had to say directly caused five deaths. I believe I know how to find the secret of Koom Valley. In a few weeks, everyone will be able to. But by then, I think, it will be too late. You must solve it, too, before the war sweeps up all of us.”

“How do you know all this?” said Vimes.

“Because I’m magical,” said the voice from the hood.

“Oh, well, if that’s the way you’re—” Vimes began.

“Patience, Commander,” said Mr. Shine. “I just…simplified. Accept, instead, that I am very…smart. I have an analytical mind. I’ve studied the histories and lore of my hereditary enemy. I have friends who are dwarfs. Quite knowledgeable dwarfs. Quite…powerful dwarfs, who wish for an end to this stupid feud as much as I do. And I have a love of games and puzzles. The Codex was not a terrible challenge.”

“If it’s going to help me find the murderers of those dwarfs in the mine then you should tell me what you know!”

“Why trust what I say? I am a troll, I’m partisan, I might wish to direct your thoughts down the wrong path.”

“Maybe you’ve already!” said Vimes hotly. He knew he was making a fool of himself; it only made him angrier.

“Good, that’s the spirit!” said Mr. Shine. “Test all that I’ve told you! Where would we be if Commander Vimes relied on magic, eh? No, the secret of Koom Valley must be found by observation and questioning and facts, facts, facts. Possibly I’m helping you find them a little quicker than you might otherwise do. You just have to think about what you know, Commander. And, in the meantime, shall we play a little game?”

Mr. Shine picked up a box by his chair and upended it over the table.

“This is Thud, Mister Vimes,” he said, as little stone figures bounced over the board. “Dwarfs versus trolls. Eight trolls and thirty-two dwarfs, forever fighting their little battles on a cardboard Koom Valley.” He began to place the pieces, black-gloved hands moving with un-trollish speed.

Vimes pushed back his chair. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Shine, but all you are giving me is riddles and—”

“Sit down, Commander.” The quite voice had a schoolteacher harmonic to it that folded Vimes’s legs under him. “Good,” said Mr. Shine. “Eight trolls, thirty-two dwarfs. Dwarfs always start. A dwarf is small and fast and can run as many squares as possible in any direction. A troll—because we’re stupid and drag our clubs, as everyone knows—can only move one square in any direction. There are other types of moving, but what do you see so far?”

Vimes tried to concentrate. It was hard. This was a game, it wasn’t real. Besides, the answer was so obvious that it couldn’t be the right one.

“It looks like the dwarfs must win every time,” he ventured.

“Ah, natural suspicion, I like that. In fact, among the best players, the bias is slightly in favor of the trolls,” said Mr. Shine. “This is largely because a troll can, in the right circumstances, do a lot of damage. How are your ribs, by the way?”

“All the better for you asking,” said Vimes sourly. He’d forgotten them for twenty blessed minutes; now they ached again.

“Good. I’m glad Brick has found Detritus. He has a good brain if he can be persuaded to stop frying it every half an hour. Back to our game…advantages to either side do not matter, in fact, because a complete game consists of two battles. In one, you must play the dwarfs. In the other, you must play the trolls. As you may expect, dwarfs find it easy to play the dwarf side, which needs a strategy and mode of attack that comes easy to a dwarf. Something similar applies to the trolls. But to win, you must play both sides. You must, in fact, be able to think like your ancient enemy. A really skilled player—well, take a look, Commander. Look toward the back of the room, where my friend Phyllite is playing against Nils Mousehammer.”

Vimes turned.

“What am I looking for?” he said.

“Whatever you see.”

“Well, that troll over there is wearing what looks like a large dwarf helmet…”

“Yes, one of the dwarf players made it for him. And he speaks quite passable dwarfish.”

“He’s drinking out of a horn, like the dwarfs do…”

“He had to have one made in metal! Troll beer would melt ordinary horn. Nils can sing quite a lot of the troll history chant. Look at Gabbro, over there. Good troll boy, but he knows all there is to know about dwarf battle bread. In fact, I believe that’s a boomerang croissant on the table next to him. Purely for ceremonial purposes, of course. Commander?”

“Hmm?” said Vimes, turning his head. “What?” A slightly built dwarf at one of the tables was watching him with interest, as though he was some kind of fascinating monster.

Mr. Shine chuckled. “To study the enemy, you have to get under his skin. When you’re under his skin, you start to see the world through his eyes. Gabbro is so good at playing from the dwarf viewpoint that his troll game is suffering, and he wants to go to Copperhead to learn from some of the dwarf thudmeisters there. I hope he does; they’ll teach him how to play like a troll. None of these lads here were out getting fighting drunk last night. And thus we wear down mountains. Water dripping on a stone, dissolving and removing. Changing the shape of the world, one drop at a time. Water dripping on a stone, Commander. Water flowing underground, bubbling up in unexpected places.”

“I think you’re going to need a bit more of a gush,” said Vimes. “I don’t think a bunch of people playing games is going to break down a mountain anytime soon.”

“It depends on where the drops fall,” said Mr. Shine. “In time, they may wash away a valley, at least. You should ask yourself: why was I so keen to get into that mine?”

“Because there had been a murder!”

“And that was the only reason?” said the shrouded Mr. Shine.

“Of course!”

“And everyone knows what gossips dwarfs are,” said Mr. Shine. “Well, I am sure you will do your best, Commander. I hope you find the murderer before the Dark catches up with them.”

“Mr. Shine, some of my officers have lit candles around that damn symbol!”

“Good thinking, I’d say.”

“So you really believe that it’s some kind of a threat? How come you know so much about dwarf signs, anyway?”

“I have studied them. I accept the fact of their existence. Some of your officers believe. Most dwarfs do, somewhere in their gnarly little souls. I respect that. You can take a dwarf out of the Dark, but you can’t take the Dark out of a dwarf. Those symbols are very old. They have real power. Who knows what old evil lurks in the deep darkness under the mountains? There’s no darkness like it.”

“You can take the mickey out of a copper, too,” said Vimes.

“Ah, Mister Vimes, you have had a busy day. So much happening, so little time to think. Take time to reflect on all you know, sir. I am a reflecting kind of person.”

“Commander Vimes?” The voice came from Miss Pointer/Miss Pickles, halfway up the stairs. “There is a big troll asking after you.”

“What a shame,” said Mr. Shine. “That will be Sergeant Detritus. Not good news, I suspect. If I had to guess, I’d say that the trolls have sent around the taka-taka. You must go, Mister Vimes. I’ll be seeing you again.”

“I don’t think I’ll see you,” said Vimes. He stood up, and then hesitated.

“One question, right? And no funny answers, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Tell me why you helped Brick. Why should you care about a slushed-out gutter troll?”

“Why should you care about some dead dwarfs?” said Mr. Shine.

“Because someone has to!”

“Exactly! Good-bye, Mr. Vimes.”

Vimes hurried up the stairs and followed Miss Pointer/Miss Pickles out into the shop. Detritus was standing among the mineral specimens, looking uncomfortable, like a man in a morgue.

“What’s happening?” said Vimes.

Detritus shifted uneasily.

“Sorry, Mister Vimes, but I was der only one dat knew where—” he began.

“Yes, okay. Is this about the taka-taka?”

“How did you know about dat, sir?”

“I don’t. What is the taka-taka?”

“It der famous war club of der trolls,” said Detritus. Vimes, with the image of the peace club of the trolls downstairs still in his mind, couldn’t stop himself.

“You mean you subscribe and get a different war every month?” he said. But that sort of thing was wasted on Detritus. He treated humor as some human aberration that had to be overcome by talking slowly and patiently.

“No, sir. When der taka-taka is sent a-round the clans, it a summon-ing to war,” he said.

“Oh damn. Koom Valley?”

“Yes, sir. An’ I’m hearing dat der Low King and der Uberwald dwarfs is already on der way to Koom Valley, too. Der street is full of it.”

“Er…bingle bingle bingle…?” said a small and very nervous voice.

Vimes pulled out the Gooseberry and stared at it. At a time like this…

“Well?” he said.

“It’s twenty-nine minutes past five, Insert Name Here,” said the imp nervously.

“So?”

“On foot, at this time of day, you will need to leave now to be home at six o’clock,” said the imp.

“Der Patrician want to see you and dere’s clackses arrivin’ and everythin’,” said Detritus insistently.

Vimes continued to stare at the imp, which looked embarrassed.

“I’m going home,” he said, and started walking. Dark clouds were rolling in overhead, heralding another summer storm.

“Dey’ve foun’ der three dwarfs near der well, sir,” said Detritus, lumbering after him. “Looks like it was other dwarfs what killed ’em, sure enough. The ol’ grags have gone. Captain Carrot’s put guards on every exit he can find…”

But they dig, Vimes thought. Who knows where all the tunnels go?

“…and he wants permission to break open der big iron doors in Treacle Street,” Detritus went on. “Dey can get at the last dwarf dat way.”

“What are the dwarfs saying about it?” said Vimes, over his shoulder. “The living ones, I mean?”

“A lot of dem saw the dead dwarfs brought up,” said Detritus. “I fink most of dem would hand him der crowbar.”

Let’s hear it for the mob, Vimes thought. Grab it by its sentimental heart. Besides, the storm is beginning. Why worry about an extra raindrop?

“Okay,” he said. “Tell him this. I know Otto will be there with his damn picture box, so when that door is wrenched open, it’s going to be dwarfs doing it, okay? A picture full of dwarfs?”

“Right, sir!”

“How is young Brick? Will he swear a statement? Does he understand about that?”

“I reckon he could, sir.”

“In front of dwarfs?”

“He will if I ask him, sir,” said Detritus. “Dat I can promise.”

“Good. And get someone to put out a message on the clacks, to every city watch and village constable between here and the mountains. Tell them to look out for a party of dark dwarfs. They’ve got what they came for and they’re doing a runner, I know it.”

“You want they should try to stop ’em?” the sergeant asked.

“No! No one should try it! Say they’ve got weapons that shoot fire! Just let me know where they’re headed!”

“I’ll tell dem dat, sir.”

And I’m going home, Vimes repeated to himself. Everyone wants something from Vimes, even though I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Hell, I’m probably a spoon. Well, I’m going to be Vimes, and Vimes reads Where’s My Cow? to Young Sam at six o’clock. With the noises done right.

He went home at a brisk walk, using all the little shortcuts, his mind sloshing backwards and forwards like thin soup, his ribs nudging him occasionally to say yes, they were still here and twinging. He arrived at the door just as Willikins was opening it.

“I shall tell her ladyship you are back, sir,” he called out as Vimes hurried up the stairs. “She is mucking out the dragon pens.”

Young Sam was standing up in his cot, watching the door. Vimes’s day went soft and pink.

The chair was littered with the favored toys of the hour—a rag ball, a little hoop, a wooly snake with one button eye. Vimes pushed them onto the rug, sat down, and took off his helmet. Then he took off his damp boots. You didn’t need to heat a room after Sam Vimes had taken his boots off. On the wall, the nursery clock ticked, and with every tick and tock a little sheep jumped back and forth over a fence.

Sam unfolded the rather chewed, rather soggy book.

“Where’s my cow?” he announced, and Young Sam chuckled. Rain rattled on the window.

…A “thing” that talks, he thought as his mouth and eyes took over the task at hand. I’m going to have to find out about that. Why’d it make dwarfs want to kill one another?

…Why did we go into that mine? Because we heard there’d been a murder, that’s why!

…Everyone knows that dwarfs gossip. It was stupid to tell them to keep it from us!

That’s the deep-downers for you, they think they just have to say a thing and it’s true!

…Water dripping on a stone.

Where did I see one of those Thud boards recently?

Oh, yes, Helmclever. He was very worried, wasn’t he?

He had a board. He said he was a keen player.

That was a dwarf under pressure if ever I saw one; he looked as if he was dying to tell me something…

That look in his eyes…

I was so angry. Don’t tell the Watch? What did they expect? You’d have thought he would have known…

He knew I’d go postal!

He wanted me to be angry!

He damn well wanted me to be angry!

Vimes snorted and crowed his way through the rest of the zoo, missing out not one bark or squeak, and tucked up his son with a kiss.

There was the sound of tinkling glass from downstairs. Oh, someone’s dropped a glass, said his front brain. But his back brain, which had steered him safely through these mean streets for more than fifty years, whispered: Like hell they did!

Purity would be up in her room. Cook had the evening off. Sybil was out feeding the dragons. That left Willikins. Butlers didn’t drop things.

From below, there was a quiet “ugh,” and then the thud of something hitting meat.

And Vimes’s sword was on the hook at the other end of the hall, because Sybil didn’t like him wearing it in the house.

As quietly as possible, he sought around for something, anything, that could be turned into a weapon. Regrettably, they had, when choosing toys for Young Sam, completely neglected the whole area of hard things with sharp edges. Bunnies, chickies, and piggies there were in plenty, but—ah! Vimes spotted something that would do, and wrenched it free.

Moving soundlessly on thick, over-darned socks, he crept down the stairs.

The door to the wine cellar was open. Vimes didn’t drink these days, but guests did, and Willikins, in accordance with some butlerian duty to generations only just or as yet unborn, cared for it and bought the occasional promising vintage. Was there the crackle of glass being trodden on? Okay, did the stairs creak? He’d find out.

He reached the vaulted, damp cellar, and stepped carefully out of the light filtering down from the hall.

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

The little bastards! And they could see in the dark, too, right?

He reached into his pocket and fumbled 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 was gone and 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 I’ll killyoukillyoukillyoukillkillkill I’ll kill you kill I’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 forever, 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 railings and crashed through them onto 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 checks, 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, was the rag ball, the hoop, and the wooly 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 resting 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, out of breath.

“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 got outside, sir!” said Willikins urgently. “So is Lady Sybil!”

Vimes’s grin froze.

“Shall I take the young man, sir?” Willikins said, reaching.

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 colors. 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 sissies or people who minded having to repaint the whole side of the house occasionally. There were big iron doors at either end; Vimes headed toward 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 around, 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 fireworks 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 also getting to her feet, a little clumsily, because of all the special clothing every dragon breeder wore.*

The iron of the far doors glowed around the black outline of a dwarf. A little way in front of them, two iron boots were cooling from white heat in a puddle of molten sand.

Metal went plink.

Lady Sybil reached up with heavy-gloved hands, patted out some patches of burning oil on her leather apron, and lifted off her helmet. It landed on the sand with a thud.

“Oh, Sam…” she said softly.

“Are you all right? Young Sam is fine. We’ve got to get out of here!”

“Oh, Sam…”

“Sybil, I need you to take him!” Vimes said, speaking slowly and clearly to get through the shock. “There could be others out there!”

Lady Sybil’s eyes focused.

“Give him to me,” she ordered. “And you take Raja!”

Vimes looked where she was indicating. A young dragon with floppy ears and an expression of mildly concussed good humor blinked at him. He was a Golden Wouter, a breed with a flame so strong that one of them had once been used by thieves to melt their way into a bank vault.

Vimes picked him up carefully, and still winced. Ye gods, the ache in his hand had gone all the way to the elbow…

“Coal him up,” Sybil commanded.

Good old Sybil, he told himself as he fed anthracite into Raja’s eager gullet. Her female forebears had valiantly backed up their husbands as distant embassies were besieged, had given birth on a camel back or in the shade of a stricken elephant, had handed around little gold-wrapped chocolates while trolls were trying to break into the compound, or had merely stayed at home and nursed such bits of husbands and sons that made it back from endless little wars. The result was a species of woman who, when duty called, turned into solid steel.

Vimes flinched as Raja burped.

“That was a dwarf, wasn’t it?” said Sybil, cradling Young Sam. “One of those deep-down ones you see about?”

“Yes.”

“Why did it try to kill me?”

When people are trying to kill you, it means you’re doing something right. It was a rule Sam had lived by. But this…even a real stone killer like Chrysophrase wouldn’t have tried something like this. It was insane. They will burn. They will burn…

“I think they’re frightened of what I’m going to find out,” said Vimes. “I think it’s all gone wrong for them, and they want to stop me.”

Could they have been that stupid? he wondered. A dead wife? A dead child? Could they think that would mean for one moment that I’d stop? As it is, when I catch up with whoever ordered this, and I will, I hope there’s someone there to hold me back.

They will burn for what they did.

“Oh, Sam…” murmured Sybil, the iron mast falling for a moment.

“I’m sorry. I never expected this,” said Vimes. He put the dragon down and held her carefully, almost fearfully. The rage had been so strong; he felt he might grow spikes, or snap into shards. And the headache was coming back, like a lump of lead nailed just over his eyes.

“Whatever happened to all that, you know, hi-ho, hi-ho, and being kind to poor lost orphans in the forest, Sam?” Sybil whispered.

“Willikins is in the house,” he said. “Purity is as well.”

“Let’s go and find them, then,” said Sybil. She grinned, a little damply. “I wish you wouldn’t bring your work home with you, Sam.”

“This time it followed me,” said Vimes grimly. “But I intend to tidy it up, believe me.”

They shall bur—no! They shall be hunted down to any hole they hide in and brought back to face justice. Unless (oh please!) they resist arrest…

Purity was standing in the hall, alongside Willikins. She was holding a trophy Klatchian sword, without much conviction. The butler had augmented his weaponry with a couple of meat cleavers, which he hefted with a certain worrying expertise.

“My gods, man, you’re covered in blood!” Sybil burst out.

“Yes, Your Ladyship,” said Willikins smoothly. “May I say in mitigation that it is not, in fact, mine.”

“There was a dwarf in the dragon house,” said Vimes. “Any sign of any others?”

“No, sir. The ones in the cellar had an apparatus for projecting fire, sir.”

“The dwarf we saw had one too,” said Vimes, adding: “It didn’t do him any good.”

“Indeed, sir? I apprised myself of its use, sir, and tested my understanding by firing it down the tunnel they had arrived by until it ran out of igniferous juice, sir. Just in case there were more. It is for this reason, I suspect, that the shrubbery at Number Five is on fire.”

Vimes hadn’t met Willikins when they were both young. The Cockbill Street Roaring Lads had a treaty with Shamlegger Street, thus allowing them to ignore that flank while they concentrated on stopping the territorial aggression of the Pigsty Hill Dead Marmoset Gang. He was glad he hadn’t fetched up against young Willikins.

“They must have come up for air there,” he said. “The Jeffersons are on holiday.”

“Well, if they’re not ready for that sort of thing, they shouldn’t be growing rhododendrons,” said Sybil matter-of-factly. “What now, Sam?”

“We’re staying the night at Pseudopolis Yard,” said Vimes. “Don’t argue.”

“Ramkins have never run away from anything,” Sybil declared.

“Vimeses have run like hell all the time,” said Vimes, too diplomatic to mention the aforesaid ancestors who came home in pieces. “That means you fight where you want to fight. We’re all going to go and get the coach, and we’re all going down to the Yard. When we’re there, I’ll send people back to pick up our stuff. Just for one night, all right?”

“What would you like me to do with the visitors, sir?” said Willikins, with a sidelong glance at Lady Sybil. “One is indeed dead, I am afraid. If you recall, I must have stabbed him with the ice knife I happened to be innocently holding, having been cutting ice for the kitchen,” he added, poker-faced.

“Put him on the roof of the coach,” said Vimes.

“The other one also appears to be dead, sir. I’d swear he was fine when I tied him up, sir, because he was cursing me in their lingo.”

“You didn’t tie him up too hard, did—” Vimes began, and gave up on it. If Willikins wanted someone dead, he wouldn’t have taken a prisoner. It must have been a surprise, breaking into a cellar and meeting something like Willikins. Anyway, to hell with them.

“Just…died?” he said.

“Yes, sir. Do dwarfs naturally salivate green?”

“What?”

“There is green around his mouth, sir. Could be a clue, in my opinion.”

“All right, put him on the roof of the coach, too. Let’s go, shall we?”

Vimes had to insist that Sybil traveled on the inside. Usually, she got her own way and he was happy to give it to her, but the unspoken agreement was that when he really insisted, she listened. It’s a married couple thing.

Vimes rode beside Willikins, and got him to stop halfway down the hill where a man was selling the evening edition of the Times, still damp from the press.

The picture on the front page was of a mob of dwarfs. They were pulling open one of the mine’s big, round metal doors; it was hanging off its hinges. In the middle of the group, hands gripping the edge of the frame and muscles bulging, was Captain Carrot. Gleaming, with his shirt off.

Vimes grunted happily, folded up the paper, and lit a cheroot. The shaking in his legs was barely noticeable now, the fires of that terrible rage banked but still glowing.

“A Free Press, Willikins. You just can’t beat it,” he said.

“I’ve often heard you remark as much, sir,” said Willikins.