Bunty was surprised to see them so soon, but Ladies Who Organize are seldom thrown by guests arriving unexpectedly early.

It turned out Bunty was Berenice Waynesbury, née Mouse-father, which must have come as a relief, with a daughter who was married and lived just outside Quirm and a son who’d had to go to Fourecks in a hurry over a complete misunderstanding but was now into sheep in a big way and she hoped Sybil and of course his grace would be able to stay until Saturday because she’d invited simply everybody and wasn’t Young Sam simply adorable…and so on, right up to “—and we’ve cleaned out one of the stables for your trolls” said with a happy smile.

Before Sybil or Vimes could say a word, Detritus had removed his helmet and bowed.

“T’ank you very much, missus,” he said gravely, “you know, sometimes people forget to clean dem out first. It’s dem little touches dat mean a lot.”

“Why, thank you,” said Bunty. “How charming. I’ve, er, never seen a troll wearing clothing before…”

“I can take dem off if you like,” said Detritus. At which point, Sybil took Bunty gently by the arm and said: “Let me introduce you to everybody else…”

Mr. Waynesbury, the magistrate, wasn’t the venal pocket-liner Vimes had expected. He was thin, tall, and didn’t say a great deal, and spent his time at home in a study filled with law books, pipes, and fishing tackle; he dispensed justice in the mornings, fished during the afternoon, and charitably forgave Vimes for his total lack of interest in dry flies.

The local town of Ham-on-Koom made a good living off the river. When the Koom hit the plains, it widened and slowed and was more full of fish than a tin of sardines. Marshes spread out on either side, too, with deep and hidden lakes that were the home and feeding ground of innumerable birds.

Oh…and there were the skulls, too.

“I am the coroner as well,” he told Vimes as he unlocked a cupboard in his desk. “We get a few bones washed down here every spring. Mostly tourists, of course. They really will not take advice, alas. But sometimes we get things that are of more…historical interest.” He put a dwarf skull on the leather desktop.

“About a hundred years old,” he said. “From the last big battle, a hundred years ago. We get the occasional piece of armor, too. We put it all in the charnel house, and occasionally the dwarfs or the trolls come with a cart to sort through it and carry it away. They take it very seriously.”

“Any treasure?” said Vimes.

“Hah. Not that I get told about. But I’d hear about it if there was anything big.” The magistrate sighed. “Every year people come to search for it. Sometimes they are lucky.”

“They find gold?”

“No, but they get back alive. The others? They wash up out of the caves, in the fullness of time.” He selected a pipe from a rack on his desk and began to fill it. “I’m amazed that anyone feels it necessary to take weapons up the valley. It’ll kill you on a whim. Will you take one of my lads, Commander?”

“I have my own guide,” said Vimes, and then added, “But thank you.”

Mr. Waynsbury puffed his pipe.

“As you wish, of course,” he said. “I shall watch the river, in any case.”