Dame Rumour; 2 of 3, Vetinari/OFC.
***

There was a time, a small golden time between his marriage and his promotion to Dukedom, when the Commander of the Watch had exactly as many officers as he wanted, had exactly as much rank and privilege as he could handle without occasionally being disgusted with himself, and would never have dreamed of using spies.

Of couse he had street folk and informants who once in a while had an interesting bit of information to share, and Watchmen always heard things other people didn't hear, but that wasn't spying. It was Information Recieved.

There was a time when the only reason Sam Vimes kept his ear to the street was because he was too drunk to get up out of the gutter.

And now, while he still would not admit to it, his grace the Duke of Ankh had quite an extensive network of...of 'not-spies'. Call them the Men in Armour. The Commander's Information Agency. They were coppers, trained in Ankh-Morpork, who'd left the city for pay raises and promotions in other cities that were in need of a few good men (or women, dwarves, trolls, and various undead -- but not vampires. Never vampires.)

Informally they were called Sammies.

Most of the time, they were just Watchmen, who kept their heads down and did their job and drew a paycheck. But they paid attention out of habit, because if you didn't pay attention in Ankh-Morpork you could get in serious trouble.

They kept in touch with each other. And some of them kept in very good touch with Vimes.

The messenger pigeon had come from Lance-Corporal Ben Carpet, on the Sto Plains, who got the news from Sergeant Rex Von Werren*, up near the borders of Uberwald, who got it from a witch passing through from Genua to Bad Ass. Even though it came by pigeon, it was in code, and once you got it decoded it was in copper slang. It took Vimes a few minutes to understand the basic gist of the message.

* The sergeant was a werewolf with quite unimaginative parents, but when your littermates are Princess, Fido, and Spot, you tend to look kindly on Rex.

When he finally did, he lit a cigar contemplatively and did some mental calculations. News traveled much faster than people, but had more way-stations en route. If there were no incidents on the road from Genua to Ankh-Morpork -- and with a passenger like he expected, there wouldn't be -- then she ought to arrive in about a week.

He wasn't sure who he ought to discuss it with first. The Patrician seemed the logical choice, but he almost certainly already knew, and if he didn't -- well, Vimes would have taken a perverse delight in telling him, but didn't think it would be a wise career move.

If the Patrician did know...then he probably wasn't going to tell Vimes anything new.

He could tell Carrot, but Carrot would gravely express his hopes for a happy event, and go on his way until further information was provided.

William de Worde would kill for the knowledge. And if he printed it, he'd get Vimes killed too. But the lad had even more contacts in the great wide Disc than Vimes did, and could probably swap information with him. Vimes considered what the effect would be if he tried subtly pumping William for that information, and decided against it.

So he did what he always did when he didn't know what to do. He walked.

Hogswatch was only ten days away, and the streets were piled high with greyish slurry. It was a time of year -- possibly the only time -- when Vimes was grateful for his thick boots and heavy coat. The street vendors which sold Ankh-Morpork some of its most organic animal by-products were few and far between, but there was sad, dusty holly in many of the shop windows, and -- despite the Patrician's best efforts to prevent it -- there were people singing on streetcorners.

He turned the message over and over in his mind. He'd learned from Cheery and Angua that hill-witches in the Ramtops were relatively trustworthy when it came to information of this kind. Not likely to make things up. Von Werren was as unimaginative as his parents, the poor sod, and wouldn't embroider too much. Carpet had done nothing more than dress it up in code.

Vimes was aware that human beings could take a simple story, like a dragon exploding in his wife's breeding pens, and pass it along from mouth to mouth until the entire Ramkin mansion had vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving behind a small kipper and three slices of toast.

This didn't have the feel of something like that. This had the real, solid sensation of fear and confusion behind it.

Side-stepping a haycart, he turned onto Broad Way and winced.

Some daft bugger had gotten a wizard to enchant a dozen coils of wire, so that little bright colours danced along them merrily. He'd taken these coils and sold them to merchants, without even stopping to ask if the merchants had any sense of decency in the least. Several store windows were so brightly and garishly lit that people inside were wearing tinted glasses.

Bah, Hogswatch!

He kicked some snow onto one of the most horrible displays, causing the wire to smoke and sizzle, and the lights to go out. Several people applauded, including the clerks inside the store. Scowling, he continued on.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the season, but this town never took a break from crime, even for joyous gift-giving and eating the traditional winter pork products. People went a bit mad, too. All he wanted for Hogswatchnight was a few days of lawfulness around the place.

He knew one of his holiday gifts from Sybil was a polite request to Carrot not to disturb them with Watch business until at least after dinner on Hogswatchday. He hadn't managed to get her anything half so good*.

* He had worked quite hard to arrange the arrival of a new stud dragon, a genuine Retiring Smut, without her finding out about it.

His thoughts came round again to the message from Ben Carpet. When the carriage passed through his town, Ben promised, he'd clacks Vimes with confirmation. Vimes wanted to know now.

So who had information on the doings of the rich and powerful in Ankh-Morpork and abroad?

The thought hit him like thick stick.

I do.

***

On the brown dirt road that wound from Genua past the great Ramtop mountains, snaking towards the Sto Plains and eventually to the great coastal town of Ankh-Morpork, something glittered.

The air was still and, this being the road which followed the Vieux river, rather swampy. There was a sprinkling of oddly-coloured sunlight for a moment, and the muffled sound of carriage wheels. A whip-crack echoed. The dust lay as still as ever.

A small lizard, sunning itself in the dirt, suddenly found that it was not, as it were, attached to its body anymore. In fact, bits of its body were not attached to other bits. The truth of roadkill is not pretty, especially when lizard-meets-carriage-wheel.

OH. HELLO.

Death looked down on the little spirit-lizard, who flicked his forked tongue out lazily.

YES, WELL, LET'S BE ON WITH IT, Death said, a touch testily.

The post-lizard flicked his tongue again, scrabbled in the dirt, and scuttled away, until it faded slowly into nothingness. Death watched it go, then turned to look down the road.

HMMM, he said, thoughtfully. The spectral outline of a carriage could be seen. There was a vivid green stain on one wheel.

Then he shrugged.

***

The Scoone Avenue grounds, considerably less well-stomped-on than the rest of the city, were blanketed in a thin, melting layer of white. Around the dragon house, there was a smell that is possibly one of the rarest on the Disc: scorched snow. When snow didn't even have time to melt before it burned, you knew you were in dragon country*.

* The only other place in the multiverse where the scent of burning water can be found is around aquaeous parts cleaners in painters' shops, where the water is recycled and heated and mixed with paint so many times that it takes on a viscous quality, like motor oil, or possibly the Ankh.

Sybil was training the latest batch of hatchlings, now just about the right size for pets, to sit on shoulders. She expected a half-dozen emergency purchases by forgetful spouses and parents, around nine pm on Hogswatchnight, and wanted to be prepared. Young Sam, well to the rear of proceedings, gurgled happily as he threw his rattle into a pen, where a couple of hen dragons ate it. They lost more toys that way...

"You're home early," she said, as a dragon shot a lick of flame past her ear. She'd already swathed her face in protective layers of flame-retardant cloth. "Here, hold this one, he's sitting a treat but he needs to get used to different people."

Vimes found a small, smelly creature planted firmly on one shoulder. He suspected that Sybil often did this sort of thing deliberately, because it is hard for a man's wife to take him seriously when he's wearing a toxic chemical factory on one arm. It dribbled a little, and he knew he'd have to have Detritus darn his chain mail again.

"I think I'm still on duty," he said thoughtfully. Sybil looked at him just in time to avoid having her eyebrow burned off. She smacked the little dragon's nose with a roll of paper, which caught fire. Vimes went to pick up his son, glanced at the creature on his shoulder, and thought better of it.

"Sam, dear, are you ever truly off?" Sybil asked.

"Well, no," he said uncomfortably, "Not as such, but I had to ask you about some things. Er. Which may or may not be Watch-related."

She smiled. "All right. What do you need to know?"

"Who do we know in Genua? Many people?"

Sybil pursed her lips. "Know in a general, went-to-school-with-them sort of way, or the more specific invited-them-to-our-wedding sort of way?"

"Either. Did we have anyone from Genua at the wedding?"

"I don't think so. There's Alicia LaBoue, we were school chums, and her husband's family, the Barons..."

"The Barons of?"

"Just the Barons." Sybil stroked the dragon on her shoulder, who had stopped flaming but was now swaying gently. "The Eorles have a sort of cadet branch of the family out that way, and there's the Duc Broad, nice old fellow, used to hunt with father. One of the few to survive it, in the end. Some of the gods in Genua are particularly friendly, do they count?"

"Shouldn't think so, unless they've got marriageable daughters."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I got a message from Benny Carpet this morning. Apparently the Patrician is getting married."

Sybil blinked. "Havelock? I mean, of course he's quite a good catch, if you look at it one way, but he doesn't seem the marrying type."

"Well, Ben got it from Von Werren, who got it from a witch who'd been in Genua a few days before. And I grant you, that's not good enough proof for the Times, but it's good enough for me."

"Gosh. Do you think he's gone mad?"

"This recently?"

"Now, Sam -- "

"All right, I know. Do we know the..." Vimes consulted the slip of paper. "The Gumbonis?"

Sybil looked at him sharply, and when she spoke, it was in the voice of the Duchess of Ankh. "They are not," she said firmly, "Our Kind of People."

"Oh yes?"

"They're some sort of -- well, they call themselves businessmen..."

"Ah. Brecchia-style? Making people offers they can't refuse? Mainly because of the crossbow aimed at their head?"

"Yes, I think that broadly covers it. Which means it must be a made-up story, Sam. Havelock would never marry a Gumboni. He doesn't need any hired muscle, and the Vetinaris certainly don't need blood money from a..."

"...business family. Right." Vimes tweaked the tail of the creature sitting on his shoulder, and lit a cigar with the flame.

"Sam!"

"Sorry, dear. So, according to Watch gossip, the Patrician is marrying into a known crime family from Genua."

"You don't think they're blackmailing him, do you?"

"I doubt he'd leave any evidence strong enough for blackmail." Vimes' mind was already leaping a step ahead, which shows that if you hang about the Patrician long enough, he does rub off on you. "But I'll make inquiries." He dislodged the little dragon from his shoulder, handing it back to Sybil. In the corner, young Sam laughed as flames shot up from the pen he'd thrown his rattle into.

***
William de Worde was not a man to whom manual labor came easily. He had carefully arranged his life so that the heaviest thing he ever had to lift was a thesaurus -- and he didn't need it often. William was a walking thesaurus, dictionary, and Style manual, rolled into one. To complicate his life, he also had a very strict Guide to Ethics worked in somewhere. He rather liked the Commander of the Watch, who had a very similar Guide in his own personal makeup, even if his allowed for Shouting At People, Threatening Journalists, and the use of Cruel and Unusual Sarcasm.

William was running through the office of the Times, carrying a last-minute iconograph addition to the next day's front page, when he saw Vimes waiting, rather more patiently than usual, in the tiny cubicle of an office that William and Sacharissa shared. He tossed the plate to Gunilla, who passed it to Boddony, who took out a wrench and dove into the monstrous press that produced the front page. It had been the finest money could buy, but that was before the dwarves had gotten their hands on it. Now money couldn't buy the sort of quality this press had.

"Sorry about that," he said, wiping his hands with a rag and throwing himself into his seat. The Commander raised an eyebrow. "The press never sleeps," he added.

"Shouldn't think so. Most interesting news happens at night," Vimes answered. "Plus it's harder to see the mischief the Press gets up to."

Still not over the cartoon, William thought. He'd considered his editorial manager O'Biscuit's talent with a pencil to be quite unique. So had Vimes' wife. Vimes himself didn't care for the fine art of caricature.

"Certainly we work through the night, much like your officers," William said politely. "I assume this is a business visit?"

"I know you get information from all over." Vimes leaned forward. "I need news and I haven't got time to bugger about with clacks. What can you tell me about the Gumboni family?"

William leaned forward too. "What's in it for the Times if I do?"

Vimes gave him a grin. It was a grin that William, along with many people who'd seen the inside of Vimes' cells, was familiar with. "Most men would ask what was in it for them," he said. "You ask what's in it for a bit of paper that people toss out at the end of the day."

"But they pay twenty pence for it first. And then they read it, because in this city a man wants his pence worth." said William. "I'm sure you know, Commander, that Ankh-Morpork citizens expect quite a lot, for their investments."

Vimes nodded. "Fair enough. You want a Times reporter in at Timbry's sentencing. Guards say who goes and who stays -- "

"Come on, Commander, you've got something better than that," William said, although his mouth watered at the thought. Carl Timbry was a monster of a man who was up for hanging, but he had some good lawyers and might still get off. Whether or not he swung was the question on everyone's mind*. But he knew Vimes wouldn't ask about the Gumbonis unless there was a story there.

* Well, everyone who thought about that kind of thing. Which wasn't nearly everyone, really, but a damn good percentage of the people who bought the Times every day.

"I've had...news," Vimes said noncommittally. "But I can't let you print it. Not until it's safe. This is political."

William risked a glance at the press. It was always hungry. Withholding news could make it angry. Then again, a nice big front-page feature when Vimes finally did let him feed it...

"I've kept Watch secrets before," William remarked. "Silly rumors about werewolves and so on."

There was another nod. "And if you keep this one, then I can continue to refrain from locking you up and throwing out the key."

"So let's see the colour of your coin."

He was subject to the most...the most measuring stare he'd ever felt. It was as if Vimes was weighing his words against some inner scale of decency. Then the Commander leaned back, pulled out a cigar, bit the end off, and lit it.

"I've had report from trusted sources outside of the city that a daughter of the Gumboni family is on her way to Ankh-Morpork," he said quietly. "You know who the Gumbonis are?"

"They're a crime syndicate. Leon Gumboni's the head man, or was a week ago when I got news from the city. They call him the Crawfather."

"He got any daughters?"

"A couple, I think. Maybe even one with his wife."

Vimes' eyes widened a fraction. "That sort of family," he murmured.

"They do things differently in Genua," William replied. "Why's she coming? Going to set up a branch here?"

"Don't know about that. My sources say she's coming to the city to get married."

"Could strengthen business ties, but from what I hear, the Crawfather doesn't much like Ankh-Morpork. He says we're not modern enough for the Gumbonis."

"Then he's got a shock coming, I think," Vimes continued. "A Gumboni's going to marry the Patrician."

William's eyes bulged. "That's the news you want me to keep secret? That's huge!"

"That's life," Vimes said philosophically. "You make a move to print it, de Worde, and I'll throttle you."

William looked longingly towards the press. Sacharissa would go spare when she heard this. She might have fits when she heard they couldn't publish it.

"Who're your sources? Do you have a name? When's she arriving?" he asked. He began to reach for a pencil, then thought better of it. Vimes didn't like that sort of thing. 'Writing things down at people', he called it.

"That's all I know. A witch passing through from Genua to the Ramtops told a Watchman, who passed it along till it got to me. I'm inclined to believe it." Vimes jerked his head at the filing cabinets along one wall. "I know you keep files on important players in Disc politics. Wouldn't mind seeing mine sometime."

"It's quite thick."

"I'm sure. Now. Your circulation is all over the Disc. I'm willing to bet you've got a file on the Gumbonis. I want it."

"Are you daft? I need it! Especially now!"

"Then I want to read it. I won't steal anything," Vimes said, when he saw the look on William's face. "I am a Watchman, you know."

"Yes, I know. That's what worries me." William rose, reluctantly, and located a slim file, pasted with notes. He gave it to Vimes, who put his feet up on William's desk and was soon lost to the world.

"What's he doing here?" Sacharissa hissed, when she arrived back from an interview twenty minutes later.

"Possibly providing me with the scoop of the year," William whispered, pulling her into a shadowy corner behind the press. It smelled of ink and oil. On the other side of the press, Boddony held his breath and listened intently. "Also insulting the paper, threatening to lock me up, and promising to beat me. And smoking odious cigars in the office."

"What'd you do to deserve all that?"

"I think it falls under the heading of 'being a know-it-all newspaper man'," William sighed. "But wait till you hear what he's got for me..."

***

At a coaching inn, one of many along the road from Genua to Ankh- Morpork, a faintly transparent carriage glimmered momentarily in the dying light of the evening. The innkeeper, a relatively harmless man who overcharged for the rooms but left little mints on the pilows, watched it arrive with interest.

The carriage glimmered again, and finally solidified, though the driver was still a little blurry and the footmen nonexistent. Inside, a very firmly real woman sighed and leaned back on the not-quite-there cushions.

"What a relief," she breathed, as the driver opened the door and pulled down the steps. The dying sun hit her face --

***

"This one," said Vimes. "I think it's her."

"Why?" William asked. He'd already sent Sacharissa out to talk to some people she knew at the Palace, and now stood staring at the name in his file. Marisia Gumboni-Blanc.

"She's the only single woman with any real power in the family," Vimes said, reading from the file. "Vetinari wouldn't marry a hanger-on. Says here, dark hair, dark eyes, dresses in white. Widow, well- preserved for middle age. Sounds like a regular romantic heroine."

"She won't stand a chance against the Patrician, then," William said cynically. "Man hasn't got a romantic bone in his body."

A muscle jumped in Vimes jaw, and William recalled a remark someone had made about the Watch's unique brand of humor. Hur, hur, hur...

Both men, without thinking, had conjured an image of Marisia, from the brief description Vimes read aloud. They were remarkably similar.

***

-- and fell on a pale woman with curly dark hair, and clever dark eyes. She adjusted the ruff of white lace at her throat.

"Merci," she said, to the driver. "See to the horses. I shall get our lodgings."

The man saluted, his lines becoming sharper by the moment, and she walked around to the front door of the inn.

The innkeeper looked up, saw the woman, and thought -- she's trouble.

"No rooms open," he said automatically. "Sorry. Try a few miles down, there's -- "

A coin clicked on the table. It was a Genuan coin, and it was about five times what the innkeeper was currently charging for room, meal, livery service, and pillow mint. He pursed his lips.

"Might be able to find you something," he muttered. "Er..."

"One room will suffice," the woman said. "My driver will sleep with the coach. I require hot tea and buttered bread, if you have it."

"Of course, of course. Here we are. Lucie, you show her Ladyship up to the room," he snapped at his wife, who scurried around the counter.

"This way, ma'am," Lucie squeaked, leading the Lady up a flight of shabby stairs to a surprisingly large and airy room. The Lady looked around, smiled faintly, and nodded.

"It will do, thank you. You may go," she added. She could hear the driver puffing up the stairs, carrying her trunk. Below, in a kitchen somewhere, crockery crashed as the innkeeper nervously tried to assemble a tea tray. Marisia sighed.

"Check the clacks tower, please," she said, as the driver set the trunk down gently. "I am expecting a message from his Lordship."

There was a sudden shower of golden light, to Marisia's left, and a lady's maid stepped forward, still slightly transparent. Marisia and the driver paid her no mind. She began to unpack the trunk, laying out several white dresses of various styles, trimmed in blue or green.

***

The news was all over the dwarf bars by evening. Boddony had mentioned it in strict confidence to a fellow press-mechanic, who had told one or two of his mates at the pub. Ankh-Morpork society being what it was, it wasn't long before a few humans had picked up the news, and of course the first two men the rumour flew to, after that, were the only two who already knew.

Vimes winced as Carrot reported the rumour to him. It couldn't have been de Worde, or the man would simply have printed it. Sybil had been up with the dragons all day, and anyhow she knew better. Sometimes he wondered if news like this didn't just float out a person's ears for anyone to grab.

***

The Patrician laid down his pen, looked measuredly at Drumknott, and nodded.

"Show him in," he said slowly.

Murray the Stool was one of Vimes' agents, but the Patrician frightened him more, so he usually went to him first. This time, the broad-shouldered weasel of a man was holding his hat in his hands, nervously. He bowed. The Patrician didn't move.

"News for y'honour," Murray mumbled. "Bits of rumour floating round. Bout yourself, sir."

"Is that so, Murray?"

"Yassir. Dwarves sayin', sir."

The Patrician looked impassive. "I do not generally confide in dwarves," he pointed out. "Do I, Drumknott?"

"Don't confide in much of anyone, sir," Drumknott answered loyally.

"Very true."

"Only it's about yer lordship's getting married," Murray said, miserably.

"Married, you say? To whom?"

"Dunno, sir. Some dame from Genua, sir."

"Is the woman in question a dame, Drumknott?"

Drumknott made a show of consulting his notes. "No, sir. I believe Lady or Madam is traditional, in Miss Gumboni's case."

Murray's eyes widened. "S'true then, sir?" he squeaked.

"Lady Gumboni?" Vetinari asked his clerk, apparently oblivious to Murray's discomfort. "That seems to lack a certain elegance. Circulate a memo, if you would, notifying the staff to call her Madam Gumboni. Until we are aware of what she prefers."

"Certainly, sir."

"Thank you." The Patrician turned back to Murray. "Now, where were we?"

"I was just...er...congratulations, y'lordship," Murray mumbled.

A humorless smile broke over the Patrician's face. "Thank you, Murray. You may go."

The spy couldn't get out of the door fast enough. Drumknott coughed.

"He'll carry it straight to Vimes," he said. "You know how it is, sir."

"Oh yes. I imagine Sir Samuel does need a little warning. Crowd control and such. He won't come and ask me, of course, but he'll be prepared. There is a certain dependable contrariness to the man."

"So you've said, milord. Shall I begin seeing to the...er... arrangements?"

The Patrician nodded. "I think it is safe, now. I suppose I shall have to locate a best man."

"It is traditional, sir."

"And the Great Hall at the University? I believe Lady Ramkin was married there. Inform the wizards."

"Invitations, sir?"

"Oh, yes. Gold edging and all that. Try to have them sent by tomorrow? The usual people. And the Times."

Drumknott made a note. "I'll see to the rest."

"Thank you, Drumknott. You are dismissed."

***

Vimes was waiting for William when he arrived the next morning.

"Print it," he said shortly. "Nothing to lose now."

"Word's all over town," William answered. They shared a slightly despairing look. "We'll run something tastefully insinuating in the society page. Your name won't be attached."

"I might even start to like you, if you keep up like that," Vimes grunted.

"I'll be careful." William took off his coat and pulled out a desk drawer, removing what looked, to Vimes, like a tapered box with paper stuck to it.

"What is it?" he asked, curiously. William pressed a button marked 'N' and Vimes flinched as a mechanism clicked inside it. William pointed to a faintly printed 'n' on the piece of paper.

"It's a Mechanism For Printing Things Speedily," he said, "Though we just call it the Hype-Writer. The Patrician sent it to us. It's a one-of-a-kind Da Quirm. Apparently it started out as a way of squeezing orange juice, but you just glue the letters on here..." he pointed inside the box, where several rows of letters were attached to long metal fingers. Gears gleamed menacingly. "Then you push the buttons on the front, and it prints them for you. Damned if I know how it works."

"Why aren't the letters in order?"

"I'm not sure." William squinted at the paper, and advanced it a few inches before beginning.

"Wouldn't it be easier to write it out the normal way?" Vimes asked, as William began picking letters out with agonizing, two-fingered slowness.

"Oh, I'll get faster," William said confidently. Vimes began to see why the Patrician had chosen to give the machine to de Worde. It was the same kind of thinking that had made him give Vimes, one of Nature's pedestrians, a sedan chair for his wedding. He left William to the Hype-Writer, and walked thoughtfully back to Pseudopolis Yard.

"Clacks for you, sir," Cheery said, as he passed. He accepted the folded letter, and began mentally decoding it on his way up the stairs, which is why he almost didn't notice the Patrician, seated in his office.

"Morning, Lordship," Vimes said, tossing the message on his desk. The Patrician was alone, his hands resting on his cane casually.

"Good morning, Vimes," Vetinari answered. "I hope I'm not intruding."

Even if you were, Vimes thought. "Not particularly," he said, the first half of Carpet's clacks dangling tantalizingly in his mind. "I didn't see your coach."

"Ah yes. We were forced to park around the corner. Your new traffic-controlling officers are remarkably zealous."

Vimes put a hand over his eyes. "They try," he said sadly.

"Commendable. And how is the Duchess?"

"She's well. Sam too."

"Excellent. Before I forget..." Vetinari reached into his robes and pulled out a small, delicate envelope. Vimes accepted it, with a sinking feeling, and went through the motions of reading the card inside. He glanced up, over the edge of the invitation, at the impassive face of the Patrician.

"So it's true," he said. "And on Hogswatchday. Very...romantic."

"Practical. This way the traditional Palace Hogswatch feast serves two functions." Vetinari smiled, thinly. "Do you know the Gumbonis?"

"I've heard of them."

"Madam Gumboni will arrive, so I'm told, in a week. I would appreciate it if you would attend a formal reception on her arrival. With Lady Sybil, too, of course."

Vimes narrowed his eyes. The Patrician was talking around something, which he never did. It was one of his few appealing qualities.

"I'll polish up the dress armour," he sighed.

"Splendid. Also..." Vetinari paused. "If I am to be married, I am told, traditionally I must have a best man. I would like you to fulfill that role. It is, aha, entirely up to you, of course."

The commander's jaw dropped. Yesterday he'd been investigating horrifying rumours that the Patrician was marrying a mobster's daughter. Today he was being asked to be best man at their wedding. It's a terrible shock, a thing like that, to a man like Sam Vimes.

"I...erm..." he set the invitation on his desk, carefully, as if it might explode. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Entirely. I can't think of anyone I should rather have as the official witness at my wedding," the Patrician said. "But if you are otherwise engaged on Hogswatchday..."

"Well, I...that is...well, no..." Vimes felt a guilty twinge. You're not supposed to investigate a woman if you're going to be best man at her wedding.

"Excellent. I'll have a man run the rings up to your house this evening." Vetinari stood, leaving a cloud of confusion behind him. "Good day, your Grace."

"Yes...erm..." Vimes said absently. Vetinari smiled as the door closed behind him.

He was all the way out on the street before he heard the Commander roaring for Captain Carrot. The Patrician took his entertainment where he could, and as entertainments went, the look on Vimes' face just now had been quite good.

He looked forward to meeting Marisia. The marriage should be very interesting indeed.

***

Footmen had been acquired. Another trunk of clothing had appeared, and a special bag which, when opened, proved to contain a wedding dress of some consequence. Marisia's maid, Emme, had been joined by an elderly woman who was apparently a sort of servant-cum-chaperone. Marisia herself seemed to have gained a few inches. She imagined it was probably to make up for the Patrician's height. He was, by all accounts, quite a tall man.

The walls of the city were fast approaching, and Marisia smoothed her dress, checking her hair to make sure it was perfect. We must make a good impression on the citizenry, she thought. His Lordship's last clacks had been full of formal welcome-to-the-city language and hopes for her good health, but she had read between the lines. She was expected, and Ankh-Morpork had high expectations of Foreigners when they're going to marry a local.

There were small children up on the walls, she noticed, watching for her approach. Guards on the gates, though they looked more like the kind to stand at attention while tourists took pictures of them, than the sort who decided what kind of person entered the city. Her driver saluted them, and they saluted back, as the coach passed under the great high arch of the gate and into the city.

Her servants stared around them, peering through the windows at the grand city of Ankh-Morpork, greatest and least-washed of the cities on the Disc. It was even larger than Genua, and richer; the goods of the entire world poured into Ankh-Morpork, and out again. The brightest minds were educated in their Guilds. The city was ruled with sense and an approximate sort of justice by the man she was coming here to marry. Marisia allowed herself a satisfied smile.

***

Sacharissa stood before the mirror, holding a dress up. "William, what do you think?" she asked, turning. "Does it say 'I'd like to ask you a couple of questions, but I'm too tasteful to come right out and say it at a reception'?"

William, fixing the collar of his suit, eyed the dress. "I don't think there's enough fabric for it to say all that," he said. "Not that I mind, Sacharissa, but -- "

"Oh, all right." She picked up another one. "Too reporter-y?"

"A little. What about the green one?"

"Oh, of course. Here we are." Sacharissa picked up a mass of sea-green cloth and lace. "Perfect, you're right."

"Thank you. And you say it's legal to list these as business deductions?" William asked anxiously. The paper was doing well, but dresses weren't cheap.

"With the number of society parties the Times has to attend these days?" She smiled. "It's very romantic, don't you think?"

"What?" William asked, confused.

"The wedding. A lonely city leader, a mysterious woman from Foreign Parts, an arranged marriage..."

"Wish I could have got an iconograph of her," William sighed. "Apparently Vetinari's very taken with her. The wedding's sprung up rather quickly. The Palace must be in uproar."

"Perhaps we ought to do a special feature." Sacharissa's voice was muffled as she pulled the dress over her head and adjusted what William tactfully referred to in the privacy of his own head as 'various bits'. "There. And I have the handbag for my notebook, and you've got yours in your pocket?"

"Yes, darling," William answered dutifully. "There's the coach, we'd best hurry. Otto's going on his own, he wanted to check the lighting at the reception beforehand."

"He's not going to dissolve at any point, is he?" she asked, as William held the coach door for her. "It's frowned upon in good circles, you know."

***

The coach rolled on, through curious crowds, until it slowed to a halt in a small square, in front of the Patrician's Palace. The flag of Ankh-Morpork snapped and waved somewhere in the background. The footmen opened the doors.

Marisia let herself be helped out of the carriage. She walked forward, calmly, while her servants hung back. A tall, slim man with a cane moved to meet her -- of course, that was Havelock Vetinari. She was quite pleased; he'd dressed entirely in black, which contrasted her white dress very nicely. Behind him, a number of people waited expectantly.

"Welcome to Ankh-Morpork, Madam Gumboni," Vetinari said. "I hope your travel was uneventful."

"Indeed. It is a beautiful city," she answered. "My staff are quite in awe."

This met with general approval from those watching. Everyone likes to think they could impress a foreigner. She took his offered hand, and allowed him to lead her to the center of the square.

"May I present Marisia Gumboni-Blanc, my wife-to-be," he said, to the assembled company. "Madam Gumboni, I would like to introduce Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of our University, and his brother Hughnon, chief priest of Blind Io."

Marisia curseyed deeply, and the brothers, after exchanging a glance with each other, bowed.

"Lord Downey, head of the Assassins' Guild, and Mr. Boggis, head of the Thieves' Guild, and his wife," Vetinari continued. Marisia noticed that Lord Downey looked considerably put out about something. Wasn't his Lordship a graduate of that Guild?

"Mr. de Worde and Ms. Cripslock, editors of our esteemed paper," Vetinari drawled. A young and frightened-looking couple bowed in unison. Marisia took Sacharissa's hands, smiling.

"Your paper brings me no end of entertainment," she said. "So good to meet a woman interested in affairs of state."

"Thank you, Madam," Sacharissa squeaked. William, to his horror, saw the urge to ask for an interview rising in her eyes, but Vetinari was already moving on, naming various guild heads and Community Representatives. Marisia shook hands with a dwarf and a troll for the first time. Finally, Vetinari brought her to a large, friendly- looking woman and a tough, weatherbeaten man.

"And this is the Duke and Duchess of Ankh, Sir Samuel Vimes and his wife, Lady Sybil. His Grace is to be my best man."

"What a pleasure to meet you," Marisia said softly. This was Vimes? She had pictured someone...well, someone who looked less like a street miscreant in stolen armour. "I have heard much about you in my letters from his Lordship. I understand you breed dragons, Lady Sybil."

"Yes, Madam Gumboni," said the woman, graciously, though there was a slightly frosty look in the Duke's eye.

"How exciting. You must know quite a lot about explosives," said Marisia. "I look forward to speaking with you again, at a more convenient time."

They had reached the entrance to the Palace, and Vetinari turned to lead her up the steps. The others, from Duke and Duchess down to the brothers Ridcully, turned and followed them into the great receiving hall, where there was champagne and music. Marisia looked around in pleased proprietry.

"How do I do?" she asked, under her breath.

"Excellently," the Patrician answered. "You may refer to me as Havelock, by the way."

"And I am Marisia, of course. How exciting it all is, no?"

"Terribly," Havelock said, calmly. "Do you require anything? Perhaps a few moments to gather yourself? Rooms have been prepared."

"Not at all."

"You have charmed the city leaders."

"Sir Samuel seems a bit...prohibitive."

"He dislikes the nobility."

"He's a duke!"

"Yes."

Marisia considered this. "I believe, after I discuss art with Lord Downey and ask for a tour of the Unseen University from the Archchancellor, I must speak with the duke and duchess again."

"That would be wise." Vetinari turned so that they could watch the others file in. "I think we ought to mingle. Dearest," he added, after a moment's thought.

"You detest mingling," Marisia said, with a bright smile on her face. "So do I."

"A necessary evil. You'll find many of the little lords quite amusing. Do ask Lord Selachii to introduce you to Lady Venturi."

Marisia nodded, and accepted a glass of champagne from a servant, setting it down almost immediately when the music began, and people started to dance.

It was going to be a splendid party.

***

It hadn't been too bad for Angua. Standing well back in the crowd and keeping an eye out for any malcontents, she had merely been surprised when Marisia Gumboni arrived. It was a tug at the nasal receptors, nothing more. She noted it, though, and tucked it away until she had time to consider it. She smelled Wrong.

It was much worse for Mustrum Ridcully, and a few other, younger wizards who'd snuck out of the University to stand in the crowd. Wizards, in addition to normal vision, can see certain supernatural phenomena -- Death, for example, and the Soul Cake Duck. They can tell the alive from the undead. And they can see the indefinable eighth colour, Octarine, which only appears around high-level magical areas.

Marisia Gumboni might as well have had fireworks in her ears. Mustrum Ridcully had to stop himself clapping his hands over his eyes as she emerged from the coach. For a moment, the entire crowd was awash in octarine, waves of it flowing from Marisia's lithe figure.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Before he'd known it, he was being introduced to the woman, who seemed perfectly normal -- at least, for a woman who was marrying the Patrician. There was just a hint of octarine around her eyes, though...

Almost in unison, William de Worde and Sam Vimes thought: She's just like I pictured her.

***

"What's wrong with her?"

Mustrum Ridcully turned, looking for the source of the question. Duke Vimes was standing a little back from the crowd in the reception hall, holding a cup of fruit juice. He appeared to be examining the flags hanging from the ceiling.

"I beg your pardon?" Ridcully asked. Vimes gave him a friendly smile.

"What's wrong with Madam Gumboni? I saw you wince," he added. He indicated the woman with his eyes.

Ridcully followed his gaze. Madam Gumboni was speaking with Lady Sybil, Vetinari hovering at her elbow. All three looked quite normal, except...there was that faint flicker of octarine, licking at the edges of the woman's figure.

Any other man might have admitted he didn't know, but one did not become Archchancellor of Unseen University by showing ignorance.

He settled for "She's a bit magical," which didn't satisfy Vimes in the slightest.

"How so?"

"I'd have to do further study," Ridcully said firmly.

"Take a guess, Archchancellor."

Madam Gumboni laughed at a remark of Vetinari's. Sybil was smiling, but both men saw her eyes dart towards her husband.

"I'd say she's a ghost, but everyone can see her. There's somethin' strange about her," Ridcully said. "Nice enough, though. Probably just ethnic, or some such."

Vimes steely gaze swept him up and down, and he felt as though he'd failed some sort of test. "Thank you, Archchancellor," he said. "Enjoy your drink."

Vimes crossed the floor, nodding to a couple of people who greeted him on his way to his wife's side.

" -- plays hob with our schedule, but of course the city must be kept safe," Sybil was saying. "Here you are, Sam, speak of the demon."

"Sybil suffers the usual troubles of a copper's wife, I'm afraid," Vimes said. "Late nights and street fights, as the saying goes."

"I find it fascinating," Marisia said, and Vimes got the distinct feeling that, while she was capable of being insincere about things like this, she was telling the truth. "In Genua, the guards are more...decoration. Standing attention outside important buildings and such."

"We do our share of standing. But I find running's more helpful," Vimes said. "I understand your family is in...business, in Genua?"

Madam Gumboni opened her mouth to reply, when the music began again. "Oh, I must dance," she said, with a smile. "Havelock...?"

"My leg, I'm afraid," Vetinari said. "Dancing is rather beyond me."

Vimes didn't buy that, not by a long shot. But Marisia Gumboni was already turning a pleading look on him.

"Surely you wouldn't mind, Lady Sybil, if I stole your gallant husband for a dance?" she asked. Sybil gave her a gracious smile.

"I don't dance -- " Vimes began, but Marisia had taken his hand, and pulled him into the crowd of other dancers.

"Of course you dance, your Grace," she said, while Vimes tried to concentrate on remembering how to waltz. "Who heard of a Duke who didn't? It is not done. But you were asking me about business in Genua, were you not?"

Vimes paused. "I was asking about your family," he said, carefully.

"Ah yes. The Gumboni family business. They have many interests in Genua. I shouldn't worry, though. They're not likely to expand anytime soon."

"They, Madam?"

"Please, for a close friend of Havelock's -- I am Marisia."

He was barely aware that just about every eye in the room was on them, and forced a smile. "The question stands, Madam."

"You are a persistent man, your Grace. I can see why they call you the terrier. But I am a woman of Ankh-Morpork now!" she said gaily.

"I suppose you're going to tell me you're marrying away from Genua to escape bad influences? Repudiating the family...business?"

"Ah, you have been investigating. Yes, terrible people, the Gumbonis. No, I don't repudiate the business. It has fed and educated me, for which I am very grateful. I merely wish a...change of scenery."

"You certainly got it."

"Havelock and I have been corresponding for some time. He likes to hear news of the comings and goings on the Vieux river. Politics are quite beyond me."

"I have trouble believing that."

She gave him a contemplative look. "You're very blunt, your Grace."

"I'm afraid it's just that I'm not a very good liar."

"Ah, now I find something hard to believe. You cannot have survived so long in Society by being honest, surely."

"A sharp sword is a pretty good substitute."

She laughed. "Why are you afraid of me, your Grace? I have not come here to displace you or your lady."

"Or the Patrician?"

"No, nor dear Havelock. I am a middle-aged woman. My beauty may begin to fade. He finds me not entirely intolerable, and I find him charming. It is a good arrangement for all concerned. But I see where your fear lies. I pose no threat to your beloved city. I promise no disorder. I have no intention of indulging in anything illegal, your Grace. My word, no."

"Everyone's guilty of something," Vimes said.

"Very true, and spoken like a man of conviction. I make you a promise, then. Give me your trust...and I won't commit crimes that anyone ever finds out about."

It was a good thing the music had stopped, because so had Vimes. That was a copper's answer. Only coppers thought like that. And this demure woman from a known crime family had thrown it off as innocently as a comment about the appetizers.

"There is a fine line between the career criminal and the true policeman, your Grace," she said softly, as she curtseyed. "Thank you for the dance."

And she swept away, towards Vetinari, who was now speaking with a small clump of guild leaders. Vimes made his way back to Sybil, mind reeling. "I hope I haven't got competition," she said gently. "You looked quite Ducal out there, Sam. Up until she told you something that made your jaw drop."

"There's something very wrong here," said Vimes. "The Archchancellor's nervous and so's his brother, and I've had to waltz, and someone's going to pay for that."

"I'm surprised you remembered how."

"So am I." He looked out over the crowd. If you watched people enough, and Vimes did little else at this kind of gathering, you began to see patterns. He was certain that this was how Vetinari learned to judge popular sentiment, but Vetinari could do it with an entire city.

Vetinari didn't always listen to popular sentiment, either.

And he never did anything without a reason.

"Don't you think it's possible, Sam," Sybil said gently, "That he might be lonely?"

"Vetinari? Shouldn't think he was capable of feeling that much. And there's no shortage of women in Ankh-Morpork, I understand."

"Havelock was always a solitary boy," Sybil continued, musingly. "He had offers, when he was a young man. Mainly from the fathers of eligible girls, who wouldn't mind a connection to the Vetinaris. But he always managed to find a flaw in them. And he was such a busy man."

"Still is," said Vimes.

"Yes, dear, but so are you, and you've managed a family as well."

Vimes turned slightly pink. "Well, I was lucky," he mumbled.

Sybil beamed. "Come on, dear, let's go speak to young Mr. de Worde and Miss Cripslock. You know how much you enjoy fencing with him."

***

Angua knew that the reception would last a good few hours, and she didn't fancy waiting in the cold for her Commander to leave. Once the crowds began to disperse, she slipped back to the Watch House, signed out, and hung up her helmet in her locker.

Then she thought for a few minutes.

It would be breaking the rules. Angua was quite keen on rules, being an officer of the Watch. Rules were much better than laws, because rules were what you got before you got law and lawyers. The Patrician was a ruler. He was not a lawyer, and that made a distinct difference in how his city's Watch operated.

None of this was relevant, but human beings have a habit of thinking about everything but what they're about to do, when they think they're deciding whether or not to do it.

Finally, she stood up. Well, the hell with it.

The problem with an unwritten rule isn't that you can't erase it. It's that you can't look it up and use it to sue someone with.

Angua set off for school.

The Frout Academy, to be precise.

Some of the less disciplined teachers at the Frout Academy had let their classes out for the afternoon to attend the arrival of Madam Gumboni. It was the last day of school before holidays, anyhow.

Miss Susan had said this was ridiculous, and had instead given the children in her class a lesson on international politics. This had, however, included a brief and unnoticed appearance of the entire classroom, just outside the Patrician's palace, as he introduced Madam Gumboni to the city leaders. Miss Susan was strict, but she knew the value of a practical lesson when she saw it.

Angua knew she would be Looked at by Susan when she arrived. It was bad form, it was against the rules, to visit someone you knew from the occult community, if you hadn't been asked. Some people guarded their privacy jealously, especially those who could pass for fully human, like Susan.

But she was the only person Angua knew who smelled like Marisia Gumboni had smelled. Human, but slightly...wrong. No, not wrong. Just...as though they were missing some vital organic element.

Angua often found it frustrating to try to discuss animal smells with human words.

Still, she knocked on the door. It was answered by a young, rather dribbly child.

"Can I speak to Miss Susan?" Angua asked, quite seriously. The boy squinted up at her.

"You're in armour an' all," he said.

"That's right."

"Are you a soljer?"

"No. I'm a police-woman."

"Are you here to arrest someone?" he asked, impressed.

"Let me in or I'll break your arms."

The door swung wider open, and the boy scuttled back to his seat. Susan looked up from a small desk, where she was helping another dribbly young child with his spelling.

There was the Look. It lasted several seconds. But Angua had been Looked at by the best, and had done some of her own. Finally, Susan sighed.

"I thought he'd put you on it," she said. "Let's talk outside."

She didn't bother to tell the children to behave. They would.

"I took the children on a...field trip, this afternoon," Susan said, when they were in the chill of the hallway. "Madam Gumboni is certainly not human. And, on that note, how dare you come to the school looking for me?"

Angua sighed. "I'm sorry, I came on my own, Mister Vimes didn't send me, he doesn't know, it won't happen again."

"It had better not!"

"So what is she?"

"I don't know," Susan said. "She's not a ghost. I'd have heard. Granddad really hates that kind of thing. It gets right up his nose, the dead carrying on as if they were having the time of their life."

"His nostrils are an inch across each. I imagine lots gets up his nose."

"He had a moth in there for days once. But that's not the point. I guess you'd have smelled if she was a w -- "

"She's not."

"Well, then, what is she? It gives me the creepy-crawlies, and I am not subject to romantic nonsense about chills up one's spine."

"She doesn't seem malevolent," Angua said. "Listen, I know you don't like to rely on your granddad, but if I could talk to him -- "

"Ask the wizards. They've got a ritual and everything. Dribbly candles, chalk on the floor, very spooky." Susan looked up, suddenly, as if she was listening to something. "In fact," she said, "I think if you follow the Archchancellor home, you'll probably be spared the trouble of asking."

Angua approved of this. She was, on the whole, rather closer to the rest of the human race than Susan, but they both shared the belief, common to people with extra talents, that asking for this sort of thing was second to simply getting it.

"I'd better get back to the classroom," Susan said.

"And I think I have a wizard to follow," Angua agreed. There was a moment of silence.

"Lunch tomorrow?" Angua asked. "I'll treat."

"I think I'm free," Susan said. "We could go to Paulo's."

"All the waiters want to marry you."

"It's the outfit. I never seem to quite get any control over it, on my days off," Susan confided.

It's not easy being a career woman in Ankh-Morpork. You take your friends where you find them.

***

Marisia Gumboni sat, slightly tiredly, in front of a vanity table. Emme had unpacked for her, and the vanity had the usual assortment of beauty products, cremes, oils, and various mysterious things in jars that every middle-aged woman acquires. What it did not have was a mirror, though there were mounts for one.

"That was well done," Vetinari said, helping her to remove her necklace. "I imagine most people would pay quite a lot of money to hear what you said to shut the Commander up so thoroughly."

"Including you, Havelock?" she asked, as she began the process of removing her makeup.

"Regrettably, the surprise would be spoiled on me. You don't plan to do anything illegal that anyone's going to find out about? Shame on you, Marisia, I expected better."

"What? You think I ought to be more flagrant?"

"I think you oughtn't to assume that I won't find out."

Marisia laughed, the full laugh of a woman raised in the relaxed atmosphere of Genuan society. "This is very much something a mad scientist in some distant castle in Uberwald would think up, Havelock."

"There are vast differences," the Patrician replied, leaning against a wall. His leg gave him trouble, she saw, but not as much trouble as he liked to let on.

"Yes. For one thing, I don't intend to obey your every word."

"I should be disappointed if you did."

"Ah. Yes. I do have free will, don't I? Charming social concept." She frowned as one of the flowers on her dress flickered. "Blast. Ankh-Morpork is more stubbornly pragmatic than I had imagined."

"They'll come round, given time. It's not that they don't believe you're here, it's just that they don't believe you're really going to marry me. People tend to...write out of existence what they think shouldn't exist."

"Why shouldn't a city ruler marry?"

"I have ruled Ankh-Morpork for a long time."

"That's no answer."

He nodded. "It is a complex question. It has to do, as ever, with expectation and belief. If it is believed that I do not possess the softer emotions, it is much easier to believe that I will exterminate anything and everything that stands in the way of the smooth operation of the city."

"When in reality you're a soft-hearted, lonely man who detests violence?"

"Good gods, no. Although I much prefer alternatives to extermination, I am quite committed to the smooth running of the city by whatever means necessary. The truth is, I have people to take care of that sort of thing. Vimes, for one. I merely point, and give commands, and they are obeyed. Or sometimes disobeyed, but I'm much more careful about those."

"When do you think everything will become final?" Marisia asked. "My chaperone seems to have vanished."

"I think she was offending people. A lady only travels with beautiful handmaids and..." he sighed. "...charmingly common manservants."

"That explains why I loathe my footmen."

"I apologize. If it's any consolation, they'll probably vanish too. I can, of course, provide others."

Two of the rings on Marisia's fingers disappeared altogether. "I hope this will not be an ongoing nusiance," she snapped. "I liked that ruby very much."

"No. After the wedding, everything should...congeal."

"That's a terrible word for it."

"I believe the most appropriate term for what will occur is 'consecration' but it's such a religious word."

She turned to him fully now, and cocked an eyebrow. "Consecration?"

"Weddings are quite mythic things, when you boil them down. Have you read the old legend of The Mauve Knight?"

"I have read everything you have. And several more books on fashion and hair and things," she said haughtily. "Sir Duwayne mistakenly beheads a knight in stylish mauve armour, who is apparently uninjured, though I think that's a cheap party trick for anyone with a well-made plaster head and an oversized suit of armour. To save his own life he has a year in which to answer some stupid riddle."

"And the woman who helps him is...?"

"Oh, I don't know, some woman with buck teeth. He promises to marry her so she gives him the answer to the riddle," Marisia said in a sing-song voice. "But they have to be married in front of the whole kingdom, or she stays buck-toothed forever. Frankly I think there could be worse things."

"And at the marriage -- "

" -- her teeth shrink to normal size and they live happily ever after, or at least until the kids are born with incisors the size of coffin lids."

He waited. She pondered.

"A marriage is a ritual," she said finally. "It lifts the curse, because it's official and it's got witnesses and nobody could say it didn't happen."

"Or, in this case, it puts the finishing touches on the curse."

"I wouldn't call it a curse as such."

"The spell, then."

"And nothing's going to vanish or change or anything after that? It's so tiresome, not knowing who your staff is going to be from one minute to the next."

"With Vimes as my official witness? I should think so." Vetinari smiled, and bowed out the door. "Good evening, your ladyship."

"Good evening, Lord Vetinari," she replied. The door closed with a soft click, and Madam Gumboni was alone.

***

Vimes was halfway to his coach when Angua's hand shot out of the crowd and pulled him nearly off his feet. Sybil, seeing him stop, turned and gave him an inquiring look. When she saw Angua, she nodded, and continued on her way alone. Vimes sidled between elbows until Angua decided they were in the clear.

"What's going on?" he asked. "I'm not used to being grabbed by my officers, sergeant."

"No time to explain. We've got to get up to the University," she said, setting a brisk pace away from the Patrician's Palace. "The wizards know something about Madam Gumboni."

"I know that. How did you?"

"I have sources. And she smelled wrong."

Vimes nodded. When Angua talked about smell, you didn't question her. "And what do your sources think is the problem, sergeant?"

"She didn't know. But she knows who will. The wizards are going to perform the Rite of Ashk'ente. You know what that is?"

Vimes was not on the cutting-edge of magical theory, but he'd spent a lot of time with Carrot, who'd spent a lot of time in the University library. "That's the one to call up Death, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. They think Madam Gumboni might be...related, somehow."

Wasn't there an old rumour about a, a sort of quasi-death, a distant cousin of the Big Black Cowl? Living in Ankh-Morpork? Vimes sped up the pace a little. If anyone would know, it was Angua.

"They're going to ask him about her. He's got to answer, if he knows."

"What if he doesn't?"

"If Death doesn't know the answer, sir, then we're all buggered."

"Fair enough, sergeant."

They wound their way along back-streets and through alleys until they reached a narrow gap in the wall surrounding the University. Policeman learn about this sort of gap fairly quickly.

The Archchancellor was just entering through the main gate, and Angua held up a hand. Vimes stayed, in the shadow of the wall, while she followed him softly. After a moment, she waved him on, and he joined her near the hinges of the huge main gate.

"The library," she whispered. "Damn. The Librarian'll know we're there."

"Can we get up to the dome?" he asked, as they ducked into the library's arching doorway. Even as he said it, he realized that the last place he ever wanted to go again was up on that bloody dome. The last time he'd been there, he'd almost been stabbed, not to mention being thrown through a hole in space-time.

"I think so," she answered. "Won't hear much, though."

Vimes frowned. "Right, well, let's talk to the ape, then."

"Talk to him?"

"He was deputized by the Watch. It's his duty to help us."

"Will he see it that way?"

"Do you think we could take an orangutang, Angua?"

"Don't want to find out, sir."

"Ook?"

Vimes went perfectly still. A whiff of banana-laden breath went past his ear.

"I don't think we have a choice," he said stiffly. Angua nodded, quite slowly, as the Librarian's fluffy hand clamped down on Vimes' shoulder.