"That's right, sir," said Carrot, conscientiously. "Prisoners once Charged have Rights, sir. It says so in the Dignity of Man (Civic Rights) Act of 1341. I keep telling Corporal Nobbs. They have Rights, I tell him. This means you do not Put the Boot in."

"Very well put, constable."

Carrot looked down. "You have the right to remain silent," he said. "You have the right not to injure yourself falling down the steps on the way to the cells. You have the right not to jump out of high win­dows. You do not have to say anything, you see, but any thing you do say, well, I have to take it down and it might be used in evidence." He pulled out his note­book and licked his pencil. He leaned down further.

"Pardon?" he said. He looked up at Vimes.

"How do you spell 'groan', sir?" he said.

"G-R-O-N-E, I think."

"Very good, sir."

"Oh, and constable?'

"Yes, sir?"

"Why the axes?"

"They were armed, sir. I got them from the black­smith in Market Street, sir. I said you'd be along later to pay for them."

"And the cry?" said Vimes weakly.

"Dwarfish war yodel, sir," said Carrot proudly.

"It's a good cry," said Vimes, picking his words with care. "But I'd be grateful if you'd warn me first another time, all right?"

"Certainly, sir."

"In writing, I think."

The Librarian swung on. It was slow progress, because there were things he wasn't keen on meeting. Creatures evolve to fill every niche in the environment, and some of those in the dusty immensity of L-space were best avoided. They were much more unusual than ordinary unusual creatures.

Usually he could forewarn himself by keeping a care­ful eye on the kickstool crabs that grazed harmlessly on the dust. When they were spooked, it was time to hide. Several times he had to flatten himself against the shelves as a thesaurus thundered by. He waited patiently as a herd of Critters crawled past, grazing on the con­tents of the choicer books and leaving behind them piles of small slim volumes of literary criticism. And there were other things, things which he hurried away from and tried not to look hard at ...

And you had to avoid cliches at all costs.

He finished the last of his peanuts atop a stepladder, which was browsing mindlessly off the high shelves.

The territory definitely had a familiar feel, or at least he got the feeling that it would eventually be familiar. Time had a different meaning in L-space.

There were shelves whose outline he felt he knew. The book titles, while still unreadable, held a tanta­lising hint of legibility. Even the musty air had a smell he thought he recognized.

He shambled quickly along a side passage, turned the corner and, with only the slightest twinge of disorientation, shuffled into that set of dimensions that people, because they don't know any better, think of as normal.

He just felt extremely hot and his fur stood straight out from his body as temporal energy gradually dis­charged.

He was in the dark.

He extended one arm and explored the spines of the books by his side. Ah. Now he knew where he was.

He was home at last.

He was home a week ago before now.

It was essential that he didn't leave footprints. But that wasn't a problem. He shinned up the side of the nearest bookcase and, under the starlight of the dome, hurried onwards.

Lupine Wonse glared up, red-eyed, from the heap of paperwork on his desk. No-one in the city knew any­thing about coronations. He'd had to make it up as he went along. There should be plenty of things to wave, he knew that.

"Yes?" he said, abruptly.

"Er, there's a Captain Vimes to see you," said the flunkey.

"Vimes of the Watch?"

"Yes, sir. Says it's of the upmost importance."

Wonse looked down his list of other things that were also of the utmost importance. Crowning the king, for one thing. The high priests of fifty-three religions were all claiming the honour. It was going to be a scrum. And then there were the crown jewels.

Or rather, there weren't the crown jewels. Some­where in the preceding generations the crown jewels had disappeared. A jeweller in the Street of Cunning Artificers was doing the best he could in the time with gilt and glass.

Vimes could wait.

"Tell him to come back another day," said Wonse.

"Good of you to see us," said Vimes, appearing in the doorway.

Wonse glared at him.

"Since you're here . . ." he said. Vimes dropped his helmet on Wonse's desk in what the secretary thought was an offensive manner, and sat down.

"Take a seat," said Wonse.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" said Vimes.

"Now really…" Wonse began.

"Don't worry," said Vimes cheerfully. "Constable Carrot will go and see what's in the kitchens. This chap will show him the way."

When they had gone Wonse leaned across the drifts of paperwork.

"There had better," he said, "be a very good rea­son for-"

"The dragon is back," said Vimes.

Wonse stared at him for a while.

Vimes stared back.

Wonse's senses came back from whatever corners they'd bounced into.

"You've been drinking, haven't you," he said.

"No. The dragon is back. "

"Now, look…" Wonse began.

"I saw it," said Vimes flatly.

"A dragon? You're sure?"

Vimes leaned across the desk. "No! I could be bloody mistaken!" he shouted. "It may have been something else with sodding great big claws, huge leathery wings and hot, fiery breath! There must be masses of things like that!"