"But we all saw it killed!" said Wonse.

"I don't know what we saw!" said Vimes, "But I know what I saw!''

He leaned back, shaking. He was suddenly feeling extremely tired.

"Anyway," he said, in a more normal voice, "it's flamed a house in Bitwash Street. Just like the other ones."

"Any of them get out?"

Vimes put his head in his hands. He wondered how long it was since he'd last had any sleep, proper sleep, the sort with sheets. Or food, come to that. Was it last night, or the night before? Had he ever, come to think of it, ever slept at all in all his life? It didn't seem like it. The arms of Morpheus had rolled up their sleeves and were giving the back of his brain a right pummel­ling, but bits were fighting back. Any of them get. . . ?

"Any of who?" he said.

"The people in the house, of course," said Wonse. "I assume there were people in it. At night, I mean."

"Oh? Oh. Yes. It wasn't like a normal house. I think it was some sort of secret society thing," Vimes man­aged. Something was clicking in his mind, but he was too tired to examine it.

"Magic, you mean?"

"Dunno," said Vimes. "Could be. Guys in robes."

He's going to tell me I've been overdoing it, he said. He'll be right, too.

"Look," said Wonse, kindly. "People who mess around with magic and don't know how to control it, well, they can blow themselves up and…"

"Blow themselves up?"

"And you've had a busy few days," said Wonse soothingly. "If I'd been knocked down and almost burned alive by a dragon I expect I'd be seeing them all the time."

Vimes stared at him with his mouth open. He couldn't think of anything to say. Whatever stretched and knotted elastic had been driving him along these last few days had gone entirely limp.

"You don't think you've been overdoing it, do you?" said Wonse.

Ah, thought Vimes. Jolly good.

He slumped forward.

The Librarian leaned cautiously over the top of the bookcase and unfolded an arm into the darkness.

There it was.

His thick fingernails grasped the spine of the book, pulled it gently from its shelf and hoisted it up. He raised the lantern carefully.

No doubt about it. The Summoning of Dragons. Sin­gle copy, first edition, slightly foxed and extremely dragoned.

He set the lamp down beside him, and began to read the first page.

"Mmm?" said Vimes, waking up.

"Brung you a nice cup of tea, Cap'n," said Ser­geant Colon. "And a figgin.'

Vimes looked at him blankly.

"You've been asleep," said Sergeant Colon helpfully. "You was spark out when Carrot brought you back."

Vimes looked around at the now-familiar surround­ings of the Yard. "Oh," he said.

"Me and Nobby have been doing some detectoring," said Colon. "You know that house that got melted? Well, no one lives there. It's just rooms that get hired out. So we found out who hires them. There's a caretaker who goes along every night to put the chairs away and lock up. He wasn't half creating about it being burned down. You know what caretakers are like."

He stood back, waiting for the applause.

"Well done," said Vimes dutifully, dunking the figgin into the tea.

"There's three societies use it," said Colon. He ex­tracted his notebook. "To wit, viz, The Ankh-Morpork Fine Art Appreciation Society, hem hem, the Morpork Folk-Dance and Song Club, and the Eluci­dated Brethren of the Ebon Night."

"Why hem hem?" said Vimes.

"Well, you know. Fine Art. It's just men paintin' pictures of young wimmin in the nudd. The alto­gether," explained Colon the connoisseur. "The care­taker told me. Some of them don't even have any paint on their brushes, you know. Shameful."

There must be a million stories in the naked city, thought Vimes. So why do I always have to listen to ones like these?

"When do they meet?" he said.

"Mondays, 7.30, admission ten pence," said Co­lon, promptly. "As for the folk-dance people-well, no problem there. You know you always wondered what Corporal Nobbs does on his evenings off?"

Colon's face split into a watermelon grin.

"No!" said Vimes incredulously. "Not Nobby?"

"Yep!" said Colon, delighted at the result.

"What, jumping about with bells on and waving his hanky in the air?"

"He says it is important to preserve old folkways," said Colon.

"Nobby? Mr Steel-toecaps-in-the-groin, I-was-just-checking-the-doorhandle-and-it-opened-all-by-itself ?''

"Yeah! Funny old world, ain't it? He was very bash­ful about it."

"Good grief," said Vimes.

"It just goes to show, you never can tell," said Co­lon. "Anyway, the caretaker said the Elucidated Brethren always leave the place in a mess. Scuffed chalk marks on the floor, he said. And they never put the chairs back properly or wash out the tea urn. They've been meeting a lot lately, he said. The nuddy wimmin painters had to meet somewhere else last week."

"What did you do with our suspect?" said Vimes.

"Him? Oh, he done a runner, Captain," said the sergeant, looking embarrassed.

"Why? He didn't look in any shape to run any­where."

"Well, when we got back here, we sat him down by the fire and wrapped him up because he kept on shiv­ering," said Sergeant Colon, as Vimes buckled his armour on.

"I hope you didn't eat his pizzas."

"Errol et 'em. It's the cheese, see, it goes all…"

"Goon."