"Read the prisoner his rights."

"Yes, sir." Carrot produced his notebook, licked his thumb, flicked through the pages.

"Lupine Wonse," he said, "AKA Lupin Squiggle Sec'y PP…"

"Wha?" said Wonse.

"…currently domiciled in the domicile known as The Palace, Ankh-Morpork, it is my duty to inform you that you have been arrested and will be charged with…" Carrot gave Vimes an agonised look,"…a number of offences of murder by means of a blunt instrument, to whit, a dragon, and many further offences of general­ised abetting, to be more specifically ascertained later. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right not to be summarily thrown into a piranha tank. You have the right to trial by ordeal. You have the…"

"This is madness," said the Patrician calmly.

"I thought I told you to shut up!" snapped Vimes, spinning around and shaking a finger under the Patri­cian's nose.

"Tell me, Sarge," whispered Nobby, "do you think we're going to like it in the scorpion pit?"

"…say anything, er, but anything you do say will be written down, er, here, in my notebook, and, er, may be used in evidence.."

Carrot's voice trailed into silence.

"Well, if this pantomime gives you any pleasure, Vimes," said the Patrician eventually, "take him down to the cells. I'll deal with him in the morning."

Wonse made no signal. There was no scream or cry. He just rushed at the Patrician, sword raised.

Options flickered across Vimes's mind. In the lead came the suggestion that standing back would be a good plan, let Wonse do it, disarm him afterwards, let the city clean itself up. Yes. A good plan.

And it was therefore a total mystery to him why he chose to dart forward, bringing Carrot's sword up in a half-baked attempt at blocking the stroke . . .

Perhaps it was something to do with doing it by the book.

There was a clang. Not a particularly loud one. He felt something bright and silver whirr past his ear and strike the wall.

Wonse's mouth fell open. He dropped the remnant of his sword and backed away, clutching The Summon­ing.

"You'll be sorry," he hissed. "You'll all be very sorry!"

He started to mumble under his breath.

Vimes felt himself trembling. He was pretty certain he knew what had zinged past his head, and the mere thought was making his hands sweat. He'd come to the palace ready to kill and there'd been this minute, just this minute, when for once the world had seemed to be operating properly and he was in charge of it and now, now all he wanted was a drink. And a nice week's sleep.

"Oh, give up!" he said. "Are you going to come quietly?"

The mumbling went on. The air began to feel hot and dry.

Vimes shrugged. "That's it, then," he said, and turned away. "Throw the book at him, Carrot."

"Right, sir."

Vimes remembered too late.

Dwarfs have trouble with metaphors.

They also have a very good aim.

The Laws and Ordinances of Ankh and Morpork caught the secretary on the forehead. He blinked, stag­gered, and stepped backwards.

It was the longest step he ever took. For one thing, it lasted the rest of his life.

After several seconds they heard him hit, five sto­reys below.

After several more seconds their faces appeared over the edge of the ravaged floor.

"What a way to go," said Sergeant Colon.

"That's a fact," said Nobby, reaching up to his ear for a dog-end.

"Killed by a wossname. A metaphor."

"Dunno," said Nobby. "Looks like the ground to me. Got a light, Sarge?"

"That was right, wasn't it, sir?" said Carrot anx­iously. "You said to…"

"Yes, yes," said Vimes. "Don't worry." He reached down with a shaking hand, picked up the bag Wonse had been holding, and tipped out a pile of stones. Every one had a hole in it. Why? he thought.

A metallic noise behind him made him look around. The Patrician was holding the remains of the royal sword. As the captain watched, the man wrenched the other half of the sword out of the far wall. It was a clean break.

"Captain Vimes," he said.

"Sir?"

"That sword, if you please?"

Vimes handed it over. He couldn't, right now, think of anything else to do. He was probably due for a scorpion pit of his very own as it was.

Lord Vetinari examined the rusty blade carefully.

"How long have you had this, Captain?" he said mildly.

"Isn't mine, sir. Belongs to Lance-constable Car­rot, sir."

"Lance…?"

"Me, sir, your graciousness," said Carrot, saluting.

"Ah."

The Patrician turned the blade over and over slowly, staring at it as if fascinated. Vimes felt the air thicken, as though history was clustering around this point, but for the life of him he couldn't think why. This was one of those points where the Trousers of Time bifurcated themselves, and if you weren't careful you'd go down the wrong leg…

Wonse arose in a world of shades, icy confusion pour­ing into his mind. But all he could think of at the moment was the tall cowled figure standing over him.