---oh ve can drink brandy and gin if it's handy, and ve can sup vhisky and rum, but zer drink ve abhor and ve drink no more, is zer--'

"Tuppence is tuppence, that's all I'm saying!'

'Look, he's starting to twitchY said Sacharissa.

'And he can't sing, either,' said Gowdie. 'All right, all right, I'm going, I'm going

Sacharissa patted Otto's clammy hand.

'You can beat it!' she said urgently. 'We're all here for you! Aren't we, everyone? Ann't we? Under her baleful gaze the dwarfs responded with a chorus of half-hearted 'yesses', even though Boddony's expression suggested that he wasn't certain what Otto was here for.

Gowdie came back with a small package. Sacharissa snatched it out of his hand and held it out to Otto, who reared back.

'No, it's just rat!' said Sacharissa. 'Perfectly okay! You're allowed rat, right?'

Otto froze for a moment and then snatched up the packet.

He bit into it.

In the sudden silence Sacharissa wondered if she wasn't hearing a very faint sound, like the straw at the bottom of a milkshake.

After a few seconds Otto opened his eyes and then looked sidelong at the dwarfs. He dropped the packet.

'Oh, vot shame! Vhere can I put my face? Oh, vot must you think of me

Sacharissa clapped with desperate enthusiasm. 'No, no! We're all very impressed! Aren't we, everyone?' Out of Otto's sight, she waved one hand very deliberately at the dwarfs. There was another ragged chorus of agreement.

'I mean, I haf been going through "cold bat" now for more than three months,' muttered Otto. 'It is such a disgusting thing to break down now and--'

'Oh, raw meat's nothing,' said Sacharissa. That's allowed, isn't it?'

'Yes, but for a second there I nearly--'

'Yes, but you didn't,' said Sacharissa. 'That's what's important. You wanted to and didn't.' She turned to the dwarfs. 'You can all go back to what you were doing,' she said. 'Otto is perfectly all right now.'

'Are you sure--' Boddony began, and then nodded. He'd rather have argued with a wild vampire than Sacharissa at this moment. 'Right you are, miss.'

Otto sat down, wiping his forehead, as the dwarfs filed out.

Sacharissa patted his hand. 'Do you want a drink--'

'Oh!'

'--of water, Otto?' said Sacharissa.

'No, no, everythink is okay, I think. Uh. Oh dear. My goodness. I am so sorry. You think you are on top of it, and then suddenly it all comes back to you. Vot a day...'

'Otto?'

'Yes, miss?'

'What actually happened when I grabbed the eel, Otto?'

He winced. 'I think zis is maybe not the time--'

'Otto, I saw things. There were... flames. And people. And noise. Just for a moment. It was like watching a whole day go past in a second! What happened?'

'Veil,' Otto said reluctantly, 'you know how salamanders absorb light?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Veil, zer eels absorb dark light. Not darkness, exactly, but zer light vithin darkness. Dark light... you see, dark light... veil, it has not been properly studied. It is heavier than normal light, you see, so most of it is under zer sea or in zer really deep caves in Uberwald, but zer is always a little of it even in normal darkness. It really is very fascinating--'

'It's a kind of magical light. Right. Could we just get more towards the point a bit?'

'I have heard it said that dark light is zer original light from vhich all other types of light came--'

'Otto!'

He held up a pale hand. 'I haf to tell you these things! Haf you heard the theory that there is no such thing as zer present? Because if it is divisible, then it cannot be zer present, and if it is not divisible, then it cannot have a beginning which connects to zer past and an end that connects to zer future? The philosopher Heidehollen tells us that the universe is just a cold soup of time, all time mixed up together, and vot we call zer passage of time is merely qvantum fluctuations in zer fabric of space-time.'

'You have very long winter evenings in Uberwald, don't you?'

'You see, dark light is held to be zer proof of this,' Otto went on, ignoring her. 'It is a light vithout time. Vot it illuminates, you see... is not necessarily now.'

He paused, as if waiting for something.

'Are you saying it takes pictures of the past?' said Sacharissa.

'Or zer future. Or somevhere else. Of course, in reality zere is no difference.'

'And all this you point at people's heads?'

Otto looked worried. 'I am finding strange side things. Oh, zer dvarfs say that dark light has odd... effects, but zey are very superstitious people so I did not take that seriously. However

He scrabbled among the debris on his bench and picked up an iconograph.

'Oh, dear. Zis is so complicated,' said Otto. 'Look, zer philosopher Kling says zer mind has a dark side and a light side, you see, and dark light... is seen by zer dark eyes of zer mind

He paused again.

'Yes?' said Sacharissa politely.

'I vas vaiting for zer roll of thunder,' said the vampire. 'But, alas, zis is not Uberwald.'

'You've lost me there,' said Sacharissa.

'Veil, you see, if I vas to say something portentous like "zer dark eyes of zer mind" back home in Uberwald, zer would be a sudden crash of thunder,' said Otto. 'And if I vas to point at a castle on a towering crag and say "Yonder is... zer castle" a volf would be bound to howl mournfully.' He sighed. 'In zer old country, zer scenery is psychotropic and knows vot is expected of it. Here, alas, people just look at you in a funny vay.'

'All right, all right, it's a magical light that takes uncanny pictures,' said Sacharissa.

'That's a very... newspaper vay of putting it,' said Otto politely. He showed her the iconograph. 'Look at zis vun. I vanted a picture of a dvarf vorking in the Patrician's study and I got zis.'

The picture was a wash of blurs and swirls, and there was a vague outline of a dwarf, lying down on the floor and examining something. But superimposed on this was quite a clear picture of Lord Vetinari. Two pictures of Lord Vetinari, each figure staring at the other.

'Well, it's his office and he's always in there,' said Sacharissa. 'Does the... magic light pick that up?'

'Maybe,' said Otto. 'Ve know that vot is physically zere is not alvays vot is really zere. Look at zis vun.'

He handed her another picture.

'Oh, that's a good one of William,' she said. 'In the cellar. And... that's Lord de Worde standing just behind him, isn't it?'

'Is it?' said the vampire. 'I don't know zer man. I do know that he vas not in zer cellar ven I took the picture. But... you only have to talk to Mr Villiam for any length of time to see that, in a vay, his father is alvays looking over his shoulder--'

'That's creepy.'

Sacharissa looked around the cellar. The stone walls were old and stained, but they certainly weren't blackened.

'I just saw... people. Men fighting. Flames. And... silver rain. How can it rain underground?'

'I do not know. That's vy I study dark light.'

Noises above suggested that William and Goodmountain had returned.

'I wouldn't mention this to anyone else,' said Sacharissa, heading for the ladder. 'We've got enough to deal with. That's creepy.'

There was no name outside the bar, because those who knew what it was didn't need one. Those who didn't know what it was shouldn't go in. Ankh-Morpork's undead were, on the whole, a law-abiding bunch, if only because they knew the law paid them a certain amount of special attention, but if you walked into the place known as Biers on a dark night and had no business there, who would ever know?

For the vampires*, it was a place to hang up. For the werewolves, it was where you let your hair down. For the bogeymen, it was a place to come out of the closet. For the ghouls, it did a decent meat pasty and chips.

All eyes, and that was not the same thing as the number of heads multiplied by two, turned to the door when it creaked open. The newcomers were surveyed from dark corners. They wore black, but that didn't mean anything. Anyone could wear black.

They walked up to the bar and Mr Pin rapped on the stained wood.

The barman nodded. The important thing, he'd found, was to make sure ordinary people paid for their drinks as they bought them. It wasn't good business to let them run a tab. That showed an unwarranted optimism about the future.

'What can I--' he began, before Mr Tulip's hand caught him around the back of the neck and rammed his head down hard on the bar.

'I am not having a nice day,' said Mr Pin, turning to the world in general, 'and Mr Tulip here suffers from unresolved personality conflicts. Has anyone got any questions?'

An indistinct hand rose in the gloom.

'What cook?' said a voice.

Mr Pin opened his mouth to reply and then turned to his colleague, who was examining the bar's array of very strange drinks. All cocktails are sticky; the ones in Biers tended to be stickier.

'Says "Kill the Cook!!!"' said the voice.

Mr Tulip rammed two long kebab skewers into the bar, where they vibrated. 'What cooks've you got?' he said.

'It's a good apron,' said the voice in the gloom.

'It is the --ing envy of all my friends,' Mr Tulip growled.

In the silence Mr Pin heard the unseen drinkers calculating the

* Those, that is, who weren't gathered around the harmonium at the Temperance Mission nervously singing songs about how much they liked cocoa.

likely number of friends of Mr Tulip. It was not a calculation that would involve a simple thinker taking off their shoes.

'Ah. Right,' said someone.

'Now, we don't want any trouble with you people,' said Mr Pin. 'Not as such. We simply wish to meet a werewolf.'

Another voice in the gloom said: 'Vy?'

'Got a job for him,' said Mr Pin.

There was some muffled laughter in the darkness and a figure shuffled forward. It was about the size of Mr Pin; it had pointy ears; it had a hairstyle that clearly continued to its ankles, inside its ragged clothes. Tufts of hair stuck out of holes in its shirt and densely thatched the backs of its hands.

"m part werewolf,' it said.

'Which part?'

That's a funny joke.'

'Can you talk to dogs?'

The self-confessed part-werewolf looked around at its unseen audience, and for the first time Mr Pin felt a twinge of disquiet. The sight of Mr Tulip's slowly spinning eye and throbbing forehead were not having their usual effect. There were rustlings in the dark. He was sure he heard a snigger.

'Yep,' said the werewolf.

The hell with this, thought Mr Pin. He pulled out his pistol bow in one practised movement and held it an inch from the werewolf's face.

This is tipped with silver,' he said.

He was amazed at the speed of movement. Suddenly a hand was against his neck and five sharp points pressed into his skin.

These ain't,' said the werewolf. 'Let's see who finishes squeezin' first, eh?'

'Yeah, right,' said Mr Tulip, who was also holding something.

That's just a barbecue fork,' said the werewolf, giving it barely a glance.

'You want to see how --ing fast I can throw it?' said Mr Tulip.

Mr Pin tried to swallow, but got only halfway. Dead people, he knew, didn't squeeze that hard, but it was at least ten steps to the door and the space seemed to be getting wider by the heart beat.

'Hey,' he said. 'There's no need for this, right? Why don't we all loosen up? And, hey, it would help me talk to you if you were your normal shape

'No problem, my friend.'

The werewolf winced and shuddered, but without at any point letting go of Mr Pin's neck. The face contorted so much, features flowing together, that even Mr Pin, who in other circumstances quite enjoyed that sort of thing, had to look away.

This allowed him to see the shadow on the wall. It was, contrary to expectations, growing. So were its ears.

'Any qvestions?' said the werewolf. Now its teeth seriously interfered with its speech. Its breath smelled even worse than Mr Tulip's suit.

'Ah...' said Mr Pin, standing on tiptoe. 'I think we've come to the wrong place.'

'I think zat also.'

At the bar Mr Tulip bit the top off a bottle in a meaningful way.

Once again the room was filled with the ferocious silence of calculation and the personal mathematics of profit and loss.

Mr Tulip smashed a bottle against his forehead. At this point, he did not appear to be paying much attention to the room. He'd just happened to have a bottle in his hand which he did not need any more. Putting it on to the bar would have required an unnecessary expenditure of hand-eye co-ordination.

People recalculated.

'Is he human?' said the werewolf.

'Well, of course, "human" is just a word,' said Mr Pin.

He felt weight slowly press down on to his toes as he was lowered to the floor.

'I think perhaps we'll just be going,' he said carefully.

'Right,' said the werewolf. Mr Tulip had smashed open a big jar of pickles, or at least things that were long, chubby and green, and was trying to insert one up his nose.

'If we wanted to stay, we would,' said Mr Pin.

'Right. But you want to go. So does your... friend,' said the werewolf.

Mr Pin backed towards the door. 'Mr Tulip, we have business elsewhere,' he said. 'Sheesh, take the damn pickle out of your nose, will you? We're supposed to be professionals!'

That's not a pickle,' said a voice in the dark.

Mr Pin was uncharacteristically thankful when the door slammed behind them. To his surprise, he also heard the bolts shoot home.

'Well, that could have gone better,' he said, brushing dust and hair off his coat.

'What now?' said Mr Tulip.

'Time to think of a plan B,' said Pin.

'Why don't we just --ing hit people until someone tells us where the dog is?' said Mr Tulip.

'Tempting,' said Mr Pin. 'But we'll leave that for plan C--'

'Bugrit.'

They both turned.

'Bent treacle edges, I told 'em,' said Foul Ole Ron, lurching across the street, a wad of Timeses under one arm and the string of his nondescript mongrel in his other hand. He caught sight of the New Firm.

'Harglegarlyurp?' he said. 'LayamEnipl You gents want a paper?'

It seemed to Mr Pin that the last sentence, while in pretty much the same voice, had an intrusive, not-quite-right quality. Apart from anything else, it made sense.

'You got some change?' he said to Mr Tulip, patting his pockets.

'You're going to --ing buy one?' said his partner.

'There's a time and a place, Mr Tulip, a time and a place. Here you are, mister.'

'Millennium hand and shrimp, bugrit,' said Ron, adding, 'Much obliged, gents.'

Mr Pin opened the Times. 'This thing has got--' He stopped and looked closer.

' "Have You Seen This Dog?"' he said. 'Sheesh...' He stared at Ron.

'You sell lots of these things?' he said.

'Qeedle the slops, I told 'em. Yeah, hundreds.'

There it was again, the slight sensation of two voices.

'Hundreds,' said Mr Pin. He looked down at the paper seller's dog. It looked pretty much like the one in the paper, but all terriers looked alike. Anyway, this one was on a string. 'Hundreds,' he said again, and read the short article again.

He stared. 'I think we have a plan B,' he said.

At ground level the newspaper seller's dog watched them carefully as they walked away.

'That was too close for comfort,' it said, when they'd turned the corner.

Foul Ole Ron put down his papers in a puddle and pulled a cold sausage from the depths of his hulking coat.

He broke it into three equal pieces.

THE TRUTH SHALL MAKE YE FRED • EXTRA!

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DOG?

$25 Reward for Information

William had dithered over that, but the Watch had supplied quite a good drawing and he felt right now that a little friendly gesture in that direction would be a good idea. If he found himself in deep trouble, head downwards, he'd need someone to pull him out.

He had re-written the Patrician story, too, adding as much as he was certain of, and there wasn't much of that. He was, frankly, stuck.

Sacharissa had penned a story about the opening of the Inquirer. William had hesitated about this, too. But it was news, after all. They couldn't just ignore it, and it filled some space.

Besides, he liked the opening line, which began: 'A would-be rival to Ankh-Morpork's old-established newspaper, the Times, has opened in Gleam Street

'You're getting good at this,' he said, looking across the desk.

'Yes,' she said. 'I now know that if I see a naked man I should definitely get his name and address, because--'

William joined in the chorus: '--names sell newspapers.'

He sat back and drank the really horrible tea the dwarfs made. Just for a moment there was an unusual feeling of bliss. Strange word, he thought. It's one of those words that described something that does not make a noise but if it did make a noise would sound just like that. Bliss. It's like the sound of a soft meringue melting gently on a warm plate.

Here, and now, he was free. The paper was put to bed, tucked up, had its prayers listened to. It was finished. The crew were already filing back in for more copies, cursing and spitting; they'd commandeered a variety of old trolleys and prams to cart their papers out into the streets. Of course, in an hour or so the mouth of the press would be hungry again and he'd be back pushing the huge rock uphill, just like that character in mythology... what was his name... ?

'Who was that hero who was condemned to push a rock up a hill and every time he got it to the top it rolled down again?' he said.

Sacharissa didn't look up. 'Someone who needed a wheelbarrow?' she said, spiking a piece of paper with some force.

William recognized the voice of someone who still has an annoying job to do.

'What are you working on?' he said.

'A report from the Ankh-Morpork Recovering Accordion Players Society,' she said, scribbling fast.

'Is there something wrong with it?'

'Yes. The punctuation. There isn't any. I think we might have to order an extra box of commas.'

'Why are you bothering with it, then?'

'Twenty-six people are mentioned by name.'

'As accordionists?'

'Yes.'

'Won't they complain?'

They didn't have to play the accordion. Oh, and there was a big crash on Broad Way. A cart overturned and several tons of flour fell on to the road, causing a couple of horses to rear and upset their cartload of fresh eggs, and that caused another cart to shed thirty churns of milk... So what do you think of this as a headline?'

She held up a piece of paper on which she'd written:

CITY'S BIGGEST CAKE MIX-UP!!

William looked at it. Yes. Somehow it had everything. The sad attempt at humour was exactly right. It was just the sort of thing that would cause much mirth around Mrs Arcanum's table.

'Lose the second exclamation mark,' he said. 'Otherwise I think it's perfect. How did you hear about it?'

'Oh, Constable Fiddyment dropped in and told me,' said Sacharissa. She looked down and shuffled papers unnecessarily. 'I think he's a bit sweet on me, to tell you the truth.'

A tiny, hitherto-unregarded bit of William's ego instantly froze solid. An awful lot of young men seemed happy to tell Sacharissa things. He heard himself say: 'Vimes doesn't want any of his officers to speak to us.'

'Yes, well, I don't think telling me about a lot of smashed eggs counts, does it?'

'Yes, but--'

'Anyway, I can't help it if young men want to tell me things, can I?'

'I suppose not, but--'

'Anyway, that's it for tonight.' Sacharissa yawned. I'm going home.'

William got up so quickly he skinned his knees on the desk. I'll walk you there,' he said.

'Good grief, it's nearly a quarter to eight,' said Sacharissa, putting on her coat. 'Why do we keep on working?'

'Because the press doesn't go to sleep,' said William.

As they stepped out into the silent street he wondered if Lord Vetinari had been right about the press. There was something...compelling about it. It was like a dog that stared at you until you fed it. A slightly dangerous dog. Dog bites man, he thought. But that's not news. That's olds.

Sacharissa let him walk her to the end of her street, where she made him stop.

'It'll embarrass grandfather if you're seen with me,' she said. 'I know it's stupid, but... neighbours, you know? And all this Guild stuff

'I know. Um.'

The air hung heavy for a moment as they looked at each other.

'Er, I don't know how to put this,' said William, knowing that sooner or later it had to be said, 'but I ought to say that, though you are a very attractive girl, you're not my type.'

She gave him the oldest look he had ever seen, and then said: That took a lot of saying, and I would like to thank you.'

'I just thought that with me and you working together all the time--'

'No, I'm glad one of us said it,' she said. 'And with smooth talk like that I bet you have the girls just lining up, right? See you tomorrow.'

He watched her walk down the street to her house. After a few seconds a lamp went on in an upper window.

By running very fast he arrived back at his lodgings just late enough for a Look from Mrs Arcanum, but not so late as to be barred from the table for impoliteness; serious latecomers had to eat their supper at the table in the kitchen.

It was curry tonight. And one of the strange things about eating at Mrs Arcanum's was that you got more leftovers than you got original meals. That is, there were far more meals made up from what were traditionally considered the prudently usable remains of earlier meals - stews, bubble-and-squeak, curry - than there were meals at which those remains could have originated.

The curry was particularly strange, since Mrs Arcanum considered foreign parts only marginally less unspeakable than private parts and therefore added the curious yellow curry powder with a very small spoon, lest everyone should suddenly tear their clothes off and do foreign things. The main ingredients appeared to be swede and gritty rainwater-tasting sultanas and the remains of some cold mutton, although William couldn't remember when they'd had the original mutton, at any temperature.

This was not a problem for the other lodgers. Mrs Arcanum provided big helpings, and they were men who measured culinary achievement by the amount you got on your plate. It might not taste astonishing, but you went to bed full and that was what mattered.

At the moment, the news of the day was being discussed. Mr Mackleduff had bought the Inquirer and both editions of the Times, in his role as keeper of the fire of communication.

It was generally agreed that the news in the Inquirer was more interesting, although Mrs Arcanum ruled that the whole subject of snakes was not one for the dinner table and papers ought not to be allowed to disturb people like this. Rains of insects and so on, though, fully confirmed everyone's view of distant lands.

Olds, thought William, forensically dissecting a sultana. His lordship was right. Not news but olds, telling people that what they think they already know is true...

The Patrician, it was agreed, was a shifty one. The meeting concurred that they were all alike, the lot of them. Mr Windling said the city was in a mess and there ought to be some changes. Mr Longshaft said that he couldn't speak for the city, but from what he had heard the gemstone business had been very brisk of late. Mr Windling said that it was all right for some. Mr Prone put forth the opinion that the Watch could not find their bottom with both hands, a turn of phrase that almost earned him a place at the kitchen table to finish his meal. It was agreed that Vetinari had done it all right and should be put away. The main course adjourned at 8.45 p.m., and was followed by disintegrating plums in runny custard, Mr Prone getting slightly fewer plums as an unspoken reprimand.

William went up to his room early. He had adapted to Mrs Arcanum's cuisine, but nothing except radical surgery would make him like her coffee.

He lay down on the narrow bed in the dark (Mrs Arcanum supplied one candle weekly, and what with one thing and another he had forgotten to buy any extra) and tried to think.

Mr Slant walked across the floor of the empty ballroom, his feet echoing on the wood.

He took his position in the circle of candlelight with a slight twanging of nerves. As a zombie, he was always a little edgy about fire.

He coughed.

'Well?' said a chair.

'They didn't get the dog,' said Mr Slant. Tn all other respects, I have to say, they did a masterly job.'

'How bad could it be if the Watch find it?'

'As I understand it, J:he dog in question is quite old,' said Mr Slant, into the candlelight. 'I have instructed Mr Pin to look for it, but I don't believe he will find it easy to get access to the city's canine underground.'

'There are other werewolves here, aren't there?'

'Yes,' said Mr Slant smoothly. 'But they won't help. There are very few of them, and Sergeant Angua of the Watch is very important in the werewolf community. They won't help strangers, because she will find out.'

'And bring the Watch down on them?'

'I believe she would not bother with the Watch,' said Slant.

The dog is probably in some dwarf's stewpot by now,' said a chair. There was general laughter.

'If things go... wrong,' said a chair, 'who do these men know?'

They know me,' said Mr Slant. 'I would not worry unduly. Vimes works by the rules.'

'I've always understood him to be a violent and vicious man,' said a chair.

'Quite so. And because this is what he knows himself to be, he always works by the rules. In any case, the Guilds will be meeting tomorrow.'

'Who will be the new Patrician?' said a chair.

That will be a matter for careful discussion and the consideration of all shades of opinion,' said Mr Slant. His voice could have oiled watches.

'Mr Slant?' said a chair.

'Yes?'

'Do not try that on us. It is going to be Scrope, isn't it?'

'Mr Scrope is certainly well thought of by many of the leading figures in the city,' said the lawyer.

'Good.'

And the musty air was loud with unspoken conversation.

Absolutely no one needed to say: A lot of the most powerful men in the city owe their positions to Lord Vetinari.

And nobody replied: Certainly. But to the kind of men who seek power, gratitude has very poor keeping qualities. The kind of men who seek power tend to deal with matters as they are. They would never try to depose Vetinari, but if he was gone then they would be practical.

No one said: Will anyone speak up for Vetinari?

Silence replied: Oh, everyone. They'll say things like: 'Poor fellow... it was the strain of office, you know.' They'll say: 'It's the quiet ones that crack.' They'll say: 'Quite so... We should put him somewhere where he can do no harm to himself or others. Don't you think?' They'll say: 'Perhaps a small statue would be in order, too?' They'll say: The least we can do is call off the Watch, we owe him that much.' They'll say: 'We must look to the future.' And so, quietly, things change. No fuss, and very little mess.

No one said: Character assassination. What a wonderful idea. Ordinary assassination only works once, but this one works every day.

A chair did say: 'I wondered whether Lord Downey or even Mr Boggis--'

Another chair said: 'Oh, come now! Why should they? Much better this way.'

'True, true. Mr Scrope is a man of fine qualities.'

'A good family man, I understand.'

'Listens to the common people.'

'Not just to the common people, I trust?'

'Oh, no. He's very open to advice. From informed .-...ocus groups.'

'He'll need plenty of that.'

No one said: He's a useful idiot.

'Nevertheless... the Watch will have to be brought to heel.'

'Vimes will do what he is told. He must do. Scrope will be at least as legitimate a choice as Vetinari was. Vimes is the kind of man who must have a boss, because that gives him legitimacy.'

Slant coughed. 'Is that all, gentlemen?' he said.

'What about the Ankh-Morpork Times?' said a chair. 'Bit of a problem shaping up there?'

'People find it amusing,' said Mr Slant. 'And nobody takes it seriously. The Inquirer outsells it two to one already, after just one day. And it is underfinanced. And it has, uh, difficulty with supplies.'

'Good tale in the Inquirer about that woman and the snake,' said a chair.

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