'How did you know about this?'

'Oh, you pick up all sorts of odds and ends of stuff in the Watch.'

'I've got a lot to learn, I can see,' said Cheery. 'I never thought you had to carry bits of blanket, for a start!'

'It's special equipment if you're dealing with the undead.'

'Well, I knew about garlic and vampires. Anything holy works on vampires. What else works on werewolves?'

'Sorry?' said Angua, who was still thinking about the golem.

'I've got a silver mail vest which I promised my family I'd wear, but is anything else good for werewolves?'

'A gin and tonic's always welcome,' said Angua distantly.

'Angua?'

'Hmm? Yes? What?'

'Someone told me there was a werewolf in the Watchl I can't believe that!'

Angua stopped and stared down at her.

'I mean, sooner or later the wolf comes through,' said Cheery. 'I'm surprised Commander Vimes allows it.'

'There is a werewolf in the Watch, yes,' said Angua.

'I knew there was something odd about Constable Visit.'

Angua's jaw dropped.

'He always looks hungry,' said Cheery. 'And he's got that odd smile all the time. I know a werewolf when I see one.'

'He does look a bit hungry, that's true,' said Angua. She couldn't think of anything else to say.

'Well, I'm going to be keeping my distance!'

'Fine,' said Angua.

'Angua...'

'Yes?'

'Why do you wear your badge on a collar round your neck?'

'What? Oh. Well... so it's always handy. You know. In any circumstances.'

'Do I need to do that?'

'I shouldn't think so.'

Mr Sock jumped. 'Dorfl, you damn stupid lump! Never sneak up behind a man on the bacon slicer! I've told you that before! Try to make some noise when you move, damn you!' The golem held up its slate, which said:

TONIGHT I CANNOT WORK.

'What's this? The bacon slicer never asks for time off!'

IT IS A HOLY DAY.

Sock looked at the red eyes. Old Fishbine had said something about this, hadn't he, when he'd sold Dorfl? Something like: 'Sometimes it'll go off for a few hours because it's a holy day. It's the words in its head. If it doesn't go and trot off to its temple or whatever it is, the words'll stop working, don't ask me why. There's no point in stopping it.'

Five hundred and thirty dollars the thing had cost. He'd thought it was a bargain - and it was a bargain, no doubt about that. The damned thing only ever stopped working when it had run out of things to do. Sometimes not even then, according to the stories. You heard about golems flooding out houses because no one told them to stop carrying water from the well, or washing the dishes until the plates were thin as paper. Stupid things. But useful if you kept your eye on them.

And yet... and yet... he could see why no one seemed to keep them for long. It was the way the damned two-handed engine just stood there, taking it all in and putting it ... where? And never complained. Or spoke at all.

A man could get worried about a bargain like that, and feel mightily relieved when he was writing out a receipt for the new owner.

'Seems to me there's been a lot of holy days lately,' Sock said.

SOME TIMES ARE MORE HOLY THAN OTHERS.

But they couldn't skive off, could they? Work was what a golem did.

'I don't know how we're going to manage...' Sock began.

IT IS A HOLY DAY.

'Oh, all right. You can have time off tomorrow.'

TONIGHT. HOLY DAY STARTS AT SUNSET.

'Be back quickly, then,' said Sock, weakly. 'Or I'll— You be back quickly, d'you hear?'

That was another thing. You couldn't threaten the creatures. You certainly couldn't withhold their pay, because they didn't get any. You couldn't frighten them. Fishbine had said that a weaver over Nap Hill way had ordered his golem to smash itself to bits with a hammer - and it had.

YES. I HEAR.

In a way, it didn't matter who they were. In fact, their anonymity was part of the whole business. They thought themselves part of the march of history, the tide of progress and the wave of the future. They were men who felt that The Time Had Come. Regimes can survive barbarian hordes, crazed terrorists and hooded secret societies, but they're in real trouble when prosperous and anonymous men sit around a big table and think thoughts like that. One said, 'At least it's clean this way. No blood.' 'And it would be for the good of the city, of course.'

They nodded gravely. No one needed to say that what was good for them was good for Ankh-Morpork.

'And he won't die?'

'Apparently he can be kept merely ... unwell. The dosage can be varied, I'm told.'

'Good. I'd rather have him unwell than dead. I wouldn't trust Vetinari to stay in a grave.'

'I've heard that he once said he'd prefer to be cremated, as a matter of fact.'

'Then I just hope they scatter the ashes really widely, that's all.'

'What about the Watch?'

'What about it?'

'Ah.'

Lord Vetinari opened his eyes. Against all rationality, his hair ached.

He concentrated, and a blur by the bed focused into the shape of Samuel Vimes.

'Ah, Vimes,' he said weakly.

'How are you feeling, sir?'

'Truly dreadful. Who was that little man with the incredibly bandy legs?'

'That was Doughnut Jimmy, sir. He used to be a jockey on a very fat horse.'

'A racehorse?'

'Apparently, sir '

'A fat racehorse? Surely that could never win a race?'

'I don't believe it ever did, sir. But Jimmy made a lot of money by not winning races.'

'Ah. He gave me milk and some sort of sticky potion.' Vetinari concentrated. 'I was heartily sick.'

'So I understand, sir.'

'Funny phrase, that. Heartily sick. I wonder why it's a cliche? Sounds... jolly. Rather cheerful, really.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Feel like I've got a bad dose of 'flu, Vimes. Head not working properly.'

'Really, sir?'

The Patrician thought for a while. There was obviously something else on his mind. 'Why did he still smell of horses, Vimes?' he said at last.

'He's a horse doctor, sir. A damn good one. I heard last month he treated Dire Fortune and it didn't fall over until the last furlong.'

'Doesn't sound helpful, Vimes.'

'Oh, I don't know, sir. The horse had dropped dead coming up to the starting line.'

'Ah. I see. Well, well, well. What a nasty suspicious mind you have, Vimes.'

'Thank you, sir.'

The Patrician raised himself on his elbows. 'Should toenails throb, Vimes?'

'Couldn't say, sir.'

*Now, I think I should like to read for a while. Life goes on, eh?'

Vimes went to the window. There was a nightmarish figure crouched on the edge of the balcony outside, staring into the thickening fog.

'Everything all right, Constable Downspout?'

'Eff, fir,' said the apparition.

‘I'll shut the window now. The fog is coming in.'

'Fight oo are, fir.'

Vimes closed the window, trapping a few tendrils which gradually faded away. 'What was that?' said Lord Vetinari. 'Constable Downspout's a gargoyle, sir. He's no good on parade and bloody useless on the street, but when it conies to staying in one place, sir, you can't beat him. He's world champion at not moving. If you want the winner of the 100 Metres Standing Still, that's him. He spent three days on a roof in the rain when we caught the Park Lane Knobbler. Nothing'll get past him. And there's Corporal Gimletsson patrolling the corridor and Constable Glodsnephew on the floor below and Constables Flint and Moraine in the rooms on either side of you, and Sergeant Detritus will be around constantly so that if anyone nods off he'll kick arse, sir, and you'll know when he does that 'cos the poor bugger'll come right through the wall.'