'Nobbs!' said Vimes, as the penny dropped. That's it! You said Nobbs ! Before - when you were talking about old families!'

'Ah-ha. What? Oh, indeed. Yes. Oh, yes. A fine old family. Although now, sadly, in decay.'

'You don't mean Nobbs as in ... Corporal Nobbs?' said Vimes, horror edging his words.

A book thumped open. In the orange light Vimes had a vague upside-down glimpse of shields, and a rambling, unpruned family tree.

'My word. Would that be a C. W. St J. Nobbs?'

'Er... yes. Yes!'

'Son of Sconner Nobbs and a lady referred to here as Maisie of Elm Street?'

'Probably.'

'Grandson of Slope Nobbs?'

'That sounds about right.'

'Who was the illegitimate son of Edward St John de Nobbes, Earl of Ankh, and a, ah-ha, a parlourmaid of unknown lineage?'

'Good gods!'

'The earl died without issue, except that which, ah-ha, resulted in Slope. We had not been able to trace the scion - hitherto, at any rate.'

'Good gods!'

'You know the gentleman?'

Vimes regarded with amazement a serious and positive sentence about Corporal Nobbs that included the word 'gentleman'. 'Er ... yes,' he said.

'Is he a man of property?'

'Only other people's.'

'Well, ah-ha, do tell him. There is no land or money now, of course, but the title is still extant.'

'Sorry ... let me make sure I understand this. Corporal Nobbs... my Corporal Nobbs... is the Earl of Ankh?'

'He would have to satisfy us as to proof of his lineage but, yes, it would appear so.'

Vimes stared into the gloom. Thus far in his life,

Corporal Nobbs would have been unlikely to satisfy the examiners as to his species.

'Good gods!' Vimes said yet again. 'And I suppose he gets a coat of arms?'

'A particularly fine one.'

'Oh.'

Vimes hadn't even wanted a coat of arms. An hour ago he'd have cheerfully avoided this appointment as he had done so many times before. But...

'Nobby?' he said 'Good gods!'

'Well, well! This has been a very happy meeting,' said Dragon. 'I do so like to keep the records up to date. Ah-ha. Incidentally, how is young Captain Carrot getting along? I'm told his young lady is a werewolf. Ah-ha.'

'Really,' said Vimes.

'Ah-ha.' In the dark, Dragon made a movement that might have been a conspiratorial tap on the side of the nose. 'We know these things!'

'Captain Carrot is doing well,' said Vimes, as icily as he could manage. 'Captain Carrot always does well.'

He slammed the door when he went out. The candle flames wavered.

Constable Angua walked out of an alleyway, doing up her belt.

'That went very well, I thought,' said Carrot, 'and will go some way to earning us the respect of the community.'

'Pff! That man's sleeve! I doubt if he even knows the meaning of the word laundry ,' said Angua, wiping her mouth.

Automatically, they fell into step - the energy-saving policeman's walk, where the pendulum weight of the leg is used to propel the walker along with the minimum of effort. Walking was important, Vimes had always said, and because Vimes had said it Carrot believed it. Walking and talking. Walk far enough and talk to enough people and sooner or later you had an answer.

The respect of the community, thought Angua. That was a Carrot phrase. Well, in fact it was a Vimes phrase, although Sir Samuel usually spat after he said it. But Carrot believed it. It was Carrot who'd suggested to the Patrician that hardened criminals should be given the chance to 'serve the community' by redecorating the homes of the elderly, lending a new terror to old age and, given Ankh-Morpork's crime rate, leading to at least one old lady having her front room wallpapered so many times in six months that now she could only get into it sideways.[6]

'I've found something very interesting that you will be very interested to see,' said Carrot, after a while.

'That's interesting,' said Angua.

'But I'm not going to tell you what it is because I want it to be a surprise,' said Carrot.

'Oh. Good.'

Angua walked in thought for a while and then said: 'I wonder if it will be as surprising as the collection of rock samples you showed me last week?'

'That was good, wasn't it?' said Carrot enthusiastically. 'I've been along that street dozens of times and never suspected there was a mineral museum there! All those silicates!'

'Amazing! You'd imagine people would be flocking to it, wouldn't you?'

'Yes, I can't think why they don't!'

Angua reminded herself that Carrot appeared to have in his soul not even a trace element of irony. She told herself that it wasn't his fault he'd been brought up by dwarfs in some mine, and really did think that bits of rock were interesting. The week before they'd visited an iron foundry. That had been interesting, too.

And yet... and yet... you couldn't help liking Carrot. Even people he was arresting liked Carrot. Even old ladies living in a permanent smell of fresh paint liked Carrot. She liked Carrot. A lot. Which was going to make leaving him all the harder.

She was a werewolf. That's all there was to it. You either spent your time trying to make sure people didn't find out or you let them find out and spent your time watching them keep their distance and whisper behind your back, although of course you'd have to turn round to watch that.

Carrot didn't mind. But he minded that other people minded. He minded that even quite friendly colleagues tended to carry a bit of silver somewhere on their person. She could see it upsetting him. She could see the tensions building up, and he didn't know how to deal with them.

It was just as her father had said. Get involved with humans other than at mealtimes and you might as well jump down a silver mine.

'Apparently there's going to be a huge firework display after the celebrations next year,' said Carrot. 'I like fireworks.'

'It beats me why Ankh-Morpork wants to celebrate the fact it had a civil war three hundred years ago/ said Angua, coming back to the here-and-now.

'Why not? We won,' said Carrot.

'Yes, but you lost, too.'

'Always look on the positive side, that's what I say. Ah, here we are.'

Angua looked up at the sign. She'd learned to read dwarf runes now.

' Dwarf Bread Museum ,' she said. 'Gosh. I can't wait.'

Carrot nodded happily and pushed open the door. There was a smell of ancient crusts.

'Coo-ee, Mr Hopkinson?' he called. There was no reply. 'He does go out sometimes,' he said.

'Probably when the excitement gets too much for him,' said Angua. 'Hopkinson? That's not a dwarf name, is it?'

'Oh, he's a human,' said Carrot, stepping inside. 'But an amazing authority. Bread's his life. He wrote the definitive work on offensive baking. Well ... since he's not here I'll just take two tickets and leave tuppence on the desk.'

It didn't look as though Mr Hopkinson got many visitors. There was dust on the floor, and dust on die display cases, and a lot of dust on the exhibits. Most of them were the classic cowpat-like shape, an echo of their taste, but there were also buns, close-combat crumpets, deadly throwing toast and a huge dusty array of other shapes devised by a race that went in for food-fighting in a big and above all terminal way.

'What are we looking for?' Angua said. She sniffed. There was a nastily familiar tang in the air.

'It's... are you ready for this?... it's... the Battle Bread of B'hrian Bloodaxe!' said Carrot, rummaging in a desk by the entrance.

'A loaf of bread? You brought me here to see a loaf of bread?'

She sniffed again. Yes. Blood. Fresh blood.

'That's right,' said Carrot. 'It's only going to be here a couple of weeks on loan. It's the actual bread he personally wielded at the Battle of Koom Valley, killing fifty-seven trolls although' - and here Carrot's tone changed down from enthusiasm to civic respectability - 'that was a long time ago and we shouldn't let ancient history blind us to the realities of a multi-ethnic society in the Century of theFruitbat.'