'Ah, well, the Low King is rather special,' said Carrot.

'Why?'

'Well, it all starts with the Scone of Stone, sir.'

'The what?'

'Would you mind a little detour on the way back to the Yard, sir? It'll make things clearer.'

The young woman stood on a corner in the Shades. Her general stance indicated that she was, in the specialized patois of the area, a lady-in-waiting. To be more precise, a lady-in-waiting for Mr. Right, or at least Mr. Right Amount.

She idly swung her handbag.

This was a very recognizable signal, for anyone with the brains of a pigeon. A member of the Thieves' Guild would have passed carefully by on the other side of the lane, giving her nothing more than a gentlemanly and above all nonaggressive nod. Even the less-polite freelance thieves who lurked in this area would have thought twice before eyeing the handbag. The Seamstresses' Guild operated a very swift and non-reversible kind of justice.

The skinny body of Done It Duncan, however, did not have the brains of a pigeon. The little man had been watching the bag like a cat for fully five minutes, and now the very thought of its contents had hypnotized him. He could practically taste the money. He rose on his toes, lowered his head, dashed out of the alley, grabbed the bag and got several inches before the world exploded behind him and he ended up flat in the mud.

Something right by his ear started to drool. And there was a long, very long-drawn-out growl, not changing in tone at all, just unrolling a deep promise of what would happen if he tried to move.

He heard footsteps, and out of the corner of his eyes saw a swirl of lace.

'Oh, Done It,' said a voice. 'Bag snatching? That's a bit low, isn't it? Even for you. You could've got really hurt. It's only Duncan, miss. He'll be no trouble. You can let him up.'

The weight was removed from Duncan's back. He heard something pad off into the gloom of an alley.

'I done it, I done it!' said the little thief desperately as Corporal Nobbs helped him to his feet.

'Yes, I know you did, I saw you,' said Nobby. 'And you know what'd happen to you if the Thieves' Guild spotted you? You'd be dead in the river with no time off for good behaviour.'

'They hate me 'cos I'm so good,' said Duncan through his matted beard. ' 'ere, you know the robbery at All Jolson's last month? I done that.'

'That's right, Duncan. You done that.'

'An' that haul at the gold vaults last week, I done that too. It wasn't Coalface and his boys.'

'No, it was you, wasn't it, Duncan?'

'An' that job at the goldsmith's that everyone says Crunchie Ron done—'

'You done it, did you?'

' 's'right,' said Duncan.

'And it was you what stole fire from the gods, too, wasn't it, Duncan?' said Nobby, grinning evilly under his wig.

'Yeah, that was me.' Duncan nodded. He sniffed. 'I was a bit younger then, of course.' He peered shortsightedly at Nobby Nobbs.

'Why've you got a dress on, Nobby?'

'It's hush-hush, Duncan.'

'Ah, right.' Duncan shifted uneasily. 'You couldn't spare me a bob or two, could you, Nobby? I ain't eaten for two days.'

Small coins gleamed in the dark.

'Now push off,' said Corporal Nobbs.

'Thanks, Nobby. You got any unsolved crimes, you know where to find me.'

Duncan lurched off into the night.

Sergeant Angua appeared behind Nobby, buckling on her breastplate.

'Poor old devil,' she said.

'He was a good thief in his day,' said Nobby, taking a notebook out of his handbag and jotting down a few lines.

'Kind of you to help him,' said Angua.

'Well, I can get the money back out of petty cash,' said Nobby. 'An' now we know who did the bullion job, don't we? That'll be a feather in my cap with Mister Vimes.'

'Bonnet, Nobby.'

'What?'

'Your bonnet, Nobby. It's got a rather fetching band of flowers around it.'

'Oh... yeah...'

'It's not that I'm complaining,' said Angua, 'but when we were assigned this job I thought it was me who was going to be the decoy and you who was going to be the back-up, Nobby.'

'Yeah, but what with you bein'...' Nobby's expression creased as he edged his way into unfamiliar linguistic territory, '... mor phor... log... is... ally gifted...'

'A werewolf, Nobby. I know the word.'

'Right... well, obviously, you'd be a lot better at lurkin', an'... an' obviously it's not right, women havin' to act as decoys in police work...'

Angua hesitated, as she so often did when attempting to talk to Nobby on difficult matters, and waved her hands in front of her as if trying to shape the invisible dough of her thoughts.

'It's just that... I mean, people might...' she began. 'I mean... well, you know what people call men who wear wigs and gowns, don't you?'

'Yes, miss.'

'You do?'

'Yes, miss. Lawyers, miss.'

'Good. Yes. Good,' said Angua slowly. 'Now try another one...'

'Er... actors, miss?'

Angua gave up. 'You look good in taffeta, Nobby,' she said.

'You don't think it makes me look too fat?'

Angua sniffed. 'Oh, no...' she said quietly.

'I thought I'd better put scent on for verysillymitude,' said Nobby quickly.

'What? Oh...' Angua shook her head, took another breath. 'I can smell... some... thing... else...'

'That's surprising, 'cos this stuff's a bit on the pungent side and frankly I don't think lily of the valley is supposed to smell like this...'

'It's not perfume.'

'... but the lavender stuff they had you could clean brass with...'

'Can you get back to the Chitterling station by yourself, Nobby?' said Angua. Despite her rising panic, she mentally added: after all, what could happen? I mean, really?

'Yes, miss.'

'There's something I'd better... sort out.'

Angua hurried away, the new scent filling her nostrils. It would have to be powerful to combat Eau de Nobbs, and it was. Oh, it was.

Not here, she thought. Not now.

Not him.

The running man swung along a branch wet with snow, and managed at last to lower himself on to a branch belonging to the next tree. That took him a long way from the stream. How good was their sense of smell? Pretty damn good, he knew. But this good?

He'd got out of the stream on to another overhanging branch. If they followed the banks, and they'd be bright enough to do that, they'd surely never know he'd left the stream.

There was a howl, away to the left.

He headed right, into the gloom of the forest.

Vimes heard Carrot scrabble around in the gloom, and the sound of a key in the lock.

'I thought the Campaign for Equal Heights was running this place now,' he said.

'It's so hard to find volunteers,' said Carrot, ushering him through the low door and lighting a candle. 'I come in every day just to keep an eye on things, but no one else seems very interested.'

'I can't imagine why,' said Vimes, looking around the Dwarf Bread Museum.

The one positive thing you could say about the bread products around him was that they were probably as edible now as they had been on the day they were baked.

'Forged' was a better term. Dwarf bread was made as a meal of last resort and also as a weapon and a currency. Dwarfs were not, as far as Vimes knew, religious in any way, but the way they thought about bread came close.

There was a tinkle and a scrabbling noise somewhere in the gloom.

'Rats,' said Carrot. 'They never stop trying to eat dwarf bread, poor things. Ah, here we are. The Scone of Stone. A replica, of course.'

Vimes stared at the misshapen thing on its dusty display stand. It was vaguely scone-like, but only if someone pointed this out to you beforehand. Otherwise, the term 'a lump of rock' was pretty accurate. It was about the size, and shape, of a well sat-on cushion. There were a few fossilized currants visible.