'Indeed, mithtreth.'

Lady Margolotta yawned. It had been a long night. She'd think better after a good day's sleep.

As she went to blow out the candle she glanced again at the book. There was a marker in the Vs.

But... surely even the Patrician couldn't know that much...

She hesitated and then pulled the bellrope above the coffin. Igor reappeared, in the way of Igors.

'Those keen young men at the clacks tower Vill be avake, von't they?'

'Yeth, mithtreth.'

'Send a clacks to our agent asking for everything about Commander Vimes of the Vatch, vill you?'

'Ith he a diplomat, mithtreth?'

Lady Margolotta lay back. 'No, Igor. He's the reason for diplomats. Close the lid, vill you?'

Sam Vimes could parallel-process. Most husbands can. They learn to follow their own line of thought while at the same time listening to what their wives say. And the listening is important, because at any time they could be challenged and must be ready to quote the last sentence in full. A vital additional skill is being able to scan the dialogue for telltale phrases, such as 'and they can deliver it tomorrow' or 'so I've invited them for dinner' or 'they can do it in blue, really quite cheaply'.

Lady Sybil was aware of this. Sam could coherently carry an entire conversation while thinking about something completely different.

'I'll tell Willikins to pack winter clothes,' she said, watching him. 'It'll be pretty cold up there at this time of year.'

'Yes. That's a good idea.' Vimes continued to stare at a point just above the fireplace.

'We'll have to host a party ourselves, I expect, so we ought to take a cartload of typical Ankh-Morpork food. Show the flag, you know. Do you think I should take a cook along?'

'Yes, dear. That would be a good idea. No one outside the city knows how to make a knuckle sandwich properly.'

Sybil was impressed. Ears operating entirely on

automatic had nevertheless triggered the mouth into making a small but pertinent contribution.

She said, 'Do you think we ought to take the alligator with us?'

'Yes, that might be advisable.'

She watched his face. Small furrows formed on Vimes's brow as the ears nudged the brain. He blinked.

'What alligator?'

'You were miles away, Sam. In Uberwald, I expect.'

'Sorry.'

'Is there a problem?'

'Why's he sending me, Sybil?'

'I'm sure Havelock shares with me a conviction that you have hidden depths, Sam.'

Vimes sank gloomily into his armchair. It was, he felt, a persistent flaw in his wife's otherwise practical and sensible character that she believed, against all evidence, that he was a man of many talents. He knew he had hidden depths. There was nothing in them that he'd like to see float to the surface. They contained things that should be left to lie.

There was also a nagging worry that he couldn't quite pin down. Had he been able to, he might have expressed it like this: policemen didn't go on holiday. Where you got policemen, as Lord Vetinari was wont to remark, you got crime. So if he went to Bonk, however you pronounced the damn place, there would be a crime. It was something the world always laid on for policemen.

'It'll be nice to see Serafine again,' said Sybil.

'Yes, indeed,' said Vimes.

In Bonk he would not, officially, be a policeman. He did not like this at all. He liked this even less than all the other things.

On the few occasions he'd been outside Ankh-Morpork and its surrounding fiefdom he'd either been going to other local cities where the Ankh-Morpork badge carried some weight or he had been in hot pursuit, that most ancient and honourable of police procedures. From the way Carrot talked, in Bonk his badge would merely figure as extra roughage on someone's menu.

His brow wrinkled again. 'Serafine?'

'Lady Serafine von Uberwald,' said Sybil. 'Sergeant Angua's mother? You remember me telling you last year? We were at finishing school together. Of course, we all knew she was a werewolf, but nobody would ever dream of talking about that sort of thing in those days. Well, you just didn't. There was all that business over the ski instructor, of course, but I'm certain in my own mind that he must have fallen down some crevasse or other. She married the Baron, and they live just outside Beyonk. I write to her with a little news every Hogswatch. A very old Werewolf family.'

'A good pedigree,' said Vimes absently.

'You know you wouldn't like Angua to hear you say that, Sam. Don't worry so. You'll have a chance to relax, I'm sure. It'll be good for you.'

'Yes, dear.'

'It'll be like a second honeymoon,' said Sybil.

'Yes indeed,' said Vimes, remembering that what with one thing and another they'd never really had a first one.

'On that, er, subject,' said Sybil, a little more hesitantly, 'you remember I told you I was going to see old Mrs Content?'

'Oh, yes, how is she?' Vimes was staring at the fireplace again. It wasn't just old schoolfriends. Sometimes it seemed Sybil kept in touch with anyone she'd ever met. Her Hogswatch card list ran to a second volume.

'Quite well, I believe. Anyway, she agrees that—'

There was a knocking at the door.

She sighed. 'It's Willikins' evening off,' she said. 'You'd better answer it, Sam. I know you want to.'

'I've told them not to disturb me unless it's serious,' said Vimes, getting up.

'Yes, but you think all crime is serious, Sam.'

Carrot was on the doorstep. 'It's a bit... political, sir,' he said.

'What's so political at a quarter to ten at night, captain?'

'The Dwarf Bread Museum's been broken into, sir,' said Carrot.

Vimes looked into Carrot's honest blue eyes.

'A thought occurs to me, captain,' he said slowly. 'And the thought is: a certain item has gone missing.'

'That's right, sir.'

'And it's the replica Scone.'

'Yes, sir. Either they broke in just after we left, or,' Carrot licked his lips nervously, 'they were hiding while we were there.'

'Not rats, then.'

'No, sir. Sorry, sir.'

Vimes fastened his cloak and took his helmet off its peg.

'So someone has stolen a replica of the Scone of Stone a few weeks before the real one is due to be used in a very important ceremony,' he said. 'I find this intriguing.'

'That's what I thought too, sir.'

Vimes sighed. 'I hate the political ones.'

When they'd gone, Lady Sybil sat for a while staring at her hands. Then she took a lamp into the library and pulled down a slim volume bound in white leather on which had been embossed in gold the words 'OUR WEDDING'.

It had been a strange event. Ankh-Morpork's high society—so high that it's stinking, Sam always said—had turned up, mostly out of curiosity. She was Ankh-Morpork's most eligible spinster, who'd never thought she'd be married, and he was a mere captain of the guard who tended to annoy a lot of people.

And here were the iconographs of the event. There she was, looking rather more expansive than radiant, and there Sam was, scowling at the viewer with his hair hastily smoothed down. There was Sergeant Colon with his chest inflated so much his feet had almost left the ground, and Nobby grinning widely or perhaps just making a face; it was so hard to tell with Nobby.

Sybil turned over the pages with care. She had put a sheet of tissue between each one to protect them.

In many ways, she told herself, she was very lucky. She was proud of Sam. He worked hard for a lot of people. He cared about people who weren't important. He always had far more to cope with than was good for him. He was the most civilized man she'd ever met. Not a gentleman, thank goodness, but a gentle man.