'Memo: See Corporal Nobbs re time-keeping; also re Earldom.'

'Got it,' said the imp. 'Would you like to be reminded of this at any particular time?'

The time here?' said Vimes, nastily. 'Or the time in, say, Klatch?'

'As a matter of fact, I can tell you what time it - '

'I think I'll write it in my notebook, if you don't mind,' said Vimes.

'Oh, well, if you prefer, I can recognize handwriting,' said the imp proudly. 'I'm quite advanced.'

Vimes pulled out his notebook and held it up. 'Like this?' he said.

The imp squinted for a moment. 'Yep,' it said. That's handwriting, sure enough. Curly bits, spiky bits, all joined together. Yep. Handwriting. I'd recognize it anywhere.'

'Aren't you supposed to tell me what it says?'

The imp looked wary. 'Says?' it said. 'It's supposed to make noises?'

Vimes put the battered book away and shut the lid of the organizer. Then he sat back and carried on waiting.

Someone very clever - certainly someone much cleverer than whoever had trained that imp - must have made the clock for the Patrician's waiting room. It went tick-tock like any other clock. But somehow, and against all usual horological practice, the tick and the tock were irregular. Tick tock tick... and then the merest fraction of a second longer before... tock tick tock... and then a tick a fraction of a second earlier than the mind's ear was now prepared for. The effect was enough, after ten minutes, to reduce the thinking processes of even the best-prepared to a sort of porridge. The Patrician must have paid the clockmaker quite highly.

The clock said quarter past eleven.

Vimes walked over to the door and, despite precedent, knocked gently.

There was no sound from within, no murmur of distant voices.

He tried the handle. The door was unlocked.

Lord Vetinari had always said that punctuality was the politeness of princes. , Vimes went in.

Cheery dutifully scraped up the crumbly white dirt and then examined the corpse of the late Father Tubelcek.

Anatomy was an important study at the Alchemists' Guild, owing to the ancient theory that the human body represented a microcosm of the universe, although when you saw one opened up it was hard to imagine which part of the universe was small and purple and went blomp-blomp when you prodded it. But in any case you tended to pick up practical anatomy as you went along, and sometimes scraped it off the walls as well. When new students tried an experiment that was particularly successful in terms of explosive force, the result was often a cross between a major laboratory refit and a game of Hunt-the-other-Kidney.

The man had been killed by being repeatedly hit around the head. That was about all you could say. Some kind of very heavy blunt instrument.[9]

What else did Vimes expect Cheery to do?

He looked carefully at the rest of the body. There were no other obvious signs of violence, although... there were a few specks of blood on the man's fingers. But, then, there was blood everywhere.

A couple of fingernails were torn. Tubelcek had put up a fight, or at least had tried to shield himself with his hands.

Cheery looked more closely at the fingers. There was something piled under the nails. It had a waxy sheen, like thick grease. He couldn't imagine why it should be there, but maybe his job was to find out. He conscientiously took an envelope out of his pocket and scraped the stuff into it, sealed it up and numbered it.

Then he took his iconograph out of its box and prepared to take a picture of the corpse.

As he did so, something caught his eye.

Father Tubelcek lay there, one eye still open as Vimes had left it, winking at eternity.

Cheery looked closer. He'd thought he'd imagined it. But...

Even now he wasn't sure. The mind could play tricks.

He opened the little door of the iconograph and spoke to the imp inside.

'Can you paint a picture of his eye, Sydney?' he said.

The imp squinted out through the lens. 'Just the eye?' it squeaked.

'Yes. As big as you can.'

'You're sick, mister.'

'And shut up,' said Cheery.

He propped the box on the table and sat back. From inside the box there came the swish-swish of brush strokes. At last there was the sound of a handle being turned, and a slightly damp picture rustled out of a slot.

Cheery peered at it. Then he knocked on the box. The hatch opened.

'Yes?'

'Bigger. So big it fills the whole paper. In fact' -Cheery squinted at the picture in his hands - 'just paint the pupil. The bit in the middle.'

'So it fills the whole paper? You're weird.'

Cheery propped the box nearer. There was a clicking of gears as the imp wound the lenses out, and then a few more seconds of busy brush work.

Another damp picture unwound. It showed a big black disc.

Well... mainly black.

Cheery looked closer. There was a hint, just a hint...

He rapped on the box again.

'Yes, Mr Dwarf Weird Person?' said the imp.

'The bit in the middle. Big as you can, thank you.'

The lenses wound out yet further.

Cheery waited anxiously. In the next room, he could hear Detritus patiently moving around.

The paper wound out for the third time, and the hatch opened. 'That's it,' said the imp. 'I've run out of black.'

And the paper was black... except for the tiny little area that wasn't.

The door to the stairs burst open and Constable Visit came in, borne along by the pressure of a small crowd. Cheery guiltily thrust the paper into his pocket.

'This is intolerable!' said a small man with a long black beard. 'We demand you let us in! Who're you, young man?'

'I'm Ch - I'm Corporal Littlebottom,' said Cheery. 'Look, I've got a badge...'

'Well, Corporal,' said the man, 'I am Wengel Raddley and I am a man of some standing in this community and I demand that you let us have poor Father Tubelcek this minute!'

'We're, er, we're trying to find out who killed him,' Cheery began.

There was a movement behind Cheery, and the faces in front of him suddenly looked very worried indeed. He turned to see Detritus in the doorway to the next room.

'Everyt'ing okay?' said the troll.

The changed fortunes of the Watch had allowed Detritus to have a proper breastplate rather than a piece of elephant battle armour. As was normal practice for the uniform of a sergeant, the armourer had attempted to do a stylized representation of muscles on it. As far as Detritus was concerned, he hadn't been able to get them all in.

'Is dere any trouble?' he said.

The crowd backed away.

'None at all, officer,' said Mr Raddley. 'You, er, just loomed suddenly, that's all...'

'Dis is correct,' said Detritus. 'I am a loomer. It often happen suddenly. So dere's no trouble, den?'

'No trouble whatsoever, officer.'

'Amazing t'ing, trouble,' rumbled Detritus thoughtfully. 'Always I go lookin' for trouble, an' when I find it people said it ain't dere.'

Mr Raddley drew himself up.

'But we want to take Father Tubelcek away to bury him,' he said.

Detritus turned to Cheery Littlebottom. 'You done everyt'ing you need?'

'I suppose so...'

'He dead?'

'Oh, yes.'

'He gonna get any better?'

'Better than dead? I doubt it.'

'Okay, den you people can take him away.'

The two Watchmen stood aside as the body was carried down the stairs.

'Why you takin' pictures of the dead man?' said Detritus.

'Well, er, it might be helpful to see how he was lying.'

Detritus nodded sagely. 'Ah, he was lyin', was he? An' him a holy man, too.'

Littlebottom pulled out the picture and looked at it again. It was almost black. But...

A constable arrived at the bottom of the stairs. 'Is there someone up there called' - there was a muffled snigger  -  'Cheery Littlebottom?'

'Yes,' said Littlebottom gloomily.

'Well, Commander Vimes says you've to come to the Patrician's palace right now, all right?'

'Dat's Corporal Littlebottom you're talkin' to,' said Detritus.

'It's all right,' said Littlebottom. 'Nothing could make it any worse.'

Rumour is information distilled so finely that it can filter through anything. It does not need doors and windows - sometimes it doesn't even need people. It can exist free and wild, running from ear to ear without ever touching lips.

It had escaped already. From the high window of the Patrician's bedroom, Sam Vimes could see people drifting towards the palace. There wasn't a mob - there wasn't even what you might call a crowd- but the Brownian motion of the streets was bouncing more and more people in his direction.

He relaxed slightly when he saw one or two guards come through the gates.

On the bed, Lord Vetinari opened his eyes.

'Ah... Commander Vimes,' he murmured.

'What's been happening, sir?' said Vimes.

'I appear to be lying down, Vimes.'

'You were in your office, sir. Unconscious.'

'Dear me. I must have been... overdoing it. Well, thank you. If you would be kind enough to... help me up...'

Lord Vetinari tried to pull himself upright, swayed, and fell back again. His face was pale. Sweat beaded his forehead.

There was a knock at the door. Vimes opened it a fraction.

'It's me, sir. Fred Colon. I got a message. What's up?'

'Ah, Fred. Who've you got down there so far?'

'There's me and Constable Flint and Constable Slapper, sir.'

'Right. Someone's to go up to my place and get Willikins to bring me my street uniform. And my sword and crossbow. And an overnight bag. And some cigars. And tell Lady Sybil... tell Lady Sybil... well, they'lljust have to tell Lady Sybil I've got to deal with things down here, that's all.'

'What's happening, sir? Someone downstairs said Lord Vetinari's dead!'

'Dead?' murmured the Patrician from his bed. 'Nonsense!' He jerked himself upright, swung his legs off the bed, and folded up. It was a slow, terrible collapse. Lord Vetinari was a tall man, so there was a long way to fall. And he did it by folding up a joint at a time. His ankles gave way and he fell on his knees. His knees hit the ground with a bang and he bent at the waist. Finally his forehead bounced on the carpet.

'Oh,'he said.

'His lordship's just a bit...' Vimes began-then he grabbed Colon and dragged him out of the room. 'I reckon he's been poisoned, Fred, and that's the truth of it.'

Colon looked horrified. 'Ye gods! Do you want me to get a doctor?'

'Are you mad? We want him to live!'

Vimes bit his lip. He'd said the words that were on his mind, and now, without a doubt, the faint smoke of rumour would drift out across the city. 'But someone ought to look at him...' he said aloud.

'Damn right!' said Colon. 'You want I should get a wizard?'

'How do we know it wasn't one of them?'

'Ye gods!'

Vimes tried to think. All the doctors in the city were employed by the guilds, and all the guilds hated Vetinari, so ...

'When you've got enough people to spare a runner, send him up to the stables on Kings Down to fetch Doughnut Jimmy,' he said.

Colon looked even more stricken. 'Doughnut? He doesn't know anything about doctoring! He dopes racehorses!'

'Just get him, Fred.'

'What if he won't come?'

'Then say that Commander Vimes knows why Laughing Boy didn't win the Quirm 100 Dollars last week, and say that I know Chrysoprase the troll lost ten thousand on that race.'

Colon was impressed. 'You've got a nasty twist of mind there, sir.'

'There's going to be a lot of people turning up pretty soon. I want a couple of Watchmen outside this room - trolls or dwarfs for preference - and no one is to come in without my permission, right?'

Colon's face contorted as various emotions fought for space. Finally he managed to say, 'But... poisoned? He's got food-tasters and everything!'

'Then maybe it was one of them, Fred.'

'My gods, sir! You don't trust anyone, do you?'

'No, Fred. Incidentally, was it you? Just kidding,' Vimes added quickly as Colon's face threatened to burst into tears. 'Off you go. We don't have much time.'

Vimes shut the door and leaned on it. Then he turned the key in the lock and moved a chair under the handle.

Finally he hauled the Patrician off the floor and rolled him on to the bed. There was a grunt from the man, and his eyelids flickered.

Poison, thought Vimes. That's the worst of all. It doesn't make a noise, the poisoner can be miles away, you can't see it, often you can't really smell it or taste it, it could be anywhere - and there it is, doing its work...

The Patrician opened his eyes.

'I would like a glass of water,' he said.

There was a jug and a glass by the bed. Vimes picked up the jug, and hesitated. 'I'll send someone to get some,' he said.

Lord Vetinari blinked, very slowly.

'Ah, Sir Samuel,' he said, 'but whom can you trust?'
There was a crowd in the big audience chamber when Vimes finally went downstairs. They were milling about, worried and unsure, and, like important men everywhere, when they were worried and unsure they got angry.

The first to bustle up to Vimes was Mr Boggis of the Guild of Thieves. 'What's going on, Vimes?' he demanded.

He met Vimes's stare. 'Sir Samuel, I mean,' he said, losing a certain amount of bustle.

'I believe Lord Vetinari has been poisoned,' said Vimes.

The background muttering stopped. Boggis realized that, since he had been the one to ask the question, he was now the man on the spot. 'Er... fatally?' he said.

In the silence, a pin would have clanged.

'Not yet,' said Vimes.

Around the hall there was a turning of heads. The focus of the universal attention was Dr Downey, head of the Guild of Assassins.

Downey nodded. 'I'm not aware of any arrangement with regard to Lord Vetinari,' he said. 'Besides, as I am sure is common knowledge, we have set the price for the Patrician at one million dollars.'

'And who has that sort of money, indeed?' said Vimes.

'Well... you for one, Sir Samuel,' said Downey. There was some nervous laughter.

'We wish to see Lord Vetinari, in any case,' said Boggis.

'No.'

'No? And why not, pray?'

'Doctor's orders.'

'Really? Which doctor?'

Behind Vimes, Sergeant Colon shut his eyes.

'Dr James Folsom,' said Vimes.

It took a few seconds before someone worked this out. 'What? You can't mean... Doughnut Jimmy? He's a horse doctor!'

'So I understand,' said Vimes.

'But why?'

'Because many of his patients survive,' said Vimes. He raised his hands as the protests grew. 'And now, gentlemen, I must leave you. Somewhere there's a poisoner. I'd like to find him before he becomes a murderer.'

He went back up the stairs, trying to ignore the shouts behind him.

'You sure about old Doughnut, sir?' said Colon, catching him up.

'Well, do you trust him?' said Vimes.

'Doughnut? Of course not!'

'Right. He's untrustworthy, and so we don't trust him. So that's all right. But I've seen him revive a horse when everyone else said it was fit only for the knackers. Horse doctors have to get results, Fred.'

And that was true enough. When a human doctor, after much bleeding and cupping, finds that a patient has died out of sheer desperation, he can always say, 'Dear me, will of the gods, that will be thirty dollars please,' and walk away a free man. This is because human beings are not, technically, worth anything. A good racehorse, on the other hand, may be worth twenty thousand dollars. A doctor who lets one hurry off too soon to that great big paddock in the sky may well expect to hear, out of some dark alley, a voice saying something on the lines of 'Mr Chrysoprase is very upset', and find the brief remainder of his life full of incident.

'No one seems to know where Captain Carrot and Angua are,' said Colon. 'It's their day off. And Nobby's nowhere to be found.'

'Well, that's something to be thankful for...'

'Bingeley bingeley bong beep,' said a voice from Vimes's pocket.

He lifted out the little organizer and raised the flap.

'Yes?'

'Er ... twelve noon,' said the imp. 'Lunch with Lady Sybil.'

It stared at their faces.

'Er ... that's all right, isn't it?' it said.

Cheery Littlebottom wiped his brow.

'Commander Vimes is right. It could be arsenic,' he said. 'It looks like arsenic poisoning to me. Look at his colour.'

'Nasty stuff,' said Doughnut Jimmy. 'Has he been eating his bedding?'

'All the sheets seem to be here, so I suppose the answer is no.'

'How's he pissing?'

'Er. The usual way, I assume.'

Doughnut sucked at his teeth. He had amazing teeth. It was the second thing everyone noticed about him. They were the colour of the inside of an unwashed teapot.

'Walk him round a bit on the loose rein,' he said.

The Patrician opened his eyes. 'You are a doctor, aren't you?' he said.

Doughnut Jimmy gave him an uncertain look. He was not used to patients who could talk. 'Well, yeah ... I have a lot of patients,' he said.

'Indeed? I have very little,' said the Patrician. He tried to lift himself off the bed, and slumped back.

'I'll mix up a draught,' said Doughnut Jimmy, backing away. 'You're to hold his nose and pour it down his throat twice a day, right? And no oats.'

He hurried out, leaving Cheery alone with the Patrician.

Corporal Littlebottom looked around the room. Vimes hadn't given him much instruction. He'd said: 'I'm sure it won't be the food-tasters. For all they know they might be asked to eat the whole plateful. Still, we'll get Detritus to talk to them. You find out the how, right? And then leave the who to me.'

If you didn't eat or drink a poison, what else was left? Probably you could put it on a pad and make someone breathe it, or dribble some in their ear while they slept. Or they could touch it. Maybe a small dart... Or an insect bite...

The Patrician stirred, and looked at Cheery through watery red eyes. 'Tell me, young man, are you a policeman?'

'Er ... just started, sir.'

'You appear to be of the dwarf persuasion.'

Cheery didn't bother to answer. There was no use denying it. Somehow, people could tell if you were a dwarf just by looking at you.

'Arsenic is a very popular poison,' said the Patrician. 'Hundreds of uses around the home. Crushed diamonds used to be in vogue for hundreds of years, despite the fact they never worked. Giant spiders, too, for some reason. Mercury is for those with patience, aquafortis for those without. Cantharides has its followers. Much can be done with the secretions of various animals. The bodily fluids of the caterpillar of the Quantum Weather Butterfly will render a man quite, quite helpless. But we return to arsenic like an old, old friend.'

There was a drowsiness in the Patrician's voice. 'Is that not so, young Vetinari? Yes indeed, sir. Correct. But where then shall we put it, seeing that all will look for it? In the last place they will look, sir. Wrong. Foolish. We put it where no one will looked//

The voice faded to a murmur.

The bed linen, Cheery thought. Even clothes. Into the skin, slowly...

Cheery hammered on the door. A guard opened k.

'Get another bed.'

'What?'

'Another bed. From anywhere. And fresh bed linen.'

He looked down. There wasn't much of a carpet on the floor. Even so, in a bedroom, where people might walk with bare feet...

'And take away this rug and bring another one.'

What else?

Detritus came in, nodded at Cheery, and looked carefully around the room. Finally he picked up a battered chair.

'Dis'll have to do,' he said. 'If he want, I can break der back off fit.'

'What?' said Cheery.

'Ole Doughnut said for to get a stool sample,' said Detritus, going out again.

Cheery opened his mouth to stop the troll, and then shrugged. Anyway, the less furniture in here the better...

And that seemed about it, short of stripping the wallpaper off the wall.

Sam Vimes stared out of the window.

Vetinari hadn't bothered much in the way of bodyguards. He had used ¨Cthat is, he still did use¨C food-tasters, but that was common enough. Mind you, Vetinari had added his own special twist. The tasters were well paid and treated, and they were all sons of the chief cook. But his main protection was that he was just that bit more useful alive than dead, from everyone's point of view. The big powerful guilds didn't like him, but they liked him in power a lot more than they liked the idea of someone from a rival guild in the Oblong Office. Besides, Lord Vetinari represented stability. It was a cold and clinical kind of stability, but part of his genius was the discovery that stability was what people wanted more than anything else.

He'd said to Vimes once, in this very room, standing at this very window: They think they want good government and justice for all, Vimes, yet what is it they really crave, deep in their hearts? Only that things go on as normal and tomorrow is pretty much like today.'

Now, Vimes turned around. 'What's my next move, Fred?'

'Dunno, sir.'

Vimes sat down in the Patrician's chair. 'Can you remember the last Patrician?'

'Old Lord Snapcase? And the one before him, Lord Winder. Oh, yeah. Nasty pieces of work, they were. At least this one didn't giggle or wear a dress.'

The past tense, thought Vimes. It creeps in already. Not long past, but already very tense.

'It's gone very quiet downstairs, Fred,' he said.

'Plotting don't make a lot of noise, sir, generally.'

'Vetinari's not dead, Fred.'

'Yessir. But he's not exactly in charge, is he?'

Vimes shrugged. 'No one's in charge, I suppose.'

'Could be, sir. There again, you never know your luck.'

Colon was standing stiffly to attention, with his eyes firmly fixed on the middle distance and his voice pitched carefully to avoid any hint of emotion in the words.

Vimes recognized the stance. He used it himself, when he had to. 'What do you mean, Fred?' he said.

'Not a thing, sir. Figure of speech, sir.'

Vimes sat back.

This morning, he thought, I knew what the day held. I was going to see about that damn coat of arms. Then there was my usual meeting with Vetinari. I was going to read some reports after lunch, maybe go and see how they're getting on with the new Watch House in Chittling Street, and have an early night. Now Fred's suggesting... what?

'Listen, Fred, if there is to be a new ruler, it won't be me.'

'Who'll it be, sir?' Colon's voice still held that slow, deliberate tone.

'How should I know? It could be...'

The gap opened ahead of him and he could feel his thoughts being sucked into it. 'You're talking about Captain Carrot, aren't you, Fred?'

'Could be, sir. I mean none of the guilds'd let some other guild bloke be ruler now, and everyone likes Captain Carrot, and, well... rumour's got about that he's the hair to the throne, sir.'

'There's no proof of that, Sergeant.'

'Not for me to say, sir. Dunno about that. Dunno what is proof,' said Colon, with just a hint of defiance. 'But he's got that sword of his, and the birthmark shaped like a crown, and... well, everyone knows he's king. It's his krisma.'

Charisma, thought Vimes. Oh, yes. Carrot has charisma. He makes something happen in people's heads. He can talk a charging leopard into giving up and handing over its teeth and doing good work in the community, and that would really upset the old ladies.

Vimes distrusted charisma. 'No more kings, Fred.'

'Right you are, sir. By the way, Nobby's turned up.'

'The day gets worse and worse, Fred.'

'You said you'd talk to him about all these funerals, sir...'

'The job goes on, I suppose. All right, go and tell him to come up here.

Vimes was left to himself.

No more kings. Vimes had difficulty in articulating why this should be so, why the concept revolted in his very bones. After all, a good many of the patricians had been as bad as any king. But they were... sort of... bad on equal terms. What set Vimes's teeth on edge was the idea that kings were a different kind of human being. A higher lifeform. Somehow magical. But, huh, there was some magic, at that. Ankh-Morpork still seemed to be littered with Royal this and Royal that, little old men who got paid a few pence a week to do a few meaningless chores, like the Master of the King's Keys or the Keeper of the Crown Jewels, even though there were no keys and certainly no jewels.

Royalty was like dandelions. No matter how many heads you chopped off, the roots were still there underground, waiting to spring up again.

It seemed to be a chronic disease. It was as if even the most intelligent person had this little blank spot in their heads where someone had written: 'Kings. What a good idea.' Whoever had created humanity had left in a major design flaw. It was its tendency to bend at the knees.

There was a knock at the door. It should not be possible for a knock to sound surreptitious, yet this knock achieved it. It had harmonics. They told the hindbrain: the person knocking will, if no one eventually answers, open the door anyway and sidle in, whereupon he will certainly nick any smokes that are lying around, read any correspondence that catches his eye, open a few drawers, take a nip out of such bottles of alcohol as are discovered, but stop short of major crime because he is not criminal in the sense of making a moral decision but in the sense that a weasel is evil - it is built into his very shape. It was a knock with a lot to say for itself.

'Come in, Nobby,' said Vimes, wearily.

Corporal Nobbs sidled in. It was another special trait of his that he could sidle forwards as well as sideways.

He saluted awkwardly.

There was something absolutely changeless about Corporal Nobbs, Vimes told himself. Even Fred Colon had adapted to the changing nature of the City Watch, but nothing altered Corporal Nobbs in any way. It wouldn't matter what you did to him, there was always something fundamentally Nobby about Corporal Nobbs.

'Nobby...'

'Yessir?'

'Er... take a seat, Nobby.'

Corporal Nobbs looked suspicious. This was not how a dressing-down was supposed to begin.

'Er, Fred said you wanted to see me, Mr Vimes, on account of timekeeping...'

'Did I? Did I? Oh, yes. Nobby, how many grandmothers' funerals have you really been to?'

'Er... three...' said Nobby, uncomfortably.

Three?'