'No, sarge. But they're all at it, sarge. I don't mean the lads, sarge, but you only have to look round the city. Our rent's going up, taxes go up, there's these new taxes all the time, and it's all just cruel, sarge, it's cruel. Winder sold us all to his mates, and that's a fact, sir.'

'Hmm,' said Vimes. Oh, yes. Tax farming. What a clever invention. Good old Winder. He'd flogged the right to collect taxes to the highest bidders. What a great idea, nearly as good as banning people from carrying weapons after dark. Because a) you saved the cost of tax collectors and the whole revenue system b) you got a wagonload of cash up front. And c) the business of tax gathering then became the business of groups of powerful yet curiously reticent people who kept out of the light. However, they employed people who not only went out in the light but positively blocked it, and it was amazing what those people found to tax, up to and including Looking At Me, Pal. What was it Vetinari had said once? Taxation is just a sophisticated way of demanding money with menaces'? Well, the tax farmers were very unsophisticated in the way they went about recouping their investment. He remembered those da- these days. The city had never seemed poorer, but by the gods there was a lot of tax being paid. Hard to explain to a kid like Sam why poncing a dollar when you got the chance was a bad thing to do. 'Put it like this, lance-constable,' as they turned the corner. 'Would you let a murderer off for a thousand dollars?'

'No, sir!'

'A thousand dollars'd set your mum up in a nice place in a good part of town, though.'

'Knock it off, sarge, I'm not like that.'

'You were when you took that dollar. Everything else is just a haggling over the price.' They walked in sullen silence. Then: 'Am I going to get the sack, sarge?' said the lance-constable. 'For a dollar? No.'

'I'd just as soon be sacked, sarge, thanks all the same,' said young Sam defiantly. 'Last Friday we had to go and break up some meeting over near the University. They were just talking! And we had to take orders from some civilian, and the Cable Street lads were a bit rough and . . . it's not like the people had weapons or anything. You can't tell me that's right, sarge. And then we loaded some of 'em into the hurry-up, just for talking. Mrs Owlesly's boy Elson never came home the other night, too, and they say he was dragged off to the palace just for saying his lordship's a loony. Now people down our street are looking at me in a funny way.' Ye gods, I remember, thought Vimes. I thought it was all going to be chasing men who gave up after the length of a street and said 'It's a fair cop, guv'nor'. I thought I'd have a medal by the end of the week.

'You want to be careful what you say, lad,' he said. 'Yeah, but our mum says it's fair enough if they take away the troublemakers and the weirdies but it's not right them taking away ordinary people.' Is this really me? Vimes thought. Did I really have the political awareness of a head louse? 'Anyway, he is a loony. Snapcase is the man we ought to have.' . . . and the self-preservation instincts of a lemming? 'Kid, here's some advice. In this town, right now, if you don't know who you're talking to - don't talk.'

'Yes, but Snapcase says-'

'Listen. A copper doesn't keep flapping his lip. He doesn't let on what he knows. He doesn't say what he's thinking. No. He watches and listens and he learns and he bides his time. His mind works like mad but his face is a blank. Until he's ready. Understand?'

'All right, sarge.'

'Good. Can you use that sword you have there, lad?'

'I did the training, yes.'

'Fine. Fine. The training. Fine. So if we're attacked by a lot of sacks of straw hanging from a beam, I can rely on you. And until then shut up, keep your ears open and your eyes peeled and learn something.' Snapcase is the man to save us, he thought glumly. Yeah, I used to believe that. A lot of people did. Just because he rode around in an open carriage occasionally and called people over and talked to them, the level of the conversation being on the lines of: 'So you're a carpenter, are you? Wonderful! What does that job entail?' Just because he said publicly that perhaps taxes were a bit on the high side. Just because he waved. 'You been here before, sarge?' said Sam, as they turned a corner. 'Oh, everyone's visited Ankh-Morpork, lad,' said Vimes jovially. 'Only we're doing the Elm Street beat perfectly, sarge, and I've been letting you lead the way.' Damn. That was the kind of trouble your feet could get you into. A wizard once told Vimes that there were monsters up near the Hub that were so big they had to have extra brains in their legs, 'cos they were too far away for one brain to think fast enough. And a beat copper grew brains in his feet, he really did. Elm Street, left into The Pitts, left again into The Scours ... it was the first beat he'd ever walked, and he could do it without thinking. He had done it without thinking.

'I do my homework,' he said. 'Did you recognise Ned?' said Sam. Perhaps it was a good thing that he was leaving his feet to their own devices, because Vimes's brain suddenly filled with warning bells. 'Ned?' he said. 'Only before you came he said he thought he remembered you from Pseudopolis,' said Sam, oblivious of the clamour. 'He was in the Day Watch there before he came here 'cos of better promotion prospects. Big man, he said.'

'Can't say I recall him,' said Vimes, with care. 'You're not all that big, sarge.'

'Well, Ned was probably shorter in those days,' said Vimes, while his thoughts shouted: shut up, kid! But the kid was . . . well, him. Niggling at little details. Tugging at things that didn't seem to fit right. Being a copper, in fact. Probably he ought to feel proud of his younger self, but he didn't. You're not me, he thought. I don't think I was ever as young as you. If you're going to be me, it's going to take a lot of work. Thirty damn years of being hammered on the anvil of life, you poor bastard. You've got it all to come. Back at the Watch House, Vimes wandered idly over to the Evidence and Lost Property cupboard. It had a big lock on it which was not, however, ever locked. He soon found what he was looking for. An unpopular copper needed to think ahead, and he intended to be unpopular. Then he had a bite of supper and a mug of the thick brown cocoa on which the Night Watch ran and took Sam out on the hurry-up wagon. He'd wondered how the Watch was going to play it and wasn't surprised to find they were using the old dodge of obeying orders to the letter with gleeful malignancy. At the first point he made, Lance-Corporal Coates and Constable Waddy were waiting with four sullen or protesting insomniacs. 'Four, sah,' said Coates, ripping off a textbook salute. 'All we've apprehended sah. All written down on this chitty what I am giving to you at this moment in time sah!'

'Well done, lance-corporal,' said Vimes, drily, taking the paperwork, signing one copy and handing it back. 'You may have a half-holiday at Hogswatch, and give my regards to your granny. Help 'em in with 'em, Sam.'

'We usually only get four or five on a round, sir!' Sam whispered, as they pulled away. 'What'll we do?'

'Make several journeys,' said Vimes. 'But the lads were taking the pi- the michael, sir! They were laughing!'

'It's past curfew,' said Vimes. That's the law.' Corporal Colon and Constable Wiglet were waiting at their post with three miscreants. One of them was Miss Palm. Vimes gave Sam the reins and jumped down to open the back of the wagon and fold down the steps. 'Sorry to see you here, miss,' he said. 'Apparently some new sergeant's been throwing his weight around,' said Rosie Palm, in a voice of solid ice. She refused his hand haughtily, and climbed up into the wagon. Vimes realized that one of the other detainees was a woman, too. She was shorter than Rosie, and was giving him a look of pure bantam defiance. She was also holding a huge quilted workbasket. Out of reflex Vimes took it, to help her up the steps. 'Sorry about this, miss-' he began. 'Get your hands off that!' She snatched the basket back and scrambled into the darkness. 'Pardon me,' said Vimes. 'This is Miss Battye,' said Rosie, from the bench inside the wagon. 'She's a seamstress.'

'Well, I assumed she-'

'A seamstress, I said,' said Miss Palm. 'With needles and thread. Also specialises in crochet.'

'Er, is that a kind of extra-' Vimes began. 'It's a type of knitting,' said Miss Battye, from the darkness of the wagon. 'Fancy you not knowing that.'

'You mean she's a real-' said Vimes, but Rosie slammed the iron door. 'You just drive us on,' she said, 'and when I see you again, John Keel, we are going to have words!' There was some sniggering from the shadows inside the wagon, and then a yelp. It had been immediately preceded by the noise of a spiky heel being driven into an instep. Vimes signed the grubby form presented to him by Fred Colon and handed it back with a solid, fixed expression that made the man feel rather worried. 'Where to now, sarge?' said Sam, as they pulled away. 'Cable Street,' said Vimes. There was a murmur of dismay from the crated people behind them.

'That's not right,' muttered Sam. 'We're playing this by the rules,' said Vimes. 'You're going to have to learn why we have rules, lance-constable. And don't you eyeball me. I've been eyeballed by experts, and you look as if you're desperate for the privy.'

'Yeah, all right, but everyone knows they torture people,' mumbled Sam. 'Do they?' said Vimes. Then why doesn't anyone do anything about it?'

' 'cos they torture people.' Ah, at least I was getting a grasp of basic social dynamics, thought Vimes. Sullen silence reigned in the seat beside him as the wagon rumbled through the streets, but he was aware of whispering behind him. Slightly louder than the background, he heard Rosie Palm's voice hiss: 'He won't. I'll bet anything.' A few seconds later a male voice, slightly the worse for drink and very much the worse for bladder-twisting dread, managed: 'Er, sergeant, we ... er ... believe the fine is five, er, dollars?'

'I don't think it is, sir,' said Vimes, keeping his eyes on the damp streets. There was some more frantic whispering, and then the voice said: 'Er . . . I have a very nice gold ring.'

'Glad to hear it, sir,' said Vimes. 'Everyone should have something nice,' He patted his pocket for his silver cigar case, and for a moment felt more anger than despair, and more sorrow than anger. There was a future. There had to be. He remembered it. But it only existed as that memory, and that was fragile as the reflection on a soap bubble and, maybe, just as easily popped. 'Er ... I could perhaps include-'

'If you try to offer me a bribe one more time, sir,' said Vimes, as the wagon turned into Cable Street, 'I shall personally give you a thumping. Be told.'

'Perhaps there is some other-' Rosie Palm began, as the lights of the Cable Street House came into view. 'We're not at home to a tuppenny upright, either,' said Vimes, and heard the gasp. 'Shut up, the lot of you.' He reined Marilyn to a halt, jumped down and pulled his clipboard from under the seat. 'Seven for you,' he said, to the guard lounging against the door. 'Well?' said the guard. 'Open it up and let's be having them, then.'

'Right,' said Vimes, flicking through the paperwork. 'No problem.' He thrust the clipboard forward. 'Just sign here.' The man recoiled as though Vimes had tried to offer him a snake. 'What d'ya mean, sign?' he said. 'Hand 'em over!'

'You sign,' said Vimes woodenly. 'That's the rules. Prisoners moved from one custody to another, you have to sign. More'n my job's worth, not to get a signature.'

'Your job's not worth spit,' snarled the man, grabbing the board. He looked at it blankly, and Vimes handed him a pencil. 'If you need any help with the difficult letters, let me know,' he said helpfully. Growling, the guard scrawled something on the paper and thrust it back. 'Now open up, p-lease,' he said. 'Certainly,' said Vimes, glancing at the paper. 'But now I'd like to see some form of ID, thank you.'