“Fetch me the Master of Assassins,” he said. “Now!”

The young Assassin tried to sneer.

“Hah! Your uniform doesn't scare me,” he said.

Vimes looked down at his battered breastplate and worn mail.

“You're right,” he said. “This is not a scary uniform. I'm sorry. Forward, Corporal Carrot and Lance-Constable Detritus.”

The Assassin was suddenly aware of the sunlight being blocked out.

“Now these, I think you'll agree,” said Vimes, from somewhere behind the eclipse, “are scary uniforms.”

The Assassin nodded slowly. He hadn't asked for this. Usually there were never any guards outside the Guild. What would be the point? He had, tucked away in his exquisitely tailored black clothes, at least eighteen devices for killing people, but he was becoming aware that Lance-Constable Detritus had one on the end of each of his arms. Closer, as it were, to hand.

“I'll, er, I'll go and get the Master, then, shall I?” he said.

Carrot leaned down.

“Thank you for your co-operation,” he said gravely.

Angua watched the dog. The dog watched her.

She squatted on her haunches as it sat down and scratched an ear furiously.

Looking around carefully to make sure that no-one could see them, she barked an inquiry.

“Don't bower,” said the dog.

“You can talk?”

“Huh. That don't take much intelligence,” said the dog. “And it don't take much intelligence to spot what you are, neither.”

Angua looked panicky.

“Where does it show?”

“It's the smell, girl. Din't you learn nuffin? Smelled you a mile orf. I thought, oh-ho, what's one of them doing in the Watch, eh?”

Angua waved a finger wildly.

“If you tell anyone—!”

The dog looked more pained than normal.

“No-one'd listen,” it said.

“Why not?”

“'Cos everyone knows dogs can't talk. They hear me, see, but unless things are really tough they just think they're thinking to 'emselves.” The little dog sighed. “Trust me. I know what I'm talking about. I've read books. Well… chewed books.”

It scratched an ear again. “Seems to me,” it said, “we could help each other…”

“In what way?”

“Well, you could put me in the way of a pound of steak. That does wonders for my memory, steak. Makes it go clean away.”

Angua frowned.

“People don't like the word ‘blackmail’,” she said.

“It ain't the only word they don't like,” said the dog. “Take my case, now. I've got chronic intelligence. Is that any use to a dog? Did I ask for it? Not me. I just finds a cushy spot to spend my nights along at the High Energy Magic building at the University, no-one told me about all this bloody magic leaking out the whole time, next thing I know I open me eyes, head starts fizzing like a dose of salts, oh-oh, thinks I, here we go again, hello abstract conceptualizing, intellectual development here we come… What bloody use is that to me? Larst time it happened, I ended up savin' the world from horrible wossnames from the Dungeon Dimensions, and did anyone say fanks? Wot a Good Dog, Give Him A Bone? Har har.” It held up a threadbare paw. “My name's Gaspode. Something like this happens to me just about every week. Apart from that, I'm just a dog.”

Angua gave up. She grasped the moth-eaten limb and shook it.

“My name's Angua. You know what I am.”

“Forgotten it already,” said Gaspode.

Captain Vimes looked at the debris scattered across the courtyard from a hole in one of the ground-floor rooms. All the surrounding windows had broken, and there was a lot of glass underfoot. Mirror glass. Of course, assassins were notoriously vain, but mirrors would be in rooms, wouldn't they? You wouldn't expect a lot of glass outside. Glass got blown in, not out.

He saw Lance-Constable Cuddy bend down and pick up a couple of pulleys attached to a piece of rope, which was burned at one end.

There was a rectangle of card in the debris.

The hairs on the back of Vimes' hand prickled.

He sniffed rankness in the air.

Vimes would be the first to admit that he wasn't a good copper, but he'd probably be spared the chore because lots of other people would happily admit it for him. There was a certain core of stubborn bloody-mindedness there which upset important people, and anyone who upsets important people is automatically hot a good copper. But he'd developed instincts. You couldn't live on the streets of a city all your life without them. In the same way that the whole jungle subtly changes at the distant approach of the hunter, there was an alteration in the feel of the city.

There was something happening here, something wrong, and he couldn't quite see what it was. He started to reach down—

“What is the meaning of this?”

Vimes straightened up. He did not turn around.

“Sergeant Colon, I want you to go back to the Watch House with Nobby and Detritus,” he said. “Corporal Carrot and Lance-Constable Cuddy, you stay with me.”

“Yes, sah!” said Sergeant Colon, stamping heavily and ripping off a smart salute to annoy the Assassins. Vimes acknowledged it.

Then he turned around.

“Ah, Dr Cruces,” he said.

The Master of Assassins was white with rage, contrasting nicely with the extreme black of his clothing.

“No-one sent for you!” he said. “What gives you the right to be here, mister policeman? Walking around as if you own the place?”

Vimes paused, his heart singing. He savoured the moment. He'd like to take this moment and press it carefully in a big book, so that when he was old he could take it out occasionally and remember it.

He reached into his breastplate and pulled out the lawyer's letter.

“Well, if you would like the most fundamental reason,” he said, “it is because I rather think I do.”

A man can be defined by the things he hates. There were quite a lot of things that Captain Vimes hated. Assassins were near the top of the list, just after kings and the undead.

He had to allow, though, that Dr Cruces recovered very quickly. He didn't explode when he read the letter, or argue, or claim it was a forgery. He simply folded it up, handed it back, and said, coldly, “I see. The freehold, at least.”

“Quite so. Could you tell me what has been happening, please?”

He was aware of other senior Assassins entering the courtyard through the hole in the wall. They were very carefully looking at the debris.

Dr Cruces hesitated for a moment.

“Fireworks,” he said.

“What happened,” said Gaspode, “was that someone put a dragon in a box right up against the wall inside the courtyard, right, and then they went and hid behind one of the statues and pulled a string and next minute—bang!”

“Bang?”

“'S'right. Then our friend nips into the hole for a few seconds, right, comes out again, trots around the courtyard and next minute there's Assassins everywhere and he's among 'em. What the hell. Another man in black. No-one notices, see?”

“You mean he's still in there?”

“How do I know? Hoods and cloaks, everyone in black…”

“How come you were able to see this?”

“Oh, I always nip into the Assassins' Guild on a Wednesday night. Mixed grill night, see?” Gaspode sighed at Angua's blank expression. “The cook always does a mixed grill of a Wednesday night. No-one ever eats the black pudding. So it's round the kitchens, see, woof woof, beg beg, who's a good boy then, look at the little bugger, he looks as though he understands every word I'm sayin', let's see what we've got here for a good doggy…”

He looked embarrassed for a moment.

“Pride is all very well, but a sausage is a sausage,” he said.