'Er... there was something else, sir,' said Angua slowly.

'In the cellar?'

'Yes. Er ... but it's hard to explain. It was a ... feeling.'

Vimes shrugged non-committally. He'd learned not to scoff at Angua's feelings. She always knew where Carrot was, for one thing. If she were in the Watch House you could tell if he were coming up the street by the way she turned to look at the door.

'Yes?'

'Like... deep grief, sir. Terrible, terrible sadness. Er.'

Vimes nodded, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It seemed to have been a long day and it was far from over yet.

He really, really needed a drink. The world was distorted enough as it was. When you saw it through the bottom of a glass, it all came back into focus.

'Have you had anything to eat today, sir?' said Angua.

'I had a bit of breakfast,' muttered Vimes.

'You know that word Sergeant Colon uses?'

'What? Manky ?'

'That's how you look. If you're staying here at least let's have some coffee and send out for figgins.'

Vimes hesitated at that. He'd always imagined that manky was how your mouth felt after three days on a regurgitated diet. It was horrible to think that you could look like that.

Angua reached for the old coffee tin that represented the Watch's tea kitty. It was surprisingly easy to lift.

'Hey? There should be at least twenty-five dollars in here,' she said. 'Nobby collected it only yesterday...'

She turned the tin upside-down. A very small dog-end dropped out.

'Not even an IOU?' said Carrot despondently. 'An IOU? This is Nobby we're talking about.' 'Oh. Of course.'

It had gone very quiet in the Mended Drum. Happy Hour had been passed with no more than a minor fight. Now everyone was watching Unhappy Hour.

There was a forest of mugs in front of Nobby.

'I mean, I mean, what's it worth whenallsaidan-done?' he said.

'You could flog it,' said Ron.

'Good point,' said Sergeant Colon. 'There's plenty o' rich folks who'd give a sack of cash for a title. I mean folks that's already got the big house and that. They'd give anything to be as nobby as you, Nobby.'

The ninth pint stopped half-way to Nobby's lips.

'Could be worth thousands of dollars,' said Ron encouragingly.

'At the very least,' said Colon. They'd fight over it.'

'You play your cards right and you could retire on something like that,' said Ron.

The mug remained stationary. Various expressions fought their way around the lumps and excrescences of Nobby's face, suggesting the terrible battle within,

'Oh, they would, would they?' he said at last.

Sergeant Colon tilted unsteadily away. There was an edge in Nobby's voice he hadn't heard before.

Then you could be rich and common just like you said,' said Ron, who did not have quite the same eye for mental weather changes. 'Posh folks'd be falling over themselves for it.'

'Sell m' birthright for a spot of massage, is that it?' said Nobby.

'It's a pot of message ,' said Sergeant Colon.

'It's a mess of pottage ,' said a bystander, anxious not to break the flow.

'Hah! Well, I'll tell you,' said Nobby, swaying, 'there's some things that can't be sole. Hah! Hah! Who streak my prurse streals trasph, right?'

'Yeah, it's the trashiest looking purse I ever saw,' said a voice.

'—what is a mess of pottage, anyway?'

Cos... what good'd a lot of moneneney do me, hey?'

The clientele looked puzzled. This seemed to be a question on the lines of 'Alcohol, is it nice?', or 'Hard work, do you want to do it?'.

'—what's messy about it, then?'

'We - ell,' said a brave soul, uncertainly, 'you could use it to buy a big house, lots of grub and... drink and... women and that.'

That's wha' it takes to make a man happppeyey, is it?' said Nobby, glassy-eyed.

His fellow-drinkers just stared. This was a metaphysical maze,

'Well, I'll tell you, said Nobby, the swaying now so regular that he looked like an inverted pendulum, 'all that stuffs nothing, nothing. I tell you, compared to pride inna man's linneneage... cage.'

'Linneneageeage?' said Sergeant Colon. 'Ancescestors and that,' said Nobby. T means I've got ancescestors and that, which's more'n you lot've got!'

Sergeant Colon choked on his pint. 'Everyone's got ancestors,' said the barman calmly. 'Otherwise they wouldn't be here.'

Nobby gave him a glassy stare and tried unsuccessfully to focus. 'Right!' he said, eventually. 'Right! Only... only I've got more of 'em, d'y'see? The blood of bloody kings is in these veins, am I right?' Temporarily,' said a voice. There was laughter, but it had an anticipatory ring to it that Colon had learned to respect and fear. It reminded him of two things: (1) he had got only six weeks to retirement, and (2) it had been quite a long time since he'd been to the lavatory.

Nobby delved into his pocket and pulled out a battered scroll. 'Y'see this?' he said, unrolling it with difficulty on the bar. 'Y'see it? I've got a right to arm bears, me. See here? It says Earl , right? That's me. You could, you could, you could have my head up over the door.' 'Could be,' said the barman, eyeing the crowd. 'I mean, y'could change t'name o' this place, call it the Earl of Ankh, and I'd come in and drink here reg'lar, whaddya say?' said Nobby. 'News gets around an earl drinks here, business will go right up. And I wouldn't'n't'n't chargeyouapenny, how-aboutit? People'd say, dat's a high-class pub, is that, Lord de Nobbes drinks there, that's a place with a bit of tone.'

Someone grabbed Nobby by the throat. Colon didn't recognize the grabber. He was just one of the scarred, ill shaven regulars whose function it was, around about this time of an evening, to start opening bottles with his teeth or, if the evening was going really well, with somebody else's teeth.

'So we ain't good enough for you, is that what you're saying?' the man demanded.

Nobby waved his scroll. His mouth opened to frame words like - Sergeant Colon just knew -'Unhand me, you low-born oaf.'

With tremendous presence of mind and absence of any kind of common sense, Sergeant Colon said: 'His lordship wants everyone to have a drink with him!'

Compared to the Mended Drum, the Bucket in Gleam Street was an oasis of frigid calm. The Watch had adopted it as their own, as a silent temple to the art of getting drunk. It wasn't that it sold particularly good beer, because it didn't. But it did serve it quickly, and quietly, and gave credit. It was one place where Watchmen didn't have to see things or be disturbed. No one could sink alcohol in silence like a Watchman who'd just come off duty after eight hours on the street. It was as much protection as his helmet and breastplate. The world didn't hurt so much.

And Mr Cheese the owner was a good listener. He listened to things like 'Make that a double' and 'Keep them coming'. He also said the right things, like 'Credit? Certainly, officer'. Watchmen paid their tab or got a lecture from Captain Carrot.

Vimes sat gloomily behind a glass of lemonade. He wanted one drink, and understood precisely why he wasn't going to have one. One drink ended up arriving in a dozen glasses. But knowing this didn't make it any better.

Most of the day shift were in here now, plus one or two men who were on their day off.

Scummy as the place was, he liked it here. With the buzz of other people around him, he didn't seem to get in the way of his own thoughts.

One reason that Mr Cheese had allowed his pub to become practically the city's fifth Watch House was the protection this offered. Watchmen were quiet drinkers, on the whole. They just went from vertical to horizontal with the minimum amount of fuss, without starting any major fights, and without damaging the fixtures overmuch. And no one ever tried to rob him. Watchmen got really intense about having their drinking disturbed.