He stamped the paper with both the stamps, and gave the result a long critical look. It needed something more. You had to give people a show. The eye was everything.

It needed… a touch of gravitas, like the bank itself. Who'd bank in a wooden hut?

Hmm.

Ah, yes. It was all about the city, right? Underneath he wrote, in large ornate letters:

AD URBEM PERTINET

And, in smaller letters, after some thought:

'Promitto fore ut possessori postulanti nummum unum solvent, an apte satisfaciam.

Signed Moist von Lipwig pp The Chairman.

'Excuse me, Mr Chairman,' he said, and lifted the dog up. It was the work of a moment to press a front paw on the damp pad and leave a neat little footprint beside the signature.

Moist went through this a dozen or more times, tucked five of the resulting bills under the blotter and took the rest of the new money, and the chairman, for walkies.

Cosmo Lavish glared at his reflection in the mirror. Often he got it right in the glass three or four times in a row, and then — oh, the shame — he'd try it in public and people, if they were foolish enough to mention it, would say: 'Have you got something in your eye?'

He'd even had a device constructed that pulled at one eyebrow repeatedly, by means of clockwork. He'd poisoned the man who made it, there and then as he took delivery, chatting with him in his smelly little workshop while the stuff took hold. He'd been nearly eighty and Cosmo had been very careful, so it never came to the attention of the Watch. Anyway, at that age it shouldn't really count as murder, should it? It was more like a favour, really. And obviously he couldn't risk the old fool blabbing happily to someone after Cosmo had become Patrician.

On reflection, he thought, he should have waited until he was certain that the eyebrow-training machine was working properly. It had given him a black eye before he'd made a few hesitant adjustments.

How did Vetinari do it? It was what had got him the Patricianship, Cosmo was sure. Well, a couple of mysterious murders had helped, admittedly, but it was the way the man could raise an eyebrow that kept him there.

Cosmo had studied Vetinari for a long time. It was easy enough, at social gatherings. He'd cut out every picture that appeared in the Times, too. What was the secret that kept the man so powerful and unscathed? How might he be understood?

And then one day he'd read in some book or other: 'If you want to understand a man, walk a mile in his shoes'.

And he'd had a great and glorious idea…

He sighed happily and tugged at the black glove.

He'd been sent to the Assassins' school as a matter of course. It was the natural destination for young men of a certain class and accent. He'd survived, and had made a study of poisons because he'd heard that was Vetinari's speciality, but the place had bored him. It was so stylized now. They'd got so wrapped up in some ridiculous concepts of honour and elegance that they seemed to forget what it was an assassin was supposed to do…

The glove came free, and there it was.

Oh yes…

Heretofore had done magnificently.

Cosmo stared at the wondrous thing, moving his hand so that it caught the light. Light did strange things to stygium: sometimes it reflected silver, sometimes an oily yellow, sometimes it remained resolutely black. And it was warm, even here. In direct sunlight it would burst into flame. It was a metal that might have been intended for those who move in shadow…

The ring of Vetinari. Vetinari's signet ring. Such a small thing, and yet so powerful. It was entirely without ornamentation unless you counted the tiny border to the cartouche which surrounded, sharply incised and serifed, the single letter:

V

He could only guess at all the things his secretary had had to do to get it. He'd had a replica made, 'reversed-devised', whatever that was, from the wax seals it had so impressively stamped. And there had been bribes (expensive ones) and hints of hasty meetings and cautious exchanges and last-minute changes to get the replica exactly right—

And here the real one was, on his finger. Very much on his finger in fact. From Cosmo's point of view Vetinari had very slender fingers for a man, and getting the ring over the knuckle had been a real effort. Heretofore had fretted about getting it enlarged, foolishly not realizing that this would completely ruin it. The magic, and surely Vetinari had a magic all his own, would leak out. It wouldn't be totally the real thing any more.

Yes, it had hurt like hell for a few days, but now he was floating above the pain, in a clear blue sky.

He prided himself he was no fool. He'd have known at once if his secretary had tried to palm him off with a mere copy. The shock that went up his arm when he slid the ring, all right forced the ring over the knuckle was enough to tell him that he had got the real thing. Already he could feel his thoughts getting sharper and faster.

He brushed a forefinger across the deeply cut V and looked up at Drumk— at Heretofore.

'You seem concerned, Heretofore,' he said kindly.

'The finger has gone very white, sir. Almost pale blue. Are you sure it doesn't hurt?'

'Not a bit. I feel… utterly in control. You seem very… worried lately, Heretofore. Are you well?'

'Um… fine, sir,' said Heretofore.

'You must understand I sent Mr Cranberry with you for the best of reasons,' said Cosmo. 'Morpeth would have told someone, sooner or later, however much you paid him.'

'But the boy in the hat shop—'

'Exactly the same situation. And it was a fair fight. Was that not so, Cranberry?'

Cranberry's shiny bald head looked up from his book. 'Yes, sir. He was armed.'

'Bu—' Heretofore began.

'Yes?' said Cosmo calmly.

'Er… nothing, sir. You are right, of course.' In possession of a small knife and very drunk. Heretofore wondered how much that counted against a professional killer.

'I am, aren't I?' said Cosmo in a kindly voice, 'and you are excellent at what you do. As is Cranberry. I shall have another little quest for you soon, I feel it. Now do go and get your supper.

As Heretofore opened the door Cranberry glanced up at Cosmo, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. Unfortunately for Heretofore, he had excellent peripheral vision.

He's going to find out, he's going to find out, he's going to find oouuuttt!!! he moaned to himself as he scurried along the corridors.

It's the damn ring, that's what it is! It's not my fault Vetinari has thin fingers! He would have smelled a rat if the bloody thing had fitted! Why didn't he let me have it made bigger? Hah, and if I had he'd have sent Cranberry along later to murder the jeweller! I know he'll send him after me, I know it!

Cranberry frightened Heretofore. The man was quietly spoken and modestly dressed. And when Cosmo did not require his services he sat and read books all day. That upset Heretofore. If the man were an illiterate thug things would, in some strange way, have been better, more… understandable. The man apparently had no body hair, too, and the gleam from his head could blind you in sunlight.

And it had all begun with a lie. Why had Cosmo believed him? Because he was mad, but regrettably not all the time; he was a sort of hobby madman. He had this… thing about Lord Vetinari.

Heretofore hadn't spotted that at first, he'd just wondered why Cosmo had fussed about his height at the job interview. And when Heretofore had told him he'd worked at the palace he'd been hired on the spot.

And that was the lie, right there, although Heretofore preferred to think of it as an unfortunate conjunction of two truths.