He could see the future so clearly. The shoes, the cap, the ring, the stick… Surely, as he filled the occult space occupied by Vetinari, the wretched man would feel himself getting weaker and more confused, and he'd get things wrong and make mistakes… 'See to it, Drumknott,' he said.

Havelock, Lord Vetinari pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day and was clearly going to be a long evening.

'I think I need a moment to relax. Let's get it over with,' he said.

Drumknott walked over to the long table, which at this time of day held copies of several editions of the Times, his lordship being keen on keeping track of what people thought was going on.

Vetinari sighed. People told him things all the time. Lots of people had been telling him things in the last hour. They told him things for all sorts of reasons: to gain some credit, to gain some money, for a favour quid pro quo, out of malice, mischief or, suspiciously, out of a professed regard for the public good. What it amounted to was not information, but a huge Argus-eyed ball of little, wiggling factoids, out of which some information could, with care, be teased.

His secretary laid before him the paper, carefully folded to the correct page and place, which was occupied by a square filled with a lot of smaller squares, some of them containing numbers.

'Today's "Jikan no Muda", sir,' he said. Vetinari glanced at it for a few seconds, and then handed it back to him.

The Patrician shut his eyes and drummed his fingers on the desktop for a moment.

'Hm… 9 6 3 1 7 4' — Drumknott scribbled hastily as the numbers streamed and eventually concluded — '8 4 2 3. And I'm sure they used that one last month. On a Monday, I believe.'

'Seventeen seconds, sir,' said Drumknott, his pencil still catching up.

'Well, it has been a tiring day,' said Vetinari. 'And what is the point? Numbers are easy to outwit. They can't think back. The people who devise the crosswords, now they are indeed devious. Who would know that "pysdxes" are ancient Ephebian carved-bone needle-holders?'

'Well, you, sir, of course,' said Drumknott, carefully stacking the files, 'and the Curator of Ephebian Antiquities at the Royal Art Museum, "Puzzler" of the Times and Miss Grace Speaker, who runs the pet shop in Pellicool Steps.'

'We should keep an eye on that pet shop, Drumknott. A woman with a mind like that content to dispense dog food? I think not.'

'Indeed, sir. I shall make a note.'

'I'm pleased to hear that your new boots have ceased squeaking, by the way.'

'Thank you, sir. They have broken in nicely.'

Vetinari stared pensively at the day's files. 'Mr Bent, Mr Bent, Mr Bent,' he said. 'The mysterious Mr Bent. Without him, the Royal Bank would be in far more trouble than it has been. And now that it is without him it will fall over. It revolves around him. It beats to his pulse. Old Lavish was frightened of him, I'm sure. He said he thought that Bent was a…' He paused.

'Sir?' said Drumknott.

'Let us just accept the fact that he has, in every way, proved to be a model citizen,' said Vetinari. 'The past is a dangerous country, is it not?'

'There is no file on him, sir.'

'He has never drawn attention to himself. All I know for sure is that he arrived here as a child, on a cart owned by some travelling accountants…'

'What, like tinkers and fortune-tellers?' said Moist, as the cab rocked its way through streets that grew narrower and darker.

'I suppose you could say so,' said Miss Drapes with a hint of disapproval. 'They do big, you know, circuits all the way up to the mountains, doing the books for little businesses, helping people with their taxes, that sort of thing.' She cleared her throat. 'Whole families of them. It must be a wonderful life.'

'Every day a new ledger,' said Moist, nodding gravely, 'and by night they drink beer and happy laughing accountants dance the Double Entry Polka to the sound of accordions…'

'Do they?' said Miss Drapes nervously.

'I don't know. It would be nice to think so,' said Moist. 'Well, that explains something, at least. He was obviously ambitious. All he could hope for on the road was being allowed to steer the horse, I suppose.'

'He was thirteen,' said Miss Drapes, and she blew her nose loudly. 'It's so sad.' She turned a tearful face towards Moist. 'There's something dreadful in his past, Mr Lipstick. They say one day some men came to the bank and asked—'

'This is it, Mrs Cake's,' said the cabman, pulling up sharply, 'an' that'll be eleven pence and don't ask me to hang about 'cos they'll have the 'orse up on bricks and its shoes off in a wink.'

The door of the boarding house was opened by the hairiest woman Moist had ever seen, but in the area of Elm Street you learned to discount this sort of thing. Mrs Cake was famously accommodating to the city's newly arrived undead, giving them a safe and understanding haven until they could get on their feet, however many they had.

'Mrs Cake?' he said.

'Mother's at church,' said the woman. 'She said to expect you, Mr Lipwig.'

'You have a Mr Bent staying here, I believe?'

'The banker? Room Seven on the second floor. But I don't think he's in. He's not in trouble, is he?'

Moist explained the situation, aware all the while of doors opening a fraction in the shadows beyond the woman. The air was sharp with the smell of disinfectant; Mrs Cake believed that cleanliness was more to be trusted than godliness and, besides, without that sharp note of pine half the clientele would be driven mad by the smell of the other half.

And in the middle of all this was the silent, featureless room of Mr Bent, chief cashier. The woman, who volunteered that her name was Ludmilla, let them in, very reluctantly, with a master key.

'He's always been a good guest,' she said, 'never a moment's trouble.'

One glance took in everything: the narrow room, the narrow bed, the clothes hanging neatly around the walls, the tiny jug and basin set, the incongruously large wardrobe. Lives collect clutter, but Mr Bent's did not. Unless, of course, it was all in the wardrobe.

'Most of your long-term guests are unde—'

'—differently alive,' said Ludmilla sharply.

'Yes, of course, so I'm wondering why… Mr Bent would stay here.'

'Mr Lipwick, what are you suggesting?' said Miss Drapes.

'You must admit it's rather unexpected,' said Moist. And, because she was already distraught enough, he didn't add: I don't have to suggest anything. It suggests itself. Tall. Dark. Gets in before dawn, leaves after dark. Mr Fusspot growls at him. Compulsive counter. Obsessive over detail. Gives you a gentle attack of the creeps which makes you feel mildly ashamed. Sleeps on a long thin bed. Stays at Mrs Cakes, where the vampires hang up. It's not very hard to join up the dots.

'This isn't about the man who was here the other night, is it?' said Ludmilla.

'What man would that be?'

'Didn't give a name. Just said he was a friend. All in black, had a black cane with a silver skull on it. Nasty piece of work, Mum said. Mind you,' Ludmilla added, 'she says that about nearly everyone. He had a black coach.'

'Not Lord Vetinari, surely?'

'Oh, no, Mum's all for him, except she thinks he ought to hang more people. No, this one was pretty stout, Mum said.'

'Oh, really?' said Moist. 'Well, thank you, ma'am. Perhaps we should be going. By the way, do you by any chance have a key to that wardrobe?'

'No key. He put a new lock on it years ago, but Mum didn't complain because he's never any trouble. It's one of those magic ones they sell at the University,' Ludmilla went on, as Moist examined the lock. The trouble with the wretched magical ones was that just about anything could be a key, from a word to a touch.