But with Vetinari it seemed possible, if a bit messy.

'Look, if you let Cosmo—' he began.

'Pas devant le gendarme,' said Lord Vetinari.

'Dat mean no talkin' in front o' me,' Sergeant Detritus supplied helpfully.

'Then can we talk about angels?' said Moist, after a period of silence.

'No, we can't. Mr Lipwig, you appear to be the only person able to command the biggest army since the days of the Empire. Do you think that is a good idea?'

'I didn't want to! I just worked out how to do it!'

'You know, Mr Lipwig, killing you right now would solve an incredibly large number of problems.'

'I didn't intend this! Well… not exactly like this.'

'We didn't intend the Empire. It just became a bad habit. So, Mr Lipwig, now that you have your golems, what else do you intend to do with them?'

'Put one in to power every clacks tower. The donkey treadmills have never worked properly. The other cities can't object to that. It will be a boon to ma— to people-kind and the donkeys won't object either, I expect.'

'That will account for a few hundred, perhaps. And the rest?'

'I intend to turn them into gold, sir. And I think it will solve all our problems.'

Vetinari raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'All our problems?'

The pain was breaking through again but was somehow reassuring. He was becoming Vetinari, certainly. The pain was good. It was a good pain. It concentrated him, it helped him think.

Right now, Cosmo was thinking that Pucci really should have been strangled at birth, which family folklore said he had tried to achieve. Everything about her was annoying. She was selfish, arrogant, greedy, vain, cruel, headstrong and totally lacking in tact and the slightest amount of introspection.

Those were not, within the clan, considered to be drawbacks in a person; one could hardly get rich if one bothered all the time about whether what one was doing was wrong or right. But Pucci thought she was beautiful, and that grated on his nerves. She did have good hair, that was true, but those high heels! She looked like a tethered balloon! The only reason she had any figure at all was because of the wonders of corsetry. And, while he'd heard that fat girls had lovely personalities, she just had a lot, and all of it was Lavish.

On the other hand, she was his age and at least had ambition and a wonderful gift for hatred. She wasn't lazy, like the rest of them. They spent their lives huddled round the money. They had no vision. Pucci was someone he could talk to. She saw things from a softer, female perspective.

'You should have Bent killed,' she said. 'I'm sure he knows something. Let's hang him from one of the bridges by his ankles. That's what Granddaddy used to do. Why are you still wearing that glove?'

'He's been a loyal servant of the bank,' said Cosmo, ignoring the last remark.

'Well? What's that got to do with it? Is there still something wrong with your hand?'

'My hand is fine,' said Cosmo, as another red rose of pain bloomed all the way to his shoulder. I'm so close, he thought. So close! Vetinari thinks he has me, but I have him! Oh, yes! Nevertheless… perhaps it was time to start tidying up.

'I will send Cranberry to see Mr Bent tonight,' he said. 'The man is of no further use now I have Cribbins.'

'Good. And then Lipsbig will go to prison and we'll get our bank back. You don't look well, you know. You are very pale.'

'As pale as Vetinari?' said Cosmo, pointing at the painting.

'What? What are you talking about? Don't be silly,' said Pucci. 'And there's a funny smell in here, too. Has something died?'

'My thoughts are unclouded. Tomorrow will be Vetinari's last day as Patrician, I assure you.'

'You're being silly again. And ever so sweaty, I might add,' said Pucci. 'Honestly, it's dripping off your chin. Pull yourself together!'

'I imagine the caterpillar feels it is dying when it begins to turn into a beautiful butterfly,' said Cosmo dreamily.

'What? What? Who knows? What's that got to do with anything?' Pucci demanded. 'That's not how it works in any case, because, listen, this is very interesting: the caterpillar dies, right, and goes all mushy, and then a tiny bit of it, like a kidney or something, suddenly wakes up and eats the caterpillar soup, and that's what comes out as the butterfly. It's a wonder of nature. You've just got a touch of flu. Don't be a big baby. I have a date. See you in the morning.'

She flounced out, leaving Cosmo alone except for Cranberry, who was reading in the corner.

It occurred to Cosmo that he really knew very little about the man. As Vetinari, of course, he would soon know everything about everybody.

'You were at the Assassins' School, weren't you, Cranberry?' he said.

Cranberry took the little silver bookmark from his top pocket, placed it carefully on the page, and closed the book. 'Yes, sir. Scholarship boy'

'Oh, yes. I remember them, scuttling about all the time. They tended to get bullied.'

'Yes, sir. Some of us survived.'

'Never bullied you, did I?'

'No, sir. I would have remembered.'

'That's good. That's good. What is your first name, Cranberry?'

'Don't know, sir. Foundling.'

'How sad. Your life must have been very hard.'

'Yes, sir.'

'The world can be so very harsh at times.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Would you be so good as to kill Mr Bent tonight?'

'I have made a mental note, sir. I will take an associate and undertake the task an hour before dawn. Most of Mrs Cake's lodgers will be out at that time and the fog will be thickest. Fortunately, Mrs Cake is staying with her old friend Mrs Harms-Beetle in Welcome Soap tonight. I checked earlier, having anticipated this eventuality.'

'You are a craftsman, Cranberry. I salute you.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Have you seen Heretofore anywhere?'

'No, sir.'

'I wonder where he's got to? Now go off and have your supper, anyway. I will not be dining tonight.

'Tomorrow I will change,' he said aloud, when the door had shut behind Cranberry.

He reached down and drew the sword. It was a thing of beauty.

In the picture opposite, Lord Vetinari raised an eyebrow and said: 'Tomorrow you will be a beautiful butterfly.'

Cosmo smiled. He was nearly there. Vetinari had gone completely mad.

Mr Bent opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

After a few seconds this uninspiring view was replaced by an enormous nose, with the rest of a worried face some distance beyond it.

'You're awake!'

Mr Bent blinked and refocused and looked up at Miss Drapes, a shadow against the lamplight.

'You had a bit of a funny turn, Mr Bent,' she said, in the slow, careful voice people use for talking to mental patients, the elderly, and the dangerously armed.

'A funny turn? I did something funny?' He raised his head from the pillow, and sniffed.

'You are wearing a necklace of garlic, Miss Drapes?' he said.

'It's… a precaution,' said Miss Drapes, looking guilty, 'against… colds… yes, colds. You can't be too careful. How do you feel, in yourself?'

Mr Bent hesitated. He wasn't certain how he felt. He wasn't certain who he was. There seemed to be a hole inside him. There was no himself in himself.

'What has been happening, Miss Drapes?'

'Oh, you don't want to worry about all that,' said Miss Drapes, with fragile cheerfulness.

'I believe I do, Miss Drapes.'

'The doctor said you weren't to get excited, Mr Bent.'

'I to the best of my knowledge have never been excited in my life, Miss Drapes.'

The woman nodded. Alas, the statement was so easy to believe.

'Well, you know Mr Lipwig? They say he stole all the gold out of the vault!…' And the story unfolded. It was in many places speculation both new and second-hand, and because Miss Drapes was a regular reader of the Tanty Bugle it was recounted in the style and language in which tales of 'orrible murder are discussed.