'Me? No!'

'But you just suggested it, did you not? Some would call it treason, incidentally.'

'I only just mentioned it,' said Moist. 'You can't pin it on me! Anyway it was a good idea,' he added, trying not to catch Adora Belle's eye. 'If you don't think of not using fifty-foot-high killer golems first, someone else will!

He heard her giggle, for the first time ever.

'You have found forty-foot killer golems now, Miss Dearheart?' said Vetinari, looking stern, as though he might add, 'Well, I hope you brought enough for everybody!'

'No, sir. There aren't any,' said Adora Belle, trying to look serious and not succeeding.

'Well, never mind. I'm sure some ingenious person will devise one for you eventually. When they do, don't hesitate to refrain from bringing it home. In the meantime, we have this wretched fait accompli.' Vetinari shook his head in what Moist was sure was genuinely contrived annoyance and went on: 'An army that will obey anyone with a shiny jacket, a megaphone and the Umnian words for "Dig a hole and bury yourselves" would turn war into nothing but a rather entertaining farce. You may be assured, I'm putting together a committee of inquiry. It will not rest, apart from statutory tea and biscuit breaks, until it has found the culprit. I shall take a personal interest, of course.'

Of course you will, Moist thought. And I know that lots of people heard me shout Umnian commands, but I'm betting on a man who thinks war is a wicked waste of customers. A man who's a better con artist than I'll ever be, who thinks committees are a kind of wastepaper basket, who can turn sizzle into sausage every day…

Moist and Adora Belle looked at one another. Their glances agreed: it's him. Of course it's him. Downey and all the rest of them will know it's him. Things that live on damp walls will know it's him. And no one will ever prove it.

'You can trust us,' said Moist.

'Yes. I know,' said Vetinari. 'Come, Mr Fusspot. There maybe cake.'

Moist didn't fancy another ride in the coach. Coaches carried some unpleasant associations right now.

'He's won, hasn't he?' said Adora Belle, as the fog billowed around them.

'Well, he's got the chairman eating out of his hand.'

'Is he allowed to do that?'

'I think that comes under the rule of Quia Ego Sic Dico.'

'Yes, what does that mean?'

' "Because I say so", I think.'

'That doesn't sound like much of a rule!'

'Actually, it's the only one he needs. All in all he could be—'

'You owe me five grand, Mishter Spangler!'

The figure was out of the gloom and behind Adora Belle in one movement.

'No tricks, mish, on account o' this knife,' said Cribbins, and Moist heard Adora Belle's sharp intake of breath. 'Your chum promised it to me for peaching you, and since you peached yourshelf and shent him to the loony house I reckon you owe me, right?'

Moist's slowly moving hand found his pocket, but it was bereft of aid. His little helpers had been confiscated; the Tanty didn't like you to bring blackjacks and lockpicks in with you and expected you to buy such things from the warders, like everyone else.

'Put the knife away and we can talk,' he said.

'Oh yeah, talk! You like talkin', you do! You got a magic tongue, you have! I sheen you! You flap it about and you're the golden boy! You tell 'em you're goin' to rob them and they laugh! How d'you get away with that, eh?'

Cribbins was champing and spitting with rage. Angry people make mistakes, but that's no comfort when they're holding a knife a few inches from your girlfriend's kidneys. She'd gone pale, and Moist had to hope that she'd worked out that this was no time to stamp her foot. Above all, he had to stop himself from looking over Cribbins's shoulder, because in the edge of his vision he was sure someone was creeping up.

'This is no time for rash moves,' he said loudly. The shadow in the fog appeared to halt.

'Cribbins, this is why you never made it,' Moist went on. 'I mean, do you expect me to have that money on me?'

'Plenty of places round here for ush to be coshy while we wait, eh?'

Dumb, thought Moist. Dumb but dangerous. And a thought said: it's brain against brain. And a weapon he doesn't know how to use belongs to you. Push him.

'Just back away and we'll forget we saw you,' he said. 'That's the best offer you're going to get.'

'You're going to try to talk your way out of this, you shmarmy bashtard? I'm goin' to—'

There was a loud twang, and Cribbins made a noise. It was the sound of someone trying to scream, except that even screaming was too painful. Moist grabbed Adora Belle as the man bent double, clutching at his mouth. There was a ping, and blood appeared on Cribbins's cheek, causing him to whimper and roll up into a ball. Even then, there were more twangs as a dead man's dentures, mistreated and ill-used over the years, finally gave up the ghost who made a determined effort to take the hated Cribbins with him. Later on, the doctor said one spring even made it into his sinuses.

Captain Carrot and Nobby Nobbs ran out of the fog and stared down at the man who twitched now and again with a ping.

'Sorry, sir, we lost you in the murk,' said Carrot. 'What happened to him?'

Moist held Adora Belle tightly. 'His dentures exploded,' he said.

'How could that happen, sir?'

'I have no idea, captain. Why not do a good deed and get him to the hospital?'

'Will you want to prefer charges, Mr Lipwig?' said Carrot, lifting the whimpering Cribbins with some care.

'I'd prefer a brandy,' said Moist. He thought perhaps Anoia was just awaiting her moment. I'd better go to her temple and hang up a big, big ladle. It may not be a good idea to be ungrateful…

Secretary Drumknott tiptoed into Lord Vetinari's office on velvet-shod feet.

'Good morning,' said his lordship, turning away from the window. 'The fog has a very pleasing tint of yellow this morning. Any news about Heretofore?'

'The Watch in Quirm are searching for him, sir,' said Drumknott, putting the city edition of the Times in front of him.

'Why?'

'He bought a ticket for Quirm.'

'But he will have bought another one from the coachman for Genua. He will run as far as he can. Send a short clacks to our man there, will you?'

'I hope you are right, sir.'

'Do you? I hope I am wrong. It will be good for me. Ah. Ahaha.'

'Sir?'

'I see the Times has put colour on the front page again. The front and back of the one-dollar note.'

'Yes, sir. Very nice.'

'Actual size, too,' said Vetinari, still smiling. 'I see here that this is to familiarize people with the look of the thing. Even now, Drumknott, even now, honest citizens are carefully cutting out both sides of this note and gluing them together.'

'Shall I have a word with the editor, sir?'

'Don't. It will be more entertaining to let things take their course.'

Vetinari leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes with a sigh. 'Very well, Drumknott, I feel strong enough now to hear what the political cartoon looks like.'

There was a crackle of paper as Drumknott found the right page.

'Well, there is a very good likeness of Mr Fusspot.' Under Vetinari's chair the dog opened his eyes at the sound of his name. So did his new master, with more urgency.

'Surely he has nothing in his mouth?'

'No, sir,' said Drumknott calmly. 'This is the Times of Ankh-Morpork, sir.'

Vetinari relaxed again. 'Continue.'

'He is on a leash, sir, and looking unaccustomedly ferocious. You are holding the leash, sir. In front of him, and backing nervously into a corner, are a group of very fat cats. They are wearing top hats, sir.'

'As cats do, yes.'

'And they have the words "The Banks" on them,' Drumknott added.