`Many times,' said Sally. Angua forced a smile. In Uberwald, you met Igors all the time. Especially if you were a vampire. `The one here, though?' she said.

`I don't think so.'

Ah. Good. Angua normally avoided Igor's laboratory, because the smells that emanated therefrom were either painfully chemical or horribly, suggestively organic, but now she'd snuff them up with relief. She headed for the door with slightly more speed than politeness required, and knocked.

It creaked open. Any door opened by an Igor would creak. It was a knack.

`Hi, Igor,' said Sally cheerfully. `Gimme six!'

Angua left them chatting. Igors were naturally servile, vampires were naturally not. It was an ideal match. At least she could go and get some air now.

The door opened.

`Mr Pessimal, sir,' said Cheery, ushering a man not much taller than she was into Vimes's office. `And here's the office copy of the

Times. .

Mr Pessimal was neat. In fact, he went beyond neat. He was a folding kind of person. His suit was cheap but very clean, his little boots sparkled. His hair gleamed, too, even more than the boots. It had a centre parting and had been plastered down so severely that it looked as though it had been painted on his head.

All the city's departments got inspected from time to time,

Vetinari had said. There was no reason why the Watch should be passed over, was there? It was, after all, a major drain on the city coffers.

Vimes had pointed out that a drain was where things went to waste.

Nevertheless, Vetinari had said. Just nevertheless. You couldn't argue with `nevertheless.

And the outcome was Mr Pessimal, walking towards Vimes.

He twinkled as he walked. Vimes couldn't think of another way to describe it. Every move was ... well, neat. Shovel purse and spectacles on a ribbon, I'll bet, he thought.

Mr Pessimal folded himself on to the chair in front of Vimes's desk and opened the clasps of his briefcase with two little snaps of doom. With some ceremony he donned a pair of spectacles. They were on a black ribbon.

`My letter of accreditation from Lord Vetinari, your grace,' he said, handing over a sheet of paper.

`Thank you, Mr ... A. E. Pessimal,' said Vimes, glancing at it and putting it on one side. `And how can we help you? It's Commander Vimes when I'm at work, by the way.'

`I will need an office, your grace. And an oversight of all your paperwork. As you know, I am tasked to give his lordship a complete overview and cost/benefit analysis of the Watch, with any suggestions for improvement in every aspect of its activities. Your co-operation is appreciated but not essential.'

`Suggestions for improvement, eh?' said Vimes cheerfully, while behind A. E. Pessimal's chair Sergeant Littlebottom shut her eyes in dread. `Jolly good. I've always been known for my co-operative attitude. I did mention about the Duke thing, did I?'

`Yes, your grace,' said A. E. Pessimal primly. `Nevertheless, you are the Duke of Ankh and it would be inappropriate to address you in any other way. I would feel disrespectful.'

`I see. And how should I address you, Mr Pessimal?' said Vimes.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a floorboard on the other side of the room lift almost imperceptibly.

`A. E. Pessimal will be quite acceptable, your grace,' said the inspector.

`The A standing for - ?'Vimes said, taking his eyes off the board for a moment.

`Just A, your grace,' said A. E. Pessimal patiently. `A. E. Pessimal.' `You mean you weren't named, you were initialled?' `Just so, your grace,' said the little man.

`What do your friends call you?'

A. E. Pessimal looked as though there was one major assumption in that sentence that he did not understand, so Vimes took a small amount of pity on him. `Well, Sergeant Littlebottom here will look after you,' he said with fake joviality. `Find Mr A. E. Pessimal an office somewhere, sergeant, and let him see any paperwork he requires: As much as possible, Vimes thought. Bury him in the stuff, if it keeps him away from me.

`Thank you, your grace,' said A. E. Pessimal. `I shall need to interview some officers, too.'

`Why?' said Vimes.

`To ensure that my report is comprehensive, your grace,' said Mr A. E. Pessimal calmly.

`I can tell you anything you need to know,' said Vimes.

`Yes, your grace, but that is not how an inquiry works. I must act

completely independently. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? your grace.' `I know that one,' said Vimes. `Who watches the watchmen? Me, Mr Pessimal.'

'Ah, but who watches you, your grace?' said the inspector, with a brief smile.

`I do that, too. All the time,' said Vimes. `Believe me.'

`Quite so, your grace. Nevertheless, I must represent the public

interest here. I shall try not to be obtrusive.'

`Very good of you, Mr Pessimal,' said Vimes, giving up. He hadn't

realized he'd been upsetting Vetinari so much lately. This felt like one of his games. `All right. Enjoy your hopefully brief stay with us. Do excuse me, this is a busy morning, what with the damn Koom Valley thing and everything. Come in, Fred!'

That was a trick he'd learned from Vetinari. It was hard for a visitor to hang on when their replacement was in the room. Besides, Fred sweated a lot in this hot weather; he was a champion sweater. And in all these years he'd never worked out that when you stood outside the office door, the long floorboard seesawed slightly on the joist and rose just where Vimes could notice it.

The piece of floorboard settled again, and the door opened.

`Don't know how you do it, Mister Vimes!' said Sergeant Colon cheerfully. `I was just about to knock!'

After you'd had a decent earful, thought Vimes. He was pleased to see A. E. Pessimal's nose wrinkle, though.

`What's up, Fred?' he said. `Oh, don't worry, Mr Pessimal was just leaving. Carry on, Sergeant Littlebottom. Good morning, Mr Pessimal.'

Fred Colon removed his helmet as soon as the inspector had been ushered away by Cheery, and wiped his forehead.

`It's heating up out there again,' he said. `We're in for thunderstorms, I reckon.'

`Yes, Fred. And you wanted what, exactly?' said Vimes, contriving to indicate that while Fred was always welcome, just now was not the best of times.

'Er ... something big's going down on the street, sir,' said Fred earnestly, in the manner of one who had memorized the phrase.

Vimes sighed. `Fred, do you mean something's happening?'

`Yes, sir. It's the dwarfs, sir. I mean the lads here. It's got worse. They keep going into huddles. Everywhere you look, sir, there's huddlin' goin' on. Only they stops as soon as anyone else comes close. Even the sergeants. They stops and gives you a look, sir. And that's makin' the trolls edgy, as you might expect.

`We're not going to have Koom Valley replayed in this nick, Fred,' said Vimes. `I know the city's full of it right now, what with the anniversary coming up, but I'll drop like a ton of rectangular building things on any copper who tries a bit of historical re-creation in the locker room. He'll be out on his arse before he knows it. Make sure everyone understands that.'

'Yessir. But I ain't talking about all that stuff, sir. We all know about that,' said Fred Colon. `This is something different, fresh today. It feels bad, sir, makes my neck tingle. The dwarfs know something. Something they ain't sayin'.'

Vimes hesitated. Fred Colon was not the greatest gift to policing. He was slow, stolid and not very imaginative. But he'd plodded his way around the streets for so long that he'd left a groove and somewhere inside that stupid fat head was something very smart, which sniffed the wind and heard the buzz and read the writing on the wall, admittedly doing the last bit with its lips moving.