"Even the swordfish," said Vimes firmly.

"And the thnow leopardth?"

"Both of them, yes."

"What about the troll?"

"Especially the troll. See to it." the troll. See to it."

Igor could have been said to have looked as if his world had fallen down around his ears were it not for the fact that he already already looked as if this had happened. looked as if this had happened.

"What do you want to do with them, mathter?"

"That's up to you. Throw them in the river, maybe. Ask Detritus about the troll...maybe it should be buried, or something. Is there any supper?"

"There'th walago,* noggi, noggi, sclot, sclot, swinefletht and thauthageth," said Igor, still clearly upset about the trophies. "I'll thop tomorrow, if Her Ladythip giveth me inshtructionth." swinefletht and thauthageth," said Igor, still clearly upset about the trophies. "I'll thop tomorrow, if Her Ladythip giveth me inshtructionth."

"Is swineflesh the same as pork?" said Vimes. People in drought-stricken areas would have paid good money to have Igor p.r.o.nounce "sausages."

"Yes," said Inigo.

"And what's in the sausages?"

"Er...meat?" said Igor, looking as though he was ready to run.

"Good. We'll give them a try."

Vimes went upstairs and followed the sound of conversation until he reached a bedroom, where Sybil was laying clothes on a bed the size of a small country. Cheery was a.s.sisting her.

The walls were carved panels of wood. The bed was carved panels of wood. The Mad Fretworker of Bonk had been hard at work here, too. Only the floors weren't wood; they were stone, and radiated cold.

"It's a bit like the inside of a cuckoo clock, isn't it," said Sybil. "Cheery has volunteered to be my lady's maid for now."

Cheery saluted.

"Why not?" said Vimes. After a day like this, a lady's maid with a long flowing beard now seemed perfectly normal.

"The floors are a bit chilly, though. Tomorrow I shall measure up for some carpets," said Sybil firmly. "I know we won't be here long, but we ought to leave something for the next people."

"Yes, dear. That would be a good idea."

"There's a bathroom through there," said Sybil, nodding. "There's hot springs near here, apparently. They pipe them in. You'll feel better for a hot bath."

Ten minutes later Vimes was happy to agree. The water was a funny color and smelled a little of what he would politely call bad eggs, but it was good and hot and he could feel it drawing the tension out of his muscles.

A distressing scent of secondhand baked beans sloshed around him as he lay back. At the other end of the huge bath, the lump of pumice stone that he'd been using to rasp the dead skin off his feet banged against the side. Vimes watched it, unseeing, while he filed the thoughts of the day.

Things were were starting to smell, just like the bathwater. The Scone of Stone had been stolen, had it? Now starting to smell, just like the bathwater. The Scone of Stone had been stolen, had it? Now there there was a coincidence. was a coincidence.

It had been a complete shot in the dark. But lately he was on the lucky side when it came to nocturnal targets. Someone had pinched the replica Scone, and now the real real one had gone missing, and someone in Ankh-Morpork who was good at making rubber molds had been found dead. You didn't need the brains of Detritus in a snowdrift to suspect a connection. one had gone missing, and someone in Ankh-Morpork who was good at making rubber molds had been found dead. You didn't need the brains of Detritus in a snowdrift to suspect a connection.

A recollection nagged at him. Someone had said something and he'd thought it odd at the time but then something else had happened and it had gone out of his mind. Something about...a welcome to Bonk. Only...

Well, he was here. No doubt about that.

Absolute confirmation of the fact was brought forth half an hour later, at supper.

Vimes cut into a sausage, and stared.

"What is in in these? All this...pink stuff?" he demanded. these? All this...pink stuff?" he demanded.

"Er...that's the meat, Your Grace," said Inigo, on the other side of the table.

"Well, where's the texture? Where's the white bits and the yellow bits and those green bits you always hope are herbs?"

"To a connoisseur here, Your Grace, an Ankh-Morpork sausage would not be considered a sausage, mph, mhm."

"Oh really? So what would he call it?"

"A loaf, Your Grace. Or possibly a log. Here, a butcher can be hanged if his sausages are not all meat, and at that it must be from a named domesticated animal, and I perhaps should add that by name I mean that it should not have been called 'Spot' or 'Ginger,' mmm, mmm. I'm sure that if Your Grace would prefer the more genuine Ankh-Morpork taste, Igor could make up some side dishes of stale bread and sawdust."

"Thank you for that patriotic comment," said Vimes. "However, these are...okay, I suppose. They just came as a bit of a shock, that's all. No!"

He put his hand over his mug to prevent Igor from filling it with beer.

"Ith there thomething wrong, marthter?"

"Just water, please," said Vimes. "No beer."

"The marthster doth not drink...beer?"

"No. And perhaps in a mug without a face on it?" He took another look at the stein. "Why's it got a lid, by the way? Are you afraid of the rain getting in?"

"I've never been quite certain of that one," said Inigo, as Igor shuffled off. "From observation, though, I believe the purpose of the stein is to stop the beer being spilled while using the mug to conduct the singing, mmm, mmm."

"Ah, the old quaffing problem," said Vimes. "What a clever idea."

Sybil patted him on the knee.

"You're not in Ankh-Morpork anymore, dear," she said.

"Now we're alone, Your Grace," said Inigo, leaning closer, "I'm very worried about Mister Sleeps. The acting consul, you remember? He seems to have vanished, mmm, mmm. Some of his personal items have gone, too."

"Holiday?"

"Not at a time like this, sir! And-"

There was a thud of wood against wood as Igor reentered, pointedly carrying a stepladder. Inigo sat back.

Vimes found that he was yawning.

"We'd better talk about that in the morning," he said, as the ladder was dragged toward the horrible hunting trophies. "It's been a long day, what with one thing and another."

"Of course, Your Grace."

The bed's mattress was so soft that Vimes sank into it nervously, afraid it might close over the top of his head. That was just as well, because the pillow was...well, everyone knew knew a pillow was a sack full of feathers, didn't they? Not an apprentice eiderdown like this thing. a pillow was a sack full of feathers, didn't they? Not an apprentice eiderdown like this thing.

"Just fold it up, Sam," said Sybil, from the depths of the mattress. "G'night."

"G'night."

"Sam...?"

There was a snore from Sam Vimes. Sybil sighed, and turned over.

Vimes awoke a few times, when there were two thuds from downstairs.

"Snow leopards," he muttered, and drifted away again.

There was a louder crash.

"Moose," murmured Lady Sybil.

"Elk?" mumbled Vimes.

"Def'nitly moose."

Some time later there was a m.u.f.fled scream, a thud, and a sound very much like the sound made when a huge wooden ruler is held against a desk and tw.a.n.ged.

"Swordfish," said Sam and Sybil together, and went back to sleep.

"You should present your credentials to the rulers of Bonk," said Inigo in the morning.

Vimes was looking out of the window. Two guards in the rainbow-colored uniforms were standing stiffly to attention outside the emba.s.sy.

"What're they they doing here?" he said. doing here?" he said.

"Guarding," said Inigo.

"Guarding who from what?"

"Just generally guarding, mmm. I suppose it's thought that guards give such a finished finished look to an important building." look to an important building."

"What was that you said about credentials?"

"They're just formal letters from Lord Vetinari, confirming your appointment. Mph, mmm...the lore is a little complex, but at the moment the order of precedence is the future Low King, the Lady Margolotta and the Baron von Uberwald. Each, of course, will pretend that you are not calling on the other two. It's called the Arrangement. It's an awkward system but it keeps the peace."

"If I understood your briefing," said Vimes, still watching the guards, "in the days of Imperial Uberwald the whole b.l.o.o.d.y show was run by the werewolves and the vampires and everyone else was lunch."

"Somewhat simplistic but broadly true, mmm," said Inigo, brushing some dust off Vimes's shoulder.

"And then it all broke up and the dwarfs became powerful because there's dwarfs from one end of Uberwald to the other and they all keep in touch..."

"Their system certainly survives political upheaval, yes."

"And then...what was it? A diet of beetles?"

"The Diet of Bugs, mmm. Diet being an Uberwaldean word for meeting, and Bugs being an important town further up river, famous for its pastries made from flax. Everyone came to an...arrangement. No one would wage war on any of the others, and everyone could live in peace. No garlic to be grown, no silver to be mined. And the werewolves and vampires promised that those things wouldn't be needed. Mmm, mmm."

"Seems a bit trusting," said Vimes.

"It appears to have worked, mhm."

"What did the humans think about it all?"

"Well, humans have always been a bit of background noise in the history of Uberwald, Your Grace."

"It must be a bit dull for the undead, though."

"Oh, the bright ones know the old days can't come back."

"Ah, well...that's always the trick, isn't it? Finding the bright ones?" Vimes put on his helmet. "And what're the dwarfs like?"

"The future Low King is considered pretty clever, Your Grace. Mhm."

"How does he stand on Ankh-Morpork?"

"He can take Ankh-Morpork or leave it alone, Your Grace. On balance, I believe he doesn't much like us."

"I thought it was Albrecht that didn't like us?"

"No, Your Grace. Albrecht is the one who would be happy to see Ankh-Morpork burned to the ground. Rhys merely wishes we didn't exist."

"I thought he was one of the good guys!"

"Your Grace, I did hear you express some negative sentiments about Ankh-Morpork on the way here, mhm, mhm."

"Yes, but I live live there! I'm there! I'm allowed allowed to! That's to! That's patriotic patriotic!"

"Across the whole of the world, Your Grace, there inexplicably appear to be definitions of, mmm, mhm, 'good guy' which do not automatically mean 'likes Ankh-Morpork.' You will find out, I daresay. The other two are a lot easier to deal with. It may have been the Lady Margolotta who tried the little trick with the guards last night. She was the one who got me to bring you back, anyway. She has invited you for drinks."

"Oh."

"She's a vampire, mmm, mmm."