There were sizable stacks of paperwork on the table beside Sam Vimes’ bed, along with a nearly empty package of cigars, a few boxes of matches, a bottle of ink, a quill pen, and three oversized mugs. One held the cooling remnants of Vimes’ tea, one was serving as an ashtray, and the third held several newly sharpened pencils. All three were doing double duty as paperweights. At the moment Vimes was making good use of one of the pencils, trying to assuage an itch on his thigh under one of the splints. He started guiltily when Sybil knocked on the door. At this point he had probably made more pencil marks on his skin than on the papers.

Sybil opened the door and stuck her head in. “Sam, Havelock is here to see you.”

“Vetinari?!” Vimes hastily grabbed the bedcover and drew it up to his chest, then pulled the tray he had been using as a writing surface onto his lap. It was too hot to wear a nightshirt, and drawers were just too damn much bother when he had to use the chamber pot. Sybil judged that he had achieved decency and pushed the door open, making way for the Patrician.

“Your Lordship...” Samuel pulled himself to attention as much as was possible under the undignified conditions.

“Relax, Commander, please. You needn’t strain yourself” Vetinari said benevolently, with a slight wave of his hand, “This is purely a social visit.”

“Social, sir?” In Vimes’ mind, the words ‘social’ and ‘Vetinari’ only fit together if prissy cucumber sandwiches with the crusts off, ridiculous leg-wear, and inane conversation with asinine nobs that made Vimes’ skin crawl were also part of the package.

“Shall I bring you some tea, Havelock?” Sybil offered politely.

The Patrician’s eyes fell briefly on the contents of Sam’s mugs. Cigar butts, pencils, and a revolting substance the muddy rust colour one might get by adding milk to excessively stewed tea. “Very kind of you, but please don’t bother,” he answered quickly, “I can’t stay but a few moments.” He turned to Vimes as Lady Ramkin discreetly vanished out the door. “I only dropped by to inquire as to your health, Sir Samuel.”

Sam realized his mouth was still open. “You... My health?”

Vetinari perched on the edge of the bedside chair strategically placed for visitors, his walking stick upright between his knees. “You were, I’m led to believe, fairly seriously injured while in the service of the Watch. It’s only polite that I drop by to learn how you’re feeling.”

“I’ll feel a damn sight better in six days, when I can get out of this bed,” Vimes grumbled, beginning to feel he was on firmer ground.

“Well, it does appear that you have enough work to stave off boredom,” Vetinari remarked rather dryly, nodding toward the precarious piles of paperwork.

“Carrot brings it in twice a day, at the beginning and end of his shift, like clockwork.”

“It must be quite a comfort to see how well the Captain is able to fill your shoes while you’re incapacitated,” the Patrician continued, choosing not to hear the misery in Sam’s tone.

“Sir?”

“Well, he does seem to be doing an outstanding job as Commander pro tem, wouldn’t you say?”

“Couldn’t say, sir. I can’t keep an eye on things while I’m stuck here, now, can I?”

“There’s every indication he is right on top of every case that comes under the auspices of the City Watch. Our daily meetings are succinct and efficient, and paperwork is flowing freely between my office and the Watch. On top of which, the vampire murderer has at last been apprehended.”

Vimes reached for a cigar and matches. “Do you believe Lady Margolotta killed all those people, your Lordship?” His tone didn’t quite disguise his own reservations.

“Captain Carrot certainly appears to have found all the clues.”

Vimes lit the cigar, puffed it to life, shook the match to put it out. There was something odd about the way Vetinari had put that. ‘Appears to have found all the clues.’ As though he had been out searching for... for Soul Cake Duck eggs or something... Sam studied the burning end of the cigar. “Something doesn’t feel right,” he muttered to himself.

“Really?” Vetinari answered brightly, “I would say the evidence is quite convincing. Sergeant Angua’s testimony especially is difficult to refute, and not the sort of thing that could be planted.”

Half-formed thoughts were stirring and jostling each other in the back of Vimes’ brain. Planted... like Soul Cake eggs...

“At any rate, it appears that what I believe is not really significant in this case.”

Sir Samuel jerked visibly out of his state of reverie, suddenly reminded with whom he was so casually conversing. His eyes tried to focus on their accustomed spot to the left and above the top of the Patrician’s head, but the iconograph hanging on the wall from his wedding to Sybil was distractingly incongruous to the situation. He took a deep breath.

“Sir, did you... I mean, you didn’t...” Vimes floundered to silence and dared a peak at Vetinari’s expression. One eyebrow was slightly raised.

“No, of course you didn’t.”

“I’ve no doubt that the matters I can only assume you are referring to will be cleared up satisfactorily in due time,” the Patrician said mildly, “However, it is unlikely that time will be before Lady Margolotta’s fate is determined.”

Vimes closed his eyes. The shapeless notions just out of reach of rational thought were becoming quite rambunctious. “I need to get back out there, back on the streets.”

“On the contrary, Your Grace. I’m confident you can do what needs to be done from the confines of this room.” The Patrician thoughtfully studied the head of his walking stick. “In fact, I had been expecting that, in light of Captain Carrot’s excellent performance, you might be moved to give him more of the duties traditionally held by the Watch Commander.”

Sam’s eyes snapped back to the wedding iconograph. “Sir?”

“There is no denying that your responsibilities have multiplied, both as the Duke of Ankh and as de facto head of the new training facilities. And now, in addition, you have been blessed with the joys and duties of fatherhood. It is indeed fortunate that young Ironfounderson shows such promise as your successor.”

“Successor, sir?” Vimes squeaked.

“Oh, not immediately, certainly. But you are no longer a young man, Your Grace, and the time may soon be upon us when the reins should be handed to the next generation.”

“Carrot has only been in the Watch a few years. He’s young. He hasn’t developed the instincts he’ll need to do my job.” Vimes’ voice sounded a bit desperate, even to his own ears.

“As you say, Commander,” the Patrician said agreeably, putting his weight on his walking stick and rising from the chair, “Nonetheless, if you feel the Captain needs more experience, perhaps you should consider extending your leave of absence.”

“Extending?”

“Yes. Spend some time with Lady Sybil and your new son. And above all make certain that you have completely recovered from these wretched injuries. With Captain Carrot in charge, there’s no urgency for you to return to your post. Do give the thought some consideration.”

“Sir.” Okay, I’ve considered it. I consider it bloody stupid.

“You have my greatest hopes for a speedy recovery, Your Grace,” Vetinari continued as he moved toward the door, “I would be pleased to be kept apprised of your condition.”

I bet you would, you twisted bastard. You’re kept apprised of everything before it happens. “Yes sir.”

“Good day, Sir Samuel.” Vetinari let himself out of the bedroom. Sam could hear Sybil chatting with him as they headed down the hallway, denouncing as a crime ‘these absurd, libelous charges against your good name’. How could she be so... so comfortable with the man? He slouched back against the pillows, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘Captain Carrot is doing such an outstanding job as Commander pro tem... perhaps you should consider extending your leave of absence.’ Bah!

After a moment he sat up, propped his cigar on the top of the appropriate mug, and reached for his well-worn notebook. He turned to an empty page.

‘Why not Lady M?’ he wrote slowly at the top. After a moment’s pause he wrote on the next line ‘Craves control,’ then added ‘Black Ribboners = Self-control, power’. He frowned for a moment, eyes unfocused, then squeezed between the first and second lines ‘Too Civilized’ and under the whole thing ‘Too much to lose.’ He underlined the last four words. Twice.

He chewed on the end of the eraser. He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

Eventually, Sam dropped down to the middle of the page and put, in block capital letters, ‘CLUES’. Then he sat scowling at the word as though it had committed a terrible offense. Finally, centered directly underneath the offending word, he printed ‘Vampire’, and scowled even more fiercely.

Eventually he dropped down a couple of lines and wrote:

‘Angua’ ‘Hair’ ‘Coin’

He circled ‘Angua’. He circled ‘Hair’. He circled ‘Angua’ again, and yet again. He circled ‘Hair’ again. Just for the heck of it, he circled ‘Coin’.

He stared at the words, or at the notebook, or at some universe beyond. Finally, very slowly and carefully, he printed the word ‘Perfume?’ under ‘Angua’. Then he stared some more.

After what felt like a long time, Vimes tossed down the pencil and notebook, rubbed his eyes ferociously, yawned, stretched as best he could, and rubbed the back of his neck. He yawned again. He hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since the fall. Lack of exercise for one thing, he imagined. Vimes was used to being tired by the end of the day. Now he was just bored. His legs throbbed and itched, and his back and arse ached. He had enough mobility in his left knee to, with great difficulty, swing that leg over the other when the urge to sleep on his side became overwhelming. But then he was stuck like that, usually until Sybil awoke.

Vimes picked the notebook up again, staring at what he had written. He was doing something wrong. He was missing something vital. Sam could feel it there, feel the missing pieces jabbing the back of his conscious mind. Doing something wrong, or not doing something, or something.

Eventually the notebook slipped from his fingers as he quietly began to snore.

He was searching for something. Something important. But it was hard to see. Gray fog everywhere, and... Something hit his leg with a crunchy squish. Carrot. Carrot was throwing Soul Duck’s eggs at him. He scowled at the lad, looked ahead, and saw something glinting ahead of him. It turned out to be a coin. An Uberwaldian gold crown.

“There’s another one right up ahead, lad,” he heard his old sergeant say.

Vimes headed toward it. Another Soul Duck’s egg landed at his feet.

“He certainly appears to have found all of them,” Vetinari remarked, walking along beside Sam with his hands clasped behind his back.

“He’s doing it wrong.”

“I would say the evidence is quite convincing.”

“Any good copper knows you start out with a good idea of Who Dun It. Once you figure out Who Dun It, you know what kind of clues to look for.” Vimes picked up the second coin, another Crown.

“It’s not the sort of thing that could be planted. But it appears that what I believe is not really significant in this case.”

The words echoed. Vetinari’s eyes were suddenly drilling into his head. “What. I. Believe. Is. Not. Significant.”

Vimes felt sickeningly dizzy. He had a hold of something, his fingernails grasping the very edge, digging in before it got away. He was falling...

He landed solidly on his feet. “Who dun it. Who Dun It planted those eg-... those clues, Who Dun It is framing you. What you believe is not significant. You won’t be allowed to hear the case.”

“Commander, what you lack in intelligence you make up for in bloodimindedness,” the Patrician remarked with the faintest hint of an approving smile.

“Open your damn eyes, boy! There’s another one just up ahead!” the old sergeant shouted.

Vimes suddenly didn’t want to look. It was a familiar feeling, one that went with the Bad Old Days. A Watchman knew a crime was happening, trouble, could feel it in his water. So he’d make sure he was somewhere else while it happened.

“I can’t. I can’t walk,” Samuel remembered suddenly, with a shameful sense of relief.

“I’m confident you can do what needs to be done,” the Patrician reminded him.

“For gods’ sakes, get going, boy. You know what I always told you!”

Terrified, Vimes looked ahead. It was snowing heavily. Big, serious flakes of snow falling fast and thick all around him. Through them he glimpsed rocks and mountaintops and pine forests. Shadows swirled around him. Bats, dozens of bats. Sam shivered, with cold, or revulsion, or anger. He heard growls, yips, howls. Smelled blood. A flash of incisor. Jaws filled with impossibly sharp, cruel teeth.

Eyes! Glowing, insane red eyes...

Vimes’ eyes snapped open. For a moment he lie perfectly still, heart pounding, the unvoiced scream still lodged in his throat, while reality coalesced around him. Cracks in the ceiling. Lumps in the bed. Mid-afternoon sunlight pouring through the window. The scents of cigar smoke, swamp dragon, and Ankh-Morpork. Eventually he took a deep breath and let it out, muscles untightening, jaw unclenching. He worked up enough saliva to swallow, sighed again, shivered one last time, and struggled to sit up in the bed.

His eyes fell on the notebook. He picked it up, and searched through the bedsheets until he found his pencil. He reread what he had written, feeling like a bloody fool. For a moment he sat with his eyes closed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, letting puzzle pieces jostle each other as they fell into place. Then he began to write:

‘Someone planted clues, framed Margolotta and Vetinari. Someone wants M. found guilty (and executed?). Who?’

He paused for a moment, reminiscing. ‘Follow the Money,’ he wrote, and underlined it. That had been what his old sergeant had always told him. Follow the money. Vimes moved the tip of the pencil back to the word ‘Angua’, circling it thoughtfully again and again and again. Finally, at the bottom of the page, in the very center, he wrote:

‘UBERWALD’

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