Jingo

As they went downstairs Mrs Spent watched them suspiciously through a barely opened doorway at the far end of the hall, clearly ready to slam it shut at the first suggestion of any sexual magnetism.

“It's not as if I even know where to get a sexual magnet,” Nobby muttered. “And she didn't even laugh.”

…Also, we went to the bow shops in the Street of Cunning Artificers and showed the iconograph to the man in Burleigh and Stronginthearm, who vouchsafed, that is him, e.g., he was referring to the Diseased…

“Oh, my…” Vimes's lips moved slightly as his gaze went back up the page.

…also in addition to the Klatchian money you could tell one of them had been there because of, e.g., the sand on the floor…

“He'd still got sand in his sandals?” murmured Vimes. “Good grief.”

“Sam?”

Vimes looked up from his reading.

“Your soup will be cold,” said Lady Sybil from the far end of the table. “You've been holding that spoonful in the air for the last five minutes by the clock.”

“Sorry, dear.”

“What are you reading?”

“Oh, just a little masterpiece,” said Vimes, pushing Fred Colon's report aside.

“Interesting, is it?” said Lady Sybil a little sourly.

“Practically unparalleled,” said Vimes. “The only things they haven't found are the bunch of dates and the camel hidden under the pillow…”

Belatedly, his nuptial radar detected a certain chilliness from the far side of the cruet.

“Is, er, there something wrong, dear?” he said.

“Can you remember when we last had dinner together, Sam?”

“Tuesday, wasn't it?”

“That was the Guild of Merchants' annual dinner, Sam.”

Vimes's brow wrinkled. “But you were there too, weren't you?”

A further subtle change in the dragonhouse quotient told him that this was not a well chosen answer.

“And then you rushed off afterwards because of that business with the barber in Gleam Street.”

“Sweeney Jones,” said Vimes. “Well, he was killing people, Sybil. The best you could say is that he didn't mean to. He was just very bad at shaving—”

“But you didn't have to go, I'm sure.”

“Policing's a twenty-four-hour job, dear.”

“Only for you! Your constables do their ten hours and that's it. But you're always working. It's not good for you. You're always running around during the day, and when I wake up in the middle of the night there's always a cold space beside me…”

The dots hung in the air, the ghosts of words unsaid. Little things, thought Vimes. That's how a war starts.

“There's so much to do, Sybil,” he said, as patiently as he could.

“There's always been a lot to do. And the bigger the Watch gets the more there is to do, have you noticed that?”

Vimes nodded. That was true. Rotas, receipts, notebooks, reports… the Watch might or might not be making a difference in the city, but it was certainly frightening a lot of trees.

“You ought to delegate,” said Lady Sybil.

“So he tells me,” muttered Vimes.

“Pardon?”

“Just thinking aloud, dear.” Vimes pushed the paperwork away. “I'll tell you what… let's have an evening in,” he said. “There's a nice fire in the drawing room—”

“Er… no, Sam, there isn't.”

“Hasn't young Forthright lit it?” Forthright was the Boy; it came as news to Vimes that this was an official servant position, but the Boy's job was to light the fires, clean the privies, help the gardener and take the blame.

“He's gone off to be a drummer boy in the Duke of Eorle's regiment,” said Lady Sybil.

“Him too? He seemed a bright lad! Isn't he too young?”

“He said he was going to lie about his age.”

“I hope he lies about his musical ability. I've heard him whistling.” Vimes shook his head. “Whatever possessed him to do such a daft thing?”

“He thinks the uniform will impress the girls.”

Sybil gave him a gentle smile. An evening at home suddenly began to seem very inviting.

“Well, it won't take a genius to find the woodshed,” said Vimes. “And then we can bolt the doors and—”

One of the aforesaid doors shook to the sound of frantic knocking.

Vimes caught Sybil's gaze.

“Go on, then. Answer it,” she sighed, and sat down.

The door admitted Corporal Littlebottom, seriously out of breath.

“You… got to come quick, sir… it's… murder this… time!”

Vimes looked helplessly at his wife.

“Of course you must go,” she said.

Angua brushed out her hair in front of the mirror.

“I don't like this,” said Carrot. “It's not a proper way to behave.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “Don't worry,” she said. “Vimes explained it all. You're acting as though we're doing something wrong.”

“I like being a watchman,” said Carrot, still in the mournful depths. “And you've got to wear a uniform. If you don't wear a uniform it's like spying on people. He knows I think that.”

Angua looked at his short red hair and honest ears.