Guards! Guards!

thought the alcohol had long ago drowned, was suddenly restless.
    “Shallie, shallie, shallie tell you something, Sarn’t?” he said.
    “Sir?” The four of them bounced gently off another wall and began another slow crabwise waltz across the alley.
    “This city. This city. This city, Sarn’t. This city is a, is a, is a Woman, Sarn’t. So t’is. A Woman, Sarn’t. Ancient raddled old beauty, Sarn’t. Butifyoufallinlovewithher, then, then, then shekicksyouinnateeth—”
    “’s woman?” said Colon.
    He screwed up his sweating face with the effort of thought.
    “’s eight miles wide, sir. ’s gotta river in it. Lots of, of houses and stuff, sir,” he reasoned.
    “Ah. Ah. Ah.” Vimes waggled an unsteady finger at him. “Never, never, never said it wasa small woman, did I. Be fair.” He waved the bottle. Another random thought exploded in the froth of his mind.
    “We showed ’em, anyway,” he said excitedly, as the four of them began an oblique shuffle back to the opposite wall. “Showed them, dint we? Taught thema forget they won’t lesson inna hurry, eh?”
    “S’right,” said the sergeant, but not very enthusiastically. He was still wondering about his superior officer’s sex life.
    But Vimes was in the kind of mood that didn’t need encouragement.
    “Hah!” he shouted, at the dark alleyways. “Don’ like it, eh? Taste of your, your, your own medicine thingy. Well, now you can bootle in your trems!” He threw the empty bottle into the air.
    “Two o’clock!” he yelled. “And all’s weeeellll!”
    Which was astonishing news to the various shadowy figures who had been silently shadowing the four of them for some time. Only sheer puzzlement had prevented them making their attentions sharp and plain. These people are clearly guards, they were thinking, they’ve got the right helmets and everything, and yet here they are in the Shades. So they were being watched with the fascination that a pack of wolves might focus on a handful of sheep who had not only trotted into the clearing, but were making playful butts and baa-ing noises; the outcome was, of course, going to be mutton but in the meantime inquisitiveness gave a stay of execution.
    Carrot raised his muzzy head.
    “Where’re we?” he groaned.
    “On our way home,” said the sergeant. He looked up at the pitted, worm-eaten and knife-scored sign above them. “We’re jus’ goin’ down, goin’ down, goin’ down—” he squinted—“Sweetheart Lane.”
    “Sweetheart Lane s’not on the way home,” slurred Nobby. “We wouldn’t wanta go down Sweetheart Lane, it’s in the Shades. Catch us goin’ down Sweetheart Lane—”
    There was a crowded moment in which realization did the icy work of a good night’s sleep and several pints of black coffee. The three of them, by unspoken agreement, clustered up toward Carrot.
    “What we gonna do , Captain?” said Colon.
    “Er. We could call for help,” said the captain uncertainly.
    “What, here ?”
    “You’ve got a point.”
    “I reckon we must of turned left out of Silver Street instead of right,” quavered Nobby.
    “Well, that’s one mistake we won’t make again in a hurry,” said the captain. Then he wished he hadn’t.
    They could hear footsteps. Somewhere off to their left, there was a snigger.
    “We must form a square,” said the captain. They all tried to form a point.
    “Hey! What was that?” said Sergeant Colon.
    “What?”
    “There it was again. Sort of a leathery sound.”
    Captain Vimes tried not to think about hoods and garrotting.
    There were, he knew, many gods. There was a god for every trade. There was a beggars’ god, a whores’ goddess, a thieves’ god, probably even an assassins’ god.
    He wondered whether there was, somewhere in that vast pantheon, a god who would look kindly on hard-pressed and fairly innocent law-enforcement officers who were quite definitely about to die.
    There probably wasn’t, he thought bitterly. Something like that wasn’t stylish enough for gods. Catch any god worrying about any poor sod trying to do his best for a handful of dollars a month. Not them. Gods went overboard for smart bastards whose idea of a day’s work was prising the Ruby Eye of the Earwig King out of its socket, not for some unimaginative sap who just pounded the pavement every night…
    “More sort of slithery,” said the sergeant, who liked to get things right.
    And then there was a sound—
    —perhaps a volcanic sound, or the