Monstrous Regiment

except for one candle flame, down near the floor in the back room of the deserted barracks.
    The candle had been tilted so that it leaned against a cotton thread fastened between the legs of a stool. This meant that when the candle burned low enough, it would burn through the thread and fall all the way to the floor and into a ragged trail of straw that led to a pile of palliasses on which had been stood two ancient cans of lamp oil.
    It took about an hour, in the wet, dejected night for this to happen, and then all the windows blew out.

    Tomorrow dawned on Borogravia like a great big fish.
    A pigeon rose over the forests, banked slightly, and headed straight for the valley of the Kneck.
    Even from here, the black stone bulk of the Keep was visible, rising above the sea of trees. The pigeon sped on, one spark of purpose in the fresh new morning—
    —and squawked as darkness dropped from the sky, gripping it in talons of steel. Buzzard and pigeon tumbled for a moment, and then the buzzard gained a little height and flapped onwards.
    The pigeon thought: 000000000. But had it been more capable of coherent thought, and knew something about how birds of prey catch pigeons, * it might have wondered why it was being gripped so…kindly. It was being held, not squeezed. As it was, all it could think was: 0000000!
    The buzzard reached the valley and began to circle low over the Keep. As it gyred, a tiny figure detached itself from the leather harness on its back and, with great care, inched itself around the body and down to the talons. It reached the imprisoned pigeon, knelt on it and put its arms round the bird’s neck.
    The buzzard skimmed low over a stone balcony, reared in the air, and let the pigeon go.
    Bird and tiny man rolled and bounced across the flagstone in a trail of feathers, and lay still.
    Eventually a voice from somewhere under the pigeon said: “Bugger…”
    Urgent footsteps ran across the stones and the pigeon was lifted off Corporal Buggy Swires. He was a gnome, and barely six inches tall. On the other hand, as the head and only member of Ankh-Morpork City Watch’s Airborne Section, he spent most of his time so high that everyone looked small.
    “Are you all right, Buggy?” said Commander Vimes.
    “Not too bad, sir,” said Buggy, spitting out a feather. “But it wasn’t elegant, was it? I’ll do better next time. Trouble is, pigeons are too stupid to be steered—”
    “What’ve you got me?”
    “The Times sent this up from their cart, sir! I tracked it all the way!”
    “Well done , Buggy!”
    There was a flurry of wings and the buzzard landed on the battlements.
    “And, er—what is his name?” Vimes added. The buzzard gave him the mad, distant look of all birds.
    “She’s Morag, sir. Trained by the pictsies. Wonderful bird.”
    “Was she the one we paid a crate of whiskey for?”
    “Yes, sir, and worth every dram.”
    The pigeon struggled in Vimes’s hand.
    “You wait there, then, Buggy, and I’ll get Reg to come out with some raw rabbit,” he said, and walked into his tower.
    Sergeant Angua was waiting by his desk, reading the Living Testament of Nuggan.
    “Is that a carrier pigeon, sir?” she said as Vimes sat down.
    “No,” said Vimes. “Hold it a minute, will you? I want to have a look inside the message capsule.”
    “It does look like a carrier pigeon,” said Angua, putting down the book.
    “Ah, but messages flying through the air are an Abomination unto Nuggan,” said Vimes. “The prayers of the faithful bounce off them, apparently. No, I think I’ve found someone’s lost pet and I’m looking in this little tube here to see if I can find the owner’s name and address, because I am a kind man.”
    “So you are not actually waylaying field reports from the Times , then, sir?” said Angua, grinning.
    “Not as such, no. I’m just such a keen reader that I want to see tomorrow’s news today. And Mr. de Worde seems to have a knack for finding things out. Angua, I want to stop these stupid people fighting so that we can all go home, and if that means allowing the occasional pigeon to have a crap on my desk, so be it.”
    “Oh, sorry, sir, I didn’t notice. I expect it’ll wipe off.”
    “Go and get Reg to find some rabbit for the buzzard, will you?”
    When she’d gone, Vimes carefully unscrewed the end of the tube and pulled out a roll of very thin paper. He unfolded it, smoothed it out, and read the tiny writing, smiling as he did so. Then he turned