Snuff

it ought to be all right. The trouble is, reality is never as simple as that and doesn’t allow for paperwork.
    Vimes dozed comfortably for a while and then heard Sybil say, in a whisper, ‘He’s not going to escape, is he, Sam? You said he’s good with locks.’
    ‘Well, they have damn good locks on the cells here in Quirm, there’s a guard watching him at all times and he’s going to be taken up to Ankh-Morpork on their hurry-up wagon under armed escort. I can’t imagine the circumstances that would allow him to escape. After all, the Quirm lads want to do this one by the numbers. I bet they’ll have shined up their armour until it looks like silver. They’ll want to impress me, you see? Don’t worry, I’m certain nothing will go wrong.’
    They lay there, comfortable, and then Vimes said, ‘The curator of the zoo was very complimentary about Young Sam.’
    Sleepily, Sybil murmured, ‘Perhaps he’ll be another Woolsthorpe, but maybe this time with the missing ingredient of common sense.’
    ‘Well, I don’t know what he’s going to be,’ said Sam Vimes, ‘but I do know he’ll be good at it.’
    ‘Then he’ll be Sam Vimes,’ said Sybil. ‘Let’s get some sleep.’
    Next day the family went home, which is to say that Sybil and Young Sam went home to Ankh-Morpork on a fast coach, after a small hiatus which led to Young Sam’s growing collection being removed from inside the coach and strapped to the roof, while Sam Vimes took the Black-Eyed Susan back to the Hall, because there was still a matter of business to be concluded. Since he was a King of the River the pilot let him steer for part of the way, admittedly staring obsessively over his shoulder, just in case. And Vimes had fun, an infrequent event. It is a strange thing to find yourself doing something you have apparently always wanted to do, when in fact up until that moment you had never known that you had always wanted to do it, or even what it was, but Sam Vimes, for a moment upon the world, was a riverboat pilot and was as happy as a cat full of sixpences.
    That night he lay alone in the vastness of Ramkin Hall – except, of course, for the hundred or so servants – turning the events of the previous week over and over in his head, and especially his own actions during them. Time and again he cross-examined himself mercilessly . Had he cheated? Not exactly. Had he misled? Not exactly. Had he acted as a policeman should? Well, now, that was the question, wasn’t it?
    In the morning two young maids brought him his breakfast and Vimes was amused to see that they were accompanied by a footman as a chaperone. In a way he found that rather flattering. Then he went for a walk through the lovely countryside, listening to the liquid notes of the robin et cetera (he couldn’t remember the names of the others, but they were jolly good singers all the same).
    And as he walked he was aware of eyes upon him from every cottage and field. One or two people came up to him, shook him frantically by the hand and ran away just as quickly, and it seemed to Vimes that the world was dragging around after him. Nervousness was so saturating the atmosphere that he felt that any time soon he should shout ‘BOO!’ at the top of his voice.
    But Vimes was merely waiting … Waiting for the evening.
    The coaches started to arrive at Ankh-Morpork’s Opera House very early. This was going to be an important occasion: it was said that not only would the Patrician be there, but he would be accompanied by Lady Margolotta, ruler of all Uberwald, plus the dwarf ambassador, and the black ruby viceroy of Diamond King of Trolls, who arrived in the city with almost as many courtiers, secretaries, bodyguards, chefs and advisers as had been brought by the ambassador from the dwarfs.
    In an unsophisticated way, the people of Ankh-Morpork were very sophisticated and the streets buzzed more busily than usual. Something like this was important. Great matters of state would be settled over the canapés. The fate of millions and suchlike would be most likely decided by a quiet word in a corner somewhere and thereafter the world would be a slightly different place, you see if it isn’t.
    Unless you had a gold-edged invitation to the Opera House that evening this was no occasion to be fashionably late, in case you were left fashionably standing fashionable at the back, craning unfashionably to see over the heads of other people.
    Towards sunset Vimes lounged outside the