Thud!

original course.
    “Don’t do that again, please!” said Vimes.
    “All right, sir, but it’s steering itself. I don’t think I could make it run into anything.”
    “Don’t try!” Vimes said quickly. “And I swear I saw a cow explode back there! Keep us away from towns and people, will you?”
    Behind the coach, turnips and rocks leapt into the air and bounced away in the opposite direction. Vimes hoped they wouldn’t get into trouble about that. *
    The other thing that Vimes noticed was the landscape ahead was strangely bluish, while behind them it had a relatively red tint. He didn’t like to point this out, though, in case it sounded strange.
    They had to stop twice to get directions, and were twenty miles from Koom Valley at half past five. There was a coaching inn. They sat out in its yard. No one spoke much. Apart from the speed-hungry Willikins, the only people not shaken by the journey were Sybil and Young Sam, who seemed quite happy, and Detritus, who had watched the world skim past with every sign of enjoyment. Brick was still facedown on the coach roof, holding tight.
    “Ten hours,” said Fred Colon. “And that included lunch and stoppin’ to be sick. I can’t believe it…”
    “I don’t fink people are s’posed to go this fast,” Nobby moaned. “I fink my brain’s still back home.”
    “Well, if we’re going to have to wait for it to catch up, Nobby, I’ll buy a house here, shall I?” said Fred.
    Nerves were frayed, brains were jogging behind…this is why I don’t like magic, thought Vimes. But we’re here, and it’s amazing how the inn’s beer helped recovery.
    “We might even be able to have a quick look at Koom Valley before it gets dark,” he ventured, to general groaning.
    “No, Sam! Everyone needs a meal and a rest!” said Sybil. “Let’s go into town like proper people, nice and slowly, and everyone will be fresh for tomorrow.”
    “Lady Sybil is right, Commander,” said Bashfullsson. “I wouldn’t advise going up to the valley at night, even at this time of the year. It’s so easy to get lost.”
    “In a valley?” said Vimes.
    “Oh yes, sir,” Cheery chimed in. “You’ll see why, sir. And mostly, if you get lost, you die.”
    On the sedate journey into town, and because it was six o’clock, Vimes read Where’s My Cow? to Young Sam. In fact, it became a communal effort. Cheery obliged by handling the chicken noises, an area in which Vimes felt he was somewhat lacking, and Detritus delivered a HRUUUGH! that rattled the windows. Grag Bashfullsson, against all expectation, managed a very passable pig. To Young Sam, watching with eyes like saucers, it was indeed the Show Of The Year.

B unty was surprised to see them so soon, but Ladies Who Organize are seldom thrown by guests arriving unexpectedly early.
    It turned out Bunty was Berenice Waynesbury, née Mouse-father, which must have come as a relief, with a daughter who was married and lived just outside Quirm and a son who’d had to go to Fourecks in a hurry over a complete misunderstanding but was now into sheep in a big way and she hoped Sybil and of course his grace would be able to stay until Saturday because she’d invited simply everybody and wasn’t Young Sam simply adorable …and so on, right up to “—and we’ve cleaned out one of the stables for your trolls” said with a happy smile.
    Before Sybil or Vimes could say a word, Detritus had removed his helmet and bowed.
    “T’ank you very much, missus,” he said gravely, “you know, sometimes people forget to clean dem out first. It’s dem little touches dat mean a lot.”
    “Why, thank you,” said Bunty. “How charming. I’ve, er, never seen a troll wearing clothing before…”
    “I can take dem off if you like,” said Detritus. At which point, Sybil took Bunty gently by the arm and said: “Let me introduce you to everybody else…”
    Mr. Waynesbury, the magistrate, wasn’t the venal pocket-liner Vimes had expected. He was thin, tall, and didn’t say a great deal, and spent his time at home in a study filled with law books, pipes, and fishing tackle; he dispensed justice in the mornings, fished during the afternoon, and charitably forgave Vimes for his total lack of interest in dry flies.
    The local town of Ham-on-Koom made a good living off the river. When the Koom hit the plains, it widened and slowed and was more full of fish than a tin of sardines. Marshes spread out on either side, too, with deep and hidden lakes