Thud!

accusingly along one wall, and gently merging. * He knew that he had to do it. Warrants, dockets, Watch orders, signatures—that was what made the Watch a police force rather than just a bunch of fairly rough fellows with inquisitive habits. Paperwork: you had to have lots of it, and it had to be signed by him.
    He signed the Arrests book, the Occurrences book, even the Lost Property book. Lost Property book! They never had one of those in the old days. If someone turned up complaining that they’d lost some small item, you just held Nobby Nobbs upside down and sorted through what dropped out.
    But he didn’t know two-thirds of the coppers he employed now—not know , in the sense of knowing when they’d stand and when they’d run, knowing the little giveaways that’d tell him when they were lying or scared witless. It wasn’t really his Watch anymore. It was the city’s Watch. He just ran it.
    He went through the Station Sergeant’s reports, the Watch Officers’ reports, the Sick reports, the Disciplinary reports, the Petty Cash reports—
    “Duddle-dum-duddle-dum-duddle—”
    Vimes slammed the Gooseberry down on the desk and picked up the small loaf of dwarf bread that for the last few years he’d used as a paperweight.
    “Switch off or die,” he growled.
    “Now, I can see you’re slightly upset,” said the imp, looking up at the looming loaf, “but could I ask you to look at things from my point of view? This is my job . This is what I am . I am, therefore I think. And I think we could get along famously if you would only read the manu—please, no! I really could help you!”
    Vimes hesitated in mid-thump, and then carefully put down the loaf.
    “How?” he said.
    “You’ve been adding up the numbers wrong,” said the imp. “You don’t always carry the tens.”
    “And how would you know that?” Vimes demanded.
    “You mutter to yourself,” said the imp.
    “You eavesdrop on me?”
    “It’s my job! I can’t switch my ears off! I have to listen! That’s how I know about the appointments!”
    Vimes picked up the Petty Cash report and glanced at the messy columns of figures. He prided himself on what he had, since infancy, called “sums.” Yes, he knew he plodded a bit, but he got there in the end.
    “You think you could do better?” he said.
    “Let me out and give me a pencil!” said the imp. Vimes shrugged. It had been a strange day, after all. He opened the little cage door.
    The imp was a very pale green and translucent, little more than a creature made out of colored air, but it was able to grip the tiny pencil stub. It ran up and down the column of figures in the Petty Cash book and, Vimes was pleased to hear, it muttered to itself.
    “It’s out by three dollars and five pence,” it reported after a few seconds.
    “That’s fine, then,” said Vimes.
    “But the money is not accounted for!”
    “Oh yes it is,” said Vimes. “It was stolen by Nobby Nobbs. It always is. He never steals more than four dollars fifty.”
    “Would you like me to make an appointment for a disciplinary interview?” said the imp hopefully.
    “Of course not. I’m signing it off now. Er…thank you. Can you add up the other dockets?”
    The imp beamed.
    “Absolutely!”
    Vimes left the imp scribbling happily and walked over to the window.
    They don’t acknowledge our law and they undermine our city. That’s not just a bunch of deep-downers here to keep their fellow dwarfs on the straight seam. How far do those tunnels go? Dwarfs dig like crazy. But why here? What are they looking for? As sure as any hell you choose, there’s no treasure trove under this city, no sleeping dragon, no secret kingdom. There’s just water and mud and darkness.
    How far do they go? How much—hold on, we know this, we know this, don’t we. We know about numbers and figures in today’s Watch…
    “Imp?” he said, turning around.
    “Yes, Insert Name Here?”
    “You see that big pile of paper in the corner?” said Vimes, pointing. “Somewhere in there are the gate guard reports for the past six months. Can you compare them with last week’s? Can you compare the number of dunny wagons leaving the city?”
    “ Dunny Wagon not found in root dictionary. Searching slang dictionary…mip…mip…mip… Dunny Wagon , n.: cart for carrying night soil (see also Honey Wagon, Treacle Wagon, Midnight Special, Gong Wagon, and variants),” said the imp.
    “That right,” said Vimes, who hadn’t heard the