Thud!

Chrysophrase, sir?”
    “What’s the worst he can do to me?”
    “Rip off your head, grind you to mince, and make soup from your bones, sir,” said Detritus promptly. “An’ if you was a troll, he’d have all your teeth knocked out an’ make cuff links out of ’em.”
    “Why’d he choose to do that now? Do you think he’s looking for a war with us? That’s not his way. He’s hardly going to kill me by appointment, is he? He wants to talk to me . It’s got to be to do with the case. He might know something. I don’t dare not go . But I want you along. Scrounge up a squad, will you?”
    A squad would be sensible, he admitted to himself. The streets were just too…nervous at the moment. He compromised with Detritus and a scratch band of whoever was doing nothing at the moment. That was one thing you could say about the Watch, it was representative. If you based your politics on what other people looked like, then you couldn’t claim the Watch was on the side of any shape. That was worth hanging on to.
    It seemed quieter outside, not so many people on the streets as usual. That wasn’t a good sign. Ankh-Morpork could feel trouble ahead like spiders could feel tomorrow’s rain.

W hat was this?
    The creature swam through a mind. It had seen thousands of minds since the universe began, but there was something strange about this one.
    It looked like a city. Ghostly, wavering buildings appeared through a drizzle of midnight rain. Of course, no two minds were alike…
    The creature was old, although it would be more accurate to say that it had existed for a long time. When, at the start of all things, the primordial clouds of mind had collapsed into gods and demons and souls of all levels, it had been among those who had never drifted close to a major accretion. So it had entered the universe aimlessly, without task or affiliation, a scrap of being blowing free, fitting in wherever it could, a sort of complicated thought looking for the right kind of mind. Currently—that is to say, for the past ten thousand years, it had found work as a superstition.
    And now it was in this strange, dark city. There was movement around it. The place was alive. And it rained.
    For a moment, just then, it had sensed an open door, a spasm of rage it could use. But just as it leapt to take advantage, something invisible and strong had grabbed it and flung it away.
    Strange.
    With a flick of its tail, it disappeared into an alley.

T he Pork Futures Warehouse was…one of those things, the sort that you get in a city that has lived with magic for too long. The occult reasoning, if such it could be called, was this: pork was an important commodity in the city. Future pork, possibly even pork as yet unborn, was routinely traded by the merchants. Therefore, it had to exist somewhere. And the Pork Futures Warehouse came into existence, icy cold within as the pork drifted backwards in time. It was a popular place for cold storage—and for trolls who wanted to think quickly.
    Even here, away from the more troubled areas of the city, the people on the streets were…watchful.
    And now they watched Vimes and his motley squad pull up outside of the warehouse doors.
    “I reckon at least one of us should go in wid you,” Detritus rumbled, as protective as a mother hen. “Chrysophrase won’t be alone, you can bet on dat.” He unslung the Piecemaker, the crossbow he had personally built from a converted siege weapon, the multiple bolts of which tended to shatter in the air from the sheer stress of acceleration. They could remove a door not simply from its frame but also from the world of objects bigger than a match-stick. Its incredible inaccuracy was part of its charm. The rest of the squad very quickly got behind him.
    “Only you, then, Sergeant,” said Vimes. “The rest of you, come in only if you hear screaming. Me screaming, that is.” He hesitated, and then pulled out the Gooseberry, which was still humming to itself. “And no interruptions, understand?”
    “Yes, Insert Name Here! Hmm hum hmm…”
    Vimes pulled open the door. Dead, freezing air poured out around him. Thick frost crackled under his feet. Instantly, his breath twinkled in clouds.
    He hated the Pork Futures Warehouse. The semitransparent slabs of yet-to-be-meat hanging in the air, accumulating reality every day, made him shiver for reasons that had nothing to to with temperature. Sam Vimes considered crispy bacon to be a food group in its own right, and