Thud!

School across the alley, which was much better known as, and probably would forever be known as, the Old Lemonade Factory. He’d thrown in the job of Watch liaison officer, because it sounded good and no one knew what it meant. Vimes had also given him Corporal Nobbs, who was another awkward dinosaur in today’s Watch.
    It was working, too. Nobby and Colon had a street-level knowledge of the city that rivaled Vimes’s own. They ambled about, apparently aimlessly and completely unthreatening, and they watched and they listened to the urban equivalent of the jungle drums. And sometimes the drums came to them. Once, Fred’s sweaty little office had been the place where bare-armed ladies had mixed up great batches of Sarsaparilla and Raspberry Lava and Ginger Pop. Now the kettle was always on and it was open house for all his old mates, ex-watchmen and old cons—sometimes the same individual—and Vimes happily signed the bill for the doughnuts consumed when they dropped by to get out from under their wives’ feet. It was worth it. Old coppers kept their eyes open, and gossiped like washerwomen.

I n theory, the only problem in Fred’s life now was his door.
    “The Historians’ Guild say we’ve got to preserve as much of the old fabric as possible, Fred,” said Vimes.
    “I know that, sir, but…well, ‘The Twaddle Room,’ sir? I mean, really?”
    “Nice brass plate, though, Fred,” said Vimes. “It’s what they called the basic soft drink syrup, I’m told. Important historical fact. You could stick a piece of paper over the top of it.”
    “We do that, sir, but the lads pull it off and snigger.”
    Vimes sighed. “Sort it out, Fred. If an old sergeant can’t sort out that sort of thing, the world has become a very strange place. Is that all?”
    “Well, yes, sir, really. But—”
    “C’mon, Fred, it’s going to be a busy day.”
    “Have you heard of Mr. Shine, sir?”
    “Do you clean stubborn surfaces with it?” said Vimes.
    “Er…what, sir?” said Fred. No one did perplexed better than Fred Colon. Vimes felt ashamed of himself.
    “Sorry, Fred. No, I haven’t heard of Mr. Shine. Why?”
    “Oh…nothing, really. ‘Mr. Shine, him Diamond!’ Seen it on walls a few times lately. Troll graffiti; you know, carved in deep. Seems to be causing a buzz among the trolls. Important, maybe?”
    Vimes nodded. You ignored the writing on the walls at your peril. Sometimes it was the city’s way of telling you if not what was on its bubbling mind then at least what was in its creaking heart.
    “Well, keep listening, Fred. I’m relying on you not to let a buzz become a sting,” said Vimes with extra cheerfulness to keep the man’s spirits up. “And now I’ve got to see our vampire.”
    “Best of luck, Sam. I think it’s going to be a long day.”
    Sam, thought Vimes, as the old sergeant went out. Gods know he’s earned it, but he only calls me Sam when he’s really worried. Well, we all are.
    We’re waiting for the first shoe to drop.
    Vimes unfolded the copy of the Times that Cheery had left on his desk. He always read it at work, to catch up on the news that Willikins had thought it unsafe to hear whilst shaving.
    Koom Valley, Koom Valley. Vimes shook out the paper and saw Koom Valley everywhere. Bloody, bloody Koom Valley. Gods damn the wretched place, although obviously they had already done so—damned it and then forsaken it. Up close it was just another rocky wasteland in the mountains. In theory, it was a long way away, but it seemed to be getting a lot closer lately. Koom Valley wasn’t really a place now, not anymore. It was a state of mind.
    If you wanted the bare facts, it was where the dwarfs had ambushed the trolls and/or the trolls had ambushed the dwarfs, one ill-famed day under unkind stars. Oh, they’d fought one another since Creation, as far as Vimes understood it, but at the Battle of Koom Valley that mutual hatred became, as it were, Official, and, as such, had developed a kind of mobile geography. Where any dwarf fought any troll, there was Koom Valley. Even if it was a punch-up in a pub, it was Koom Valley. It was part of the mythology of both races, a rallying cry, the ancestral reason why you couldn’t trust those short, bearded/big, rocky bastards.
    There had been plenty of such Koom Valleys since that first one. The war between the dwarfs and the trolls was a battle of natural forces, like the war between the wind and the waves. It had a momentum of its