Thud!

carefully out of the light filtering down from the hall.
    Now he could smell it…the faint reek of black oil.
    The little bastards! And they could see in the dark, too, right?
    He reached into his pocket and fumbled for his matches, while his heart thudded in his ears. His fingers closed over a match, he took a deep breath—
    One hand grasped his wrist, and, as he swung madly at the darkness with the hind leg of a rocking horse, this, too, was wrested from him. Instinctively, he kicked out, and there was a grunt. His arms were released, and from somewhere near the floor, the voice of Willikins, rather strained, said: “Excuse me, sir, I appear to have walked into your foot.”
    “Willikins? What the hell’s been happening?”
    “Some dwarfish gentlemen called while you were upstairs, sir,” said the butler, unfolding slowly. “Through the cellar wall, in fact. I regret to say that I found it necessary to deal somewhat strictly with them. I fear one might be dead.”
    Vimes peered around. “ Might be dead? Is he still breathing?”
    “I do not know, sir.” Willikins applied a match, with great care, to a stub of candle. “I heard him gurgling, but he appears to have stopped. I’m sorry to say that they came upon me when I was leaving the ice store, and I was forced to defend myself with the first thing that came to hand.”
    “Which was…?”
    “The ice knife, sir,” said Willikins levelly. He held up eighteen inches of sharp, serrated steel, designed to slice ice into convenient blocks. “The other gentleman I have lodged on a meat hook, sir.”
    “You didn’t—” Vimes began, horrified.
    “Only through his clothing, sir. I am sorry to have laid hands on you, but I feared the wretched oil might have been inflammable. I hope I got all of them. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for the mess—”
    But Vimes was gone and already halfway up the cellar steps. In the hall, his heart stopped.
    A short dark figure was at the top of the stairs and disappearing into the nursery.
    The broad, stately staircase soared in front of him, a stairway to the top of the sky. He ran up it, hearing himself screaming—
    “I’ll kill I’ll killyoukillyoukillyoukillkillkill I’ll kill you kill I’llkill you—” The terrible fury choked him, the rage and dreadful fear set his lungs on fire, and still the stairs unrolled. There was no end to them. They climbed forever, while he was falling backwards, into hell. But hell buoyed him up, gave wings to his rage, lifted him, sent him back…
    And then, his breath now nothing more than one long, profane scream, he reached the top step—
    The dwarf came out of the nursery doorway, backwards and fast. He hit the railings and crashed through them onto the floor below. Vimes ran on, sliding on the polished wood, skidding as he swung into the nursery, dreading the sight of—
    —Young Sam, sleeping peacefully. On the wall, the little lamb rocked the night away.
    Sam Vimes picked up his son, wrapped in his blue blanket, and sagged to his knees. He hadn’t drawn breath all the way up the stairs, and now his body cashed its checks, sucking in air and redemption in huge, racking sobs. Tears boiled out of him, shaking him wretchedly…
    Through the running, wet blur, he saw something on the floor. There, on the rug, was the rag ball, the hoop, and the wooly snake, lying where they’d fallen.
    The ball had rolled, more or less, into the middle of the hoop. The snake lay half-uncoiled, its head resting on the edge of the circle.
    Together, in this weak nursery light, they looked at first glance like a big eye with a tail.
    “Sir? Is everything all right?”
    Vimes looked up and focused on the red face of Willikins, out of breath.
    “Er…yeah…what?…yeah…fine…thanks,” he managed, summoning his scattered senses. “Fine, Willikins. Thank you.”
    “One must’ve got past me in the dark—”
    “Huh? Yeah, very remiss of you, then,” said Vimes, getting to his feet but still clutching his son to him. “I’d just bet most butlers ’round here would have taken out all three with one swipe of their polishing cloth, right?”
    “Are you all right, sir? Because—”
    “But you went to the Shamlegger School of Butlering!” Vimes giggled. His knees were trembling. Part of him knew what this was all about. After the terror came that drunken feeling, when you were still alive and suddenly everything was funny. “I mean , other butlers just know how