Thud!

home. He paints his picture and goes mad, but somewhere along, the cube starts talking to him.
    Vimes wrote “SPECIAL WORD?” He drew a circle around it so hard that his pencil broke.
    Maybe he can’t find the word for “stop talking”? Anyway, he chucks it down a well…
    He tried to write “Did Rascal ever live in Empirical Crescent?,” and then gave up and tried to remember it.
    Anyway…then he dies and, afterwards, this damn book is written. It doesn’t sell many copies, but recently it’s republished and…ah, but now there’re lots of dwarfs in the city. Some of them read it, and something tells them that the secret is in this cube. They want to find out where it is. How? Damn. Doesn’t the book say the secret of Koom Valley is in the painting? Okay. Maybe he…somehow painted some kind of code into the painting to say where the cube was? But so what? What was so bad to hear that you killed the poor devils who heard it?
    I think I’m looking at this wrong. It’s not my cow. It’s a sheep with a pitchfork. Unfortunately, it goes quack .
    He was getting lost now, going all over the place, but he’d got a toe on the opposite stone and he felt he made some progress. But to what, exactly?
    I mean, what would really happen if there was real proof that, say, the dwarfs ambushed the trolls? Nothing that isn’t happening already, that’s what. You can always find an excuse that your side will accept, and who cares what the enemy thinks? In the real world, it wouldn’t make any difference.
    There was a very faint knock at the door, the sort that you use if you secretly hope it won’t be answered. Vimes sprang from his chair and pulled it open.
    A. E. Pessimal stood there.
    “Ah, A. E.,” said Vimes, going back to his desk and laying down his pencil. “Come on in. What can I do for you? How’s the arm?”
    “Er…could you spare a moment of your time, Your Grace?”
    Your Grace, thought Vimes. Well, he hadn’t the heart to object, this time.
    He sat down again. A. E. Pessimal was still wearing the chain-mail shirt with the Specials badge on it. He didn’t look very shiny. Brick’s swipe had bowled him across the plaza like a ball.
    “Er…” A. E. Pessimal began.
    “You’ll have to start as a lance constable, but a man of your talents ought to make it to sergeant within a year. And you can have your own office,” said Vimes.
    A. E. Pessimal shut his eyes. “How did you know?” he breathed.
    “You attacked a boozed-up troll with your teeth,” said Vimes. “‘ There’s a man born for the badge,’ I thought to myself.”
    And that’s what you’ve always wanted, right? But you were always too small, too weak, too shy to be a watchman. I can buy big and strong anywhere. Right now I need a man who knows how to hold a pencil without breaking it.
    “You’ll be my adjutant,” he went on. “You’ll handle all my paperwork. You’ll read the reports, you’ll try to figure out what’s important. And so you can learn what is important, you’ll have to do at least two patrols a week.”
    A tear was running down A. E. Pessimal’s cheek. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said hoarsely.
    If A. E. Pessimal had enough chest to stick out, it would be sticking.
    “Of course, you’ll need to finish your report on the Watch first,” Vimes added. “That is a matter between you and his lordship. And now, if you will excuse me, I really must get on. I look forward to seeing you working for me, Lance Constable Pessimal.”
    “Thank you, Your Grace!”
    “Oh, and you won’t call me ‘Your Grace,’ ” said Vimes. He thought for a moment, and decided that the man had earned this, all in one go, and added: “ ‘Mister Vimes’ will do.”
    And so we make progress, he said to himself, after A. E. Pessimal had floated away. And his lordship won’t like it, so, as far as I can see, there’s no downside. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes , er, qui custodes custodient? Was that right for “Who watches the watcher that watches the watchmen”? Probably not. Still…your move, my lord.
    He was just puzzling over his notebook again when the door opened without an introductory knock.
    Sybil entered, with a plate.
    “You’re not eating enough, Sam,” she announced. “And the canteen here is a disgrace. It’s all grease and garbage!”
    “That’s what the men like, I’m afraid,” said Vimes guiltily.
    “I’ve cleaned out the tar in the tea urn, at least,” Sybil went on, with