Thud!

satisfaction.
    “You cleaned out the tea urn?” said Vimes in a hollow voice. It was like being told that someone had wiped the patina off a fine old work of art.
    “Yes, it was like tar in there. There really wasn’t much proper food in the store, but I managed to make you a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich.”
    “Thank you, dear.” Vimes cautiously lifted a corner of the bread with his broken pencil. There seemed to be too much lettuce, which was to say, there was some lettuce.
    “There’s a lot of dwarfs come to see you, Sam,” said Sibyl, as if this was preying on her mind.
    Vimes stood up so fast that his chair fell over.
    “Is Young Sam all right?” he said.
    “Yes, Sam. They’re city dwarfs. You know them all, I think. They say they want to talk to you about—”
    But Vimes was already clattering down the stairs, drawing his sword as he did so.
    The dwarfs were clustered nervously by the duty sergeant’s desk. They had that opulence of metalwork, sleekness of beard, and thickness of girth that marked them out as dwarfs who were doing very well for themselves, or who had been right up until now.
    Vimes appeared in front of them like a whirlwind of wrath.
    You scum, you rat-sucking little worm-eaters! You heads-down little scurriers in the dark! What did you bring to my city? What were you thinking? Did you want the deep-downers here? Did you dare deplore what Hamcrusher said, all that bile and ancient lies? Or did you say, “Well, I don’t agree with him, of course, but he’s got a point”? Did you say, “Oh, he goes too far, but it’s about time somebody said it”? And now have you come here to wring your hands and say how dreadful, it was nothing to do with you? Who were the dwarfs in the mobs, then? Aren’t you community leaders? Were you leading them? And why are you here now, you ugly, sniveling grubbers? Is it possible, is it possible, that now, after that bastard’s bodyguards tried to kill my family, you’re here to complain? Have I broken some code, trodden on some ancient toe? To hell with it. To hell with you.
    He could feel the words straining, fighting to get out, and the effort of restraining them filled his stomach with acid and made his temples throb. Just one whine, he thought. Just one pompous moan. Go on.
    “Well?” he demanded, rubbing his aching hand.
    The dwarfs have perceptibly moved backwards. Vimes wondered if they’d read his thoughts; they’d echoed in his brain loudly enough.
    A dwarf cleared his throat. “Commander Vimes—” he began.
    “You’re Pors Strongingthearm, aren’t you?” Vimes demanded. “One half of Burleigh & Stronginthearm? You make crossbows.”
    “Yes, Commander, and—”
    “Remove your weapons! All of them! All of you!” Vimes snapped.
    The room fell silent. Out of the corner of his eye, Vimes saw a couple of dwarf officers, who had at least been pretending to be engaged in paperwork, rising from their seats.
    He was being dangerously stupid, part of him knew, but right now he wanted to hurt a dwarf and he wasn’t allowed to do it with steel. Most of the battle stuff they wore was simply for clang in any case, but a dwarf would sooner drop his drawers than put aside his axe. And these were serious city dwarfs, with seats in the guilds and everything. Ye gods, he was going too far.
    He managed to grunt: “All right, keep your battle-axes. Leave everything else at the desk. You’ll get a receipt.”
    For a moment, quite a long moment, he thought, no, he hoped they would refuse. But one of them, somewhere in the group, said: “I think we must do this for the commander. These are difficult times. We must learn to fit them.”
    Vimes went up to his office, hearing the clinks and clangs behind him, and landed so violently in his chair that this time a wheel snapped off. The receipt was a nasty touch. He was quite pleased with it.
    On his desk, on a little stand that Sybil had made for it, was his official baton of office. It was, in fact, the same size as the ordinary coppers’ truncheons, but turned out of rosewood and silver instead of lignum vitae or oak. It still had plenty of weight, though. Certainly enough to leave the words Protecter of thee Kinge’s Piece printed back to front on a dwarf skull.
    The dwarfs were ushered in, looking slightly less heavy.
    Just one word, Vimes thought as the acid swirled. One damn word. Go on. Just breathe wrong.
    “Very well, what can I do for you?” he said.
    “Uh, I’m sure you