And that was true. Willikins was definitely not a policeman, because most policemen don’t know how to glass up somebody with a broken bottle without hurting their hands or how to make weapons of limited but specific destruction out of common kitchen utensils. Willikins had a history that showed up when he had to carve the turkey. And now Young Sam, seeing his scarred but familiar smile, ran up through the row of hesitant employees to cuddle the butler at the knees. For his part, Willikins turned Young Sam upside down and spun him around before gently putting him back on the gravel, the whole process being a matter of huge entertainment to a boy of six. Vimes trusted Willikins. He didn’t trust many people. Too many years as a copper made you rather discriminating in that respect.

He leaned towards his wife. ‘What do I do now?’ he whispered, because the ranks of worried half-smiles were unnerving him.

‘Whatever you like, dear,’ she said. ‘You’re the boss. You take Watch parade, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but I know who everyone is and their rank and, well, everything! It’s never been like this in the city!’

‘Yes, dear, that’s because in Ankh-Morpork everybody knows Commander Vimes.’

Well, how hard could it be? Vimes walked up to a man with a battered straw hat, a spade and, as Vimes neared, a state of subdued terror even worse than that of Sam Vimes himself. Vimes held out his hand. The man looked at it as if he had never seen a hand before. Vimes managed to say, ‘Hello, I’m Sam Vimes. Who are you?’

The man thus addressed looked around for help, support and guidance or escape, but there was none; the crowd was deathly silent. He said, ‘William Butler, your grace, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Pleased to meet you, William,’ said Vimes, and held out his hand again, which William almost leaned away from before offering Vimes a palm the texture of an ancient leather glove.