`But I-'

`She was very specific, sir. She said if a commander of police cannot take time off, who can?'

On this day in 1802, the painter Methodia Rascal woke up in the night because the sounds of war fare were coming from a drawer in his bedside table.

Again.

One little light illuminated the cellar, which is to say that it lent different textures to the darkness and divided shadow from darker shadow.

The figures barely showed up at all. It was quite impossible, with normal eyes, to tell who was talking.

`This is not to be talked about, do you understand?'

`Not talked about? He's dead!'

`This is dwarf business! It's not to come to the ears of the City Watch! They have no place here! Do any of us want them down here?'

`They do have dwarf officers-'

`Hah. D'rkza. Too much time in the sun. They're just short humans now. Do they think dwarf? And Vimes will dig and dig and wave the silly rags and tatters they call laws. Why should we allow such a violation? Besides, this is hardly a mystery. Only a troll could have done it, agreed? I said: Are we agreed?'

`That is what happened,' said a figure. The voice was thin and old and, in truth, uncertain.

`Indeed, it was a troll,' said another voice, almost the twin of that one, but with a little more assurance.

The subsequent pause was underlined by the ever-present sound of the pumps.

`It could only have been a troll,' said the first voice. `And is it not said that behind every crime you will find the troll?'

There was a small crowd outside the Watch House in Pseudopolis Yard when Commander Sam Vimes arrived at work. It had been a fine sunny morning up until then. Now it was still sunny, but nothing like as fine.

The crowd had placards. `Bloodsuckers out!!, Vimes read, and `No Fangs!' Faces turned towards him with a sullen, half-frightened defiance.