Vetinari listened to Vimes as he explained the latest crisis the city was facing, but he was also working on his own problems – or rather Ankh-Morpork's latest insanities – in his head. It wasn't difficult. Things Vimes considered terribly complicated were actually quite simple to the Patrician. He had to occasionally stop himself from helping the Commander too much. If the copper would learn how to delegate properly he would have more mental energy for the problems he had to deal with, but he struck Vetinari as a masochist.

The Patrician knew that he might have a sharper mind than his dog, but he didn't have nearly as experienced feet, and the man's determination even outran even his own. He had a rare talent for leadership that the Patrician held a grudging respect for. It wasn't that he was particularly good as the methods involved. He simply commanded the type of respect and loyalty that either makes a nation run or overturns it. His men would follow him anywhere.

He waited until Vimes was finished and gave the appropriate response. "So you caught him, and Uberwald isn't going to attack?" He was really only interested in the final answer. He knew the rest of the details. Between his spy's reports and the pile of complaints against Vimes for his over-the-top actions, he had a good view of the path that the Watch had torn through crime – again.

Vimes nodded. "The Werewolves got the antidote, and they're back to being intelligent again. The vampires were happy to have them back to themselves, and I was able to convince some of the important ones that it wasn't our fault some rogue alchemist decided to experiment with rabies."

Vetinari turned back to his papers, dipping a pen in the ink and preparing to finish the night's work. If Vimes had any idea of the dance involved in keeping the city running he would have been shocked. He saw only his area of action, and it was the difference between a peasant's plodding dance and an elegant tarantella. There were a great many things about Vimes that irritated him, and one of them was that he always thought the Watch's problems were the most important in the city.

Vimes put his hands on the desk, and Vetinari knew the gesture. His dog wanted more attention than he was getting. Gods, he's so easy to irritate, Vetinari thought.

"You are dismissed Commander," he said, without looking up. He had too much to do to deal with his pet prima-donna. Vimes didn't move, and the Patrician didn't look up. His terrier needed discipline occasionally; he tended to forget his place, and a gentle reminder was in order.

"You may go now," Vetinari said, looking up, but he stopped when he saw Vimes face. He had expected the usual small confrontation Vimes insisted on instigating occasionally, but he saw Vimes leaning on the desk with his head down. His face was pale, and his eyes were closed.

How angry did I make him this time? Vetinari wondered. He liked to push Vimes hard enough to keep him angry with him, but not so angry as to have his resentment interfere with his work. Vimes was a useful tool, but he required upkeep.

Vimes opened his eyes, and Vetinari saw that they were glazed. "I'll have the papers sent over tomorrow," Vimes said, even though Vetinari knew that would mean sometime next week. He didn't know which papers Vimes was referring to.

Odd, Vetinari thought. He doesn't seem angry this time. I wonder what he's on about.

Vimes straightened, but he stumbled and leaned against the desk, blinking.

This again? Vetinari thought. How many times do I have to deal with him destroying his own body? The last time Captain Carrot had bodily removed Vimes from his office. Vimes tended to overwork himself and collapse when the job was done.

"When is the last time you slept or ate, Commander?" the Patrician asked.

"I'm fine," Vimes said, but his voice was weak. "I just need to sit down for a minute."

"I'm sure you need more than that, but take a chair," the Patrician said. "You might learn something occasionally, Vimes. You do this to yourself too often. Your city needs you, and you can't do anything for it if you die of a heart attack from neglecting yourself."

He watched Vimes carefully, feeling more irritated every second. That is one of my most useful servants, he thought. I need to do something about this.

Vetinari kept an eye on the Watch. They were the city's backbone at times, its savior occasionally, but also a potential hotbed of rebellion with the power they could wield. They happened to be more interested in the cities' good than in their own welfare, but he never took that for granted. Vimes might not be Old Stoneface, but there were others out there who might take his grandfather's place, giving the chance.

Captain Carrot had turned down the chance to be King, but what of the others? He counted on Vimes to spread his contagious sense of duty to keep them in line.

Where would the Watch go without Vimes? he wondered as he saw the Commander still leaning against his desk, too weak to even pretend he wasn't about to collapse.

Vetinari didn't like the answer to that question. It would be fine with the leadership of Captain Carrot – of course – but he had a feeling that Carrot might not stick around without Vimes. He'd already tried to resign once during that situation in Uberwald, and the Patrician couldn't assume he'd stay if his damned Werewolf decided to leave.

Women cause such problems, he thought.

"Commander?" he asked. "Perhaps you should sit down while you can still decide to sit rather than fall."

Vimes nodded and stood, swaying, but his eyes rolled back into his head and he began to fall.

Assassin training kicked in, and the Patrician moved so quickly that if anyone had been there to see they might have been reminded of a snake striking. He was around the desk and supporting Vimes in his arms before he could hit the floor, grunting as the man's weight shifted.

He laid the Commander on the floor. "You just can't do anything half-way, can you?" he asked the unconscious man. "Idiot."

He could see that Vimes was breathing, and he was sure there weren't any actual problems that needed medical attention, unless stubbornness could be considered an illness. He probably had some of the various afflictions that a lifetime of poverty and bad living created, but that wasn't his problem at the moment.

He removed Vimes helmet and breastplate and set them aside. "Fool," he said.

He rang for Drumkott, who glanced at the Commander. "Shall I have the body disposed of, sir?" Drumkott asked with his usual lack of surprise at anything his master might do.

The Patrician smiled. Most of Ankh-Morpork assumed that either he or Vimes would eventually kill each other. They couldn't. They were too necessary to each other. "He's alive. He just collapsed."

"Shall I call a member of the Watch to collect him then?" Drumkott asked.

He almost said yes. This should be Captain Carrot's problem. The Watch knew how self-destructive their beloved leader was. They wouldn't let their werewolf attack a man with a silver sword, and they wouldn't throw the troll into a room full of angry dwarves, so why did they let their Commander give himself over to his dark need to wreck his body out of guilt? They needed to be taught a lesson.

A plan formed quickly in the Patrician's mind. He could deal with this problem and future inconveniences. By the time he was done, the Watch would take better care of their strongest and most fragile resource, and Vimes would know his place – in more ways than one.

"Don't call the Watch," he said. "If they'd looked after him properly he wouldn't be in this position in the first place."

"Lady Sybil then?" Drumkott asked.

"She's in Klatch studying a rare desert dragon that was captured recently. She was quite excited about it and wrote me several letters. No, I have a better idea for him. Have him moved to the dungeon. Move a bed down there, and make sure he has food, water, and warm blankets, but I want him alone when he wakes. No one is to know he's down there. Put the guards under orders that no one is to speak to him except for me. Have one of the most trusted guards sent to remove the Commander, and I want him taken through a secret passage. I'm going to teach him a lesson he won't forget."

"Yes sir," Drumkott said, and left.

Vimes lay as he had fallen, his arms haphazardly arranged and mouth open. The Patrician felt distaste at the loud snores that came from the man. Drool slid out of his mouth.

I believe the phrase his people would use for someone like him is, "common as muck", Vetinari thought. But somehow the commoner had risen more than the Patrician would have ever thought possible. Coal was so common, but diamonds were just the same material that made good under pressure.

Drumkott returned with a guard, who threw Vimes over his shoulder. Vimes grumbled, but he didn't wake.

"You'll be his personal guard," Vetinari said. "I want you outside his cell until I'm finished with him. Put a cot out there. He'll call out when he wakes, most likely. Send a message when you hear him. No one is to speak with him but me."

He returned to his work. Vimes had wasted more than enough of his time for the moment.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Vimes woke in a dungeon. He knew that. Only dungeons have chains on the walls and stone floors. But this one was clean and warm, and someone had obviously tried to make him comfortable. They'd taken his armor and boots off, and he'd been placed in an army cot with blankets. He even had a pillow under his head, which he didn't understand. Jailors didn't give people pillows.

Something's wrong, he thought, all of his policeman's instincts twitching. He tried to remember the last thing that had happened before he blacked out. He'd been speaking with the Patrician – giving him the final details of the finished case so he could go home and rest.

Sleep was an amazing thing. It was so intrusive, and so needed. He spent so much time avoiding his own poor bed and needing it at the same time.

He sat up, and after the wave of dizziness passed he made his way to the door, using a wall for support. He banged on the door with his fist. "Oy!" he yelled. "Who's in charge here?"

A panel in the door slid open, and Vimes saw two eyes behind it. "Why am I being held?" he asked. He couldn't remember saying anything offensive to the Patrician this time, but that didn't mean the old tyrant hadn't taken offense. Did I finally push him too far this time? He wondered.

The panel closed. "Hey!" he yelled, but there was no answer. He would have preferred to try to escape, but he lay down instead. The trip to the door and back to the cot had worn him out, and he slept heavily.

His eyes were accustomed to the dim light when he woke, and he could just make out a figure standing in the darkness in the corner of the cell.

"Who's there?" he asked.

Whoever it was remained silent. "Who are you?" Vimes asked, sitting up. He had to close his eyes against the dizzy spell that hit him, and when he opened them the person was still there.

"Have you made your will, Commander?" Vimes heard a familiar voice ask.

"Patrician?" Vimes asked.

"Have you made your will?" the Patrician asked. Vimes couldn't see his face clearly, but he could imagine the self-satisfied smirk he got when he got the best of him.

"No," he said. "I don't really own anything. It all belongs to Sybil."

Vetinari tossed him a pad of paper and a pencil. "I would suggest you put your time to good use. Surely even you have some worldly effects." He turned a left with a soft sound of the rustle of silk.

Vimes felt panic building. Being killed wasn't something he was afraid of, but being toyed with by the Patrician was. There were rumors – dark stories about things that had happened in these dungeons.

Vimes was an active man, partly by nature and partly by choice. He didn't like stopping long enough to be stuck with his own thoughts. Paperwork had to be done, the chits would need signing, and he would have liked to at least brief Captain Carrot before he died.

I'm going to die, he thought, and he rolled the idea around in his head. He'd nearly died too many times to count, but that was different. He'd never had time to really think about it before. When someone was trying to cut his head off he was too busy either fighting, planning, or running to think about mortality.

He fiddled with the pencil. Any document made in pencil wouldn't be legal. What is Vetinari playing at? The business with the will didn't matter. He'd signed a pre-nup before he married Sybil. She hadn't asked for one, but he'd insisted. He didn't care what the nobles thought about him, but he didn't want her to ever wonder if he'd married her for her money. In case of her death it would all go to her brother, and he would go back to being a penniless Watchman. That was fine with him. Life without her would be empty anyway.

But there were a few small things he would have wanted to give his friends. He chewed on the end of the pencil. Maybe if he wrote out the will Vetinari would see it carried out. Probably not, but what else did he have to do in a dungeon?

He left his truncheon to Carrot. It was a symbol of leadership. That truncheon had been used on skulls, broken a few bones, and been carried on more miserable nights around the city. It had seen everything he'd done as a cop – for better or worse.

He left Cheery his badge. She'd always felt a bit out of place, even if she loved the watch, and he hoped it might give her some inspiration.

He couldn't think of anything Agua or Detritus might want from him, so he simply left them a personal note saying how much he thought of them and what he expected of them in the future.

Reg Shoe was a problem – as always. He didn't need anything, but he was desperately insecure as an undead. He settled for leaving any body parts Reg might want to have installed by an Igor left to him. The zombie's own arm did fall off regularly. Maybe he'd have more luck with another one.

He left another note for Colon and Nobbs. He told a few lies about how much the Watch needed them, and he resisted the urge to lecture Nobbs about stealing on duty.

And that was it. All he had in the world boiled down to a small bit of memories to leave a few friends. He hadn't wanted money. He didn't really know what he'd wanted out of life, but he supposed he'd gotten most of it. He'd left the slums and brought some measure of justice to Ankh-Morpork. And he had Sybil. She was the best thing he'd ever done with his life.

He tossed the pad under his bed. There wasn't any use in thinking more about such a useless task. He slept, waking occasionally at any small sound. Mice wandered into the cell and left, but nothing else moved. He'd lost track of time when someone opened the door, letting in light.

He'd been in the dark so long he had to close his eyes against the brightness, and when he opened them he recognized a palace guard. The guard set a bowl of something steaming, a loaf of bread, a piece of cheese, and a large pitcher of water near him. He noticed with approval that the guard kept a wary eye on him.

"Why am I being held?" he asked.

The guard simply backed out of the dungeon. Vimes heard the loud clank of the door, and he turned his attention to his food. He was suspicious. Too many people wanted to kill him for him to take food willingly from strangers, but he didn't have a choice now. He could starve himself, but it wouldn't do him any good.

He sniffed the bowl apprehensively. He knew that if there was poison in it he wouldn't smell it, but he was used to smelling his food before he ate it. He usually bought the cheapest food possible, and he'd eaten a few rotten bites of food and been violently ill as a child. He'd smelled everything he'd ever eaten ever since. Sybil grumbled about it occasionally, but it wasn't a habit he could break, or one that he really wanted to.

It smelled good, better than anything he'd eaten before he met Sybil. She had the money to buy good food, and even though he still preferred the rough food of the streets he knew quality when it was put in front of him.

It had chicken and fresh vegetables. Who gives this sort of food to prisoners? He wondered as he broke a piece of bread from the loaf. He was used to the black bread sold by vendors, so hard it had to be broken on a table before it could be soaked and eaten. Some of the tougher loaves broke bits off the table. Someone wanted him in good physical shape – probably the Patrician. He either doesn't really want me dead, or he wants me to live a long time before he kills me.

Bread was one of the few trappings of the nobility that he truly enjoyed, and one of the only things he allowed Sybil to buy for him. She knew how important it was for him to live on his own wages.

He could have eaten twice as much. When did I eat last? He wondered. He couldn't remember. Carrot had given him some beans and bread…two days ago? He'd been too busy to eat, and Carrot had refused to do anything else until he physically supervised Vimes quickly slurping down the luke-warm lunch while he sorted through reports with one hand.

He almost immediately felt strength returning. I shouldn't do this to myself, he thought, but there just hadn't been a chance to slow down. Crime didn't sleep. It was one of the fundamental truths of being a policeman. Man of the city – that's what he was, and the city was a demanding mistress. She asked everything of him, and he gave everything to her.

The guard came later to remove the bowls. It seemed more thoughtful than a guard should be. Someone wants this place kept habitable, Vimes thought.

He heard sounds outside eventually – the movement of a large key in a sturdy lock. He turned his head away from the door so the light wouldn't blind him again, and when the door closed he looked at the Patrician standing just inside the cell.

"What's going on here?" Vimes asked.

"Did you eat?" the Patrician asked.

"What are you doing?" Vimes asked. "I have work to do out there. The city needs me."

"Did you eat?" the Patrician asked, and Vimes recognized the inflection in his voice. It was an irritation that only he could give, and he couldn't help but smirk. Whatever Vetinari was up to, Vimes could still get to him. He decided not to bait him until he knew more.

"I ate," he said. "It was better food than I'm used to. Do you treat all your prisoners like this?"

"You're a fool, Vimes," the Patrician said.

"I've been called worse. Are we just doing this for your enjoyment?"

"You're on my time now," the Patrician said. "I've had enough of your insolence for awhile. I give you an enormous amount of leeway, and in return you treat yourself so badly I have to take my precious time teaching you."

"Teaching me?" Vimes asked. The nerve of this guy! He thought.

"Yes!" the Patrician said. "I think you've forgotten a few important things, if you ever knew them."

"What are these things I'm supposed to learn then?" Vimes asked, his voice louder than was wise.

"How to be a good dog," the Patrician said. "Don't say anything," he said when Vimes opened his mouth. "I've had people killed for so much less annoyance than you give me routinely. You've forgotten your place, Commander, and I'm going to remind you."

He turned and left without allowing Vimes to respond. There was something about certain people, a presence that fills a room. Vetinari was one of those people, and his absence could be felt as strongly as his presence.

What the hell is he doing? Vimes wondered.

There were too many things to think about. Sybil was first in his mind, even before the Watch. The Watch would have trouble, but it would go on – probably. Sybil needed him as much as he needed her, and she'd come home to find him gone. He hoped the Patrician would at least give her some lie so that she would have closure. Maybe he would at least let his body be buried. He might actually even honor his will.

I've failed her, Vimes thought. She deserved better than this.

They all deserved better than this. She deserved a husband who didn't end up in a dungeon. Carrot deserved a Commander who didn't desert him, and his city deserved a Watch Commander that could protect it.

Can Carrot do it? He wondered. He could, but Vimes would have rather helped him into the position. He'd always meant to do that, but it was always something that could be done tomorrow.

The guard brought him food again, and Vimes couldn't get him to talk. He would have even welcomed an insult by now – any human voice would do.

When Vetinari came back he told the guard to come in with him. Vimes saw that the guard was carrying rope and cloth, and he prepared for a fight. He wasn't going to be bound without at least trying to fight back.

Vetinari flicked his hand quickly, and Vimes saw a small blur just before something stung him in the neck. He fell sideways onto the cot, and he couldn't move his arms or legs.

The guard tied him tightly and used the cloth to gag him. Vimes had to settle for glaring at Vetinari until he could move.

"Bring in Ridicully," Vetinari said, and the guard guided the old wizard into the cell. His eyes had been covered with a blindfold, and he stumbled a bit.

"I could do more if I wasn't blindfolded," Ridicully said. "It's difficult to do magic blindfolded."

"That would be why I chose the most experienced wizard," Vetinari said. "You have the most power, and the most to lose. Just do the spell, and you can go home."

"Yes, my Lord. I need him placed in the middle of the room, and everything else should be taken out."

The guard lay Vimes on the floor and put the cot in the hall. "It's done," he said.

"I need to be alone with him," Ridicully said.

They left, and Ridicully took a piece of chalk from his pocket. He drew an outline around Vimes body, feeling with his hands to see where he was. He raised his staff and began to chant.

Vimes didn't mind wizards – usually. They stayed in their own circles, and except for a few memorable occasions they didn't cause much trouble. He didn't like one of them doing magic on him though. Whatever Vetinari had planned for him couldn't be good.

He began to rise from the ground, and he felt prickles through his body. Ridicully kept chanting, but his voice began to fade. Vimes could see his mouth moving, but he couldn't hear any sound.

Then his vision went, and he completely panicked. He tried to struggle, but he was still tied. He finally quit fighting and decided to wait until something else happened.

The tingling sensation went away, and he felt nothing. Someone untied his arms and legs, but he still couldn't move them.

He didn't know how long he lay there. Time stopped flowing for him, and all he knew was that he would die like this. Is Vetinari trying out a new torture technique on me? He wondered. It would be like him to have his fun with someone that irritated him.

He began to see things that he knew couldn't be real. Dragons floated in front of him, and he flinched as their flames came toward him. The fire dissipated, and he watched the colors swirl around him.

He tried to sleep, but he couldn't. His bladder filled, and eventually he couldn't hold it any more. I must have been here a long time, he thought. He didn't even feel the warmth or smell the urine as it left him, just a sense of emptiness that told him it was gone. That was one hell of a spell, he thought.

He felt himself falling, and he managed to turn and land on his shoulder just before he hit the cold floor of the dungeon. Every sensation was welcome: the hardness of the floor, the dark colors of the room around him, even the smell of his own urine.

"How did you like being dead?" he heard the Patrician asked.

Vimes was even glad to hear his voice after being so divorced from the world.

"I asked Ridicully to create a spell for me that would simulate death. This was what he came up with. He said removing sensation would be like death. Did you like being like the dead, Vimes?"

"You bastard," Vimes said. He didn't care if he made the Patrician mad or not. "Why did you do that?"

"You seem so bent on destroying yourself. I thought I'd let you see where this is going. You don't seem to care if you die, but I'll bet you might care a bit more now."

"Is this about what happened in your office?" Vimes asked.

"It's remarkably hard to keep your attention," the Patrician said. "Let's get something straight. The city needs you, and what the city needs I need. I take what I need, Vimes. There are others out there that need you too. Do you even think of Sybil when you do this?"

"No," Vimes said. "I don't. I just don't have the time to stop and think sometimes."

"You'll have time now," the Patrician said. "You're to report to the Watch and then go home. You're on paid leave for a week, and I will be checking on you."

Vimes was so relieved to be released that he didn't even risk a quip at the Patrician's expense.

"Come up to my office before you go," the Patrician said.

As he was leaving Vimes heard the Patrician tell the guard, "bring him a change of clothes and a wash basin."

Vimes was worn out, but he made sure he went to the Patrician's office before he went home. He didn't want to irritate him further.

The Patrician glanced up when Vimes entered and motioned toward a chair. Vimes sat and waited as the Patrician finished his paperwork.

The Patrician handed Vimes some papers. "These are the complaints we've had against the Watch since you've been indisposed. I think you'll see that they can't get along without you as easily as you might think."

Vimes frowned as he looked over the paperwork. "Was there a riot?"

"Ah, you'd be looking at the destruction of property forms. It seems that Constable Detritus was attempting to capture a thief and destroyed several businesses, and that your on-the-scene-dwarf actually blew a scene up when she was using flammable chemicals." The Alchemist Guild has a few things to say on that matter.

"On a related matter, there have also been complaints against Corporal Nobbs for… well, a great many things. It seems without you there to control them they aren't really up to the job. Young Carrot needs more instruction than you've given him. People follow him willingly, but he doesn't always know where to lead them."

"I'll speak with them," Vimes said.

"After you'd gone home and had your rest," Vetinari said. "I'm serious about this. I've spent enough time with you for the time being. I don't want you passing out in my office again."

"I will try to avoid that," Vimes said.

Vetinari leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "How old do you think I am?" the Patrician asked.

"I don't know," Vimes said. "50 or so?"

"It would surprise you to know that I'm 85 years old then?" the Patrician asked.

That's one question answered, Vimes thought.

"That is surprising," Vimes said.

"I have the body of a younger man because I take care of myself. You have the body of an old man because you don't. Those who depend on you deserve better."

Vimes would have argued with him if he could have, but there were nothing to be said. He was happier than usual when Vetinari released him.

Captain Carrot gave him such a hearty hug that he might have bruised a few ribs. He had difficulty explaining what had happened, but eventually they all understood. Detritus never quite got it, but he caught on that Vimes had been punished for some reason.

He gave them the necessary corrections because of the complaints and headed home. He would have rather gotten to work, but he knew that the Patrician would find out, and he didn't want to see what happened when he was really angry.

He knew when he got back he had an enormous amount of work to do – even more than usual. He cursed the Patrician under his breath.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

His wife returned early, and he was glad to see her. "I was only able to stay for a short time," she said. "Unfortunately, the dragon exploded."

She held up a jar with a green blob floating in it. "They let me take the gland that makes fire. I'm going to study it. It's different than the swamp dragons' gland." She prattled on about dragons, and Vimes just watched her.

Vimes smiled at his passionate wife. "Did you like Klatch then?" he asked.

"I met some very nice people. They had horrible foreign food, and too much sand, but it was very nice otherwise."

She busied herself putting her souvenirs in various places around the living room. "What did you do while I was gone?" she asked.

"Oh…I rested," Vimes said.

Sybil stopped and looked at him with uncharacteristic suspicion. "You rested? You?"

"It was the Patrician's idea," Vimes said wryly.

"Ah," she said. "I asked Havelock to look after you while I was gone."

"You…really?" Vimes asked. He was furious whenever the Patrician talked to Sybil about him. He knew the old buzzard used her to manipulate him, but he also knew that Sybil had just been looking out for his health. She was too naïve to manipulate anyone.

"Of course," she said. "You do need looking after occasionally, and I know Havelock values you."

Vimes opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure of what to say.

"Now be a good dear and help me decide where to hang this new tapestry," she said, holding up a gaudy Klatchnian tapestry.

I'm never doing that again, Vimes thought as he remembered passing out in the Patrician's office. It wasn't that he cared about his body, but between the solid wall of uncertainty that was Ventinary and the hurricane that was his wife it would probably be easier to just take care of himself.