Sam Vimes sat down gingerly on the uncomfortably over-stuffed armchair, wincing slightly as he knocked his now re-splinted arm. The sound of the rain pattering on the cabbage fields outside was clearly audible through the walls of the small cottage. Opposite him Sybil was knitting something, occasionally rocking Sam's cradle with her foot.
It had been almost two weeks now since Vimes had found himself with no home, no leads and no desire to stay in Ankh-Morpork. There were Ramkin small-holdings scattered all over the Sto Plains, Vimes had never even considered them until now. This small cottage was cosy, although the new furnishings were uncomfortable. But it wasn't /home/, not for any of them. Sam couldn't sleep through the night, and Sybil suffered from terrible nightmares, and Vimes....
.... Vimes was beginning to regret coming here. He went to collect the Clacks everyday from the nearest tower to keep up with the news in Ankh-Morpork, to hear what information Carrot had on the perpetrators of the acts of terrorism. There wasn't much of it. Vimes itched to be back in the city, to find the people who had done this to his family and make them pay...
But he couldn't, he wouldn't risk their safety, and instead he sat in the horrible armchair every night, listening to the patter of rain on the cabbages, and worrying about whether he was far enough away from Ankh-Morpork and safely hidden.
He dozed in his armchair, lulled by the whisper of the water.
*
Renard sat shivering on the back of the cart, soaked to the skin. The rain dripped off his nose, mingling with the blood from his nose. He tried to squint through the silvery curtain of the bad weather with his one good eye. DeVant had not been happy with his failure to kill the Vimes family, and had sent some of his other operatives to remind him of this fact. Now he was headed out of the city to finish the job.
He jumped off the back of the cart and ran across the fields, feet slipping in the mud, occasionally sinking up to his knees in the mucky water of the irrigation ditches, eye fixed on the patch of light miles away in the middle of the rolling fields, his hand gripping his clockwork device tightly.
*
Vimes opened one eye as all the hairs in the back of his neck suddenly stood on end. He sat up and Sybil glanced up at him, stirred by his movement.
"Is something the matter?" she asked.
Vimes listened. There was no sound except for the rain that could be distinguished. All the hairs on the insides of his arms started to prickle. "I don't know," he answered, although he did, "Take Sam and hide in the cellar. I'll go and look outside."
He pushed open the front door and slipped out into the foul weather. It sounded peaceful in the warmth and light, but out here the ferocity of the weather suddenly became known. He was soaked to the skin in a matter of seconds.
A noise made him spin around, to see nothing but shadows and showers. He crept around the edge of the building, keeping his back to the wall. There were not footprints in the soft earth and he wondered if it was paranoia, maybe there really was nothing out here.
Another small noise made him turn again, and this time there was a figure standing there. Vimes rushed for him, knocking aside the knife the raised and forcing him against the wall. For once the hated splint worked as an advantage; he pressed the hard wood against the man's throat, effectively pinning him with Vimes's own forearm.
"Who are you?" he shouted over the noise of the rain.
"My name's Renard," choked the man, through bruised lips.
Vimes didn't remember what happened next very clearly. He was simply aware of his fist, unstoppable as a planet, hitting the man again and again as the fury washed over the levees of his mind. This /animal/ had nearly killed Sybil, had kept Angua locked in a cellar somewhere. He had killed all those innocent people....
The clockwork device skittered away in the mud as Vimes punched and kicked. He wasn't aware that his hands were no longer slippery with water but with blood too, he wasn't aware of the man screaming for mercy as he thumped him, he wasn't aware of anything much until someone calling his name behind him jerked him back into reality.
"Sam?"
It was Sybil, holding Vimes crossbow, the point wavered uncertainly.
The rage drained, the beast was shackled once more and Vimes looked at the alchemist for the first time. The man moaned and Vimes's attention was caught by his hands. They were covered in blood, even now being washed away by the rain.
"He was going to kill us," Vimes felt he had to explain.
"What are you going to do with him?" she asked.
Vimes's instinctive reaction would have been to take his crossbow, there and then, and end the madness all now. But he couldn't do that, he wouldn't be Commander Vimes anymore if he did that. The wheels of justice must turn to crush Mr. Renard, he knew that much. So instead he picked up the clockwork device from where it had splattered in the mud and waved it in front of the man's severely battered face.
"Is this safe?"
"I didn't set it," Renard murmured.
Vimes pulled him onto his feet, wrenching his arms behind his back before frog marching him into the cottage.
"Good gods, Sam," said Sybil when they got him into the light.
Vimes looked at Renard's face, bloodied and bruised. "I didn't do all of that," he said.
"What are you going to do now?" Sybil asked, still pointing the crossbow at the ex-alchemist.
Vimes tore a strip off his shirt and bound the man's hands, and then his feet. He pulled open the cellar trapdoor, dragged the near-unconscious Renard over to it and pushed him inside. The man sprawled on the floor as Vimes slammed the trapdoor shut. "A taste of his own medicine," Vimes said grimly. "He locked Angua up in a cellar with no light, let's see how he likes it."
Sybil knew better than to disagree. She put down the crossbow and picked up Sam. "Are we safe now?"
"I think so. I'll keep an eye out. What time is it?"
She glanced at the clock. "Half past eleven Sam."
"I'll stand watch then. It's not like I don't have the experience." He glanced down at his bloodied hands, and filthy clothes from his fight in the mud. "But first, I need a wash."
*
It was half past five in the morning. Vimes sat glued to his armchair, exhausted but still not daring to fall asleep, just in case. He could hear movement from the cellar. Renard had awoken. Perhaps it was time to talk to him...
Vimes opened the trapdoor with care. Renard was still bound and Vimes dragged him to his feet and pushed him roughly against the cellar wall, his face a few inches from the man's own.
"Who sent you?" he asked.
Renard said nothing and Vimes shook him a little back and forth.
"DeVant," he said eventually, wincing as if the shaking had aggravated a headache.
"Who the hell's DeVant?" growled Vimes.
"I don't know. I just work for him! I've never met him. He just sends me instructions and money. Now, can you hand me over to the Watch? Please, I won't make a fuss... just... don't leave me in this cellar."
