Vimes prodded the food around his plate with the silver fork, completely distracted. His interview with Rincewind had been fairly unhelpful. The wizard's guarded replies and expression of glazed fear didn't make for a particularly enlightening interrogation. It had been incredibly easy for the wizard to break in; all the safeguards in place from the lectern that would rip to shreds any unwanted newcomer to the huge iron doors had been off. Strange... He felt Sybil's eyes on him and looked up, giving her a weak smile. Conversation... conversation...

"So... How do you and Ahmed...Uh, know each other?"

Sybil smiled faintly. "Oh, the getting to know you balls when I was younger were possibly the biggest social event on my school calender. Assassin's Guild students are always considered an excellent catch for anyone attending Miss Martin's Finishing School for Young Ladies. The getting to know you balls were carefully arranged by Doctor Follet and Miss Martin. It took me a minute to recognise Ahmed. He was such a handsome young man when I knew him then. All those scars..." she finished, shaking her head.

Almost instinctively Vimes's hand snaked up to the most visible scar on his own face, the one which ran across his eye. He'd never been particularly self-conscious about his scars (he'd collected rather too many for that to be a viable option) but he did regret receiving the knife wound to his face, not least because he occasionally worried that his eyesight had been affected by it. Sometimes during lulls in activity he would spend a worrying twenty minutes covering one eye and then the other, focussing on the same spot on the wall, trying to see if there was a noticeable difference between one eye and the other...

.... Not that he would ever admit that to anyone of course.

Sybil looked up again to see him stroking the still angry red line. "Don't pick at it!" she scolded.

Vimes desisted, transferring his attention to his son. He was lying in the horrible basket made from reeds someone had had the audacity to give them as a wedding present. However, it had come in useful for ferrying Sam about the house. He was lying awake under a thin blanket; huge blue eyes apparently staring at a ceiling he probably couldn't focus on yet. He looked fairly relaxed; happy in a dazed kind of way. Vimes felt a stab of ridiculous jealousy: how fantastic it must be to simply lie, to have two willing slaves on hand the moment you opened your mouth to call them, any hour of the day or night...

He made a face at the baby. Sam's eyes locked on his face as Vimes stuck out his tongue. He heard Sybil suppress a chuckle, which he ignored. No one believed Vimes could ever be anything other than cynical, depressive, angry... but most people never spoke to Vimes without breaking bad news, giving him updates on crime, or argued with him. In the average week Vimes dealt with at least two people trying to kill him. That kind of situation didn't sit well with a 'chirpy loveable city-sparrow' personality that other coppers from a similar background to Sam Vimes sometimes developed.

To be honest, Vimes always had the urge to thump people with such exuberant personalities, but at home he did try at least to leave behind the 'right-bastard' side of his identity that ran the Watch where it belonged: in the Watch House.

He waggled his ears, apparently in intense concentration. Sam Vimes junior reached out with a tiny hand. Vimes allowed his son to grip his little finger, marvelling at the tiny replicas of his own digits in a most uncharacteristic manner.

It was good to be home.

*

Constable Shoe was not the sort of officer to become flustered in a tense situation. He had a cool patience that was only available to the deceased. He'd been on guard for nearly eight hours, but he resisted the urge to look at his pocket watch to see whether his shift was nearly over. It was nearly twelve o'clock.

A stone rattled the only remaining window in the house. He ignored it. He could hear the sound of young voices outside, shouting something. Another stone bounced through a smashed window pane and skittered across the floor. Reg frowned.

"Washpot, check that out will you?"

Visit nodded and went outside. There was a crowd of kids gathered outside, dressed in traditional Ankh-Morpork street garb: whatever rags could be tied on. The oldest of them looked about eight. He gave Visit a look of cocky defiance that looked strange on his small face. The cropping of his hair to prevent lice gave the boy's head an even more shrunken look.

Visit opened his mouth and someone hit him very hard on the back of his head, so hard in fact that they dented his helmet. He hit the cobbles as Omar slid his staff back under his coat. "Thanks," Omar said to the collection of kids. "Here you go." He threw some coins which the children scattered after.

Ahmed, stationed on the roof of the house, grinned without humour. The pigeon which he had been clutching tightly cooed softly. He threw it into the air. Omar's head snapped up as the whir of wings echoed down the street but seemed to relax when he realised what the source of the noise was.

Noiselessly as a cat Ahmed shifted position, preparing to jump as Omar headed for the door. He leapt. Omar, as if he had been expecting this all along, sidestepped neatly. Ahmed hit the cobbles and had the sense to roll away immediately. Omar's staff came whistling through the air, nearly hitting Ahmed.

Ahmed came up, sword sliding from its scabbard. Omar grinned, changing the grip on his staff to brandish it like a blade. His brown eyes glittered with an unnameable emotion.

"Come quietly Omar," Ahmed muttered in Klatchian.

"I don't think so," Omar replied, quite calmly. Fire flashed in his eyes.

Blue sparks crackled down the length of his staff. It was a metal one, unusual in wizards who often preferred Sapient Pearwood. Ahmed raised his sword quickly as the sparks spluttered loudly in the quiet, casting a blue light in the dark street.

He swung the staff humming through the air. Ahmed bought his sword round to meet it, gripping the handle tightly; knowing that the thick metal would jar the blade and knock it out of his hands unless he gripped hard on the hilt of his sword.

The crackling blue sparks leapt from staff to sword, leaping down the blade and into the astonished Ahmed's hands. He shook, trying to wrench his sword free as the charge built up. There was a shrill buzzing as Omar's face contorted with fury and Ahmed flew backwards, sword still gripped in white knuckled hands. There was a faint sizzling as Ahmed hit a crumbling wall and was showered in dust and mortar. Blood tracked slowly down the side of his face from under his turban.

Omar peered through the ravaged doorway as Reg Shoe appeared, his own sword raised. Omar sighed slightly, zombies were notoriously difficult to take down. He bought the staff round again and caught Reg across the side of his head. The stitching on his grey-green neck, not particularly good as it had been rather difficult for Reg to see when he had last stitched his neck, split. The force of the blow would have been enough to break the neck of a normal human, and it was no different for Reg. The difference was that he remained fully conscious and not in any real amount of pain. However, with his head now only partially attached to his body and hanging at a ninety degree angle he wasn't in a position to stop Omar from bringing the staff up again and smashing him over the head with it. Reg hit the floor as Omar ran his hand over the crumbling brickwork inside the house.

He muttered something and the bricks shook, working themselves loose from their thin layer of cement a flying out of the way, hitting Reg who was attempting to get back up again, steadying his head with his hands. There was thick stone behind the brickwork, but Omar was a master scholar. Stone was sometimes easier than brickwork, stone which remembered a time when it had been hot and runny.

The rough blocks hummed, turning a dark red, then orange, then a ruddy yellow. Quite suddenly they were no longer rough cut blocks but running liquid, seeping away to leave a man sized hole in what had been a wall nearly six feet thick.

Inside there was a faint glow of Octarine light. Omar heard the screech as the lectern, shaped liked an eagle suddenly came to life, fixing him with a shining silver eye, flexing metal claws as the pages of the book chained to its back rustled like a roost of starlings.

Omar raised his staff and shouted the words of power. The eagle snarled at him as if it knew his purpose, but obedient to the spells that governed it, it became solid once more. All except its eye, which swivelled to follow the errant wizard malevolently.

The Watchmen and wizards behind the door knew what was going on by now. The pigeon set free by Ahmed had reached its destination, guards were headed in Omar's direction from all parts of the city. He could hear them shouting from behind the huge iron doors; the many bolts and chains, locks and seals were hampering them from reaching him. Omar gave them a big smile through the tiny barred grill in the door as he unlocked the chains with a tiny key. It twisted and smoked in every lock, moulding itself to the right shape.

When a real wizard wants to do some damage there is very little that can be done to stop him. The whole purpose of founding Unseen University had been to keep the wizards together; in bickering amongst themselves in the name of study they had been kept from doing further damage to the Disc itself. Behind the big dinners and unkempt beards, robes that had seen better days and adapted hats, bottle-bottom glasses and oil stained hands from spending too long in the guts of various machines in the HEM building, not to mention Hex, there was a raw power instilled or simply inherent in the men and boys that this building practically imprisoned with its security; its regular meals and washed socks, made beds and warm fires. Unleashed, as it so rarely was nowadays, it could be unstoppable.

The Octavo freed from its chains, Omar hefted the weighty book in one hand, smiling still, and walked back through the hole in the wall. He melted away into the dark shadows and was gone by the time the back-up for the Visit and Shoe arrived, summoned by Ahmed's pigeon. The whole theft, from the first stone hitting the window, had taken less than ten minutes.

*

The pigeon sent on from the yard had flown in through an open window, startling Vimes and Lady Sybil. It was the prepared message from Ahmed; Vimes grinned. Omar had wasted no time in getting straight down to business. Vimes was confident that Ahmed could hold him long enough for back-up to arrive. He screwed up the slip of paper and gave Sybil an apologetic smile. "Go on," she said, making a shooing motion with her hand, "I know it's urgent." She paused for a moment and then added slightly more softly, "Hurry back?"

"Of course," he replied, slightly gratified she had added the question.

It took him five minutes to get to the back of the University. He didn't want to arrive wheezing so he jogged most of the way, walking quickly in some of the more crowded areas. He sped up slightly when he heard the shouting, and arrived in the middle of what appeared to be mass panic.

There was no one above the rank of Corporal at the scene; Igor was tending to a watchman lying on the ground, Vimes couldn't see who through a forest of legs. "Hey!" he shouted.

Heads snapped round and relief was suddenly writ large on every face. "Commander Vimes!"

"What the hell is going on here?" Vimes asked.

Panicked though his officers might be they remained obedient to their training. Corporal Littlebottom saluted nervously and began explaining. But Vimes didn't need to hear everything, he could already guess exactly what had happened.

Igor had 'stabilised' Visit and was tending to Ahmed. Vimes hunkered down next to him, touching his shoulder lightly. Ahmed didn't seem quite able to focus and there was blood crusted all around his face. He didn't look good, crumpled like a ragdoll against a wall as Igor examined him quickly.

"I am.... sorry... your grace..."

"Don't start talking like that, Ahmed," Vimes said easily, "How did this happen?"

Ahmed, clinging to consciousness by sheer will power smiled thinly through the hazy pain. "Always a... copper... Sam Vimes.... magic... staff... sparks. He has... the book..." Ahmed's eyes rolled back into his head and his head flopped slightly to one side.

Vimes didn't need to tell Igor how important it was for Ahmed to survive, he simply nodded to the doctor and stood up. Angua had arrived, looking somewhat dishevelled quite probably from a quick Change, and had ordered some of the watchmen away. Vimes trusted her judgement; he waited until she had supervised the stretcher-bearers who carried away Visit before touching her shoulder. She jerked around, looking as if she were about to react violently to his touch, but she curbed her instinct when she saw who it was. Vimes dropped his hand immediately. "Sorry," he said, knowing Angua could be... touchy sometimes when nervous.

"No, I apologise sir. I followed the trail as soon as we knew he'd got the book. He dropped a scent bomb unfortunately... but there is another away to find him..."

Vimes turned, following her gaze.

"Hi," said Rincewind, giving Vimes a little wave, face a picture of misery.

"You can help?" Vimes sounded incredulous.

"The Octavo emits Octarine. For a wizard Omar's trail is just a case of follow the glowing light." Rincewind sighed, looking along the street filled with the light trail. He'd had enough experiences with the Octavo to last him a lifetime and underneath all his worries about the blasted book there was a gnawing fear about what /could/ happen. Rincewind met Vimes's eyes, and Vimes saw the unregarded terror therein.

"What?" Vimes asked hoarsely.

"If he reads from the book..." Rincewind began.

"We don't know if he's going to do that," Angua interjected quickly.

Rincewind gave her a grey look. "Trust me on this. If he's stolen the Octavo, he's not taken it to get it recovered by an antique book specialist. He's going to read the spells. If he does then there's a fairly large chance that creatures from the Dungeon Dimensions could break through." Rincewind shuddered in remembrance.

"That doesn't sound good," Vimes said.

"It wouldn't be. Believe me on that."

"Then we have to stop him. You're our eyes and ears, Mr. Rincewind," Vimes said firmly.

"I was afraid of that," Rincewind muttered.

"Get the wizards in on this," Vimes continued, talking now to Angua. "From what Ahmed said he seems to be using a lot of magic to cause this much damage."

"Carrot's already sorting it sir," Angua replied.

Vimes grinned mirthlessly, reflecting briefly on the capability of his officers. "Right. Lead away then, Rincewind."

Rincewind closed his eyes, wondering if his chances of survival would be any better if he told Vimes 'no.' Not much better, he decided, opening his eyes again and pointing.

"That way."