Sweetpea couldn't see the point of Corporal Flint having his own office, if Haddock did all the paperwork for him, but anyone you had to go up a flight of stairs to see had to be important. The door was cracked open, and she knocked hesitantly.

"Hello? Corporal?"

"Is dat der new lance-constable? Come in."

Sweetpea pushed the door open and entered the corporal's small office. Most of the room was taken up by Corporal Flint—he was an average size, as trolls go, with a shiny black sheen on his skin. (Or whatever it was that trolls had.) He waved a file at her.

"Just been lookin' at you file. Nothin' in it so far."

"Uh…"

"Dat's a good fing."

She smiled nervously. "Oh? Good."

He put the file down and folded his craggy hands together.

"You may have heard dat I can't write. Dat doesn't mean I can't read, or know everyfing dat's goin' on in my station. Since you on probation, another officer needs to be wid you at all times. You'll be on der schedule by tomorrow—better get used to lots o' night shifts."

"That's fine," she said quickly. Flint was…Well, what had she expected? He was a corporal, after all. As Angua had said—they wouldn't have put him in charge if he couldn't do it. One of her teachers at school, a rather unpleasant man named Professor Treble, was fond of saying that "No matter how smart you are, there's always going to be somebody smarter. And they might not even be literate."

Corporal Flint jerked his stony chin towards the door. "Dars likes you already. Dat's good. She a good judge of character. Haddock likes you, I fink, but Haddock likes everyone. Fittly may be annoyin', but he ain't a bad copper. You'll go on patrol wid everyone, even me. Understood?"

"Yes, corporal," said Sweetpea. Oh, boy. Patrol with Fittly.

"Since you ain't been through trainin', it'll be up to us to train you in der ways of basic copperin'." Corporal Flint leaned forward, and his desk creaked dangerously. "Here dey are: nobody above der law, not even you. No takin' bribes. Donuts is okay. Police brutality surest way to get you fired. Always assume people lyin'. You answer to me an' my superiors, not just anybody wid money who shouts."

Corporal Flint paused and looked down at his fingers. He appeared to be counting something. Then he nodded.

"Dat's about it. Der rest you'll learn on der job. You can go."

Sweetpea left the office feeling oddly pleased. Dars and Haddock liked her, and she liked them. The corporal seemed okay, and Fittly she could deal with. A bully that nobody likes is hardly any trouble. At school, she'd had more trouble telling who wasn't a bully. Not that everybody hated her, but combine a boy-girl ratio of 4:1, add a bit of casual racism, and stir in her relationship with Chelsea…and you got the recipe for an interesting five years.

Now the only member of the Treacle Mine Road squad she hadn't met was Constable Pediment. She was having all kinds of firsts today: first time meeting a duke, first time talking to a zombie, and now her first time talking to a gargoyle.

At the end of the second floor hallway was a ladder that went up through a hole in the ceiling. Daylight, filtered through the clouds and various other gases in the air, shone weakly through. Sweetpea climbed up it and poked her head out on the roof.

"'Eo," said a voice behind her. She sat on the edge of the hole and turned to see a lichen-encrusted gargoyle watching her.

"Constable Pediment?" she guessed.

"'ats 'e," he said. "'a-eem?"

Sweetpea did a quick mental translation and said, "Lance-Constable Hakim, yes."

The view wasn't bad from up here. Two stories up wasn't high enough to get out of the smog, which was thick and yellow even in the summer. Even so, you could see the pedestrians going by in the street below. On the other side of the station was the back of a brewery, and its enormous water tank.

"I can see why you like it up here," Sweetpea said to Constable Pediment. He shrugged, to indicate that he didn't have much of a choice. Behind him on the roof, Sweetpea saw a miniature clacks tower. She pulled herself fully onto the roof and went to check it out. Clacksing basics had been covered in one of her communications classes. She knew the code, and could even do rudimentary encryptions. The actual mechanics hadn't been taught.

"Hey, Pediment?" she said. "If I read out a message, can you send it to Pseudopolis yard for me?"

"'ure."

The gargoyle joined her at the clacks in a series of jerky movements, with little pauses in between. If you blinked rapidly, it would look like he was moving normally. Sweetpea wondered how fast he could move. Well, they did say that Pediment didn't go on patrol, but could he chase down criminals? A gargoyle coming towards you would be incentive for any would-be thief to just give up.

Pediment grasped the handles of the clacks machine and looked at her expectantly. She superfluously looked up at the shutters to make sure the lamp was lit, then pulled out her report.

"Right. Okay. This is for Corporal Pessimal. Statistics…needed…for…money… counterfeiting…in…last…year."

She waited while Pediment pulled the levers and caught up with her. This clacks tower had to be fairly new, but it looked like a strong wind could take it down. The light behind the shutters winked in time to the levers, and Sweetpea could practically see the information pass through the air to the tower several blocks over.

"'at's it?" Pediment asked.

"No. One more—this one's to Sergeant Angua. Ready? Permission…to…write… investigation…on…money…forging. There."

Pediment let go of the levers and moved, faster than Sweetpea would have thought possible, back to the comfort of his ledge. Sweetpea went to sit next to him, and dangled her legs over the edge of the roof.

"Now we just wait?"

Pediment nodded, his mouth gaping over the street.

"Might take a while. I know both of those officers are probably busy."

They sat there in companionable silence for a few moments. All sorts of interesting people were going by on the streets below. Trolls and dwarfs walked past each other very carefully, on opposite sides of the street. A woman leaned against a wall on the edge of the Shades, looking bored. If she was a seamstress, she was a long ways from home.

"I bet you see a lot of crimes being committed from up here," Sweetpea said. Pediment nodded. "How do you tell the rest of the squad what's—"

Pediment reached out a claw and pointed to a string on a hook right next to him. Sweetpea reached out to touch it, but Pediment gently stopped her. He ran his claw down the string, then pointed to the roof and said,

"'ing 'ing. 'ow 'ere."

"What?"

"'ing 'ing! 'Ell!"

"Oh, a bell! It connects to a bell?"

Pediment nodded, clearly pleased, and pointed to himself.

"Your idea?" Sweetpea asked. "Well, it was a good one."

There was a rattling sound from behind them, and Pediment jerked back over to the clacks. Sweetpea jumped up and read the message coming in. You could just barely see the lights winking at the other tower.

" S…stats…F O R…for… E…forge," she muttered. "4 6…46… S…cases…"

Pediment tapped her on the shoulder and handed her a piece of paper. Somehow, he had already decoded the message and written it out for her. How had he done that? The whole message hadn't even come in yet!

"Oh, thanks," she said, and read:

Stats for forge: 46 cases since money introduced. Minor cases not counted. Srg A says more info coming when other cases closed. Report OK to send to Times. Corp A.E.P.

"Just what I needed," she said to herself, and then patted Constable Pediment gently on the back, as to not hurt herself.

"Thanks for the help, constable. I'll see you later."

She stuck the clacks paper into her belt and headed back downstairs.

"Hakim, you've been here for eight hours," Constable Ironcrust said.

Sweetpea looked up from her desk, which was covered in ink and discarded pieces of paper.

"Um. Yes?"

In between working on her report, Sweetpea had gone out on another patrol, this time with Corporal Flint. They had rescued a cat from a tree and were given free sandwiches from a grateful Mr. Driver. Since Corporal Flint couldn't eat them, Sweetpea brought one back each for Haddock and Fittly. She had decided she was going to pretend that Fittly was just an ordinary copper (which he was, really) and maybe he would act like one.

"Your shift is over," Dars explained patiently. "Probationary officers can't be here more than eight hours, or the commander gets shirty when it's time to sign off the wage chitties."

"Eight hours? Really? But you've been here much longer than that."

Dars grinned evilly. She hadn't been off-duty all day, except when she'd ducked out for five minutes to grab a rat and chips.

"Yeah, but lance-constables don't qualify for over-time, do they? See you tomorrow."

Sweetpea stared down at her report. It was still only about a page and a half, but that was probably as good as it was going to get. After five years' training, she couldn't not edit something within an inch of its life.

"I won't be off-duty quite yet," she said. "There's something I've got to do first."

Gleam Street was only a few blocks away from the watch house. Sweetpea wondered if Sergeant Angua had done that on purpose, and then remembered that there had been a position open at Treacle Mine Road anyway. Perhaps it was just luck. The Gods did get involved, sometimes.

You couldn't miss the Times office—the outside of the building had a large sign, but the real indicator were all the people. Distributors with pushcarts shoved past each other shouting at dwarfs, trolls shouted to other trolls, and ordinary citizens who had "tips" for the paper were shouting at anybody who would listen. With her uniform on, Sweetpea found that if people didn't give her a wide berth, they at least didn't shove. She moved through the crowd like a minor prophet and reached the main doors. In front of them stood a short troll squeezed into a suit.

"They might be expecting me," she said hopefully, and flashed her badge for good measure. "I'm the new Press Liaison for the Watch?"

"Dat a question?" the troll asked shrewdly. Sweetpea was used to this from her teachers.

"I am the new Press Liaison," she corrected. "I have a report for the editors."

There was a pause as the troll thought.

"As it happens, dey is expecting you," he said, as if loath to reveal this information. "Go on inside."

He sidled away from the door, and Sweetpea gave him a half-salute before pushing the door open.

She hadn't even noticed the thumping before, which was amazing considering the noise of it in here. The behemoth press hulked before her like some monster from the dawn of time, except one made out of metal and copper and strange gyrating gears. With every thump it sent a paper sailing onto a neat stack.

"Can I help you?" somebody asked loudly. She looked over, and then down, at a dwarf. He (possibly he) looked even grumpier than Dars. He wore an apron, and held a spanner in his folded arms. Sweetpea suddenly felt as though she wasn't allowed to be in here, even though she had a very legitimate reason.

Wait, she was a copper. She could go anywhere.

She pulled the report out of her belt and showed it to the dwarf.

"I'm Lance-Constable Hakim. Can I see the editorial staff, please?"

The dwarf squinted at the report, and then up at her. "I suppose," he said grudgingly. "Follow me."

He led Sweetpea around the frame of the press to the offices beyond. The factory floor was divided up into cubicles by wood partitions. The dwarf wove his way through these and to the back wall, which was lined by a row of glass doors. As they reached one of the doors, it was thrown open by a blonde young man. He wore green tweed, and Sweetpea was sorry for him because the tweed had gotten to him so early in life.

"Sacharissa!" the man yelled, and then noticed them standing there.

"Oh, hello, Boddony. And—" he sighed when he saw Sweetpea. "What does the Watch want now?"

"To give you a report on counterfeiting, sir," said Sweetpea. She handed him the paper. "Those aren't the definitive numbers, but they're the best ones we've got at the moment. Lance-Constable Sweetpea Hakim. I'm told you were expecting me, Mr. de Worde?"

The man looked up from hastily scanning her report. "How did you know I was the editor?"

The tweed, Sweetpea thought, but said, "You looked in charge."

"Oh," said de Worde, looking embarrassed. "Is it because I shouted? I try not to shout too much—we've been trying to get this story on Borogravia done for days." He flapped the page Sweetpea had handed him. "This looks good. I'm not sure how I feel about Vimes assigning somebody just to deal with us, though. It's better to be able to ask him. We can write our own reports, you know."

"Look," said Sweetpea. "This is only my first day, so maybe I haven't found out enough about either side yet. But it seems to me that the commander is busy enough without you always bothering him. The Watch is working on some confidential cases that the public doesn't need to know everything about. Now, if there's anything you need to know, you can come to me."

"The Watch shouldn't have secrets—"

"Oh? Would you like to report the names of every victim of crimes that haven't been solved yet?" Sweetpea challenged. "Want to report the signature move of a serial killer so other people can copy them?"

Boddony sniggered, and de Worde glared at him.

"Haven't you got things to do, Boddony?" he asked.

The dwarf waved a hand dismissively, as if to show that he was already about to leave. De Worde watched him go and turned back to Sweetpea.

"I'm sorry," Sweetpea said instantly. "I want us to have a good working relationship. Look, Commander Vimes wouldn't assign somebody whose sole job it was to talk to you if he didn't want you to know things. He may not like you, but I think he trusts you."

"All right," said de Worde reluctantly. "It just feels like he thinks we need a babysitter. He's been that way ever since we first got started."

"I'm not going to be babysitting anyone," Sweetpea said firmly. "But we can do good work together—instead of working against each other. I've read some of your investigations. Like the meat-packing scandal. You practically did the Watch's work for them."

De Worde swelled with pride. "It's true that people will say things to a reporter they won't tell a Watchman," he conceded. "And there aren't any laws against reporters going undercover."

Not yet, Sweetpea thought, filing this away under "future things to discuss with Sergeant Angua".

"Anyway, I'm over at Treacle Mine Road for the next few weeks," she said. "I can be reached by c-mail, and I'll let you know once I've got a permanent spot at Pseudopolis Yard. I don't think anyone's quite sure of what my position is going to entail yet, since I'm the first person ever to hold it."

"So…we can really ask you for information about anything the Watch was involved in?" de Worde asked. He seemed to be warming up to the concept.

"Yes, within reason," Sweetpea encouraged. "Instead of risking getting shouted at by Commander Vimes, I'll send you anything you ask for. Provided it's cleared by one of the officers, of course."

De Worde stuck out his hand. "This could be the beginning of a…well, a quite beneficial partnership."

Sweetpea shook his hand. It was even more inkstained than hers.

"I'd better go, I'm on overtime as it is," she said. Unpaid overtime. "And you'd better get that report about Borogravia finished."

"Ah, thank you for reminding me!" de Worde said. He hurried over to the office next-door and rapped urgently at the door. "Sacharissa! Have you got that fact-checking on the war story done yet?"

Sweetpea saw herself out. She was quite ready to be off-duty. Being a copper all the time and upholding the Watch's honor could be exhausting.

It was nearly 7:30 by the time Sweetpea got home. Hasan wasn't there—it looked like he hadn't been able to foist the late shift off on his only employee Fatiha. There was a note from him on the table. Sweetpea grabbed it and fell onto the low couch to read it.

Sweetpea—

I'm working late tonight. I'm assuming that because you're not at home, you got the job? Congrats! I got the mail—looks like your test results are in. Also, you got a letter from a boy. I want to hear everything when I get home.

Hasan

Her test results already? That was unexpectedly fast. She'd expected to have at least a few days to agonize over what she'd put down for #17 on the codebreaking multiple-choice. She was so sure it'd been a pidgin cypher, but then again there was the slight chance that it might have been a Tacticarian…

She scrabbled for the small pile of envelopes on the table until she found the official-looking, cream-colored one. The seal was a dark brown, which she broke open with shaking fingers.

Filing – Pass

Codebreaking – Pass

Notetaking – Exemplary

Accountancy – Pass

Organization – Exemplary

Congratulations, you are now a fully-fledged member of the Clerk's Guild.

Also enclosed was a very fancy-looking certificate. It was covered in looping writing and several signatures, but what it all added up to was something Sweetpea had been telling people for days: she was a real clerk.

"Two exemplaries," she said to herself. "Ha! I knew Migrosoft wasn't going to fail me."

Buoyed by giddiness, she opened the other letter. It had no stamp, and the envelope simply bore her name. This meant that it had to have been hand-delivered. Sweetpea suddenly felt a dread at the pit of her stomach. It wasn't from Chelsea, was it?

Dear Sweetpea,

You're out at the moment, but I hope you'll get this before late tonight. I got my test scores back today—four exemplaries! A few of us are having a celebratory dinner at the Genuan place on Attic Bee Street at 7 pm. It'd be wonderful if you could join us.

John

Sweetpea lay back on the couch. On one hand, she was tired from a long day. On the other hand, he did like John, and going out with him would be fun. On another hand, "a few of us" might mean that Chelsea was there. On yet another hand, John knew her history with Chelsea. He wouldn't invite her if she was going to be there. How many hands was that now?

Sweetpea groaned and swung herself off the couch. She'd better get changed.