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of a sergeant’s stripes. “Where d’you live?”
    “Nowhere,” said Vimes. “I’ve just arrived. And shall we move right along? I don’t have a job and I don’t have any money. And neither of those is a crime.”
    “Out after curfew? No visible means of support?” said the sergeant.
    “I got my legs,” said Vimes.
    “At the moment, hur, hur,” said one of the men. He stopped when Vimes looked at him.
    “I want to make a complaint, sergeant,” said Vimes.
    “What about?”
    “You,” said Vimes. “And the Brothers Grin here. You’re not doing it right. If you’re going to arrest someone, you take charge right away. You’ve got a badge and a weapon, yes? And he’s got his hands up, and a guilty conscience. Everyone’s got a guilty conscience. So he’s wondering what you know and what you’re going to do, and what you do is fire off the questions, sharply. You don’t make silly jokes, ’cos that makes you too human, and you keep him off balance so he can’t quite think a clear sentence, and, above all, you don’t let him move like this and grab your arm and pull it up so it almost breaks like this and grab your sword and hold it to your throat like this. Tell your man to lower that sword, will you? The way he’s waving it around, he could hurt someone.”
    The sergeant gurgled.
    “Right,” said Vimes. “Oh, sergeant…this is a sword ? Ever sharpen it? What do you use it for, bludgeoning people to death? Now, what you’re going to do is, you’re all going to put your weapons on the ground over there, and then I’m going to let the Sarge go and I’ll leg it up that alley, okay? And by the time you’ve got your weapons, and believe me I’d advise you to get hold of weapons before coming after me, I’ll be well away. End of problem all round. Any questions?”
    All three watchmen were silent. Then Vimes heard a very faint, very close noise. It was the sound of the hairs in his ears rustling as, with great care, the tip of a crossbow bolt gently entered his ear.
    “Yes, sir, I have a question,” said a voice behind him. “Do you ever listen to your own advice?”
    Vimes felt the pressure of the crossbow against his skull, and wondered how far the arrow would go if the trigger was pulled. An inch would be far too far.
    Sometimes you just had to take the lumps. He dropped the sword with great and exaggerated care, released his grip on the sergeant, and stepped away meekly while the fourth watchman maintained his aim.
    “I’ll just stand with my legs apart, shall I?” he said.
    “Yeah,” growled the sergeant, turning around, “yeah, that’ll save us a bit of time. Although for you , mister, we’ve got all night. Well done, Lance Constable. We’ll make a watchman of you yet.”
    “Yeah, well done,” said Vimes, staring at the young man with the bow. But the sergeant was already taking his run-up.

     

    It was later. Pain had happened.
    Vimes lay on the hard cell-bed and tried to make it go away. It hadn’t been as bad as it might be. That mob hadn’t even been able to organize a good seeing-to. They didn’t understand how a man could roll with the punches, and half the time they were getting in their own way.
    Was he enjoying this? Not the pain. He’d pass on the pain. In fact he’d passed out on the pain. But there was that small part of him he’d heard sometimes during strenuous arrests after long chases, the part that wanted to punch and punch long after punching had already achieved its effect. There was a joy to it. He called it The Beast. It stayed hidden until you needed it and then, when you needed it, out it came. Pain brought it out, and fear. He’d killed werewolves with his bare hands, mad with anger and terror and tasting, deep inside, the blood of The Beast…and it was sniffing the air.
    “’Ullo, Mister Vimes, haha. I was wondering when you’d wake up.”
    He sat up sharply. The cells were barred on the corridor side, but also between cells as well, on