Snuff

all the pots, carved with little flowers and
     washed with tears.’ ”
    Drumknott, with meticulous timing, put a cup of
     coffee in front of his master just as Lord Vetinari finished the sentence and
     looked up. “ ‘The dreadful algebra of necessity,’ Drumknott. Well, we know about
     that, don’t we?”
    â€œIndeed we do, sir. Incidentally, sir, we have
     received a missive from Diamond King of Trolls, thanking us for our firm stance
     on the drugs issue. Well done, sir.”
    â€œHardly a concession,” Vetinari observed, waving it
     away. “You know my position, Drumknott. I have no particular objection to people
     taking substances that make them feel better, or more contented or, for that
     matter, see little dancing purple fairies—or even their god if it comes to that.
     It’s their brain, after all, and society can have no claim on it, providing
     they’re not operating heavy machinery at the time. However, to sell drugs to
     trolls that actually make their heads explode is simply murder, the capital
     crime. I am glad to say that Commander Vimes fully agrees with me on this
     issue.”
    â€œIndeed, sir, and may I remind you that he will be
     leaving us very shortly. Do you intend to see him off, as it were?”
    The Patrician shook his head. “I think not. The man
     must be in terrible turmoil, and I fear that my presence might make things
     worse.”
    Was there a hint of pity in Drumknott’s voice when
     he said, “Don’t blame yourself, my lord. After all, you and the commander are in
     the hands of a higher power.”

H is Grace, the Duke of
     Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, was feverishly
     pushing a pencil down the side of his boot in order to stop the itching. It
     didn’t work. It never did. All his socks made his feet itch. For the hundredth
     time he considered telling his wife that among her sterling qualities, and they
     were many, knitting did not feature. But he would rather have chopped his foot
     off than do so. It would break her heart.
    They were dreadful socks, though, so thick, knotted
     and bulky that he had had to buy boots that were one and a half times bigger
     than his feet. And he did this because Samuel Vimes, who had never gone into a
     place of worship with religious aforethought, worshipped Lady Sybil, and not a
     day went past without his being amazed that she seemed to do the same to him. He
     had made her his wife and she had made him a millionaire; with her behind him
     the sad, desolate, penniless and cynical copper was a rich and powerful duke.
     He’d managed to hold on to the cynical, however, and a brace of oxen on steroids
     would not have been able to pull the copper out of Sam Vimes; the poison was in
     too deep, wrapped around the spine. And so Sam Vimes itched, and counted his
     blessings until he ran out of numbers.
    Among his curses was doing the paperwork.
    There was always paperwork. It is well known that
     any drive to reduce paperwork only results in extra paperwork.
    Of course, he had people to do the paperwork, but
     sooner or later he had, at the very least, to sign it and, if no way of escape
     presented itself, even read it. There was no getting away from it: ultimately,
     in all police work, there was a definite possibility that the manure would hit
     the windmill. The initials of Sam Vimes were required to be on the paper to
     inform the world that it was his windmill, and therefore his manure.
    But now he stopped to call through the open door to
     Sergeant Littlebottom, who was acting as his orderly.
    â€œAnything yet, Cheery?” he said,
     hopefully.
    â€œNot in the way I think you mean, sir, but I think
     you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve just had a clacks message from Acting
     Captain Haddock down in Quirm, sir. He says he’s getting on fine, sir, and
     really enjoying the avec.” *
    Vimes sighed. “Anything else?”
    â€œDead as a doorknob, sir,” said the dwarf, poking
     her head around the door. “It’s the heat, sir, it’s too hot to fight and too
     sticky to steal. Isn’t that wonderful, sir?”
    Vimes grunted. “Where there are policemen there’s
     crime, sergeant, remember that.”
    â€œYes, I do, sir, although I think it sounds better
     with a little reordering of the words.”
    â€œI suppose there’s no chance at all that I’ll be let