'One last thing, sir. Would you like me to say that if anyone saw anything suspicious they should tell you, sir?' said William.
'In this town? We'd need every man on the Watch just to control the queue. Just you be careful what you write, that's all.'
The two watchmen strode away, Carrot giving William a wan smile as he passed.
William busied himself in carefully scraping up Otto with two pages from his notebook and depositing the dust in the bag the vampire used to carry his equipment.
Then it dawned on him that he was alone - Otto probably didn't count at the moment - in the palace with Commander Vimes's permission to be there, if 'the kitchens are over that way' could be parlayed into 'permission'. And William was good with words. Truth was what he told. Honesty was sometimes not the same thing.
He picked up the bag and found his way to the back stairs and the kitchen, whence came a hubbub.
Staff were wandering around with the bewildered air of people with nothing to do who were nevertheless still being paid to do it. William sidled over to a maid who was sobbing into a grubby handkerchief.
'Excuse me, miss, but could you let me have a drop of blood-- Yes, perhaps this isn't the right moment,' he added nervously, as she fled shrieking.
' 'ere, what did you say to our Rene?' said a thickset man, putting down a tray of hot loaves.
'Are you the baker?' said William.
The man gave him a look. 'What does it look like?'
'I can see what it looks like,' said William. There was another look, but this one had just a measure of respect in it. 'I'm still asking the question,' he went on.
'I'm the butcher, as it happens,' said the man. 'Well done. The baker's off sick. And who are you, askin' me questions?'
'Commander Vimes sent me down here,' said William. He was appalled at the ease with which the truth turned into a something that was almost a lie, just by being positioned correctly. He opened his notebook. I'm from the Times. Did you--'
'What, the paper?' said the butcher.
That's right. Did you--'
'Hah! You got it completely up your bum about the winter, y'know. You should've said it was the Year of the Ant, that was the worst. You should've arsked me. I could've put you right.'
'And you are--?'
'Sidney Clancy and Son, aged 39, 11 Long Hogmeat, Purveyors of Finest Cat and Dog Meats to The Gentry... Why aren't you writing it down?'
'Lord Vetinari eats pet food?'
'He doesn't eat much of anything from what I hear. No, I delivers for his dog; Finest stuff. Prime. We sell only the best at 11 Long Hogmeat, open every day from 6 a.m. to mid--'
'Oh, his dog. Right,' said William. 'Er.' He looked around at the throng. Some of those people could tell him things, and he was talking to a dogmeat man. Still...
'Could you let me have a tiny piece of meat?' he said.
'Are you going to put it in the paper?'
'Yes. Sort of. In a way.'
William found a quiet alcove hidden from the general excitement and gingerly let the piece of meat dribble one drop of blood on to the little grey pile.
The dust mushroomed up into the air, became a mass of coloured flecks, became Otto Chriek.
'How vas that vun?' he said. 'Oh
'I think you got the picture,' said William. 'Er, your jacket...'
Part of the sleeve of the vampire's jacket was now the colour and