Hmm. Going thin on top. Definitely a receding scalp there. Less hair to comb but, on the other hand, more face to wash... There was a flicker in the glass. He moved sideways and ducked. The mirror smashed.
There was the sound of feet somewhere beyond the broken window, and then a crash and a scream. Vimes straightened up. He fished the largest piece of mirror out of the shaving bowl and propped it up on the black crossbow bolt that had buried itself in the wall. He finished shaving.
Then he rang the bell for the butler. Willikins materialized. 'Sir?'
Vimes rinsed the razor. 'Get the boy to nip along to the glazier, will you?'
The butler's eyes flickered to the window and then to the shattered mirror. 'Yes, sir. And the bill to go to the Assassins' Guild again, sir?'
'With my compliments. And while he's out he's to call in at that shop in Five And Seven Yard and get me another shaving mirror. The dwarf there knows the kind I like.'
'Yes, sir. And I shall fetch a dustpan and brush directly, sir. Shall I inform her ladyship of this eventuality, sir?'
'No. She always says it's my fault for encouraging them.'
'Very good, sir,' said Willikins.
He dematerialized.
Sam Vimes dried himself off and went downstairs to the morning-room, where he opened the cabinet and took out the new crossbow Sybil had given to him as a wedding present. Sam Vimes was used to the old guard crossbows, which had a nasty habit of firing backwards in a tight corner, but this was a Burleigh and Stronginthearm made-to-measure job with the oiled walnut stock. There was none finer, it was said.
Then he selected a thin cigar and strolled out into the garden.
There was a commotion coming from the dragon house. Vimes entered, and shut the door behind him. He rested the crossbow against the door.
The yammering and squeaking increased. Little gouts of flame puffed above the thick walls of the hatching pens.
Vimes leaned over the nearest one. He picked up a newly hatched dragonette and tickled it under the chin. As it flamed excitedly he lit his cigar and savoured the smoke.
He blew a smoke ring at the figure hanging from the ceiling. 'Good morning,' he said.
The figure twisted frantically. By an amazing feat of muscle control it had managed to catch a foot around a beam as it fell, but it couldn't quite pull itself up. Dropping was not to be thought of. A dozen baby dragons were underneath it, jumping up and down excitedly and flaming.
'Er... good morning,' said the hanging figure.
Turned out nice again,' said Vimes, picking up a bucket of coal. 'Although the fog will be back later, I expect.'
He took a small nugget and tossed it to the dragons. They squabbled for it.
Vimes gripped another lump. The young dragon that had caught the coal already had a distinctly longer and hotter flame.
'I suppose,' said the young man, 'that I could not prevail upon you to let me down?'
Another dragon caught some coal and belched a fireball. The young man swung desperately to avoid it.
'Guess,' said Vimes.
'I suspect, on reflection, that it was foolish of me to choose the roof,' said the assassin.
'Probably,' said Vimes. He'd spent several hours a few weeks ago sawing through joists and carefully balancing the roof tiles.
'I should have dropped off the wall and used the shrubbery.'
'Possibly,' said Vimes. He'd set a bear-trap in the shrubbery.
He took some more coal. 'I suppose you wouldn't tell me who hired you?'
Tm afraid not, sir. You know the rules.'