The old man cackled again. 'Ah, 'tis usually so.'
Moving quite fast despite his wooden leg, the old man led the way through the steaming mounds of multi-species dung to the building on the other side of the yard.
'I expect this is good for the garden, anyway,' said Vimes, trying to make conversation.
'I tried it on my rhubarb,' said the old man, pushing open the door. 'But it grew to twenty feet tall, sir, and then spontaneously caught fire. Mind where the wyvern's been, sir, he's been ill - oh, what a shame. Never mind, it'll scrape off beautiful when it dries. In thee goes, sir.'
The hall inside was as quiet and dark as the yard had been full of light and noise. There was the dry, tombstone smell of old books and church towers.
Above him, when his eyes got used to the darkness, Vimes could make out hanging flags and banners. There were a few windows, but cobwebs and dead flies meant that the light they allowed in was merely grey.
The old man had shut the door and left him alone. Vimes watched through the window as he limped back to continue what he had been doing before Vimes's appearance.
What he had been doing was setting up a living coat of arms.
There was a large shield. Cabbages, actual cabbages, had been nailed to it. The old man said something that Vimes couldn't hear. The little owl fluttered from its perch and landed on a large ankh that had been glued to the top of the shield. The two hippos flopped out of their pool and took up station on either side.
The old man unfolded an easel in front of the scene, placed a canvas on it, picked up a palette and brush, and shouted, 'Hup-la!'
The hippos reared, rather arthritically. The owl spread its wings.
'Good gods,' murmured Vimes. 'I always thought they just made it up!'
'Made it up, sir? Made it up?' said a voice behind him. 'We'd soon be in trouble if we made things up, oh dear me, yes.'
Vimes turned. Another little old man had appeared behind him, blinking happily through thick glasses. He had several scrolls under one arm.
'I'm sorry I couldn't meet you at the gate but we're very busy at the moment,' he said, holding out his spare hand. 'Croissant Rouge Pursuivant.'
'Er... you're a small red breakfast roll?' said Vimes, nonplussed.
'No, no. No. It means Red Crescent. It's my title, you see. Very ancient title. I'm a Herald. You'd be Sir Samuel Vimes, yes?'
'Yes/
Red Crescent consulted a scroll. 'Good. Good. How do you feel about weasels?' he said.
'Weasels?'
'We have got some weasels, you see. I know they're not strictly a heraldic animal, but we seem to have some on the strength and frankly I think I'm going to have to let them go unless we can persuade someone to adopt them, and that'd upset Pardessus Chatain Pursuivant. He always locks himself in his shed when he's upset...'
'Pardessus... you mean the old man out there?' said Vimes.'I mean...why's he... I thought you ... I mean, a coat of arms is just a design. You don't have to paint it from life!'
Red Crescent looked shocked. 'Well, I suppose if you want to make a complete mockery of the whole thing, yes, you could just make it up. You could do that,' he said. 'Anyway... not weasels, then?'
'Personally I'd just as soon not bother,' said Vimes. 'And certainly not with a weasel. My wife said that dragons would - '
'Happily, the occasion will not arise,' said a voice in the shadows.
It wasn't the right sort of voice to hear in any kind of light. It was dust-dry. It sounded as if it came from a mouth that had never known the pleasures of spittle. It sounded dead.
It was.
The bakery thieves considered their options.
'I've got my hand on my crossbow,' said the most enterprising of the three.
The most realistic said, 'Have you? Well, I've got my heart in my mouth.'