"Was she the one we paid a crate of whisky for?"
"Yes, sir, and worth every dram."
The pigeon struggled in Vimes's hand.
"You wait there, then, Buggy, and I'll get Reg to come out with some raw rabbit," he said, and walked into his tower.
Sergeant Angua was waiting by his desk, reading the Living Testament of Nuggan. "Is that a carrier pigeon, sir?" she said, as Vimes sat down.
"No," said Vimes. "Hold it a minute, will you? I want to have a look inside the message capsule."
"It does look like a carrier pigeon," said Angua, putting down the book.
"Ah, but messages flying through the air are an Abomination Unto Nuggan," said Vimes. "The prayers of the faithful bounce off them, apparently. No, I think I've found someone's lost pet and I'm looking in this little tube here to see if I can find the owner's name and address, because I am a kind man."
"So you're not actually waylaying field reports from the Times, then, sir?" said Angua, grinning.
"Not as such, no. I'm just such a keen reader that I want to see tomorrow's news today. And Mr de Worde seems to have a knack of finding things out. Angua, I want to stop these stupid people fighting so that we can all go home, and if that means allowing the occasional pigeon to have a crap on my desk, so be it."
"Oh, sorry, sir, I didn't notice. I expect it'll wipe off."
"Go and get Reg to find some rabbit for the buzzard, will you?"
When she'd gone Vimes carefully unscrewed the end of the tube and pulled out a roll of very thin paper. He unfolded it, smoothed it out, and read the tiny writing, smiling as he did so. Then he turned the paper over and looked at the picture.
He was still staring at it when Angua returned with Reg and half a bucket of crunchy rabbit bits.
"Anything interesting, sir?" said Angua ingenuously.
"Well, yes. You could say that. All plans are changed, all bets are off. Ha! Oh, Mr de Worde, you poor fool..."
He handed her the paper. She read the story carefully.
"Good for them, sir," she said. "Most of them look fifteen years old, and when you see the size of those dragoons, well, you've got to be impressed."
"Yes, yes, you could say that, you could say that," said Vimes, his face gleaming like a man with a joke to share. "Tell me, did de Worde interview any Zlobenian high-ups when he arrived?"
"No, sir. I understand he was turned away. They don't really know what a reporter is, so I gather the adjutant threw him out and said he was a nuisance."
"Dear me, the poor man," said Vimes, still grinning. "You met Prince Heinrich the other day. Describe him to me..."
Angua cleared her throat. "Well, sir, he was... largely green, shading to blue, with overtones of grllss and trail of - "
"I meant describe him to me on the assumption that I'm not a werewolf who sees with his nose," said Vimes.
"Oh, yes," said Angua. "Sorry, sir. Six foot two, a hundred and eighty pounds, fair hair, green-blue eyes, sabre scar on his left cheek, wears a monocle in his right eye, waxed moustache - "
"Good, well observed. And now look at 'Captain Horentz' in the picture, will you?"
She looked again, and said, very quietly: "Oh dear. They didn't know?"
"He wasn't going to tell them, was he? Would they have seen a picture?"
Angua shrugged. "I doubt it, sir. I mean, where would they see it? There's never been a newspaper here until the Times carts turned up last week."
"Some woodcut, maybe?"
"No, they're an Abomination, unless they're of the Duchess."