‘Godfrey, Mister Lipwig – dark clerk. Lord Vetinari has arranged for a safe house to be available to your party. Mister Simnel suggested his mother’s house, which isn’t far away. We’ve met the lady and she is a royalist through and through. Any royalty, and sensible, too. Nothing to worry about there. Clerk Mavis says the old girl is quick on the uptake and understands the position. She is a good cook and there will be clean sheets.’

Moist looked at the dripping King, who smiled and said, ‘It sounds like a gift from Tak on a night like this.’

As they walked the short distance through the rain-drenched and deserted streets to Mrs Simnel’s house, Moist was always aware of their escorts because the little hairs on the back of his neck were telling him they were there, showing them the way. Before long, they reached a cheerful little house near the centre of town, the kind that was always referred to as a ‘little palace’, the kind a lad might buy for his widowed mother so she could be close for doing the shopping.

A discreet knock at the door caused some shuffling within before a lady who could only be Mr Simnel’s mother stood in the doorway quietly ushering them inside. Once they were in her small but immaculate house, she paused and looked down at the Low King, then curtsied.

‘Thank you so much, my dear Mrs Simnel,’ said the King, who had clearly dealt with these things many times before. ‘No need for that from the mother of the genius engineer.’ And Mrs Simnel was suddenly awash with maternal pride.

‘Oh, yes, your majesty. He’s a good lad, our Dick. Did you know that when he were quite young he made me an iconograph, caught the imp himself, so ’e did, and trained it with butter. They really like butter, do imps. And it’s ever so useful, yes indeed.’

While Clerk Godfrey, on flannel feet, quickly checked the rest of the house, Mrs Simnel turned to Moist and said, ‘I know you, too. You’re Mister Lipwig. Dick speaks very highly of you. I saw your picture in the paper only yesterday and I’ve seen our Dick in there, too. Makes an old mum reet proud, so it does. Of course, I don’t buy it, the Reverend Amusable comes round and reads the paper to me, what with that tiny print an’ all. I don’t get around as much these days, but now my lad is in the money he has all kind of food delivered up fresh every day on the train and sees his old mum all right. The other day, ooh, it were a lobster in a bag of ice. I ’ad to go all the way up to t’posh restaurant to find out how to cook it, but it were gradely and toothsome and so much on it there was enough for Mrs Pankweather who’s bedbound and can’t digest most things, but you should’ve seen her tooth light up when she saw a plate full of lobster. Well, you ’ave to, after all. Not every elderly lady has a good strong lad to see she’s all right.’