Addressing the company of dwarfs now fully assembled on the platform and armed to the teeth, he proclaimed, ‘Let it be known that the Low King has arrived and will take his place on the Scone of Stone. Anyone wishing to deny him that trivial pleasure should be prepared to back up their coherent and well-founded objections with weaponry. It really is quite as simple as that. This message will be carried into Schmaltzberg by Bashfull Bashfullsson, a highly respected and knowledgeable dwarf known to all, accompanied by my trusted secretary, Aeron. We should also include Commander Vimes, the Blackboard Monitor, and one-time Ambassador, to see fair play. Remember that at all times tampering with the King’s Messengers is a matter of treason. Be aware, I’m not going to be a nanny about this. Insurgent dwarfs will get their just deserts.’

The sound of Vimes loudly lighting his cigar broke the silence.

‘Let the others go first, I’ll go along in a minute or two,’ he said.

Moist, of course, hadn’t been at Koom Valley but right now he wondered if he was about to see the ghost of Koom Valley’s second incarnation – except it would be dwarf against dwarf. He wanted to shout out ‘This is nuts!’, and realized that in fact he had said it aloud.

To his surprise, the King said, ‘Certainly so, Mister Lipwig. It beggars all reason, doesn’t it? But sooner or later there comes a time when you have to take names and crack skulls. I’m sorry, it’s at the other end of the spectrum from the little chat and it’s what happens when reason no longer holds sway.’

‘But you’re all dwarfs. What can you possibly achieve?’ groaned Moist, who for the rest of his life would always remember the tone of the King’s voice …

‘Tomorrow. That, Mister Lipwig, is what we can achieve. Tomorrow.’

The arrival of the messengers sent an immediate buzz around the multiple caverns of Schmaltzberg, somehow the centre of the galaxy when it came to hubbub of all sizes and rumour mills that turned faster than the mills of the gods. Rumour flowed like quicksilver. The phenomenon might be called the dwarf clacks were it not for the fact that the clacks didn’t scramble the messages on a whim, thought Moist as he followed Rhys and the main band of dwarfs down into the honeycomb that was Schmaltzberg. The myriad noises flowing up from below through every tunnel and cavern were merging into a kind of audible mist or, he thought, fog. It simmered around the earlobe. The terrible sounds and confusions of war.

But now individual sounds were getting through. Raised voices, screams and the clatter of weaponry, punctuated with the occasional yell and dwarfish curses, which are known to have a life all of their very own. Further down, they came across Aeron, who was waiting with blood dripping from his sword. He noticed Moist’s look and shrugged.

‘There was a grag. He fought hard but would not submit, preferring death to ignominy … and so I accommodated him.’ That last phrase contained more emphasis than Moist had heard for a very long time. Aeron turned to Rhys and reported.