‘There have been certain clashes of opinion, your majesty,’ he said, pointing to several dwarfs being treated in what would have been an impromptu field hospital had it been in a field.

Swords, hammers and axes were being deployed below as the King carried on marching, until they came to what must be the great hall, the largest cavern of them all.

As they passed through the portal, Moist came to a halt, trying to get a grip on this subterranean landscape, lit by the enormous chandeliers of dribbling candles along with cressets and great vats of squirming vurms^[79] writhing in the corners; so there was light, he thought, but a strange light that was somehow negotiating with the eyes. You could see but what you saw was the darkness.

‘Well, it’s not a war any more,’ said Vimes, suddenly there beside him. ‘And not too many serious outcomes, except for the grags. That’s dwarf-on-dwarf war: a hell of a lot of shouting and accusing and spitting, a lot like cats really, but that’s dwarfs for you. They’re not that stupid. Bags of bravado and sabre-rattling, but no one really wants to get hurt. You fight hoping for a small wound that looks good afterwards. Something to show the grandchildren, but really, when it comes to it, dwarf against dwarf, it generally settles down.’

Vimes puffed his cigar and continued, ‘Mind you, if it were dwarf against troll this place would be running with blood. On the whole, it’s like the taverns in Ankh-Morpork on a Saturday night. Everyone is full of gumption and pissy bravery and beer. Much too much beer. And then afterwards it’s just a lot of groaning until they see the light.’

In fact, what Moist could see near by was dwarfs in small groups, some of them bandaged, in positions which suggested that war as such, if not over, had been set aside for a breather and maybe a decent quaff. And younger dwarfs were going between the hurt and wounded with flagons. And one by one the dwarfs got up, shook hands with the nearest dwarf and walked haphazardly to the next group, where perhaps they would sit and chat and make up stories of near misses and clever parries and similar boozy boastings. Little by little, dwarf normality was flowing through Schmaltzberg once again.

‘Pissed as farts,’ said Vimes. ‘But at the bottom, not bad, just susceptible to rabble rousers.’ He sighed again. ‘Maybe this time they’ll have learned. And on that day Nobby Nobbs will be a shining hero!’

And that was all it took? Moist found himself wondering. After all the adrenalin of the train journey, the ambushes, the attacks … the bridge … the sleepless nights … expecting at every turn to hear the swish of a scythe and to find that this time his luck really had run out … and then Rhys gave a fine speech and just walked in and took back the kingdom?

‘I was expecting them to put up more of a fight,’ he said. ‘You know, more of a glorious battle that would become the stuff of legends.’