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smiling cheerfully.
    “I said I didn’t think you was stupid, Mister Vimes. I know a clever copper like you’d think I’d got two knives.”
    “Yeah, right,” said Vimes. He could feel his hair trying to stand on end. Little blue caterpillars of light were crackling over the ironwork of the dome, and even over his armor.
    “Mister Vimes?”
    “ What?” Vimes snapped. Smoke was rising from the weathercock’s bearings.
    “I got three knives, Mister Vimes,” said Carcer, bringing his arm up.
    The lightning struck.

    Windows blew out and iron gutters melted. Roofs lifted into the air and settled again. Buildings shook.
    But this storm had been blowing in from far across the plains, pushing the natural background magic ahead of it. It dumped it now, all in one go.
    They said afterward that the bolt of lightning hit a clockmaker’s shop in the Street of Cunning Artificers, stopping all the clocks at that instant. But that was nothing. In Baker Street, a couple who had never met before became electrically attracted to one another and were forced to get married after two days for the sake of public decency. In the Assassins’ Guild, the chief armorer became hugely, and, since he was in the armory at the time, tragically, attractive to metal. Eggs fried in their baskets, apples roasted on the greengrocers’ shelves. Candles lit themselves. Cartwheels exploded. And the ornate tin bath of the Archchancellor of Unseen University was lifted neatly off the floor, sizzled across his study, and then flew off the balcony and onto the lawn in the octangle several stories below, without spilling more than a cupful of suds.
    Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully paused with his long-handled scrubbing brush hovering halfway down his back, and stared.
    Tiles smashed to the ground. Water boiled in the ornamental fountain nearby.
    Ridcully ducked, as a stuffed badger, the origin of which was never ascertained, flew across the lawn and smashed through a window.
    He winced, as he was hit by a brief and inexplicable shower of small cogwheels, which pattered down all around him.
    He stared, as half a dozen watchmen dashed into the octangle and headed up the steps to the Library.
    Then, gripping the sides of the bath, the Archchancellor stood up. Foaming water cascaded off him, as it would off some ancient leviathan erupting from the abyssal sea.
    “Mister Stibbons!” he bellowed, his voice bouncing off the imposing walls. “Where the is my hat ?”
    He sat down again and waited.
    There was a few minutes of silence, and then Ponder Stibbons, Head of Inadvisably Applied Magic and Pra-elector of Unseen University, came running out of the main door carrying Ridcully’s pointy hat.
    The Archchancellor snatched at it and rammed it on his head.
    “Very well,” he said, standing up again. “Now, will care to tell m at the is going on? And why Old Toming repeatedly?”
    “been a of magic, sir! I someone up the mechanism!” Ponder shouted above the sound-destroying silences. *
    There was a dying metallic noise from the big clock tower. Ponder and Ridcully waited a few moments, but the city stayed full of normal noise, like the collapse of masonry and distant screams.
    “Right,” said Ridcully, as if grudgingly awarding the world a mark for trying. “What was all that about, Stibbons? And why are there policemen in the Library?”
    “Big magical storm, sir. Several thousand gigathaums. I believe the Watch is chasing a criminal.”
    “Well, they can’t just run in here without askin’,” said Ridcully, stepping out of the bath and striding forward. “What do we pay our taxes for, after all?”
    “Er, we don’t actually pay taxes, sir,” said Ponder, running after him. “The system is that we promise to pay taxes if the city ever asks us to, provided the city promises never to ask us, sir. We make a voluntary—”
    “Well, at least we have an arrangement, Stibbons.”
    “Yes, sir. May I point out that you—”
    “And that means