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“We always thought change came from outside, usually on the point of a sword. And then we look around and find that it comes from the inside of the head of someone you wouldn’t notice in the street. In certain circumstances it may be convenient to remove the head, but there seem to be such a lot of them these days.”
    He gestured towards the busy map.
    “A thousand years ago we thought the world was a bowl,” he said. “Five hundred years ago we knew it was a globe. Today we know it is flat and round and carried through space on the back of a turtle.” He turned and gave the High Priest another smile. “Don’t you wonder what shape it will turn out to be tomorrow?”
    But a family trait of all the Ridcullys was not to let go of a thread until you’ve unraveled the whole garment.
    “Besides, they have these little pincer things, you know, and would probably hang on like—”
    “What do?”
    “Prawns. They’d hang on to—”
    “You are taking me rather too literally, Your Reverence,” said Vetinari sharply.
    “Oh.”
    “I was merely endeavoring to indicate that if we do not grab events by the collar they will have us by the throat.”
    “It’ll end in trouble, my lord,” said Ridcully. He’d found it a good general comment in practically any debate. Besides, it was so often true.
    Lord Vetinari sighed. “In my experience, practically everything does,” he said. “That is the nature of things. All we can do is sing as we go.”
    He stood up. “However, I will pay a personal visit to the dwarfs in question.” He reached out to ring a bell on his desk, stopped, and with a smile at the priest moved his hand instead to a brass-and-leather tube that had hung from two brass hooks. The mouthpiece was in the shape of a dragon.
    He whistled into it, and then said:
    “Mr. Drumknott? My coach, please.”
    “Is it me,” said Ridcully, giving the newfangled speaking tube a nervous glance, “or is there a terrible smell in here?”
    Lord Vetinari gave him a quizzical look and glanced down.
    There was a basket just underneath his desk. In it was what appeared to be, at first glance and certainly at first smell, a dead dog. It lay with all four legs in the air. Only the occasional gentle expulsion of wind suggested that some living process was going on.
    “It’s his teeth,” he said coldly. The dog Wuffles turned over and regarded the priest with one baleful black eye.
    “He’s doing very well for a dog of his age,” said Hughnon, in a desperate attempt to climb a suddenly tilting slope. “How old would he be now?”
    “Sixteen,” said the Patrician. “That’s over a hundred in dog years.”
    Wuffles dragged himself into a sitting position and growled, releasing a gust of stale odors from the depths of his basket.
    “He’s very healthy,” said Hughnon, while trying not to breathe. “For his age, I mean. I expect you get used to the smell.”
    “What smell?” said Lord Vetinari.
    “Ah. Yes. Indeed,” said Hughnon.

    As Lord Vetinari’s coach rattled off through the slush towards Gleam Street it may have surprised its occupant to know that, in a cellar quite nearby, someone looking very much like him was chained to the wall.
    It was quite a long chain, giving him access to a table and chair, a bed, and a hole in the floor.
    Currently, he was at the table. On the other side of it was Mr. Pin. Mr. Tulip was leaning menacingly against the wall. It would be clear to any experienced person that what was going on here was “good cop, bad cop” with the peculiar drawback that there were no cops. There was just an apparently endless supply of Mr. Tulip.
    “So…Charlie,” said Mr. Pin, “how about it?”
    “It’s not illegal, is it?” said the man addressed as Charlie.
    Mr. Pin spread his hands. “What’s legality, Charlie? Just words on paper. But you won’t be doing anything wrong .”
    Charlie nodded uncertainly.
    “But ten thousand dollars doesn’t sound like the kind of money you get