'What about the Watch?'
'What about it?'
'Ah.'
Lord Vetinari opened his eyes. Against all rationality, his hair ached.
He concentrated, and a blur by the bed focused into the shape of Samuel Vimes.
'Ah, Vimes,' he said weakly.
'How are you feeling, sir?'
'Truly dreadful. Who was that little man with the incredibly bandy legs?'
'That was Doughnut Jimmy, sir. He used to be a jockey on a very fat horse.'
'A racehorse?'
'Apparently, sir '
'A fat racehorse? Surely that could never win a race?'
'I don't believe it ever did, sir. But Jimmy made a lot of money by not winning races.'
'Ah. He gave me milk and some sort of sticky potion.' Vetinari concentrated. 'I was heartily sick.'
'So I understand, sir.'
'Funny phrase, that. Heartily sick. I wonder why it's a cliche? Sounds... jolly. Rather cheerful, really.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Feel like I've got a bad dose of 'flu, Vimes. Head not working properly.'
'Really, sir?'
The Patrician thought for a while. There was obviously something else on his mind. 'Why did he still smell of horses, Vimes?' he said at last.
'He's a horse doctor, sir. A damn good one. I heard last month he treated Dire Fortune and it didn't fall over until the last furlong.'
'Doesn't sound helpful, Vimes.'
'Oh, I don't know, sir. The horse had dropped dead coming up to the starting line.'
'Ah. I see. Well, well, well. What a nasty suspicious mind you have, Vimes.'
'Thank you, sir.'
The Patrician raised himself on his elbows. 'Should toenails throb, Vimes?'
'Couldn't say, sir.'
*Now, I think I should like to read for a while. Life goes on, eh?'
Vimes went to the window. There was a nightmarish figure crouched on the edge of the balcony outside, staring into the thickening fog.
'Everything all right, Constable Downspout?'