Thud

Vimes, speeding along, could see that Misbegot Bridge was going to be a struggle. An overloaded hay wagon had wedged itself between the rickety houses that line the bridge, ripped out part of someone's upper storey, and had shed some of its load in the process. There was a fight going on between the carter and the unimpressed owner of the new bungalow. Valuable seconds were spent struggling over and through the hay until he was hurrying through the backed-up traffic to the other end of the bridge. Ahead

of him was the wide thoroughfare known as Prouts, full of vehicles

and uphill all the way.

He wasn't going to make it. It must be gone five to six already.

The thought of it, the thought of that little face

'Mister Vimes!'

He turned. A mail coach had just pulled out on to the road

behind him and was coming up at a trot. Carrot was sitting beside

the driver and waving frantically at him.

`Get on the step, sir!' he yelled. `You don't have much time!' Vimes started to run once more and, as the coach drew level,

jumped on to the door's step and hung on.

`Isn't this the mail coach to Quirm?' he shouted as the driver

urged the horses into a canter.

`That's right, sir,' said Carrot. `I explained it was a matter of

extreme importance.'

Vimes redoubled his grip. The mail coaches had good horses.

The wheels, not very far away from him, were already a blur.

`How did you get here so quick?' he yelled. `Short cut through the Apothecary Gardens, sir!'

`What? That little walk by the river? That's never wide enough for

a coach like this!'

`It was a bit of a squeeze, sir, yes. It got easier when the coach

lamps scraped off.'

Vimes was now able to take in the state of the coach's side. The

paintwork was scored all along it.

`All right,' he shouted, `tell the driver I'll meet the bills, of course!

But it'll be wasted, Carrot. Park Lane'll be jam-packed at this time

of day!'

`Don't worry, sir! I should hang on very tight if I were you, sir!' Vimes heard the whip crack. This was a real mail coach. Mailbags

don't care whether they're comfortable. He could feel the

acceleration.

Park Lane would be coming up very soon. Vimes couldn't see

much, because the wind of their flight was making his eyes water, but up ahead was one of the city's most fashionable traffic jams. It was bad enough at any time of day, but early evening was particularly horrible, owing to the Ankh-Morpork belief that right of way was the prerogative of the heaviest vehicle or the gobbiest driver. There were minor collisions all the time, which were inevitably followed by both vehicles blocking the junction whilst the drivers got down to discussing road-safety issues with reference to the first weapon they could get their hands on. And it was into this maelstrom of jostling horses, scurrying pedestrians and cursing drivers that the mail coach was heading, apparently, at a full gallop.

He shut his eyes and then, hearing a change in the sound of the wheels, risked opening them again.

The coach flew across the junction. Vimes had a momentary glimpse of a huge queue, fuming and shouting behind a couple of immovable troll officers, before they were spinning on down towards Scoone Avenue.

`You closed the road? You closed the road!' he yelled, above the wind.

`And Kings Way, sir. Just in case,' Carrot shouted down.

`You closed two major roads? Two whole damn roads? In the rush hour?'

`Yes, sir,' said Carrot. `It was the only way.'

Vimes hung on, speechless. Would he have dared do that? But that was Carrot all over. There was a problem, and now it's gone. Admittedly, the whole city is probably solid with wagons by now, but that's a new problem.

He'd be home in time. Would a minute have mattered? No, probably not, although Young Sam appeared to have a very accurate internal clock. Possibly even two minutes would be okay. Three minutes, even. You could go to five, perhaps. But that was just it. If you could go to five minutes then you'd go to ten, then half an hour, a couple of hours ... and not see your son all evening. So that was

that. Six o'clock, prompt. Every day. Read to Young Sam. No excuses. He'd promised himself that. No excuses. No excuses at all. Once you had a good excuse, you opened the door to bad excuses.

He had nightmares about being too late.

He had a lot of nightmares about Young Sam. They involved empty cots, and darkness.

It had all been too ... good. In a few short years he, Sam Vimes, had gone up in the world like a balloon. He was a duke, he commanded the Watch, he was powerful, he was married to a woman whose compassion, love and understanding he knew a man such as he did not deserve, and he was as rich as Creosote. Fortune had rained its gravy, and he'd been the man with the big bowl. And it had all happened so fast.