sleep, proper sleep, the sort with sheets. Or food, come to that. Was it last night, or the night before? Had he ever, come to think of it, ever slept at all in all his life? It didn't seem like it. The arms of Morpheus had rolled up their sleeves and were giving the back of his brain a right pummelling, but bits were fighting back. Any of them get. . . ?
'Any of who?' he said.
'The people in the house, of course,' said Wonse. 'I assume there were people in it. At night, I mean.'
'Oh? Oh. Yes. It wasn't like a normal house. I think it was some sort of secret society thing,' Vimes managed. Something was clicking in his mind, but he was too tired to examine it.
'Magic, you mean?'
'Dunno,' said Vimes. 'Could be. Guys in robes.'
He's going to tell me I've been overdoing it, he said. He'll be right, too.
'Look,' said Wonse, kindly. 'People who mess around with magic and don't know how to control it, well, they can blow themselves up and…'
'Blow themselves up?'
'And you've had a busy few days,' said Wonse soothingly. 'If I'd been knocked down and almost burned alive by a dragon I expect I'd be seeing them all the time.'
Vimes stared at him with his mouth open. He couldn't think of anything to say. Whatever stretched and knotted elastic had been driving him along these last few days had gone entirely limp.
'You don't think you've been overdoing it, do you?' said Wonse.
Ah, thought Vimes. Jolly good.
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