Стража! Стража!

           He’dmanagedtogetsixfeetofftheflooranduptoalevelwiththegrille.

           Nowhestartedtohackatthemortararoundthebars.

           ThePatricianwatchedhimforawhile,andthentookabookoffthelittleshelfbesidehim.Sincetheratscouldn’treadthelibraryhe’dbeenabletoassemblewasalittlebaroque,buthewasnotamantoignorefreshknowledge.HefoundhisbookmarkinthepagesofLacemakingThroughtheAges,andreadafewpages.

           Afterawhilehefounditnecessarytobrushafewcrumbsofmortaroffthebook,andlookedup.

           "Areyouachievingsuccess?"heinquiredpolitely.

           Vimesgrittedhisteethandhackedaway.Outsidethelittlegrillewasagrubbycourtyard,barelylighterthanthecell.Therewasamiddeninonecorner,butcurrentlyitlookedveryattractive.Moreattractivethanthedungeon,atanyrate.AnhonestmiddenwaspreferabletothewayAnkh-Morporkwasgoingthesedays.Itwasprobablyallegorical,orsomething.

           Hestabbed,stabbed,stabbed.Theknifebladetwangedandshookinhishand.

           TheLibrarianscratchedhisarmpitsthoughtfully.Hewasfacingproblemsofhisown.

           Hehadcomeherefullofrageagainstbookthievesandthatragestillburned.Buttheseditiousthoughthadoccurredtohimthat,althoughcrimesagainstbooksweretheworstkindofcrimes,revengeought,perhaps,tobepostponed.