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His legs wanted to stand to attention. Prehistoric men would have worshipped her, and in fact had amazingly managed to carve lifelike statues of her thousands of years ago. She had a mass of chestnut hair; a wig, Vimes learned later. No one who had much to do with dragons kept their own hair for long. She also had a dragon on her shoulder. It had been introduced as Talonthrust Vincent Wonderkind of Quirm, referred to as Vinny, and seemed to be making a large contribution to the unusual chemical smell that pervaded the house. This smell permeated everything. Even the generous slice of cake she offered him tasted of it. “The, er, shoulder…it looks…very nice,” he said, desperate to make conversation. “Rubbish,” said her ladyship. “I’m just training him up because shoulder-sitters fetch twice the price. ” Vimes murmured that he had occasionally seen society ladies with small, colorful dragons on their shoulders, and thought it looked very, er, nice. “Oh, it sounds nice,” she said. “I’ll grant you. Then they realize it means sootburns, frizzled hair and crap all down their back. Those talons dig in, too. And then they think the thing’s getting too big and smelly and next thing you know it’s either down to the Morpork Sunshine Sanctuary for Lost Dragons or the old heave-ho into the river with a rope around your neck, poor little buggers. ” She sat down, arranging a skirt that could have made sails for a small fleet. “Now then. Captain Vimes, was it?” Vimes was at a loss. Ramkins long-dead stared down at him from ornate frames high on the shadowy walls. Between, around and under the portraits were the weapons they’d presumably used, and had used well and often by the look of them. Suits of armor stood in dented ranks along the walls. Quite a number, he couldn’t help noticing, had large holes in them. The ceiling was a faded riot of moth-eaten banners. You did not need forensic examination to understand that Lady Ramkin’s ancestors had never shirked a fight. It was amazing that she was capable of doing something so unwarlike as having a cup of tea. “My forebears,” she said, following his hypnotized gaze. “You know, not one Ramkin in the last thousand years has died in his bed. ” “Yes, ma’am?” “Source of family pride, that. ” “Yes, ma’am. ” “ Quite a few of them have died in other people’s, of course. ” Captain Vimes’s teacup rattled in its saucer. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Captain is such a dashing title, I’ve always thought. ” She gave him a bright, brittle smile. “I mean, colonels and so on are always so stuffy, majors are pompous, but one always feels somehow that there is something delightfully dangerous about a captain. What was it you had to show me?” Vimes gripped his parcel like a chastity belt. “I wondered,” he faltered, “how big swamp…er…” He stopped. Something dreadful was happening to his lower regions. Lady Ramkin followed his gaze. “Oh, take no notice of him,” she said cheerfully. “Hit him with a cushion if he’s a bother. ” A small elderly dragon had crawled out from under his chair and placed its jowly muzzle in Vimes’s lap. It stared up at him soulfully with big brown eyes and gently dribbled something quite corrosive, by the feel of it, over his knees. And it stank like the ring around an acid bath. “That’s Dewdrop Mabelline Talonthrust the First,” said her ladyship. “Champion and sire of champions. No fire left now, poor soppy old thing. He likes his belly rubbed. ” Vimes made surreptitiously vicious jerking motions to dislodge the old dragon. It blinked mournfully at him with rheumy eyes and rolled back the corner of its mouth, exposing a picket fence of soot-blackened teeth. “Just push him off if he’s a nuisance,” said Lady Ramkin cheerfully. “Now then, what was it you were asking?” “I was wondering how big swamp dragons grow?” said Vimes, trying to shift position. There was a faint growling noise. “You came all the way up here to ask me that? Well…I seem to recall Gayheart Talonthrust of Ankh stood fourteen thumbs high, toe to matlock,” mused Lady Ramkin. “Er…” “About three foot six inches,” she added kindly. “No bigger than that?” said Vimes hopefully. In his lap the old dragon began to snore gently. “Golly, no. He was a bit of a freak, actually. Mostly they don’t get much bigger than eight thumbs. ” Captain Vimes’s lips moved in hurried calculation. “Two feet?” he ventured. “Well done. That’s the cobbs, of course. The hens are a bit smaller. ” Captain Vimes wasn’t going to give in. “A cobb would be a male dragon?” he said. “Only after the age of two years,” said Lady Ramkin triumphantly. “Up to the age of eight months he’s a pewmet, then he’s a cock until fourteen months, and then he’s a snood—” Captain Vimes sat entranced, eating the horrible cake, britches gradually dissolving, as the stream of information flooded over him; how the males fought with flame but in the laying season only the hens 1 breathed fire, from the combustion of complex intestinal gases, to incubate the eggs which needed such a fierce temperature, while the males gathered firewood; a group of swamp dragons was a slump or an embarrassment ; a female was capable of laying up to three clutches of four eggs every year, most of which were trodden on by absent-minded males; and that dragons of both sexes were vaguely uninterested in one another, and indeed everything except firewood, except for about once every two months when they became as single-minded as a buzzsaw. He was helpless to prevent himself being taken out to the kennels at the back, outfitted from neck to ankle in leather armor faced with steel plates, and ushered into the long low building where the whistling had come from. The temperature was terrible, but not as bad as the cocktail of smells. He staggered aimlessly from one metal-lined pen to another, while pear-shaped, squeaking little horrors with red eyes were introduced as “Moonpenny Duchess Marchpaine, who’s gravid at the moment” and “Moonmist Talonthrust II, who was Best of Breed at Pseudopolis last year. ” Jets of pale green flame played across his knees. Many of the stalls had rosettes and certificates pinned over them. “And this one, I’m afraid, is Goodboy Bindle Featherstone of Quirm,” said Lady Ramkin relentlessly. Vimes stared groggily over the charred barrier at the small creature curled up in the middle of the floor. It bore about the same resemblance to the rest of them as Nobby did to the average human being. Something in its ancestry had given it a pair of eyebrows that were about the same size as its stubby wings, which could never have supported it in the air. Its head was the wrong shape, like an anteater. It had nostrils like jet intakes. If it ever managed to get airborne the things would have the drag of twin parachutes. It was also turning on Captain Vimes the most silently intelligent look he’d ever had from any animal, including Corporal Nobbs. “It happens,” said Lady Ramkin sadly. “It’s all down to genes, you know. ” “It is?” said Vimes. Somehow, the creature seemed to be concentrating all the power its siblings wasted in flame and noise into a stare like a thermic lance. He couldn’t help remembering how much he’d wanted a puppy when he was a little boy. Mind you, they’d been starving—anything with meat on it would have done. He heard the dragon lady say, “One tries to breed for a good flame, depth of scale, correct color and so on. One just has to put up with the occasional total whittle. ” The little dragon turned on Vimes a gaze that would be guaranteed to win it the award for Dragon the Judges would Most Like to Take Home and Use as A Portable Gas Lighter. Total whittle, Vimes thought. He wasn’t sure of the precise meaning of the word, but he could hazard a shrewd guess. It sounded like whatever it was you had left when you had extracted everything of any value whatsoever. Like the Watch, he thought. Total whittles, every one of them. And just like him. It was the saga of his life. “That’s Nature for you,” said her ladyship. “Of course I wouldn’t dream of breeding from him, but he wouldn’t be able to anyway. |
” “Why not?” said Vimes. “Because dragons have to mate in the air and he’ll never be able to fly with those wings, I’m afraid. I’ll be sorry to lose the bloodline, naturally. His sire was Brenda Rodley’s Treebite Brightscale. Do you know Brenda?” “Er, no,” said Vimes. Lady Ramkin was one of those people who assumed that everyone else knew everyone one knew. “Charming gel. Anyway, his brothers and sisters are shaping up very well. ” Poor little bastard, thought Vimes. That’s Nature for you in a nutshell. Always dealing off the bottom of the pack. No wonder they call her a mother … “You said you had something to show me,” Lady Ramkin prompted. Vimes wordlessly handed her the parcel. She slipped off her heavy mittens and unwrapped it. “Plaster cast of a footprint,” she said, baldly. “Well?” “Does it remind you of anything?” said Vimes. “Could be a wading bird. ” “Oh. ” Vimes was crestfallen. Lady Ramkin laughed. “Or a really big dragon. Got it out of a museum, did you?” “No. I got it off the street this morning. ” “Ha? Someone’s been playing tricks on you, old chap. ” “Er. There was, er, circumstantial evidence. ” He told her. She stared at him. “Draco nobilis,” she said hoarsely. “Pardon?” said Vimes. “ Draco nobilis. The Noble dragon. As opposed to these fellows—” she waved a hand in the direction of the massed ranks of whistling lizards—“ Draco vulgaris , the lot of them. But the big ones are all gone, you know. This really is a nonsense. No two ways about it. All gone. Beautiful things, they were. Weighed tons. Biggest things ever to fly. No one knows how they did it. ” And then they realized. It was suddenly very quiet. All along the rows of kennels, the dragons were silent, bright-eyed and watchful. They were staring at the roof. Carrot looked around him. Shelves stretched away in every direction. On those shelves, books. He made a calculated guess. “This is the Library, isn’t it?” he said. The Librarian maintained his gentle but firm grip on the boy’s hand and led him along the maze of aisles. “Is there a body?” said Carrot. There’d have to be. Worse than murder! A body in a library. It could lead to anything. The ape eventually padded to a halt in front of a shelf no different than, it seemed, a hundred others. Some of the books were chained up. There was a gap. The Librarian pointed to it. “Oook. ” “Well, what about it? A hole where a book should be. ” “Oook. ” “A book has been taken. A book has been taken? You summoned the Watch,” Carrot drew himself up proudly, “because someone’s taken a book? You think that’s worse than murder?” The Librarian gave him the kind of look other people would reserve for people who said things like “What’s so bad about genocide?” “This is practically a criminal offense, wasting Watch time,” said Carrot. “Why don’t you just tell the head wizards, or whoever they are?” “Oook. ” The Librarian indicated with some surprisingly economical gestures that most wizards would not find their own bottoms with both hands. “Well, I don’t see what we can do about it,” said Carrot. “What’s the book called?” The Librarian scratched his head. This one was going to be tricky. He faced Carrot, put his leather-glove hands together, then folded them open. “I know it’s a book. What’s its name?” The Librarian sighed, and held up a hand. “Four words?” said Carrot. “First word. ” The ape pinched two wrinkled fingers together. “Small word? A. The. Fo—” “Oook!” “The? The. Second word…third word? Small word. The? A? To? Of? Fro–Of? Of. The something Of something. Second word. What? Oh. First syllable. Fingers? Touching your fingers. Thumbs. ” The orangutan growled and tugged theatrically at one large hairy ear. “Oh, sounds like. Fingers? Hand? Adding up. Sums. Cut off. Smaller word…Sum. Sum! Second syllable. Small. Very small syllable. A. In. Un. On. On! Sum. On. Sum On. Summon! Summon- er ? Summon- ing ? Summoning. Summoning. The Summoning of Something. This is fun, isn’t it! Fourth word. Whole word—” He peered intently as the Librarian gyrated mysteriously. “Big thing. Huge big thing. Flapping. Great big flapping leaping thing. Teeth. Huffing. Blowing. Great big huge blowing flapping thing. ” Sweat broke out on Carrot’s forehead as he tried obediently to understand. “Sucking fingers. Sucking fingers thing. Burnt. Hot. Great big hot blowing flapping thing…” The Librarian rolled his eyes. Homo sapiens? You could keep it. The great dragon danced and spun and trod the air over the city. Its color was moonlight, gleaming off its scales. Sometimes it would twist and glide with deceptive speed over the rooftops for the sheer joy of existing. And it was all wrong, Vimes thought. Part of him was marveling at the sheer beauty of the sight, but an insistent, weaselly little group of brain cells from the wrong side of the synapses was scrawling its graffiti on the walls of wonderment. It’s a bloody great lizard, they jeered. Must weigh tons. Nothing that big can fly, not even on beautiful wings. And what is a flying lizard doing with great big scales on its back? Five hundred feet above him a lance of blue-white flame roared into the sky. It can’t do something like that! It’d burn its own lips off! Beside him Lady Ramkin stood with her mouth open. Behind her, the little caged dragons yammered and howled. The great beast turned in the air and swooped over the rooftops. The flame darted out again. Below it, yellow flames sprang up. It was done so quietly and stylishly that it took Vimes several seconds to realize that several buildings had in fact been set on fire. “Golly!” said Lady Ramkin. “Look! It’s using the thermals! That’s what the fire is for!” She turned to Vimes, her eyes hopelessly aglow. “Do you realize we’re very probably seeing something that no one has seen for centuries?” “Yes, it’s a bloody flying alligator setting fire to my city!” shouted Vimes. She wasn’t listening to him. “There must be a breeding colony somewhere,” she said. “After all this time! Where do you think it lives?” Vimes didn’t know. But he swore to himself that he would find out, and ask it some very serious questions. “One egg,” breathed the breeder. “Just let me get my hands on one egg…” Vimes stared at her in genuine astonishment. It dawned on him that he was very probably a flawed character. Below them, another building exploded into flame. “How far exactly,” he said, speaking very slowly and carefully, as to a child, “did these things fly?” “They’re very territorial animals,” murmured her ladyship. “According to legend, they—” Vimes realized he was in for another dose of dragon lore. “Just give me the facts, m’lady,” he said impatiently. “Not very far, really,” she said, slightly taken aback. “Thank you very much, ma’am, you’ve been very helpful,” muttered Vimes, and broke into a run. Somewhere in the city. There was nothing outside for miles except low fields and swamp. It had to be living somewhere in the city. His sandals flapped on the cobbles as he hurtled down the streets. Somewhere in the city! Which was totally ridiculous, of course. Totally ridiculous and impossible. He didn’t deserve this. Of all the cities in all the world it could have flown into, he thought, it’s flown into mine… By the time he reached the river the dragon had vanished. But a pall of smoke was hanging over the streets and several human bucket chains had been formed to pass lumps of the river to the stricken buildings. 1 The job was considerably hampered by the droves of people streaming out of the streets, carrying their possessions. Most of the city was wood and thatch, and they weren’t taking any chances. In fact the danger was surprisingly small. Mysteriously small, when you came to think about it. Vimes had surreptitiously taken to carrying a notebook these days, and he had noted the damage as if the mere act of writing it down somehow made the world a more understandable place. Itym: Ae Coache House (belonging to an inoffensive businessman, who’d seen his new carriage go up in flames). Itym: Ae smalle vegettable shope (with pin-point accuracy). Vimes wondered about that. |
He’d bought some apples in there once, and there didn’t appear to be anything about it that a dragon could possibly take offense at. Still, very considerate of the dragon, he thought as he made his way to the Watch House. When you think of all the timber yards, hayricks, thatched roofs and oil stores it could have hit by chance, it’s managed to really frighten everyone without actually harming the city. Rays of early morning sunlight were piercing the drifts of smoke as he pushed open the door. This was home. Not the bare little room over the candlemaker’s shop in Wixon’s Alley, where he slept, but this nasty brown room that smelled of unswept chimneys, Sgt. Colon’s pipe, Nobby’s mysterious personal problem and, latterly, Carrot’s armor polish. It was almost like home. No one else was there. He wasn’t entirely surprised. He clumped up to his office and leaned back in his chair, whose cushion would have been thrown out of its basket in disgust by an incontinent dog, pulled his helmet over his eyes, and tried to think. No good rushing about. The dragon had vanished in all the smoke and confusion, as suddenly as it had come. Time for rushing about soon enough. The important thing was working out where to rush to… He’d been right. Wading bird! But where did you start looking for a bloody great dragon in a city of a million people? He was aware that his right hand, entirely unbidden, had pulled open the bottom drawer, and three of his fingers, acting on sealed orders from his hindbrain, had lifted out a bottle. It was one of those bottles that emptied themselves. Reason told him that sometimes he must occasionally start one, break the seal, see amber liquid glistening all the way up to the neck. It was just that he couldn’t remember the sensation. It was as if the bottles arrived two-thirds empty… He stared at the label. It seemed to be Jimkin Bearhugger’s Old Selected Dragon’s Blood Whiskey. Cheap and powerful, you could light fires with it, you could clean spoons. You didn’t have to drink much of it to be drunk, which was just as well. It was Nobby who shook him awake with the news that there was a dragon in the city, and also that Sgt. Colon had had a nasty turn. Vimes sat and blinked owlishly while the words washed around him. Apparently having a fire-breathing lizard focusing interestedly on one’s nether regions from a distance of a few feet can upset the strongest constitution. An experience like that could leave a lasting mark on a person. Vimes was still digesting this when Carrot turned up with the Librarian swinging along behind him. “Did you see it? Did you see it?” he said. “We all saw it,” said Vimes. “I know all about it!” said Carrot triumphantly. “Someone’s brought it here with magic. Someone’s stolen a book out of the Library and guess what it’s called?” “Can’t even begin to,” said Vimes weakly. “It’s called The Summoning of Dragons! ” “Oook,” confirmed the Librarian. “Oh? What’s it about?” said Vimes. The Librarian rolled his eyes. “It’s about how to summon dragons. By magic!” “Oook. ” “And that’s illegal, that is!” said Carrot happily. “Releasing Feral Creatures upon the Streets, contrary to the Wild Animals (Public—” Vimes groaned. That meant wizards. You got nothing but trouble with wizards. “I suppose,” he said, “there wouldn’t be another copy of this book around, would there?” “Oook. ” The Librarian shook his head. “And you wouldn’t happen to know what’s in it?” Vimes sighed. “What? Oh. Four words,” he said wearily. “First word. Sounds like. Bend. Bough? Sow, cow, how…How. Second word. Small word. The, a, to…To. Yes understood , but I meant in any kind of detail? No. I see. ” “What’re we going to do now, sir?” said Carrot anxiously. “It’s out there,” intoned Nobby. “Gone to ground, like, during the hours of daylight. Coiled up in its secret lair, on top of a great hoard of gold, dreamin’ ancient reptilian dreams fromma dawna time, waitin’ for the secret curtains of the night, when once more it will sally forth—” He hesitated and added sullenly, “What’re you all looking at me like that for?” “Very poetic,” said Carrot. “Well, everyone knows the real old dragons used to go to sleep on a hoard of gold,” said Nobby. “Well known folk myth. ” Vimes looked blankly into the immediate future. Vile though Nobby was, he was also a good indication of what was going through the mind of the average citizen. You could use him as a sort of laboratory rat to forecast what was going to happen next. “I expect you’d be really interested in finding out where that hoard is, wouldn’t you?” said Vimes experimentally. Nobby looked even more shifty than usual. “Well, Cap’n, I was thinking of having a bit of a look around. You know. When I’m off duty, of course,” he added virtuously. “Oh, dear,” said Captain Vimes. He lifted up the empty bottle and, with great care, put it back in the drawer. The Elucidated Brethren were nervous. A kind of fear crackled from brother to brother. It was the fear of someone who, having cheerfully experimented with pouring the powder and wadding the ball, has found that pulling the trigger had led to a godawful bang and pretty soon someone is bound to come and see who’s making all the noise. The Supreme Grand Master knew that he had them, though. Sheep and lamb, sheep and lamb. Since they couldn’t do anything much worse than they had already done they might as well press on and damn the world, and pretend they’d wanted it like this all along. Oh, the joy of it… Only Brother Plasterer was actually happy. “Let that be a lesson to all oppressive vegetable sellers,” he kept saying. “Yes, er,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “Only, the thing is, there’s no chance of us sort of accidentally summoning the dragon here , is there?” “I—that is, we —have it under perfect control,” said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly. “The power is ours. I can assure you. ” The Brothers cheered up a little bit. “And now,” the Supreme Grand Master continued, “there is the matter of the king. ” The Brothers looked solemn, except for Brother Plasterer. “Have we found him, then?” he said. “That’s a stroke of luck. ” “You never listen, do you?” snapped Brother Watchtower. “It was all explained last week, we don’t go around finding anyone, we make a king. ” “I thought he was supposed to turn up. ’Cos of destiny. ” Brother Watchtower sniggered. “We sort of help Destiny along a bit. ” The Supreme Grand Master smiled in the depths of his robe. It was amazing, this mystic business. You tell them a lie, and then when you don’t need it anymore you tell them another lie and tell them they’re progressing along the road to wisdom. Then instead of laughing they follow you even more, hoping that at the heart of all the lies they’ll find the truth. And bit by bit they accept the unacceptable. Amazing. “Bloody hell, that’s clever,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “How do we do that, then?” “Look, the Supreme Grand Master said what we do, we find some handsome lad who’s good at taking orders, he kills the dragon, and Bob’s your uncle. Simple. Much more intelligent than waitin’ for a so-called real king. ” “But—” Brother Plasterer seemed deep in the toils of cerebration, “if we control the dragon, and we do control the dragon, right? Then we don’t need anyone killing it, we just stop summoning it, and everyone’ll be happy, right?” “Ho yes,” said Brother Watchtower nastily, “I can just see it, can you? We just trot out, say ‘Hallo, we won’t set fire to your houses anymore, aren’t we nice,’ do we? The whole point about the thing with the king is that he’ll be a, a sort of—” “Undeniably potent and romantic symbol of absolute authority,” said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly. “That’s it,” said Brother Watchtower. “A potent authority. ” “Oh, I see ,” said Brother Plasterer. “Right. Okay. That’s what the king’ll be. ” “That’s it,” said Brother Watchtower. “No one going to argue with a potent authority, are they?” “Too right,” said Brother Watchtower. “Stroke of luck, then, finding the true king right now,” said Brother Plasterer. “Million to one chance, really. |
” “We haven’t found the right king. We don’t need the right king,” said the Supreme Grand Master wearily. “For the last time! I’ve just found us a likely lad who looks good in a crown and can take orders and knows how to flourish a sword. Now just listen …” Flourishing, of course, was important. It didn’t have much to do with wielding. Wielding a sword, the Supreme Grand Master considered, was simply the messy business of dynastic surgery. It was just a matter of thrust and cut. Whereas a king had to flourish one. It had to catch the light in just the right way, leaving watchers in no doubt that here was Destiny’s chosen. He’d taken a long time preparing the sword and shield. It had been very expensive. The shield shone like a dollar in a sweep’s earhole but the sword, the sword was magnificent… It was long and shiny. It looked like something some genius of metalwork—one of those little Zen guys who works only by the light of dawn and can beat a club sandwich of folded steels into something with the cutting edge of a scalpel and the stopping-power of a sex-crazed rhinoceros on bad acid—had made and then retired in tears because he’d never, ever, do anything so good again. There were so many jewels on the hilt it had to be sheathed in velvet, you had to look at it through smoked glass. Just laying a hand on it practically conferred kingship. As for the lad…he was a distant cousin, keen and vain, and stupid in a passably aristocratic way. Currently he was under guard in a distant farmhouse, with an adequate supply of drink and several young ladies, although what the boy seemed most interested in was mirrors. Probably hero material, the Supreme Grand Master thought glumly. “I suppose,” said Brother Watchtower, “that he isn’t the real air to the throne?” “What do you mean?” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Well, you know how it is. Fate plays funny tricks. Haha. It’d be a laugh, wouldn’t it,” said Brother Watchtower, “if this lad turned out to be the real king. After all this trouble—” “There is no real king anymore!” snapped the Supreme Grand Master. “What do you expect? Some people wandering in the wilderness for hundreds and hundreds of years, patiently handing down a sword and a birthmark? Some sort of magic ?” He spat the word. He’d make use of magic, means to an end, end justifies means and so forth, but to go around believing it, believing it had some sort of moral force, like logic, made him wince. “Good grief, man, be logical! Be rational. Even if any of the old royal family survived, the blood line’d be so watered down by now that there must be thousands of people who lay claim to the throne. Even—” he tried to think of the least likely claimant—“even someone like Brother Dunnykin. ” He stared at the assembled Brethren. “Don’t see him here tonight, by the way. ” “Funny thing, that,” said Brother Watchtower thoughtfully. “Didn’t you hear?” “What?” “He got bitten by a crocodile on his way home last night. Poor little bugger. ” “What?” “Million to one chance. It’d escaped from a menagerie, or something, and was lying low in his back yard. He went to feel under his doormat for his doorkey and it had him by the funes. ” 1 Brother Watchtower fumbled under his robe and produced a grubby brown envelope. “We’re having a whip-around to buy him some grapes and that, I don’t know whether you’d like to, er…” “Put me down for three dollars,” said the Supreme Grand Master. Brother Watchtower nodded. “Funny thing,” he said, “I already have. ” Just a few more nights, thought the Supreme Grand Master. By tomorrow the people’ll be so desperate, they’d crown even a one-legged troll if he got rid of the dragon. And we’ll have a king, and he’ll have an advisor, a trusted man, of course, and this stupid rabble can go back to the gutter. No more dressing up, no more ritual. No more summoning the dragon. I can give it up, he thought. I can give it up any time I like. The streets outside the Patrician’s palace were thronged. There was a manic air of carnival. Vimes ran a practiced eye over the assortment before him. It was the usual Ankh-Morpork mob in times of crisis; half of them were here to complain, a quarter of them were here to watch the other half, and the remainder were here to rob, importune or sell hot-dogs to the rest. There were a few new faces, though. There were a number of grim men with big swords slung over their shoulders and whips slung on their belts, striding through the crowds. “News spreads quick, don’t it,” observed a familiar voice by his ear. “Morning, Captain. ” Vimes looked into the grinning, cadaverous face of Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, purveyor of absolutely anything that could be sold hurriedly from an open suitcase in a busy street and was guaranteed to have fallen off the back of an oxcart. “Morning, Throat,” said Vimes absently. “What’re you selling?” “Genuine article, Captain. ” Throat leaned closer. He was the sort of person who could make “Good morning” sound like a once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated offer. His eyes swiveled back and forth in their sockets, like two rodents trying to find a way out. “Can’t afford to be without it,” he hissed. “Anti-dragon cream. Personal guarantee: if you’re incinerated you get your money back, no quibble. ” “What you’re saying,” said Vimes slowly, “if I understand the wording correctly, is that if I am baked alive by the dragon you’ll return the money?” “Upon personal application,” said Cut-me-own-Throat. He unscrewed the lid from a jar of vivid green ointment and thrust it under Vimes’s nose. “Made from over fifty different rare spices and herbs to a recipe known only to a bunch of ancient monks what live on some mountain somewhere. One dollar a jar, and I’m cutting my own throat. It’s a public service, really,” he added piously. “You’ve got to hand it to those ancient monks, brewing it up so quickly,” said Vimes. “Clever buggers,” agreed Cut-me-own-Throat. “I must be all that meditation and yak yogurt. ” “So what’s happening, Throat?” said Vimes. “Who’re all the guys with the big swords?” “Dragon hunters, Cap’n. The Patrician announced a reward of fifty thousand dollars to anyone who brings him the dragon’s head. Not attached to the dragon, either; he’s no fool, that man. ” “What?” “That’s what he said. It’s all written on posters. ” “Fifty thousand dollars!” “Not chicken feed, eh?” “More like dragon fodder,” said Vimes. It’d bring trouble, you mark his words. “I’m amazed you’re not grabbing a sword and joining in. ” “I’m more in what you might call the service sector, Cap’n. ” Throat looked both ways conspiratorially, and then passed Vimes a slip of parchment. It said: Anti-dragon mirror shields A$500 Portable lair detectors A$250 Dragon-piercing arrows A$100 per each Shovels A$5 Picks A$5 Sacks A$1 Vimes handed it back. “Why the sacks?” he said. “On account of the hoard,” said Throat. “Oh, yes,” said Vimes gloomily. “Of course. ” “Tell you what,” said Throat, “tell you what. For our boys in brown, ten percent off. ” “And you’re cutting your own throat, Throat?” “Fifteen percent for officers!” urged Throat, as Vimes walked away. The cause of the slight panic in his voice was soon apparent. He had plenty of competition. The people of Ankh-Morpork were not by nature heroic but were, by nature, salesmen. In the space of a few feet Vimes could have bought any number of magical weapons Genuine certyfycate of orthenticity with everyone , a cloak of invisibility—a good touch, he thought, and he was really impressed by the way the stallowner was using a mirror with no glass in it—and, by way of lighter relief, dragon biscuits, balloons and windmills on sticks. Copper bracelets guaranteed to bring relief from dragons were a nice thought. There seemed to be as many sacks and shovels about as there were swords. Gold, that was it. The hoard. Hah! Fifty thousand dollars! An officer of the Watch earned thirty dollars a month and had to pay to have his own dents beaten out. |
What he couldn’t do with fifty thousand dollars… Vimes thought about this for a while and then thought of the things he could do with fifty thousand dollars. There were so many more of them, for a start. He almost walked into a group of men clustered around a poster nailed to the wall. It declared, indeed, that the head of the dragon that had terrorized the city would be worth A$50,000 to the brave hero that delivered it to the palace. One of the cluster, who from his size, weaponry and that way he was slowly tracing the lettering with his finger Vimes decided was a leading hero, was doing the reading for the others. “—to ter-her pal-ack-ee,” he concluded. “Fifty thousand,” said one of them reflectively, rubbing his chin. “Cheap job,” said the intellectual. “Well below the rate. Should be half the kingdom and his daughter’s hand in marriage. ” “Yes, but he ain’t a king. He’s a Patrician. ” “Well, half his Patrimony or whatever. What’s his daughter like?” The assembled hunters didn’t know. “He’s not married,” Vimes volunteered. “And he hasn’t got a daughter. ” They turned and looked him up and down. He could see the disdain in their eyes. They probably got through dozens like him every day. “Not got a daughter?” said one of them. “Wants people to kill dragons and he hasn’t got a daughter?” Vimes felt, in an odd way, that he ought to support the lord of the city. “He’s got a little dog that he’s very fond of,” he said helpfully. “Bleeding disgusting, not even having a daughter,” said one of the hunters. “And what’s fifty thousand dollars these days? You spend that much in nets. ” “S’right,” said another. “People think it’s a fortune, but they don’t reckon on, well, it’s not pensionable, there’s all the medical expenses, you’ve got to buy and maintain your own gear—” “—wear and tear on virgins—” nodded a small fat hunter. “Yeah, and then there’s…what?” “My speciality is unicorns,” the hunter explained, with an embarrassed smile. “Oh, right. ” The first speaker looked like someone who’d always been dying to ask the question. “I thought they were very rare these days. ” “You’re right there. You don’t see many unicorns, either,” said the unicorn hunter. Vimes got the impression that, in his whole life, this was his only joke. “Yeah, well. Times are hard,” said the first speaker sharply. “Monsters are getting more uppity, too,” said another. “I heard where this guy, he killed this monster in this lake, no problem, stuck its arm up over the door—” “Pour encourjay lays ortras,” said one of the listeners. “Right, and you know what? Its mum come and complained. Its actual mum come right down to the hall next day and complained. Actually complained. That’s the respect you get. ” “The females are always the worst,” said another hunter gloomily. “I knew this cross-eyed gorgon once, oh, she was a terror. Kept turning her own nose to stone. ” “It’s our arses on the line every time,” said the intellectual. “I mean, I wish I had a dollar for every horse I’ve had eaten out from underneath me. ” “Right. Fifty thousand dollars? He can stuff it. ” “Yeah. ” “Right. Cheapskate. ” “Let’s go and have a drink. ” “Right. ” They nodded in righteous agreement and strode off toward the Mended Drum, except for the intellectual, who sidled uneasily back to Vimes. “What sort of dog?” he said. “What?” said Vimes. “I said, what sort of dog?” “A small wire-haired terrier, I think,” said Vimes. The hunter thought about this for some time. “Nah,” he said eventually, and hurried off after the others. “He’s got an aunt in Pseudopolis, I believe,” Vimes called after him. There was no response. The captain of the Watch shrugged, and carried on through the throng to the Patrician’s palace… …where the Patrician was having a difficult lunchtime. “Gentlemen!” he snapped. “I really don’t see what else there is to do!” The assembled civic leaders muttered among themselves. “At times like this it’s traditional that a hero comes forth,” said the President of the Guild of Assassins. “A dragon slayer. Where is he, that’s what I want to know? Why aren’t our schools turning out young people with the kind of skills society needs?” “Fifty thousand dollars doesn’t sound much,” said the Chairman of the Guild of Thieves. “It may not be much to you, my dear sir, but it is all the city can afford,” said the Patrician firmly. “If it doesn’t afford anymore than that I don’t think there’ll be a city for long,” said the thief. “And what about trade?” said the representative of the Guild of Merchants. “People aren’t going to sail here with a cargo of rare comestibles just to have it incinerated, are they?” “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” The Patrician raised his hands in a conciliatory fashion. “It seems to me,” he went on, taking advantage of the brief pause, “that what we have here is a strictly magical phenomenon. I would like to hear from our learned friend on this point. Hmm?” Someone nudged the Archchancellor of Unseen University, who had nodded off. “Eh? What?” said the wizard, startled into wakefulness. “We were wondering,” said the Patrician loudly, “what you were intending to do about this dragon of yours?” The Archchancellor was old, but a lifetime of survival in the world of competitive wizardry and the byzantine politics of Unseen University meant that he could whip up a defensive argument in a split second. You didn’t remain Archchancellor for long if you let that sort of ingenuous remark whizz past your ear. “ My dragon?” he said. “It’s well known that the great dragons are extinct,” said the Patrician brusquely. “And, besides, their natural habitat was definitely rural. So it seems to me that this one must be mag—” “With respect, Lord Vetinari,” said the Archchancellor, “it has often been claimed that dragons are extinct, but the current evidence, if I may make so bold, tends to cast a certain doubt on the theory. As to habitat, what we are seeing here is simply a change of behavior pattern, occasioned by the spread of urban areas into the countryside which has led many hitherto rural creatures to adopt, nay in many cases to positively embrace, a more municipal mode of existence, and many of them thrive on the new opportunities thereby opened to them. For example, foxes are always knocking over my dustbins. ” He beamed. He’d managed to get all the way through it without actually needing to engage his brain. “Are you saying,” said the assassin slowly, “that what we’ve got here is the first civic dragon?” “That’s evolution for you,” said the wizard, happily. “It should do well, too,” he added. “Plenty of nesting sites, and a more than adequate food supply. ” Silence greeted this statement, until the merchant said, “What exactly is it that they do eat?” The thief shrugged. “I seem to recall stories about virgins chained to huge rocks,” he volunteered. “It’ll starve around here, then,” said the assassin. “We’re on loam. ” “They used to go around ravening,” said the thief. “Dunno if that’s any help…” “Anyway,” said the leader of the merchants, “it seems to be your problem again, my lord. ” Five minutes later the Patrician was striding the length of the Oblong Office, fuming. “They were laughing at me,” said the Patrician. “I could tell!” “Did you suggest a working party?” said Wonse. “Of course I did! It didn’t do the trick this time. You know, I really am inclined to increase the reward money. ” “I don’t think that would work, my lord. Any proficient monster slayer knows the rate for the job. ” “Ha! Half the kingdom,” muttered the Patrician. “And your daughter’s hand in marriage,” said Wonse. “I suppose an aunt isn’t acceptable?” the Patrician said hopefully. “Tradition demands a daughter, my lord. ” The Patrician nodded gloomily. “Perhaps we can buy it off,” he said aloud. “Are dragons intelligent?” “I believe the word traditionally is ‘cunning,’ my lord,” said Wonse. “I understand they have a liking for gold. ” “Really? What do they spend it on?” “They sleep on it, my lord. ” “What, do you mean in a mattress?” “No, my lord. On it. ” The Patrician turned this fact over in his mind. |
“Don’t they find it rather knobbly?” he said. “So I would imagine, sir. I don’t suppose anyone has ever asked. ” “Hmm. Can they talk?” “They’re apparently good at it, my lord. ” “Ah. Interesting. ” The Patrician was thinking: if it can talk, it can negotiate. If it can negotiate, then I have it by the short—by the small scales, or whatever it is they have. “And they are said to be silver tongued,” said Wonse. The Patrician leaned back in his chair. “Only silver?” he said. There was the sound of muted voices in the passageway outside and Vimes was ushered in. “Ah, Captain,” said the Patrician, “what progress?” “I’m sorry, my lord?” said Vimes, as the rain dripped off his cape. “Towards apprehending this dragon,” said the Patrician firmly. “The wading bird?” said Vimes. “You know very well what I mean,” said Vetinari sharply. “Investigations are in hand,” said Vimes automatically. The Patrician snorted. “All you have to do is find its lair,” he said. “Once you have the lair, you have the dragon. That’s obvious. Half the city seems to be looking for it. ” “If there is a lair,” said Vimes. Wonse looked up sharply. “Why do you say that?” “We are considering a number of possibilities,” said Vimes woodenly. “If it has no lair, where does it spend its days?” said the Patrician. “Inquiries are being pursued,” said Vimes. “Then pursue them with alacrity. And find the lair,” said the Patrician sourly. “Yes, sir. Permission to leave, sir?” “Very well. But I shall expect progress by tonight, do you understand?” Now why did I wonder if it has a lair? Vimes thought, as he stepped out into the daylight and the crowded square. Because it didn’t look real, that’s why. If it isn’t real, it doesn’t need to do anything we expect. How can it walk out of an alley it didn’t go into? Once you’ve ruled out the impossible then whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth. The problem lay in working out what was impossible, of course. That was the trick, all right. There was also the curious incident of the orangutan in the night-time… By day the Library buzzed with activity. Vimes moved through it diffidently. Strictly speaking, he could go anywhere in the city, but the University had always held that it fell under thaumaturgical law and he felt it wouldn’t be wise to make the kind of enemies where you were lucky to end up the same temperature, let alone the same shape. He found the Librarian hunched over his desk. The ape gave him an expectant look. “Haven’t found it yet. Sorry,” said Vimes. “Enquiries are continuing. But there is a little help you can give me. ” “Oook?” “Well, this is a magical library, right? I mean, these books are sort of intelligent, isn’t that so? So I’ve been thinking: I bet if I got in here at night, they’d soon kick up a fuss. Because they don’t know me. But if they did know me, they’d probably not mind. So whoever took the book would have to be a wizard, wouldn’t they? Or someone who works for the University, at any rate. ” The Librarian glanced from side to side, then grasped Vimes’s hand and led him into the seclusion of a couple of bookshelves. Only then did he nod his head. “Someone they know?” A shrug, and then another nod. “That’s why you told us, is it?” “Oook. ” “And not the University Council?” “Oook. ” “Any idea who it is?” The Librarian shrugged, a decidedly expressive gesture for a body which was basically a sack between a pair of shoulderblades. “Well, it’s something. Let me know if any other strange things happen, won’t you?” Vimes looked up at the banks of shelves. “Stranger than usual, I mean. ” “Oook. ” “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet a citizen who regards it as their duty to assist the Watch. ” The Librarian gave him a banana. Vimes felt curiously elated as he stepped out into the city’s throbbing streets again. He was definitely detecting things. They were little bits of things, like a jigsaw. No one of them made any real sense, but they all hinted at a bigger picture. All he needed to do was find a corner, or a bit of an edge… He was pretty certain it wasn’t a wizard, whatever the Librarian might think. Not a proper, paid-up wizard. This sort of thing wasn’t their style. And there was, of course, this business about the lair. The most sensible course would be to wait and see if the dragon turned up tonight, and try and see where. That meant a high place. Was there some way of detecting dragons themselves? He’d had a look at Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler’s dragon detectors, which consisted solely of a piece of wood on a metal stick. When the stick was burned through, you’d found your dragon. Like a lot of Cut-me-own-Throat’s devices, it was completely efficient in its own special way while at the same time being totally useless. There had to be a better way of finding the thing than waiting until your fingers were burned off. The setting sun spread out on the horizon like a lightly-poached egg. The rooftops of Ankh-Morpork sprouted a fine array of gargoyles even in normal times, but now they were alive with as ghastly an array of faces as ever were seen outside a woodcut about the evils of gin-drinking among the non-woodcut-buying classes. Many of the faces were attached to bodies holding a fearsome array of homely weapons that had been handed down from generation to generation for centuries, often with some force. From his perch on the roof of the Watch House Vimes could see the wizards lining the rooftops of the University, and the gangs of opportunist hoard-researchers waiting in the streets, shovels at the ready. If the dragon really did have a bed somewhere in the city, then it would be sleeping on the floor tomorrow. From somewhere below came the cry of Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, or one of his colleagues, selling hot sausages. Vimes felt a sudden surge of civic pride. There had to be something right about a citizenry which, when faced with catastrophe, thought about selling sausages to the participants. The city waited. A few stars came out. Colon, Nobby and Carrot were also on the roof. Colon was sulking because Vimes had forbidden him to use his bow and arrow. These weren’t encouraged in the city, since the heft and throw of a longbow’s arrow could send it through an innocent bystander a hundred yards away rather than the innocent bystander at whom it was aimed. “That’s right,” said Carrot, “the Projectile Weapons (Civic Safety) Act, 1634. ” “Don’t you keep on quoting all that sort of stuff,” snapped Colon. “We don’t have any of them laws anymore! That’s all old stuff! It’s all more wossname now. Pragmatic. ” “Law or no law,” said Vimes, “ I say put it away. ” “But Captain, I was a dab hand at this!” protested Colon. “Anyway,” he added peevishly, “a lot of other people have got them. ” That was true enough. Neighboring rooftops bristled like hedgehogs. If the wretched thing turned up, it was going to think it was flying through solid wood with slots in it. You could almost feel sorry for it. “I said put it away,” said Vimes. “I’m not having my guards shooting citizens. So put it away. ” “That’s very true,” said Carrot. “We’re here to protect and to serve, aren’t we, Captain. ” Vimes gave him a sidelong look. “Er,” he said. “Yeah. Yes. That’s right. ” On the roof of her house on the hill, Lady Ramkin adjusted a rather inadequate folding chair on the roof, arranged the telescope, coffee flask and sandwiches on the parapet in front of her, and settled down to wait. She had a notebook on her knee. Half an hour went by. Hails of arrows greeted a passing cloud, several unfortunate bats, and the rising moon. “Bugger this for a game of soldiers,” said Nobby, eventually. “It’s been scared off. ” Sgt. Colon lowered his pike. “Looks like it,” he conceded. “And it’s getting chilly up here,” said Carrot. He politely nudged Captain Vimes, who was slumped against the chimney, staring moodily into space. “Maybe we ought to be getting down, sir?” he said. “Lots of people are. ” “Hmm?” said Vimes, without moving his head. “Could be coming onto rain, too,” said Carrot. Vimes said nothing. |
For some minutes he had been watching the Tower of Art, which was the center of Unseen University and reputedly the oldest building in the city. It was certainly the tallest. Time, weather and indifferent repairs had given it a gnarled appearance, like a tree that has seen too many thunderstorms. He was trying to remember its shape. As is the case with many things that are totally familiar, he hadn’t really looked at it for years. Now he was trying to convince himself that the forest of little turrets and crenellations at its top looked just the same tonight as they had done yesterday. It was giving him some difficulty. Without taking his eyes off it, he grabbed Sgt. Colon’s shoulder and gently pointed him in the right direction. He said, “Can you see anything odd about the top of the tower?” Colon stared up for a while, and then laughed nervously. “Well, it looks like there’s a dragon sitting on it, doesn’t it?” “Yes. That’s what I thought. ” “Only, only, only when you sort of look properly, you can see it’s just made up out of shadows and clumps of ivy and that. I mean, if you half-close one eye, it looks like two old women and a wheelbarrow. ” Vimes tried this. “Nope,” he said. “It still looks like a dragon. A huge one. Sort of hunched up, and looking down. Look, you can see its wings folded up. ” “Beg pardon, sir. That’s just a broken turret giving the effect. ” They watched it for a while. Then Vimes said, “Tell me, Sergeant—I ask in a spirit of pure inquiry—what do you think’s causing the effect of a pair of huge wings unfurling?” Colon swallowed. “I think that’s caused by a pair of huge wings, sir,” he said. “Spot on, Sergeant. ” The dragon dropped. It wasn’t a swoop. It simply kicked away from the top of the tower and half-fell, half-flew straight downward, disappearing from view behind the University buildings. Vimes caught himself listening for the thump. And then the dragon was in view again, moving like an arrow, moving like a shooting star, moving like something that has somehow turned a thirty-two feet per second plummet into an unstoppable upward swoop. It glided over the rooftops at little more than head height, all the more horrible because of the sound. It was as though the air was slowly and carefully being torn in half. The Watch threw themselves flat. Vimes caught a glimpse of huge, vaguely horse-like features before it slid past. “Sodding assholes,” said Nobby, from somewhere in the guttering. Vimes redoubled his grip on the chimney and pulled himself upright. “You are in uniform, Corporal Nobbs,” he said, his voice hardly shaking at all. “Sorry, Captain. Sodding assholes, sir. ” “Where’s Sergeant Colon?” “Down here, sir. Holding onto this drainpipe, sir. ” “Oh, for goodness sake. Help him up, Carrot. ” “Gosh,” said Carrot, “look at it go!” You could tell the position of the dragon by the rattle of arrows across the city, and by the screams and gurgles of all those hit by the misses and ricochets. “He hasn’t even flapped his wings yet!” shouted Carrot, trying to stand on the chimney pot. “Look at him go !” It shouldn’t be that big , Vimes told himself, watching the huge shape wheel over the river. It’s as long as a street! There was a puff of flame above the docks, and for a moment the creature passed in front of the moon. Then it flapped its wings, once, with a sound like the damp hides of a pedigree herd being slapped across a cliff. It turned in a tight circle, pounded the air a few times to build up speed, and came back. When it passed over the Watch House it coughed a column of spitting white fire. Tiles under it didn’t just melt, they erupted in red-hot droplets. The chimney stack exploded and rained bricks across the street. Vast wings hammered at the air as the creature hovered over the burning building, fire spearing down on what rapidly became a glowing heap. Then, when all that was left was a spreading puddle of melted rock with interesting streaks and bubbles in it, the dragon raised itself with a contemptuous flick of its wings and soared away and upward, over the city. Lady Ramkin lowered her telescope and shook her head slowly. “That’s not right,” she whispered. “That’s not right at all. Shouldn’t be able to do anything like that. ” She raised the lens again and squinted, trying to see what was on fire. Down below, in their long kennels, the little dragons howled. Traditionally, upon waking from blissfully uneventful insensibility, you ask: “Where am I?” It’s probably part of the racial consciousness or something. Vimes said it. Tradition allows a choice of second lines. A key point in the selection process is an audit to see that the body has all the bits it remembers having yesterday. Vimes checked. Then comes the tantalizing bit. Now that the snowball of consciousness is starting to roll, is it going to find that it’s waking up inside a body lying in a gutter with something multiple, the noun doesn’t matter after an adjective like “multiple,” nothing good ever follows “multiple,” or is it going to be a case of crisp sheets, a soothing hand, and a businesslike figure in white pulling open the curtains on a bright new day? Is it all over, with nothing worse to look forward to now than weak tea, nourishing gruel, short, strengthening walks in the garden and possibly a brief platonic love affair with a ministering angel, or was this all just a moment’s blackout and some looming bastard is now about to get down to real business with the thick end of a pickax helve? Are there, the consciousness wants to know, going to be grapes? At this point some outside stimulus is helpful. “It’s going to be all right” is favorite, whereas “Did anyone get his number?” is definitely a bad sign; either, however, is better than “You two hold his hands behind his back. ” In fact someone said, “You were nearly a goner there, Captain. ” The pain sensations, which had taken advantage of Vimes’s unconscious state to bunk off for a metaphorical quick cigarette, rushed back. Vimes said, “Arrgh. ” Then he opened his eyes. There was a ceiling. This ruled out one particular range of unpleasant options and was very welcome. His blurred vision also revealed Corporal Nobbs, which was less so. Corporal Nobbs proved nothing; you could be dead and see something like Corporal Nobbs. Ankh-Morpork did not have many hospitals. All the Guilds maintained their own sanitariums, and there were a few public ones run by the odder religious organizations, like the Balancing Monks, but by and large medical assistance was nonexistent and people had to die inefficiently, without the aid of doctors. It was generally thought that the existence of cures encouraged slackness and was in any case probably against Nature’s way. “Have I already said ‘Where am I?’” said Vimes faintly. “Yes. ” “Did I get an answer?” “Dunno where this place is, Captain. It belongs to some posh bint. She said to bring you up here. ” Even though Vimes’s mind appeared to be full of pink treacle he nevertheless grabbed two clues and wrestled them together. The combination of “rich” and “up here” meant something. So did the strange chemical smell in the room, which even overpowered Nobby’s more everyday odors. “We’re not talking about Lady Ramkin, are we?” he said cautiously. “You could be right. Great big biddy. Mad for dragons. ” Nobby’s rodent face broke into the most horribly knowing grin Vimes had ever seen. “You’re in her bed,” he said. Vimes peered around him, feeling the first overtures of a vague panic. Because now that he could halfway focus, he could see a certain lack of bachelor sockness about the place. There was a faint hint of talcum powder. “Bit of a boodwah,” said Nobby, with the air of a connoisseur. “Hang on, hang on a minute,” said Vimes. “There was this dragon. It was right over us…” The memory rose up and hit him like a zombie with a grudge. |
“You all right, Captain?” —the talons, outspread, wide as a man’s reach; the boom and thump of the wings, bigger than sails; the stink of chemicals, the gods alone knew what sort… It had been so close he could see the tiny scales on its legs and the red gleam in its eyes. They were more than just reptile eyes. They were eyes you could drown in. And the breath, so hot that it wasn’t like fire at all, but something almost solid, not burning things but smashing them apart… On the other hand, he was here and alive. His left side felt as though it had been hit with an iron bar, but he was quite definitely alive. “What happened?” he said. “It was young Carrot,” said Nobby. “He grabbed you and the sergeant and jumped off the roof just before it got us. ” “My side hurts. It must have got me,” said Vimes. “No, I reckon that was where you hit the privy roof,” said Nobby. “And then you rolled off and hit the water butt. ” “What about Colon? Is he hurt?” “Not hurt. Not exactly hurt. He landed more sort of softly. Him being so heavy, he went through the roof. Talk about a short sharp shower of—” “And then what happened?” “Well, we sort of made you comfy, and then everyone went blundering about and shouting for the sergeant. Until they found out where he was, o’course, then they just stood where they were and shouted. And then this woman come running up yelling,” said Nobby. “This is Lady Ramkin you’re referring to?” said Vimes coldly. His ribs were aching really magnificently now. “Yeah. Big fat party,” said Nobby, unmoved. “Cor, she can’t half boss people about! ‘Oh, the poor dear man, you must bring him up to my house this instant. ’ So we did. Best place, too. Everyone’s running around down in the city like chickens with their heads cut off. ” “How much damage did it do?” “Well, after you were out of it the wizards hit it with fire-balls. It didn’t like that at all. Just seemed to make it stronger and angrier. Took out the University’s entire Widdershins wing. ” “And—?” “That’s about it, really. It flamed a few more things, and then it must of flown away in all the smoke. ” “No one saw where it went?” “If they did, they ain’t saying. ” Nobby sat back and leered. “Disgusting, really, her livin’ in a room like this. She’s got pots of money, sarge says, she’s got no call livin’ in ordinary rooms. What’s the good of not wanting to be poor if the rich are allowed to go around livin’ in ordinary rooms? Should be marble. ” He sniffed. “Anyway, she said I was to fetch her when you woke up. She’s feeding her dragons now. Odd little buggers, aren’t they. It’s amazing she’s allowed to keep ’em. ” “What do you mean?” “You know. Tarred with the same brush, and that. ” When Nobby had shambled out Vimes took another look around the room. It did, indeed, lack the gold leaf and marble that Nobby felt was compulsory for people of a high station in life. All the furniture was old, and the pictures on the wall, though doubtless valuable, looked the sort of pictures that are hung on bedroom walls because people can’t think of anywhere else to put them. There were also a few amateurish watercolors of dragons. All in all, it had the look about it of a room that is only ever occupied by one person, and has been absentmindedly molded around them over the years, like a suit of clothes with a ceiling. It was clearly the room of a woman, but one who had cheerfully and without any silly moping been getting on with her life while all that soppy romance stuff had been happening to other people somewhere else, and been jolly grateful that she had her health. Such clothing as was visible had been chosen for sensible hardwearing qualities, possibly by a previous generation by the look of it, rather than its use as light artillery in the war between the sexes. There were bottles and jars neatly arranged on the dressing table, but a certain severity of line suggested that their labels would say things like “Rub on nightly” rather than “Just a dab behind the ears. ” You could imagine that the occupant of this room had slept in it all her life and had been called “my little girl” by her father until she was forty. There was a big sensible blue dressing gown hanging behind the door. Vimes knew, without even looking, that it would have a rabbit on the pocket. In short, it was the room of a woman who never expected that a man would ever see the inside of it. The bedside table was piled high with papers. Feeling guilty, but doing it anyway, Vimes squinted at them. Dragons was the theme. There were letters from the Cavern Club Exhibitions Committee and the Friendly Flamethrowers League. There were pamphlets and appeals from the Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons—“Poor little VINNY’s fires were nearly Damped after Five years’ Cruel Use as a Paint-Stripper, but now—” And there were requests for donations, and talks, and things that added up to a heart big enough for the whole world, or at least that part of it that had wings and breathed fire. If you let your mind dwell on rooms like this, you could end up being oddly sad and full of a strange, diffuse compassion which would lead you to believe that it might be a good idea to wipe out the whole human race and start again with amoebas. Beside the drift of paperwork was a book. Vimes twisted painfully and looked at the spine. It said: Diseases of the Dragon , by Sybil Deidre Olgivanna Ramkin. He turned the stiff pages in horrified fascination. They opened into another world, a world of quite stupefying problems. Slab Throat. The Black Tups. Dry Lung. Storge. Staggers, Heaves, Weeps, Stones. It was amazing, he decided after reading a few pages, that a swamp dragon ever survived to see a second sunrise. Even walking across a room must be reckoned a biological triumph. The painstakingly-drawn illustrations he looked away from hurriedly. You could only take so much innards. There was a knock at the door. “I say? Are you decent?” Lady Ramkin boomed cheerfully. “Er—” “I’ve brought you something jolly nourishing. ” Somehow Vimes imagined it would be soup. Instead it was a plate stacked high with bacon, fried potatoes and eggs. He could hear his arteries panic just by looking at it. “I’ve made a bread pudding, too,” said Lady Ramkin, slightly sheepishly. “I don’t normally cook much, just for myself. You know how it is, catering for one. ” Vimes thought about the meals at his lodgings. Somehow the meat was always gray, with mysterious tubes in it. “Er,” he began, not used to addressing ladies from a recumbent position in their own beds. “Corporal Nobbs tells me—” “And what a colorful little man Nobby is!” said Lady Ramkin. Vimes wasn’t certain he could cope with this. “Colorful?” he said weakly. “A real character. We’ve been getting along famously. ” “You have?” “Oh, yes. What a great fund of anecdotes he has. ” “Oh, yes. He’s got that all right. ” It always amazed Vimes how Nobby got along with practically everyone. It must, he’d decided, have something to do with the common denominator. In the entire world of mathematics there could be no denominator as common as Nobby. “Er,” he said, and then found he couldn’t leave this strange new byway, “you don’t find his language a bit, er, ripe?” “Salty,” corrected Lady Ramkin cheerfully. “You should have heard my father when he was annoyed. Anyway, we found we’ve got a lot in common. It’s an amazing coincidence, but my grandfather once had his grandfather whipped for malicious lingering. ” That must make them practically family, Vimes thought. Another stab of pain from his stricken side made him wince. “You’ve got some very bad bruising and probably a cracked rib or two,” she said. “If you roll over I’ll put some more of this on. ” Lady Ramkin flourished a jar of yellow ointment. Panic crossed Vimes’s face. Instinctively, he raised the sheets up around his neck. “Don’t play silly buggers, man,” she said. “I shan’t see anything I haven’t seen before. One backside is pretty much like another. It’s just that the ones I see generally have tails on. Now roll over and up with the nightshirt. |
It belonged to my grandfather, you know. ” There was no resisting that tone of voice. Vimes thought about demanding that Nobby be brought in as a chaperon, and then decided that would be even worse. The cream burned like ice. “What is it?” “All kinds of stuff. It’ll reduce the bruising and promote the growth of healthy scale. ” “What?” “Sorry. Probably not scale. Don’t look so worried. I’m almost positive about that. Okay, all done. ” She gave him a slap on the rump. “Madam, I am Captain of the Night Watch,” said Vimes, knowing it was a bloody daft thing to say even as he said it. “Half naked in a lady’s bed, too,” said Lady Ramkin, unmoved. “Now sit up and eat your tea. We’ve got to get you good and strong. ” Vimes’s eyes filled with panic. “Why?” he said. Lady Ramkin reached into the pocket of her grubby jacket. “I made some notes last night,” she said. “About the dragon. ” “Oh, the dragon. ” Vimes relaxed a bit. Right now the dragon seemed a much safer prospect. “And I did a bit of working out, too. I’ll tell you this: it’s a very odd beast. It shouldn’t be able to get airborne. ” “You’re right there. ” “If it’s built like swamp dragons, it should weigh about twenty tons. Twenty tons! It’s impossible. It’s all down to weight and wingspan ratios, you see. ” “I saw it drop off the tower like a swallow. ” “I know. It should have torn its wings off and left a bloody great hole in the ground,” said Lady Ramkin firmly. “You can’t muck about with aerodynamics. You can’t just scale up from small to big and leave it at that, you see. It’s all a matter of muscle power and lifting surfaces. ” “I knew there was something wrong,” said Vimes, brightening up. “And the flame, too. Nothing goes around with that kind of heat inside it. How do swamp dragons manage it?” “Oh, that’s just chemicals,” said Lady Ramkin dismissively. “They just distill something flammable from whatever they’ve eaten and ignite the flame just as it comes out of the ducts. They never actually have fire inside them, unless they get a case of blowback. ” “What happens then?” “You’re scraping dragon off the scenery,” said Lady Ramkin cheerfully. “I’m afraid they’re not very well-designed creatures, dragons. ” Vimes listened. They would never have survived at all except that their home swamps were isolated and short of predators. Not that a dragon made good eating, anyway—once you’d taken away the leathery skin and the enormous flight muscles, what was left must have been like biting into a badly-run chemical factory. No wonder dragons were always ill. They relied on permanent stomach trouble for supplies of fuel. Most of their brain power was taken up with controlling the complexities of their digestion, which could distill flame-producing fuels from the most unlikely ingredients. They could even rearrange their internal plumbing overnight to deal with difficult processes. They lived on a chemical knife-edge the whole time. One misplaced hiccup and they were geography. And when it came to choosing nesting sites, the females had all the common sense and mothering instinct of a brick. Vimes wondered why people had been so worried about dragons in the olden days. If there was one in a cave near you, all you had to do was wait until it self-ignited, blew itself up, or died of acute indigestion. “You’ve really studied them, haven’t you,” he said. “Someone ought to. ” “But what about the big ones?” “Golly, yes. They’re a great mystery, you know,” she said, her expression becoming extremely serious. “Yes, you said. ” “There are legends, you know. It seems as though one species of dragon started to get bigger and bigger and then…just vanished. ” “Died out, you mean?” “No…they turned up, sometimes. From somewhere. Full of vim and vigor. And then, one day, they stopped coming at all. ” She gave Vimes a triumphant look. “ I think they found somewhere where they could really be. ” “Really be what?” “Dragons. Where they could really fulfil their potential. Some other dimension or something. Where the gravity isn’t so strong, or something. ” “I thought when I saw it,” said Vimes, “I thought, you can’t have something that flies and has scales like that. ” They looked at each other. “We’ve got to find it in its lair,” said Lady Ramkin. “No bloody flying newt sets fire to my city,” said Vimes. “Just think of the contribution to dragon lore,” said Lady Ramkin. “Listen, if anyone ever sets fire to this city, it’s going to be me. ” “It’s an amazing opportunity. There’s so many questions…” “You’re right there. ” A phrase of Carrot’s crossed Vimes’s mind. “It can help us with our enquiries,” he suggested. “But in the morning,” said Lady Ramkin firmly. Vimes’s look of bitter determination faded. “I shall sleep downstairs, in the kitchen,” said Lady Ramkin cheerfully. “I usually have a camp bed made up down there when it’s egg-laying time. Some of the females always need assistance. Don’t you worry about me. ” “You’re being very helpful,” Vimes muttered. “I’ve sent Nobby down to the city to help the others set up your headquarters,” said Lady Ramkin. Vimes had completely forgotten the Watch House. “It must have been badly damaged,” he ventured. “Totally destroyed,” said Lady Ramkin. “Just a patch of melted rock. So I’m letting you have a place in Pseudopolis Yard. ” “Sorry?” “Oh, my father had property all over the city,” she said. “Quite useless to me, really. So I told my agent to give Sergeant Colon the keys to the old house in Pseudopolis Yard. It’ll do it good to be aired. ” “But that area—I mean, there’s real cobbles on the streets—the rent alone, I mean, Lord Vetinari won’t—” “Don’t you worry about it,” she said, giving him a friendly pat. “Now, you really ought to get some sleep. ” Vimes lay in bed, his mind racing. Pseudopolis Yard was on the Ankh side of the river, in quite a high-rent district. The sight of Nobby or Sergeant Colon walking down the street in daylight would probably have the same effect on the area as the opening of a plague hospital. He dozed, gliding in and out of a sleep where giant dragons pursued him waving jars of ointment… And awoke to the sound of a mob. Lady Ramkin drawing herself up haughtily was not a sight to forget, although you could try. It was like watching continental drift in reverse as various sub-continents and islands pulled themselves together to form one massive, angry protowoman. The broken door of the dragon house swung on its hinges. The inmates, already as highly strung as a harp on amphetamines, were going mad. Little gouts of flame burst against the metal plates as they stampeded back and forth in their pens. “Hwhat,” she said, “is the meaning of this?” If a Ramkin had ever been given to introspection she’d have admitted that it wasn’t a very original line. But it was handy. It did the job. The reason that cliches become cliches is that they are the hammers and screwdrivers in the toolbox of communication. The mob filled the broken doorway. Some of it was waving various sharp implements with the up-and-down motion proper to rioters. “Worl,” said the leader, “it’s the dragon, innit?” There was a chorus of muttered agreement. “Hwhat about it?” said Lady Ramkin. “Worl. It’s been burning the city. They don’t fly far. You got dragons here. Could be one of them, couldn’t it?” “Yeah. ” “S’right. ” “QED. ” 1 “So what we’re going to do is, we’re going to put ’em down. ” “S’right. ” “Yeah. ” “Pro bono publico. ” Lady Ramkin’s bosom rose and fell like an empire. She reached out and grabbed the dunging fork from its hook on the wall. “One step nearer, I warn you, and you’ll be sorry,” she said. The leader looked beyond her to the frantic dragons. “Yeah?” he said, nastily. “And what’ll you do, eh?” Her mouth opened and shut once or twice. “I shall summon the Watch!” she said at last. The threat did not have the effect she had expected. Lady Ramkin had never paid much attention to those bits of the city that didn’t have scales on. “Well, that’s too bad,” said the leader. “That’s really worrying you know that? Makes me go all weak at the knees, that does. |
” He extracted a lengthy cleaver from his belt. “And now you just stand aside, lady, because—” A streak of green fire blasted out of the back of the shed, passed a foot over the heads of the mob, and burned a charred rosette in the woodwork over the door. Then came a voice that was a honeyed purr of sheer deadly menace. “This is Lord Mountjoy Quickfang Winterforth IV, the hottest dragon in the city. It could burn your head clean off. ” Captain Vimes limped forward from the shadows. A small and extremely frightened golden dragon was clamped firmly under one arm. His other hand held it by the tail. The rioters watched it, hypnotized. “Now I know what you’re thinking,” Vimes went on, softly. “You’re wondering, after all this excitement, has it got enough flame left? And, y’know, I ain’t so sure myself…” He leaned forward, sighting between the dragon’s ears, and his voice buzzed like a knife blade: “What you’ve got to ask yourself is: Am I feeling lucky?” They swayed backward as he advanced. “Well?” he said. “ Are you feeling lucky?” For a few moments the only sound was Lord Mountjoy Quickfang Winterforth IV’s stomach rumbling ominously as fuel sloshed into his flame chambers. “Now look, er,” said the leader, his eyes fixed hypnotically on the dragon’s head, “there’s no call for anything like that—” “In fact he might just decide to flare off all by himself,” said Vimes. “They have to do it to stop the gas building up. It builds up when they get nervous. And, y’know, I reckon you’ve made them all pretty nervous now. ” The leader made what he hoped was a vaguely conciliatory gesture, but unfortunately did it with the hand that was still holding a knife. “Drop it,” said Vimes sharply, “or you’re history. ” The knife clanged on the flagstones. There was a scuffle at the back of the crowd as a number of people, metaphorically speaking, were a long way away and knew nothing about it. “But before the rest of you good citizens disperse quietly and go about your business,” said Vimes meaningfully, “I suggest you look hard at these dragons. Do any of them look sixty feet long? Would you say they’ve got an eighty-foot wingspan? How hot do they flame, would you say?” “Dunno,” said the leader. Vimes raised the dragon’s head slightly. The leader rolled his eyes. “Dunno, sir,” he corrected. “Do you want to find out?” The leader shook his head. But he did manage to find his voice. “Who are you, anyway?” he said. Vimes drew himself up. “Captain Vimes, City Watch,” he said. This met with almost complete silence. The exception was the cheerful voice, somewhere in the back of the crowd, which said: “Night shift, is it?” Vimes looked down at his nightshirt. In his hurry to get off his sickbed he’d shuffled hastily into a pair of Lady Ramkin’s slippers. For the first time he saw they had pink pompoms on them. And it was at this moment that Lord Mountjoy Quickfang Winterforth IV chose to belch. It wasn’t another stab of roaring fire. It was just a near-invisible ball of damp flame which rolled over the mob and singed a few eyebrows. But it definitely made an impression. Vimes rallied magnificently. They couldn’t have noticed his brief moment of sheer horror. “That one was just to get your attention,” he said, pokerfaced. “The next one will be a little lower. ” “Er,” said the leader. “Right you are. No problem. We were just going anyhow. No big dragons here, right enough. Sorry you’ve been troubled. ” “Oh, no,” said Lady Ramkin triumphantly. “You don’t get away that easily!” She reached up onto a shelf and produced a tin box. It had a slot in the lid. It rattled. On the side was the legend: The Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons. The initial whip-around produced four dollars and thirty-one pence. After Captain Vimes gestured pointedly with the dragon, a further twenty-five dollars and sixteen pence were miraculously forthcoming. Then the mob fled. “We made a profit on the day, anyway,” said Vimes, when they were alone again. “That was jolly brave of you!” “Let’s just hope it doesn’t catch on,” said Vimes, gingerly putting the exhausted dragon back in its pen. He felt quite lightheaded. Once again he was aware of eyes staring fixedly at him. He glanced sideways into the long, pointed face of Goodboy Bindle Featherstone, rearing up in a pose best described as The Last Puppy in the Shop. To his astonishment, he found himself reaching over and scratching it behind its ears, or at least behind the two spiky things at the sides of its head which were presumably its ears. It responded with a strange noise that sounded like a complicated blockage in a brewery. He took his hand away hurriedly. “It’s all right,” said Lady Ramkin. “It’s his stomachs rumbling. That means he likes you. ” To his amazement, Vimes found that he was rather pleased about this. As far as he could recall, nothing in his life before had thought him worth a burp. “I thought you were, er, going to get rid of him,” he said. “I suppose I shall have to,” she said. “You know how it is, though. They look up at you with those big, soulful eyes—” There was a brief, mutual, awkward silence. “How would it be if I—” “You don’t think you might like—” They stopped. “It’d be the least I could do,” said Lady Ramkin. “But you’re already giving us the new headquarters and everything!” “That was simply my duty as a good citizen,” said Lady Ramkin. “Please accept Goodboy as, as a friend. ” Vimes felt that he was being inched out over a very deep chasm on a very thin plank. “I don’t even know what they eat,” he said. “They’re omnivores, actually,” she said. “They eat everything except metal and igneous rocks. You can’t be finicky, you see, when you evolve in a swamp. ” “But doesn’t he need to be taken for walks? Or flights, or whatever?” “He seems to sleep most of the time. ” She scratched the ugly thing on top of its scaly head. “He’s the most relaxed dragon I’ve ever bred, I must say. ” “What about, er, you know?” He indicated the dunging fork. “Well, it’s mainly gas. Just keep him somewhere well ventilated. You haven’t got any valuable carpets, have you? It’s best not to let them lick your face, but they can be trained to control their flame. They’re very helpful for lighting fires. ” Goodboy Bindle Featherstone curled up amidst a barrage of plumbing noises. They’ve got eight stomachs, Vimes remembered; the drawings in the book had been very detailed. And there’s lots of other stuff like fractional-distillation tubes and mad alchemy sets in there. No swamp dragon could ever terrorize a kingdom, except by accident. Vimes wondered how many had been killed by enterprising heroes. It was terribly cruel to do something like that to creatures whose only crime was to blow themselves absent-mindedly to pieces in mid-air, which was not something any individual dragon made a habit of. It made him quite angry to think about it. A race of, of whittles , that’s what dragons were. Born to lose. Live fast, die wide. Omnivores or not, what they must really live on was their nerves, flapping apologetically through the world in mortal fear of their own digestive system. The family would be just getting over father’s explosion, and some twerp in a suit of armor would come plodding into the swamp to stick a sword into a bag of guts that was only one step away from self-destruction in any case. Huh. It’d be interesting to see how the great dragon slayers of the past stood up to the big dragon. Armor? Best not to wear it. It’d all be the same in any case, and at least your ashes wouldn’t come prepackaged in their own foil. He stared and stared at the malformed little thing, and the idea that had been knocking for attention for the last few minutes finally gained entrance. Everyone in Ankh-Morpork wanted to find the dragon’s lair. At least, wanted to find it empty. Bits of wood on a stick wouldn’t do it, he was certain. But, as they said, set a thief… 1 He said, “Cloud one dragon sniff out another? I mean, follow a scent?” Dearest Mother [wrote Carrot] Talk about a Turn Up for the Books. |
Last night the dragon burned up our Headquarters and Lo and Behold we have been given a better one, it is in a place called Pseudopolis Yard, opposite the Opera House. Sgt. Colon said we have gone Up in the World and has told Nobby not to try to sell the furnishings. Going Up in the World is a metaphor, which I am learning about, it is like Lying but more decorative. There are proper carpets to spit on. Twice today groups of people have tried to search the cellars here for the dragon, it is amazing. And digging up people’s privies and poking into attics, it is like a Fever. One thing is, people haven’t got time for much else, and Sgt. Colon says, when you go out on your Rounds and shout Twelve of the Clock and All’s Well while a dragon is melting the street you feel a bit of a Burke. I have moved out of Mrs. Palm’s because, there are dozens of bedrooms here. It was sad and they made me a cake but I think it is for the best, although Mrs. Palm never charged me rent which was very nice of her considering she is a widow with so many fine daughters to bring up plus dowries ekcetra. Also I have made friends with this ape who keeps coming around to see if we have found his book. Nobby says it is a flea-ridden moron because it won 18d off him playing Cripple Mr. Onion, which is a game of chance with cards which I do not play, I have told Nobby about the Gambling (Regulation) Acts, and he said Piss off, which I think is in violation of the Decency Ordinances of 1389 but I have decided to use my Discretion. Capt Vimes is ill and is being looked after by a Lady. Nobby says it is well known she is Mental, but Sgt. Colon says its just because of living in a big house with a lot of dragons but she is worth a Fortune and well done to the Capt for getting his feet under the table. I do not see what the furniture has to do with it. This morning I went for a walk with Reet and showed her many interesting examples of the iron-work to be found in the city. She said it was very interesting. She said I was quite different to anyone she’s ever met. Your loving son, Carrot. X PS I hope Minty is keeping well. He folded the paper carefully and shoved it into the envelope. “Sun’s going down,” said Sergeant Colon. Carrot looked up from his sealing wax. “That means it will be night soon,” Colon went on, accurately. “Yes, Sergeant. ” Colon ran a finger around his collar. His skin was impressively pink, the result of a morning’s scrubbing, but people were still staying at a respectful distance. Some people are born to command. Some people achieve command. And others have command thrust upon them, and the sergeant was now included in this category and wasn’t very happy about it. Any minute now, he knew, he was going to have to say that it was time they went out on patrol. He didn’t want to go out on patrol. He wanted to find a nice sub-basement somewhere. But nobblyess obligay —if he was in charge, he had to do it. It wasn’t the loneliness of command that was bothering him. It was the being-fried-alive of command that was giving him problems. He was also pretty sure that unless they came up with something about this dragon very soon then the Patrician was going to be unhappy. And when the Patrician was unhappy, he became very democratic. He found intricate and painful ways of spreading that unhappiness as far as possible. Responsibility, the sergeant thought, was a terrible thing. So was being horribly tortured. As far as he could see, the two facts were rapidly heading toward one another. And thus he was terribly relieved when a small coach pulled up outside the Yard. It was very old, and battered. There was a faded coat of arms on the door. Painted on the back, and rather newer, was the little message: Whinny If You Love Dragons. Out of it, wincing as he got down, stepped Captain Vimes. Following him was the woman known to the sergeant as Mad Sybil Ramkin. And finally, hopping down obediently on the end of its lead, was a small— The sergeant was too nervous to take account of actual size. “Well, I’ll be mogadored! They’ve only gone and caught it!” Nobby looked up from the table in the corner where he was continually failing to learn that it is almost impossible to play a game of skill and bluff against an opponent who smiles all the time. The Librarian took advantage of the diversion to help himself to a couple of cards off the bottom of the pack. “Don’t be daft. That’s just a swamp dragon,” said Nobby. “She’s all right, is Lady Sybil. A real lady. ” The other two guards turned and stared at him. This was Nobby talking. “You two can bloody well stop that,” he said. “Why shouldn’t I know a lady when I sees one? She give me a cup of tea in a cup fin as paper and a silver spoon in it,” he said, speaking as one who had peeped over the plateau of social distinction. “ And I give it back to her, so you can stop looking at me like that!” “What is it you actually do on your evenings off?” said Colon. “No business of yourn. ” “Did you really give the spoon back?” said Carrot. “Yes I bloody well did!” said Nobby hotly. “Attention, lads,” said the sergeant, flooded with relief. The other two entered the room. Vimes gave his men his usual look of resigned dismay. “My squad,” he mumbled. “Fine body of men,” said Lady Ramkin. “The good old rank and file, eh?” “The rank, anyway,” said Vimes. Lady Ramkin beamed encouragingly. This led to a strange shuffling among the men. Sergeant Colon, by dint of some effort, managed to make his chest stick out more than his stomach. Carrot straightened up from his habitual stoop. Nobby vibrated with soldierly bearing, hands thrust straight down by his sides, thumbs pointing sharply forward, pigeon chest inflated so much that his feet were in danger of leaving the ground. “I always think we can all sleep safer in my bed knowing that these brave men are watching over us,” said Lady Ramkin, walking sedately along the rank, like a treasure galleon running ahead of a mild breeze. “And who is this?” It is difficult for an orangutan to stand to attention. Its body can master the general idea, but its skin can’t. The Librarian was doing his best, however, standing in a sort of respectful heap at the end of the line and maintaining the kind of complex salute you can only achieve with a four-foot arm. “’E’s plain clothes, ma’am,” said Nobby smartly. “Special Ape Services. ” “Very enterprising. Very enterprising indeed,” said Lady Ramkin. “How long have you been an ape, my man?” “Oook. ” “Well done. ” She turned to Vimes, who was definitely looking incredulous. “A credit to you,” she said. “A fine body of men—” “Oook. ” “—anthropoids,” corrected Lady Ramkin, with barely a break in the flow. For a moment the rank felt as though they had just returned from single-handedly conquering a distant province. They felt, in fact, tremendously bucked-up, which was how Lady Ramkin would almost certainly have put it and which was definitely several letters of the alphabet away from how they normally felt. Even the Librarian felt favored, and for once had let the phrase “my man” pass without comment. A trickling noise and a strong chemical smell prompted them to look around. Goodboy Bindle Featherstone was squatting with an air of sheepish innocence alongside what was not so much a stain on the carpet as a hole in the floor. A few wisps of smoke were curling up from the edges. Lady Ramkin sighed. “Don’t you worry, ma’am,” volunteered Nobby cheerfully. “Soon have that cleaned up. ” “I’m afraid they’re often like that when they’re excited,” she said. “Fine specimen you got there, ma’am,” Nobby went on, revelling in the new-found experience of social intercourse. “It’s not mine,” she said. “It belongs to the captain now. Or all of you, perhaps. A sort of mascot. His name is Goodboy Bindle Featherstone. ” Goodboy Bindle Featherstone bore up stoically under the weight of the name, and sniffed a table leg. “He looks more like my brother Errol,” said Nobby, playing the cheeky chirpy lovable city sparrow card for all it was worth. |
“Got the same pointed nose, excuse me for saying so, milady. ” Vimes looked at the creature, which was investigating its new environment, and knew that it was now, irrevocably, an Errol. The little dragon took an experimental bite out of the table, chewed it for a few seconds, spat it out, curled up and went to sleep. “He ain’t going to set fire to anything, is he?” said the sergeant anxiously. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem to have worked out what his flame ducts are for yet,” said Lady Ramkin. “You can’t teach him anything about relaxing, though,” said Vimes. “Anyway, men…” “Oook. ” “I wasn’t talking to you, sir. What’s this doing here?” “Er,” said Sergeant Colon hurriedly, “I, er…with you being away and all, and us likely to be short-handed…Carrot here says it’s all according to the law and that…I swore him in, sir. The ape, sir. ” “Swore him in what, Sergeant?” said Vimes. “As Special Constable, sir,” said Colon, blushing. “You know, sir. Sort of citizen’s Watch. ” Vimes threw up his hands. “Special? Bloody unique !” The Librarian gave Vimes a big smile. “Just temporarily, sir. For the duration, like,” said Colon pleadingly. “We could do with the help, sir, and…well, he’s the only one who seems to like us…” “I think it’s a frightfully good idea,” said Lady Ramkin. “Well done, that ape. ” Vimes shrugged. The world was mad enough already, what could make it worse? “Okay,” he said. “Okay! I give in. Fine! Give him a badge, although I’m damned if I know where he’ll wear it! Fine! Yes! Why not?” “You all right, Captain?” said Colon, all concern. “Fine! Fine! Welcome to the new Watch!” snapped Vimes, striding vaguely around the room. “Great! After all, we pay peanuts, don’t we, so we might as well employ mon—” The sergeant’s hand slapped respectfully across Vimes’s mouth. “Er, just one thing, Captain,” said Colon urgently, to Vimes’s astonished eyes. “You don’t use the ‘M’ word. Gets right up his nose, sir. He can’t help it, he loses all self-control. Like a red rag to a wossname, sir. ‘Ape’ is all right, sir, but not the ‘M’ word. Because, sir, when he gets angry he doesn’t just go and sulk, sir, if you get my drift. He’s no trouble at all apart from that, sir. All right? Just don’t say monkey. Ohshit. ” The Brethren were nervous. He’d heard them talking. Things were moving too fast for them. He thought he’d led them into the conspiracy a bit at a time, never giving them more truth than their little brains could cope with, but he’d still overestimated them. A firm hand was needed. Firm but fair. “Brothers,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “are the Cuffs of Veracity duly enhanced?” “What?” said Brother Watchtower vaguely. “Oh. The Cuffs. Yeah. Enhanced. Right. ” “And the Martlets of Beckoning, are they fittingly divested?” Brother Plasterer gave a guilty start. “Me? What? Oh. Fine, no problem. Divested. Yes. ” The Supreme Grand Master paused. “Brothers,” he said softly. “We are so near. Just once more. Just a few hours. Once more and the world is ours. Do you understand , Brothers?” Brother Plasterer shuffled a foot. “Well,” he said. “I mean, of course. Yes. No fears about that. Behind you one hundred and ten percent—” He’s going to say only , thought the Supreme Grand Master. “—only—” Ah. “—we, that is, all of us, we’ve been…odd, really, you feel so different, don’t you, after summoning the dragon, sort of—” “Cleaned out,” said Brother Plasterer helpfully. “—yes, like it’s sort of—” Brother Watchtower struggled with the serpents of self-expression—“taking something out of you…” “Sucked dry,” said Brother Plasterer. “Yes, like he said, and we…well, it’s maybe it’s a bit risky…” “Like stuff’s been dragged from your actual living brain by eldritch creatures from the Beyond,” said Brother Plasterer. “I’d have said more like a bit of a sick headache, myself,” said Brother Watchtower helplessly. “And we was wondering, you know, about all this stuff about cosmic balance and that, because, well, look what happened to poor old Dunnykin. Could be a bit of a judgment. Er. ” “It was just a maddened crocodile hidden in a flower bed,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “It could have happened to anyone. I understand your feelings, however. ” “You do?” said Brother Watchtower. “Oh, yes. They’re only natural. All the greatest wizards feel a little ill-at-ease before undertaking a great work such as this. ” The Brethren preened themselves. Great wizards. That’s us. Yeah. “But in a few hours it’ll be over, and I am sure that the king will reward you handsomely. The future will be glorious. ” This normally did the trick. It didn’t appear to be working this time. “But the dragon—” Brother Watchtower began. “There won’t be any dragon! We won’t need it. Look,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “it’s quite simple. The lad will have a marvelous sword. Everyone knows kings have marvelous swords—” “This’d be the marvelous sword you’ve been telling us about, would it?” said Brother Plasterer. “And when it touches the dragon,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “it’ll be… foom !” “Yeah, they do that,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “My uncle kicked a swamp dragon once. He found it eating his pumpkins. Damn thing nearly took his leg off. ” The Supreme Grand Master sighed. A few more hours, yes, and then no more of this. The only thing he hadn’t decided was whether to let them alone—who’d believe them, after all?—or send the Guard to arrest them for being terminally stupid. “No,” he said patiently, “I mean the dragon will vanish. We’ll have sent it back. End of dragon. ” “Won’t people be a bit suspicious?” said Brother Plasterer. “Won’t they expect lumps of dragon all over the place?” “No,” said the Supreme Grand Master triumphantly, “because one touch from the Sword of Truth and Justice will totally destroy the Spawn of Evil!” The Brethren stared at him. “That’s what they’ll believe, anyway,” he added. “We can provide a bit of mystic smoke at the time. ” “Dead easy, mystic smoke,” said Brother Fingers. “No bits, then?” said Brother Plasterer, a shade disappointed. Brother Watchtower coughed. “Dunno if people will accept that,” he said. “Sounds a bit too neat, like. ” “Listen,” snapped the Supreme Grand Master, “they’ll accept anything! They’ll see it happen ! People will be so keen to see the boy win, they won’t think twice about it! Depend upon it! Now…let us commence…” He concentrated. Yes, it was easier. Easier every time. He could feel the scales, feel the rage of the dragon as he reached into the place where the dragons went and took control. This was power, and it was his. Sergeant Colon winced. “Ow. ” “Don’t be a big softly,” said Lady Ramkin cheerfully, tightening the bandage with a well-practiced skill handed down through many generations of Ramkin womenfolk. “He hardly touched you. ” “And he’s very sorry ,” said Carrot sharply. “Show the sergeant how sorry you are. Go on. ” “Oook,” said the Librarian, sheepishly. “Don’t let him kiss me!” squeaked Colon. “Do you think picking someone up by their ankles and bouncing their head on the floor comes under the heading of Striking a Superior Officer?” said Carrot. “I’m not pressing charges, me,” said the sergeant hurriedly. “Can we get on?” said Vimes impatiently. “We’re going to see if Errol can sniff out the dragon’s lair. Lady Ramkin thinks it’s got to be worth a try. ” “You mean set a deep hole with spring-loaded sides, tripwires, whirling knife blades driven by water power, broken glass and scorpions, to catch a thief, Captain?” said the sergeant doubtfully. “Ow!” “Yes, we don’t want to lose the scent,” said Lady Ramkin. “Stop being a big baby, Sergeant. ” “Brilliant idea about using Errol, ma’am, if I may make so bold,” said Nobby, while the sergeant blushed under his bandage. Vimes was not certain how long he would be able to put up with Nobby the social mountaineer. Carrot said nothing. |
He was gradually coming to terms with the fact that he probably wasn’t a dwarf, but dwarf blood flowed in his veins in accordance with the famous principle of morphic resonance, and his borrowed genes were telling him that nothing was going to be that simple. Finding a hoard even when the dragon wasn’t at home was pretty risky. Anyway, he was certain he’d know if there was one around. The presence of large amounts of gold always made a dwarf’s palms itch, and his weren’t itching. “We’ll start by that wall in the Shades,” said the captain. Sergeant Colon glanced sideways at Lady Ramkin, and found it impossible to show cowardice in the face of the supportive. He contented himself with, “Is that wise, Captain?” “Of course it isn’t. If we were wise, we wouldn’t be in the Watch. ” “I say! All this is tremendously exciting,” said Lady Ramkin. “Oh, I don’t think you should come, m’lady—” Vimes began. “— Sybil , please!—” “—it’s a very disreputable area, you see. ” “But I’m sure I shall be perfectly safe with your men,” she said. “I’m sure vagabonds just melt away when they see you. ” That’s dragons, thought Vimes. They melt away when they see dragons, and just leave their shadows on the wall. Whenever he felt that he was slowing down, or that he was losing interest, he remembered those shadows, and it was like having dull fire poured down his backbone. Things like that shouldn’t be allowed to happen. Not in my city. In fact the Shades were not a problem. Many of its denizens were out hoard-hunting anyway, and those that remained were far less inclined than hitherto to lurk in dark alleys. Besides, the more sensible of them recognized that Lady Ramkin, if waylaid, would probably tell them to pull up their socks and not be silly, in a voice so used to command that they would probably find themselves doing it. The wall hadn’t been knocked down yet and still bore its grisly fresco. Errol sniffed around it, trotted up the alley once or twice, and went to sleep. “Dint work,” said Sergeant Colon. “Good idea, though,” said Nobby loyally. “It could be all the rain and people walking about, I suppose,” said Lady Ramkin. Vimes scooped up the dragon. It had been a vain hope anyway. It was just better to be doing something than nothing. “We’d better get back,” he said. “The sun’s gone down. ” They walked back in silence. The dragon’s even tamed the Shades, Vimes thought. It’s taken over the whole city, even when it isn’t here. People’ll start tying virgins to rocks any day now. It’s a metaphor of human bloody existence, a dragon. And if that wasn’t bad enough, it’s also a bloody great hot flying thing. He pulled out the key to the new headquarters. While he was fumbling in the lock, Errol woke up and started to yammer. “Not now,” Vimes said. His side twinged. The night had barely started and already he felt too tired. A slate slid down the roof and smashed on the cobbles beside him. “Captain,” hissed Sergeant Colon. “What?” “It’s on the roof, Captain. ” Something about the sergeant’s voice got through to Vimes. It wasn’t excited. It wasn’t frightened. It just had a tone of dull, leaden terror. He looked up. Errol started to bounce up and down under his arm. The dragon— the dragon—was peering down interestedly over the guttering. Its face alone was taller than a man. Its eyes were the size of very large eyes, colored a smoldering red and filled with an intelligence that had nothing to do with human beings. It was far older, for one thing. It was an intelligence that had already been long basted in guile and marinated in cunning by the time a group of almost-monkeys were wondering whether standing on two legs was a good career move. It wasn’t an intelligence that had any truck with, or even understood, the arts of diplomacy. It wouldn’t play with you, or ask you riddles. But it understood all about arrogance and power and cruelty and if it could possibly manage it, it would burn your head off. Because it liked to. It was even more angry than usual at the moment. It could sense something behind its eyes. A tiny, weak, alien mind, bloated with self-satisfaction. It was infuriating, like an unscratchable itch. It was making it do things it didn’t want to do…and stopping it from doing things it wanted to do very much. Those eyes were, for the moment, focused on Errol, who was going frantic. Vimes realized that all that stood between him and a million degrees of heat was the dragon’s vague interest in why Vimes had a smaller dragon under his arm. “Don’t make any sudden moves,” said Lady Ramkin’s voice behind him. “And don’t show fear. They can always tell when you’re afraid. ” “Is there any other advice you can offer at this time?” said Vimes slowly, trying to speak without moving his lips. “Well, tickling them behind their ears often works. ” “Oh,” said Vimes weakly. “And a good sharp ‘no!’ and taking away their food bowl. ” “Ah?” “And hitting them on the nose with a roll of paper is what I do in extreme cases. ” In the slow, brightly-outlined, desperate world Vimes was now inhabiting, which seemed to revolve around the craggy nostrils a few meters away from him, he became aware of a gentle hissing sound. The dragon was taking a deep breath. The intake of air stopped. Vimes looked into the darkness of the flame ducts and wondered whether he’d see anything, whether there’d be some tiny white glow or something, before fiery oblivion swept over him. At that moment a horn rang out. The dragon raised its head in a puzzled way and made a noise that sounded vaguely interrogative without being in any way a word. The horn rang out again. The noise seemed to have a number of echoes that lived a life of their own. It sounded like a challenge. If that wasn’t what it was, then the horn blower was soon going to be in trouble, because the dragon gave Vimes a smoldering look, unfolded its enormous wings, leapt heavily into the air and, against all the rules of aeronautics, flew slowly away in the direction of the sound. Nothing in the world should have been able to fly like that. The wings thumped up and down with a noise like potted thunder, but the dragon moved as though it was idly sculling through the air. If it stopped flapping, the movement suggested, it would simply glide to a halt. It floated, not flew. For something the size of a barn with an armor-plated hide, it was a pretty good trick. It passed over their heads like a barge, heading for the Plaza of Broken Moons. “Follow it!” shouted Lady Ramkin. “That’s not right, it flying like that. I’m pretty sure there’s something in one of the Witchcraft Laws,” said Carrot, taking out his notebook. “ And it’s damaged the roof. It’s really piling up the offenses, you know. ” “You all right, Captain?” said Sergeant Colon. “I could see right up its nose,” said Captain Vimes dreamily. His eyes focused on the worried face of the sergeant. “Where’s it gone?” he demanded. Colon pointed along the street. Vimes glowered at the shape disappearing over the rooftops. “Follow it!” he said. The horn sounded again. Other people were hurrying toward the plaza. The dragon drifted ahead of them like a shark heading toward a wayward airbed, its tail flicking slowly from side to side. “Some loony is going to fight it!” said Nobby. “I thought someone would have a go,” said Colon. “Poor bugger’ll be baked in his own armor. ” This seemed to be the opinion of the crowds lining the plaza. The people of Ankh-Morpork had a straightforward, no-nonsense approach to entertainment, and while they were looking forward to seeing a dragon slain, they’d be happy to settle instead for seeing someone being baked alive in his own armor. You didn’t get the chance every day to see someone baked alive in their own armor. It would be something for the children to remember. Vimes was jostled and bounced around by the crowd as more people flooded into the plaza behind them. The horn sounded a third challenge. “That’s a slug-horn, that is,” said Colon knowledgeably. “Like a tocsin, only deeper. ” “You sure?” said Nobby. “Yep. ” “It must have been a bloody big slug. |
” “Peanuts! Figgins! Hot sausages!” whined a voice behind them. “Hallo, lads. Hallo, Captain Vimes! In at the death, eh? Have a sausage. On the house. ” “What’s going on, Throat?” said Vimes, clinging to the vendor’s tray as more people spilled around them. “Some kid’s ridden into the city and said he’d kill the dragon,” said Cut-me-own-Throat. “Got a magic sword, he says. ” “Has he got a magic skin?” “You’ve got no romance in your soul, Captain,” said Throat, removing a very hot toasting fork from the tiny frying pan on his tray and applying it gently to the buttock of a large woman in front of him. “Stand aside, madam, commerce is the lifeblood of the city, thank you very much. O’course,” he continued, “by rights there should be a maiden chained to a rock. Only the aunt said no. That’s the trouble with some people. No sense of tradition. This lad says he’s the rightful air, too. ” Vimes shook his head. The world was definitely going mad around him. “You’ve lost me there,” he said. “Air,” said Throat patiently. “You know. Air to the throne. ” “What throne?” “The throne of Ankh. ” “What throne of Ankh?” “You know. Kings and that. ” Throat looked reflective. “Wish I knew what his bloody name is,” he said. “I put an order in to Igneous the Troll’s all-night wholesale pottery for three gross of coronation mugs and it’s going to be a right pain, painting all the names in afterward. Shall I put you down for a couple, Cap’n? To you ninety pence, and that’s cutting me own throat. ” Vimes gave up, and shoved his way back through the throng using Carrot as a lighthouse. The lance-constable loomed over the crowd, and the rest of the rank had anchored themselves to him. “It’s all gone mad,” he shouted. “What’s going on, Carrot?” “There’s a lad on a horse in the middle of the plaza,” said Carrot. “He’s got a glittery sword, you know. Doesn’t seem to be doing much at the moment, though. ” Vimes fought his way into the lee of Lady Ramkin. “Kings,” he panted. “Of Ankh. And Thrones. Are there?” “What? Oh, yes. There used to be,” said Lady Ramkin. “Hundreds of years ago. Why?” “Some kid says he’s heir to the throne!” “That’s right,” said Throat, who’d followed Vimes in the hope of clinching a sale. “He made a big speech about how he was going to kill the dragon, overthrow the usurpers and right all wrongs. Everyone cheered. Hot sausages, two for a dollar, made of genuine pig, why not buy one for the lady?” “Don’t you mean pork, sir?” said Carrot warily, eyeing the glistening tubes. “Manner of speaking, manner of speaking,” said Throat quickly. “Certainly your actual pig products. Genuine pig. ” “Everyone cheers any speech in this city,” growled Vimes. “It doesn’t mean anything!” “Get your pig sausages, five for two dollars!” said Throat, who never let a conversation stand in the way of trade. “Could be good for business, could monarchy. Pig sausages! Pig sausages! Inna bun! And righting all wrongs, too. Sounds like a solid idea to me. With onions!” “Can I press you to a hot sausage, ma’am?” said Nobby. Lady Ramkin looked at the tray around Throat’s neck. Thousands of years of good breeding came to her aid and there was only the faintest suggestion of horror in her voice when she said, “My, they look good. What splendid foodstuffs. ” “Are they made by monks on some mystic mountain?” said Carrot. Throat gave him an odd look. “No,” he said patiently, “by pigs. ” “What wrongs?” said Vimes urgently. “Come on, tell me. What wrongs is he going to right?” “We-ell,” said Throat, “there’s, well, taxes. That’s wrong, for a start. ” He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. Paying taxes was something that, in Throat’s world, happened only to other people. “That’s right,” said an old woman next to him. “And the gutter of my house leaks something dreadful and the landlord won’t do nothing. That’s wrong. ” “And premature baldness,” said the man in front of her. “That’s wrong, too. ” Vimes’s mouth dropped open. “Ah. Kings can cure that, you know,” said another protomonarchist knowingly. “As a matter of fact,” said Throat, rummaging in his pack, “I’ve got one bottle left of this astonishing ointment what is made—” he glared at Carrot—“by some ancient monks who live on a mountain—” “And they can’t answer back, you know,” the monarchist went on. “That’s how you can tell they’re royal. Completely incapable of it. It’s to do with being gracious. ” “Fancy,” said the leaky-guttering woman. “Money, too,” said the monarchist, enjoying the attention. “They don’t carry it. That’s how you can always tell a king. ” “Why? It’s not that heavy,” said the man whose remaining hair was spread across the dome of his head like the remnant of a defeated army. “ I can carry hundreds of dollars, no problem. ” “You probably get weak arms, being a king,” said the woman wisely. “Probably with the waving. ” “I’ve always thought,” said the monarchist, pulling out a pipe and beginning to fill it with the ponderous air of one who is going to deliver a lecture, “that one of the major problems of being a king is the risk of your daughter getting a prick. ” There was a thoughtful pause. “And falling asleep for a hundred years,” the monarchist went on stolidly. “Ah,” said the others, unaccountably relieved. “And then there’s wear and tear on peas,” he added. “Well, there would be,” said the woman, uncertainly. “Having to sleep on them all the time,” said the monarchist. “Not to mention hundreds of mattresses. ” “Right. ” “Is that so? I think I could get ’em for him wholesale,” said Throat. He turned to Vimes, who had been listening to all this with leaden depression. “See, Captain? And you’d be in the royal guard, I expect. Get some plumes in your helmet. ” “Ah, pageantry,” said the monarchist, pointing with his pipe. “Very important. Lots of spectacles. ” “What, free?” said Throat. “We-ell, I think maybe you have to pay for the frames,” said the monarchist. “You’re all bloody mad!” shouted Vimes. “You don’t know anything about him and he hasn’t even won yet!” “Bit of a formality, I expect,” said the woman. “It’s a fire-breathing dragon!” screamed Vimes, remembering those nostrils. “And he’s just a guy on a horse, for heaven’s sake!” Throat prodded him gently in the breastplate. “You got no soul, Cap’n,” he said. “When a stranger comes into the city under the thrall of the dragon and challenges it with a glittery sword, weeell, there’s only one outcome, ain’t there? It’s probably destiny. ” “Thrall?” shouted Vimes. “ Thrall ? You thieving bugger, Throat, you were flogging cuddly dragon dolls yesterday!” “That was just business, Cap’n. No need to get excited about it,” said Throat pleasantly. Vimes went back to the rank in a gloomy rage. Say what you liked about the people of Ankh-Morpork they had always been staunchly independent, yielding to no man their right to rob, defraud, embezzle and murder on an equal basis. This seemed absolutely right, to Vimes’s way of thinking. There was no difference at all between the richest man and the poorest beggar, apart from the fact that the former had lots of money, food, power, fine clothes, and good health. But at least he wasn’t any better. Just richer, fatter, more powerful, better dressed and healthier. It had been like that for hundreds of years. “And now they get one sniff of an ermine robe and they go all gooey,” he muttered. The dragon was circling the plaza slowly and warily. Vimes craned to see over the heads in front of him. In the same way that various predators have the silhouette of their prey almost programmed into their genes, it was possible that the shape of someone on a horse holding a sword clicked a few tumblers in a dragon’s brain. It was showing keen but wary interest. Back in the crowd, Vimes shrugged. “I didn’t even know we were a kingdom. ” “Well, we haven’t been for ages,” said Lady Ramkin. “The kings got thrown out, and jolly good job too. They could be quite frightful. ” “But you’re, well, from a pos—from a high-born family,” he said. “I should have thought you’d be all for kings. |
” “Some of them were fearful oiks, you know,” she said airily. “Wives all over the place, and chopping people’s heads off, fighting pointless wars, eating with their knife, chucking half-eaten chicken legs over their shoulders, that sort of thing. Not our sort of people at all. ” The plaza went quiet. The dragon had flapped slowly to the far end and was almost stationary in the air, apart from the slow beating of its wings. Vimes felt something claw gently at his back, and then Errol was on his shoulder, gripping with his hind claws. His stubby wings were beating in time with those of the bigger specimen. He was hissing. His eyes were fixed on the hovering bulk. The boy’s horse jigged nervously on the plaza’s flagstones as he dismounted, flourished the sword and turned to face the distant enemy. He certainly looks confident, Vimes told himself. On the other hand, how does the ability to slay dragons fit you for kingship in this day and age? It was certainly a very shiny sword. You had to admit that. And now it was two of the clock the following morning. And all was well, apart from the rain. It was drizzling again. There are some towns in the multiverse which think they know how to have a good time. Places like New Orleans and Rio reckon they not only know how to push the boat out but set fire to the harbor as well; but compared to Ankh-Morpork with its hair down they’re a Welsh village at 2 p. m. on a wet Sunday afternoon. Fireworks banged and sparkled in the damp air over the turbid mud of the river Ankh. Various domesticated animals were being roasted in the streets. Dancers conga’d from house to house, often managing to pick up any loose ornaments while doing so. There was a lot of quaffing going on. People who in normal circumstances would never think of doing it were shouting “Hurrah. ” Vimes stalked gloomily through the crowded streets, feeling like the only pickled onion in a fruit salad. He’d given the rank the evening off. He wasn’t feeling at all royalist. He didn’t think he had anything against kings as such, but the sight of Ankh-Morporkians waving flags was mysteriously upsetting. That was something only silly subject people did, in other countries. Besides, the idea of royal plumes in his hat revolted him. He’d always had a thing about plumes. Plumes sort of, well, bought you off, told everyone that you didn’t belong to yourself. And he’d feel like a bird. It’d be the last straw. His errant feet led him back to the Yard. After all, where else was there? His lodgings were depressing and his landlady had complained about the holes which, despite much shouting, Errol kept making in the carpet. And the smell Errol made. And Vimes couldn’t drink in a tavern tonight without seeing things that would upset him even more than the things he normally saw when he was drunk. It was nice and quiet, although the distant sounds of revelry could be heard through the window. Errol scrambled down from his shoulder and started to eat the coke in the fireplace. Vimes sat back and put his feet up. What a day! And what a fight! The dodging, the weaving, the shouts of the crowd, the young man standing there looking tiny and unprotected, the dragon taking a deep breath in a way now very familiar to Vimes… And not flaming. That had surprised Vimes. It had surprised the crowd. It had certainly surprised the dragon, which had tried to squint at its own nose and clawed desperately at its flame ducts. It had remained surprised right up to the moment when the lad ducked in under one claw and thrust the sword home. And then a thunderclap. You’d have thought there’d have been some bits of dragon left, really. Vimes pulled a scrap of paper toward him. He looked at the notes he’d made yesterday: Itym: Heavy draggon, but yet it can flye right welle; Itym: The fyre be main hot, yet issueth from ane living Thinge; Itym: The Swamp draggons be right Poor Thinges, yet this monstrous Form waxeth full mightily; Itym: From whence it cometh none knowe, nor wither it goeth, nor where it bideth betweentimes; Itym: Whyfore did it burneth so neatlie? He pulled the pen and ink toward him and, in a slow around hand, added: Itym: Can a draggon be destroyed into utterlye noethinge? He thought for a while, and continued: Itym: Whyfore did it Explode that noone may find It, search they greatly? A puzzler, that. Lady Ramkin said that when a swamp dragon exploded there was dragon everywhere. And this one had been a damn great thing. Admittedly its insides must have been an alchemical nightmare, but the citizens of Ankh-Morpork should still have been spending the night shovelling dragon off the streets. No-one seemed to have bothered about this. The purple smoke was quite impressive, though. Errol finished off the coke and started on the fire irons. So far this evening he had eaten three cobblestones, a doorknob, something unidentifiable he’d found in the gutter and, to general astonishment, three of Cut-me-own-Throat’s sausages made of genuine pork organs. The crunching of the poker going down mingled with the patter of rain on the windows. Vimes stared at the paper again and then wrote: Itym: How can Kinges come of noethinge? He hadn’t even seen the lad close to. He looked personable enough, not exactly a great thinker, but definitely the kind of profile you wouldn’t mind seeing on your small change. Mind you, after killing the dragon he could have been a cross-eyed goblin for all that it mattered. The mob had borne him in triumph to the Patrician’s palace. Lord Vetinari had been locked up in his own dungeons. He hadn’t put up much fight, apparently. Just smiled at everyone and went quietly. What a happy coincidence for the city that, just when it needed a champion to kill the dragon, a king came forth. Vimes turned this thought over for a while. Then he turned it back to front. He picked up the quill and wrote: Itym: What a happy chance it be, for a lad that would be Kinge, that there be a Draggon to slae to prove beyond doubt his boney fiddes. It was a lot better than birthmarks and swords, that was for sure. He twiddled the quill for a while, and then doodled: Itym: The draggon was not a Mechanical devise, yette surely no wizzard has the power to create a beaste of that mag. magg. maggnyt. Size. Itym: Whye, in the Pinche, could it not Flame? Itym: Where did it come from? Itym: Where did it goe? The rain pounded harder on the window. The sounds of celebration became distinctly damp, and then faded completely. There was a murmur of thunder. Vimes underlined goe several times. After further consideration he added two more question marks:?? After staring at the effect for some time he rolled the paper into a ball and threw it into the fireplace, where it was fielded and swallowed by Errol. There had been a crime. Senses Vimes didn’t know he possessed, ancient policeman’s senses, prickled the hairs on his neck and told him there had been a crime. It was probably such an odd crime that it didn’t figure anywhere in Carrot’s book, but it had been committed all right. A handful of high-temperature murders was only the start of it. He’d find it, and give it a name. Then he stood up, took his leather rain cape from its hook behind the door, and stepped out into the naked city. This is where the dragons went. They lie… Not dead, not asleep. Not waiting, because waiting implies expectation. Possibly the word we’re looking for here is… … angry. It could remember the feel of real air under its wings, and the sheer pleasure of the flame. There had been empty skies above and an interesting world below, full of strange running creatures. Existence had a different texture there. A better texture. And just when it was beginning to enjoy it, it had been crippled, stopped from flaming and whipped back, like some hairy canine mammal. The world had been taken away from it. In the reptilian synapses of the dragon’s mind the suggestion was kindled that, just possibly, it could get the world back. It had been summoned, and disdainfully banished again. |
But perhaps there was a trail, a scent, a thread which would lead it to the sky… Perhaps there was a pathway of thought itself… It recalled a mind. The peevish voice, so full of its own diminutive importance, a mind almost like that of a dragon, but on a tiny, tiny scale. Aha. It stretched its wings. Lady Ramkin made herself a cup of cocoa and listened to the rain gurgling in the pipes outside. She slipped off the hated dancing shoes, which even she was prepared to concede were like a pair of pink canoes. But nobbyless obligay , as the funny little sergeant would say, and as the last representative of one of Ankh-Morpork’s oldest families she’d had to go to the victory ball to show willing. Lord Vetinari seldom had balls. There was a popular song about it, in fact. But now it was going to be balls all the way. She couldn’t stand balls. For sheer enjoyment it wasn’t a patch on mucking out dragons. You knew where you were, mucking out dragons. You didn’t get hot and pink and have to eat silly things on sticks, or wear a dress that made you look like a cloud full of cherubs. Little dragons didn’t give a damn what you looked like so long as there was a feeding bowl in your hands. Funny, really. She’d always thought it took weeks, months , to organize a ball. Invitations, decorations, sausages on poles, ghastly chickeny mixture to force into those little pastry cases. But it had all been done in a matter of hours, as if someone had been expecting it. One of the miracles of catering, obviously. She’d even danced with the, for want of a better word, new king, who had said some polite words to her although they had been rather muffled. And a coronation tomorrow. You’d have thought it’d take months to sort out. She was still musing on that as she mixed the dragons’ late night feed of rock oil and peat, spiked with flowers of sulfur. She didn’t bother to change out of the ballgown but slipped the heavy apron over the top, donned the gloves and helmet, pulled the visor down over her face and ran, clutching the feed buckets, through the driving rain to the shed. She knew it as soon as she opened the door. Normally the arrival of food would be greeted with hoots and whistles and brief bursts of flame. The dragons, each in its pen, were sitting up in attentive silence and staring up through the roof. It was somehow scary. She clanged the buckets together. “No need to be afraid, nasty big dragon all gone!” she said brightly. “Get stuck in to this, you people!” One or two of them gave her a brief glance, and then went back to their— What? They didn’t seem to be frightened. Just very, very attentive. It was like a vigil. They were waiting for something to happen. The thunder muttered again. A couple of minutes later she was on her way down into the damp city. There are some songs which are never sung sober. “Nellie Dean” is one. So is any song beginning “As I was a walking…” In the area around Ankh-Morpork the favored air is “A Wizard’s Staff Has A Knob On The End. ” The rank were drunk. At least, two out of three of the rank were drunk. Carrot had been persuaded to try a shandy and hadn’t liked it much. He didn’t know all the words, either, and many of the ones he did know he didn’t understand. “Oh, I see ,” he said eventually. “It’s a sort of humorous play on words, is it?” “You know,” said Colon wistfully, peering into the thickening mists rolling in off the Ankh, “s’at times like this I wish old—” “You’re not to say it,” said Nobby, swaying a little. “You agreed, we wouldn’t say nothing, it’s no good talking about it. ” “It was his favorite song,” said Colon sadly. “He was a good light tenor. ” “Now, Sarge —” “He was a righteous man, our Gaskin,” said Colon. “We couldn’t of helped it,” said Nobby sulkily. “We could have,” said Colon. “We could have run faster. ” “What happened, then?” said Carrot. “He died,” said Nobby, “in the hexecution of his duty. ” “I told him,” said Colon, taking a swig at the bottle they had brought along to see them through the night, “I told him. Slow down, I said. You’ll do yourself a mischief, I said. I don’t know what got into him, running ahead like that. ” “I blame the Thieves’ Guild,” said Nobby. “Allowing people like that on the streets—” “There was this bloke we saw done a robbery one night,” said Colon miserably. “Right in front of us! And Captain Vimes, he said Come On, and we run, only the point is you shouldn’t run too fast, see. Else you might catch them. Leads to all sorts of problems, catching people—” “They don’t like it,” said Nobby. There was a mutter of thunder, and a flurry of rain. “They don’t like it,” agreed Colon. “But Gaskin went and forgot, he ran on, went around the corner and, well, this bloke had a couple of mates waiting—” “It was his heart really,” said Nobby. “Well. Anyway. And there he was,” said Colon. “Captain Vimes was very upset about it. You shouldn’t run fast in the Watch, lad,” he said solemnly. “You can be a fast guard or you can be an old guard, but you can’t be a fast old guard. Poor old Gaskin. ” “It didn’t ought to be like that,” said Carrot. Colon took a pull at the bottle. “Well, it is,” he said. Rain bounced on his helmet and trickled down his face. “But it didn’t ought to be,” said Carrot flatly. “But it is,” said Colon. Someone else in the city was also ill at ease. He was the Librarian. Sergeant Colon had given him a badge. The Librarian turned it around and around in his big gentle hands, nibbling at it. It wasn’t that the city suddenly had a king. Orangs are traditionalists, and you couldn’t get more traditional than a king. But they also liked things neat, and things weren’t neat. Or, rather, they were too neat. Truth and reality were never as neat as this. Sudden heirs to ancient thrones didn’t grow on trees, and he should know. Besides, no one was looking for his book. That was human priorities for you. The book was the key to it. He was sure of that. Well, there was one way to find out what was in the book. It was a perilous way, but the Librarian ambled along perilous ways all day. In the silence of the sleeping library he opened his desk and removed from its deepest recesses a small lantern carefully built to prevent any naked flame being exposed. You couldn’t be too careful with all this paper around… He also took a bag of peanuts and, after some thought, a large ball of string. He bit off a short length of the string and used it to tie the badge around his neck, like a talisman. Then he tied one end of the ball to the desk and, after a moment’s contemplation, knuckled off between the bookshelves, paying out the string behind him. Knowledge equals power … The string was important. After a while the Librarian stopped. He concentrated all his powers of librarianship. Power equals energy … People were stupid, sometimes. They thought the Library was a dangerous place because of all the magical books, which was true enough, but what made it really one of the most dangerous places there could ever be was the simple fact that it was a library. Energy equals matter … He swung into an avenue of shelving that was apparently a few feet long and walked along it briskly for half an hour. Matter equals mass. And mass distorts space. It distorts it into polyfractal L-space. So, while the Dewey system has its fine points, when you’re setting out to look something up in the multidimensional folds of L-space what you really need is a ball of string. Now the rain was trying hard. It glistened off the flagstones in the Plaza of Broken Moons, littered here and there with torn bunting, flags, broken bottles and the occasional regurgitated supper. There was still plenty of thunder about, and a green, fresh smell in the air. A few shreds of mist from the Ankh hovered over the stones. It would be dawn soon. Vimes’s footsteps echoed wetly from the surrounding buildings as he picked his way across the plaza. The boy had stood here. He peered through the mist shreds at the surrounding buildings, getting his bearings. So the dragon had been hovering—he paced forward— here. |
“And,” said Vimes, “this is where it was killed. ” He fumbled in his pockets. There were all sorts of things in there—keys, bits of string, corks. His finger closed on a stub end of chalk. He knelt down. Errol jumped off his shoulder and waddled away to inspect the detritus of the celebration. He always sniffed everything before he ate it, Vimes noticed. It was a bit of a puzzle why he bothered, because he always ate it anyway. Its head had been about, let’s see, here. He walked backward, dragging the chalk over the stones, progressing slowly over the damp, empty square like an ancient worshipper treading a maze. Here a wing, curving away toward a tail which stretched out to here , change hands, now head for the other wing… When he finished he walked to the center of the outline and ran his hands over the stones. He realized he was half-expecting them to be warm. Surely there should be something. Some, oh, he didn’t know, some grease or something, some crispy fried dragon lumps. Errol started eating a broken bottle with every sign of enjoyment. “You know what I think?” said Vimes. “I think it went somewhere. ” Thunder rolled again. “All right, all right,” muttered Vimes. “It was just a thought. It wasn’t that dramatic. ” Errol stopped in mid-crunch. Very slowly, as though it was mounted on very smooth, well-oiled bearings, the dragon’s head turned to face upward. What it was staring at intently was a patch of empty air. There wasn’t much else you could say about it. Vimes shivered under his cape. This was daft. “Look, don’t muck about,” he said. “There’s nothing there. ” Errol started to tremble. “It’s just the rain,” said Vimes. “Go on, finish your bottle. Nice bottle. ” A thin, worried keening noise broke from the dragon’s mouth. “I’ll show you,” said Vimes. He cast around and spotted one of Throat’s sausages, cast aside by a hungry reveller who had decided he was never going to be that hungry. He picked it up. “Look,” he said, and threw it upward. He felt sure, watching its trajectory, that it ought to have fallen back to the ground. It shouldn’t have fallen away , as if he’d dropped it neatly into a tunnel in the sky. And the tunnel shouldn’t have been looking back at him. Vivid purple lightning lashed from the empty air and struck the houses on the near side of the plaza, skittering across the walls for several yards before winking out with a suddenness that almost denied that it had ever happened at all. Then it erupted again, this time hitting the rimward wall. The light broke where it hit into a network of searching tendrils spreading across the stones. The third attempt went upward, forming an actinic column that eventually rose fifty or sixty feet in the air, appeared to stabilize, and started to spin slowly. Vimes felt that a comment was called for. He said: “Arrgh. ” As the light revolved it sent out thin zigzag streamers that jittered away across the rooftops, sometimes dipping, sometimes doubling back. Searching. Errol ran up Vimes’s back in a flurry of claws and fastened himself firmly on his shoulder. The excruciating agony recalled to Vimes that there was something he should be doing. Was it time to scream again? He tried another “Arrgh. ” No, probably not. The air started to smell like burning tin. Lady Ramkin’s coach rattled into the plaza making a noise like a roulette wheel and pounded straight for Vimes, stopping in a skid that sent it juddering around in a semi-circle and forced the horses either to face the other way or plait their legs. A furious vision in padded leather, gauntlets, tiara and thirty yards of damp pink tulle leaned down toward him and screamed: “Come on, you bloody idiot!” One glove caught him under his unresisting shoulder and hauled him bodily onto the box. “And stop screaming!” the phantom ordered, focusing generations of natural authority into four syllables. Another shout spurred the horses from a bewildered standing start to a full gallop. The coach bounced away over the flagstones. An exploratory tendril of flickering light brushed the reins for a moment and then lost interest. “I suppose you haven’t got any idea what’s happening?” shouted Vimes, against the crackling of the spinning fire. “Not the foggiest!” The crawling lines spread like a web over the city, growing fainter with distance. Vimes imagined them creeping through windows and sneaking under doors. “It looks as though it’s searching for something!” he shouted. “Then getting away before it finds it is a first-class idea, don’t you think?” A tongue of fire hit the dark Tower of Art, slid blindly down its ivy-grown flanks, and disappeared through the dome of Unseen University’s Library. The other lines blinked out. Lady Ramkin brought the coach to a halt at the far side of the square. “What does it want the Library for?” she said, frowning. “Maybe it wants to look something up?” “Don’t be silly,” she said breezily. “There’s just a lot of books in there. What would a flash of lightning want to read?” “Something very short?” “I really think you could try to be a bit more help. ” The line of light exploded into an arc between the Library’s dome and the center of the plaza and hung in the air, a band of brilliance several feet across. Then, in a sudden rush, it became a sphere of fire which grew swiftly to encompass almost all the plaza, vanished suddenly, and left the night full of ringing, violet shadows. And the plaza full of dragon. Who would have thought it? So much power, so close at hand. The dragon could feel the magic flowing into it, renewing it from second to second, in defiance of all boring physical laws. This wasn’t the poor fare it had been given before. This was the right stuff. There was no end to what it could do, with power like this. But first it had to pay its respects to certain people… It sniffed the dawn air. It was searching for the stink of minds. Noble dragons don’t have friends. The nearest they can get to the idea is an enemy who is still alive. The air became very still, so still that you could almost hear the slow fall of dust. The Librarian swung on his knuckles between the endless bookshelves. The dome of the Library was still overhead but then, it always was. It seemed quite logical to the Librarian that, since there were aisles where the shelves were on the outside then there should be other aisles in the space between the books themselves, created out of quantum ripples by the sheer weight of words. There were certainly some odd sounds coming from the other side of some shelving, and the Librarian knew that if he gently pulled out a book or two he would be peeking into different libraries under different skies. Books bend space and time. One reason the owners of those aforesaid little rambling, poky secondhand bookshops always seem slightly unearthly is that many of them really are , having strayed into this world after taking a wrong turning in their own bookshops in worlds where it is considered commendable business practice to wear carpet slippers all the time and open your shop only when you feel like it. You stray into L-space at your peril. Very senior librarians, however, once they have proved themselves worthy by performing some valiant act of librarianship, are accepted into a secret order and are taught the raw arts of survival beyond the Shelves We Know. The Librarian was highly skilled in all of them, but what he was attempting now wouldn’t just get him thrown out of the Order but probably out of life itself. All libraries everywhere are connected in L-space. All libraries. Everywhere. And the Librarian, navigating by booksign carved on shelves by past explorers, navigating by smell, navigating even by the siren whisperings of nostalgia, was heading purposely for one very special one. There was one consolation. If he got it wrong, he’d never know it. Somehow the dragon was worse on the ground. In the air it was an elemental thing, graceful even when it was trying to burn you to your boots. On the ground it was just a damn great animal. |
Its huge head reared against the gray of dawn, turning slowly. Lady Ramkin and Vimes peered cautiously from behind a watertrough. Vimes had his hand clamped over Errol’s muzzle. The little dragon was whimpering like a kicked puppy, and fighting to get away. “It’s a magnificent brute,” said Lady Ramkin, in what she probably thought was a whisper. “I do wish you wouldn’t keep saying that,” said Vimes. There was a scraping noise as the dragon dragged itself over the stones. “I knew it wasn’t killed,” growled Vimes. “There were no bits. It was too neat. It was sent somewhere by some sort of magic, I bet. Look at it. It’s bloody impossible! It needs magic to keep it alive!” “What do you mean?” said Lady Ramkin, not tearing her gaze from its armored flanks. What did he mean? What did he mean? He thought fast. “It’s just not physically possible, that’s what I mean,” he said. “Nothing that heavy should be able to fly, or breathe fire like that. I told you. ” “But it looks real enough. I mean, you’d expect a magical creature to be, well, gauzy. ” “Oh, it’s real. It’s real all right,” said Vimes bitterly. “But supposing it needs magic like we need, like we need…sunlight? Or food. ” “It’s a thaumivore, you mean?” “I just think it eats magic, that’s all,” said Vimes, who had not had a classical education. “I mean, all these little swamp dragons, always on the point of extinction, suppose one day back in prehistoric times some of them found out how to use magic?” “There used to be a lot of natural magic around once,” said Lady Ramkin thoughtfully. “There you are, then. After all, creatures use the air and the sea. I mean, if there’s a natural resource around, something’s going to use it, aren’t they? Then it wouldn’t matter about bad digestion and weight and wing size and so on, because the magic would take care of it. Wow!” But you’d need a lot , he thought. He wasn’t certain how much magic you’d need to change the world enough to let tons of armored carcass flit around the sky like a swallow, but he’d bet it was lots. All those thefts. Someone’d been feeding the dragon. He looked at the bulk of the Unseen University Library of magic books, the greatest accumulation of distilled magical power on the Discworld. And now the dragon had learned how to feed itself. He became terribly aware that Lady Ramkin had moved, and saw to his horror that she was striding toward the dragon, chin stuck out like an anvil. “What the hell are you doing?” he whispered loudly. “If it’s descended from the swamp dragons then I can probably control it,” she called back. “You have to look them in the eye and use a no-nonsense tone of voice. They can’t resist a stern human voice. They don’t have the willpower, you know. They’re just big softies. ” To his shame, Vimes realized that his legs were going to have nothing to do with any mad dash to drag her back. His pride didn’t like that, but his body pointed out that it wasn’t his pride that stood a very reasonable chance of being thinly laminated to the nearest building. Through ears burning with embarrassment he heard her say: “Bad boy!” The echoes of that stern injunction rang out across the plaza. Oh gods, he thought, is that how you train a dragon? Point them at the melted patch on the floor and threaten to rub their nose in it? He risked a peep over the horsetrough. The dragon’s head was swinging around slowly, like a crane jib. It had some difficulty focusing on her, right below it. Vimes could see the great red eyes narrow as the creature tried to squint down the length of its own nose. It looked puzzled. He wasn’t surprised. “Sit!” bellowed Lady Ramkin, in a tone so undisobeyable that even Vimes felt his legs involuntarily sag. “Good boy! I think I may have a lump of coke somewhere—” She patted her pockets. Eye contact. That was the important thing. She really, Vimes thought, shouldn’t have looked down even for a moment. The dragon raised one talon in a leisurely fashion and pinned her to the ground. As Vimes half-rose in horror Errol escaped from his grip and cleared the trough in one leap. He bounced across the plaza in a series of wing-whirring arcs, mouth gaping, emitting wheezing burps, trying to flame. He was answered with a tongue of blue-white fire that melted a streak of bubbling rock several yards long but failed to strike the challenger. It was hard to pick him out of the air because, quite clearly, even Errol didn’t know where he was going to be, or what way up he was going to be when he got there. His only hope at this point lay in movement, and he vaulted and spun between the increasingly furious bursts of fire like a scared but determined random particle. The great dragon reared up with the sound of a dozen anchor chains being thrown into a corner, and tried to bat the tormenter out of the air. Vimes’s legs gave in at that point and decided that they might allow themselves to be heroic legs for a while. He scurried across the intervening space, sword at the ready for what good it might do, grabbed Lady Ramkin by an arm and a handful of bedraggled ballgown, and swung her onto his shoulder. He got several yards before the essential bad judgment of this move dawned on him. He went “Gngh. ” His vertebrae and knees were trying to fuse into one lump. Purple spots flashed on and off in front of his eyes. On top of it all, something unfamiliar but apparently made of whalebone was poking sharply into the back of his neck. He managed a few more steps by sheer momentum, knowing that when he stopped he was going to be utterly crushed. The Ramkins hadn’t bred for beauty, they’d bred for healthy solidity and big bones, and they’d got very good at it over the centuries. A gout of livid dragonfire crackled into the flagstones a few feet away. Afterward he wondered if he’d only imagined leaping several inches into the air and covering the rest of the distance to the horsetrough at a respectable run. Perhaps, in extremis, everyone learned the kind of instant movement that was second nature to Nobby. Anyway, the horsetrough was behind him and Lady Ramkin was in his arms, or at least was pinning his arms to the ground. He managed to free them and tried to massage a bit of life back. What did you do next? She didn’t seem to be injured. He recalled something about loosening a person’s clothing, but in Lady Ramkin’s case that might be dangerous without special tools. She solved the immediate problem by grabbing the edge of the trough and hauling herself upright. “Right,” she said, “it’s the slipper for you—” Her eyes focused on Vimes for the first time. “What the hell’s going on—” she began again, and then caught the scene over his shoulder. “Oh sod ,” she said. “Pardon my Klatchian. ” Errol was running out of energy. The stubby wings were indeed incapable of real flight, and he was remaining airborne solely by flapping madly, like a chicken. The great talons swished through the air. One of them caught one of the plaza’s fountains, and demolished it. The next one swatted Errol neatly. He shot over Vimes’s head in a straight rising line, hit a roof behind him, and slid down it. “You’ve got to catch him!” shouted Lady Ramkin. “You must! It’s vital!” Vimes stared at her, and then dived forward as Errol’s pear-shaped body slithered over the edge of the roof and dropped. He was surprisingly heavy. “Thank goodness,” said Lady Ramkin, struggling to her feet. “They explode so easily, you know. It could have been very dangerous. ” They remembered the other dragon. It wasn’t the exploding sort. It was the killing-people kind. They turned, slowly. The creature loomed over them, sniffed and then, as if they were of no importance at all, turned away. It sprang ponderously into the air and, with one slow flap of its wings, began to scull leisurely away down the plaza and up and into the mists that were rolling over the city. Vimes was currently more concerned with the smaller dragon in his hands. Its stomach was rumbling alarmingly. He wished he’d paid more attention to the book on dragons. |
Was a stomach noise like this a sign they were about to explode, or was the point you had to watch out for the point when the rumbling stopped? “We’ve got to follow it!” said Lady Ramkin. “What happened to the carriage?” Vimes waved a hand vaguely in the direction that, as far as he could tell, the horses had taken in their panic. Errol sneezed a cloud of warm gas that smelled worse than something walled up in a cellar, pawed the air weakly, licked Vimes’s face with a tongue like a hot cheese-grater, struggled out of his arms and trotted away. “Where’s he off to?” boomed Lady Ramkin, emerging from the mists dragging the horses behind her. They didn’t want to come, their hooves were scraping up sparks, but they were fighting a losing battle. “He’s still trying to challenge it!” said Vimes. “You’d think he’d give in, wouldn’t you?” “They fight like blazes,” said Lady Ramkin, as he climbed onto the coach. “It’s a matter of making your opponent explode, you see. ” “I thought, in Nature, the defeated animal just rolls on its back in submission and that’s an end of it,” said Vimes, as they clattered after the disappearing swamp dragon. “Wouldn’t work with dragons,” said Lady Ramkin. “Some daft creature rolls on its back, you disembowel it. That’s how they look at it. Almost human, really. ” The clouds were clustered thickly over Ankh-Morpork. Above them, the slow golden sunlight of the Discworld unrolled. The dragon sparkled in the dawn as it trod the air joyously, doing impossible turns and rolls for the sheer delight of it. Then it remembered the business of the day. They’d had the presumption to summon it… Below it, the rank wandered from side to side up the Street of Small Gods. Despite the thick fog it was beginning to get busy. “What d’you call them things, like thin stairs?” said Sergeant Colon. “Ladders,” said Carrot. “Lot of ’em about,” said Nobby. He mooched over to the nearest one, and kicked it. “Oi!” A figure struggled down, half buried in a string of flags. “What’s going on?” said Nobby. The flag bearer looked him up and down. “Who wants to know, tiddler?” he said. “Excuse me, we do,” said Carrot, looming out of the fog like an iceberg. The man gave a sickly grin. “Well, it’s the coronation, isn’t it,” he said. “Got to get the streets ready for the coronation. Got to have the flags up. Got to get the old bunting out, haven’t we?” Nobby gave the dripping finery a jaundiced look. “Doesn’t look that old to me,” he said. “It looks new. What’re them fat saggy things on that shield?” “Those are the royal hippos of Ankh,” said the man proudly. “Reminders of our noble heritage. ” “How long have we had a noble heritage, then?” said Nobby. “Since yesterday, of course. ” “You can’t have a heritage in a day,” said Carrot. “It has to last a long time. ” “If we haven’t got one,” said Sergeant Colon, “I bet we’ll soon have had one. My wife left me a note about it. All these years, and she turns out to be a monarchist. ” He kicked the pavement viciously. “Huh!” he said. “A man knocks his pipes out for thirty years to put a bit of meat on the table, but all she’s talking about is some boy who gets to be king for five minutes’ work. Know what was for my tea last night? Beef dripping sandwiches!” This did not have the expected response from the two bachelors. “Cor!” said Nobby. “ Real beef dripping?” said Carrot. “The kind with the little crunchy bits on top? And shiny blobs of fat?” “Can’t remember when I last addressed the crust on a bowl of dripping,” mused Nobby, in a gastronomic heaven. “With just a bit of salt and pepper, you’ve got a meal fit for a k—” “Don’t even say it,” warned Colon. “The best bit is when you stick the knife in and crack the fat and all the browny gold stuff bubbles up,” said Carrot dreamily. “A moment like that is worth a ki—” “Shutup! Shutup!” shouted Colon. “You’re just— what the hell was that?” They felt the sudden downdraft, saw the mist above them roll into coils that broke against the house walls. A blast of colder air swept along the street, and was gone. “It was like something gliding past, up there somewhere,” said the sergeant. He froze. “Here, you don’t think—?” “We saw it killed, didn’t we?” said Nobby urgently. “We saw it vanish ,” said Carrot. They looked at one another, alone and damp in the mist-shrouded street. There could be anything up there. The imagination peopled the dank air with terrible apparitions. And what was worse was the knowledge that Nature might have done an even better job. “Nah,” said Colon. “It was probably just some…some big wading bird. Or something. ” “Isn’t there anything we should do?” said Carrot. “Yes,” said Nobby. “We should go away quickly. Remember Gaskin. ” “Maybe it’s another dragon,” said Carrot. “We should warn people and—” “No,” said Sergeant Colon vehemently, “because, Ae, they wouldn’t believe us and, Bee, we’ve got a king now. ’S his job, dragons. ” “S’right,” said Nobby. “He’d probably be really angry. Dragons are probably, you know, royal animals. Like deer. A man could probably have his tridlins plucked just for thinking about killing one, when there’s a king around. ” 1 “Makes you glad you’re common,” said Colon. “Commoner,” corrected Nobby. “That’s not a very civic attitude—” Carrot began. He was interrupted by Errol. The little dragon came trotting up the middle of the street, stumpy tail high, his eyes fixed on the clouds above him. He went right by the rank without giving them any attention at all. “What’s up with him?” said Nobby. A clatter behind them introduced the Ramkin coach. “Men?” said Vimes hesitantly, peering through the fog. “Definitely,” said Sergeant Colon. “Did you see a dragon go past? Apart from Errol?” “Well, er,” said the sergeant, looking at the other two. “Sort of, sir. Possibly. It might of been. ” “Then don’t stand there like a lot of boobies,” said Lady Ramkin. “Get in! Plenty of room inside!” There was. When it was built, the coach had probably been the marvel of the day, all plush and gilt and tasselled hangings. Time, neglect and the ripping out of the seats to allow its frequent use to transport dragons to shows had taken their toll, but it still reeked of privilege, style and, of course, dragons. “What do you think you’re doing?” said Colon, as it rattled off through the fog. “Wavin,’” said Nobby, gesturing graciously to the billows around them. “Disgusting, this sort of thing, really,” mused Sergeant Colon. “People goin’ around in coaches like this when there’s people with no roof to their heads. ” “It’s Lady Ramkin’s coach,” said Nobby. “She’s all right. ” “Well, yes, but what about her ancestors, eh? You don’t get big houses and carriages without grindin’ the faces of the poor a bit. ” “You’re just annoyed because your missus has been embroidering crowns on her undies,” said Nobby. “That’s got nothing to do with it,” said Sergeant Colon indignantly. “I’ve always been very firm on the rights of man. ” “And dwarf,” said Carrot. “Yeah, right,” said the sergeant uncertainly. “But all this business about kings and lords, it’s against basic human dignity. We’re all born equal. It makes me sick. ” “Never heard you talk like this before, Frederick,” said Nobby. “It’s Sergeant Colon to you, Nobby. ” “Sorry, Sergeant. ” The fog itself was shaping up to be a real Ankh-Morpork autumn gumbo. 1 Vimes squinted through it as the droplets buckled down to a good day’s work soaking him to the skin. “I can just make him out,” he said. “Turn left here. ” “Any ideas where we are?” said Lady Ramkin. “Business district somewhere,” said Vimes shortly. Errol’s progress was slowing a bit. He kept looking up and whining. “Can’t see a damn thing above us in this fog,” he said. “I wonder if—” The fog, as if in acknowledgment, lit up. Ahead of them it blossomed, like a chrysanthemum and made a noise like “whoomph. ” “Oh, no,” moaned Vimes. “Not again!” “Are the Cups of Integrity well and truly suffused?” intoned Brother Watchtower. “Aye, suffused full well. ” “The Waters of the World, are they Abjured?” “Yea, abjured full mightily. |
” “Have the Demons of Infinity been bound with many chains?” “Damn,” said Brother Plasterer, “there’s always something. ” Brother Watchtower sagged. “Just once it would be nice if we could get the ancient and timeless rituals right, wouldn’t it. You’d better get on with it. ” “Wouldn’t it be quicker, Brother Watchtower, if I just did it twice next time?” said Brother Plasterer. Brother Watchtower gave this some grudging consideration. It seemed reasonable. “All right,” he said. “Now get back down there with the others. And you should call me Acting Supreme Grand Master, understand?” This did not meet with what he considered to be a proper and dignified reception among the brethren. “No one said anything to us about you being Acting Supreme Grand Master,” muttered Brother Doorkeeper. “Well, that’s all you know because I bloody well am because Supreme Grand Master asked me to open the Lodge on account of him being delayed with all this coronation work,” said Brother Watchtower haughtily. “If that doesn’t make me Acting Supreme Grand bloody Master I’d like to know what does, all right?” “I don’t see why,” muttered Brother Doorkeeper. “You don’t have to have a grand title like that. You could just be called something like, well…Rituals Monitor. ” “Yeah,” said Brother Plasterer. “Don’t see why you should give yourself airs. You ain’t even been taught the ancient and mystic mysteries by monks, or anything. ” “We’ve been hanging around for hours, too,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “That’s not right. I thought we’d get rewarded—” Brother Watchtower realized that he was losing control. He tried wheedling diplomacy. “I’m sure Supreme Grand Master will be along directly,” he said. “Let’s not spoil it all now, eh? Lads? Arranging that fight with the dragon and everything, getting it all off right, that was something, wasn’t it? We’ve been through a lot, right? It’s worth waiting just a bit longer, okay?” The circle of robed and cowled figures shuffled in grudging agreement. “Okay. ” “Fair enough. ” “Yeah. ” C ERTAINLY. “Okay. ” “If you say so. ” It began to creep over Brother Watchtower that something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t quite put a name to it. “Uh,” he said. “Brothers?” They, too, shifted uneasily. Something in the room was setting their teeth on edge. There was an atmosphere. “Brothers,” repeated Brother Watchtower, trying to re-assert himself, “we are all here, aren’t we?” There was a worried chorus of agreement. “Of course we are. ” “What’s the matter?” “Yes!” Y ES. “Yes. ” There it was again, a subtle wrongness about things that you couldn’t quite put your finger on because your finger was too scared. But Brother Watchtower’s troublesome thoughts were interrupted by a scrabbling sound on the roof. A few nubs of plaster dropped into the circle. “Brothers?” repeated Brother Watchtower nervously. Now there was one of those silent sounds, a long, buzzing silence of extreme concentration and just possibly the indrawing of breath into lungs the size of haystacks. The last rats of Brother Watchtower’s self-confidence fled the sinking ship of courage. “Brother Doorkeeper, if you could just unbolt the dread portal—” he quavered. And then there was light. There was no pain. There was no time. Death strips away many things, especially when it arrives at a temperature hot enough to vaporize iron, and among them are your illusions. The immortal remains of Brother Watchtower watched the dragon flap away into the fog, and then looked down at the congealing puddle of stone, metal and miscellaneous trace elements that was all that remained of the secret headquarters. And of its occupants, he realized in the dispassionate way that is part of being dead. You go through your whole life and end up a smear swirling around like cream in a coffee cup. Whatever the gods’ games were, they played them in a damn mysterious way. He looked up at the hooded figure beside him. “We never intended this,” he said weakly. “Honestly. No offense. We just wanted what was due to us. ” A skeletal hand patted him on the shoulder, not unkindly. And Death said, C ONGRATULATIONS. Apart from the Supreme Grand Master, the only Elucidated Brother to be away at the time of the dragon was Brother Fingers. He’d been sent out for some pizzas. Brother Fingers was always the one sent out for takeaway food. It was cheaper. He’d never bothered to master the art of paying for things. When the guards rolled up just behind Errol, Brother Fingers was standing with a stack of cardboard boxes in his hands and his mouth open. Where the dread portal should have been was a warm melted patch of assorted substances. “Oh, my goodness,” said Lady Ramkin. Vimes slid down from the coach and tapped Brother Fingers on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “did you by any chance see what—” When Brother Fingers turned toward him his face was the face of a man who has hang-glided over the entrance to Hell. He kept opening and shutting his mouth but no words were coming out. Vimes tried again. The sheer terror frozen in Brother Fingers’s expression was getting to him. “If you would be so kind to accompany me to the Yard,” said Vimes, “I have reason to believe that you—” He hesitated. He wasn’t entirely certain what it was that he had reason to believe. But the man was clearly guilty. You could tell just by looking at him. Not, perhaps, guilty of anything specific. Just guilty in general terms. “Mmmmmuh,” said Brother Fingers. Sergeant Colon gently lifted the lid of the top box. “What do you make of it, Sergeant?” said Vimes, stepping back. “Er. It looks like a Klatchian Hots with anchovies, sir,” said Sergeant Colon knowledgeably. “I mean the man,” said Vimes wearily. “Nnnnn,” said Brother Fingers. Colon peered under the hood. “Oh, I know him, sir,” he said. “Bengy ‘Lightfoot’ Boggis, sir. He’s a capo de monty in the Thieves’ Guild. I know him of old, sir. Sly little bugger. Used to work at the University. ” “What, as a wizard?” said Vimes. “Odd job man, sir. Gardening and carpentry and that. ” “Oh. Did he?” “Can’t we do something for the poor man?” said Lady Ramkin. Nobby saluted smartly. “I could kick him in the bollocks for you if you like, m’lady. ” “Dddrrr,” said Brother Fingers, beginning to shake uncontrollably, while Lady Ramkin smiled the iron-hard blank smile of a high-born lady who is determined not to show that she has understood what has just been said to her. “Put him in the coach, you two,” said Vimes. “If it’s all right with you, Lady Ramkin—” “—Sybil—” corrected Lady Ramkin. Vimes blushed, and plunged on—“it might be a good idea to get him indoors. Charge him with the theft of one book, to whit, The Summoning of Dragons. ” “Right you are, sir,” said Sergeant Colon. “The pizzas’re getting cold, too. You know how the cheese goes all manky when it gets cold. ” “And no kicking him, either,” Vimes warned. “Not even where it doesn’t show. Carrot, you come with me. ” “DDddrrraa,” Brother Fingers volunteered. “And take Errol,” added Vimes. “He’s driving himself mad here. Game little devil, I’ll give him that. ” “Marvellous, when you come to think about it,” said Colon. Errol was trotting up and down in front of the ravaged building, whining. “Look at him,” said Vimes. “Can’t wait to get to grips. ” His gaze found itself drawn, as though by wires, up to the rolling clouds of fog. It’s in there somewhere, he thought. “What we going to do now, sir?” said Carrot, as the carriage rattled off. “Not nervous, are you?” said Vimes. “No, sir. ” The way he said it jogged something in Vimes’s mind. “No,” he said, “you’re not, are you? I suppose it’s being brought up by the dwarfs that did it. You’ve got no imagination. ” “I’m sure I try to do my best, sir,” said Carrot firmly. “Still sending all your pay home to your mother?” “Yes, sir. ” “You’re a good boy. ” “Yessir. So what are we going to do, Captain Vimes?” Carrot repeated. Vimes looked around him. He walked a few aimless, exasperated steps. He spread his arms wide and then flopped them down by his sides. “How should I know?” he said. “Warn people, I guess. |
We’d better get over to the Patrician’s palace. And then—” There were footsteps in the fog. Vimes stiffened, put his finger to his lips and pulled Carrot into the shelter of a doorway. A figure loomed out of the billows. Another one of ’em, thought Vimes. Well, there’s no law about wearing long black robes and deep cowls. There could be dozens of perfectly innocent reasons why this person is wearing long black robes and a deep cowl and standing in front of a melted-down house at dawn. Perhaps I should ask him to name just one. He stepped out. “Excuse me, sir—” he began. The cowl swung around. There was a hiss of indrawn breath. “I just wonder if you would mind— after him, lance-constable !” The figure had a good start. It scuttled along the street and had reached the corner before Vimes was halfway there. He skidded around it in time to see a shape vanish down an alley. Vimes realized he was running alone. He panted to a halt and looked back just in time to see Carrot jog gently around the corner. “What’s wrong?” he wheezed. “Sergeant Colon said I wasn’t to run,” said Carrot. Vimes looked at him vaguely. Then slow comprehension dawned. “Oh,” he said. “I, er, see. I don’t think he meant in every circumstance, lad. ” He stared back into the fog. “Not that we had much of a chance in this fog and these streets. ” “Might have been just an innocent bystander, sir,” said Carrot. “What, in Ankh-Morpork?” “Yes, sir. ” “We should have grabbed him, then, just for the rarity value,” said Vimes. He patted Carrot on the shoulder. “Come on. We’d better get along to the Patrician’s palace. ” “The King’s palace,” corrected Carrot. “What?” said Vimes, his train of thought temporarily shunted. “It’s the King’s palace now,” said Carrot. Vimes squinted sideways at him. He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Yeah, that’s right,” he conceded. “Our dragon-killing king. Well done that man. ” He sighed. “They’re not going to like this. ” They didn’t. None of them did. The first problem was the palace guard. Vimes had never liked them. They’d never liked him. Okay, so maybe the rank were only one step away from petty scofflaws, but in Vimes’s professional opinion the palace guard these days were only one step away from being the worst criminal scum the city had ever produced. A step further down. They’d have to reform a bit before they could even be considered for inclusion in the Ten Most Unwanted list. They were rough. They were tough. They weren’t the sweepings off the gutter, they were what you still found sticking to the gutter when the gutter sweepers had given up in exhaustion. They had been extremely well-paid by the Patrician, and presumably were extremely well-paid by someone else now, because when Vimes walked up to the gates a couple of them stopped lounging against the walls and straightened up while still maintaining just the right amount of psychological slouch to cause maximum offense. “Captain Vimes,” said Vimes, staring straight ahead. “To see the king. It’s of the utmost importance. ” “Yeah? Well, it’d have to be,” said a guard. “Captain Slimes, was it?” “Vimes,” said Vimes evenly. “With a Vee. ” One of the guards nodded to his companion. “Vimes,” he said. “With a Vee. ” “Fancy,” said the other guard. “It’s most urgent,” said Vimes, maintaining a wooden expression. He tried to move forward. The first guard sidestepped neatly and pushed him sharply in the chest. “No one is going nowhere,” he said. “Orders of the king, see? So you can push off back to your pit, Captain Vimes with a Vee. ” It wasn’t the words which made up Vimes’s mind. It was the way the other man sniggered. “Stand aside,” he said. The guard leaned down. “Who’s going to make me,” he rapped on Vimes’s helmet, “copper?” There are times when it is a veritable pleasure to drop the bomb right away. “Lance-constable Carrot, I want you to charge these men,” said Vimes. Carrot saluted. “Very good, sir,” he said, and turned and trotted smartly back the way they had come. “Hey!” shouted Vimes, as the boy disappeared around a corner. “That’s what I like to see,” said the first guard, leaning on his spear. “That’s a young man with initiative, that young man. A bright lad. He doesn’t want to stop along here and have his ears twisted off. That’s a young man who’s going to go a long way, if he’s got any sense. ” “Very sensible,” said the other guard. He leaned the spear against the wall. “You Watch men make me want to throw up,” he said conversationally. “Poncing around all the time, never doing a proper job of work. Throwing your weight about as if you counted for something. So me and Clarence are going to show you what real guarding is all about, isn’t that right?” I could just about manage one of them, Vimes thought as he took a few steps backward. If he was facing the other way, at least. Clarence propped his spear against the gateway and spat on his hands. There was a long, terrifying ululation. Vimes was amazed to realize it wasn’t coming from him. Carrot appeared around the corner at a dead run. He had a felling ax in either hand. His huge leather sandals flapped on the cobblestones as he bounded closer, accelerating all the time. And all the time there was this cry, deedahdeedahdeedah , like something caught in a trap at the bottom of a two-tone echo canyon. The two palace guards stood rigid with astonishment. “I should duck, if I was you,” said Vimes from near ground level. The two axes left Carrot’s hands and whirred through the air making a noise like a brace of partridges. One of them hit the palace gate, burying half the head in the woodwork. The other one hit the shaft of the first one, and split it. Then Carrot arrived. Vimes went and sat down on a nearby bench for a while, and rolled himself a cigarette. Eventually he said, “I think that’s about enough, constable. I think they’d like to come quietly now. ” “Yes, sir. What are they accused of, sir?” said Carrot, holding one limp body in either hand. “Assaulting an officer of the Watch in the execution of his duty and…oh, yes. Resisting arrest. ” “Under Section (vii) of the Public Order Act of 1457?” said Carrot. “Yes,” said Vimes solemnly. “Yes. Yes, I suppose so. ” “But they didn’t resist very much, sir,” Carrot pointed out. “Well, attempting to resist arrest. I should just leave them over by the wall until we come back. I don’t expect they’ll want to go anywhere. ” “Right you are, sir. ” “Don’t hurt them, mind,” said Vimes. “You mustn’t hurt prisoners. ” “That’s right, sir,” said Carrot, conscientiously. “Prisoners once Charged have Rights, sir. It says so in the Dignity of Man (Civic Rights) Act of 1341. I keep telling Corporal Nobbs. They have Rights, I tell him. This means you do not Put the Boot in. ” “Very well put, constable. ” Carrot looked down. “You have the right to remain silent,” he said. “You have the right not to injure yourself falling down the steps on the way to the cells. You have the right not to jump out of high windows. You do not have to say anything, you see, but anything you do say, well, I have to take it down and it might be used in evidence. ” He pulled out his notebook and licked his pencil. He leaned down further. “Pardon?” he said. He looked up at Vimes. “How do you spell ‘groan,’ sir?” he said. “G-R-O-N-E, I think. ” “Very good, sir. ” “Oh, and constable?” “Yes, sir?” “Why the axes?” “They were armed, sir. I got them from the blacksmith in Market Street, sir. I said you’d be along later to pay for them. ” “And the cry?” said Vimes weakly. “Dwarfish war yodel, sir,” said Carrot proudly. “It’s a good cry,” said Vimes, picking his words with care. “But I’d be grateful if you’d warn me first another time, all right?” “Certainly, sir. ” “In writing, I think. ” The Librarian swung on. It was slow progress, because there were things he wasn’t keen on meeting. Creatures evolve to fill every niche in the environment, and some of those in the dusty immensity of L-space were best avoided. They were much more unusual than ordinary unusual creatures. |
Usually he could forewarn himself by keeping a careful eye on the kickstool crabs that grazed harmlessly on the dust. When they were spooked, it was time to hide. Several times he had to flatten himself against the shelves as a thesaurus thundered by. He waited patiently as a herd of Critters crawled past, grazing on the contents of the choicer books and leaving behind them piles of small slim volumes of literary criticism. And there were other things, things which he hurried away from and tried not to look hard at… And you had to avoid cliches at all costs. He finished the last of his peanuts atop a stepladder, which was browsing mindlessly off the high shelves. The territory definitely had a familiar feel, or at least he got the feeling that it would eventually be familiar. Time had a different meaning in L-space. There were shelves whose outline he felt he knew. The book titles, while still unreadable, held a tantalizing hint of legibility. Even the musty air had a smell he thought he recognized. He shambled quickly along a side passage, turned the corner and, with only the slightest twinge of disorientation, shuffled into that set of dimensions that people, because they don’t know any better, think of as normal. He just felt extremely hot and his fur stood straight out from his body as temporal energy gradually discharged. He was in the dark. He extended one arm and explored the spines of the books by his side. Ah. Now he knew where he was. He was home. He was home a week ago. It was essential that he didn’t leave footprints. But that wasn’t a problem. He shinned up the side of the nearest bookcase and, under the starlight of the dome, hurried onward. Lupine Wonse glared up, red-eyed, from the heap of paperwork on his desk. No-one in the city knew anything about coronations. He’d had to make it up as he went along. There should be plenty of things to wave, he knew that. “Yes?” he said, abruptly. “Er, there’s a Captain Vimes to see you,” said the flunkey. “Vimes of the Watch?” “Yes, sir. Says it’s of the utmost importance. ” Wonse looked down his list of other things that were also of the utmost importance. Crowning the king, for one thing. The high priests of fifty-three religions were all claiming the honor. It was going to be a scrum. And then there were the crown jewels. Or rather, there weren’t the crown jewels. Somewhere in the preceding generations the crown jewels had disappeared. A jeweller in the Street of Cunning Artificers was doing the best he could in the time with gilt and glass. Vimes could wait. “Tell him to come back another day,” said Wonse. “Good of you to see us,” said Vimes, appearing in the doorway. Wonse glared at him. “Since you’re here…” he said. Vimes dropped his helmet on Wonse’s desk in what the secretary thought was an offensive manner, and sat down. “Take a seat,” said Wonse. “Have you had breakfast yet?” said Vimes. “Now really—” Wonse began. “Don’t worry,” said Vimes cheerfully. “Constable Carrot will go and see what’s in the kitchens. This chap will show him the way. ” When they had gone Wonse leaned across the drifts of paperwork. “There had better,” he said, “be a very good reason for—” “The dragon is back,” said Vimes. Wonse stared at him for a while. Vimes stared back. Wonse’s senses came back from whatever corners they’d bounced into. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you,” he said. “No. The dragon is back. ” “Now, look—” Wonse began. “I saw it,” said Vimes flatly. “A dragon? You’re sure?” Vimes leaned across the desk. “No! I could be bloody mistaken!” he shouted. “It may have been something else with sodding great big claws, huge leathery wings and hot, fiery breath! There must be masses of things like that!” “But we all saw it killed!” said Wonse. “I don’t know what we saw!” said Vimes, “But I know what I saw!” He leaned back, shaking. He was suddenly feeling extremely tired. “Anyway,” he said, in a more normal voice, “it’s flamed a house in Bitwash Street. Just like the other ones. ” “Any of them get out?” Vimes put his head in his hands. He wondered how long it was since he’d last had any 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 pummeling, 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. He slumped forward. The Librarian leaned cautiously over the top of the bookcase and unfolded an arm into the darkness. There it was. His thick fingernails grasped the spine of the book, pulled it gently from its shelf and hoisted it up. He raised the lantern carefully. No doubt about it. The Summoning of Dragons. Single copy, first edition, slightly foxed and extremely dragoned. He set the lamp down beside him, and began to read the first page. “Mmm?” said Vimes, waking up. “Brung you a nice cup of tea, Cap’n,” said Sergeant Colon. “And a figgin. ” Vimes looked at him blankly. “You’ve been asleep,” said Sergeant Colon helpfully. “You was spark out when Carrot brought you back. ” Vimes looked around at the now-familiar surroundings of the Yard. “Oh,” he said. “Me and Nobby have been doing some detectoring ,” said Colon. “You know that house that got melted? Well, no one lives there. It’s just rooms that get hired out. So we found out who hires them. There’s a caretaker who goes along every night to put the chairs away and lock up. He wasn’t half creating about it being burned down. You know what caretakers are like. ” He stood back, waiting for the applause. “Well done,” said Vimes dutifully, dunking the figgin into the tea. “There’s three societies use it,” said Colon. He extracted his notebook. “To wit, viz, The Ankh-Morpork Fine Art Appreciation Society, hem hem, the Morpork Folk-Dance and Song Club, and the Elucidated Brethren of the Ebon Night. ” “Why hem hem?” said Vimes. “Well, you know. Fine Art. It’s just men paintin’ pictures of young wimmin in the nudd. The altogether,” explained Colon the connoisseur. “The caretaker told me. Some of them don’t even have any paint on their brushes, you know. Shameful. ” There must be a million stories in the naked city, thought Vimes. So why do I always have to listen to ones like these? “When do they meet?” he said. “Mondays, 7:30, admission ten pence,” said Colon, promptly. “As for the folk-dance people—well, no problem there. You know you always wondered what Corporal Nobbs does on his evenings off?” Colon’s face split into a watermelon grin. “No!” said Vimes incredulously. “Not Nobby?” “Yep!” said Colon, delighted at the result. “What, jumping about with bells on and waving his hanky in the air?” “He says it is important to preserve old folkways,” said Colon. “Nobby? Mr. Steel-toecaps-in-the-groin, I-was-just-checking-the-doorhandle-and-it-opened-all-by-itself?” “Yeah! Funny old world, ain’t it? He was very bashful about it. ” “Good grief,” said Vimes. |
“It just goes to show, you never can tell,” said Colon. “Anyway, the caretaker said the Elucidated Brethren always leave the place in a mess. Scuffed chalk marks on the floor, he said. And they never put the chairs back properly or wash out the tea urn. They’ve been meeting a lot lately, he said. The nuddy wimmin painters had to meet somewhere else last week. ” “What did you do with our suspect?” said Vimes. “Him? Oh, he done a runner, Captain,” said the sergeant, looking embarrassed. “Why? He didn’t look in any shape to run anywhere. ” “Well, when we got back here, we sat him down by the fire and wrapped him up because he kept on shivering,” said Sergeant Colon, as Vimes buckled his armor on. “I hope you didn’t eat his pizzas. ” “Errol et ’em. It’s the cheese, see, it goes all—” “Go on. ” “Well,” said Colon awkwardly, “he kept on shivering, sort of thing, and groaning on about dragons and that. We felt sorry for him, to tell the truth. And then he jumps up and runs out of the door for no reason at all. ” Vimes glanced at the sergeant’s big, open, dishonest face. “No reason?” he prompted. “ Well , we decided to have a bite, so I sent Nobby out to the baker’s, see, and, well, we fought the prisoner ought to have something to eat…” “Yes?” said Vimes encouragingly. “ Well , when Nobby asked him if he wanted his figgin toasted, he just give a scream and ran off. ” “Just that?” said Vimes. “You didn’t threaten him in any way?” “Straight up, Captain. Bit of a mystery, if you ask me. He kept going on about someone called Supreme Grand Master. ” “Hmm. ” Vimes glanced out of the window. Grey fog lagged the world with dim light. “What time is it?” he said. “Five of the clock, sir. ” “Right. Well, before it gets dark—” Colon gave a cough. “In the morning, sir. This is tomorrow, sir. ” “You let me sleep all day ?” “Didn’t have the heart to wake you up, sir. No dragon activity, if that’s what you’re thinking. Dead quiet all round, in fact. ” Vimes glared at him and threw the window open. The fog rolled in, in a slow, yellow-edged waterfall. “We reckon it must of flown away,” said Colon’s voice, behind him. Vimes stared up into the heavy, rolling clouds. “Hope it clears up for the coronation,” Colon went on, in a worried voice. “You all right, sir?” It hasn’t flown away, Vimes thought. Why should it fly away? We can’t hurt it, and it’s got everything it wants right here. It’s up there somewhere. “You all right, sir?” Colon repeated. It’s got to be up high somewhere, in the fog. There’s all kinds of towers and things. “What time’s the coronation, Sergeant?” he said. “Noon, sir. And Mr. Wonse has sent a message about how you’re to be in your best armor among all the civic leaders, sir. ” “Oh, has he?” “And Sergeant Hummock and the day squad will be lining the route, sir. ” “What with?” said Vimes vaguely, watching the skies. “Sorry, sir?” Vimes squinted upward to get a better view of the roof. “Hmm?” he said. “I said they’ll be lining the route, sir,” said Sergeant Colon. “It’s up there, Sergeant,” said Vimes. “I can practically smell it. ” “Yes, sir,” said Colon obediently. “It’s deciding what to do next. ” “Yes, sir?” “They’re not unintelligent, you know. They just don’t think like us. ” “Yes, sir. ” “So be damned to any lining of the route. I want you three up on roofs, understand?” “Yes, si—what?” “Up on the roofs. Up high. When it makes its move, I want us to be the first to know. ” Colon tried to indicate by his expression that he didn’t. “Do you think that’s a good idea, sir?” he ventured. Vimes gave him a blank look. “Yes, Sergeant, I do. It was one of mine,” he said coldly. “Now go and see to it. ” When he was left to himself Vimes washed and shaved in cold water, and then rummaged in his campaign chest until he unearthed his ceremonial breastplate and red cloak. Well, the cloak had been red once , and still was, here and there, although most of it resembled a small net used very successfully for catching moths. There was also a helmet, defiantly without plumes, from which the molecule-thick gold leaf had long ago peeled. He’d started saving up for a new cloak, once. Whatever had happened to the money? There was no one in the guardroom. Errol lay in the wreckage of the fourth fruit box Nobby had scrounged for him. The rest had all been eaten, or had dissolved. In the warm silence the everlasting rumbling of his stomach sounded especially loud. Occasionally he whimpered. Vimes scratched him vaguely behind the ears. “What’s up with you, boy?” he said. The door creaked open. Carrot came in, saw Vimes hunkered down by the ravaged box, and saluted. “We’re a bit worried about him, Captain,” he volunteered. “He hasn’t eaten his coal. Just lies there twitching and whining all the time. You don’t think something’s wrong with him, do you?” “Possibly,” said Vimes. “But having something wrong with them is quite normal for a dragon. They always get over it. One way or another. ” Errol gave him a mournful look and closed his eyes again. Vimes pulled his scrap of blanket over him. There was a squeak. He fished around beside the dragon’s shivering body, pulled out a small rubber hippo, stared at it in surprise and then gave it one or two experimental squeezes. “I thought it would be something for him to play with,” said Carrot, slightly shamefaced. “You bought him a little toy?” “Yes, sir. ” “What a kind thought. ” Vimes hoped Carrot hadn’t noticed the fluffy ball tucked into the back of the box. It had been quite expensive. He left the two of them and stepped into the outside world. There was even more bunting now. People were beginning to line the main streets, even though there were hours to wait. It was still very depressing. He felt an appetite for once, one that it’d take more than a drink or two to satisfy. He strolled along for breakfast at Harga’s House of Ribs, the habit of years, and got another unpleasant surprise. Normally the only decoration in there was on Sham Harga’s vest and the food was good solid stuff for a cold morning, all calories and fat and protein and maybe a vitamin crying softly because it was all alone. Now laboriously-made paper streamers criss-crossed the room and he was confronted with a crayonned menu in which the words “Coronasion” and “Royall” figured somewhere on every crooked line. Vimes pointed wearily at the top of the menu. “What’s this?” he said. Harga peered at it. They were alone in the grease-walled cafe. “It says ‘Bye Royarl Appointmente,’ Captain,” he said proudly. “What’s it mean?” Harga scratched his head with a ladle. “What it means is,” he said, “if the king comes in here, he’ll like it. ” “Have you got anything that isn’t too aristocratic for me to eat, then?” said Vimes sourly, and settled for a slice of plebeian fried bread and a proletarian steak cooked so rare you could still hear it bray. Vimes ate it at the counter. A vague scraping noise disturbed his thoughts. “What’re you doing?” he said. Harga looked up guiltily from his work behind the counter. “Nothing, Cap’n,” he said. He tried to hide the evidence behind him when Vimes glared over the knife-chewed woodwork. “Come on, Sham. You can show me. ” Harga’s beefy hands came reluctantly into view. “I was only scraping the old fat out of the pan,” he mumbled. “I see. And how long have we known each other, Sham?” said Vimes, with terrible kindness. “Years, Cap’n,” said Harga. “You bin coming in here nearly every day, reg’lar. One of my best customers. ” Vimes leaned over the counter until his nose was level with the squashy pink thing in the middle of Harga’s face. “And in all that time, have you ever changed the fat?” he demanded. Harga tried to back away. “Well—” “It’s been like a friend to me, that old fat,” said Vimes. “There’s little black bits in there I’ve grown to know and love. It’s a meal in itself. And you’ve cleaned out the coffee jug, haven’t you. I can tell. This is love-in-a-canoe coffee if ever I tasted it. The other stuff had flavor. ” “Well, I thought it was time—” “Why?” Harga let the pan fall from his pudgy fingers. |
“Well, I thought, if the king should happen to come in—” “You’re all mad !” “But, Cap’n—” Vimes’s accusing finger buried itself up to the second joint in Harga’s expensive vest. “You don’t even know the wretched fellow’s name!” he shouted. Harga rallied. “I do, Cap’n,” he stuttered. “Course I do. Seen it on the decorations and everything. He’s called Rex Vivat. ” Very gently, shaking his head in despair, crying in his heart for the essential servility of mankind, Vimes let him go. In another time and place, the Librarian finished reading. He’d reached the end of the text. Not the end of the book—there was plenty more book. It had been scorched beyond the point of legibility, though. Not that the last few unburned pages were very easy to read. The author’s hand had been shaking, he’d been writing fast, and he’d blotted a lot. But the Librarian had wrestled with many a terrifying text in some of the worst books ever bound, words that tried to read you as you read them, words that writhed on the page. At least these weren’t words like that. These were just the words of a man frightened for his life. A man writing a dreadful warning. It was a page a little back from the burned section that drew the Librarian’s eye. He sat and stared at it for some time. Then he stared at the darkness. It was his darkness. He was asleep out there somewhere. Somewhere out there a thief was heading for this place, to steal this book. And then someone would read this book, read these words, and do it anyway. His hands itched. All he had to do was hide the book, or drop onto the thief’s head and unscrew it by the ears. He stared into the darkness again… But that would be interfering with the course of history. Horrible things could happen. The Librarian knew all about this sort of thing, it was part of what you had to know before you were allowed into L-space. He’d seen pictures in ancient books. Time could bifurcate, like a pair of trousers. You could end up in the wrong leg, living a life that was actually happening in the other leg, talking to people who weren’t in your leg, walking into walls that weren’t there anymore. Life could be horrible in the wrong trouser of Time. Besides, it was against Library rules. 1 The assembled Librarians of Time and Space would certainly have something to say about it if he started to tinker with causality. He closed the book carefully and tucked it back into the shelf. Then he swung gently from bookcase to bookcase until he reached the doorway. For a moment he stopped and looked down at his own sleeping body. Perhaps he wondered, briefly, whether to wake himself up, have a little chat, tell himself that he had friends and not to worry. If so, he must have decided against it. You could get yourself into a lot of trouble that way. Instead he slipped out of the door, and lurked in the shadows, and followed the hooded thief when it came out clutching the book, and waited near the dread portal in the rain until the Elucidated Brethren had met and, when the last one left, followed him to his home, and murmured to himself in anthropoid surprise… And then ran back to his Library and the treacherous pathways of L-space. By mid-morning the streets were packed, Vimes had docked Nobby a day’s salary for waving a flag, and an air of barbed gloom settled over the Yard, like a big black cloud with occasional flashes of lightning in it. “‘Get up in a high place. ’” muttered Nobby. “That’s all very well to say. ” “I was looking forward to lining the streets,” said Colon. “I’d have got a good view. ” “You were going on about privilege and the rights of man the other night,” said Nobby accusingly. “Yes, well, one of the privileges and rights of this man is getting a good view,” said the sergeant. “That’s all I’m saying. ” “I’ve never seen the captain in such a filthy temper,” said Nobby. “I liked it better when he was on the drink. I reckon he’s—” “You know, I think Errol is really ill,” said Carrot. They turned toward the fruit basket. “He’s very hot. And his skin looks all shiny. ” “What’s the right temperature for a dragon?” said Colon. “Yeah. How do you take it?” said Nobby. “I think we ought to ask Lady Ramkin to have a look at him,” said Carrot. “She knows about these things. ” “No, she’ll be getting ready for the coronation. We shouldn’t go disturbing her,” said Colon. He stretched out his hand to Errol’s quivering flanks. “I used to have a dog that—arrgh! That’s not hot, that’s boiling!” “I’ve offered him lots of water and he just won’t touch it. What are you doing with that kettle, Nobby?” Nobby looked innocent. “Well, I thought we might as well make a cup of tea before we go out. It’s a shame to waste—” “Take it off him!” Noon came. The fog didn’t lift but it did thin a bit, to allow a pale yellow haze where the sun should have been. Although the passage of years had turned the post of Captain of the Watch into something rather shabby, it still meant that Vimes was entitled to a seat at official occasions. The pecking order had moved it, though, so that now he was in the lowest tier on the rickety bleachers between the Master of the Fellowship of Beggars and the head of the Teachers’ Guild. He didn’t mind that. Anything was better than the top row, among the Assassins, Thieves, Merchants and all the other things that had floated to the top of society. He never knew what to talk about. Anyway, the teacher was restful company since he didn’t do much but clench and un-clench his hands occasionally, and whimper. “Something wrong with your neck, Captain?” said the chief beggar politely, as they waited for the coaches. “What?” said Vimes distractedly. “You keep on staring upward,” said the beggar. “Hmm? Oh. No. Nothing wrong,” said Vimes. The beggar wrapped his velvet cloak around him. “You couldn’t by any chance spare—” he paused, calculating a sum in accordance with his station—“about three hundred dollars for a twelve-course civic banquet, could you?” “No. ” “Fair enough. Fair enough,” said the chief beggar amiably. He sighed. It wasn’t a rewarding job, being chief beggar. It was the differentials that did for you. Low-grade beggars made a reasonable enough living on pennies, but people tended to look the other way when you asked them for a sixteen-bedroom mansion for the night. Vimes resumed his study of the sky. Up on the dais the High Priest of Blind Io, who last night by dint of elaborate ecumenical argument and eventually by a club with nails in it had won the right to crown the king, fussed over his preparations. By the small portable sacrificial altar a tethered billy goat was peacefully chewing the cud and possibly thinking, in Goat: What a lucky billy goat I am, to be given such a good view of the proceedings. This is going to be something to tell the kids. Vimes scanned the diffused outlines of the nearest buildings. A distant cheering suggested that the ceremonial procession was on its way. There was a scuffle of activity around the dais as Lupine Wonse chivvied a scramble of servants who rolled a purple carpet down the steps. Across the square, among the ranks of Ankh-Morpork’s faded aristocracy, Lady Ramkin’s face tilted upward. Around the throne, which had been hastily created out of wood and gold foil, a number of lesser priests, some of them with slight head wounds, shuffled into position. Vimes shifted in his seat, aware of the sound of his own heartbeat, and glared at the haze over the river. …and saw the wings. Dear Mother and Father [wrote Carrot, in between staring dutifully into the fog] Well, the town is On Fate for the coronation, which is more complicated than at home, and now I am on Day duty as well. This is a shame because, I was going to watch the Coronation with Reet, but it does not do to complain. I must go now because we are expecting a dragon any minute although it does not exist really. Your loving son, Carrot. PS. Have you seen anything of Minty lately? “You idiot!” “Sorry,” said Vimes. “Sorry. ” People were climbing back into their seats, many of them giving him furious looks. Wonse was white with fury. |
“How could you have been so stupid ?” he raged. Vimes stared at his own fingers. “I thought I saw—” he began. “It was a raven ! You know what ravens are? There must be hundreds of them in the city!” “In the fog, you see, the size wasn’t easy to—” Vimes mumbled. “And poor Master Greetling, you ought to have known what loud noises do to him!” The head of the Teachers’ Guild had to be led away by some kind people. “Shouting out like that!” Wonse went on. “Look, I said I’m sorry! It was an honest mistake!” “I’ve had to hold up the procession and everything!” Vimes said nothing. He could feel hundreds of amused or unsympathetic eyes on him. “Well,” he muttered, “I’d better be getting back to the Yard—” Wonse’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he snapped. “But you can go home, if you like. Or anywhere your fancies take you. Give me your badge. ” “Huh?” Wonse held out his hand. “Your badge,” he repeated. “My badge?” “That’s what I said. I want to keep you out of trouble. ” Vimes looked at him in astonishment. “But it’s my badge !” “And you’re going to give it to me,” said Wonse grimly. “By order of the king. ” “What d’you mean? He doesn’t even know!” Vimes heard the wailing in his own voice. Wonse scowled. “But he will,” he said. “And I don’t expect he’ll even bother to appoint a successor. ” Vimes slowly unclipped the verdigrised disc of copper, weighed it in his hand, and then tossed it to Wonse without a word. For a moment he considered pleading, but something rebelled. He turned, and stalked off through the crowd. So that was it. As simple as that. After half a lifetime of service. No more City Watch. Huh. Vimes kicked at the pavement. It’d be some sort of Royal Guard now. With plumes in their damn helmets. Well, he’d had enough. It wasn’t a proper life anyway, in the Watch. You didn’t meet people in the best of circumstances. There must be hundreds of other things he could do, and if he thought for long enough he could probably remember what some of them were. Pseudopolis Yard was off the route of the procession, and as he stumbled into the Watch House he could hear the distant cheering beyond the rooftops. Across the city the temple gongs were being sounded. Now they are ringing the gongs, thought Vimes, but soon they will—they will—they will not be ringing the gongs. Not much of an aphorism, he thought, but he could work on it. He had the time, now. Vimes noticed the mess. Errol had started eating again. He’d eaten most of the table, the grate, the coal scuttle, several lamps and the squeaky rubber hippo. Now he lay in his box again, skin twitching, whimpering in his sleep. “A right mess you’ve made,” said Vimes enigmatically. Still, at least he wouldn’t have to tidy it up. He opened his desk drawer. Someone had eaten into that, too. All that was left was a few shards of glass. Sergeant Colon hauled himself onto the parapet around the Temple of Small Gods. He was too old for this sort of thing. He’d joined for the bell ringing, not sitting around on high places waiting for dragons to find him. He got his breath back, and peered through the fog. “Anyone human still up here?” he whispered. Carrot’s voice sounded dead and featureless in the dull air. “Here I am, Sergeant,” he said. “I was just checking if you were still here,” said Colon. “I’m still here, Sergeant,” said Carrot, obediently. Colon joined him. “Just checking you were not et,” he said, trying to grin. “I haven’t been et,” said Carrot. “Oh,” said Colon. “Good, then. ” He tapped his fingers on the damp stonework, feeling he ought to make his position absolutely clear. “Just checking,” he repeated. “Part of my duty, see. Going around, sort of thing. It’s not that I’m frightened of being up on the roofs by myself, you understand. Thick up here, isn’t it. ” “Yes, Sergeant. ” “Everything all okay?” Nobby’s muffled voice sidled its way through the thick air, quickly followed by its owner. “Yes, Corporal,” said Carrot. “What you doing up here?” Colon demanded. “I was just coming up to check Lance-constable Carrot was all right,” said Nobby innocently. “What were you doing, Sergeant?” “We’re all all right,” said Carrot, beaming. “That’s good, isn’t it. ” The two NCOs shifted uneasily and avoided looking at one another. It seemed like a long way back to their posts, across the damp, cloudy and, above all, exposed rooftops. Colon made an executive decision. “Sod this,” he said, and found a piece of fallen statuary to sit on. Nobby leaned on the parapet and winkled a damp dog-end from the unspeakable ashtray behind his ear. “Heard the procession go by,” he observed. Colon filled his pipe, and struck a match on the stone beside him. “If that dragon’s alive,” he said, blowing out a plume of smoke and turning a small patch of fog into smog, “then it’ll have got the hell away from here, I’m telling you. Not the right sort of place for dragons, a city,” he added, in the tones of someone doing a great job of convincing himself. “It’ll have gone off to somewhere where there’s high places and plenty to eat, you mark my words. ” “Somewhere like the city, you mean?” said Carrot. “Shut up,” said the other two in unison. “Chuck us the matches, Sergeant,” said Nobby. Colon tossed the bundle of evil yellow-headed lucifers across the leads. Nobby struck one, which was immediately blown out. Shreds of fog drifted past him. “Wind’s getting up,” he observed. “Good. Can’t stand this fog,” said Colon. “What was I saying?” “You were saying the dragon’ll be miles away,” prompted Nobby. “Oh. Right. Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? I mean, I wouldn’t hang around here if I could fly away. If I could fly, I wouldn’t be sitting on a roof on some manky old statue. If I could fly, I’d—” “What statue?” said Nobby, cigarette halfway to his mouth. “This one,” said Colon, thumping the stone. “And don’t try to give me the willies, Nobby. You know there’s hundreds of moldy old statues up on Small Gods. ” “No I don’t,” said Nobby. “What I do know is, they were all taken down last month when they releaded the roof. There’s just the roof and the dome and that’s it. You have to take notice of little things like that,” he added, “when you’re detectoring. ” In the damp silence that followed Sergeant Colon looked down at the stone he was sitting on. It had a taper, and a scaly pattern, and a sort of indefinable tail-like quality. Then he followed its length up and into the rapidly-thinning fog. On the dome of Small Gods the dragon raised its head, yawned, and unfolded its wings. The unfolding wasn’t a simple operation. It seemed to go on for some time, as the complex biological machinery of ribs and pleats slid apart. Then, with wings outstretched, the dragon yawned, took a few steps to the edge of the roof, and launched itself into the air. After a while a hand appeared over the edge of the parapet. It flailed around for a moment until it got a decent grip. There was a grunt. Carrot hauled himself back onto the roof and pulled the other two up behind him. They lay flat out on the leads, panting. Carrot observed the way that the dragon’s talons had scored deep grooves in the metal. You couldn’t help noticing things like that. “Hadn’t,” he panted, “hadn’t we better warn people?” Colon dragged himself forward until he could look across the city. “I don’t think we need bother,” he said. “I think they’ll soon find out. ” The High Priest of Blind Io was stumbling over his words. There had never been an official coronation service in Ankh-Morpork as far as he could find out. The old kings had managed quite well with something on the lines of: “We hath got the crown, i’faith, and we will kill any whore-son who tries to take it away, by the Lord Harry. ” Apart from anything else, this was rather short. He’d spent a long time drafting something longer and more in keeping with the spirit of the times, and was having some trouble remembering it. He was also being put off by the goat, which was watching him with loyal interest. “Get on with it!” Wonse hissed, from his position behind the throne. “All in good time,” the high priest hissed back. |
“This is a coronation, I’ll have you know. You might try to show a little respect. ” “Of course I’m showing respect! Now get on—” There was a shout, off to the right. Wonse glared into the crowd. “It’s that Ramkin woman,” he said. “What’s she up to?” People around her were chattering excitedly now. Fingers pointed all the same way, like a small fallen forest. There were one or two screams, and then the crowd moved like a tide. Wonse looked along the wide Street of Small Gods. It wasn’t a raven out there. Not this time. The dragon flew slowly, only a few feet above the ground, wings sculling gracefully through the air. The flags that crisscrossed the street were caught up and snapped like so much cobweb, piling up on the creature’s spine plates and flapping back along the length of its tail. It flew with head and neck fully extended, as if the great body was being towed like a barge. The people on the street yelled and fought one another for the safety of doorways. It paid them no attention. It should have come roaring, but the only sounds were the creaking of wings and the snapping of banners. It should have come roaring. Not like this, not slowly and deliberately, giving terror time to mature. It should have come threatening. Not promising. It should have come roaring, not flying gently to the accompaniment of the zip and zing of merry bunting. Vimes pulled open the other drawer of his desk and glared at the paperwork, such as there was of it. There wasn’t really much in there that he could call his own. A scrap of sugar bag reminded him that he now owed the Tea Kitty six pence. Odd. He wasn’t angry yet. He would be later on, of course. By evening he’d be furious. Drunk and furious. But not yet. Not yet. It hadn’t really sunk in, and he knew he was just going through the motions as a preventative against thinking. Errol stirred sluggishly in his box, raised his head and whined. “What’s the matter, boy?” said Vimes, reaching down. “Upset stomach?” The little dragon’s skin was moving as though heavy industry was being carried on inside. Nothing in Diseases of the Dragon said anything about this. From the swollen stomach came sounds like a distant and complicated war in an earthquake zone. That surely wasn’t right. Sybil Ramkin said you had to pay great attention to a dragon’s diet, since even a minor stomach upset would decorate the walls and ceiling with pathetic bits of scaly skin. But in the past few days…well, there had been cold pizzas, and the ash from Nobby’s horrible dog-ends, and all-in-all Errol had eaten more or less what he liked. Which was just about everything, to judge by the room. Not to mention the contents of the bottom drawer. “We really haven’t looked after you very well, have we?” said Vimes. “Treated you like a dog, really. ” He wondered what effect squeaky rubber hippos had on the digestion. Vimes became slowly aware that the distant cheering had turned to screams. He stared vaguely at Errol, and then smiled an incredibly evil smile and stood up. There were sounds of panic and the mob on the run. He placed his battered helmet on his head and gave it a jaunty tap. Then, humming a mad little tune, he sauntered out of the building. Errol remained quite still for a while and then, with extreme difficulty, half-crawled and half-rolled out of his box. Strange messages were coming from the massive part of his brain that controlled his digestive system. It was demanding certain things that he couldn’t put a name to. Fortunately it was able to describe them in minute detail to the complex receptors in his enormous nostrils. They flared, subjecting the air of the room to an intimate examination. His head turned, triangulating. He pulled himself across the floor and began to eat, with every sign of enjoyment, Carrot’s tin of armor polish. People streamed past Vimes as he strolled up the Street of Small Gods. Smoke rose into the air from the Plaza of Broken Moons. The dragon squatted in the middle of it, on what remained of the coronation dais. It had a self-satisfied expression. There was no sign of the throne, or of its occupant, although it was possible that complicated forensic examination of the small pile of charcoal in the wrecked and smoldering woodwork might offer some clue. Vimes caught hold of an ornamental fountain to steady himself as the crowds stampeded by. Every street out of the plaza was packed with struggling bodies. Not noisy ones, Vimes noticed. People weren’t wasting their breath with screaming anymore. There was just this solid, deadly determination to be somewhere else. The dragon spread its wings and flapped them luxuriously. The people at the rear of the crowd took this as a signal to climb up the backs of the people in front of them and run for safety from head to head. Within a few seconds the square was empty of all save the stupid and the terminally bewildered. Even the badly trampled were making a spirited crawl for the nearest exit. Vimes looked around him. There seemed to be a lot of fallen flags, some of which were being eaten by an elderly goat which couldn’t believe its luck. He could distantly see Cut-me-own-Throat on his hands and knees, trying to restore the contents of his tray. By Vimes’s side a small child waved a flag hesitantly and shouted “Hurrah. ” Then everything went quiet. Vimes bent down. “I think you should be going home,” he said. The child squinted up at him. “Are you a Watch man?” it said. “No,” said Vimes. “And yes. ” “What happened to the king, Watch man?” “Er. I think he’s gone off for a rest,” said Vimes. “My auntie said I shouldn’t talk to Watch men,” said the child. “Do you think it might be a good idea to go home and tell her how obedient you’ve been, then?” said Vimes. “My auntie said, if I was naughty, she’d put me on the roof and call the dragon,” said the child, conversationally. “My auntie said it eats you all up starting with the legs, so’s you can see what’s happening. ” “Why don’t you go home and tell your auntie she’s acting in the best traditions of Ankh-Morpork child-rearing?” said Vimes. “Go on. Run along. ” “It crunches up all your bones,” said the child happily. “And when it gets to your head, it—” “Look, it’s up there!” shouted Vimes. “The great big dragon that crunches you up! Now go home !” The child looked up at the thing perched on the crippled dais. “I haven’t seen it crunch anyone yet,” it complained. “Push off or you’ll feel the back of my hand,” said Vimes. This seemed to fit the bill. The child nodded understandingly. “Right. Can I shout hurrah again?” “If you like,” said Vimes. “Hurrah. ” So much for community policing, Vimes thought. He peered out from behind the fountain again. A voice immediately above him rumbled, “Say what you like, I still swear it’s a magnificent specimen. ” Vimes’s gaze traveled upward until it crested the edge of the fountain’s top bowl. “Have you noticed,” said Sybil Ramkin, hauling herself upright by a piece of eroded statuary and dropping down in front of him, “how every time we meet, a dragon turns up?” She gave him an arch smile. “It’s a bit like having your own tune. Or something. ” “It’s just sitting there,” said Vimes hurriedly. “Just looking around. As if it’s waiting for something to happen. ” The dragon blinked with Jurassic patience. The roads off the square were packed with people. That’s the Ankh-Morpork instinct, Vimes thought. Run away, and then stop and see if anything interesting is going to happen to other people. There was a movement in the wreckage near the dragon’s front talon, and the High Priest of Blind Io staggered to his feet, dust and splinters cascading from his robes. He was still holding the ersatz crown in one hand. Vimes watched the old man look upward into a couple of glowing red eyes a few feet away. “Can dragons read minds?” whispered Vimes. “I’m sure mine understand every word I say,” hissed Lady Ramkin. “Oh, no! The silly old fool is giving it the crown!” “But isn’t that a smart move?” said Vimes. “Dragons like gold. |
It’s like throwing a stick for a dog, isn’t it?” “Oh dear,” said Sybil Ramkin. “It might not, you know. Dragons have such sensitive mouths. ” The great dragon blinked at the tiny circle of gold. Then, with extreme delicacy, it extended one meter-long claw and hooked the thing out of the priest’s trembling fingers. “What d’you mean, sensitive?” said Vimes, watching the claw travel slowly toward the long, horse-like face. “A really incredible sense of taste. They’re so, well, chemically orientated. ” “You mean it can probably taste gold?” whispered Vimes, watching the crown being carefully licked. “Oh, certainly. And smell it. ” Vimes wondered what the chances were of the crown being made of gold. Not high, he decided. Gold foil over copper, perhaps. Enough to fool human beings. And then he wondered what someone’s reaction would be if they were offered sugar which turned out, once you’d put three spoonfuls in your coffee, to be salt. The dragon removed the claw from its mouth in one graceful movement and caught the high priest, who was just sneaking away, a blow which knocked him high into the air. When he was screaming at the top of the arc the great mouth came around and—“Gosh!” said Lady Ramkin. There was a groan from the watchers. “The temperature of the thing!” said Vimes. “I mean, nothing left! Just a wisp of smoke!” There was another movement in the rubble. Another figure pulled itself upright and leaned dazedly against a broken spar. It was Lupine Wonse, under a coating of soot. Vimes watched him look up into a pair of nostrils the size of drain-covers. Wonse broke into a run. Vimes wondered what it felt like, running away from something like that, expecting any minute your backbone to reach, very briefly, a temperature somewhere beyond the vaporization point of iron. He could guess. Wonse made it halfway across the square before the dragon darted forward with surprising agility for such a bulk and snatched him up. The talon swept on upward until the struggling figure was being held a few feet from the dragon’s face. It appeared to examine him for some time, turning him this way and that. Then, moving on its three free legs and flapping its wings occasionally to help with its balance, it trotted away across the plaza and headed toward the—what once had been the Patrician’s palace. To what once had been the king’s palace, too. It ignored the frightened spectators silently pressing themselves against the walls. The arched gateway was shouldered aside with depressing ease. The doors themselves, tall and iron-bound and solid, lasted a surprising ten seconds before collapsing into a heap of glowing ash. The dragon stepped through. Lady Ramkin turned in astonishment. Vimes had started to laugh. There was a manic edge to it and there were tears in his eyes, but it was still laughter. He laughed and laughed until he slid gently down the edge of the fountain, his legs splaying out in front of him. “Hooray, hooray, hooray!” he giggled, almost choking. “What on earth d’you mean?” Lady Ramkin demanded. “Put out more flags! Blow the cymbals, roast the tocsin! We’ve crowned it! We’ve got a king after all! What ho!” “Have you been drinking?” she snapped. “Not yet!” sniggered Vimes. “Not yet! But I will be!” He laughed on, knowing that when he stopped black depression was going to drop on him like a lead soufflé. But he could see the future stretching out ahead of them… …after all, it was definitely noble. And it didn’t carry money, and it couldn’t answer back. It could certainly do something for the inner cities, too. Like torching them to the bedrock. We’ll really do it, he thought. That’s the Ankh-Morpork way. If you can’t beat it or corrupt it, you pretend it was your idea in the first place. Vivat Draco. He became aware that the small child had wandered up again. It waved its flag gently at him and said, “Can I shout hurrah again now?” “Why not?” said Vimes. “Everyone else will. ” From the palace came the muffled sounds of complicated destruction… Errol pulled a broomstick across the floor with his mouth and, whimpering with effort, hauled it upright. After a lot more whimpering and several false starts he managed to winkle the end of it between the wall and the big jar of lamp oil. He paused for a moment, breathing like a bellows, and pushed. The jar resisted for a moment, rocked back and forth once or twice, and then fell over and smashed on the flagstones. Crude, very badly-refined oil spread out in a black puddle. Errol’s huge nostrils twitched. Somewhere in the back of his brain unfamiliar synapses clicked like telegraph keys. Great balks of information flooded down the thick nerve cord to his nose, carrying inexplicable information about triple bonds, alkanes and geometric isomerism. However, almost all of it missed the small part of Errol’s brain that was used for being Errol. All he knew was that he was suddenly very, very thirsty. Something major was happening in the palace. There was the occasional crash of a floor or thump of a falling ceiling… In his rat-filled dungeon, behind a door with more locks than a major canal network, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork lay back and grinned in the darkness. Outside, bonfires flared in the dusk. Ankh-Morpork was celebrating. No one was quite sure why, but they’d worked themselves up for a celebration tonight, barrels had been broached, oxen had been put on spits, one paper hat and celebratory mug had been issued per child, and it seemed a shame to waste all that effort. Anyway, it had been a very interesting day, and the people of Ankh-Morpork set great store by entertainment. “The way I see it,” said one of the revellers, halfway through a huge greasy lump of half-raw meat, “a dragon as king mightn’t be a bad idea. When you think it through, is what I mean. ” “It definitely looked very gracious,” said the woman to his right, as if testing the idea. “Sort of, well, sleek. Nice and smart. Not scruffy. Takes a bit of a pride in itself. ” She glared at some of the younger revellers further down the table. “The trouble with people today is they don’t take pride in themselves. ” “And there’s foreign policy, of course,” said a third, helping himself to a rib. “When you come to think about it. ” “What d’you mean?” “Diplomacy,” said the rib-eater, flatly. They thought about it. And then you could see them turning the idea around and thinking about it the other way, in a polite effort to see what the hell he was getting at. “Dunno,” said the monarchical expert slowly. “I mean, your actual dragon, it’s got these, basically, two sort of ways of negotiation. Hasn’t it? I mean, it’s either roasting you alive, or it isn’t. Correct me if I’m wrong,” he added. “That’s my point. I mean, let’s say the ambassador from Klatch comes along, you know how arrogant that lot are, suppose he says: we want this, we want that, we want the other thing. Well,” he said, beaming at them, “what we say is, shut your face unless you want to go home in a jar. ” They tried out this idea for mental fit. It had that certain something. “They’ve got a big fleet, Klatch,” said the monarchist uncertainly. “Could be a bit risky, roasting diplomats. People see a pile of charcoal come back on the boat, they tend to look a bit askance. ” “Ah, then we say, Ho there, Johnny Klatchian, you no likeum, big fella lizard belong-sky bake mud hut belong-you pretty damn chop-chop. ” “We could really say that?” “Why not? And then we say, send plenty tribute toot sweet. ” “I never did like them Klatchians,” said the woman firmly. “The stuff they eat! It’s disgustin’. And gabblin’ away all the time in their heathen lingo…” In the shadows, a match flared. Vimes cupped his hands around the flame, sucked on the foul tobacco, tossed the match into the gutter and slouched off down the damp, puddle-punctuated alley. If there was anything that depressed him more than his own cynicism, it was that quite often it still wasn’t as cynical as real life. We’ve got along with the other guys for centuries, he thought. |
Getting along has practically been all our foreign policy. Now I think I’ve just heard us declare war on an ancient civilization that we’ve always got along with, more or less, even if they do talk funny. And after that, the world. What’s worse, we’ll probably win. Similar thoughts, although with a different perspective, were going through the minds of the civic leaders of Ankh-Morpork when, next morning, each received a short note bidding them to be at the palace for a working lunch, by order. It didn’t say whose order. Or, they noted, whose lunch. Now they were assembled in the antechamber. And there had been changes. It had never been what you might call a select place. The Patrician had always felt that if you made people comfortable they might want to stay. The furniture had been a few very elderly chairs and, around the walls, portraits of earlier city rulers holding scrolls and things. The chairs were still there. The portraits were not. Or, rather, the stained and cracked canvases were piled in a corner, but the gilt frames were gone. The councillors tried to avoid one another’s faces, and sat tapping their fingers on their knees. Finally a couple of very worried-looking servants opened the doors to the main hall. Lupine Wonse lurched through. Most of the councillors had been up all night anyway, trying to formulate some kind of policy vis-à-vis dragons, but Wonse looked as though he hadn’t been to sleep in years. His face was the color of a fermented dishcloth. Never particularly well-padded, he now looked like something out of a pyramid. “Ah,” he intoned. “Good. Are you all here? Then perhaps you would step this way, gentlemen. ” “Er,” said the head thief, “the note mentioned lunch?” “Yes?” said Wonse. “With a dragon ?” “Good grief, you don’t think it would eat you, do you?” said Wonse. “What an idea!” “Never crossed me mind,” said the head thief, relief blowing from his ears like steam. “The very idea. Haha. ” “Haha,” said the chief merchant. “Hoho,” said the head assassin. “The very idea. ” “No, I expect you’re all far too stringy,” said Wonse. “Haha. ” “Haha. ” “Ahaha. ” “Hoho. ” The temperature lowered by several degrees. “So if you would kindly step this way?” The great hall had changed. For one thing, it was a great deal greater. Several walls had been knocked into adjoining rooms, and the ceiling and several storys of upper rooms had been entirely removed. The floor was a mass of rubble except in the middle of the room, which was a heap of gold— Well, gold ish. It looked as though someone had scoured the palace for anything that shone or glittered. There were the picture frames, and the gold thread out of the tapestries, and silver, and the occasional gem. There were also tureens from the kitchens, candlesticks, warming pans, fragments of mirror. Sparkly stuff. The councillors were not in a position to pay much attention to this, however, because of what was hanging above their heads. It looked like the biggest badly-rolled cigar in the universe, if the biggest badly-rolled cigar in the universe was in the habit of hanging upside down. Two talons could be dimly seen gripping the dark rafters. Halfway between the glittering heap and the doorway a small table had been laid. The councillors noted without much surprise that the familiar ancient silverware was missing. There were china plates, and cutlery that looked as though it had very recently been whittled from bits of wood. Wonse took a seat at the head of the table and nodded to the servants. “Please be seated, gentlemen,” he said. “I am sorry things are a little…different, but the king hopes you will bear with it until matters can be more suitably organized. ” “The, er,” said the head merchant. “The king,” repeated Wonse. His voice sounded one dribble away from madness. “Oh. The king. Right,” said the merchant. From where he was sitting he had a good view of the big hanging thing. There seemed to be some movement there, some trembling in the great folds that wrapped it. “Long life to him, say I,” he added quickly. The first course was soup with dumplings in it. Wonse didn’t have any. The rest of them ate in a terrified silence broken only by the dull chiming of wood on china. “There are certain matters of decree to which the king feels your assent would be welcome,” said Wonse, eventually. “A pure formality, of course, and I am sorry to bother you with such petty detail. ” The big bundle appeared to sway in the breeze. “No trouble at all,” squeaked the head thief. “The king graciously desires it to be known,” said Wonse, “that it would be pleased to receive coronation gifts from the population at large. Nothing complex, of course. Simply any precious metals or gems they might have by them and can easily spare. I should stress, by the way, that this is by no means compulsory. Such generosity as he is confident of expecting should be an entirely voluntary act. ” The chief assassin looked sadly at the rings on his fingers, and sighed. The head merchant was already resignedly unshipping his gilt chain of office from around his neck. “Why, gentlemen!” said Wonse. “This is most unexpected!” “Um,” said the Archchancellor of Unseen University. “You will be—that is, I am sure the king is aware that, traditionally, the University is exempt from all city levies and taxes…” He stifled a yawn. The wizards had spent the night directing their best spells against the dragon. It was like punching fog. “My dear sir, this is no levy,” protested Wonse. “I hope that nothing I have said would lead you to expect anything like that. Oh, no! No. Any tribute should be, as I said, entirely voluntary. I hope that is absolutely clear. ” “As crystal,” said the head assassin, glaring at the old wizard. “And these entirely voluntary tributes we are about to make, they go—?” “On the hoard,” said Wonse. “Ah. ” “While I am positive the people of the city will be very generous indeed once they fully understand the situation,” said the head merchant, “I am sure the king will understand that there is very little gold in Ankh-Morpork?” “Good point,” said Wonse. “However, the king intends to pursue a vigorous and dynamic foreign policy which should remedy matters. ” “Ah,” the councillors chorused, rather more enthusiastically this time. “For example,” Wonse went on, “the king feels that our legitimate interests in Quirm, Sto Lat, Pseudopolis and Tsort have been seriously compromised in recent centuries. This will be speedily corrected and, gentlemen, I can assure you that treasure will positively flow into the city from those anxious to enjoy the king’s protection. ” The head assassin glanced at the hoard. A very definite idea formed in his mind as to where all that treasure would end up. You had to admire the way dragons knew how to put the bite on. It was practically human. “Oh,” he said. “Of course, there will probably be other acquisitions in the way of land, property and so forth, and the king wishes it to be fully understood that loyal Privy Councillors will be richly rewarded. ” “And, er,” said the head assassin, who was beginning to feel that he had got a firm grip on the nature of the king’s mental processes, “no doubt the, er—” “Privy Councillors,” said Wonse. “No doubt they will respond with even greater generosity in the matter of, for example, treasure?” “I am sure such considerations haven’t crossed the king’s mind,” said Wonse, “but the point is very well made. ” “I thought it would be. ” The next course was fat pork, beans and floury potatoes. More, as they couldn’t help noticing, fattening food. Wonse had a glass of water. “Which brings us onto a further matter of some delicacy which I am sure that well-traveled, broadminded gentlemen such as yourselves will have no difficulty in accepting,” he said. The hand holding the glass was beginning to shake. “I hope it will also be understood by the population at large, especially since the king will undoubtedly be able to contribute in so many ways to the well-being and defense of the city. |
For example, I am sure that the people will rest more contentedly in their beds knowing that the dr—the king is tirelessly protecting them from harm. There can, however, be ridiculous ancient…prejudices…which will only be eradicated by ceaseless work…on the part of all men of good will. ” He paused, and looked at them. The head assassin said later that he had looked into the eyes of many men who, obviously were very near death, but he had never looked into eyes that were so clearly and unmistakably looking back at him from the slopes of Hell. He hoped he would never, he said, ever have to look into eyes like that again. “I am referring,” said Wonse, each word coming slowly to the surface like bubbles in some quicksand, “to the matter of…the king’s…diet. ” There was a terrible silence. They heard the faint rustle of wings behind them, and the shadows in the corners of the hall grew darker and seemed to close in. “Diet,” said the head thief, in a hollow voice. “Yes,” said Wonse. His voice was almost a squeak. Sweat was dripping down his face. The head assassin had once heard the word “rictus” and wondered when you should use it correctly to describe someone’s expression, and now he knew. That was what Wonse’s face had become; it was the ghastly rictus of someone trying not to hear the words his own mouth was saying. “We, er, we thought,” said the head assassin, very carefully, “that the dr—the king, well, must have been arranging matters for himself, over the weeks. ” “Ah, but poor stuff, you know. Poor stuff. Stray animals and so forth,” said Wonse, staring hard at the tabletop. “Obviously, as king, such makeshifts are no longer appropriate. ” The silence grew and took on a texture. The councillors thought hard, especially about the meal they had just eaten. The arrival of a huge trifle with a lot of cream on it only served to concentrate their minds. “Er,” said the head merchant, “how often is the king hungry?” “All the time,” said Wonse, “but it eats once a month. It is really a ceremonial occasion. ” “Of course,” said the head merchant. “It would be. ” “And, er,” said the head assassin, “when did the king last, er, eat?” “I’m sorry to say it hasn’t eaten properly ever since it came here,” said Wonse. “Oh. ” “You must understand,” said Wonse, fiddling desperately with his wooden cutlery, “that merely waylaying people like some common assassin—” “Excuse me —” the head assassin began. “Some common murderer, I mean—there is no…satisfaction there. The whole essence of the king’s feeding is that it should be, well…an act of bonding between king and subjects. It is, it is perhaps a living allegory. Reinforcing the close links between the crown and the community,” he added. “The precise nature of the meal—” the head thief began, almost choking on the words. “Are we talking about young maidens here?” “Sheer prejudice,” said Wonse. “The age is immaterial. Marital status is, of course, of importance. And social class. Something to do with flavor, I believe. ” He leaned forward, and now his voice was pain-filled and urgent and, they felt, genuinely his own for the first time. “Please consider it!” he hissed. “After all, just one a month! In exchange for so much! The families of people of use to the king, Privy Councillors such as yourselves, would not, of course, even be considered. And when you think of all the alternatives…” They didn’t think about all the alternatives. It was enough to think about just one of them. The silence purred at them as Wonse talked. They avoided one another’s faces, for fear of what they might see mirrored there. Each man thought: one of the others is bound to say something soon, some protest, and then I’ll murmur agreement, not actually say anything, I’m not as stupid as that, but definitely murmur very firmly, so that the others will be in no doubt that I thoroughly disapprove, because at a time like this it behooves all decent men to nearly stand up and be almost heard… But no one said anything. The cowards, each man thought. And no one touched the pudding, or the brick-thick chocolate mints served afterward. They just listened in flushed, gloomy horror as Wonse’s voice droned on, and when they were dismissed they tried to leave as separately as possible, so that they didn’t have to talk to one another. Except for the head merchant, that is. He found himself leaving the palace with the chief assassin, and they strolled side by side, minds racing. The chief merchant tried to look on the bright side; he was one of those men who organize sing-songs when things go drastically wrong. “Well, well,” he said. “So we’re privy councillors now. Just fancy. ” “Hmm,” said the assassin. “I wonder what’s the difference between ordinary councillors and privy councillors?” wondered the merchant aloud. The assassin scowled at him. “I think,” he said, “it is because you’re expected to eat shit. ” He turned the glare back on his feet again. What kept going through his mind were Wonse’s last words, as he shook the secretary’s limp hand. He wondered if anyone else had heard them. Unlikely…they’d been a shape rather than a sound. Wonse had simply moved his lips around them while staring fixedly at the assassin’s moon-tanned face. Help. Me. The assassin shivered. Why him? As far as he could see there was only one kind of help he was qualified to give, and very few people ever asked for it for themselves. In fact, they usually paid large sums for it to be given as a surprise present to other people. He wondered what was happening to Wonse that made any alternative seem better… Wonse sat alone in the dark, ruined hall. Waiting. He could try running. But it’d find him again. It’d always be able to find him. It could smell his mind. Or it would flame him. That was worse. Just like the Brethren. Perhaps it was an instantaneous death, it looked an instantaneous death, but Wonse lay awake at night wondering whether those last micro-seconds somehow stretched to a subjective, white-hot eternity, every tiny part of your body a mere smear of plasma and you, there, alive in the middle of it all… Not you. I would not flame you. It wasn’t telepathy. As far as Wonse had always understood it, telepathy was like hearing a voice in your head. This was like hearing a voice in your body. His whole nervous system twanged to it, like a bow. Rise. Wonse jerked to his feet, overturning the chair and banging his legs on the table. When that voice spoke, he had as much control over his body as water had over gravity. Come. Wonse lurched across the floor. The wings unfolded slowly, with the occasional creak, until they filled the hall from side to side. The tip of one smashed a window, and stuck out into the afternoon air. The dragon slowly, sensuously, stretched out its neck and yawned. When it had finished, it brought its head around until it was a few inches in front of Wonse’s face. What does voluntary mean? “It, er, it means doing something of your own free will,” said Wonse. But they have no free will! They will increase my hoard, or I will flame them! Wonse gulped. “Yes,” he said, “but you mustn’t—” The silent roar of fury spun him around. There is nothing I mustn’t! “No, no, no!” squeaked Wonse, clutching his head. “I didn’t mean that! Believe me! This way is better, that’s all! Better and safer!” None can defeat me! “This is certainly the case—” None can control me! Wonse flung up his finger-spread hands in a conciliatory fashion. “Of course, of course,” he said. “But there are ways and ways, you know. Ways and ways. All the roaring and flaming, you see, you don’t need it…” Foolish ape! How else can I make them do my bidding? Wonse put his hands behind his back. “They’ll do it of their own free will,” he said. “And in time, they’ll come to believe it was their own idea. It’ll be a tradition. Take it from me. We humans are adaptable creatures. ” The dragon gave him a long, blank stare. |
“In fact,” said Wonse, trying to keep the trembling out of his voice, “before too long, if someone comes along and tells them that a dragon king is a bad idea, they’ll kill him themselves. ” The dragon blinked. For the first time Wonse could remember, it seemed uncertain. “I know people, you see,” said Wonse, simply. The dragon continued to pin him with its gaze. If you are lying …it thought, eventually. “You know I can’t. Not to you. ” And they really act like this? “Oh, yes. All the time. It’s a basic human trait. ” Wonse knew the dragon could read at least the upper levels of his mind. They resonated in terrible harmony. And he could see the mighty thoughts behind the eyes in front of him. The dragon was horrified. “I’m sorry,” said Wonse weakly. “That’s just how we are. It’s all to do with survival, I think. ” There will be no mighty warriors sent to kill me? it thought, almost plaintively. “I don’t think so. ” No heroes? “Not anymore. They cost too much. ” But I will be eating people! Wonse whimpered. He felt the sensation of the dragon rummaging around in his mind, trying to find a clue to understanding. He half-saw, half-sensed the flicker of random images, of dragons, of the mythical age of reptiles and—and here he felt the dragon’s genuine astonishment—of some of the less commendable areas of human history, which were most of it. And after the astonishment came the baffled anger. There was practically nothing the dragon could do to people that they had not, sooner or later, tried on one another, often with enthusiasm. You have the effrontery to be squeamish , it thought at him. But we were dragons. We were supposed to be cruel, cunning, heartless, and terrible. But this much I can tell you, you ape —the great face pressed even closer, so that Wonse was staring into the pitiless depths of his eyes— we never burned and tortured and ripped one another apart and called it morality. The dragon stretched its wings again, once or twice, and then dropped heavily onto the tawdry assortment of mildly precious things. Its claws scrabbled at the pile. It sneered. A three-legged lizard wouldn’t hoard this lot , it thought. “There will be better things,” whispered Wonse, temporarily relieved at the change in direction. There had better be. “Can I—” Wonse hesitated–“can I ask you a question?” Ask. “You don’t need to eat people, surely? I think that’s the only problem from people’s point of view, you see,” he added, his voice speeding up to a gabble. “The treasure and everything, that doesn’t have to be a problem, but if it’s just a matter of, well, protein, then perhaps it has occurred to a powerful intellect such as your own that something less controversial, like a cow, might—” The dragon breathed a horizontal streak of fire that calcined the opposite wall. Need? Need? it roared, when the sound had died away. You talk to me of need? Isn’t it the tradition that the finest flower of womanhood should be sent to the dragon to ensure peace and prosperity? “But, you see, we have always been moderately peaceful and reasonably prosperous—” DO YOU WANT THIS STATE OF AFFAIRS TO CONTINUE? The force of the thought drove Wonse to his knees. “Of course,” he managed. The dragon stretched its claws luxuriantly. Then the need is not mine, it is yours , it thought. Now get out of my sight. Wonse sagged as it left his mind. The dragon slithered over the cut-price hoard, leapt up onto the ledge of one of the hall’s big windows, and smashed the stained glass with its head. The multicolored image of a city father cascaded into the other debris below. The long neck stretched out into the early evening air, and turned like a seeking needle. Lights were coming on across the city. The sound of a million people being alive made a muted, deep thrumming. The dragon breathed deeply, joyfully. Then it hauled the rest of its body onto the ledge, shouldered the remains of the window’s frame aside, and leapt into the sky. “What is it?” said Nobby. It was vaguely round, of a woodish texture, and when struck made a noise like a ruler plucked over the edge of a desk. Sergeant Colon tapped it again. “I give in,” he said. Carrot proudly lifted it out of the battered packaging. “It’s a cake,” he said, shoving both hands under the thing and raising it with some difficulty. “From my mother. ” He managed to put it on the table without trapping his fingers. “Can you eat it?” said Nobby. “It’s taken months to get here. You’d think it would go stale. ” “Oh, it’s to a special dwarfish recipe,” said Carrot. “Dwarfish cakes don’t go stale. ” Sergeant Colon gave it another sharp rap. “I suppose not,” he conceded. “It’s incredibly sustaining,” said Carrot. “Practically magical. The secret has been handed down from dwarf to dwarf for centuries. One tiny piece of this and you won’t want anything to eat all day. ” “Get away?” said Colon. “A dwarf can go hundreds of miles with a cake like this in his pack,” Carrot went on. “I bet he can,” said Colon gloomily, “I bet all the time he’d be thinking, ‘Bloody hell, I hope I can find something else to eat soon, otherwise it’s the bloody cake again. ’” Carrot, to whom the word irony meant something to do with metal, picked up his pike and after a couple of impressive rebounds managed to cut the cake into approximately four slices. “There we are,” he said cheerfully. “One for each of us, and one for the captain. ” He realized what he had said. “Oh. Sorry. ” “Yes,” said Colon flatly. They sat in silence for a moment. “I liked him,” said Carrot. “I’m sorry he’s gone. ” There was some more silence, very similar to the earlier silence but even deeper and more furrowed with depression. “I expect you’ll be made captain now,” said Carrot. Colon started. “Me? I don’t want to be captain! I can’t do the thinking. It’s not worth all that thinking, just for another nine dollars a month. ” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Is that all he got?” said Nobby. “I thought officers were rolling in it. ” “Nine dollars a month,” said Colon. “I saw the pay scales once. Nine dollars a month and two dollars plumes allowance. Only he never claimed that bit, Funny, really. ” “He wasn’t the plumes type,” said Nobby. “You’re right,” said Colon. “The thing about the captain, see, I read this book once…you know we’ve all got alcohol in our bodies…sort of natural alcohol? Even if you never touch a drop in your life, your body sort of makes it anyway…but Captain Vimes, see, he’s one of those people whose body doesn’t do it naturally. Like, he was born two drinks below normal. ” “Gosh,” said Carrot. “Yes…so, when he’s sober, he’s really sober. Knurd, they call it. You know how you feel when you wake up if you’ve been on the piss all night, Nobby? Well, he feels like that all the time. ” “Poor bugger,” said Nobby. “I never realized. No wonder he’s always so gloomy. ” “So he’s always trying to catch up, see. It’s just that he doesn’t always get the dose right. And, of course—” Colon glanced at Carrot—“he was brung low by a woman. Mind you, just about anything brings him low. ” “So what do we do now, Sergeant?” said Nobby. “And do you think he’d mind if we eat his cake?” said Carrot wistfully. “It’d be a shame to let it go stale. ” Colon shrugged. The older men sat in miserable silence as Carrot macerated his way through the cake like a bucket-wheel rock-crusher in a chalk pit. Even if it had been the lightest of soufflés they wouldn’t have had any appetite. They were contemplating life without the captain. It was going to be bleak, even without dragons. Say what you liked about Captain Vimes, he’d had style. It was cynical, black-nailed style, but he’d had it and they didn’t. He could read long words and add up. Even that was style, of a sort. He even got drunk in style. They’d been trying to drag the minutes out, trying to stretch out the time. But the night had come. There was no hope for them. They were going to have to go out on the streets. It was six of the clock. And all wasn’t well. “I miss Errol, too,” said Carrot. “He was the captain’s, really,” said Nobby. |
“Anyway, Lady Ramkin’ll know how to look after him. ” “It’s not as though we could leave anything around, either,” said Colon. “I mean, even the lamp oil. He even drank the lamp oil. ” “And mothballs,” said Nobby. “A whole box of mothballs. Why would anyone want to eat mothballs? And the kettle. And sugar. He was a devil for sugar. ” “He was nice, though,” said Carrot. “Friendly. ” “Oh, I’ll grant you,” said Colon. “But it’s not right, really, a pet where you have to jump behind a table every time it hiccups. ” “I shall miss his little face,” said Carrot. Nobby blew his nose, loudly. It was echoed by a hammering on the door. Colon jerked his head. Carrot got up and opened it. A couple of members of the palace guard were waiting with arrogant impatience. They stepped back when they saw Carrot, who had to bend a bit to see under the lintel; bad news like Carrot travels fast. “We’ve brung you a proclamation,” said one of them. “You’ve got to—” “What’s all that fresh paint on your breastplate?” said Carrot politely. Nobby and the sergeant peered around him. “It’s a dragon,” said the younger of the guards. “ The dragon,” corrected his superior. “’Ere, I know you,” said Nobby. “You’re Skully Maltoon. Used to live in Mincing Street. Your mum made cough sweets, din’t she, and fell in the mixture and died. I never have a cough sweet but I think of your mum. ” “Hallo, Nobby,” said the guard, without enthusiasm. “I bet your old mum’d be proud of you, you with a dragon on your vest,” said Nobby conversationally. The guard gave him a look made of hatred and embarrassment. “And new plumes on your hat, too,” Nobby added sweetly. “This here is a proclamation what you are commanded to read,” said the guard loudly. “And post up on street corners also. By order. ” “Whose?” said Nobby. Sergeant Colon grabbed the scroll in one ham-like fist. “Where As,” he read slowly, tracing the lettering with a hesitant finger, “It hathe Pleas-Sed the Der-Rer-Aa-Ger—the dragon, Ker-Ii—king of kings and Aa-Ber-Ess-Uh-Ler—” sweat beaded on the broad pink cliff of his forehead—“absolute, that is, Rer-Uh-Ler-Eh-Rer, ruler of—” He lapsed into the tortured silence of academia, his fingertip jerking slowly down the parchment. “No,” he said at last. “That’s not right, is it? It’s not going to eat someone?” “Consume,” said the older guard. “It’s all part of the social…social contract,” said his assistant woodenly. “A small price to pay, I’m sure you will agree, for the safety and protection of the city. ” “From what?” said Nobby. “We’ve never had an enemy we couldn’t bribe or corrupt. ” “Until now,” said Colon darkly. “You catch on fast,” said the guard. “So you’re going to broadcast it. On pain of pain. ” Carrot peered over Colon’s shoulder. “What’s a virgin?” he said. “An unmarried girl,” said Colon quickly. “What, like my friend Reet?” said Carrot, horrified. “Well, no,” said Colon. “She’s not married, you know. None of Mrs. Palm’s girls are married. ” “Well, yes,” said Colon. “Well, then,” said Carrot, with an air of finality. “We’re not having any of that kind of thing, I hope. ” “People won’t stand for it,” said Colon. “You mark my words. ” The guards stepped back, out of range of Carrot’s rising wrath. “They can please themselves,” said the senior guard. “But if you don’t proclaim it, you can try explaining things to His Majesty. ” They hurried off. Nobby darted out into the street. “Dragon on your vest!” he shouted. “If your old mum knew about this she’d turn in her vat, you goin’ around with a dragon on your vest!” Colon wandered back to the table and spread out the scroll. “Bad business,” he mumbled. “It’s already killed people,” said Carrot. “Contrary to sixteen separate Acts in Council. ” “Well, yes. But that was just like, you know, the hurly-burly of this and that,” said Colon. “Not that it wasn’t bad, I mean, but people sort of participating , just handing over some slip of a girl and standing around watching as if it’s all proper and legal, that’s much worse. ” “I reckon it all depends on your point of view,” said Nobby thoughtfully. “What d’you mean?” “Well, from the point of view of someone being burned alive, it probably doesn’t matter much,” said Nobby philosophically. “People won’t stand for it, I said,” said Colon, ignoring this. “You’ll see. They’ll march on the palace, and what will the dragon do then, eh?” “Burn ’em all,” said Nobby promptly. Colon looked puzzled. “It wouldn’t do that, would it?” he said. “Don’t see what’s to prevent it, do you?” said Nobby. He glanced out of the doorway. “He was a good lad, that boy. Used to run errands for my grandad. Who’d have thought he’d go around with a dragon on his chest…” “What are we going to do , Sergeant?” said Carrot. “I don’t want to be burned alive,” said Sergeant Colon. “My wife’d give me hell. So I suppose we’ve got to wossname, proclaim it. But don’t worry, lad,” he said, patting Carrot on one muscular arm and repeating, as if he hadn’t quite believed himself the first time, “it won’t come to that. People’ll never stand for it. ” Lady Ramkin ran her hands over Errol’s body. “Damned if I know what’s going on in there,” she said. The little dragon tried to lick her face. “What’s he been eating?” “The last thing, I think, was a kettle,” said Vimes. “A kettle of what?” “No. A kettle. A black thing with a handle and spout. He sniffed it for ages, then he ate it. ” Errol grinned weakly at him, and belched. They both ducked. “Oh, and then we found him eating soot out of the chimney,” Vimes went on, as their heads rose again over the railings. They leaned back over the reinforced bunker that was one of Lady Ramkin’s sickbay pens. It had to be reinforced. Usually one of the first things a sick dragon did was lose control of its digestive processes. “He doesn’t look sick, exactly,” she said. “Just fat. ” “He whines a lot. And you can sort of see things moving under his skin. You know what I think? You know you said they can rearrange their digestive system?” “Oh, yes. All the stomachs and pancreatic crackers can be hooked up in various ways, you see. To take advantage—” “Of whatever they can find to make flame with,” said Vimes. “Yes. I think he’s trying to make some sort of very hot flame. He wants to challenge the big dragon. Every time it takes to the air he just sits there whining. ” “And doesn’t explode?” “Not that we’ve noticed. I mean, I’m sure if he did, we’d spot it. ” “He just eats indiscriminately?” “Hard to be sure. He sniffs everything, and eats most things. Two gallons of lamp oil, for example. Anyway, I can’t leave him down there. We can’t look after him properly. It’s not as if we need to find out where the dragon is now,” he added bitterly. “I think you’re being a bit silly about all this,” she said, leading the way back to the house. “Silly? I was sacked in front of all those people!” “Yes, but it was all a misunderstanding, I’m sure. ” “ I didn’t misunderstand it!” “Well, I think you’re just upset because you’re impotent. ” Vimes’s eyes bulged. “Whee?” he said. “Against the dragon,” Lady Ramkin went on, quite unconcerned. “You can’t do anything about it. ” “I reckon this damn city and the dragon just about deserve one another,” said Vimes. “People are frightened. You can’t expect much of people when they’re so frightened. ” She touched him gingerly on his arm. It was like watching an industrial robot being expertly manipulated to grasp an egg gently. “Not everyone’s as brave as you,” she added, timidly. “Me?” “The other week. When you stopped them killing my dragons. ” “Oh, that. That’s not bravery. Anyway, that was just people. People are easier. I’ll tell you one thing for nothing, I’m not looking up that dragon’s nose again. I wake up at days thinking about that. ” “Oh. ” She seemed deflated. “Well, if you’re sure…I’ve got a lot of friends, you know. If you need any help, you’ve only got to say. The Duke of Sto Helit is looking for a guard captain, I’m sure. I’ll write you a letter. You’ll like them, they’re a very nice young couple. |
” “I’m not sure what I shall do next,” said Vimes, more gruffly than he intended. “I’m considering one or two offers. ” “Well, of course. I’m sure you know best. ” Vimes nodded. Lady Ramkin twisted her handkerchief around and around in her hands. “Well, then,” she said. “Well,” said Vimes. “I, er, expect you’ll be wanting to be off, then. ” “Yes, I expect I had better be going. ” There was a pause. Then they both spoke at once. “It’s been very—” “I’d just like to say—” “Sorry. ” “Sorry. ” “No, you were speaking. ” “No, sorry, you were saying?” “Oh. ” Vimes hesitated. “I’ll be off, then. ” “Oh. Yes. ” Lady Ramkin gave him a washed-out smile. “Can’t keep all these offers waiting, can you,” she said. She thrust out a hand. Vimes shook it carefully. “So I’ll just be going, then,” he said. “Do call again,” said Lady Ramkin, more coldly. “If you are ever in this area. And so on. I’m sure Errol would like to see you. ” “Yes. Well. Goodbye, then. ” “Goodbye, Captain Vimes. ” He stumbled out of the door and walked hurriedly down the dark, overgrown path. He could feel her gaze on the back of his neck as he did so or, at least, he told himself that he could. She’d be standing in the doorway, nearly blocking out the light. Just watching me. But I’m not going to look back, he thought. That would be a really silly thing to do. I mean, she’s a lovely person, she’s got a lot of common sense and an enormous personality, but really… I’m not going to look back, even if she stands there while I walk all the way down the street. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. So when he heard the door shut when he was only halfway down the drive he suddenly felt very, very angry, as if he had just been robbed. He stood still and clasped and unclasped his hands in the darkness. He wasn’t Captain Vimes anymore, he was Citizen Vimes, which meant that he could do things he’d once never dreamed of doing. Perhaps he could go and smash some windows. No, that wouldn’t be any good. He wanted more than that. To get rid of that bloody dragon, to get his job back, to get his hands on whoever was behind all this, to forget himself just once and hit someone until he was exhausted… He stared at nothing. Down below the city was a mass of smoke and steam. He wasn’t thinking of that, though. He was thinking of a running man. And, further back in the fuddled mists of his life, a boy running to keep up. And under his breath he said, “Any of them get out?” Sergeant Colon finished the proclamation and looked around at the hostile crowd. “Don’t blame me,” he said. “I just read the things. I don’t write ’em. ” “That’s a human sacrifice, that is,” said someone. “There’s nothing wrong with human sacrifice,” said a priest. “Ah, per say ,” said the first speaker quickly. “For proper religious reasons. And using condemned criminals and so on. 1 But that’s different from bunging someone to a dragon just because it’s feeling peckish. ” “That’s the spirit!” said Sergeant Colon. “Taxes is one thing, but eating people is another. ” “Well said!” “If we all say we won’t put up with it, what can the dragon do?” Nobby opened his mouth. Colon clamped a hand over it and raised a triumphant fist in the air. “It’s just what I’ve always said,” he said. “The people united can never be ignited!” There was a ragged cheer. “Hang on a minute,” said a small man, slowly. “As far as we know, the dragon’s only good at one thing. It flies around the city setting fire to people. I’m not actually certain what is being proposed that would stop it doing this. ” “Yes, but if we all protest—” said the first speaker, his voice modulated with uncertainty. “It can’t burn everybody ,” said Colon. He decided to play his new ace again and added, proudly, “The people united can never be ignited!” There was rather less of a cheer this time. People were reserving their energy for worrying. “I’m not exactly sure I understand why not. Why can’t it burn everyone and fly off to another city?” “Because…” “The hoard,” said Colon. “It needs people to bring it treasure. ” “Yeah. ” “Well, maybe, but how many, exactly?” “What?” “How many people? Out of the whole city, I mean. Perhaps it won’t need to burn the whole city down, just some bits. Do we know what bits?” “Look, this is getting silly,” said the first speaker. “If we go around looking at the problems the whole time, we’ll never do anything. ” “It just pays to think things through first, that’s all I’m saying. Such as, what happens even if we beat the dragon?” “Oh, come on!” said Sergeant Colon. “No, seriously. What’s the alternative?” “A human being, for a start!” “Please yourself,” said the little man primly. “But I reckon one person a month is pretty good compared to some rulers we’ve had. Anyone remember Nersh the Lunatic? Or Giggling Lord Smince and his Laugh-A-Minute Dungeon?” There was a certain amount of mumbling of the “he’s got a point” variety. “But they got overthrown!” said Colon. “No they didn’t. They were assassinated. ” “Same thing,” said Colon. “I mean, no one’s going to assassinate the dragon. It’d take more than a dark night and a sharp knife to see it off, I know that. ” I can see what the captain means, he thought. No wonder he always has a drink after he thinks about things. We always beat ourselves before we even start. Give any Ankh-Morpork man a big stick and he’ll end up clubbing himself to death. “Look here, you mealy-mouthed little twerp,” said the first speaker, picking up the little one by his collar and curling his free hand into a fist, “I happen to have three daughters, and I happen to not want any of them et, thank you very much. ” “Yes, and the people united…will…never…be…” Colon’s voice faltered. He realized that the rest of the crowd were all staring upward. The bugger, he thought, as rationality began to drain away. It must have flannel feet. The dragon shifted its position on the ridge of the nearest house, flapped its wings once or twice, yawned, and then stretched its neck down into the street. The man blessed with daughters stood, with his fist upraised, in the center of a rapidly expanding circle of bare cobbles. The little man wriggled out of his frozen grasp and darted into the shadows. It suddenly seemed that no man in the entire world was so lonely and without friends. “I see,” he said quietly. He scowled up at the inquisitive reptile. In fact it didn’t seem particularly belligerent. It was looking at him with something approaching interest. “I don’t care!” he shouted, his voice echoing from wall to wall in the silence. “We defy you! If you kill me, you might as well kill all of us!” There was some uneasy shuffling of feet among those sections of the crowd who didn’t feel that this was absolutely axiomatic. “We can resist you, you know!” growled the man. “Can’t we, everyone. What was that slogan about being united, Sergeant?” “Er,” said Colon, feeling his spine turn to ice. “I warn you, dragon, the human spirit is—” They never found out what it was, or at least what he thought it was, although possibly in the dark hours of a sleepless night some of them might have remembered the subsequent events and formed a pretty good and gut-churning insight, to whit, that one of the things sometimes forgotten about the human spirit is that while it is, in the right conditions, noble and brave and wonderful, it is also, when you get right down to it, only human. The dragon flame caught him full on the chest. For a moment he was visible as a white-hot outline before the neat, black remains spiraled down into a little puddle of melting cobbles. The flame vanished. The crowd stood like statues, not knowing if it was staying put or running that would attract more attention. The dragon stared down, curious to see what they were going to do next. Colon felt that, as the only civic official present, it was up to him to take charge of the situation. He coughed. “Right, then,” he said, trying to keep the squeak out of his voice. “If you would just move along there, ladies and gentlemen. Move along, now. Move along. Let’s be having you, please. |
” He waved his arms in a vague gesture of authority as the people shuffled nervously away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw red flames behind the rooftops, and sparks spiraling in the sky. “Haven’t you got any homes to go to?” he croaked. The Librarian knuckled out into the Library of the here and now. Every hair on his body bristled with rage. He pushed open the door and swung out into the stricken city. Someone out there was about to find that their worst nightmare was a maddened Librarian. With a badge. The dragon swooped leisurely back and forth over the nighttime city, barely flapping its wings. It didn’t need to. The thermals were giving it the lift it needed. There were fires all over Ankh-Morpork. So many bucket chains had formed between the river and various burning buildings that buckets were getting misdirected and hijacked. Not that you really needed a bucket to pick up the turbid waters of the river Ankh—a net was good enough. Downstream, teams of smoke-stained people worked feverishly to close the huge, corroded gates under the Brass Bridge. They were Ankh-Morpork’s last defense against fire, since then the Ankh had no outlet and gradually, oozingly, filled the space between the walls. A man could suffocate under it. The workers on the bridge were the ones who couldn’t or wouldn’t run. Many others were teeming through the gates of the city and heading out across the chilly, mist-wreathed plains. But not for long. The dragon, looping and curving gracefully above the devastation, glided out over the walls. After a few seconds the guards saw actinic fire stab down through the mists. The tide of humanity flowed back, with the dragon hovering over it like a sheepdog. The fires of the stricken city glowed redly off the underside of its wings. “Got any suggestions about what we do next, Sergeant?” said Nobby. Colon didn’t reply. I wish Captain Vimes were here, he thought. He wouldn’t have known what to do either, but he’s got a much better vocabulary to be baffled in. Some of the fires went out as the rising waters and the confused tangle of fire chains did their work. The dragon didn’t appear to be inclined to start anymore. It had made its point. “I wonder who it’ll be,” said Nobby. “What?” said Carrot. “The sacrifice, I mean. ” “Sergeant said people wouldn’t put up with it,” said Carrot stoically. “Yeah, well. Look at it this way: if you say to people, what’s it to be, either your house burned down around you or some girl you’ve probably never met being eaten, well, they might get a bit thoughtful. Human nature, see. ” “I’m sure a hero will turn up in time,” said Carrot. “With some new sort of weapon, or something. And strike at its voonerable spot. ” There was the silence of sudden intense listening. “What’s one of them?” said Nobby. “A spot. Where it’s voonerable. My grandad used to tell me stories. Hit a dragon in its voonerables, he said, and you’ve killed it. ” “Like kicking it in the wossnames?” said Nobby, interestedly. “Dunno. I suppose so. Although, Nobby, I’ve told you before it is not right to—” “And where’s the spot, like?” “Oh, a different place on each dragon. You wait till it flies over and then you say, there’s the voonerable spot, and then you kill it,” said Carrot. “Something like that. ” Sergeant Colon stared blankly into space. “Hmm,” said Nobby. They watched the panorama of panic for a while. Then Sergeant Colon said, “You sure about the voonerables?” “Yes. Oh, yes. ” “I wish you hadn’t been, lad. ” They looked at the terrified city again. “You know,” said Nobby, “you always told me you used to win prizes for archery in the army, Sergeant. You said you had a lucky arrow, you always made sure you got your lucky arrow back, you said you—” “All right! All right! But this isn’t the same thing, is it? Anyway, I’m not a hero. Why should I do it?” “Captain Vimes pays us thirty dollars a month,” said Carrot. “Yes,” said Nobby, grinning, and you get five dollars extra responsibility allowance. ” “But Captain Vimes has gone,” said Colon wretchedly. Carrot looked at him sternly. “I am sure,” he said, “that if he were here, he’d be the first to—” Colon waved him into silence. “That’s all very well,” he said. “But what if I miss?” “Look on the bright side,” said Nobby. “You’ll probably never know it. ” Sergeant Colon’s expression mutated into an evil, desperate grin. “ We’ll never know it, you mean,” he said. “What?” “If you think I’m standing on some rooftop on my tod, you can think again. I order you to accompany me. Anyway,” he added, “you get one dollar responsibility allowance, too. ” Nobby’s face twisted in panic. “No I don’t!” he croaked. “Captain Vimes said he was docking it for five years for being a disgrace to the species!” “Well, you might just get it back. Anyway, you know all about voonerables. I’ve watched you fight. ” Carrot saluted smartly. “Permission to volunteer, sir,” he said. “And I only get twenty dollars a month training pay an I don’t mind at all, sir. ” Sergeant Colon cleared his throat. Then he straightened the hang of his breastplate. It was one of those with astonishingly impressive pectoral muscles embossed upon it. His chest and stomach fitted into it in the same way that jelly fits into a mold. What would Captain Vimes do now? Well, he’d have a drink. But if he didn’t have a drink, what would he do? “What we need,” he said slowly, “is a Plan. ” That sounded good. That sentence alone sounded worth the pay. If you had a Plan, you were halfway there. And already he thought he could hear the cheering of crowds. They were lining the streets, and they were throwing flowers, and he was being carried triumphantly through the grateful city. The drawback was, he suspected, that he was being carried in an urn. Lupine Wonse padded along the drafty corridors to the Patrician’s bedroom. It had never been a sumptuous apartment at best, and contained little more than a narrow bed and a few battered cupboards. It looked even worse now, with one wall gone. Sleepwalk at night now and you could step right into the vast cavern that was the Great Hall. Even so, he shut the door behind him for a semblance of privacy. Then, cautiously and with many nervous glances at the great space beyond, he knelt down in the center of the floor and pried up a board. A long black robe was dragged into view. Then Wonse reached further down into the dusty space between the floors and rummaged around. He rummaged still further. Then he lay down and stuck both arms into the gap and flailed desperately. A book sailed across the room and hit him in the back of the head. “Looking for this, were you?” said Vimes. He stepped out of the shadows. Wonse was on his knees, his mouth opening and shutting. What’s he going to say, Vimes thought. Is it going to be: I know what this looks like , or will it be: How did you get in here , or maybe it’ll be: Listen, I can explain everything. I wish I had a loaded dragon in my hands right now. Wonse said, “Okay. Clever of you to guess. ” Of course, that was always an outside chance, Vimes added. “Under the floorboards,” he said aloud. “First place anyone’d look. Rather foolish, that was. ” “I know. I suppose he didn’t think anyone would be searching,” said Wonse, standing up and brushing the dust off himself. “I’m sorry?” said Vimes pleasantly. “Vetinari. You know how he was for scheming and things. He was involved in most of the plots against himself, that was how he ran things. He enjoyed it. Obviously he called it up and couldn’t control it. Something even more cunning than he was. ” “So what were you doing?” said Vimes. “I wondered if it might be possible to reverse the spell. Or maybe call up another dragon. They’d fight then. ” “A sort of balance of terror, you mean?” said Vimes. “Could be worth a try,” said Wonse earnestly. He took a few steps closer. “Look, about your job, I know we were both a bit overwrought at the time, so of course if you want it back there’ll be no prob—” “It must have been terrible,” said Vimes. “Imagine what must have gone through his mind. |
He called it up, and then found it wasn’t just some sort of tool but a real thing with a mind of its own. A mind just like his, but with all the brakes off. You know, I wouldn’t mind betting that at the start he really thought that what he was doing was all for the best. He must have been insane. Sooner or later, anyway. ” “Yes,” said Wonse hoarsely. “It must have been terrible. ” “Ye gods, but I’d like to get my hands on him! All those years I’ve known the man, and I’d never realized…” Wonse said nothing. “Run,” said Vimes softly. “What?” “Run. I want to see you run. ” “I don’t underst—” “I saw someone run away, the night the dragon flamed that house. I remember thinking at the time that he moved in a funny way, sort of bounding along. And then the other day I saw you running away from the dragon. Could almost have been the same man, I thought. Skipping, almost. Like someone running to keep up. Any of them get out, Wonse? ” Wonse waved a hand in what he might have thought was a nonchalant way. “That’s just ridiculous, that’s not proof,” he said. “I noticed you sleep in here now,” said Vimes. “I suppose the king likes to have you handy, does he?” “You’ve got no proof at all,” whispered Wonse. “Of course, I haven’t. The way someone runs. The eager tone of voice. That’s all. But that doesn’t matter, does it? Because it wouldn’t matter even if I did have proof,” said Vimes. “There’s no one to take it to. And you can’t give me my job back. ” “I can!” said Wonse. “I can, and you needn’t just be captain—” “You can’t give me my job back,” repeated Vimes. “It was never yours to take away. I was never an officer of the city, or an officer of the king, or an officer of the Patrician. I was an officer of the law. It might have been corrupted and bent, but it was law, of a sort. There isn’t any law now except: ‘you’ll get burned alive if you don’t watch out. ’ Where’s the place in there for me?” Wonse darted forward and grabbed him by the arm. “But you can help me!” he said. “There may be a way to destroy the dragon, d’you see, or at least we can help people, channel things to mitigate the worst of it, somehow find a meeting point—” Vimes’s blow caught Wonse on the cheek and spun him around. “The dragon’s here ,” he snapped. “You can’t channel it or persuade it or negotiate with it. There’s no truce with dragons. You brought it here and we’re stuck with it, you bastard. ” Wonse lowered his hand from the bright white mark where the punch had connected. “What are you going to do?” he said. Vimes didn’t know. He’d thought of a dozen ways that the thing could go, but the only one that was really suitable was killing Wonse. And, face to face, he couldn’t do it. “That’s the trouble with people like you,” said Wonse, getting up. “You’re always against anything attempted for the betterment of mankind, but you never have any proper plans of your own. Guards! Guards!” He grinned maniacally at Vimes. “Didn’t expect that, did you?” he said. “We’ve still got guards here, you know. Not so many, of course. Not many people want to come in. ” There were footsteps in the passage outside and four of the palace guards padded in, swords drawn. “I wouldn’t put up a fight, if I were you,” Wonse went on. “They’re desperate and uneasy men. But very highly paid. ” Vimes said nothing. Wonse was a gloater. You always stood a chance with gloaters. The old Patrician had never been a gloater, you could say that for him. If he wanted you dead, you never even heard about it. The thing to do with gloaters was play the game according to the rules. “You’ll never get away with it,” he said. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. But never is a long time,” said Wonse. “ None of us get away with anything for that long. ” “You shall have some time to reflect on this,” he said and nodded to the guards. “Throw him in the special dungeon. And then go about that other little task. ” “Er,” said the leader of the guards, and hesitated. “What’s the matter, man?” “You, er, want us to attack him?” said the guard miserably. Thick though the palace guard were, they were as aware as everyone else of the conventions, and when guards are summoned to deal with one man in overheated circumstances it’s not a good time for them. The bugger’s bound to be heroic, he was thinking. This guard was not looking forward to a future in which he was dead. “Of course, you idiot!” “But, er, there’s only one of him,” said the guard captain. “And he’s smilin’,” said a man behind him. “Prob’ly goin’ to swing on the chandeliers any minute,” said one of his colleagues. “And kick over the table, and that. ” “He’s not even armed!” shrieked Wonse. “Worst kind, that,” said one of the guards, with deep stoicism. “They leap up, see, and grab one of the ornamental swords behind the shield over the fireplace. ” “Yeah,” said another, suspiciously. “And then they chucks a chair at you. ” “There’s no fireplace! There’s no sword! There’s only him! Now take him!” screamed Wonse. A couple of guards grabbed Vimes tentatively by the shoulders. “You’re not going to do anything heroic, are you?” whispered one of them. “Wouldn’t know where to start,” he said. “Oh. Right. ” As Vimes was hauled away he heard Wonse breaking into insane laughter. They always did, your gloaters. But he was correct about one thing. Vimes didn’t have a plan. He hadn’t thought much about what was going to happen next. He’d been a fool, he told himself, to think that you just had a confrontation and that was the end of it. He also wondered what the other task was. The palace guards said nothing, but stared straight ahead and marched him down, across the ruined hall, and through the wreckage of another corridor to an ominous door. They opened it, threw him in, and marched away. And no one, absolutely no one, noticed the thin, leaf-like thing that floated gently down from the shadows of the roof, tumbling over and over in the air like a sycamore seed, before landing in the tangled gewgaws of the hoard. It was a peanut shell. It was the silence that awoke Lady Ramkin. Her bedroom looked out over the dragon pens, and she was used to sleeping to the susurration of rustling scales, the occasional roar of a dragon flaming in its sleep, and the keening of the gravid females. Absence of any sound at all was like an alarm clock. She had cried a bit before going to sleep, but not much, because it was no use being soppy and letting the side down. She lit the lamp, pulled on her rubber boots, grabbed the stick which might be all that stood between her and theoretical loss of virtue, and hurried down through the shadowy house. As she crossed the damp lawn to the kennels she was vaguely aware that something was happening down in the city, but dismissed it as not currently worth thinking about. Dragons were more important. She pushed open the door. Well, they were still there. The familiar stink of swamp dragons, half pond mud and half chemical explosion, gusted out into the night. Each dragon was balancing on its hind legs in the center of its pen, neck arched, staring with ferocious intensity at the roof. “Oh,” she said. “Flying around up there again, is it? Showing off. Don’t you worry about it, children. Mummy’s here. ” She put the lamp on a high shelf and stamped along to Errol’s pen. “Well now, my lad,” she began, and stopped. Errol was stretched out on his side. A thin plume of gray smoke was drifting from his mouth, and his stomach expanded and contracted like a bellows. And his skin from the neck down was an almost pure white. “I think if I ever rewrite Diseases you’ll get a whole chapter all to yourself,” she said quietly, and unbolted the gate of the pen. “Let’s see if that nasty temperature has gone down, shall we?” She reached out to stroke his skin and gasped. She pulled the hand back hurriedly and watched the blisters form on her fingertips. Errol was so cold he burned. As she stared at him the small around marks that her warmth had melted filmed over with frozen air. Lady Ramkin sat back on her haunches. “Just what kind of dragon are you—?” she began. |
There was the distant sound of a knock at the front door of the house. She hesitated for a moment, then blew out the lamp, crept heavily along the length of the kennels and pulled aside the scrap of sacking over the window. The first light of dawn showed her the silhouette of a guardsman on her doorstep, the plumes of his helmet blowing in the breeze. She bit her lip in panic, scuttled back to the door, fled across the lawn and dived into the house, taking the stairs three at a time. “Stupid, stupid,” she muttered, realizing the lamp was back downstairs. But no time for that. By the time she went and got it, Vimes might have gone away. Working by feel and memory in the gloom she found her best wig and rammed it on her head. Somewhere among the ointments and dragon remedies on her dressing table was something called, as far as she could remember, Dew of the Night or some such unsuitable name, a present long ago from a thoughtless nephew. She tried several bottles before she found something that, by the smell of it, was probably the one. Even to a nose which had long ago shut down most of its sensory apparatus in the face of the overpoweringness of dragons, it seemed, well, more potent than she remembered. But apparently men liked that kind of thing. Or so she had read. Damn nonsense, really. She twitched the top hem of her suddenly far too sensible nightshirt into a position which, she hoped, revealed without actually exposing, and hurried back down the stairs. She stopped in front of the door, took a deep breath, twisted the handle and realized even as she pulled the door open that she should have taken the rubber boots off— “Why, Captain,” she said winsomely, “this is a who the hell are you? ” The head of the palace guard took several steps backward and, because he was of peasant stock, made a few surreptitious signs to ward off evil spirits. They clearly didn’t work. When he opened his eyes again the thing was still there, still bristling with rage, still reeking of something sickly and fermented, still crowned with a skewed mass of curls, still looming behind a quivering bosom that made the roof of his mouth go dry— He’d heard about these sort of things. Harpies, they were called. What had it done with Lady Ramkin? The sight of the rubber boots had him confused, though. Legends about harpies were short on references to rubber boots. “Out with it, fellow,” Lady Ramkin boomed, hitching up her nightie to a more respectable neckline. “Don’t just stand there opening and shutting your mouth. What d’you want?” “Lady Sybil Ramkin?” said the guard, not in the polite way of someone seeking mere confirmation but in the incredulous tones of someone who found it very hard to believe the answer could be “yes. ” “Use your eyes, young man. Who d’you think I am?” The guard pulled himself together. “Only I’ve got a summons for Lady Sybil Ramkin,” he said uncertainly. Her voice was withering. “What do you mean, a summons?” “To attend upon the palace, you see. ” “I can’t imagine why that is necessary at this time in the morning,” she said, and made to slam the door. It wouldn’t shut, though, because of the sword point jammed into it at the last moment. “If you don’t come,” said the guard, “I have been ordered to take steps. ” The door shot back and her face pressed against his, almost knocking him unconscious with the scent of rotting rose petals. “If you think you’ll lay a hand on me—” she began. The guard’s glance darted sideways, just for a moment, to the dragon kennels. Sybil Ramkin’s face went pale. “You wouldn’t!” she hissed. He swallowed. Fearsome though she was, she was only human. She could only bite your head off metaphorically. There were, he told himself, far worse things than Lady Ramkin although, admittedly, they weren’t three inches from his nose at this point in time. “Take steps,” he repeated, in a croak. She straightened up, and eyed the row of guards behind him. “I see,” she said coldly. “That’s the way, is it? Six of you to fetch one feeble woman. Very well. You will, of course, allow me to fetch a coat. It is somewhat chilly. ” She slammed the door. The palace guards stamped their feet in the cold and tried not to look at one another. This obviously wasn’t the way you went around arresting people. They weren’t allowed to keep you waiting on the doorstep, this wasn’t the way the world was supposed to work. On the other hand, the only alternative was to go in there and drag her out, and it wasn’t one anyone could summon any enthusiasm for. Besides, the guard captain wasn’t sure he had enough men to drag Lady Ramkin anywhere. You’d need teams of thousands, with log rollers. The door creaked open again, revealing only the musty darkness of the hall within. “Right, men—” said the captain, uneasily. Lady Ramkin appeared. He got a brief, blurred vision of her bounding through the doorway, screaming, and it might well have been the last thing he remembered if a guard hadn’t had the presence of mind to trip her up as she hurtled down the steps. She plunged forward, cursing, plowed into the overgrown lawn, hit her head on a crumbling statue of an antique Ramkin, and slid to a halt. The double-handed broadsword she had been holding landed beside her, bolt upright, and vibrated to a standstill. After a while one of the guards crept forward cautiously and tested the blade with his finger. “Bloody hell,” he said, in a voice of mixed horror and respect. “And the dragon wants to eat her ?” “Fits the bill,” said the captain. “She’s got to be the highest-born lady in the city. I don’t know about maiden,” he added, “and right at this minute I’m not going to speculate. Someone go and fetch a cart. ” He fingered his ear, which had been nicked by the tip of the sword. He was not, by nature, an unkind man, but at this moment he was certain that he would prefer the thickness of a dragon’s hide between himself and Sybil Ramkin when she woke up. “Weren’t we supposed to kill her pet dragons, sir?” said another guard. “I thought Mr. Wonse said something about killing all the dragons. ” “That was just a threat we were supposed to make,” said the captain. The guard’s brow furrowed. “You sure, sir? I thought—” The captain had had enough of this. Screaming harpies and broadswords making a noise like tearing silk in the air beside him had severely ruined his capacity for seeing the other fellow’s point of view. “Oh, you thought , did you?” he growled. “A thinker, are you? Do you think you’d be suitable for another posting, then? City guard, maybe? They’re full of thinkers, they are. ” There was an uncomfortable titter from the rest of the guards. “If you’d thought ,” added the captain sarcastically, “you’d have thought that the king is hardly going to want other dragons dead, is he? They’re probably distant relatives or something. I mean, it wouldn’t want us to go around killing its own kind, would it?” “Well, sir, people do, sir,” said the guard sulkily. “Ah, well,” said the captain. “That’s different. ” He tapped the side of his helmet meaningfully. “That’s ’cos we’re intelligent. ” Vimes landed in damp straw and also in pitch darkness, although after a while his eyes became accustomed to the gloom and he could make out the walls of the dungeon. It hadn’t been built for gracious living. It was basically just a space containing all the pillars and arches that supported the palace. At the far end a small grille high on the wall let in a mere suspicion of grubby, secondhand light. There was another square hole in the floor. It was also barred. The bars were quite rusty, though. It occurred to Vimes that he could probably work them loose eventually, and then all he would have to do was slim down enough to go through a nine-inch hole. What the dungeon did not contain was any rats, scorpions, cockroaches or snakes. It had once contained snakes, it was true, because Vimes’s sandals crunched on small, long white skeletons. He crept cautiously along one damp wall, wondering where the rhythmic scraping sound was coming from. He rounded a squat pillar, and found out. |
The Patrician was shaving, squinting into a scrap of mirror propped against the pillar to catch the light. No, Vimes realized, not propped. Supported, in fact. By a rat. It was a large rat, with red eyes. The Patrician nodded to him without apparent surprise. “Oh,” he said. “Vimes, isn’t it? I heard you were on the way down. Jolly good. You had better tell the kitchen staff—” and here Vimes realized that the man was speaking to the rat—“that there will be two for lunch. Would you like a beer, Vimes?” “What?” said Vimes. “I imagine you would. Pot luck, though, I am afraid. Skrp’s people are bright enough, but they seem to have a bit of a blind spot when it comes to labels on bottles. ” Lord Vetinari patted his face with a towel and dropped it on the floor. A gray shape darted from the shadows and dragged it away down the floor grille. Then he said, “Very well, Skrp. You may go. ” The rat twitched its whiskers at him, leaned the mirror against the wall, and trotted off. “You’re waited on by rats ?” said Vimes. “They help out, you know. They’re not really very efficient, I’m afraid. It’s their paws. ” “But, but, but,” said Vimes. “I mean, how?” “I suspect Skrp’s people have tunnels that extend into the University,” Lord Vetinari went on. “Although I think they were probably pretty bright to start with. ” At least Vimes understood that bit. It was well known that thaumic radiations affected animals living around the Unseen University campus, sometimes prodding them toward minute analogues of human civilization and even mutating some of them into entirely new and specialized species, such as the. 303 bookworm and the wallfish. And, as the man said, rats were quite bright to start with. “But they’re helping you?” said Vimes. “Mutual. It’s mutual. Payment for services rendered, you might say,” said the Patrician, sitting down on what Vimes couldn’t help noticing was a small velvet cushion. On a low shelf, so as to be handy, were a notepad and a neat row of books. “How can you help rats, sir?” he said weakly. “Advice. I advise them, you know. ” The Patrician leaned back. “That’s the trouble with people like Wonse,” he said. “They never know when to stop. Rats, snakes and scorpions. It was sheer bedlam in here when I came. The rats were getting the worst of it, too. ” And Vimes thought he was beginning to get the drift. “You mean you sort of trained them?” he said. “Advised. Advised. I suppose it’s a knack,” said Lord Vetinari modestly. Vimes wondered how it was done. Did the rats side with the scorpions against the snakes and then, when the snakes were beaten, invite the scorpions to a celebratory slap-up meal and eat them? Or were individual scorpions hired with large amounts of, oh, whatever it was scorpions ate, to sidle up to selected leading snakes at night and sting them? He remembered hearing once about a man who, locked up in a cell for years, trained little birds and created a sort of freedom. And he thought of ancient sailors, shorn of the sea by old age and infirmity, who spent their days making big ships in little bottles. Then he thought of the Patrician, robbed of his city, sitting cross-legged on the gray floor in the dim dungeon and recreating it around him, encouraging in miniature all the little rivalries, power struggles and factions. He thought of him as a somber, brooding statue amid paving stones alive with slinking shadows and sudden, political death. It had probably been easier than ruling Ankh, which had larger vermin who didn’t have to use both hands to carry a knife. There was a clink over by the drain. Half a dozen rats appeared, dragging something wrapped in a cloth. They rathandled it past the grille and, with great effort, hauled it to the Patrician’s feet. He leaned down and undid the knot. “We seem to have cheese, chicken legs, celery, a piece of rather stale bread and a nice bottle, oh, a nice bottle apparently of Merckle and Stingbat’s Very Famous Brown Sauce. Beer , I said, Skrp. ” The leading rat twitched its nose at him. “Sorry about this, Vimes. They can’t read, you see. They don’t seem to get the hang of the concept. But they’re very good at listening. They bring me all the news. ” “I see you’re very comfortable here,” said Vimes weakly. “Never build a dungeon you wouldn’t be happy to spend the night in yourself,” said the Patrician, laying out the food on the cloth. “The world would be a happier place if more people remembered that. ” “We all thought you had built secret tunnels and such-like,” said Vimes. “Can’t imagine why,” said the Patrician. “One would have to keep on running. So inefficient. Whereas here I am at the hub of things. I hope you understand that, Vimes. Never trust any ruler who puts his faith in tunnels and bunkers and escape routes. The chances are that his heart isn’t in the job. ” “Oh. ” He’s in a dungeon in his own palace with a raving lunatic in charge upstairs, and a dragon burning the city, and he thinks he’s got the world where he wants it. It must be something about high office. The altitude sends people mad. “You, er, you don’t mind if I have a look around, do you?” he said. “Feel free,” said the Patrician. Vimes paced the length of the dungeon and checked the door. It was heavily barred and bolted, and the lock was massive. Then he tapped the walls in what might possibly be hollow places. There was no doubt that it was a well-built dungeon. It was the kind of dungeon you’d feel good about having dangerous criminals put in. Of course, in those circumstances you’d prefer there to be no trapdoors, hidden tunnels or secret ways of escape. These weren’t those circumstances. It was amazing what several feet of solid stone did to your sense of perspective. “Do guards come in here?” he demanded. “Hardly ever,” said the Patrician, waving a chicken leg. “They don’t bother about feeding me, you see. The idea is that one should molder. In fact,” he said, “up ’til recently I used to go to the door and groan a bit every now and then, just to keep them happy. ” “They’re bound to come in and check, though?” said Vimes hopefully. “Oh, I don’t think we should tolerate that,” said the Patrician. “How are you going to prevent them?” Lord Vetinari gave him a pained look. “My dear Vimes,” he said, “I thought you were an observant man. Did you look at the door?” “Of course I did,” said Vimes, and added, “sir. It’s bloody massive. ” “Perhaps you should have another look?” Vimes gaped at him, and then stamped across the floor and glared at the door. It was one of the popular dread portal variety, all bars and bolts and iron spikes and massive hinges. No matter how long he looked at it, it didn’t become any less massive. The lock was one of those dwarfish-made buggers that it’d take years to pick. All in all, if you had to have a symbol for something totally immovable, that door was your man. The Patrician appeared alongside him in heart-stopping silence. “You see,” he said, “it’s always the case, is it not, that should a city be overtaken by violent civil unrest the current ruler is thrown into the dungeons? To a certain type of mind that is so much more satisfying than mere execution. ” “Well, okay, but I don’t see—” Vimes began. “And you look at this door and what you see is a really strong cell door, yes?” “Of course. You’ve only got to look at the bolts and—” “You know, I’m really rather pleased,” said Lord Vetinari quietly. Vimes stared at the door until his eyebrows ached. And then, just as random patterns in cloud suddenly, without changing in any way, become a horse’s head or a sailing ship, he saw what he’d been looking at all along. A sense of terrifying admiration overcame him. He wondered what it was like in the Patrician’s mind. All cold and shiny, he thought, all blued steel and icicles and little wheels clicking along like a huge clock. The kind of mind that would carefully consider its own downfall and turn it to advantage. It was a perfectly normal dungeon door, but it all depended on your sense of perspective. In this dungeon the Patrician could hold off the world. |
All that was on the outside was the lock. All the bolts and bars were on the inside. The rank clambered awkwardly across the damp rooftops as the morning mist was boiled off by the sun. Not that there would be any clear air today—sticky swathes of smoke and stale steam wreathed the city and filled the air with the sad smell of dampened cinders. “What is this place?” said Carrot, helping the others along a greasy walkway. Sergeant Colon looked around at the forest of chimneys. “We’re just above Jimkin Bearhugger’s whiskey distillery,” he said. “On a direct line, see, between the palace and the plaza. It’s bound to fly over here. ” Nobby looked wistfully over the side of the building. “I bin in there once,” he said. “Checked the door one dark night and it just come open in my hand. ” “Eventually, I expect,” said Colon sourly. “Well, I had to go in, din’t I, to check there was no miscreanting going on. Amazing place in there. All pipes and stuff. And the smell!” “‘Every bottle matured for up to seven minutes,’” quoted Colon. “‘Ha’ a drop afore ye go’, it says on the label. Damn right, too. I had a drop once, and I went all day. ” He knelt down and unwrapped the long sacking package he had been manhandling, with extreme difficulty, during the climb. This revealed a longbow of ancient design and a quiver of arrows. He picked up the bow slowly, reverentially, and ran his pudgy fingers along it. “You know,” he said quietly, “I was damn good with this, when I were a lad. The captain should of let me have a go the other night. ” “You keep on telling us,” said Nobby unsympathetically. “Well, I used to win prizes. ” The sergeant unwound a new bowstring, looped it around one end of the bow, stood up, pressed down, grunted a bit… “Er. Carrot?” he said, slightly out of breath. “Yes, Sarge?” “You any good at stringing bows?” Carrot grasped the bow, compressed it easily, and slipped the other end of the string into place. “That’s a good start, Sarge,” said Nobby. “Don’t you be sarcastic with me, Nobby! It ain’t strength, it’s keenness of eye and steadiness of hand what counts. Now you pass me an arrow. Not that one!” Nobby’s fingers froze in the act of grasping a shaft. “That’s my lucky arrow!” spluttered Colon. “None of you is to touch my lucky arrow!” “Looks just like any other bloody arrow to me, Sarge,” said Nobby mildly. “That’s the one I shall use for the actual wossname, the coup de grass,” said Colon. “Never let me down, my lucky arrow didn’t. Hit whatever I shot at. Hardly even had to aim. If that dragon’s got any voonerables, that arrow’ll find ’em. ” He selected an identical-looking but presumably less lucky arrow and nocked it. Then he looked around the rooftops with a speculative eye. “Better get my hand in,” he muttered. “Of course, once you learn you never forget, it’s like riding a—riding a—riding something you never forget being able to ride. ” He pulled the bowstring back to his ear, and grunted. “Right,” he wheezed, as his arm trembled with the tension like a branch in a gale. “See the roof of the Assassins’ Guild over there?” They peered through the grubby air. “Right, then,” said Colon. “And do you see the weathervane on it? Do you see it?” Carrot glanced at the arrowhead. It was weaving back and forth in a series of figure-eights. “It’s a long way off, Sarge,” said Nobby doubtfully. “Never you mind me, you keep an eye on the weathervane,” groaned the sergeant. They nodded. The weathervane was in the shape of a creeping man with a big cloak; his outstretched dagger was always turned to stab the wind. At this distance, though, it was tiny. “ Okay ,” panted Colon. “Now, d’you see the man’s eye?” “Oh, come on ,” said Nobby. “Shutup, shutup, shutup!” groaned Colon. “Do you see it, I said!” “I think I can see it, Sarge,” said Carrot loyally. “Right. Right,” said the sergeant, swaying backward and forward with effort. “Right. Good lad. Okay. Now keep an eye on it, right?” He grunted, and loosed the arrow. Several things happened so fast that they will have to be recounted in stop-motion prose. Probably the first was the bowstring slapping into the soft inner part of Colon’s wrist, causing him to scream and drop the bow. This had no effect on the path of the arrow, which was already flying straight and true toward a gargoyle on the rooftop just across the road. It hit it on the ear, bounced, ricocheted off a wall six feet away, and headed back toward Colon apparently at a slightly increased speed, going past his ear with a silky humming noise. It vanished in the direction of the city walls. After a while Nobby coughed and gave Carrot a look of innocent enquiry. “About how big,” he said, “is a dragon’s voonerables, roughly?” “Oh, it can be a tiny spot,” said Carrot helpfully. “I was sort of afraid of that,” said Nobby. He wandered to the edge of the roof, and pointed downward. “There’s a pond just here,” he said. “They use it for cooling water in the stills. I reckon it’s pretty deep, so after the sergeant has shot at the dragon we can jump in it. What d’you say?” “Oh, but we don’t need to do that,” said Carrot. “Because the sergeant’s lucky arrow would of hit the spot and the dragon’ll be dead, so we won’t have anything to worry about. ” “Granted, granted,” said Nobby hurriedly, looking at Colon’s scowling face. “But just in case, you know, if by a million-to-one chance he misses—I’m not saying he will, mark you, you just have to think of all eventualities—if, by incredible bad luck, he doesn’t quite manage to hit the voonerable dead on, then your dragon is going to lose his rag, right, and it’s probably a good idea to not be here. It’s a long shot, I know. Call me a worry-wart if you like. That’s all I’m saying. ” Sergeant Colon adjusted his armor haughtily. “When you really need them the most,” he said, “million-to-one chances always crop up. Well-known fact. ” “The sergeant is right, Nobby,” said Carrot virtuously. “You know that when there’s just one chance which might just work—well, it works. Otherwise there’d be no—” he lowered his voice—“I mean, it stands to reason, if last desperate chances didn’t work, there’d be no…well, the gods wouldn’t let it be any other way. They wouldn’t. ” As one man, the three of them turned and looked through the murky air toward the hub of the Discworld, thousands of miles away. Now the air was gray with old smoke and mist shreds, but on a clear day it was possible to see Cori Celesti, home of the gods. Site of the home of the gods, anyway. They lived in Dunmanifestin, the stuccoed Valhalla, where the gods faced eternity with the kind of minds that were at a loss to know what to do to pass a wet afternoon. They played games with the fates of men, it was said. Exactly what game they thought they were playing at the moment was anyone’s guess. But of course there were rules. Everyone knew there were rules. They just had to hope like Hell that the gods knew the rules, too. “It’s got to work,” mumbled Colon. “I’ll be using my lucky arrow ’n all. You’re right. Last hopeless chances have got to work. Nothing makes any sense otherwise. You might as well not be alive. ” Nobby looked down at the pond again. After a moment’s hesitation Colon joined him. They had the speculative faces of men who had seen many things, and knew that while you could of course depend on heroes, and kings, and ultimately on gods, you could really depend on gravity and deep water. “Not that we’ll need it,” said Colon virtuously. “Not with your lucky arrow,” said Nobby. “That’s right. But, just out of interest, how far down is it, d’you think?” said Colon. “About thirty feet, I’d say. Give or take. ” “Thirty feet. ” Colon nodded slowly. “That’s what I’d reckon. And it’s deep, is it?” “Very deep, I’ve heard. ” “I’ll take your word for it. It looks pretty mucky. I’d hate to have to jump in it. ” Carrot slapped him cheerfully on the back, nearly pushing him over, and said, “What’s up, Sarge? Do you want to live forever?” “Dunno. Ask me again in five hundred years. ” “It’s a good job we’ve got your lucky arrow, then!” said Carrot. |
“Hmm?” said Colon, who seemed to be in a miserable daydream world of his own. “I mean, it’s a good job we’ve got a last desperate million-to-one chance to rely on, or we’d really be in trouble!” “Oh, yes,” said Nobby sadly. “Lucky old us. ” The Patrician lay back. A couple of rats dragged a cushion under his head. “Things are rather bad outside, I gather,” he said. “Yes,” said Vimes bitterly. “You’re right. You’re the safest man in the city. ” He wedged another knife in a crack in the stones and tested his weight carefully, while Lord Vetinari looked on with interest. He’d managed to get six feet off the floor and up to a level with the grille. Now he started to hack at the mortar around the bars. The Patrician watched him for a while, and then took a book off the little shelf beside him. Since the rats couldn’t read the library he’d been able to assemble was a little baroque, but he was not a man to ignore fresh knowledge. He found his bookmark in the pages of Lacemaking Through the Ages , and read a few pages. After a while he found it necessary to brush a few crumbs of mortar off the book, and looked up. “Are you achieving success?” he inquired politely. Vimes gritted his teeth and hacked away. Outside the little grille was a grubby courtyard, barely lighter than the cell. There was a midden in one corner, but currently it looked very attractive. More attractive than the dungeon, at any rate. An honest midden was preferable to the way Ankh-Morpork was going these days. It was probably allegorical, or something. He stabbed, stabbed, stabbed. The knife blade twanged and shook in his hand. The Librarian scratched his armpits thoughtfully. He was facing problems of his own. He had come here full of rage against book thieves and that rage still burned. But the seditious thought had occurred to him that, although crimes against books were the worst kind of crimes, revenge ought, perhaps, to be postponed. It occurred to him that, while of course what humans chose to do to one another was all one to him, there were certain activities that should be curtailed in case the perpetrators got over-confident and started doing things like that to books, too. The Librarian stared at his badge again, and gave it a gentle nibble in the optimistic hope that it had become edible. No doubt about it, he had a Duty to the captain. The captain had always been kind to him. And the captain had a badge, too. Yes. There were times when an ape had to do what a man had to do… The orangutan threw a complex salute and swung away into the darkness. The sun rose higher, rolling through the mists and stale smoke like a lost balloon. The rank sat in the shade of a chimney stack, waiting and killing time in their various ways. Nobby was thoughtfully probing the contents of a nostril, Carrot was writing a letter home, and Sergeant Colon was worrying. After a while he shifted his weight uneasily and said, “I’ve fought of a problem. ” “Wassat, Sarge?” said Carrot. Sergeant Colon looked wretched. “ Weeell , what if it’s not a million-to-one chance?” he said. Nobby stared at him. “What d’you mean?” he said. “Well, all right , last desperate million-to-one chances always work, right, no problem, but…well, it’s pretty wossname, specific. I mean, isn’t it?” “You tell me,” said Nobby. “What if it’s just a thousand-to-one chance?” said Colon agonizedly. “What?” “Anyone ever heard of a thousand-to-one shot coming up?” Carrot looked up. “Don’t be daft, Sergeant,” he said. “No one ever saw a thousand-to-one chance come up. The odds against it are—” his lips moved—“millions to one. ” “Yeah. Millions,” agreed Nobby. “So it’d only work if it’s your actual million-to-one chance,” said the sergeant. “I suppose that’s right,” said Nobby. “So 999,943-to-one, for example—” Colon began. Carrot shook his head. “Wouldn’t have a hope. No one ever said, ‘It’s a 999,943-to-one chance but it might just work. ’” They stared out across the city in the silence of ferocious mental calculation. “We could have a real problem here,” said Colon eventually. Carrot started to scribble furiously. When questioned, he explained at length about how you found the surface area of a dragon and then tried to estimate the chances of an arrow hitting any one spot. “Aimed, mind,” said Sergeant Colon. “I aim. ” Nobby coughed. “In that case it’s got to be a lot less than a million-to-one chance,” said Carrot. “It could be a hundred-to-one. If the dragon’s flying slowly and it’s a big spot, it could be practically a certainty. ” Colon’s lips shaped themselves around the phrase, It’s a certainty but it might just work. He shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “So what we’ve got to do, then,” said Nobby slowly, “is adjust the odds…” Now there was a shallow hole in the mortar near the middle bar. It wasn’t much, Vimes knew, but it was a start. “You don’t require assistance, by any chance?” said the Patrician. “No. ” “As you wish. ” The mortar was half-rotted, but the bars had been driven deep into the rock. Under their crusting of rust there was still plenty of iron. It was a long job, but it was something to do and required a blessed absence of thought. They couldn’t take it away from him. It was a good, clean challenge; you knew if you went on chipping away, you’d win through eventually. It was the “eventually” that was the problem. Eventually Great A ’Tuin would reach the end of the universe. Eventually the stars would go out. Eventually Nobby might have a bath, although that would probably involve a radical re-thinking of the nature of Time. He hacked at the mortar anyway, and then stopped as something small and pale fell down outside, quite slowly. “Peanut shell?” he said. The Librarian’s face, surrounded by the inner-tube jowls of the Librarian’s head, appeared upside down in the barred opening, and gave him a grin that wasn’t any less terrible for being the wrong way up. “Oook?” The orangutan flopped down off the wall, grabbed a couple of bars, and pulled. Muscles shunted back and forward across its barrel chest in a complex pavane of effort. The mouthful of yellow teeth gaped in silent concentration. There were a couple of dull “things” as the bars gave up and broke free. The ape flung them aside and reached into the gaping hole. Then the longest arm of the Law grabbed the astonished Vimes under his shoulders and pulled him through in one movement. The rank surveyed their handiwork. “Right,” said Nobby. “Now, what are the chances of a man standing on one leg with his hat on backward and a handkerchief in his mouth hitting a dragon’s voonerables?” “Mmph,” said Colon. “It’s pretty long odds,” said Carrot. “I reckon the hanky is a bit over the top, though. ” Colon spat it out. “Make up your minds,” he said. “Me leg’s going to sleep. ” Vimes picked himself up off the greasy cobbles and stared at the Librarian. He was experiencing something which had come as a shock to many people, usually in much more unpleasant circumstances such as a brawl started in the Mended Drum when the ape wanted a bit of peace and quiet to enjoy a reflective pint, which was this: the Librarian might look like a stuffed rubber sack, but what it was stuffed with was muscle. “That was amazing,” was all he could find to say. He looked down at the twisted bars, and felt his mind darken. He grabbed the bent metal. “You don’t happen to know where Wonse is, do you?” he added. “Eeek!” The Librarian thrust a tattered piece of parchment under his nose. “Eeek!” Vimes read the words. It hathe pleased…whereas…at the stroke of noone…a maiden pure, yet high born…compact between ruler and rulèd… “In my city!” he growled. “In my bloody city!” He grabbed the Librarian by two handfuls of chest hair and pulled him up to eye height. “What time is it?” he shouted. “Oook!” A long red-haired arm unfolded itself upward. Vimes’s gaze followed the pointing finger. |
The sun definitely had the look of a heavenly body that was nearly at the crest of its orbit and looking forward to a long, lazy coasting toward the blankets of dusk… “I’m not bloody well going to have it, understand?” Vimes shouted, shaking the ape back and forth. “Oook,” the Librarian pointed out, patiently. “What? Oh. Sorry. ” Vimes lowered the ape, who wisely didn’t make an issue of it because a man angry enough to lift 300lbs of orangutan without noticing is a man with too much on his mind. Now he was staring around the courtyard. “Any way out of here?” he said. “Without climbing the walls I mean. ” He didn’t wait for an answer but loped around the walls until he reached a narrow, grubby door, and kicked it open. It hadn’t been locked anyway, but he kicked it just the same. The Librarian trailed along behind, swinging on his knuckles. The kitchen on the other side of the door was almost deserted, the staff having finally lost their nerve and decided that all prudent chefs refrained from working in an establishment where there was a mouth bigger than they were. A couple of palace guards were eating a cold lunch. “Now,” said Vimes, as they half-rose, “I don’t want to have to—” They didn’t seem to want to listen. One of them reached for a crossbow. “Oh, the hell with it. ” Vimes grabbed a butcher’s knife from a block beside it and threw it. There is an art in throwing knives and, even then, you need the right kind of knife. Otherwise it does just what this one did, which is miss completely. The guard with the bow leaned sideways, righted himself, and found that a purple fingernail was gently blocking the firing mechanism. He looked around. The Librarian hit him right on top of his helmet. The other guard shrank back, waving his hands frantically. “Nonono!” he said. “It’s a misunderstanding! What was it you said you didn’t want to have to do? Nice monkey!” “Oh, dear,” said Vimes. “ Wrong !” He ignored the terrified screaming and rummaged through the debris of the kitchen until he came up with a cleaver. He’d never felt really at home with swords, but a cleaver was a different matter. A cleaver had weight. It had purpose. A sword might have a certain nobility about it, unless it was the one belonging for example to Nobby, which relied on rust to hold it together, but what a cleaver had was a tremendous ability to cut things up. He left the biology lesson—that no monkey was capable of bouncing someone up and down by their ankles—found a likely door, and hurried through it. This took him outside again, into the big cobbled area that surrounded the palace. Now he could get his bearings, now he could… There was a boom in the air above him. A gale blew downward , knocking him over. The King of Ankh-Morpork wings outspread, glided across the sky and settled for a moment on the palace gateway, talons gouging long scars in the stone as it caught its balance. The sun glittered off its arched back as it stretched its neck, roared a lazy billow of flames, and sprang into the air again. Vimes made an animal—a mammalian animal—noise in the back of his throat, and ran out into the empty streets. Silence filled the ancestral home of the Ramkins. The front door swung back and forth on its hinges, letting in the common, badly-brought up breeze which wandered through the deserted rooms, gawping and looking for dust on the top of the furniture. It wound up the stairs and banged through the door of Sybil Ramkin’s bedroom, rattling the bottles on the dressing table and riffling through the pages of Diseases of the Dragon. A really fast reader could have learned the symptoms of everything from Abated Heels to Zigzag Throat. And down below, in the low, warm and foul-smelling shed that housed the swamp dragons, it seemed that Errol had got them all. Now he sat in the center of his pen, swaying and moaning softly. White smoke rolled slowly from his ears and drifted toward the floor. From somewhere inside his swollen stomach came complex explosive hydraulic noises, as though desperate teams of gnomes were trying to drive a culvert through a cliff in a thunderstorm. His nostrils flared, turning more or less of their own volition. The other dragons craned over the pen walls, watching him cautiously. There was another distant gastric roar. Errol shifted painfully. The dragons exchanged glances. Then, one by one, they lay down carefully on the floor and put their paws over their eyes. Nobby put his head on one side. “It looks promising,” he said critically. “We might be nearly there. I reckon the chances of a man with soot on his face, his tongue sticking out, standing on one leg and singing The Hedgehog Song ever hitting a dragon’s voonerables would be…what’d you say, Carrot?” “A million to one, I reckon,” said Carrot virtuously. Colon glared at them. “Listen, lads,” he said, “you’re not winding me up, are you?” Carrot looked down at the plaza below them. “Oh, bloody hell,” he said softly. “Wassat?” said Colon urgently, looking around. “They’re chaining a woman to a rock!” The rank stared over the parapet. The huge and silent crowd that lined the plaza stared too, at a white figure struggling between half a dozen palace guards. “Wonder where they got the rock from?” said Colon. “We’re on loam here, you know. ” “Fine strapping wench, whoever she is,” said Nobby approvingly, as one of the guards wheeled off bow-legged and collapsed. “That’s one lad who won’t know what to do with his evenin’s for a few weeks. Got a mean right knee, so she has. ” “Anyone we know?” said Colon. Carrot squinted. “It’s Lady Ramkin!” he said, his mouth dropping open. “Never!” “He’s right. In a nightie,” said Nobby. “The buggers!” Colon snatched up his bow and fumbled for an arrow. “I’ll give ’em voonerables! Well-spoken lady like her, it’s a disgrace!” “Er,” said Carrot, who had glanced over his shoulder. “Sergeant?” “This is what it comes to!” muttered Colon. “Decent women can’t walk down the street without being eaten! Right, you bastards, you’re…you’re geography —” “Sergeant!” Carrot repeated urgently. “It’s history, not geography,” said Nobby. “That’s what you’re supposed to say. History. ‘You’re history!’ you say. ” “Well, whatever,” snapped Colon. “Let’s see how—” “Sergeant!” Nobby was looking behind them, too. “Oh, shit,” he said. “Can’t miss,” muttered Colon, taking aim. “Sergeant!” “Shut up, you two, I can’t concentrate when you keep shout—” “Sergeant, it’s coming !” The dragon accelerated. The drunken rooftops of Ankh-Morpork blurred as it passed over, wings sneering at the air. Its neck stretched out straight ahead, the pilot flames of its nostrils streamed behind it, the sound of its flight panned across the sky. Colon’s hands shook. The dragon seemed to be aiming at his throat, and it was moving too fast, far too fast… “This is it!” said Carrot. He glanced toward the Hub, in case any gods had forgotten what they were there for, and added, speaking slowly and distinctly, “It’s a million-to-one-chance, but it might just work!” “Fire the bloody thing!” screamed Nobby. “Picking my spot, lad, picking my spot,” quavered Colon. “Don’t you worry, lads, I told you this is my lucky arrow. First-class arrow, this arrow, had it since I was a lad, you’d be amazed at the things I shot at with this, don’t you worry. ” He paused, as the nightmare bore down on him on wings of terror. “Er, Carrot?” he said meekly. “Yes, Sarge?” “Did your old grandad ever say what a voonerable spot looks like?” And then the dragon wasn’t approaching anymore, it was there, passing a few feet overhead, a streaming mosaic of scales and noise, filling the entire sky. Colon fired. They watched the arrow rise straight and true. Vimes half-ran, half-staggered over the damp cobbles, out of breath and out of time. It can’t be like this, he thought wildly. The hero always cuts it fine, but he always gets there just in the nick of time. Only the nick of time was probably five minutes ago. And I’m not a hero. I’m out of condition, and I need a drink, and I get a handful of dollars a month without plumes allowance. |
That’s not hero’s pay. Heroes get kingdoms and princesses, and they take regular exercise, and when they smile the light glints off their teeth, ting. The bastards. Sweat stung his eyes. The rush of adrenalin that had carried him out of the palace had spent itself, and was now exacting its inevitable toll. He stumbled to a halt, and grabbed a wall to keep him upright while he gasped for air. And thus he saw the figures on the rooftop. Oh, no! he thought. They’re not heroes either! What do they think they’re playing at? It was a million-to-one chance. And who was to say that, somewhere in the millions of other possible universes, it might not have worked? That was the sort of thing the gods really liked. But Chance, who sometimes can overrule even the gods, has 999,999 casting votes. In this universe, for example, the arrow bounced off a scale and clattered away into oblivion. Colon stared as the dragon’s pointed tail passed overhead. “It…missed…” he mouthed. “But it couldn’t of missed!” He stared red-eyed at the other two. “It was a sodding last desperate million-to-one chance!” The dragon twisted its wings, swung its huge bulk around on a pivot of air, and bore down on the roof. Carrot grabbed Nobby around the waist and laid a hand on Colon’s shoulder. The sergeant was weeping with rage and frustration. “Million-to-bloody-one last desperate bloody chance!” “Sarge—” The dragon flamed. It was a beautifully controlled line of plasma. It went through the roof like butter. It cut through stairways. It crackled into ancient timbers and made them twist like paper. It sliced into pipes. It punched through floor after floor like the fist of an angry god and, eventually, reached the big copper vat containing a thousand gallons of freshly-made mature whiskey-type spirit. It burned into that, too. Fortunately, the chances of anyone surviving the ensuing explosion were exactly a million-to-one. The fireball rose like a—well, a rose. A huge orange rose, streaked with yellow. It took the roof with it and wrapped it around the astonished dragon, lifting it high into the air in a boiling cloud of broken timber and bits of piping. The crowd watched in bemusement as the superhot blast flung it into the sky and barely noticed Vimes as he pushed his way, wheezing and crying, through the press of bodies. He shouldered past a row of palace guards and shambled as fast as he could across the flagstones. No one was paying him much attention at the moment. He stopped. It wasn’t a rock, because Ankh-Morpork was on loam. It was just some huge remnant of mortared masonry, probably thousands of years old, from somewhere in the city foundations. Ankh-Morpork was so old now that what it was built on, by and large, was Ankh-Morpork. It had been dragged into the center of the plaza, and Lady Sybil Ramkin had been chained to it. She appeared to be wearing a nightie and huge rubber boots. By the look of her she had been in a fight, and Vimes felt a momentary pang of sympathy for whoever else had been involved. She gave him a look of pure fury. “You!” “ You! ” He waved the cleaver vaguely. “But why you—?” he began. “Captain Vimes,” she said sharply, “you will oblige me by not waving that thing about and you will start putting it to its proper use!” Vimes wasn’t listening. “Thirty dollars a month!” he muttered. “That’s what they died for! Thirty dollars! And I docked some from Nobby. I had to, didn’t I? I mean, that man could make a melon go rusty!” “Captain Vimes!” He focused on the cleaver. “Oh,” he said. “Yes. Right!” It was a good steel cleaver, and the chains were elderly and rather rusty iron. He hacked away, raising sparks from the masonry. The crowd watched in silence, but several palace guards hurried toward him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” said one of them, who didn’t have much imagination. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Vimes growled, looking up. They stared at him. “What?” Vimes took another hack at the chains. Several loops tinkled to the ground. “Right, you’ve asked for—” one of the guards began. Vimes’s elbow caught him under his rib cage; before he collapsed, Vimes’s foot kicked savagely at the other one’s kneecaps, bringing his chin down ready for another stab with the other elbow. “Right,” said Vimes absently. He rubbed the elbow. It was sheer agony. He moved the cleaver to his other hand and hammered at the chains again, aware at the back of his mind that more guards were hurrying up, but with that special kind of run that guards had. He knew it well. It was the run that said, there’s a dozen of us, let someone else get there first. It said, he looks ready to kill, no one’s paying me to get killed, maybe if I run slowly enough he’ll get away… No point in spoiling a good day by catching someone. Lady Ramkin shook herself free. A ragged cheer went up and started to grow in volume. Even in their current state of mind, the people of Ankh-Morpork always appreciated a performance. She grabbed a handful of chain and wrapped it around one pudgy fist. “Some of those guards don’t know how to treat—” she began. “No time, no time,” said Vimes, grabbing her arm. It was like trying to drag a mountain. The cheering stopped, abruptly. There was a sound behind Vimes. It was not, particularly, a loud noise. It just had a peculiarly nasty carrying quality. It was the click of four sets of talons hitting the flagstones at the same time. Vimes looked around and up. Soot clung to the dragon’s hide. A few pieces of charred wood had lodged here and there, and were still smoldering. The magnificent bronze scales were streaked with black. It lowered its head until Vimes was a few feet away from its eyes, and tried to focus on him. Probably not worth running, Vimes told himself. It’s not as if I’ve got the energy anyway. He felt Lady Ramkin’s hand engulf his. “Jolly well done,” she said. “It nearly worked. ” Charred and blazing wreckage rained down around the distillery. The pond was a swamp of debris, covered with a coating of ash. Out of it, dripping slime, rose Sergeant Colon. He clawed his way to the bank and pulled himself up, like some sea-dwelling lifeform that was anxious to get the whole evolution thing over with in one go. Nobby was already there, spread out like a frog, leaking water. “Is that you, Nobby?” said Sergeant Colon anxiously. “It’s me, Sergeant. ” “I’m glad about that, Nobby,” said Colon fervently. “I wish it wasn’t me, Sergeant. ” Colon tipped the water out of his helmet, and then paused. “What about young Carrot?” he said. Nobby pushed himself up on his elbows, groggily. “Dunno,” he said. “One minute we were on the roof, next minute we were jumping. ” They both looked at the ashen waters of the pond. “I suppose,” said Colon slowly, “he can swim?” “Dunno. He never said. Not much to swim in, up in the mountains. When you come to think about it,” said Nobby. “But perhaps there were limpid blue pools and deep mountain streams,” said the sergeant hopefully. “And icy tarns in hidden valleys and that. Not to mention subterranean lakes. He’d be bound to have learned. In and out of the water all day, I expect. ” They stared at the greasy gray surface. “It was probably that Protective,” said Nobby. “P’raps it filled with water and dragged him down. ” Colon nodded gloomily. “I’ll hold your helmet,” said Nobby, after a while. “But I’m your superior officer!” “Yes,” said Nobby reasonably, “but if you get stuck down there, you’re going to want your best man up here, ready to rescue you, aren’t you?” “That’s…reasonable,” said Colon eventually. “That’s a good point. ” “Right, then. ” “Drawback is, though…” “What?” “…I can’t swim,” Colon said. “How did you get out of that, then?” Colon shrugged. “I’m a natural floater. ” Their eyes, once again, turned to the dankness of the pond. Then Colon stared at Nobby. Then Nobby, very slowly, unbuckled his helmet. “There isn’t someone still in there, is there?” said Carrot, behind them. They looked around. He hoicked some mud out of an ear. Behind him the remains of the brewery smoldered. |
“I thought I’d better nip out quickly, see what was going on,” he said brightly, pointing to a gate leading out of the yard. It was hanging by one hinge. “Oh,” said Nobby weakly. “Jolly good. ” “There’s an alley out there,” said Carrot. “No dragons in it, are there?” said Colon suspiciously. “No dragons, no humans. There’s no one around,” said Carrot impatiently. He drew his sword. “Come on!” he said. “Where to?” said Nobby. He’d pulled a damp butt from behind his ear and was looking at it with an expression of deepest sorrow. It was obviously too far gone. He tried to light it anyway. “We want to fight the dragon, don’t we?” said Carrot. Colon shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, but aren’t we allowed to go home for a change of clothes first?” “And a nice warm drink?” said Nobby. “And a meal,” said Colon. “A nice plate of—” “You should be ashamed of yourselves,” said Carrot. “There’s a lady in distress and a dragon to fight and all you can think of is food and drink!” “Oh, I’m not just thinking about food and drink,” said Colon. “We could be all that stands between the city and total destruction!” “Yes, but—” Nobby began. Carrot drew his sword and waved it over his head. “Captain Vimes would have gone!” he said. “All for one!” He glared at them, and rushed out of the yard. Colon gave Nobby a sheepish look. “Young people today,” he said. “All for one what?” said Nobby. The sergeant sighed. “Come on, then. ” “Oh, all right. ” They staggered out into the alley. It was empty. “Where’d he go?” said Nobby. Carrot stepped out of the shadows, grinning all over his face. “Knew I could rely on you,” he said. “Follow me!” “Something odd about that boy,” said Colon, as they limped after him. “He always manages to persuade us to follow him, have you noticed?” “All for one what?” said Nobby. “Something about the voice, I reckon. ” “Yes, but all for one what?” The Patrician sighed and, carefully marking his place, laid aside his book. To judge from the noise there seemed to be an awful lot of excitement going on out there. It was highly unlikely any palace guards would be around, which was just as well. The guards were highly-trained men and it would be a shame to waste them. He would need them later on. He padded over to the wall and pushed a small block that looked exactly like all the other small blocks. No other small block, however, would have caused a section of flagstone to grind ponderously aside. There was a carefully chosen assortment of stuff in there—iron rations, spare clothes, several small chests of precious metals and jewels, tools. And there was a key. Never build a dungeon you couldn’t get out of. The Patrician took the key and strolled over to the door. As the wards of the lock slid back in their well-oiled grooves he wondered, again, whether he should have told Vimes about the key. But the man seemed to have got so much satisfaction out of breaking out. It would probably have been positively bad for him to have told him about the key. Anyway, it would have spoiled his view of the world. He needed Vimes and his view of the world. Lord Vetinari swung the door open and, silently, strode out into the ruins of his palace. They trembled as, for the second time in a couple of minutes, the city rocked. The dragon kennels exploded. The windows blew out. The door left the wall ahead of a great billow of black smoke and sailed into the air, tumbling slowly, to plow into the rhododendrons. Something very energetic and hot was happening in that building. More smoke poured out, thick and oily and solid. One of the walls folded in on itself, and then another one toppled sluggishly onto the lawn. Swamp dragons shot determinedly out of the wreckage like champagne corks, wings whirring frantically. Still the smoke unrolled. But there was something in there, some point of fierce white light that was gently rising. It disappeared from view as it passed a stricken window, and then, with a piece of roof tile still spinning on the top of his head, Errol climbed above his own smoke and ascended into the skies of Ankh-Morpork. The sunlight glinted off his silver scales as he hovered about a hundred feet up, turning slowly, balancing nicely on his own flame… Vimes, awaiting death on the plaza, realized that his mouth was hanging open. He shut it again. There was absolutely no sound in the city now but the noise of Errol’s ascent. They can rearrange their own plumbing, Vimes told himself bemusedly. To suit circumstances. He’s made it work in reverse. But his thingys, his genes…surely he must have been halfway to it anyway. No wonder the little bugger has got such stubby wings. His body must have known he wasn’t going to need them, except to steer. Good grief. I’m watching the first ever dragon to flame backward. He risked a glance immediately above him. The great dragon was frozen, its enormous bloodshot eyes concentrating on the tiny creature. With a challenging roar of flame and a pummeling of air the King of Ankh-Morpork rose, all thought of mere humans forgotten. Vimes turned sharply to Lady Ramkin. “How do they fight?” he said urgently. “How do dragons fight?” “I—that is, well, they just flap at each other and blow flame,” she said. “Swamp dragons, that is. I mean, who’s ever seen a noble dragon fight?” She patted her nightie. “I must take some notes, I’ve got my memo book somewhere…” “In your nightshirt ?” “It’s amazing how ideas come to one in bed, I’ve always said. ” Flames roared into the space where Errol had been, but he wasn’t there. The king tried to spin in mid-air. The little dragon circled in an easy series of smoke rings, weaving a cat’s cradle in the sky with the huge adversary gyrating helplessly in the middle. More flames, hotter and longer, stabbed at him and missed. The crowd watched in breathless silence. “’allo, Captain,” said an ingratiating voice. Vimes looked down. A small and stagnant pond disguised as Nobby grinned sheepishly up at him. “I thought you were dead!” he said. “We’re not,” said Nobby. “Oh. Good. ” There didn’t seem much else to say. “What do you reckon on the fight, then?” Vimes looked back up. Smoke trails spiraled across the city. “I’m afraid it’s not going to work,” said Lady Ramkin. “Oh. Hallo, Nobby. ” “Afternoon, ma’am,” said Nobby, touching what he thought was his forelock. “What d’you mean, it’s not going to work?” said Vimes. “Look at him go! It hasn’t hit him yet!” “Yes, but his flame has touched it several times. It doesn’t seem to have any effect. It’s not hot enough, I think. Oh, he’s dodging well. But he’s got to be lucky every time. It has only got to be lucky once. ” The meaning of this sank in. “You mean,” said Vimes, “all this is just—just show ? He’s just doing it to impress ?” “S’not his fault,” said Colon, materializing behind them. “It’s like dogs innit? Doesn’t really dawn on the poor little bugger that he’s up against a big one. He’s just ready for a scrap. ” Both dragons appeared to realize that the fight was the well-known Klatchian standoff. With another smoke ring and a billow of white flame they parted and retreated a few hundred yards. The king hovered, flapping its wings quickly. Height. That was the thing. When dragon fought dragon, height was always the thing… Errol balanced on his flame. He seemed to be thinking. Then he nonchalantly kicked his back legs out as though hovering on your own stomach gases was something dragons had mastered over millions of years, somersaulted, and fled. For a moment he was visible as a silver streak, and then he was out over the city walls and gone. A groan followed him. It came from ten thousand throats. Vimes threw up his hands. “Don’t you worry, guv,” said Nobby quickly. “He’s—he’s probably gone to, to have a drink. Or something. Maybe it’s the end of round one. Or something. ” “I mean, he ate our kettle and everything,” said Colon uncertainly. “He wouldn’t just run away after eating a kettle. Stands to reason. Anyone who could eat a kettle wouldn’t run away from anything. ” “And my armor polish,” said Carrot. “It was nearly a whole dollar for the tin. |
” “There you are then,” said Colon. “It’s like I said. ” “Look,” said Vimes, as patiently as he could manage. “He’s a nice dragon, I liked him as much as you, a very nice little chap, but he’s just done the sensible thing, for gods’ sake, he’s not going to get burned to bits just to save us. Life just doesn’t work like that. You might as well face it. ” Overhead the great dragon strutted through the air and flamed a nearby tower. It had won. “I’ve never seen that before,” said Lady Ramkin. “Dragons normally fight to the death. ” “At last they’ve bred one who’s sensible,” said Vimes morosely. “Let’s be honest: the chances of a dragon the size of Errol beating something that big are a million-to-one. ” There was one of those silences you get after one clear bright note has been struck and the world pauses. The rank looked at one another. “Million-to-one?” asked Carrot nonchalantly. “Definitely,” said Vimes. “Million-to-one. ” The rank looked at one another again. “Million-to-one,” said Colon. “Million-to-one,” agreed Nobby. “That’s right,” said Carrot. “Million-to-one. ” There was another high-toned silence. The members of the rank were wondering who was going to be the first to say it. Sergeant Colon took a deep breath. “But it might just work,” he said. “What are you talking about?” snapped Vimes. “There’s no—” Nobby nudged him urgently in the ribs and pointed out across the plains. There was a column of black smoke out there. Vimes squinted. Running ahead of the smoke, speeding over the cabbage fields and closing fast, was a silvery bullet. The great dragon had seen it too. It flamed defiance and climbed for extra height, mashing the air with its enormous wings. Now Errol’s flame was visible, so hot as to be almost blue. The landscape rolled away underneath him at an impossible speed, and he was accelerating. Ahead of him the king extended its claws. It was almost grinning. Errol’s going to hit it, Vimes thought. Gods help us all, it’ll be a fireball. Something odd was happening out in the fields. A little way behind Errol the ground appeared to be plowing itself up, throwing cabbage stalks into the air. A hedgerow erupted in a shower of sawdust… Errol passed silently over the city walls, nose up, wings folded down to tiny flaps, his body honed to a mere cone with a flame at one end. His opponent blew out a tongue of fire; Vimes watched Errol, with a barely noticeable flip of a wing stub, roll easily out of its path. And then he was gone, speeding out toward the sea in the same eerie silence. “He miss—” Nobby began. The air ruptured. An endless thunderclap of noise dragged across the city, smashing tiles, toppling chimneys. In mid-air, the king was picked up, flattened out and spun like a top in the sonic wash. Vimes, his hands over his own ears, saw the creature flame desperately as it turned and became the center of a spiral of crazy fire. Magic crackled along its wings. It screamed like a distressed foghorn. Then, shaking its head dazedly, it began to glide in a wide circle. Vimes groaned. It had survived something that tore masonry apart. What did you have to do to beat it? You can’t fight it, he thought. You can’t burn it, you can’t smash it. There’s nothing you can do to it. The dragon landed. It wasn’t a perfect landing. A perfect landing wouldn’t have demolished a row of cottages. It was slow, and it seemed to go on for a long time and rip up a considerable stretch of city. Wings flapping aimlessly, neck waving and spraying random flame, it plowed on through a debris of beams and thatch. Several fires started up along the trail of destruction. Finally it came to rest at the end of the furrow, almost invisible under a heap of former architecture. The silence that it left was broken only by the shouts of someone trying to organize yet another bucket chain from the river to douse the fires. Then people started to move. From the air Ankh-Morpork must have looked like a disturbed anthill, with streams of dark figures flowing toward the wreck of the dragon. Most of them had some kind of weapon. Many of them had spears. Some of them had swords. All of them had one aim in mind. “You know what?” said Vimes aloud. “This is going to be the world’s first democratically killed dragon. One man, one stab. ” “Then you’ve got to stop them. You can’t let them kill it!” said Lady Ramkin. Vimes blinked at her. “Pardon?” he said. “It’s wounded!” “Lady, that was the intention, wasn’t it? Anyway, it’s only stunned,” said Vimes. “I mean you can’t let them kill it like this ,” said Lady Ramkin insistently. “Poor thing!” “What do you want to do, then?” demanded Vimes, his temper unravelling. “Give it a strengthening dose of tar oil and a nice comfy basket in front of the stove?” “It’s butchery!” “Suits me fine!” “But it’s a dragon! It’s just doing what a dragon does! It never would have come here if people had left it alone!” Vimes thought: it was about to eat her, and she can still think like this. He hesitated. Perhaps that did give you the right to an opinion… Sergeant Colon sidled up as they glared, white-faced, at one another, and hopped desperately from one squelching foot to the other. “You better come at once, Captain,” he said. “It’s going to be bloody murder!” Vimes waved a hand at him. “As far as I’m concerned,” he mumbled, avoiding Sybil Ramkin’s glare, “it’s got it coming to it. ” “It’s not that,” said Colon. “It’s Carrot. He’s arrested the dragon. ” Vimes paused. “What do you mean, arrested ?” he said. “You don’t mean what I think you mean, do you?” “Could be, sir,” said Colon uncertainly. “Could be. He was up on the rubble like a shot, sir, grabbed it by a wing and said ‘You’re nicked , chummy,’ sir. Couldn’t believe it, sir. Sir, the thing is…” “Well?” The sergeant hopped from one foot to the other. “You know you said prisoners weren’t to be molested, sir…” It was quite a large and heavy roof timber and it scythed quite slowly through the air, but when it hit people they rolled backward and stayed hit. “Now look ,” said Carrot, hauling it in and pushing back his helmet, “I don’t want to have to tell anyone again, right?” Vimes shouldered his way through the dense crowd, staring at the bulky figure atop the mound of rubble and dragon. Carrot turned slowly, the roof beam held like a staff. His gaze was like a lighthouse beam. Where it fell, the crowd lowered their weapons and looked merely sullen and uncomfortable. “I must warn you,” Carrot went on, “that interfering with an officer in the execution of his duty is a serious offense. And I shall come down like a ton of bricks on the very next person who throws a stone. ” A stone bounced off the back of his helmet. There was a barrage of jeers. “Let us at it!” “That’s right!” “We don’t want guards ordering us about!” “Quis custodiet custard?” “Yeah? Right!” Vimes pulled the sergeant toward him. “Go and organize some rope. Lots of rope. As thick as possible. I suppose we can—oh, tie its wings together, maybe, and bind up its mouth so it can’t flame. ” Colon peered at him. “Are you serious, sir? We’re really going to arrest it?” “Do it!” It’s been arrested, he thought, as he pushed his way forward. Personally I would have preferred it to drop in the sea, but it’s been arrested and now we’ve got to deal with it or let it go free. He felt his own feelings about the bloody thing evaporate in the face of the mob. What could you do with it? Give it a fair trial, he thought, and then execute it. Not kill it. That’s what heroes do out in the wilderness. You can’t think like that in cities. Or rather, you can , but if you’re going to then you might as well burn the whole place down right now and start again. You ought to do it…well, by the book. That’s it. We tried everything else. Now we might as well try and do it by the book. Anyway, he added mentally, that’s a city guard up there. We’ve got to stick together. Nobody else will have anything to do with us. A burly figure in front of him drew back an arm with a halfbrick in it. |
“Throw that brick and you’re a dead man,” said Vimes, and then ducked and pushed his way through the press of people while the would-be thrower looked around in amazement. Carrot half-raised his club in a threatening gesture as Vimes climbed up the rubble pile. “Oh, hallo, Captain Vimes,” he said, lowering it, “I have to report I have arrested this—” “Yes, I can see,” said Vimes. “Did you have any suggestions about what we do next?” “Oh, yes, sir. I have to read it its rights, sir,” said Carrot. “I mean apart from that. ” “Not really, sir. ” Vimes looked at those parts of the dragon still visible under the rubble. How could you kill one of these? You’d have to spend a day at it. A lump of rock ricocheted off his breastplate. “Who did that?” The voice lashed out like a whip. The crowd went quiet. Sybil Ramkin scrambled up on the wreckage, eyes afire, and glared furiously at the mob. “I said,” she said, “who did that? If the person who did it does not own up I shall be extremely angry! Shame on you all!” She had their full attention. Several people holding stones and things let them drop quietly to the ground. The breeze flapped the remnants of her nightshirt as her Ladyship took up a new haranguing position. “Here is the gallant Captain Vimes—” “Oh gods,” said Vimes in a small voice, and pulled his helmet down over his eyes. “—and his dauntless men, who have taken the trouble to come here today, to save your—” Vimes gripped Carrot’s arm and maneuverd him down the far side of the heap. “You all right, Captain?” said the lance-constable. “You’ve gone all red. ” “Don’t you start,” snapped Vimes. “It’s bad enough getting all those leers from Nobby and the sergeant. ” To his astonishment Carrot patted him companionably on the shoulder. “I know how it is,” he said sympathetically. “I had this girl back home, her name was Minty, and her father—” “Look, for the last time, there is absolutely nothing between—” Vimes began. There was a rattle beside them. A small avalanche of plaster and thatch rolled down. The rubble heaved, and opened one eye. One big black pupil floating in a bloodshot glow tried to focus on them. “We must be mad,” said Vimes. “Oh, no, sir,” said Carrot. “There’s plenty of precedents. In 1135 a hen was arrested for crowing on Soul Cake Thursday. And during the regime of Psychoneurotic Lord Snapcase a colony of bats was executed for persistent curfew violations. That was in 1401. August, I think. Great days for the law, they were,” said Carrot dreamily. “In 1321, you know, a small cloud was prosecuted for covering the sun during the climax of Frenzied Earl Hargath’s investiture ceremony. ” “I hope Colon gets a move on with—” Vimes stopped. He had to know. “How?” he said. “What can you do to a cloud?” “The Earl sentenced it to be stoned to death,” said Carrot. “Apparently thirty-one people were killed. ” He pulled out his notebook and glared at the dragon. “Can it hear us, do you think?” he said. “I suppose so. ” “Well, then. ” Carrot cleared his throat and turned back to the stunned reptile. “It is my duty to warn you that you are to be reported for consideration of prosecution on some or all of the following counts, to whit: One, (One) i, that on or about 18th Grune last, in a place known as Sweetheart Lane, the Shades, you did unlawfully vent flame in a manner likely to cause grievous bodily harm, in contravention of Clause Seven of the Industrial Processes Act, 1508; AND THAT, One, (One) ii, that on or about 18th Grune last, in a place known as Sweetheart Lane, the Shades, you caused or did cause to cause the death of six persons unknown—” Vimes wondered how long the rubble would hold the creature down. Several weeks would be necessary, if the length of the charge sheet was anything to go by. The crowd went silent. Even Sybil Ramkin was standing in astonishment. “What’s the matter?” said Vimes to the upturned faces. “Haven’t you ever seen a dragon being arrested before?” “—Sixteen (Three) ii, on the night of Grune 24th last, you did flame or cause to flame those premises known as the Old Watch House, Ankh-Morpork valued at two hundred dollars; AND THAT, Sixteen (Three) iii, on the night of Grune 24th last, upon being apprehended by an officer of the Watch in the execution of his duty—” “I think we should hurry up,” whispered Vimes. “It’s getting rather restive. Is all this necessary?” “Well, I believe one can summarize,” said Carrot. “In exceptional circumstances, according to Bregg’s Rules for—” “It may come as a surprise, but these are exceptional circumstances, Carrot,” said Vimes. “And they’re going to be really astonishingly exceptional if Colon doesn’t hurry up with that rope. ” More rubble moved as the dragon strained to get up. There was a thump as a heavy beam was shouldered aside. The crowd began to run for it. It was at this point that Errol came back over the rooftops in a series of minor explosions, leaving a trail of smoke rings. Dipping low, he buzzed the crowd and sent the front rank stumbling backward. He was also wailing like a foghorn. Vimes grabbed Carrot and stumbled down the heap as the king started to scrabble desperately to get free. “He’s come back for the kill!” he shouted. “It probably took him all this time just to slow down!” Now Errol was hovering over the fallen dragon, and hooting shrilly enough to bust bottles. The great dragon stuck its head up in a cascade of plaster dust. It opened its mouth but, instead of the lance of white fire that Vimes tensed himself to expect, it merely made a noise like a kitten. Admittedly a kitten shouting into a tin bath at the bottom of a cave, but still a kitten. Broken spars fell aside when the huge creature got unsteadily to its feet. The great wings opened, showering the surrounding streets with dust and bits of thatch. Some of it clanged off the helmet of Sergeant Colon, hurrying back with what looked like a small washing line coiled over his arm. “You’re letting it get up!” Vimes shouted, pushing the sergeant to safety. “You’re not supposed to let it get up, Errol! Don’t let it get up!” Lady Ramkin frowned. “That’s not right,” she said. “They never usually fight like that. The winner usually kills the loser. ” “Right on!” shouted Nobby. “And then half the time he explodes with the excitement in any case. ” “Look, it’s me !” Vimes yelled, as Errol hovered unconcernedly over the scene. “I bought you the fluffy ball! The one with the bell in it! You can’t do this to us!” “No, wait a minute,” said Lady Ramkin, laying a hand on his arm. “I’m not sure we haven’t got hold of the wrong end of the stick here—” The great dragon leapt into the air and brought its wings down with a whump that flattened a few more buildings. The huge head swung around, the bleary eyes caught sight of Vimes. There seemed to be some thought going on inside them. Errol arced across the sky and hovered protectively in front of the captain, facing the thing down. For a moment it looked as though he might be turned into a small flying charcoal biscuit, and then the dragon lowered its gaze in a slightly embarrassed way and started to rise. It climbed in a wide spiral, gathering speed as it did so. Errol went with it, orbiting the huge body like a tug around a liner. “It’s—it’s as though he’s fussing over it,” said Vimes. “Add up the bastard!” shouted Nobby enthusiastically. “Total, Nobby,” said Colon. “You mean ‘total. ’” Vimes felt Lady Ramkin’s gaze on the back of his neck. He looked at her expression. Realization dawned. “Oh,” he said. Lady Ramkin nodded. “Really?” said Vimes. “Yes,” she said. “I really ought to have thought of it before. It was such a hot flame, of course. And they’re always so much more territorial than the males. ” “Why don’t you fight the bastard!” shouted Nobby, at the dwindling dragons. “Bitch, Nobby,” said Vimes quietly. “Not bastard. Bitch. ” “Why don’t you fi–what?” “It’s a member of the female gender,” explained Lady Ramkin. “What?” “We meant that if you tried your favorite kick, Nobby, it wouldn’t work,” said Vimes. “It’s a girl ,” translated Lady Ramkin. |
“But it’s sodding enormous !” said Nobby. Vimes coughed urgently. Nobby’s rodent eyes slid sideways to Sybil Ramkin, who blushed like a sunset. “A fine figure of a dragon, I mean,” he said quickly. “Er. Wide, egg-bearing hips,” said Sergeant Colon anxiously. “Statueskew,” Nobby added fervently. “Shut up,” said Vimes. He brushed the dust off the remains of his uniform, adjusted the hang of his breastplate, and set his helmet on squarely. He patted it firmly. This wasn’t where it ended, he knew that. This was where it all got started. “You men come with me. Come on, hurry! While everyone’s still watching them,” he added. “But what about the king?” said Carrot. “Or queen? Or whatever it is now?” Vimes stared at the rapidly shrinking shapes. “I really don’t know,” he said. “That’s up to Errol, I suppose. We’ve got other things to do. ” Colon saluted, still fighting for breath. “Where we going, sir?” he managed. “To the palace. Any of you still got a sword?” “You can use mine, Captain,” said Carrot. He handed it over. “Right,” said Vimes quietly. He glared at them. “Let’s go. ” The rank trailed behind Vimes through the stricken streets. He started to walk faster. The rank started to trot to keep up. Vimes began to trot to keep ahead. The rank broke into a canter. Then, as if on an unspoken word of command, they broke into a run. Then into a gallop. People scurried away as they rattled past. Carrot’s enormous sandals hammered on the cobbles. Sparks flew up from the scads of Nobby’s boots. Colon ran quietly for such a fat man, as fat men often do, face locked in a scowl of concentration. They pounded along the Street of Cunning Artificers, turned into Hogsback Alley, emerged into the Street of Small Gods and thundered toward the palace. Vimes kept barely in the lead, mind currently empty of everything except the need to run and run. At least, nearly everything. But his head buzzed and resonated manically with those of all city guards everywhere, all the pavement-pounding meatheads in the multiverse who had ever, just occasionally, tried to do what was Right. Far ahead of them a handful of palace guards drew their swords, took a second look, thought better of it, darted back inside the wall and started to close the gates. They clanged together as Vimes arrived. He hesitated, panting for breath, and looked at the massive things. The ones that the dragon had burned had been replaced by gates even more forbidding. From behind them came the sound of bolts sliding back. This was no time for half measures. He was a captain, godsdammit. An officer. Things like this didn’t present a problem for an officer. Officers had a tried and tested way of solving problems like this. It was called a sergeant. “Sergeant Colon!” he snapped, his mind still buzzing with universal policemanhood, “shoot the lock off!” The sergeant hesitated. “What, sir? With a bow and arrow, sir?” “I mean—” Vimes hesitated. “I mean, open these gates!” “Sir!” Colon saluted. He glared at the gates for a moment. “Right!” he barked. “Lance-constable Carrot, one stepa forwarda, take ! Lance-constable Carrot, inna youra owna timer! Open these gatesa!” “Yes, sir!” Carrot stepped forward, saluted, folded an enormous hand into a fist and rapped gently on the woodwork. “Open up,” he said, “in the name of the Law!” There was some whispering on the other side of the gates, and eventually a small hatch halfway up the door slid open a fraction and a voice said, “Why?” “Because if you don’t it will be Impeding an Officer of the Watch in the Execution of his Duty, which is punishable by a fine of not less than thirty dollars, one month’s imprisonment, or being remanded in custody for social inquiry reports and half an hour with a red-hot poker,” said Carrot. There was some more muffled whispering, the sound of bolts being drawn, and then the gates opened about halfway. There was no one visible on the other side. Vimes put a finger to his lips. He motioned Carrot toward one gate and dragged Nobby and Colon to the other. “Push,” he whispered. They pushed, hard. There was a sudden eruption of pained cursing from behind the woodwork. “Run!” shouted Colon. “No!” shouted Vimes. He walked around the gate. Four semi-crushed palace guards glowered at him. “No,” he said. “No more running. I want these men arrested. ” “You wouldn’t dare,” said one of the men. Vimes peered at him. “Clarence, isn’t it?” he said. “With a C. Well, Clarence with a C, watch my lips. Either you can be charged with Aiding and Abetting or—” he leaned closer, and glanced meaningfully at Carrot—“with an ax. ” “Swivel on that one, doggybag!” added Nobby, jumping from one foot to the other in vicious excitement. Clarence’s little piggy eyes glared at the looming bulk that was Carrot, and then at Vimes’s face. There was absolutely no mercy there. He appeared to reach a reluctant decision. “Jolly good,” said Vimes. “Lock them in the gatehouse, Sergeant. ” Colon drew his bow and squared his shoulders. “You heard the Man,” he rasped. “One false move and you’re…you’re—” he took a desperate stab at it—“you’re Home Economics!” “Yeah! Slam ’em up in the banger!” shouted Nobby. If worms could turn, Nobby was revolving at generating speeds. “Doucheballs!” he sneered, at their retreating backs. “Aiding and Abetting what, Captain?” said Carrot, as the weaponless guards trooped away. “You have to aid and abet something. ” “I think in this case it will just be generalized abetting,” said Vimes. “Persistent and reckless abetment. ” “Yeah,” said Nobby. “Can’t stand abettors. Slime-breaths!” Colon handed Captain Vimes the guardhouse key. “It’s not very secure in there, Captain,” he said. “They’ll be able to break out eventually. ” “I hope so,” said Vimes, “because the very first drain we come to, you’re going to drop the key down it. Everyone here? Right. Follow me. ” Lupine Wonse scurried along the ruined corridors of the palace, The Summoning of Dragons under one arm, the glittering royal sword grasped uncertainly in one hand. He halted, panting, in a doorway. Not a lot of his mind was currently in a state sane enough to have proper thoughts, but the small part that was still in business kept insisting that it couldn’t have seen what it had seen or heard what it had heard. Someone was following him. And he’d seen Vetinari walking through the palace. He knew the man was securely put away. The lock was completely unpickable. He remembered the Patrician being absolutely insistent that it be an unpickable lock when it was installed. There was movement in the shadows at the end of the passage. Wonse gibbered a bit, fumbled with the doorhandle beside him, darted in, slammed the door and leaned against it, fighting for breath. He opened his eyes. He was in the old private audience room. The Patrician was sitting in his old seat, one leg crossed on the other, watching him with mild interest. “Ah, Wonse,” he said. Wonse jumped, scrabbled at the doorhandle, leapt into the corridor and ran for it until he reached the main staircase, rising now through the ruins of the central palace like a forlorn corkscrew. Stairs—height—high ground—defense. He ran up them three at a time. All he needed was a few minutes of peace. Then he’d show them. The upper floors were more full of shadows. What they were short on was structural strength. Pillars and walls had been torn out by the dragon as it built its cave. Rooms gaped pathetically on the edge of the abyss. Dangling shreds of wall-hanging and carpet flapped in the wind from the smashed windows. The floor sprang and wobbled like a trampoline as Wonse scurried across it. He struggled to the nearest door. “That was commendably fast,” said the Patrician. Wonse slammed the door in his face and ran, squeaking, down a corridor. Sanity took a brief hold. He paused by a statue. There was no sound, no hurrying footsteps, no whirr of hidden doors. He gave the statue a suspicious look and prodded it with the sword. When it failed to move he opened the nearest door and slammed it behind him, found a chair and wedged it under the handle. |
This was one of the upper state rooms, bare now of most of its furnishings, and lacking its fourth wall. Where it should have been was just the gulf of the cavern. The Patrician stepped out of the shadows. “Now you have got it out of your system—” he said. Wonse spun around, sword raised. “You don’t really exist,” he said. “You’re a—a ghost, or something. ” “I believe this is not the case,” said the Patrician. “You can’t stop me! I’ve got some magic stuff left, I’ve got the book!” Wonse took a brown leather bag out of his pocket. “I’ll bring back another one! You’ll see!” “I urge you not to,” said Lord Vetinari mildly. “Oh, you think you’re so clever, so in-control, so swave , just because I’ve got a sword and you haven’t! Well, I’ve got more than that, I’ll have you know,” said Wonse triumphantly. “Yes! I’ve got the palace guards on my side! They follow me, not you! No one likes you, you know. No one ever liked you. ” He swung the sword so that its needle point was a foot from the Patrician’s thin chest. “So it’s back to the cells for you,” he said. “And this time I’ll make sure you stay there. Guards! Guards!” There was the clatter of running feet outside. The door rattled, the chair shook. There was a moment’s silence, and then door and chair erupted in splinters. “Take him away!” screamed Wonse. “Fetch more scorpions! Put him in… you’re not the —” “Put the sword down,” said Vimes, while behind him Carrot picked bits of door out of his fist. “Yeah,” said Nobby, peering around the captain. “Up against the wall and spread ’em, motherbreath!” “Eh? What’s he supposed to spread?” whispered Sergeant Colon anxiously. Nobby shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. “Everything, I reckon. Safest way. ” Wonse stared at the rank in disbelief. “Ah, Vimes,” said the Patrician. “You will—” “Shut up,” said Vimes calmly. “Lance-constable Carrot?” “Sir!” “Read the prisoner his rights. ” “Yes, sir. ” Carrot produced his notebook, licked his thumb, flicked through the pages. “Lupine Wonse,” he said, “AKA Lupin Squiggle Sec’y PP—” “Wha?” said Wonse. “—currently domiciled in the domicile known as The Palace, Ankh-Morpork it is my duty to inform you that you have been arrested and will be charged with—” Carrot gave Vimes an agonized look—“a number of offenses of murder by means of a blunt instrument, to whit, a dragon, and many further offenses of generalized abetting, to be more specifically ascertained later. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to be summarily thrown into a piranha tank. You have the right to trial by ordeal. You have the—” “This is madness,” said the Patrician calmly. “I thought I told you to shut up!” snapped Vimes, spinning around and shaking a finger under the Patrician’s nose. “Tell me, Sarge,” whispered Nobby, “do you think we’re going to like it in the scorpion pit?” “—say anything, er, but anything you do say will be written down, er, here, in my notebook, and, er, may be used in evidence—” Carrot’s voice trailed into silence. “Well, if this pantomime gives you any pleasure, Vimes,” said the Patrician eventually, “take him down to the cells. I’ll deal with him in the morning. ” Wonse made no signal. There was no scream or cry. He just rushed at the Patrician, sword raised. Options flickered across Vimes’s mind. In the lead came the suggestion that standing back would be a good plan, let Wonse do it, disarm him afterward, let the city clean itself up. Yes. A good plan. And it was therefore a total mystery to him why he chose to dart forward, bringing Carrot’s sword up in a half-baked attempt at blocking the stroke… Perhaps it was something to do with doing it by the book. There was a clang. Not a particularly loud one. He felt something bright and silver whirr past his ear and strike the wall. Wonse’s mouth fell open. He dropped the remnant of his sword and backed away, clutching The Summoning. “You’ll be sorry,” he hissed. “You’ll all be very sorry !” He started to mumble under his breath. Vimes felt himself trembling. He was pretty certain he knew what had zinged past his head, and the mere thought was making his hands sweat. He’d come to the palace ready to kill and there’d been this minute , just this minute , when for once the world had seemed to be operating properly and he was in charge of it and now, now all he wanted was a drink. And a nice week’s sleep. “Oh, give up !” he said. “Are you going to come quietly?” The mumbling went on. The air began to feel hot and dry. Vimes shrugged. “That’s it, then,” he said, and turned away. “Throw the book at him, Carrot. ” “Right, sir. ” Vimes remembered too late. Dwarfs have trouble with metaphors. They also have a very good aim. The Laws and Ordinances of Ankh and Morpork caught the secretary on the forehead. He blinked, staggered, and stepped backward. It was the longest step he ever took. For one thing, it lasted the rest of his life. After several seconds they heard him hit, five storys below. After several more seconds their faces appeared over the edge of the ravaged floor. “What a way to go,” said Sergeant Colon. “That’s a fact,” said Nobby, reaching up to his ear for a dog-end. “Killed by a wossname. A metaphor. ” “Dunno,” said Nobby. “Looks like the ground to me. Got a light, Sarge?” “That was right, wasn’t it, sir?” said Carrot anxiously. “You said to—” “Yes, yes,” said Vimes. “Don’t worry. ” He reached down with a shaking hand, picked up the bag Wonse had been holding, and tipped out a pile of stones. Every one had a hole in it. Why? he thought. A metallic noise behind him made him look around. The Patrician was holding the remains of the royal sword. As the captain watched, the man wrenched the other half of the sword out of the far wall. It was a clean break. “Captain Vimes,” he said. “Sir?” “That sword, if you please?” Vimes handed it over. He couldn’t, right now, think of anything else to do. He was probably due for a scorpion pit of his very own as it was. Lord Vetinari examined the rusty blade carefully. “How long have you had this, Captain?” he said mildly. “Isn’t mine, sir. Belongs to Lance-constable Carrot, sir. ” “Lance—?” “Me, sir, your graciousness,” said Carrot, saluting. “Ah. ” The Patrician turned the blade over and over slowly, staring at it as if fascinated. Vimes felt the air thicken, as though history was clustering around this point, but for the life of him he couldn’t think why. This was one of those points where the Trousers of Time bifurcated themselves, and if you weren’t careful you’d go down the wrong leg— Wonse arose in a world of shades, icy confusion pouring into his mind. But all he could think of at the moment was the tall cowled figure standing over him. “I thought you were all dead,” he mumbled. It was strangely quiet and the colors around him seemed washed-out, muted. Something was very wrong. “Is that you, Brother Doorkeeper?” he ventured. The figure reached out. M ETAPHORICALLY , it said. —and the Patrician handed the sword to Carrot. “Very well done, young man,” he said. “Captain Vimes, I suggest you give your men the rest of the day off. ” “Thank you, sir,” said Vimes. “Okay, lads. You heard his lordship. ” “But not you, Captain. We must have a little talk. ” “Yes, sir?” said Vimes innocently. The rank scurried out, giving Vimes sympathetic and sorrowful glances. The Patrician walked to the edge of the floor and looked down. “Poor Wonse,” he said. “Yes, sir. ” Vimes stared at the wall. “I would have preferred him alive, you know. ” “Sir?” “Misguided, yes, but a useful man. His head could have been of further use to me. ” “Yes, sir. ” “The rest, of course, we could have thrown away. ” “Yes, sir. ” “That was a joke, Vimes. ” “Yes, sir. ” “The chap never grasped the idea of secret passages, mind you. ” “No, sir. ” “That young fellow. Carrot, you called him?” “Yes, sir. ” “Keen fellow. Likes it in the Watch?” “Yes, sir. Right at home, sir. ” “You saved my life. ” “Sir?” “Come with me. ” He stalked away through the ruined palace, Vimes trailing behind, until he reached the Oblong Office. It was quite tidy. |
It had escaped most of the devastation with nothing more than a layer of dust. The Patrician sat down, and suddenly it was as if he’d never left. Vimes wondered if he ever had. He picked up a sheaf of papers and brushed the plaster off them. “Sad,” he said. “Lupine was such a tidy-minded man. ” “Yes, sir. ” The Patrician steepled his hands and looked at Vimes over the top of them. “Let me give you some advice, Captain,” he said. “Yes, sir?” “It may help you make some sense of the world. ” “Sir. ” “I believe you find life such a problem because you think there are the good people and the bad people,” said the man. “You’re wrong, of course. There are, always and only, the bad people, but some of them are on opposite sides. ” He waved his thin hand toward the city and walked over to the window. “A great rolling sea of evil,” he said, almost proprietorially. “Shallower in some places, of course, but deeper, oh, so much deeper in others. But people like you put together little rafts of rules and vaguely good intentions and say, this is the opposite, this will triumph in the end. Amazing!” He slapped Vimes good-naturedly on the back. “Down there,” he said, “are people who will follow any dragon, worship any god, ignore any iniquity. All out of a kind of humdrum, everyday badness. Not the really high, creative loathesomeness of the great sinners, but a sort of mass-produced darkness of the soul. Sin, you might say, without a trace of originality. They accept evil not because they say yes , but because they don’t say no. I’m sorry if this offends you,” he added, patting the captain’s shoulder, “but you fellows really need us. ” “Yes, sir?” said Vimes quietly. “Oh, yes. We’re the only ones who know how to make things work. You see, the only thing the good people are good at is overthrowing the bad people. And you’re good at that, I’ll grant you. But the trouble is that it’s the only thing you’re good at. One day it’s the ringing of the bells and the casting down of the evil tyrant, and the next it’s everyone sitting around complaining that ever since the tyrant was overthrown no one’s been taking out the trash. Because the bad people know how to plan. It’s part of the specification, you might say. Every evil tyrant has a plan to rule the world. The good people don’t seem to have the knack. ” “Maybe. But you’re wrong about the rest!” said Vimes. “It’s just because people are afraid, and alone—” He paused. It sounded pretty hollow, even to him. He shrugged. “They’re just people,” he said. “They’re just doing what people do. Sir. ” Lord Vetinari gave him a friendly smile. “Of course, of course,” he said. “You have to believe that, I appreciate. Otherwise you’d go quite mad. Otherwise you’d think you’re standing on a feather-thin bridge over the vaults of Hell. Otherwise existence would be a dark agony and the only hope would be that there is no life after death. I quite understand. ” He looked at his desk, and sighed. “And now,” he said, “there is such a lot to do. I’m afraid poor Wonse was a good servant but an inefficient master. So you may go. Have a good night’s sleep. Oh, and do bring your men in tomorrow. The city must show its gratitude. ” “It must what ?” said Vimes. The Patrician looked at a scroll. Already his voice was back to the distant tones of one who organizes and plans and controls. “It’s gratitude,” he said. “After every triumphant victory there must be heroes. It is essential. Then everyone will know that everything has been done properly. ” He glanced at Vimes over the top of the scroll. “It’s all part of the natural order of things,” he said. After a while he made a few pencil annotations to the paper in front of him and looked up. “I said,” he said, “that you may go. ” Vimes paused at the door. “Do you believe all that, sir?” he said. “About the endless evil and the sheer blackness?” “Indeed, indeed,” said the Patrician, turning over the page. “It is the only logical conclusion. ” “But you get out of bed every morning, sir?” “Hmm? Yes? What is your point?” “I’d just like to know why , sir. ” “Oh, do go away, Vimes. There’s a good fellow. ” In the dark and drafty cave hacked from the heart of the palace the Librarian knuckled across the floor. He clambered over the remains of the sad hoard and looked down at the splayed body of Wonse. Then he reached down, very gently, and prised The Summoning of Dragons from the stiffening fingers. He blew the dust off it. He brushed it tenderly, as if it was a frightened child. He turned to climb down the heap, and stopped. He bent down again, and carefully pulled another book from among the glittering rubble. It wasn’t one of his, except in the wide sense that all books came under his domain. He turned a few pages carefully. “Keep it,” said Vimes behind him. “Take it away. Put it somewhere. ” The orangutan nodded at the captain, and rattled down the heap. He tapped Vimes gently on the kneecap, opened The Summoning of Dragons , leafed through its ravaged pages until he found the one he’d been looking for, and silently passed the book up. Vimes squinted at the crabbed writing. Yet draggons are notte liken unicornes, I willen. They dwellyth in some Realm definèd bye thee Fancie of the Wille and, thus, it myte bee thate whomsoever calleth upon them, and giveth them theyre patheway unto thys worlde, calleth theyre Owne dragon of the Mind. Yette, I trow, the Pure in Harte maye stille call a Draggon of Power as a Forse for Goode in thee worlde, and this ane nighte the Grate Worke will commense. All bathe been prepared. I hath labored most mytily to be a Worthie Vessle … A realm of fancy, Vimes thought. That’s where they went, then. Into our imaginations. And when we call them back we shape them, like squeezing dough into pastry shapes. Only you don’t get gingerbread men, you get what you are. Your own darkness, given shape… Vimes read it through again, and then looked at the following pages. There weren’t many. The rest of the book was a charred mass. Vimes handed it back to the ape. “What kind of a man was de Malachite?” he said. The Librarian gave this the consideration due from someone who knew the Dictionary of City Biography by heart. Then he shrugged. “Particularly holy?” said Vimes. The ape shook his head. “Well, noticeably evil, then?” The ape shrugged, and shook his head again. “If I were you,” said Vimes, “I’d put that book somewhere very safe. And the book of the Law with it. They’re too bloody dangerous. ” “Oook. ” Vimes stretched. “And now,” he said, “let’s go and have a drink. ” “Oook. ” “But just a small one. ” “Oook. ” “And you’re paying. ” “Eeek. ” Vimes stopped and stared down at the big, mild face. “Tell me,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to know…is it better , being an ape?” The Librarian thought about it. “Oook,” he said. “Oh. Really?” said Vimes. It was next day. The room was wall-to-wall with civic dignitaries. The Patrician sat on his severe chair, surrounded by the Council. Everyone present was wearing the shiny waxen grins of those bent on good works. Lady Sybil Ramkin sat off to one side, wearing a few acres of black velvet. The Ramkin family jewels glittered on her fingers, neck and in the black curls of today’s wig. The total effect was striking, like a globe of the heavens. Vimes marched the rank to the center of the hall and stamped to a halt with his helmet under his arm, as per regulations. He’d been amazed to see that even Nobby had made an effort—the suspicion of shiny metal could be seen here and there on his breastplate. And Colon was wearing an expression of almost constipated importance. Carrot’s armor gleamed. Colon ripped off a textbook salute for the first time in his life. “All present and correct, sah!” he barked. “Very good, Sergeant,” said Vimes coldly. He turned to the Patrician and raised an eyebrow politely. Lord Vetinari gave a little wave of his hand. “Stand easy, or whatever it is you chaps do,” he said. “I’m sure we needn’t wait on ceremony here. What do you say, Captain?” “Just as you like, sir,” said Vimes. |
“Now, men,” said the Patrician, leaning forward, “we have heard some remarkable accounts of your magnificent efforts in defense of the city…” Vimes let his mind wander as the golden platitudes floated past. For a while he derived a certain amount of amusement from watching the faces of the Council. A whole sequence of expressions drifted across them as the Patrician spoke. It was, of course, vitally important that there be a ceremony like this. Then the whole thing could be neat and settled. And forgotten. Just another chapter in the long and exciting history of eckcetra, eckcetra. Ankh-Morpork was good at starting new chapters. His trawling gaze fell on Lady Ramkin. She winked. Vimes’s eyes swiveled front again, his expression suddenly as wooden as a plank. “…token of our gratitude,” the Patrician finished, sitting back. Vimes realized that everyone was looking at him. “Pardon?” he said. “I said , we have been trying to think of some suitable recompense, Captain Vimes. Various public-spirited citizens—” the Patrician’s eyes took in the Council and Lady Ramkin—“and, of course, myself, feel that an appropriate reward is due. ” Vimes still looked blank. “Reward?” he said. “It is customary for such heroic endeavor,” said the Patrician, a little testily. Vimes faced forward again. “Really haven’t thought about it, sir,” he said. “Can’t speak for the men, of course. ” There was an awkward pause. Out of the corner of his eye Vimes was aware of Nobby nudging the sergeant in the ribs. Eventually Colon stumbled forward and ripped off another salute. “Permission to speak, sir,” he muttered. The Patrician nodded graciously. The sergeant coughed. He removed his helmet and pulled out a scrap of paper. “Er,” he said. “The thing is, saving your honor’s presence, we think, you know, what with saving the city and everything, or sort of, or, what I mean is…we just had a go, you see, man on the spot and that sort of thing…the thing is, we reckon we’re entitled. If you catch my drift. ” The assembled company nodded. This was exactly how it should be. “Do go on,” said the Patrician. “So we, like, put our heads together,” said the sergeant. “A bit of a cheek, I know…” “Please carry on , Sergeant,” said the Patrician. “You needn’t keep stopping. We are well aware of the magnitude of the matter. ” “Right, sir. Well, sir. First, it’s the wages. ” “The wages?” said Lord Vetinari. He stared at Vimes, who stared at nothing. The sergeant raised his head. His expression was the determined expression of a man who is going to see it through. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Thirty dollars a month. It’s not right. We think—” he licked his lips and glanced behind him at the other two, who were making vague encouraging motions—“we think a basic rate of, er, thirty-five dollars? A month?” He stared at the Patrician’s stony expression. “With increments as per rank? We thought five dollars. ” He licked his lips again, unnerved by the Patrician’s expression. “We won’t go below four,” he said. “And that’s flat. Sorry, your Highness, but there it is. ” The Patrician glanced again at Vimes’s impassive face, then looked back at the rank. “That’s it ?” he said. Nobby whispered in Colon’s ear and then darted back. The sweating sergeant gripped his helmet as though it was the only real thing in the world. “There was another thing, your reverence,” he said. “Ah. ” The Patrician smiled knowingly. “There’s the kettle. It wasn’t much good anyway, and then Errol et it. It was nearly two dollars. ” He swallowed. “We could do with a new kettle, if it’s all the same, your lordship. ” The Patrician leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair. “I want to be clear about this,” he said coldly. “Are we to believe that you are asking for a petty wage increase and a domestic utensil?” Carrot whispered in Colon’s other ear. Colon turned two bulging, watery-rimmed eyes to the dignitaries. The rim of his helmet was passing through his fingers like a millwheel. “Well,” he began, “sometimes, we thought, you know, when we has our dinner break, or when it’s quiet, like, at the end of a watch as it may be, and we want to relax a bit, you know, wind down…” His voice trailed away. “Yes?” Colon took a deep breath. “I suppose a dartboard would be out of the question—?” The thunderous silence that followed was broken by an erratic snorting. Vimes’s helmet dropped out of his shaking hand. His breastplate wobbled as the suppressed laughter of the years burst out in great uncontrollable eruptions. He turned his face to the row of councillors and laughed and laughed until the tears came. Laughed at the way they got up, all confusion and outraged dignity. Laughed at the Patrician’s carefully immobile expression. Laughed for the world and the saving of souls. Laughed and laughed, and laughed until the tears came. Nobby craned up to reach Colon’s ear. “I told you,” he hissed. “I said they’d never wear it. I knew a dartboard’d be pushing our luck. You’ve upset ’em all now. ” Dear Mother and Father [wrote Carrot] You will never guess, I have been in the Watch only a few weeks and, already I am to be a full Constable. Captain Vimes said, the Patrician himself said I was to be One, and that also he hoped I should have a long and successful career in the Watch as well and, he would follow it with special interest. Also my wages are to go up by ten dollars and we had a special bonus of twenty dollars that Captain Vimes paid for out of his own pocket, Sgt. Colon said. Please find money enclosed. I am keeping a little bit by though because I went to see Reet and Mrs. Palm said all the girls had been following my career with Great Interest as well and I am to come to dinner on my night off. Sgt. Colon has been telling me about how to start courting, which is very interesting and not at all complicated it appears. I arrested a dragon but it got away. I hope Mr. Varneshi is well. I am as happy as anyone can be in the whole world. Your son, Carrot. Vimes knocked on the door. An effort had been made to spruce up the Ramkin mansion, he noticed. The encroaching shrubbery had been pitilessly hacked back. An elderly workman atop a ladder was nailing the stucco back on the walls while another, with a spade, was rather arbitrarily defining the line where the lawn ended and the old flower beds had begun. Vimes stuck his helmet under his arm, smoothed back his hair, and knocked. He’d considered asking Sergeant Colon to accompany him, but had brushed the idea aside quickly. He couldn’t have tolerated the sniggering. Anyway, what was there to be afraid of? He’d stared into the jaws of death three times; four, if you included telling Lord Vetinari to shut up. To his amazement the door was eventually opened by a butler so elderly that he might have been resurrected by the knocking. “Yerss?” he said. “Captain Vimes, City Watch,” said Vimes. The man looked him up and down. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Her ladyship did say. I believe her ladyship is with her dragons,” he said. “If you like to wait in ’ere, I will—” “I know the way,” said Vimes, and set off around the overgrown path. The kennels were a ruin. An assortment of battered wooden boxes were lying around under an oilcloth awning. From their depths a few sad swamp dragons whiffled a greeting at him. A couple of women were moving purposefully among the boxes. Ladies, rather. They were far too untidy to be mere women. No ordinary women would have dreamed of looking so scruffy; you needed the complete self-confidence that comes with knowing who your great-great-great-great-grandfather was before you could wear clothes like that. But they were, Vimes noticed, incredibly good clothes, or had been once; clothes bought by one’s parents, but so expensive and of such good quality that they never wore out and were handed down, like old china and silverware and gout. Dragon breeders, he thought. You can tell. There’s something about them. It’s the way they wear their silk scarves, old tweed coats and granddad’s riding boots. And the smell, of course. |
A small wiry woman with a face like old saddle leather caught sight of him. “Ah,” she said, “you’ll be the gallant captain. ” She tucked an errant strand of white hair back under a headscarf and extended a veiny brown hand. “Brenda Rodley. That’s Rosie Devant-Molei. She runs the Sunshine Sanctuary, you know. ” The other woman, who had the build of someone who could pick up carthorses in one hand and shoe them with the other, gave him a friendly grin. “Samuel Vimes,” said Vimes weakly. “My father was a Sam,” said Brenda vaguely. “You can always trust a Sam, he said. ” She shooed a dragon back into its box. “We’re just helping Sybil. Old friends, you know. The collection’s all to blazes, of course. They’re all over the city, the little devils. I dare say they’ll come back when they’re hungry, though. What a bloodline, eh?” “I’m sorry?” “Sybil reckons he was a sport, but I say we should be able to breed back into the line in three or four generations. I’m famed for my stud, you know,” she said. “That’d be something, though. A whole new type of dragon. ” Vimes thought of supersonic contrails criss-crossing the sky. “Er,” he said. “Yes. ” “Well, we must get on. ” “Er, isn’t Lady Ramkin around?” said Vimes. “I got this message that it was essential, she said, for me to come here. ” “She’s indoors somewhere,” said Miss Rodley. “Said she had something important to see to. Oh, do be careful with that one, Rose, you silly gel!” “More important than dragons ?” said Vimes. “Yes. Can’t think what’s come over her. ” Brenda Rodley fished in the pocket of an oversized waistcoat. “Nice to have met you, Captain. Always good to meet new members of the Fancy. Do drop in any time you’re passing, I’d be only too happy to show you around. ” She extracted a grubby card and pressed it into his hand. “Must be off now, we’ve heard that some of them are trying to build nests on the University tower. Can’t have that. Must get ’em down before it gets dark. ” Vimes squinted at the card as the women crunched off down the drive, carrying nets and ropes. It said: Brenda, Lady Rodley. The Dower House, Quirm Castle, Quirm. What it meant, he realized, was that striding away down the path like an animated rummage stall was the dowager Duchess of Quirm, who owned more country than you could see from a very high mountain on a very clear day. Nobby would not have approved. There seemed to be a special kind of poverty that only the very, very rich could possibly afford… That was how you got to be a power in the land, he thought. You never cared a toss about whatever anyone else thought and you were never, ever, uncertain about anything. He padded back to the house. A door was open. It led into a large but dark and musty hall. Up in the gloom the heads of dead animals haunted the walls. The Ramkins seemed to have endangered more species than an ice age. Vimes wandered aimlessly through another mahogany archway. It was a dining room, containing the kind of table where the people at the other end are in a different time zone. One end had been colonized by silver candlesticks. It was laid for two. A battery of cutlery flanked each plate. Antique wineglasses sparkled in the candlelight. A terrible premonition took hold of Vimes at the same moment as a gust of Captivation , the most expensive perfume available anywhere in Ankh-Morpork blew past him. “Ah, Captain. So nice of you to come. ” Vimes turned around slowly, without his feet appearing to move. Lady Ramkin stood there, magnificently. Vimes was vaguely aware of a brilliant blue dress that sparkled in the candlelight, a mass of hair the color of chestnuts, a slightly anxious face that suggested that a whole battalion of skilled painters and decorators had only just dismantled their scaffolding and gone home, and a faint creaking that said underneath it all mere corsetry was being subjected to the kind of tensions more usually found in the heart of large stars. “I, er,” he said. “If you, er. If you’d said, er. I’d, er. Dress more suitable, er. Extremely, er. Very. Er. ” She bore down upon him like a glittering siege engine. In a sort of dream he allowed himself to be ushered to a seat. He must have eaten, because servants appeared out of nowhere with things stuffed with other things, and came back later and took the plates away. The butler reanimated occasionally to fill glass after glass with strange wines. The heat from the candles was enough to cook by. And all the time Lady Ramkin talked in a bright and brittle way—about the size of the house, the responsibilities of a huge estate, the feeling that it was time to take One’s Position in Society More Seriously, while the setting sun filled the room with red and Vimes’s head began to spin. Society, he managed to think, didn’t know what was going to hit it. Dragons weren’t mentioned once, although after a while something under the table put its head on Vimes’s knee and dribbled. Vimes found it impossible to contribute to the conversation. He felt outflanked, beleaguered. He made one sally, hoping maybe to reach high ground from which to flee into exile. “Where do you think they’ve gone?” he said. “Where what?” said Lady Ramkin, temporarily halted. “The dragons. You know. Errol and his wi–female. ” “Oh, somewhere isolated and rocky, I should imagine,” said Lady Ramkin. “Favorite country for dragons. ” “But it— she’s a magical animal,” said Vimes. “What’ll happen when the magic goes away?” Lady Ramkin gave him a shy smile. “Most people seem to manage,” she said. She reached across the table and touched his hand. “Your men think you need looking after,” she said meekly. “Oh. Do they?” said Vimes. “Sergeant Colon said he thought we’d get along like a maison en Flambé. ” “Oh. Did he?” “And he said something else,” she said. “What was it, now? Oh, yes: ‘It’s a million to one chance,’” said Lady Ramkin, “I think he said, ‘but it might just work. ’” She smiled at him. And then it arose and struck Vimes that, in her own special category, she was quite beautiful; this was the category of all the women, in his entire life, who had ever thought he was worth smiling at. She couldn’t do worse, but then, he couldn’t do better. So maybe it balanced out. She wasn’t getting any younger but then, who was? And she had style and money and common-sense and self-assurance and all the things that he didn’t, and she had opened her heart, and if you let her she could engulf you; the woman was a city. And eventually, under siege, you did what Ankh-Morpork had always done—unbar the gates, let the conquerors in, and make them your own. How did you start? She seemed to be expecting something. He shrugged, and picked up his wine glass and sought for a phrase. One crept into his wildly resonating mind. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” he said. The gongs of various midnights banged out the old day. (…and further toward the Hub, where the Ramtop Mountains joined the forbidding spires of the central massif, where strange hairy creatures roamed the eternal snows, where blizzards howled around the freezing peaks, the lights of a lone lamasery shone out over the high valleys. In the courtyard a couple of yellow-robed monks stacked the last case of small green bottles onto a sleigh, ready for the first leg of the incredibly difficult journey down to the distant plains. The box was labeled, in careful brush strokes, “Mstr. C. M. O. T. Dibbler, Ankh-Morpork. ” “You know, Lobsang,” said one of them, “one cannot help wondering what it is he does with this stuff. ”) Corporal Nobbs and Sergeant Colon lounged in the shadows near the Mended Drum, but straightened up as Carrot came out bearing a tray. Detritus the troll stepped aside respectfully. “Here we are, lads,” said Carrot. “Three pints. On the house. ” “Bloody hell, I never thought you’d do it,” said Colon, grasping a handle. “What did you say to him?” “I just explained how it was the duty of all good citizens to help the guard at all times,” said Carrot innocently, “and I thanked him for his cooperation. ” “Yeah, and the rest,” said Nobby. “No, that was all I said. |
” “Then you must have a really convincing tone of voice. ” “Ah. Well, make the most of it, lads, while it lasts,” said Colon. They drank thoughtfully. It was a moment of supreme peace, a few minutes snatched from the realities of real life. It was a brief bite of stolen fruit and enjoyed as such. No one in the whole city seemed to be fighting or stabbing or making affray and, just for now, it was possible to believe that this wonderful state of affairs might continue. And even if it didn’t, then there were memories to get them through. Of running, and people getting out of the way. Of the looks on the faces of the horrible palace guard. Of, when all the thieves and heroes and gods had failed, of being there. Of nearly doing things nearly right. Nobby shoved the pot on a convenient windowsill, stamped some life back into his feet and blew on his fingers. A brief fumble in the dark recesses of his ear produced a fragment of cigarette. “What a time, eh?” said Colon contentedly, as the flare of a match illuminated the three of them. The others nodded. Yesterday seemed like a lifetime ago, even now. But you could never forget something like that, no matter who else did, no matter what happened from now on. “If I never see any bloody king it’ll be too soon,” said Nobby. “I don’t reckon he was the right king, anyway,” said Carrot. “Talking of kings: anyone want a crisp?” “There’s no right kings,” said Colon, but without much rancor. Ten dollars a month was going to make a big difference. Mrs. Colon was acting very differently toward a man bringing home another ten dollars a month. Her notes on the kitchen table were a lot more friendly. “No, but I mean, there’s nothing special about having an ancient sword,” said Carrot. “Or a birthmark. I mean, look at me. I’ve got a birthmark on my arm. ” “My brother’s got one, too,” said Colon. “Shaped like a boat. ” “Mine’s more like a crown thing,” said Carrot. “Oho, that makes you a king, then,” grinned Nobby. “Stands to reason. ” “I don’t see why. My brother’s not an admiral,” said Colon reasonably. “And I’ve got this sword,” said Carrot. He drew it. Colon took it from his hand, and turned it over and over in the light from the flare over the Drum’s door. The blade was dull and short, and notched like a saw. It was well-made and there might have been an inscription on it once, but it had long ago been worn into indecipherability by sheer use. “It’s a nice sword,” he said thoughtfully. “Well-balanced. ” “But not one for a king,” said Carrot. “Kings’ swords are big and shiny and magical and have jewels on and when you hold them up they catch the light, ting. ” “Ting,” said Colon. “Yes. I suppose they have to, really. ” “I’m just saying you can’t go round giving people thrones just because of stuff like that,” said Carrot. “That’s what Captain Vimes said. ” “Nice job, mind,” said Nobby. “Good hours, kinging. ” “Hmm?” Colon had momentarily been lost in a little world of speculation. Real kings had shiny swords, obviously. Except, except, except maybe your real real king of, like, days of yore, he would have a sword that didn’t sparkle one bit but was bloody efficient at cutting things. Just a thought. “I say kinging’s a good job,” Nobby repeated. “Short hours. ” “Yeah. Yeah. But not long days,” said Colon. He gave Carrot a thoughtful look. “Ah. There’s that, of course. ” “Anyway, my father says being king’s too much like hard work,” said Carrot. “All the surveying and assaying and everything. ” He drained his pint. “It’s not the kind of thing for the likes of us. Us—” he looked proudly—“guards. You all right, Sergeant?” “Hmm? What? Oh. Yes. ” Colon shrugged. What about it, anyway? Maybe things turned out for the best. He finished the beer. “Best be off,” he said. “What time was it?” “About twelve o’clock,” said Carrot. “Anything else?” Carrot gave it some thought. “And all’s well?” he said. “Right. Just testing. ” “You know,” said Nobby, “the way you say it, lad, you could almost believe it was true. ” Let the eye of attention pull back… This is the Disc, world and mirror of worlds, borne through space on the back of four giant elephants who stand on the back of Great A ’Tuin the Sky Turtle. Around the Rim of this world the ocean pours off endlessly into the night. At its Hub rises the ten-mile spike of the Cori Celesti, on whose glittering summit the gods play games with the fates of men… …if you know what the rules are, and who are the players. On the far edge of the Disc the sun was rising. The light of the morning began to flow across the patchwork of seas and continents, but it did so slowly, because light is tardy and slightly heavy in the presence of a magical field. On the dark crescent, where the old light of sunset had barely drained from the deepest valleys, two specks, one big, one small, flew out of the shadow, skimmed low across the swells of the Rim ocean, and struck out determinedly over the totally unfathomable, star-dotted depths of space. Perhaps the magic would last. Perhaps it wouldn’t. But then, what does? THE END About the Author Terry Pratchett is one of the most popular living authors in the world. His first story was published when he was thirteen, and his first full-length book when he was twenty. He worked as a journalist to support the writing habit, but gave up the day job when the success of his books meant that it was costing him money to go to work. Pratchett’s acclaimed novels are bestsellers in the U. S. and the United Kingdom and have sold more than twenty-seven million copies worldwide. He lives in England, where he writes all the time. (It’s his hobby, as well. ) Visit www. AuthorTracker. com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author. “SUPERB POPULAR ENTERTAINMENT. ” Washington Post Book World A bestselling sensation in America and around the globe, Terry Pratchett’s profoundly irreverent novels are consistent number one bestsellers in England, and have been translated into twenty-seven languages. The world laughs out loud with Terry Pratchett—isn’t it time you shared in the fun too? UNANIMOUS PRAISE FOR TERRY PRATCHETT “Pratchett has now moved beyond the limits of humorous fantasy, and should be recognized as one of the more significant contemporary English language satirists. ” Publishers Weekly “Consistently, inventively mad…wild and wonderful!” Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine “Think J. R. R. Tolkien with a sharper, more satiric edge. ” Houston Chronicle “His books are richly textured, and far more complex than they appear at first. ” Barbara Mertz “Discworld takes the classic fantasy universe through its logical, and comic evolution. ” Cleveland Plain Dealer “Truly original…. Discworld is more complicated and satisfactory than Oz…. Has the energy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and the inventiveness of Alice in Wonderland …. Brilliant!” A. S. Byatt “Humorously entertaining…subtly thought-provoking…. Pratchett’s Discworld books are filled with humor and with magic, but they’re rooted in—of all things—real life and cold, hard reason. ” Chicago Tribune “For lighthearted escape with a thoughtful center, you can’t do better than…any…Discworld novel. ” Washington Post Book World “Simply the best humorous writer of the twentieth century. ” Oxford Times “A brilliant storyteller with a sense of humor…whose infectious fun completely engulfs you…. The Dickens of the twentieth century. ” Mail on Sunday (London) “Pratchett is a comic genius. ” Express (London) “Pratchett demonstrates just how great the distance is between one-or two-joke writers and the comic masters whose work will be read into the next century. ” Locus “As always he is head and shoulders above the best of the rest. He is screamingly funny. He is wise. He has style. ” Daily Telegraph (London) “Terry Pratchett does for fantasy what Douglas Adams did for science fiction. ” Today (Great Britain) “What makes Terry Pratchett’s fantasies so entertaining is that their humor depends on the characters first, on the plot second, rather than the other way around. |
The story isn’t there simply to lead from one slapstick pratfall to another pun. Its humor is genuine and unforced. ” Ottawa Citizen “Terry Pratchett is more than a magician. He is the kindest, most fascinating teacher you ever had. ” Harlan Ellison “Delightful…. Logically illogical as only Terry Pratchett can write. ” Anne McCaffrey B OOKS BY T ERRY P RATCHETT The Carpet People The Dark Side of the Sun Strata Truckers Diggers Wings Only You Can Save Mankind Johnny and the Dead Johnny and the Bomb The Unadulterated Cat (with Gray Jollife) Good Omens (with Neil Gaiman) T HE D ISCWORLD S ERIES The Color of Magic* The Light Fantastic* Equal Rites* Mort Sourcery Wyrd Sisters Pyramids Guards! Guards! Eric (with Josh Kirby) Moving Pictures Reaper Man Witches Abroad Small Gods* Lords and Ladies* Men at Arms* Soul Music* Interesting Times* Maskerade* Feet of Clay* Hogfather* Jingo* The Last Continent* Carpe Jugulum* The Fifth Elephant* The Truth* Mort: A Discworld Big Comic (with Graham Higgins) The Streets of Ankh-Morpork (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Companion (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Mapp *Published by HarperCollins Copyright This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. GUARDS! GUARDS!. Copyright © 1989 by Terry and Lyn Pratchett. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Mobipocket Reader April 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-144049-6 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. 25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321) Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia http://www. harpercollinsebooks. com. au Canada HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900 Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada http://www. harpercollinsebooks. ca New Zealand HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited P. O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand http://www. harpercollinsebooks. co. nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www. uk. harpercollinsebooks. com United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www. harpercollinsebooks. com 1 All this was untrue. The truth is that even big collections of ordinary books distort space, as can readily be proved by anyone who has been around a really old-fashioned secondhand bookshop, one of those that look as though they were designed by M. Escher on a bad day and has more staircases than storys and those rows of shelves which end in little doors that are surely too small for a full-sized human to enter. The relevant equation is: Knowledge = power = energy = matter = mass; a good bookshop is just a genteel Black Hole that knows how to read. 1 A figgin is defined in the Dictionary of Eye-Watering Words as “a small short-crust pasty containing raisins. ” The Dictionary would have been invaluable for the Supreme Grand Master when he thought up the Society’s oaths, since it also includes welchet (“a type of waistcoat worn by certain clock-makers”), gaskin (“a shy, gray-brown bird of the coot family”), and moules (“a game of skill and dexterity, involving tortoises”). 1 The pronoun is used by dwarfs to indicate both sexes. All dwarfs have beards and wear up to twelve layers of clothing. Gender is more or less optional. 2 i. e. , about 55. 1 Lit. dezka-knik , “mine supervisor. ” 1 One of the remarkable innovations introduced by the Patrician was to make the Thieves’ Guild responsible for theft, with annual budgets, forward planning and, above all, rigid job protection. Thus, in return for an agreed average level of crime per annum, the thieves themselves saw to it that unauthorized crime was met with the full force of Injustice, which was generally a stick with nails in it. 1 Lit: “Good day! Good day! What is all of this that is going on here (in this place )?” 1 “Listen, sunshine [lit: “the stare of the great hot eye in the sky whose fiery gaze penetrates the mouth of the cavern”] I don’t want to have to give anyone a smacking, so if you play B’tduz 2 A popular dwarfish game which consists of standing a few feet apart and throwing large rocks at one another’s head. 3 Lit: “All correctly beamed and propped?” with me, I’ll play B’tduz with you. Okay?” 1 “Evening, all. ” (Lit: “Felicitations to all present at the closing of the day. ”) 1 Like a bouncer, but trolls use more force. 1 And mime artists. It was a strange aversion, but there you are. Anyone in baggy trousers and a white face who tried to ply their art anywhere within Ankh’s crumbling walls would very quickly find themselves in a scorpion pit, on one wall of which was painted the advice: Learn The Words. 1 While being bang alongside the idea of necessary cruelty, of course. 1 Only until their third clutch, of course. After that they’re dams. 1 The Guild of Fire Fighters had been outlawed by the Patrician the previous year after many complaints. The point was that, if you bought a contract from the Guild, your house would be protected against fire. Unfortunately, the general Ankh-Morpork ethos quickly came to the fore and fire fighters would tend to go to prospective clients’ houses in groups, making loud comments like “Very inflammable looking place, this” and “Probably go up like a firework with just one carelessly-dropped match, know what I mean?” 1 A species of geranium. 1 Some rioters can be quite ell-educated. 1 The phrase “Set a thief to catch a thief” had by this time (after strong representations from the Thieves’ Guild) replaced a much older and quintessentially Ankh-Morporkian proverb, which was “Set a deep hole with spring-loaded sides, tripwires, whirling knife blades driven by water power, broken glass and scorpions, to catch a thief. ” 1 Tridlins: A short and unnecessary religious observance performed daily by the Holy Balancing Dervishes of Otherz, according to the Dictionary of Eye-Watering Words. 1 Like a pea-souper, only much thicker, fishier, and with things in it you’d probably rather not know about. 1 The three rules of the Librarians of Time and Space are: 1) Silence; 2) Books must be returned no later than the last date shown; and 3) Do not interfere with the nature of causality. 1 A number of religions in Ankh-Morpork still practiced human sacrifice, except that they didn’t really need to practice anymore because they had got so good at it. City law said that only condemned criminals should be used, but that was all right because in most of the religions refusing to volunteer for sacrifice was an offense punishable by death. Table of Contents Dedication Begin Reading About the Author UNANIMOUS PRAISE FOR TERRY PRATCHETT BOOKS BY TERRY PRATCHETT Copyright About the Publisher Terry Pratchett Men at Arms A Novel of Discworld ® Contents Begin Reading About the Author Praise Other Books by Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Publisher Begin Reader C orporal Carrot, Ankh-Morpork City Guard (Night Watch), sat down in his nightshirt, took up his pencil, sucked the end for a moment, and then wrote: “Dearest Mume and Dad, Well here is another fine Turnup for the Books, for I have been made Corporal!! It means another Five Dollars a month plus also I have a new jerkin with, two stripes upon it as well. |
And a new copper badge! It is a Great responsibility!! This is all because we have got new recruits because the Patrician who, as I have formerly vouchsafed is the ruler of the city, has agreed the Watch must reflect the ethnic makeup of the City—” Carrot paused for a moment and stared out of the small dusty bedroom window at the early evening sunlight sidling across the river. Then he bent over the paper again. “—which I do not Fulley understand but must have something to do with the dwarf Grabpot Thundergust’s Cosmetic Factory. Also, Captain Vimes of who I have often written to you of is, leaving the Watch to get married and Become a Fine Gentleman and, I’m sure we wish him All the Best, he taught me All I Know apart, from the things I taught myself. We are clubbing together to get him a Surprise Present, I thought one of those new Watches that don’t need demons to make them go and we could inscribe on the back something like ‘A Watch from, your Old Freinds in the Watch’, this is a pune or Play on Words. We do not know who will be the new Captain, Sgt. Colon says he will Resign if it’s him, Cpl. Nobbs—” Carrot stared out of the window again. His big honest forehead wrinkled with effort as he tried to think of something positive to say about Corporal Nobbs. “—is more suited in his current Roll, and I have not been in the Watch long enough. So we shall just have to wait and See—” It began, as many things do, with a death. And a burial, on a spring morning, with mist on the ground so thick that it poured into the grave and the coffin was lowered into cloud. A small greyish mongrel, host to so many assorted doggy diseases that it was surrounded by a cloud of dust, watched impassively from the mound of earth. Various elderly female relatives cried. But Edward d’Eath didn’t cry, for three reasons. He was the eldest son, the thirty-seventh Lord d’Eath, and it was Not Done for a d’Eath to cry; he was—just, the diploma still had the crackle in it—an Assassin, and Assassins didn’t cry at a death, otherwise they’d never be stopping; and he was angry. In fact, he was enraged. Enraged at having to borrow money for this poor funeral. Enraged at the weather, at this common cemetery, at the way the background noise of the city didn’t change in any way, even on such an occasion as this. Enraged at history. It was never meant to be like this. It shouldn’t have been like this. He looked across the river to the brooding bulk of the Palace, and his anger screwed itself up and became a lens. Edward had been sent to the Assassins’ Guild because they had the best school for those whose social rank is rather higher than their intelligence. If he’d been trained as a Fool, he’d have invented satire and made dangerous jokes about the Patrician. If he’d been trained as a Thief, * he’d have broken into the Palace and stolen something very valuable from the Patrician. However…he’d been sent to the Assassins… That afternoon he sold what remained of the d’Eath estates, and enrolled again at the Guild school. For the post-graduate course. He got full marks, the first person in the history of the Guild ever to do so. His seniors described him as a man to watch—and, because there was something about him that made even Assassins uneasy, preferably from a long way away. In the cemetery the solitary gravedigger filled in the hole that was the last resting place of d’Eath senior. He became aware of what seemed to be thoughts in his head. They went something like this: Any chance of a bone? No, no, sorry, bad taste there, forget I mentioned it. You’ve got beef sandwiches in your wossname, lunchbox thingy, though. Why not give one to the nice little doggy over there? The man leaned on his shovel and looked around. The grey mongrel was watching him intently. It said, “Woof?” It took Edward d’Eath five months to find what he was looking for. The search was hampered by the fact that he did not know what he was looking for, only that he’d know it when he found it. Edward was a great believer in Destiny. Such people often are. The Guild library was one of the largest in the city. In certain specialized areas it was the largest. These areas mainly had to do with the regrettable brevity of human life and the means of bringing it about. Edward spent a lot of time there, often at the top of a ladder, often surrounded by dust. He read every known work on armaments. He didn’t know what he was looking for and he found it in a note in the margin of an otherwise very dull and inaccurate treatise on the ballistics of crossbows. He copied it out, carefully. Edward spent a lot of time among history books as well. The Assassins’ Guild was an association of gentlemen of breeding, and people like that regard the whole of recorded history as a kind of stock book. There were a great many books in the Guild library, and a whole portrait gallery of kings and queens, * and Edward d’Eath came to know their aristocratic faces better than he did his own. He spent his lunch hours there. It was said later that he came under bad influences at this stage. But the secret of the history of Edward d’Eath was that he came under no outside influences at all, unless you count all those dead kings. He just came under the influence of himself. That’s where people get it wrong. Individuals aren’t naturally paid-up members of the human race, except biologically. They need to be bounced around by the Brownian motion of society, which is a mechanism by which human beings constantly remind one another that they are…well…human beings. He was also spiraling inward, as tends to happen in cases like this. He’d had no plan. He’d just retreated, as people do when they feel under attack, to a more defensible position, i. e. the past, and then something happened which had the same effect on Edward as finding a plesiosaur in his goldfish pond would on a student of ancient reptiles. He’d stepped out blinking in the sunlight one hot afternoon, after a day spent in the company of departed glory, and had seen the face of the past strolling by, nodding amiably to people. He hadn’t been able to control himself. He’d said, “Hey, you! Who are y-ou?” The past had said, “Corporal Carrot, sir. Night Watch. Mr. d’Eath, isn’t it? Can I help you?” “What? No! No. Be about your b-usiness!” The past nodded and smiled at him, and strolled on, into the future. Carrot stopped staring at the wall. “I have expended three dollars on an iconograph box which, is a thing with a brownei inside that paints pictures of thing’s, this is all the Rage these days. Please find enclosed pictures of my room and my freinds in the Watch, Nobby is the one making the Humerous Gesture but he is a Rough Diamond and a good soul deep down. ” He stopped again. Carrot wrote home at least once a week. Dwarfs generally did. Carrot was two meters tall but he’d been brought up as a dwarf, and then further up as a human. Literary endeavor did not come easily to him, but he persevered. “The weather,” he wrote, very slowly and carefully, “continues Very Hot…” Edward could not believe it. He checked the records. He double-checked. He asked questions and, because they were innocent enough questions, people gave him answers. And finally he took a holiday in the Ramtops, where careful questioning led him to the dwarf mines around Copperhead, and thence to an otherwise unremarkable glade in a beech wood where, sure enough, a few minutes of patient digging unearthed traces of charcoal. He spent the whole day there. When he’d finished, carefully replacing the leafmould as the sun went down, he was quite certain. Ankh-Morpork had a king again. And this was right. And it was fate that had let Edward recognize this just when he’d got his Plan. And it was right that it was Fate, and the city would be Saved from its ignoble present by its glorious past. He had the Means , and he had the end. And so on…Edward’s thoughts often ran like this. He could think in italics. Such people need watching. Preferably from a safe distance. |
“I was Interested in your letter where you said people have been coming and asking about me, this is Amazing, I have been here hardly Five Minutes and already I am Famus. “I was very pleased to hear about the opening of #7 shaft. I don’t mind Telling You that although, I am very happy here I miss the Good Times back Home. Sometimes on my day Off I go and, sit in the Cellar and hit my head with an axe handle but, it is Not the Same. “Hoping this finds you in Good Health, Yrs. faithfully, “Your loving son, adopted, Carrot. ” He folded the letter up, inserted the iconographs, sealed it with a blob of candle wax pressed into place with his thumb, and put it in his pants pocket. Dwarf mail to the Ramtops was quite reliable. More and more dwarfs were coming to work in the city, and because dwarfs are very conscientious many of them sent money home. This made dwarf mail just about as safe as anything, since their mail was closely guarded. Dwarfs are very attached to gold. Any highwayman demanding “Your money or your life” had better bring a folding chair and packed lunch and a book to read while the debate goes on. Then Carrot washed his face, donned his leather shirt and trousers and chainmail, buckled on his breastplate and, with his helmet under his arm, stepped out cheerfully, ready to face whatever the future would bring. This was another room, somewhere else. It was a poky room, the plaster walls crumbling, the ceilings sagging like the underside of a fat man’s bed. And it was made even more crowded by the furniture. It was old, good furniture, but this wasn’t the place for it. It belonged in high echoing halls. Here, it was crammed. There were dark oak chairs. There were long sideboards. There was even a suit of armor. There was barely room for the half dozen or so people who sat at the huge table. There was barely room for the table. A clock ticked in the shadows. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, even though there was still plenty of daylight left in the sky. The air was stifling, both from the heat of the day and the candles in the magic lantern. The only illumination was from the screen which, at that moment, was portraying a very good profile of Corporal Carrot Ironfoundersson. The small but very select audience watched it with the carefully blank expressions of people who are half convinced that their host is several cards short of a full deck but are putting up with it because they’ve just eaten a meal and it would be rude to leave too soon. “Well?” said one of them. “I think I’ve seen him walking around the city. So? He’s just a watchman, Edward. ” “Of course. It is essential that he should be. A humble station in life. It all fits the classic p-attern. ” Edward d’Eath gave a signal. There was a click as another glass slide was slotted in. “ This one was not p-ainted from life. King P-paragore. Taken from an old p-ainting. This one”— click! —“is King Veltrick III. From another p-portrait. This one is Queen Alguinna IV…note the line of the chin? This one”— click! —“is a sevenpenny p-iece from the reign of Webblethorpe the Unconscious, note again the detail of the chin and general b-bone structure, and this”— click! —“is…an upside d-own picture of a vase of flowers. D-elphini-ums, I believe. Why is this?” “Er, sorry, Mr. Edward, I’ad a few glass plates left and the demons weren’t tired and—” “Next slide, please. And then you may leave us. ” “Yes, Mr. Edward. ” “Report to the d-uty torturer. ” “Yes, Mr. Edward. ” Click! “And this is a rather good—well done, Bl-enkin—image of the bust of Queen Coanna. ” “Thank you, Mr. Edward. ” “More of her face would have enabled us to be certain of the likeness, however. There is sufficient, I believe. You may go, Bl-enkin. ” “Yes, Mr. Edward. ” “A little something off the ears, I th-ink. ” “Yes, Mr. Edward. ” The servant respectfully shut the door behind him, and then went down to the kitchen shaking his head sadly. The d’Eaths hadn’t been able to afford a family torturer for years. For the boy’s sake he’d just have to do the best he could with a kitchen knife. The visitors waited for the host to speak, but he didn’t seem about to do so, although it was sometimes hard to tell with Edward. When he was excited, he suffered not so much from a speech impediment as from misplaced pauses, as if his brain were temporarily putting his mouth on hold. Eventually, one of the audience said: “Very well. So what is your point?” “You’ve seen the likeness. Isn’t if ob-vious?” “Oh, come now—” Edward d’Eath pulled a leather case toward him and began undoing the thongs. “But, but the boy was adopted by Discworld dwarfs. They found him as a baby in the forests of the Ramtop mountains. There were some b-urning wagons, corpses, that sort of thing. B-andit attack, apparently. The dwarfs found a sword in the wreckage. He has it now. A very old sword. And it’s always sharp. ” “So? The world is full of old swords. And grindstones. ” “This one had been very well hidden in one of the carts, which had broken up. Strange. One would expect it to be ready to hand, yes? To be used? In b-andit country? And then the boy grows up and, and…Fate…conspires that he and his sword come to Ankh-Morpork, where he is currently a watchman in the Night Watch. I couldn’t believe it!” “That’s still not—” Edward raised his hand a moment, and then pulled out a package from the case. “I made careful enq-uiries, you know, and was able to find the place where the attack occurred. A most careful search of the ground revealed old cart n-ails, a few copper coins and, in some charcoal…this. ” They craned to see. “Looks like a ring. ” “Yes. It’s, it’s, it’s superficially d-iscolored, of course, otherwise someone would have spot-ted it. Probably secreted somewhere on a cart. I’ve had it p-artly cleaned. You can just read the inscription. Now, here is an illustrated inventory of the royal jewelery of Ankh done in AM 907, in the reign of King Tyrril. May I, please, may I draw your a-ttention to the small wedding ring in the bottom left-hand corner of the page? You will see that the artist has hel-pfully drawn the inscription. ” It took several minutes for everyone to examine it. They were naturally suspicious people. They were all descendants of people for whom suspicion and paranoia had been prime survival traits. Because they were all aristocrats. Not one among them did not know the name of his or her great-great-great-grandfather and what embarrassing disease he’d died of. They had just eaten a not-very-good meal which had, however, included some ancient and worthwhile wines. They’d attended because they’d all known Edward’s father, and the d’Eaths were a fine old family, if now in very reduced circumstances. “So you see,” said Edward proudly, “the evidence is overwhelming. We have a king!” His audience tried to avoid looking at each other’s faces. “I thought you’d be pl-eased,” said Edward. Finally, Lord Rust voiced the unspoken consensus. There was no room in those true-blue eyes for pity, which was not a survival trait, but sometimes it was possible to risk a little kindness. “Edward,” he said, “the last king of Ankh-Morpork died centuries ago. ” “Executed by t-raitors!” “Even if a descendant could still be found, the royal blood would be somewhat watered down by now, don’t you think?” “The royal b-lood cannot be wa-tered down!” Ah, thought Lord Rust. So he’s that kind. Young Edward thinks the touch of a king can cure scrofula, as if royalty was the equivalent of a sulphur ointment. Young Edward thinks that there is no lake of blood too big to wade through to put a rightful king on a throne, no deed too base in defense of a crown. A romantic, in fact. Lord Rust was not a romantic. The Rusts had adapted well to Ankh-Morpork’s post-monarchy centuries by buying and selling and renting and making contacts and doing what aristocrats have always done, which is trim sails and survive. |
“Well, maybe,” he conceded, in the gentle tones of someone trying to talk someone else off a ledge, “but we must ask ourselves: does Ankh-Morpork, at this point in time, require a king?” Edward looked at him as though he were mad. “Need? Need? While our fair city languishes under the heel of the ty-rant?” “Oh. You mean Vetinari. ” “Can’t you see what he’s done to this city?” “He is a very unpleasant, jumped-up little man,” said Lady Selachii, “but I would not say he actually terrorizes much. Not as such. ” “You have to hand it to him,” said Viscount Skater, “the city operates. More or less. Fellas and whatnot do things. ” “The streets are safer than they used to be under Mad Lord Snapcase,” said Lady Selachii. “Sa-fer? Vetinari set up the Thieves’ Guild!” shouted Edward. “Yes, yes, of course, very reprehensible, certainly. On the other hand, a modest annual payment and one walks in safety…” “He always says,” said Lord Rust, “that if you’re going to have crime, it might as well be organized crime. ” “Seems to me,” said Viscount Skater, “that all the Guild chappies put up with him because anyone else would be worse, yes? We’ve certainly had some…difficult ones. Anyone remember Homicidal Lord Winder?” “Deranged Lord Harmoni,” said Lord Monflathers. “Laughing Lord Scapula,” said Lady Selachii. “A man with a very pointed sense of humor. ” “Mind you, Vetinari…there’s something not entirely…” Lord Rust began. “I know what you mean,” said Viscount Skater. “I don’t like the way he always knows what you’re thinking before you think it. ” “Everyone knows the Assassins have set his fee at a million dollars,” said Lady Selachii. “That’s how much it would cost to have him killed. ” “One can’t help feeling,” said Lord Rust, “that it would cost a lot more than that to make sure he stayed dead. ” “Ye gods! What happened to pride? What happened to honor?” They perceptibly jumped as the last Lord d’Eath thrust himself out of his chair. “Will you listen to yourselves? Please? Look at you. What man among you has not seen his family name degraded since the days of the kings? Can’t you remember the men your forefathers were?” He strode rapidly around the table, so that they had to turn to watch him. He pointed an angry finger. “You, Lord Rust! Your ancestor was cr-eated a Baron after single-handedly killing thirty-seven Klatchians while armed with nothing more than a p-in, isn’t that so?” “Yes, but—” “You, sir…Lord Monflathers! The first Duke led six hundred men to a glorious and epic de-feat at the Battle of Quirm! Does that mean n-othing? And you, Lord Venturii, and you, Sir George…sitting in Ankh in your old houses with your old names and your old money, while Guilds— Guilds! Ragtags of tradesmen and merchants!—Guilds, I say, have a voice in the running of the city!” He reached a bookshelf in two strides and threw a huge leather-bound book on to the table, where it upset Lord Rust’s glass. “ Twurp’s P-eerage, ” he shouted. “We all have pages in there! We own it. But this man has you mesmerized! I assure you he is flesh and blood, a mere mortal! No one dares remove him because they th-ink it will make things a little worse for themselves! Ye g-ods!” His audience looked glum. It was all true, of course…if you put it that way. And it didn’t sound any better coming from a wild-eyed, pompous young man. “Yes, yes, the good old days. Towerin’ spires and pennants and chivalry and all that,” said Viscount Skater. “Ladies in pointy hats. Chappies in armor bashin’ one another and whatnot. But, y’know, we have to move with the times—” “It was a golden age,” said Edward. My god, thought Lord Rust. He actually does believe it. “You see, dear boy,” said Lady Selachii, “a few chance likenesses and a piece of jewelery—that doesn’t really add up to much, does it?” “My nurse told me,” said Viscount Skater, “that a true king could pull a sword from a stone. ” “Hah, yes, and cure dandruff,” said Lord Rust. “That’s just a legend. That’s not real. Anyway, I’ve always been a bit puzzled about that story. What’s so hard about pulling a sword out of a stone? The real work’s already been done. You ought to make yourself useful and find the man who put the sword in the stone in the first place, eh?” There was a sort of relieved laughter. That’s what Edward remembered. It all ended up in laughter. Not exactly at him , but he was the type of person who always takes laughter personally. Ten minutes later, Edward d’Eath was alone. They’re being so nice about it. Moving with the times! He’d expected more than that of them. A lot more. He’d dared to hope that they might be inspired by his lead. He’d pictured himself at the head of an army— Blenkin came in at a respectful shuffle. “I saw ’em all off, Mr. Edward,” he said. “Thank you, Blenkin. You may clear the table. ” “Yes, Mr. Edward. ” “Whatever happened to honor, Blenkin?” “Dunno, sir. I never took it. ” “They didn’t want to listen. ” “No, sir. ” “They didn’t want to l-isten. ” Edward sat by the dying fire, with a dog-eared copy of Thighbiter’s The Ankh-Morpork Succesfion open on his lap. Dead kings and queens looked at him reproachfully. And there it might have ended. In fact it did end there, in millions of universes. Edward d’Eath grew older and obsession turned to a sort of bookish insanity of the gloves-with-the-fingers-cut-out and carpet slippers variety, and became an expert on royalty although no one ever knew this because he seldom left his rooms. Corporal Carrot became Sergeant Carrot and, in the fullness of time, died in uniform aged seventy in an unlikely accident involving an anteater. In a million universes, Lance-Constables Cuddy and Detritus didn’t fall through the hole. In a million universes, Vimes didn’t find the pipes. (In one strange but theoretically possible universe the Watch House was redecorated in pastel colors by a freak whirlwind, which also repaired the door latch and did a few other odd jobs around the place. ) In a million universes, the Watch failed. In a million universes, this was a very short book. Edward dozed off with the book on his knees and had a dream. He dreamed of glorious struggle. Glorious was another important word in his personal vocabulary, like honor. If traitors and dishonorable men would not see the truth then he, Edward d’Eath, was the finger of Destiny. The problem with Destiny, of course, is that she is often not careful where she puts her finger. Captain Sam Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Guard (Night Watch), sat in the draughty anteroom to the Patrician’s audience chamber with his best cloak on and his breastplate polished and his helmet on his knees. He stared woodenly at the wall. He ought to be happy, he told himself. And he was. In a way. Definitely. Happy as anything. He was going to get married in a few days. He was going to stop being a guard. He was going to be a gentleman of leisure. He took off his copper badge and buffed it absent-mindedly on the edge of his cloak. Then he held it up so that the light glinted off the patina’d surface. AMCW No. 177. He sometimes wondered how many other guards had had the badge before him. Well, now someone was going to have it after him. This is Ankh-Morpork, Citie of One Thousand Surprises (according to the Guild of Merchants’ guidebook). What more need be said? A sprawling place, home to a million people, greatest of cities on the Discworld, located on either side of the river Ankh, a waterway so muddy that it looks as if it is flowing upside down. And visitors say: how does such a big city exist? What keeps it going? Since it’s got a river you can chew, where does the drinking water come from? What is, in fact, the basis of its civic economy? How come it, against all probability, works? Actually, visitors don’t often say this. They usually say things like “Which way to the, you know, the…er…you know, the young ladies, right?” But if they started thinking with their brains for a little while, that’s what they’d be thinking. |
The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork sat back on his austere chair with the sudden bright smile of a very busy person at the end of a crowded day who’s suddenly found in his schedule a reminder saying: 7:00-7:05, Be Cheerful and Relaxed and a People Person. “Well, of course I was very saddened to receive your letter, captain…” “Yes, sir,” said Vimes, still as wooden as a furniture warehouse. “ Please sit down, captain. ” “Yes, sir. ” Vimes remained standing. It was a matter of pride. “But of course I quite understand. The Ramkin country estates are very extensive, I believe. I’m sure Lady Ramkin will appreciate your strong right hand. ” “Sir?” Captain Vimes, while in the presence of the ruler of the city, always concentrated his gaze on a point one foot above and six inches to the left of the man’s head. “And of course you will be quite a rich man, captain. ” “Yes, sir. ” “I hope you have thought about that. You will have new responsibilities. ” “Yes, sir. ” It dawned on the Patrician that he was working on both ends of this conversation. He shuffled through the papers on his desk. “And of course I shall have to promote a new chief officer for the Night Watch,” said the Patrician. “Have you any suggestions, captain?” Vimes appeared to descend from whatever cloud his mind had been occupying. This was guard work. “Well, not Fred Colon…He’s one of Nature’s sergeants…” Sergeant Colon, Ankh-Morpork City Guard (Night Watch) surveyed the bright faces of the new recruits. He sighed. He remembered his first day. Old Sergeant Wimbler. What a tartar! Tongue like a whiplash! If the old boy had lived to see this … What was it called? Oh, yeah. Affirmative action hirin’ procedure, or something. Silicon Anti-Defamation League had been going on at the Patrician, and now— “Try it one more time, Lance-Constable Detritus,” he said. “The trick is, you stops your hand just above your ear. Now, just get up off the floor and try salutin’ one more time. Now, then…Lance-Constable Cuddy?” “Here!” “Where?” “In front of you, sergeant. ” Colon looked down and took a step back. The swelling curve of his more than adequate stomach moved aside to reveal the upturned face of Lance-Constable Cuddy, with its helpful intelligent expression and one glass eye. “Oh. Right. ” “I’m taller than I look. ” Oh, gods, thought Sergeant Colon wearily. Add ’em up and divide by two and you’ve got two normal men, except normal men don’t join the Guard. A troll and a dwarf. And that ain’t the worst of it— Vimes drummed his fingers on the desk. “Not Colon, then,” he said. “He’s not as young as he was. Time he stayed in the Watch House, keeping up on the paperwork. Besides, he’s got a lot on his plate. ” “Sergeant Colon has always had a lot on his plate, I should say,” said the Patrician. “With the new recruits, I mean,” said Vimes, meaningfully. “You remember, sir?” The ones you told me I had to have? he added in the privacy of his head. They weren’t to go in the Day Watch, of course. And those bastards in the Palace Guard wouldn’t take them, either. Oh, no. Put ’em in the Night Watch, because it’s a joke anyway and no one’ll really see ’em. No one important, anyway. Vimes had only given in because he knew it wouldn’t be his problem for long. It wasn’t as if he was speciesist, he told himself. But the Watch was a job for men. “How about Corporal Nobbs?” said the Patrician. “Nobby?” They shared a mental picture of Corporal Nobbs. “No. ” “No. ” “Then of course there is,” the Patrician smiled, “Corporal Carrot. A fine young man. Already making a name for himself, I gather. ” “That’s…true,” said Vimes. “A further promotion opportunity, perhaps? I would value your advice. ” Vimes formed a mental picture of Corporal Carrot— “This,” said Corporal Carrot, “is the Hubwards Gate. To the whole city. Which is what we guard. ” “What from?” said Lance-Constable Angua, the last of the new recruits. “Oh, you know. Barbarian hordes, warring tribesmen, bandit armies…that sort of thing. ” “What? Just us? ” “Us? Oh, no!” Carrot laughed. “That’d be silly, wouldn’t it? No, if you see anything like that, you just ring your bell as hard as you like. ” “What happens then?” “Sergeant Colon and Nobby and the rest of ’em will come running along just as soon as they can. ” Lance-Constable Angua scanned the hazy horizon. She smiled. Carrot blushed. Constable Angua had mastered saluting first go. She wouldn’t have a full uniform yet, not until someone had taken a, well, let’s face it, a breastplate along to old Remitt the armorer and told him to beat it out really well here and here , and no helmet in the world would cover all that mass of ash-blond hair but, it occurred to Carrot, Constable Angua wouldn’t need any of that stuff really. People would be queuing up to get arrested. “So what do we do now?” she said. “Proceed back to the Watch House, I suppose,” said Carrot. “Sergeant Colon’ll be reading out the evening report, I expect. ” She’d mastered “proceeding”, too. It’s a special walk devised by beat officers throughout the multiverse—a gentle lifting of the instep, a careful swing of the leg, a walking pace that can be kept up hour after hour, street after street. Lance-Constable Detritus wasn’t going to be ready to learn “proceeding” for some time, or at least until he stopped knocking himself out every time he saluted. “Sergeant Colon,” said Angua. “He was the fat one, yes?” “That’s right. ” “Why has he got a pet monkey?” “Ah,” said Carrot. “I think it is Corporal Nobbs to whom you refer…” “It’s human? He’s got a face like a join-the-dots puzzle!” “He does have a very good collection of boils, poor man. He does tricks with them. Just never get between him and a mirror. ” Not many people were on the streets. It was too hot, even for an Ankh-Morpork summer. Heat radiated from every surface. The river slunk sullenly in the bottom of its bed, like a student around 11 A. M. People with no pressing business out of doors lurked in cellars and only came out at night. Carrot moved through the baking streets with a proprietorial air and a slight patina of honest sweat, occasionally exchanging a greeting. Everyone knew Carrot. He was easily recognizable. No one else was about two meters tall with flame-red hair. Besides, he walked as if he owned the city. “Who was that man with the granite face I saw in the Watch House?” said Angua, as they proceeded along Broad Way. “That was Detritus the troll,” said Carrot. “He used to be a bit of a criminal, but now he’s courting Ruby she says he’s got to—” “No, that man ,” said Angua, learning as had so many others that Carrot tended to have a bit of trouble with metaphors. “Face like thu—face like someone very disgruntled. ” “Oh, that was Captain Vimes. But he’s never been gruntled, I think. He’s retiring at the end of the week, and getting married. ” “Doesn’t look very happy about it,” said Angua. “Couldn’t say. ” “I don’t think he likes the new recruits. ” The other thing about Constable Carrot was that he was incapable of lying. “Well, he doesn’t like trolls much,” he said. “We couldn’t get a word out of him all day when he heard we had to advertise for a troll recruit. And then we had to have a dwarf, otherwise they’d be trouble. I’m a dwarf, too, but the dwarfs here don’t believe it. ” “You don’t say?” said Angua, looking up at him. “My mother had me by adoption. ” “Oh. Yes, but I’m not a troll or a dwarf,” said Angua sweetly. “No, but you’re a w—” Angua stopped. “That’s it, is it? Good grief! This is the Century of the Fruitbat, you know. Ye gods, does he really think like that?” “He’s a bit set in his ways. ” “Congealed, I should think. ” “The Patrician said we had to have a bit of representation from the minority groups,” said Carrot. “Minority groups!” “Sorry. Anyway, he’s only got a few more days—” There was a splintering noise across the street. They turned as a figure sprinted out of a tavern and hared away up the street, closely followed—at least for a few steps—by a fat man in an apron. “Stop! Stop! Unlicensed thief!” “Ah,” said Carrot. |
He crossed the road, with Angua padding along behind him, as the fat man slowed to a waddle. “Morning, Mr. Flannel,” he said. “Bit of trouble?” “He took seven dollars and I never saw no Thief License!” said Mr. Flannel. “What you going to do about it? I pay my taxes!” “We shall be hotly in pursuit any moment,” said Carrot calmly, taking out his notebook. “Seven dollars, was it?” “At least fourteen. ” Mr. Flannel looked Angua up and down. Men seldom missed the opportunity. “Why’s she got a helmet on?” he said. “She’s a new recruit, Mr. Flannel. ” Angua gave Mr. Flannel a smile. He stepped back. “But she’s a—” “Got to move with the times, Mr. Flannel,” said Carrot, putting his notebook away. Mr. Flannel drew his mind back to business. “In the meantime, there’s eighteen dollars of mine that I won’t see again,” he said sharply. “Oh, nil desperandum , Mr. Flannel, nil desperandum ,” said Carrot cheerfully. “Come, Constable Angua. Let us proceed upon our inquiries. ” He proceeded off, with Flannel staring at them with his mouth open. “Don’t forget my twenty-five dollars,” he shouted. “Aren’t you going to chase the man?” said Angua, running to keep up. “No point,” said Carrot, stepping sideways into an alley that was so narrow as to be barely visible. He strolled between the damp, moss-grown walls, in deep shadow. “Interesting thing,” he said. “I bet there’s not many people know that you can get to Zephire Street from Broad Way. You ask anyone. They’ll say you can’t get out of the other end of Shirt Alley. But you can because, all you do, you go up Mormius Street, and then you can squeeze between these bollards here into Borborygmic Lane—good, aren’t they, very good iron—and here we are in Whilom Alley—” He wandered to the end of the alley and stood listening for a while. “What are we waiting for?” said Angua. There was the sound of running feet. Carrot leaned against the wall, and stuck out one arm into Zephire Street. There was a thud. Carrot’s arm didn’t move an inch. It must have been like running into a girder. They looked down at the unconscious figure. Silver dollars rolled across the cobbles. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” said Carrot. “Poor old Here’n’now. He promised me he was going to give it up, too. Oh well…” He picked up a leg. “How much money?” he said. “Looks like three dollars,” said Angua. “Well done. The exact amount. ” “No, the shopkeeper said—” “Come on. Back to the Watch House. Come on, Here’n’now. It’s your lucky day. ” “Why is it his lucky day?” said Angua. “He was caught , wasn’t he?” “Yes. By us. Thieves’ Guild didn’t get him first. They aren’t so kind as us. ” Here’n’now’s head bounced from cobblestone to cobblestone. “Pinching three dollars and then trotting straight home,” sighed Carrot. “That’s Here’n’now. Worst thief in the world. ” “But you said Thieves’ Guild—” “When you’ve been here a while, you’ll understand how it all works,” said Carrot. Here’n’now’s head banged on the curb. “Eventually,” Carrot added. “But it all does work. You’d be amazed. It all works. I wish it didn’t. But it does. ” While Here’n’now was being mildly concussed on the way to the safety of the Watch’s jail, a clown was being killed. He was ambling along an alley with the assurance of one who is fully paid up this year with the Thieves’ Guild when a hooded figure stepped out in front of him. “Beano?” “Oh, hello…it’s Edward, right?” The figure hesitated. “I was just going back to the Guild,” said Beano. The hooded figure nodded. “Are you OK?” said Beano. “I’m sorry about th-is,” it said. “But it is for the good of the city. It is nothing p-ersonal. ” He stepped behind the clown. Beano felt a crunch, and then his own personal internal universe switched off. Then he sat up. “Ow,” he said, “that hur—” But it didn’t. Edward d’Eath was looking down at him with a horrified expression. “Oh…I didn’t mean to hit you that hard! I only wanted you out of the way!” “Why’d you have to hit me at all?” And then the feeling stole over Beano that Edward wasn’t exactly looking at him, and certainly wasn’t talking to him. He glanced at the ground, and experienced that peculiar sensation known only to the recently dead—horror at what you see lying in front of you, followed by the nagging question: so who’s doing the looking? KNOCK KNOCK. He looked up. “Who’s there?” DEATH. “Death who?” There was a chill in the air. Beano waited. Edward was frantically patting his face…well, what until recently had been his face. I WONDER…CAN WE START AGAIN? I DON’T SEEM TO HAVE THE HANG OF THIS. “Sorry?” said Beano. “I’m s-orry!” moaned Edward, “I meant it for the best!” Beano watched his murderer drag his… the …body away. “Nothing personal, he says,” he said. “I’m glad it wasn’t anything personal. I should hate to think I’ve just been killed because it was personal. ” IT’S JUST THAT IT HAS BEEN SUGGESTED THAT I SHOULD BE MORE OF A PEOPLE PERSON. “I mean, why? I thought we were getting on really well. It’s very hard to make friends in my job. In your job too, I suppose. ” BREAK IT TO THEM GENTLY, AS IT WERE. “One minute walking along, the next minute dead. Why?” THINK OF IT MORE AS BEING…DIMENSIONALLY DISADVANTAGED. The shade of Beano the clown turned to Death. “What are you talking about?” YOU’RE DEAD. “Yes. I know. ” Beano relaxed, and stopped wondering too much about events in an increasingly irrelevant world. Death found that people often did, after the initial confusion. After all, the worst had already happened. At least…with any luck. IF YOU WOULD CARE TO FOLLOW ME… “Will there be custard pies? Red noses? Juggling? Are there likely to be baggy trousers?” No. Beano had spent almost all his short life as a clown. He smiled grimly, under his make-up. “I like it. ” Vimes’ meeting with the Patrician ended as all such meetings did, with the guest going away in possession of an unfocused yet nagging suspicion that he’d only just escaped with his life. Vimes trudged on to see his bride-to-be. He knew where she would be found. The sign scrawled across the big double gates in Morphic Street said: Here be Dragns. The brass plaque beside the gates said: The Ankh-Morpork Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons. There was a small and hollow and pathetic dragon made out of papier-mâché and holding a collection box, chained very heavily to the wall, and bearing the sign: Don’t Let My Flame Go Out. This was where Lady Sybil Ramkin spent most of her days. She was, Vimes had been told, the richest woman in Ankh-Morpork. In fact she was richer than all the other women in Ankh-Morpork rolled, if that were possible, into one. It was going to be a strange wedding, people said. Vimes treated his social superiors with barely concealed distaste, because the women made his head ache and the men made his fists itch. And Sybil Ramkin was the last survivor of one of the oldest families in Ankh. But they’d been thrown together like twigs in a whirlpool, and had yielded to the inevitable… When he was a little boy, Sam Vimes had thought that the very rich ate off gold plates and lived in marble houses. He’d learned something new: the very very rich could afford to be poor. Sybil Ramkin lived in the kind of poverty that was only available to the very rich, a poverty approached from the other side. Women who were merely well-off saved up and bought dresses made of silk edged with lace and pearls, but Lady Ramkin was so rich she could afford to stomp around the place in rubber boots and a tweed skirt that had belonged to her mother. She was so rich she could afford to live on biscuits and cheese sandwiches. She was so rich she lived in three rooms in a thirty-four-roomed mansion; the rest of them were full of very expensive and very old furniture, covered in dust sheets. The reason that the rich were so rich, Vimes reasoned, was because they managed to spend less money. Take boots, for example. He earned thirty-eight dollars a month plus allowances. A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. |
But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. Those were the kind of boots Vimes always bought, and wore until the soles were so thin that he could tell where he was in Ankh-Morpork on a foggy night by the feel of the cobbles. But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that’d still be keeping his feet dry in ten years’ time, while a poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet. This was the Captain Samuel Vimes “Boots” theory of socioeconomic unfairness. The point was that Sybil Ramkin hardly ever had to buy anything. The mansion was full of this big, solid furniture, bought by her ancestors. It never wore out. She had whole boxes full of jewelery which just seemed to have accumulated over the centuries. Vimes had seen a wine cellar that a regiment of speleologists could get so happily drunk in that they wouldn’t mind that they’d got lost without trace. Lady Sybil Ramkin lived quite comfortably from day to day by spending, Vimes estimated, about half as much as he did. But she spent a lot more on dragons. The Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons was built with very, very thick walls and a very, very lightweight roof, an idiosyncrasy of architecture normally only found elsewhere in firework factories. And this is because the natural condition of the common swamp dragon is to be chronically ill, and the natural state of an unhealthy dragon is to be laminated across the walls, floor and ceiling of whatever room it is in. A swamp dragon is a badly run, dangerously unstable chemical factory one step from disaster. One quite small step. It has been speculated that its habit of exploding violently when angry, excited, frightened or merely plain bored is a developed survival trait * to discourage predators. Eat dragons, it proclaims, and you’ll have a case of indigestion to which the term “blast radius” will be appropriate. Vimes therefore pushed the door open carefully. The smell of dragons engulfed him. It was an unusual smell, even by Ankh-Morpork standards—it put Vimes in mind of a pond that had been used to dump alchemical waste for several years and then drained. Small dragons whistled and yammered at him from pens on either side of the path. Several excited gusts of flame sizzled the hair on his bare shins. He found Sybil Ramkin with a couple of the miscellaneous young women in breeches who helped run the Sanctuary; they were generally called Sara or Emma, and all looked exactly the same to Vimes. They were struggling with what seemed to be an irate sack. She looked up as he approached. “Ah, here’s Sam,” she said. “Hold this, there’s a lamb. ” The sack was thrust into his arms. At the same moment a talon ripped out of the bottom of the sack and scraped down his breastplate in a spirited attempt to disembowel him. A spiky-eared head thrust its way out of the other end, two glowing red eyes focused on him briefly, a tooth-serrated mouth gaped open and a gush of evil-smelling vapor washed over him. Lady Ramkin grabbed the lower jaw triumphantly, and thrust the other arm up to the elbow down the little dragon’s throat. “Got you!” She turned to Vimes, who was still rigid with shock. “Little devil wouldn’t take his limestone tablet. Swallow. Swallow! there! Who’s a good boy then? You can let him go now. ” The sack slipped from Vimes’ arms. “Bad case of Flameless Gripe,” said Lady Ramkin. “Hope we’ve got it in time—” The dragon ripped its way out of the sack and looked around for something to incinerate. Everyone tried to get out of the way. Then its eyes crossed, and it hiccuped. The limestone tablet pinged off the opposite wall. “ Everybody down! ” They leapt for such cover as was provided by a water-trough and a pile of clinkers. The dragon hiccuped again, and looked puzzled. Then it exploded. They stuck their heads up when the smoke had cleared and looked down at the sad little crater. Lady Ramkin took a handkerchief out of a pocket of her leather overall and blew her nose. “Silly little bugger,” she said. “Oh, well. How are you, Sam? Did you go to see Havelock?” Vimes nodded. Never in his life, he thought, would he get used to the idea of the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork having a first name, or that anyone could ever know him well enough to call him by it. “I’ve been thinking about this dinner tomorrow night,” he said desperately. “You know, I really don’t think I can—” “Don’t be silly,” said Lady Ramkin. “You’ll enjoy it. It’s time you met the Right People. You know that. ” He nodded mournfully. “We shall expect you up at the house at eight o’clock, then,” she said. “And don’t look like that. It’ll help you tremendously. You’re far too good a man to spend his nights traipsing around dark wet streets. It’s time you got on in the world. ” Vimes wanted to say that he liked traipsing around dark wet streets, but it would be no use. He didn’t like it much. It was just what he’d always done. He thought about his badge in the same way he thought about his nose. He didn’t love it or hate it. It was just his badge. “So just you run along. It’ll be terrific fun. Have you got a handkerchief?” Vimes panicked. “What?” “Give it to me. ” She held it close to his mouth. “Spit…” she commanded. She dabbed at a smudge on his cheek. One of the Interchangeable Emmas gave a giggle that was just audible. Lady Ramkin ignored it. “There,” she said. “That’s better. Now off you go and keep the streets safe for all of us. And if you want to do something really useful, you could find Chubby. ” “Chubby?” “He got out of his pen last night. ” “A dragon?” Vimes groaned, and pulled a cheap cigar out of his pocket. Swamp dragons were becoming a minor nuisance in the city. Lady Ramkin got very angry about it. People would buy them when they were six inches long as a cute way of lighting fires and then, when they were burning the furniture and leaving corrosive holes in the carpet, the floor and the cellar ceiling underneath it, they’d be shoved out to fend for themselves. “We rescued him from a blacksmith in Easy Street,” said Lady Ramkin. “I said, ‘My good man, you can use a forge like everyone else’. Poor little thing. ” “Chubby,” said Vimes. “Got a light?” “He’s got a blue collar,” said Lady Ramkin. “Right, yes. ” “He’ll follow you like a lamb if he thinks you’ve got a charcoal biscuit. ” “Right. ” Vimes patted his pockets. “They’re a little bit over-excited in this heat. ” Vimes reached down into a pen of hatchlings and picked up a small one, which flapped its stubby wings excitedly. It spurted a brief jet of blue flame. Vimes inhaled quickly. “Sam, I really wish you wouldn’t do that. ” “Sorry. ” “So if you could get young Carrot and that nice Corporal Nobbs to keep an eye out for—” “No problem. ” For some reason Lady Sybil, keen of eye in every other respect, persisted in thinking of Corporal Nobbs as a cheeky, lovable rascal. It had always puzzled Sam Vimes. It must be the attraction of opposites. The Ramkins were more highly bred than a hilltop bakery, whereas Corporal Nobbs had been disqualified from the human race for shoving. As he walked down the street in his old leather and rusty mail, with his helmet screwed on his head, and the feel of the cobbles through the worn soles of his boots telling him he was in Acre Alley, no one would have believed that they were looking at a man who was very soon going to marry the richest woman in Ankh-Morpork. Chubby was not a happy dragon. He missed the forge. He’d quite liked it in the forge. He got all the coal he could eat and the blacksmith hadn’t been a particularly unkind man. Chubby had not demanded much out of life, and had got it. Then this large woman had taken him away and put him in a pen. There had been other dragons around. Chubby didn’t particularly like other dragons. And people’d given him unfamiliar coal. |
He’d been quite pleased when someone had taken him out of the pen in the middle of the night. He’d thought he was going back to the blacksmith. Now it was dawning on him that this was not happening. He was in a box, he was being bumped around, and now he was getting angry… Sergeant Colon fanned himself with his clipboard, and then glared at the assembled guards. He coughed. “Right then, people,” he said. “Settle down. ” “We are settled down, Fred,” said Corporal Nobbs. “That’s Sergeant to you, Nobby,” said Sergeant Colon. “What do we have to sit down for anyway? We didn’t used to do all this. I feel a right berk, sitting down listenin’ to you goin’ on about—” “We got to do it proper, now there’s more of us,” said Sergeant Colon. “Right! Ahem. Right. OK. We welcome to the guard today Lance-Constable Detritus— don’t salute! —and Lance-Constable Cuddy, also Lance-Constable Angua. We hope you will have a long and—what’s that you’ve got there, Cuddy?” “What?” said Cuddy, innocently. “I can’t help noticing that you still has got there what appears to be a double-headed throwing axe, lance-constable, despite what I vouchsafed to you earlier re Guard rules. ” “Cultural weapon, sergeant?” said Cuddy hopefully. “You can leave it in your locker. Guards carry one sword, short, and one truncheon. ” With the exception of Detritus, he added mentally. Firstly, because even the longest sword nestled in the troll’s huge hand like a toothpick, and secondly, because until they’d got this saluting business sorted out he wasn’t about to see a member of the Watch nail his own hand to his own ear. He’d have a truncheon, and like it. Even then, he’d probably beat himself to death. Trolls and dwarfs! Dwarfs and trolls! He didn’t deserve it, not at his time of life. And that wasn’t the worst of it. He coughed again. When he read from his clipboard, it was in the sing-song voice of someone who learned his public speaking at school. “Right,” he said again, a little uncertainly. “So. Says here—” “Sergeant?” “Now wh—Oh, it’s you, Corporal Carrot. Yes?” “Aren’t you forgetting something, sergeant?” said Carrot. “I dunno,” said Colon cautiously. “Am I?” “About the recruits, sarge. Something they’ve got to take?” Carrot prompted. Sergeant Colon rubbed his nose. Let’s see…they had, as per standing orders, taken and signed for one shirt (mail, chain) one helmet, iron and copper, one breastplate, iron (except in the “case of Lance-Constable Angua, who’d need to be fitted special, and Lance-Constable Detritus, who’d signed for a hastily adapted piece of armor which had once belonged to a war elephant), one truncheon, oak, one emergency pike or halberd, one crossbow, one hourglass, one short sword (except for Lance-Constable Detritus) and one badge, office of, Night Watchman’s, copper. “I think they’ve got the lot, Carrot,” he said. “All signed for. Even Detritus got someone to make an X for him. ” “They’ve got to take the oath, sarge. ” “Oh. Er. Have they?” “Yes, sarge. It’s the law. ” Sergeant Colon looked embarrassed. It probably was the law, at that. Carrot was much better at this sort of thing. He knew the laws of Ankh-Morpork by heart. He was the only person who did. All Colon knew was that he’d never taken an oath when he joined, and as for Nobby, the best he’d ever get to an oath was something like “bugger this for a game of soldiers. ” “All right, then,” he said. “You’ve all, er, got to take the oath…eh…and Corporal Carrot will show you how. Did you take the, er, oath when you joined us, Carrot?” “Oh, yes, sarge. Only no one asked me, so I gave it to myself, quiet like. ” “Oh? Right. Carry on, then. ” Carrot stood up and removed his helmet. He smoothed down his hair. Then he raised his right hand. “Raise your right hands, too,” he said. “Er…that’s the one nearest Lance-Constable Angua, Lance-Constable Detritus. And repeat after me…” He closed his eyes and his lips moved for a moment, as though he was reading something off the inside of his skull. “‘I comma square bracket recruit’s name square bracket comma’…” He nodded at them. “You say it. ” They chorused a reply. Angua tried not to laugh. “‘…do solemnly swear by square bracket recruit’s deity of choice square bracket…’” Angua couldn’t trust herself to look at Carrot’s face. “‘…to uphold the Laws and Ordinances of the city of Ankh-Morpork, serve the public trust comma and defend the subjects of His stroke Her bracket delete whichever is inappropriate bracket Majesty bracket name of reigning monarch bracket…’” Angua tried to look at a point behind Carrot’s ear. On top of everything else, Detritus’ patient monotone was already several dozen words behind everyone else. “‘…without fear comma favor comma or thought of personal safety semi-colon to pursue evildoers and protect the innocent comma laying down my life if necessary in the cause of said duty comma so help me bracket aforesaid deity bracket full stop Gods Save the King stroke Queen bracket delete whichever is inappropriate bracket full stop. ’” Angua subsided gratefully, and then did see Carrot’s face. There were unmistakable tears trickling down his cheek. “Er…right,…that’s it, then, thank you,” said Sergeant Colon, after a while. “— pro-tect the in-no-cent com-ma —” “In your own time, Lance-Constable Detritus. ” The sergeant cleared his throat and consulted the clipboard again. “Now, Grabber Hoskins has been let out of jail again, so be on the look out, you know what he’s like when he’s had his celebratory drink, and bloody Coalface the troll beat up four men last night—” “— in the cause of said du-ty com-ma —” “Where’s Captain Vimes?” demanded Nobby. “He should be doing this. ” “Captain Vimes is…sorting things out,” said Sergeant Colon. “’S’not easy, learning civilianing. Right. ” He glanced at his clipboard again, and back to the guardsmen. Men…hah. His lips moved as he counted. There, sitting between Nobby and Constable Cuddy, was a very small, raggedy man, whose beard and hair were so overgrown and matted together that he looked like a ferret peering out of a bush. “— me brack-et af-ore-said de-it-y brack-et full stop. ” “Oh, no,” he said. “What’re you doing here, Here’n’now? Thank you, Detritus— don’t salute —you can sit down now. ” “Mr. Carrot brings me in,” said Here’n’now. “Protective custody, sarge,” said Carrot. “ Again? ” Colon unhooked the cell keys from their nail over the desk and tossed them to the thief. “All right. Cell Three. Take the keys in with you, we’ll holler if we need ’em back. ” “You’re a toff, Mr. Colon,” said Here’n’now, wandering down the steps to the cells. Colon shook his head. “Worst thief in the world,” he said. “He doesn’t look that good,” said Angua. “No, I mean the worst ,” said Colon. “As in ‘not good at it. ’” “Remember when he was going to go all the way up to Dunmanifestin to steal the Secret of Fire from the gods?” said Nobby. “And I said ‘but we’ve got it, Here’n’now, we’ve had it for thousands of years,’” said Carrot. “And he said, ‘that’s right, so it has antique value. ’” * “Poor old chap,” said Sergeant Colon. “OK. What else have we got…yes, Carrot?” “Now, they’ve got to take the King’s Shilling,” said Carrot. “Right. Yes. OK. ” Colon fished in his pocket, and took out three sequin-sized Ankh-Morpork dollars, which had about the gold content of seawater. He tossed them one at a time to the recruits. “This is called the King’s Shilling,” he said, glancing at Carrot. “Dunno why. You gotta get give it when you join. Regulations, see. Shows you’ve joined. ” He looked embarrassed for a moment, and then coughed. “Right. Oh, yeah. Loada roc—some trolls,” he corrected himself, “got some kind of march down Short Street. Lance-Constable Detritus— don’t let him salute! Right. What’s this about, then?” “It Troll New Year,” said Detritus. “Is it? S’pose we got to learn about this sort of thing now. And says here there’s this gritsuc—this dwarf rally or something—” “Battle of Koom Valley Day,” said Constable Cuddy. “Famous victory over the trolls. ” He looked smug, insofar as anything could be seen behind the beard. |
“Yeah? From ambush,” grunted Detritus, glowering at the dwarf. “What? It was the trolls—” Cuddy began. “Shut up,” said Colon. “Look, it says here…says here they’re marching…says here they’re marching up Short Street. ” He turned the paper over. “Is this right?” “Trolls going one way, dwarfs going the other?” said Carrot. “Now there’s a parade you don’t want to miss,” said Nobby. “What’s wrong?” said Angua. Carrot waved his hands vaguely in the air. “Oh, dear. It’s going to be dreadful. We must do something. ” “Dwarfs and trolls get along like a house on fire,” said Nobby. “Ever been in a burning house, miss?” Sergeant Colon’s normally red face had gone pale pink. He buckled on his sword belt and picked up his truncheon. “Remember,” he said, “Let’s be careful out there. ” “Yeah,” said Nobby, “let’s be careful to stay in here. ” To understand why dwarfs and trolls don’t like each other you have to go back a long way. They get along like chalk and cheese. Very like chalk and cheese, really. One is organic, the other isn’t, and also smells a bit cheesy. Dwarfs make a living by smashing up rocks with valuable minerals in them and the silicon-based lifeform known as trolls are, basically, rocks with valuable minerals in them. In the wild they also spend most of the daylight hours dormant, and that’s not a situation a rock containing valuable minerals needs to be in when there are dwarfs around. And dwarfs hate trolls because, after you’ve just found an interesting seam of valuable minerals, you don’t like rocks that suddenly stand up and tear your arm off because you’ve just stuck a pick-axe in their ear. It was a state of permanent inter-species vendetta and, like all good vendettas, didn’t really need a reason any more. It was enough that it had always existed. * Dwarfs hated trolls because trolls hated dwarfs, and vice versa. The Watch lurked in Three Lamps Alley, which was about halfway down Short Street. There was a distant crackle of fireworks. Dwarfs let them off to drive away evil mine spirits. Trolls let them off because they tasted nice. “Don’t see why we can’t let ’em fight it out amongst themselves and then arrest the losers,” said Corporal Nobbs. “That’s what we always used to do. ” “The Patrician gets really shirty about ethnic trouble,” said Sergeant Colon moodily. “He gets really sarcastic about it. ” A thought struck him. He brightened up a little bit. “Got any ideas, Carrot?” he said. A second thought struck him. Carrot was a simple lad. “Corporal Carrot?” “Sarge?” “Sort this lot out, will you?” Carrot peered around the corner at the advancing walls of trolls and dwarfs. They’d already seen each other. “Right you are, sergeant,” he said. “Lance-Constables Cuddy and Detritus— don’t salute! —you come with me. ” “You can’t let him go out there!” said Angua. “It’s certain death!” “Got a real sense o’duty, that boy,” said Corporal Nobbs. He took a minute length of dog-end from behind his ear and struck a match on the sole of his boot. “Don’t worry, miss,” said Colon. “He—” “Lance-Constable,” said Angua. “What?” “Lance-Constable,” she repeated. “Not miss. Carrot says I don’t have any sex while I’m on duty. ” To the background of Nobby’s frantic coughing, Colon said, very quickly, “What I mean is , lance-constable, young Carrot’s got krisma. Bags of krisma. ” “Krisma?” “Bags of it. ” The jolting had stopped. Chubby was really annoyed now. Really, really annoyed. There was a rustling noise. A piece of sacking moved aside and there, staring at Chubby, was another male dragon. It looked annoyed. Chubby reacted in the only way he knew how. Carrot stood in the middle of the street, arms folded, while the two new recruits stood just behind him, trying to keep an eye on both approaching marches at the same time. Colon thought Carrot was simple. Carrot often struck people as simple. And he was. Where people went wrong was thinking that simple meant the same thing as stupid. Carrot was not stupid. He was direct, and honest, and good-natured and honorable in all his dealings. In Ankh-Morpork this would normally have added up to “stupid” in any case and would have given him the survival quotient of a jellyfish in a blast furnace, but there were a couple of other factors. One was a punch that even trolls had learned to respect. The other was that Carrot was genuinely, almost supernaturally, likeable. He got on well with people, even while arresting them. He had an exceptional memory for names. For most of his young life he’d lived in a small dwarf colony where there were hardly any other people to know. Then, suddenly, he was in a huge city, and it was as if a talent had been waiting to unfold. And was still unfolding. He waved cheerfully at the approaching dwarfs. “’Morning Mr. Cumblethigh! ’Morning, Mr. Stronginthearm!” Then he turned and waved at the leading troll. There was a muffled “pop” as a firework went off. “’Morning, Mr. Bauxite!” He cupped his hands. “If you could all just stop and listen to me—” he bellowed. The two marches did stop, with some hesitation and a general piling up of the people in the back. It was that or walk over Carrot. If Carrot did have a minor fault, it lay in not paying attention to small details around him when his mind was on other things. So the whispered conversation behind his back was currently escaping him. “— hah! It was too an ambush! And your mother was an ore —” “Now then, gentlemen,” said Carrot, in a reasoned and amiable voice, “I’m sure there’s no need for this belligerent manner—” “— you ambush us too! my great-great-grandfather he at Koom Valley, he tell me! ” “—in our fair city on such a lovely day. I must ask you as good citizens of Ankh-Morpork—” “— yeah? you even know who your father is, do you? ” “—that, while you must certainly celebrate your proud ethnic folkways, to profit by the example of my fellow officers here, who have sunk their ancient differences—” “— I smash your head, you roguesome dwarfs! ” “—for the greater benefit of—” “— I could take you with one hand tied behind my back! ” “—the city, whose badge they are—” “— you get opportunity! I tie BOTH hands behind you back! ” “—proud and privileged to wear. ” “Aargh!” “Ooow!” It dawned on Carrot that hardly anyone was paying any attention to him. He turned. Lance-Constable Cuddy was upside down, because Lance-Constable Detritus was trying to bounce him on the cobbles by his helmet, although Lance-Constable Cuddy was putting the position to good effect by gripping Lance-Constable Detritus around the knee and trying to sink his teeth into Lance-Constable Detritus’ ankle. The opposing marchers watched in fascination. “We should do something!” said Angua, from the guards’ hiding place in the alley. “Weeell,” said Sergeant Colon, slowly, “it’s always very tricky, ethnic. ” “Can put a foot wrong very easily,” said Nobby. “Very thin-skinned, your basic ethnic. ” “Thin-skinned? They’re trying to kill one another!” “It’s cultural,” said Sergeant Colon, miserably. “No sense us tryin’ to force our culture on ’em, is there? That’s speciesist. ” Out in the street, Corporal Carrot had gone very red in the face. “If he lays a finger on either of ’em, with all their friends watching,” said Nobby, “the plan is, we run away like hell—” Veins stood out on Carrot’s mighty neck. He stuck his hands on his waist and bellowed: “ Lance-Constable Detritus! Salute! ” They’d spent hours trying to teach him. Detritus’ brain took some time to latch on to an idea, but once it was there, it didn’t fade away fast. He saluted. His hand was full of dwarf. So he saluted while holding Lance-Constable Cuddy, swinging him up and over like a small angry club. The sound of their helmets meeting echoed off the buildings, and it was followed a moment later by the crash of them both hitting the ground. Carrot prodded them with the toe of his sandal. Then he turned and strode toward the dwarf marchers, shaking in anger. In the alleyway, Sergeant Colon started to suck the rim of his helmet out of terror. “You’ve got weapons , haven’t you?” snarled Carrot at a hundred dwarfs. |
“Own up! If the dwarfs who’ve got weapons don’t drop them right this minute the entire parade, and I mean the entire parade, will be put in the cells! I’m serious about this!” The dwarfs in the front row took a step backward. There was a desultory tinkle of metallic objects hitting the ground. “ All of them,” said Carrot menacingly. “That includes you with the black beard trying to hide behind Mr. Hamslinger! I can see you, Mr. Stronginthearm! Put it down. No one’s amused!” “He’s going to die, isn’t he,” said Angua, quietly. “Funny, that,” said Nobby. “If we was to try it, we’d be little bits of mince. But it seems to work for him. ” “Krisma,” said Sergeant Colon, who was having to lean on the wall. “Do you mean charisma?” said Angua. “Yeah. One of them things. Yeah. ” “How does he manage it?” “Dunno,” said Nobby. “S’pose he’s an easy lad to like?” Carrot had turned on the trolls, who were smirking at the dwarfs’ discomfiture. “And as for you,” he said, “I shall definitely be patrolling around Quarry Lane tonight, and I won’t be seeing any trouble. Will I?” There was a shuffling of huge oversized feet, and a general muttering. Carrot cupped his hand to his ear. “I couldn’t quite hear,” he said. There was a louder mutter, a sort of toccata scored for one hundred reluctant voices on the theme of “Yes, Corporal Carrot. ” “Right. Now off you go. And let’s have no more of this nonsense, there’s good chaps. ” Carrot brushed the dust off his hands and smiled at everyone. The trolls looked puzzled. In theory, Carrot was a thin film of grease on the street. But somehow it just didn’t seem to be happening… Angua said, “He just called a hundred trolls ‘good chaps’. Some of them are just down off the mountains! Some of them have got lichen on them!” “Smartest thing on a troll,” said Sergeant Colon. And then the world exploded. The Watch had left before Captain Vimes got back to Pseudopolis Yard. He plodded up the stairs to his office, and sat down in the sticky leather chair. He gazed blankly at the wall. He wanted to leave the Guard. Of course he did. It wasn’t what you could call a way of life. Not life. Unsocial hours. Never being certain from one day to the next what the Law actually was, in this pragmatic city. No home life, to speak of. Bad food, eaten when you could; he’d even eaten some of Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler’s sausages-in-a-bun before now. It always seemed to be raining or baking hot. No friends, except for the rest of the squad, because they were the only people who lived in your world. Whereas in a few days he would, as Sergeant Colon had said, be on the gravy boat. Nothing to do all day but eat his meals and ride around on a big horse shouting orders at people. At times like this the image of old Sergeant Kepple floated across his memory. He’d been head of the Watch when Vimes was a recruit. And, soon afterwards, he retired. They’d all clubbed together and bought him a cheap watch, one of those that’d keep going for a few years until the demon inside it evaporated. Bloody stupid idea, Vimes thought moodily, staring at the wall. Bloke leaves work, hands in his badge and hourglass and bell, and what’d we get him? A watch. But he’d still come in to work the next day, with his new watch. To show everyone the ropes, he said; to tidy up a few loose ends, haha. See you youngsters don’t get into trouble, haha. A month later he was bringing the coal in and sweeping the floor and running errands and helping people write reports. He was still there five years later. He was still there six years later, when one of the Watch got in early and found him lying on the floor… And it emerged that no one, no one , knew where he lived, or even if there was a Mrs. Kepple. They had a whip-round to bury him, Vimes remembered. There were just guards at the funeral… Come to think of it, there were always just guards at a guard’s funeral. Of course it wasn’t like that now. Sergeant Colon had been happily married for years, perhaps because he and his wife arranged their working lives so that they only met occasionally, normally on the doorstep. But she left him decent meals in the oven, and there was clearly something there; they’d got grandchildren, even, so obviously there had been times when they’d been unable to avoid each other. Young Carrot had to fight young women off with a stick. And Corporal Nobbs…well, he probably made his own arrangements. He was said to have the body of a twenty-five year old, although no one knew where he kept it. The point was that everyone else had someone, even if in Nobby’s case it was probably against their will. So, Captain Vimes, what is it really? Do you care for her? Don’t worry too much about love, that’s a dicey word for the over-forties. Or are you just afraid of becoming some old man dying in the groove of his life and buried out of pity by a bunch of youngsters who never knew you as anything other than some old fart who always seemed to be around the place and got sent out to bring back the coffee and hot figgins and was laughed at behind his back? He’d wanted to avoid that. And now Fate was handing him a fairy tale. Of course he’d known she was rich. But he hadn’t expected the summons to Mr. Morecombe’s office. Mr. Morecombe had been the Ramkins’ family solicitor for a long time. Centuries, in fact. He was a vampire. Vimes disliked vampires. Dwarfs were law-abiding little buggers when they were sober, and even trolls were all right if you kept them where you could see them. But all the undead made his neck itch. Live and let live was all very well, but there was a problem right there, when you thought about it logically… Mr. Morecombe was scrawny, like a tortoise, and very pale. It had taken him ages to come to the point, and when it came the point nailed Vimes to his chair. “ How much?” “Er. I believe I am right in saying the estate, including the farms, the areas of urban development, and the small area of unreal estate near the University, are together worth approximately…seven million dollars a year. Yes. Seven million at current valuation, I would say. ” “It’s all mine? ” “From the hour of your wedding to Lady Sybil. Although she instructs me in this letter that you are to have access to all her accounts as of the present moment. ” The pearly dead eyes had watched Vimes carefully. “Lady Sybil,” he said, “owns approximately one-tenth of Ankh, and extensive properties in Morpork, plus of course considerable farm lands in—” “But…but…we’ll own them together…” “Lady Sybil is very specific. She is deeding all the property to you as her husband. She has a somewhat…old-fashioned approach. ” He pushed a folded paper across the table. Vimes took it, unfolded it, and stared. “Should you predecease her, of course,” Mr. Morecombe droned on, “it will revert to her by common right of marriage. Or to any fruit of the union, of course. ” Vimes hadn’t even said anything at that point. He’d just felt his mouth drop open and small areas of his brain fuse together. “Lady Sybil,” said the lawyer, the words coming from far away, “while not as young as she was, is a fine healthy woman and there is no reason why—” Vimes had got through the rest of the interview on automatic. He could hardly think about it now. When he tried, his thoughts kept skidding away. And, just as always happened when the world got too much for him, they skidded somewhere else. He pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and stared at the shiny bottle of Bearhugger’s Very Fine Whiskey. He wasn’t sure how it had got there. Somehow he’d never got around to throwing it out. Start that again and you won’t even see retirement. Stick to cigars. He shut the drawer and leaned back, taking a half-smoked cigar from his pocket. Maybe the guards weren’t so good now anyway. Politics. Hah! Watchmen like old Kepple would turn in their graves if they knew that the Watch had taken on a w— And the world exploded. The window blew in, peppering the wall behind Vimes’ desk with fragments and cutting one of his ears. He threw himself to the floor and rolled under the desk. |
Right, that did it! The alchemists had blown up their Guild House for the last time, if Vimes had anything to do with it… But when he peered over the window sill he saw, across the river, the column of dust rising over the Assassins’ Guild… The rest of the Watch came trotting along Filigree Street as Vimes reached the Guild entrance. A couple of black-clad Assassins barred his way, in a polite manner which nevertheless indicated that impoliteness was a future option. There were sounds of hurrying feet behind the gates. “You see this badge? You see it?” Vimes demanded. “Nevertheless, this is Guild property,” said an Assassin. “Let us in, in the name of the law!” bellowed Vimes. The Assassin smiled nervously at him. “The law is that Guild law prevails inside Guild walls,” he said. Vimes glared at him. But it was true. The laws of the city, such as they were, stopped outside the Guild Houses. The Guilds had their own laws. The Guild owned the… He stopped. Behind him, Lance-Constable Angua reached down and picked up a fragment of glass. Then she stirred the debris with her foot. And then her gaze met that of a small, non-descript mongrel dog watching her very intently from under a cart. In fact non-descript was not what it was. It was very easy to descript. It looked like halitosis with a wet nose. “Woof, woof,” said the dog, in a bored way. “Woof, woof, woof, and growl, growl. ” The dog trotted into the mouth of an alleyway. Angua glanced around, and followed it. The rest of the squad were gathered around Vimes, who’d gone very quiet. “Fetch me the Master of Assassins,” he said. “Now!” The young Assassin tried to sneer. “Hah! Your uniform doesn’t scare me ,” he said. Vimes looked down at his battered breastplate and worn mail. “You’re right,” he said. “This is not a scary uniform. I’m sorry. Forward, Corporal Carrot and Lance-Constable Detritus. ” The Assassin was suddenly aware of the sunlight being blocked out. “Now these , I think you’ll agree,” said Vimes, from somewhere behind the eclipse, “are scary uniforms. ” The Assassin nodded slowly. He hadn’t asked for this. Usually there were never any guards outside the Guild. What would be the point? He had, tucked away in his exquisitely tailored black clothes, at least eighteen devices for killing people, but he was becoming aware that Lance-Constable Detritus had one on the end of each of his arms. Closer, as it were, to hand. “I’ll, er, I’ll go and get the Master, then, shall I?” he said. Carrot leaned down. “Thank you for your co-operation,” he said gravely. Angua watched the dog. The dog watched her. She squatted on her haunches as it sat down and scratched an ear furiously. Looking around carefully to make sure that no one could see them, she barked an inquiry. “Don’t bovver,” said the dog. “You can talk? ” “Huh. That don’t take much intelligence,” said the dog. “And it don’t take much intelligence to spot what you are, neither. ” Angua looked panicky. “Where does it show?” “It’s the smell , girl. Din’t you learn nuffin? Smelled you a mile orf. I thought, oh-ho, what’s one of them doing in the Watch, eh?” Angua waved a finger wildly. “If you tell anyone—!” The dog looked more pained than normal. “No one’d listen,” it said. “Why not?” “’Cos everyone knows dogs can’t talk. They hear me, see, but unless things are really tough they just think they’re thinking to ’emselves. ” The little dog sighed. “Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve read books. Well…chewed books. ” It scratched an ear again. “Seems to me,” it said, “we could help each other…” “In what way?” “Well, you could put me in the way of a pound of steak. That does wonders for my memory, steak. Makes it go clean away. ” Angua frowned. “People don’t like the word ‘blackmail’,” she said. “It ain’t the only word they don’t like,” said the dog. “Take my case, now. I’ve got chronic intelligence. Is that any use to a dog? Did I ask for it? Not me. I just finds a cushy spot to spend my nights along at the High Energy Magic building at the University, no one told me about all this bloody magic leaking out the whole time, next thing I know I open me eyes, head starts fizzing like a dose of salts, oh-oh, thinks I, here we go again, hello abstract conceptualizing, intellectual development here we come…What bloody use is that to me? Larst time it happened, I ended up savin’ the world from horrible wossnames from the Dungeon Dimensions, and did anyone say fanks? Wot a Good Dog, Give Him A Bone? Har har. ” It held up a threadbare paw. “My name’s Gaspode. Something like this happens to me just about every week. Apart from that, I’m just a dog. ” Angua gave up. She grasped the moth-eaten limb and shook it. “My name’s Angua. You know what I am. ” “Forgotten it already,” said Gaspode. Captain Vimes looked at the debris scattered across the courtyard from a hole in one of the ground-floor rooms. All the surrounding windows had broken, and there was a lot of glass underfoot. Mirror glass. Of course, assassins were notoriously vain, but mirrors would be in rooms, wouldn’t they? You wouldn’t expect a lot of glass outside. Glass got blown in, not out. He saw Lance-Constable Cuddy bend down and pick up a couple of pulleys attached to a piece of rope, which was burned at one end. There was a rectangle of card in the debris. The hairs on the back of Vimes’ hand prickled. He sniffed rankness in the air. Vimes would be the first to admit that he wasn’t a good copper, but he’d probably be spared the chore because lots of other people would happily admit it for him. There was a certain core of stubborn bloody-mindedness there which upset important people, and anyone who upsets important people is automatically not a good copper. But he’d developed instincts. You couldn’t live on the streets of a city all your life without them. In the same way that the whole jungle subtly changes at the distant approach of the hunter, there was an alteration in the feel of the city. There was something happening here, something wrong, and he couldn’t quite see what it was. He started to reach down— “What is the meaning of this?” Vimes straightened up. He did not turn around. “Sergeant Colon, I want you to go back to the Watch House with Nobby and Detritus,” he said. “Corporal Carrot and Lance-Constable Cuddy, you stay with me. ” “Yes, sah! ” said Sergeant Colon, stamping heavily and ripping off a smart salute to annoy the Assassins. Vimes acknowledged it. Then he turned around. “Ah, Dr. Cruces,” he said. The Master of Assassins was white with rage, contrasting nicely with the extreme black of his clothing. “No one sent for you!” he said. “What gives you the right to be here, mister policeman? Walking around as if you own the place?” Vimes paused, his heart singing. He savored the moment. He’d like to take this moment and press it carefully in a big book, so that when he was old he could take it out occasionally and remember it. He reached into his breastplate and pulled out the lawyer’s letter. “Well, if you would like the most fundamental reason,” he said, “it is because I rather think I do. ” A man can be defined by the “things he hates. There were quite a lot of things that Captain Vimes hated. Assassins were near the top of the list, just after kings and the undead. He had to allow, though, that Dr. Cruces recovered very quickly. He didn’t explode when he read the letter, or argue, or claim it was a forgery. He simply folded it up, handed it back, and said, coldly, “I see. The freehold, at least. ” “Quite so. Could you tell me what has been happening, please?” He was aware of other senior Assassins entering the courtyard through the hole in the wall. They were very carefully looking at the debris. Dr. Cruces hesitated for a moment. “Fireworks,” he said. “What happened,” said Gaspode, “was that someone put a dragon in a box right up against the wall inside the courtyard, right, and then they went and hid behind one of the statues and pulled a string and next minute—bang!” “Bang?” “’S’right. |
Then our friend nips into the hole for a few seconds, right, comes out again, trots around the courtyard and next minute there’s Assassins everywhere and he’s among ’em. What the hell. Another man in black. No one notices, see?” “You mean he’s still in there?” “How do I know? Hoods and cloaks, everyone in black…” “How come you were able to see this?” “Oh, I always nip into the Assassins’ Guild on a Wednesday night. Mixed grill night, see?” Gaspode sighed at Angua’s blank expression. “The cook always does a mixed grill of a Wednesday night. No one ever eats the black pudding. So it’s round the kitchens, see, woof woof, beg beg, who’s a good boy then, look at the little bugger, he looks as though he understands every word I’m sayin’, let’s see what we’ve got here for a good doggy…” He looked embarrassed for a moment. “Pride is all very well, but a sausage is a sausage,” he said. “Fireworks?” said Vimes. Dr. Cruces looked like a man grasping a floating log in a choppy sea. “Yes. Fireworks. Yes. For Founder’s Day. Unfortunately someone threw away a lighted match which ignited the box. ” Dr. Cruces suddenly smiled. “My dear Captain Vimes,” he said, clapping his hands, “much as I appreciate your concern, I really—” “They were stored in that room over there?” said Vimes. “Yes, but that’s of no account—” Vimes crossed to the hole in the wall and peered inside. A couple of Assassins glanced at Dr. Cruces and reached nonchalantly toward various areas of their clothing. He shook his head. His caution might have had something to do with the way Carrot put his hand on the hilt of his sword, but it could also have been because Assassins did have a certain code, after all. It was dishonorable to kill someone if you weren’t being paid. “It seems to be some kind of…museum,” said Vimes. “Guild memorabilia, that sort of thing?” “Yes, exactly. Odd and ends. You know how they mount up over the years. ” “Oh. Well, that all seems in order,” said Vimes. “Sorry to have troubled you, doctor. I will be going. I hope I have not inconvenienced you in any way. ” “Of course not! Glad to have been able to put your mind at rest. ” They were ushered gently yet firmly toward the gateway. “I should clean up this glass,” said Captain Vimes, glancing at the debris again. “Someone could hurt themselves, all this glass lying around. Wouldn’t like to see one of your people get hurt. ” “We shall be doing it right this minute, captain,” said Dr. Cruces. “Good. Good. Thank you very much. ” Captain Vimes paused at the doorway, and then thumped the palm of his hand on his forehead. “Sorry, excuse me—mind like a sieve these days—what was it you said was stolen?” Not a muscle, not a sinew moved on Dr. Cruces’ face. “I didn’t say anything was stolen, Captain Vimes. ” Vimes gaped at him for a moment. “Right! Sorry! Of course, you didn’t…Apologies…Work getting on top of me, I expect. I’ll be going, then. ” The door slammed in his face. “Right,” said Vimes. “Captain, why—?” Carrot began. Vimes held up a hand. “That wraps it up, then,” he said, slightly louder than necessary. “Nothing to worry about. Let’s get back to the Yard. Where’s Lance-Constable Whatshername?” “Here, captain,” said Angua, stepping out of the alley. “Hiding, eh? And what’s that? ” “Woof woof whine whine. ” “It’s a little dog, captain. ” “Good grief. ” The clang of the big corroded Inhumation Bell echoed through the Assassins’ Guild. Black-clad figures came running from all directions, pushing and shoving in their haste to get to the courtyard. The Guild council assembled hurriedly outside Dr. Cruces’ office. His deputy, Mr. Downey, knocked tentatively at the door. “Come. ” The council filed in. Cruces’ office was the biggest room in the building. It always seemed wrong to visitors that the Assassins’ Guild had such light, airy, well-designed premises, more like the premises of a gentlemen’s club than a building where death was plotted on a daily basis. Cheery sporting prints lined the walls, although the quarry was not, when you looked closely, stags or foxes. There were also group etchings—and, more recently, new-fangled iconographs—of the Guild, rows of smiling faces on black-clad bodies and the youngest members sitting cross-legged in front, one of them making a face. * Down one side of the room was the big mahogany table where the elders of the Guild sat in weekly session. The other side of the room held Cruces’ private library, and a small workbench. Above the bench was an apothecary cabinet, made up of hundreds of little drawers. The names on the drawer labels were in Assassins’ code, but visitors from outside the Guild were generally sufficiently unnerved not to accept a drink. Four pillars of black granite held up the ceiling. They had been carved with the names of noted Assassins from history. Cruces had his desk foursquare between them. He was standing behind it, his expression almost as wooden as the desk. “I want a roll-call,” he snapped. “Has anyone left the Guild?” “No, sir. ” “How can you be so sure?” “The guards on the roofs in Filigree Street say no one came in or went out, sir. ” “And who’s watching them? ” “They’re watching one another, sir. ” “Very well. Listen carefully. I want the mess cleaned up. If anyone needs to go outside the building, I want everyone watched. And then the Guild is going to be searched from top to bottom, do you understand?” “What for, doctor?” said a junior lecturer in poisons. “For…anything that is hidden. If you find anything and you don’t know what it is, send for a council member immediately. And don’t touch it. ” “But doctor, all sorts of things are hidden—” “This will be different, do you understand?” “No, sir. ” “Good. And no one is to speak to the wretched Watch about this. You, boy…bring me my hat. ” Dr. Cruces sighed. “I suppose I shall have to go and tell the Patrician. ” “Hard luck, sir. ” The captain didn’t say anything until they were crossing the Brass Bridge. “Now then, Corporal Carrot,” he said, “you know how I’ve always told you how observation is important?” “Yes, captain. I have always paid careful attention to your remarks on the subject. ” “So what did you observe?” “Someone’d smashed a mirror. Everyone knows Assassins like mirrors. But if it was a museum, why was there a mirror there?” “Please, sir?” “Who said that?” “Down here, sir. Lance-Constable Cuddy. ” “Oh, yes. Yes?” “I know a bit about fireworks, sir. There’s a smell you get after fireworks. Didn’t smell it, sir. Smelled something else. ” “Well…smelled, Cuddy. ” “And there were bits of burned rope and pulleys. ” “I smelled dragon,” said Vimes. “Sure, captain?” “Trust me. ” Vimes grimaced. If you spent any time in Lady Ramkin’s company, you soon found out what dragons smelled like. If something put its head in your lap while you were dining, you said nothing, you just kept passing it tidbits and hoped like hell it didn’t hiccup. “There was a glass case in that room,” he said. “It was smashed open. Hah! Something was stolen. There was a bit of card in the dust, but someone must have pinched it while old Cruces was talking to me. I’d give a hundred dollars to know what it said. ” “Why, captain?” said Corporal Carrot. “Because that bastard Cruces doesn’t want me to know. ” “I know what could have blown the hole open,” said Angua. “What?” “An exploding dragon. ” They walked in stunned silence. “That could do it, sir,” said Carrot loyally. “The little devils go bang at the drop of a helmet. ” “Dragon,” muttered Vimes. “What makes you think it was a dragon, Lance-Constable Angua?” Angua hesitated. “Because a dog told me” was not, she judged, a career-advancing thing to say at this point. “Woman’s intuition?” she suggested. “I suppose ,” said Vimes, “you wouldn’t hazard an intuitive guess as to what was stolen?” Angua shrugged. Carrot noticed how interestingly her chest moved. “Something the Assassins wanted to keep where they could look at it?” she said. “Oh, yes ,” said Vimes. “I suppose next you’ll tell me this dog saw it all?” “Woof?” Edward d’Eath drew the curtains, bolted the door and leaned on it. |
It had been so easy! He’d put the bundle on the table. It was thin, and about four feet long. He unwrapped it carefully, and there…it…was. It looked pretty much like the drawing. Typical of the man—a whole page full of meticulous drawings of crossbows, and this in the margin, as though it hardly mattered. It was so simple! Why hide it away? Probably because people were afraid. People were always afraid of power. It made them nervous. Edward picked it up, cradled it for a while, and found that it seemed to fit his arm and shoulder very snugly. You’re mine. And that, more or less, was the end of Edward d’Eath. Something continued for a while, but what it was, and how it thought, wasn’t entirely human. It was nearly noon. Sergeant Colon had taken the new recruits down to the archery butts in Butts Treat. Vimes went on patrol with Carrot. He felt something inside him bubbling over. Something was brushing the tips of his corroded but nevertheless still-active instincts, trying to draw attention to itself. He had to be on the move. It was all that Carrot could do to keep up. There were trainee Assassins in the streets around the Guild, still sweeping up debris. “Assassins in daylight,” snarled Vimes. “I’m amazed they don’t turn to dust. ” “That’s vampires, sir,” said Carrot. “Hah! You’re right. Assassins and licensed thieves and bloody vampires! You know, this was a great old city once, lad. ” Unconsciously, they fell into step…proceeding. “When we had kings, sir?” “Kings? Kings? Hell, no!” A couple of Assassins looked around in surprise. “I’ll tell you,” said Vimes. “A monarch’s an absolute ruler, right? The head honcho—” “Unless he’s a queen,” said Carrot. Vimes glared at him, and then nodded. “OK, or the head honchette—” “No, that’d only apply if she was a young woman. Queens tend to be older. She’d have to be a…a honcharina? No, that’s for very young princesses. No. Um. A honchesa, I think. ” Vimes paused. There’s something in the air in this city, he thought. If the Creator had said, “Let there be light” in Ankh-Morpork, he’d have got no further because of all the people saying “What color?” “The supreme ruler, OK,” he said, starting to stroll forward again. “OK. ” “But that’s not right, see? One man with the power of life and death. ” “But if he’s a good man—” Carrot began. “What? What? OK. OK. Let’s believe he’s a good man. But his second-in-command—is he a good man too? You’d better hope so. Because he’s the supreme ruler, too, in the name of the king. And the rest of the court…they’ve got to be good men. Because if just one of them’s a bad man the result is bribery and patronage. ” “The Patrician’s a supreme ruler,” Carrot pointed out. He nodded at a passing troll. “G’day, Mr. Carbuncle. ” “But he doesn’t wear a crown or sit on a throne and he doesn’t tell you it’s right that he should rule,” said Vimes. “I hate the bastard. But he’s honest. Honest like a corkscrew. ” “Even so, a good man as king—” “Yes? And then what? Royalty pollutes people’s minds, boy. Honest men start bowing and bobbing just because someone’s granddad was a bigger murdering bastard than theirs was. Listen! We probably had good kings, once! But kings breed other kings! And blood tells, and you end up with a bunch of arrogant, murdering bastards! Chopping off queens’ heads and fighting their cousins every five minutes! And we had centuries of that! And then one day a man said ‘No more kings!’ and we rose up and we fought the bloody nobles and we dragged the king off his throne and we dragged him into Sator Square and we chopped his bloody head off! Job well done!” “Wow,” said Carrot. “Who was he?” “Who?” “The man who said ‘No More Kings’. ” People were staring. Vimes’ face went from the red of anger to the red of embarrassment. There was little difference in the shading, however. “Oh…he was Commander of the City Guard in those days,” he mumbled. “They called him Old Stoneface. ” “Never heard of him,” said Carrot. “He, er, doesn’t appear much in the history books,” said Vimes. “Sometimes there has to be a civil war, and sometimes, afterwards, it’s best to pretend something didn’t happen. Sometimes people have to do a job, and then they have to be forgotten. He wielded the axe, you know. No one else’d do it. It was a king’s neck, after all. Kings are,” he spat the word, “ special. Even after they’d seen the…private rooms, and cleaned up the…bits. Even then. No one’d clean up the world. But he took the axe and cursed them all and did it. ” “What king was it?” said Carrot. “Lorenzo the Kind,” said Vimes, distantly. “I’ve seen his picture in the palace museum,” said Carrot. “A fat old man. Surrounded by lots of children. ” “Oh yes,” said Vimes, carefully. “He was very fond of children. ” Carrot waved at a couple of dwarfs. “I didn’t know this,” he said. “I thought there was just some wicked rebellion or something. ” Vimes shrugged. “It’s in the history books, if you know where to look. ” “And that was the end of the kings of Ankh-Morpork. ” “Oh, there was a surviving son, I think. And a few mad relatives. They were banished. That’s supposed to be a terrible fate, for royalty. I can’t see it myself. ” “I think I can. And you like the city, sir. ” “Well, yes. But if it was a choice between banishment and having my head chopped off, just help me down with this suitcase. No, we’re well rid of kings. But, I mean…the city used to work. ” “Still does,” said Carrot. They passed the Assassins’ Guild and drew level with the high, forbidding walls of the Fools’ Guild, which occupied the other corner of the block. “No, it just keeps going. I mean, look up there. ” Carrot obediently raised his gaze. There was a familiar building on the junction of Broad Way and Alchemists. The facade was ornate, but covered in grime. Gargoyles had colonized it. The corroded motto over the portico said “NEITHER RAIN NOR SNOW NOR GLOM OF NIT CAN STAY THESE MESSENGERS ABOUT THEIR DUTY” and in more spacious days that may have been the case, but recently someone had found it necessary to nail up an addendum which read: DONT ASK US ABOUT: rocks troll’s with sticks All sorts of dragons Mrs. Cake Huje green things with teeth Any kinds of black dogs with orange eyebrows Rains of spaniel’s. fog. Mrs. Cake “Oh,” he said. “The Royal Mail. ” “The Post Office,” corrected Vimes. “My granddad said that once you could post a letter there and it’d be delivered within a month, without fail. You didn’t have to give it to a passing dwarf and hope the little bugger wouldn’t eat it before…” His voice trailed off. “Uh. Sorry. No offense meant. ” “None taken,” said Carrot cheerfully. “It’s not that I’ve got anything against dwarfs. I’ve always said you’d have to look very hard before you’d find a, a better bunch of highly skilled, law-abiding, hard-working—” “—little buggers?” “Yes. No!” They proceeded. “That Mrs. Cake,” said Carrot, “definitely a strong-minded woman, eh?” “Too true,” said Vimes. Something crunched under Carrot’s enormous sandal. “More glass,” he said. “It went a long way, didn’t it. ” “Exploding dragons! What an imagination the girl has. ” “Woof woof,” said a voice behind them. “That damn dog’s been following us,” said Vimes. “It’s barking at something on the wall,” said Carrot. Gaspode eyed them coldly. “Woof woof, bloody whine whine,” he said. “Are you bloody blind or what?” It was true that normal people couldn’t hear Gaspode speak, because dogs don’t speak. It’s a well-known fact. It’s well known at the organic level, like a lot of other well-known facts which overrule the observations of the senses. This is because if people went around noticing everything that was going on all the time, no one would ever get anything done. * Besides, almost all dogs don’t talk. Ones that do are merely a statistical error, and can therefore be ignored. However, Gaspode had found he did tend to get heard on a subconscious level. |
Only the previous day someone had absent-mindedly kicked him into the gutter and had gone a few steps before they suddenly thought: I’m a bastard, what am I? “There is something up there,” said Carrot. “Look…something blue, hanging off that gargoyle. ” “Woof woof, woof! Would you credit it?” Vimes stood on Carrot’s shoulders and walked his hand up the wall, but the little blue strip was still out of reach. The gargoyle rolled a stony eye toward him. “Do you mind?” said Vimes. “It’s hanging on your ear…“ With a grinding of stone on stone, the gargoyle reached up a hand and unhooked the intrusive material. “Thank you. ” “’on’t ent-on it. ” Vimes climbed down again. “You like gargoyles, don’t you, captain,” said Carrot, as they strolled away. “Yep. They may only be a kind of troll but they keep themselves to themselves and seldom go below the first floor and don’t commit crimes anyone ever finds out about. My type of people. ” He unfolded the strip. It was a collar or, at least, what remained of a collar—it was burnt at both ends. The word “Chubby” was just readable through the soot. “The devils!” said Vimes. “They did blow up a dragon!” The most dangerous man in the world should be introduced. He has never, in his entire life, harmed a living creature. He has dissected a few, but only after they were dead, * and had marvelled at how well they’d been put together considering it had been done by unskilled labor. For several years he hadn’t moved outside a large, airy room, but this was OK, because he spent most of his time inside his own head in any case. There’s a certain type of person it’s very hard to imprison. He had, however, surmised that an hour’s exercise every day was essential for a healthy appetite and proper bowel movements, and was currently sitting on a machine of his own invention. It consisted of a saddle above a pair of treadles which turned, by means of a chain, a large wooden wheel currently held off the ground on a metal stand. Another, freewheeling, wooden wheel was positioned in front of the saddle and could be turned by means of a tiller arrangement. He’d fitted the extra wheel and tiller so that he could wheel the entire thing over to the wall when he’d finished taking his exercise and, besides, it gave the whole thing a pleasing symmetry. He called it “the-turning-the-wheel-with-pedals-and-another-wheel-machine. ” Lord Vetinari was also at work. Normally, he was in the Oblong Office or seated in his plain wooden chair at the foot of the steps in the palace of Ankh-Morpork; there was an ornate throne at the top of the steps, covered with dust. It was the throne of Ankh-Morpork and was, indeed, made of gold. He’d never dreamed of sitting on it. But it was a nice day, so he was working in the garden. Visitors to Ankh-Morpork were often surprised to find that there were some interesting gardens attached to the Patrician’s Palace. The Patrician was not a gardens kind of person. But some of his predecessors had been, and Lord Vetinari never changed or destroyed anything if there was no logical reason to do so. He maintained the little zoo, and the racehorse stable, and even recognized that the gardens themselves were of extreme historic interest because this was so obviously the case. They had been laid out by Bloody Stupid Johnson. Many great landscape gardeners have gone down in history and been remembered in a very solid way by the magnificent parks and gardens that they designed with almost god-like power and foresight, thinking nothing of making lakes and shifting hills and planting woodlands to enable future generations to appreciate the sublime beauty of wild Nature transformed by Man. There have been Capability Brown, Sagacity Smith, Intuition De Vere Slade-Gore… In Ankh-Morpork, there was Bloody Stupid Johnson. Bloody Stupid “It Might Look A Bit Messy Now But Just You Come Back In Five Hundred Years’ Time” Johnson. Bloody Stupid “Look, The Plans Were The Right Way Round When I Drew Them” Johnson. Bloody Stupid Johnson, who had 2,000 tons of earth built into an artificial hillock in front of Quirm Manor because “It’d drive me mad to have to look at a bunch of trees and mountains all day long, how about you?” The Ankh-Morpork palace grounds were considered the high spot, if such it could be called, of his career. For example, they contained the ornamental trout lake, one hundred and fifty yards long and, because of one of those trifling errors of notation that were such a distinctive feature of Bloody Stupid’s designs, one inch wide. It was the home of one trout, which was quite comfortable provided it didn’t try to turn around, and had once featured an ornate fountain which, when first switched on, did nothing but groan ominously for five minutes and then fire a small stone cherub a thousand feet into the air. It contained the hoho, which was like a haha only deeper. A haha is a concealed ditch and wall designed to allow landowners to look out across rolling vistas without getting cattle and inconvenient poor people wandering across the lawns. Under Bloody Stupid’s errant pencil it was dug fifty feet deep and had claimed three gardeners already. The maze was so small that people got lost looking for it. But the Patrician rather liked the gardens, in a quiet kind of way. He had certain views about the mentality of most of mankind, and the gardens made him feel fully justified. Piles of paper were stacked on the lawn around the chair. Clerks renewed them or took them away periodically. They were different clerks. All sorts and types of information flowed into the Palace, but there was only one place where it all came together, very much like strands of gossamer coming together in the center of a web. A great many rulers, good and bad and quite often dead, know what happened; a rare few actually manage, by dint of much effort, to know what’s happening. Lord Vetinari considered both types to lack ambition. “Yes, Dr. Cruces,” he said, without looking up. How the hell does he do it? Cruces wondered. I know I didn’t make any noise… “Ah, Havelock—” he began. “You have something to tell me, doctor?” “It’s been…mislaid. ” “Yes. And no doubt you are anxiously seeking it. Very well. Good day. ” The Patrician hadn’t moved his head the whole time. He hadn’t even bothered to ask what It was. He bloody well knows, thought Cruces. How is it you can never tell him anything he doesn’t know? Lord Vetinari put down a piece of paper on one of the piles, and picked up another. “You are still here, Dr. Cruces. ” “I can assure you, m’Lord, that—” “I’m sure you can. I’m sure you can. There is one question that intrigues me, however. ” “M’Lord?” “Why was it in your Guild House to be stolen? I had been given to understand it had been destroyed. I’m quite sure I gave orders. ” This was the question the Assassin had been hoping would not be asked. But the Patrician was good at that game. “Er. We—that is, my predecessor —thought it should serve as a warning and an example. ” The Patrician looked up and smiled brightly. “Capital!” he said. “I have always had a great belief in the effectiveness of examples. So I am sure you’ll be able to sort this out with minimum inconvenience all round. ” “Certainly, m’Lord,” said the Assassin, glumly. “But—” Noon began. Noon in Ankh-Morpork took some time, since twelve o’clock was established by consensus. Generally, the first bell to start was that one in the Teachers’ Guild, in response to the universal prayers of its members. Then the water clock on the Temple of Small Gods would trigger the big bronze gong. The black bell in the Temple of Fate struck once, unexpectedly, but by then the silver pedal-driven carillon in the Fools’ Guild would be tinkling, the gongs, bells and chimes of all the Guilds and temples would be in full swing, and it was impossible to tell them apart, except for the tongueless and magical octiron bell of Old Tom in the Unseen University clock tower, whose twelve measured silences temporarily overruled the din. |
And finally, several strokes behind all the others, was the bell of the Assassin’s Guild, which was always last. Beside the Patrician, the ornamental sundial chimed twice and fell over. “You were saying?” said the Patrician mildly. “Captain Vimes,” said Dr. Cruces. “He’s taking an interest. ” “Dear me. But it is his job. ” “Really? I must demand that you call him off!” The words echoed around the, garden. Several pigeons flew away. “Demand?” said the Patrician, sweetly. Dr. Cruces backed and filled desperately. “He is a servant after all,” he said. “I see no reason why he should be allowed to involve himself in affairs that don’t concern him. ” “I rather believe he thinks he’s a servant of the law,” said the Patrician. “He’s a jack-in-office and an insolent upstart!” “Dear me. I did not appreciate your strength of feeling. But since you demand it, I will bring him to heel without delay. ” “Thank you. ” “Don’t mention it. Do not let me keep you. ” Dr. Cruces wandered off in the direction of the Patrician’s idle gesture. Lord Vetinari bent over his paperwork again, and did not even look up when there was a distant, muffled cry. Instead, he reached down and rang a small silver bell. A clerk hurried up. “Go and fetch the ladder, will you, Drumknott?” he said. “Dr. Cruces seems to have fallen in the hoho. ” The back door to the dwarf Bjorn Hammerhock’s workshop lifted off the latch and creaked open. He went to see if there was anyone there, and shivered. He shut the door. “Bit of a chilly breeze,” he said, to the room’s other occupant. “Still, we could do with it. ” The ceiling of the workshop was only about five feet above the floor. That was more than tall enough for a dwarf. Ow, said a voice that no one heard. Hammerhock looked at the thing clamped in the vice, and picked up a screwdriver. Ow. “Amazing,” he said. “I think that moving this tube down the barrel forces the, er, six chambers to slide along, presenting a new one to the, er, firing hole. That seems clear enough. The triggering mechanism is really just a tinderbox device. The spring… here …has rusted through. I can easily replace that. You know,” he said, looking up, “this is a very interesting device. With the chemicals in the tubes and all. Such a simple idea. Is it a clown thing? Some kind of automatic slap-stick?” He sorted through a bin of metal offcuts to find a piece of steel, and then selected a file. “I’d like to make a few sketches afterwards,” he said. About thirty seconds later there was a pop and a cloud of smoke. Bjorn Hammerhock picked himself up, shaking his head. “That was lucky!” he said. “Could have been a nasty accident there. ” He tried to fan some of the smoke away, and then reached for the file again. His hand went through it. AHEM. Bjorn tried again. The file was as insubstantial as the smoke. “What?” AHEM. The owner of the strange device was staring in horror at something on the floor. Bjorn followed his gaze. “Oh,” he said. Realization, which had been hovering on the edge of Bjorn’s consciousness, finally dawned. That was the thing about death. When it happened to you, you were among the first to know. His visitor grabbed the device from the bench and rammed it into a cloth bag. Then he looked around wildly, picked up the corpse of Mr. Hammerhock, and dragged it through the door toward the river. There was a distant splash, or as close to a splash as you could get from the Ankh. “Oh dear,” said Bjorn. “And I can’t swim, either. ” THAT WILL NOT, OF COURSE, BE A PROBLEM, said Death. Bjorn looked at him. “You’re a lot shorter than I thought you’d be,” he said. THIS IS BECAUSE I’M KNEELING DOWN, MR. HAMMERHOCK. “That damn thing killed me!” YES. “That’s the first time anything like that has ever happened to me. ” TO ANYONE. BUT NOT, I SUSPECT, THE LAST TIME. Death stood up. There was a clicking of knee joints. He no longer cracked his skull on the ceiling. There wasn’t a ceiling any more. The room had gently faded away. There were such things as dwarf gods. Dwarfs were not a naturally religious species, but in a world where pit props could crack without warning and pockets of fire damp could suddenly explode they’d seen the need for gods as the sort of supernatural equivalent of a hard hat. Besides, when you hit your thumb with an eight-pound hammer it’s nice to be able to blaspheme. It takes a very special and strong-minded kind of atheist to jump up and down with their hand clasped under their other armpit and shout, “Oh, random fluctuations-in-the-space-time-contiuum!” or “Aaargh, primitive-and-outmoded-concept on a crutch!” Bjorn didn’t waste time asking questions. A lot of things become a shade urgent when you’re dead. “I believe in reincarnation,” he said. I KNOW. “I tried to live a good life. Does that help?” THAT IS NOT UP TO ME. Death coughed. OF COURSE,…SINCE YOU BELIEVE IN REINCARNATION…YOU’LL BE BJORN AGAIN. He waited. “Yes. That’s right,” said Bjorn. Dwarfs are known for their sense of humor, in a way. People point them out and say: “Those little devils haven’t got a sense of humor. ” UM. WAS THERE ANYTHING AMUSING IN THE STATEMENT I JUST MADE? “Uh. No. No…I don’t think so. ” IT WAS A PUN, OR PLAY ON WORDS. BJORN AGAIN. “Yes?” DID YOU NOTICE IT? “I can’t say I did. ” OH. “Sorry. ” I’VE BEEN TOLD I SHOULD TRY TO MAKE THE OCCASION A LITTLE MORE ENJOYABLE. “Bjorn again. ” YES. “I’ll think about it. ” THANK YOU. “Hright,” said Sergeant Colon, “this, men, is your truncheon, also nomenclatured your night stick or baton of office. ” He paused while he tried to remember his army days, and brightened up. “ Hand you will look after hit,” he shouted. “You will eat with hit, you will sleep with hit, you—” “’Scuse me. ” “Who said that?” “Down here. It’s me, Lance-Constable Cuddy. ” “Yes, pilgrim?” “How do we eat with it, sergeant?” Sergeant Colon’s wound-up machismo wound down. He was suspicious of Lance-Constable Cuddy. He strongly suspected Lance-Constable Cuddy was a trouble-maker. “What?” “Well, do we use it as a knife or a fork or cut in half for chopsticks or what?” “What are you talking about?” “Excuse me, sergeant?” “What is it, Lance-Constable Angua?” “How exactly do we sleep with it, sir?” “Well, I…I meant… Corporal Nobbs, stop that sniggering right now! ” Colon adjusted his breastplate and decided to strike out in a new direction. “Now, hwat we have ’ere is a puppet, mommet or heffigy”—indicating a vaguely humanoid shape made of leather and stuffed with straw, mounted on a stake—“called by the hnickname of Harthur, weapons training, for the use hof. Forward, Lance-Constable Angua. Tell me, Lance-Constable, do you think you could kill a man?” “How long will I have?” There was a pause while they picked up Corporal Nobbs and patted him on the back until he settled down. “Very well,” said Sergeant Colon, “what you must do now is take your truncheon like so , and on the command one, proceed smartly to Harthur and on the command two, tap him smartly upon the bonce. Hwun…two…” The truncheon bounced off Arthur’s helmet. “Very good, only one thing wrong. Anyone tell me what it was?” They shook their heads. “From behind ,” said Sergeant Colon. “You hit ’em from behind. No sense in risking trouble, is there? Now you have a go, Lance-Constable Cuddy. ” “But sarge—” “Do it. ” They watched. “Perhaps we could fetch him a chair?” said Angua, after an embarrassing fifteen seconds. Detritus sniggered. “Him too little to be a guard,” he said. Lance-Constable Cuddy stopped jumping up and down. “Sorry, sergeant,” he said, “this isn’t how dwarfs do it, see?” “It’s how guards do it,” said Sergeant Colon. “All right, Lance-Constable Detritus— don’t salute —you give it a try. ” Detritus held the truncheon between what must technically be called thumb and forefinger, and smashed it over Arthur’s helmet. He stared reflectively at the truncheon’s stump. Then he bunched up his, for want of a better word, fist, and hammered Arthur over what was briefly its head until the stake was driven three feet into the ground. “Now the dwarf, he can have a go,” he said. |
There was another embarrassed five seconds. Sergeant Colon cleared his throat. “Well, yes, I think we can consider him thoroughly apprehended,” he said. “Make a note, Corporal Nobbs. Lance-Constable Detritus— don’t salute! —deducted one dollar for loss of truncheon. And you’re supposed to be able to ask ’em questions afterwards. ” He looked at the remains of Arthur. “I think around about now is a good time to demonstrate the fine points of harchery,” he said. Lady Sybil Ramkin looked at the sad strip of leather that was all that remained of the late Chubby. “Who’d do something like this to a poor little dragon?” she said. “We’re trying to find out,” said Vimes. “We…we think maybe he was tied up next to a wall and exploded. ” Carrot leaned over the wall of a pen. “Coochee-coochee-coo?” he said. A friendly flame took his eyebrows off. “I mean, he was as tame as anything,” said Lady Ramkin. “Wouldn’t hurt a fly, poor little thing. ” “How could someone make a dragon blow up?” said Vimes. “Could you do it by giving it a kick?” “Oh, yes,” said Sybil. “You’d lose your leg, mind you. ” “Then it wasn’t that. Any other way? So you wouldn’t get hurt?” “Not really. It’d be easier to make it blow itself up. Really, Sam, I don’t like talking about—” “I have to know. ” “Well…at this time of year the males fight. Make themselves look big, you know? That’s why I always keep them apart. ” Vimes shook his head. “There was only one dragon,” he said. Behind them, Carrot leaned over the next pen, where a pear-shaped male dragon opened one eye and glared at him. “Whosagoodboyden?” murmured Carrot. “I’m sure I’ve got a bit of coal somewhere—” The dragon opened the other eye, blinked, and then was fully awake and rearing up. Its ears flattened. Its nostrils flared. Its wings unfurled. It breathed in. From its stomach came the gurgle of rushing acids as sluices and valves were opened. Its feet left the floor. Its chest expanded— Vimes hit Carrot at waist height, bearing him to the ground. In its pen the dragon blinked. The enemy had mysteriously gone. Scared off! It subsided, blowing off a huge flame. Vimes unclasped his hands from his head and rolled over. “What’d do you do that for, captain?” said Carrot. “I wasn’t—” “It was attacking a dragon!” shouted Vimes. “One that wouldn’t back down!” He pulled himself to his knees and tapped Carrot’s breastplate. “You polish that up real bright!” he said. “You can see yourself in it. So can anything else!” “Oh, yes, of course there’s that ,” said Lady Sybil. “Everyone knows you should keep dragons away from mirrors—” “Mirrors,” said Carrot. “Hey, there were bits of—” “Yes. He showed Chubby a mirror,” said Vimes. “The poor little thing must have been trying to make himself bigger than himself,” said Carrot. “We’re dealing here,” said Vimes, “with a twisted mind. ” “Oh, no! You think so?” “Yes. ” “But…no…you can’t be right. Because Nobby was with us all the time. ” “ Not Nobby,” said Vimes testily. “Whatever he might do to a dragon, I doubt if he’d make it explode. There’s stranger people in this world than Corporal Nobbs, my lad. ” Carrot’s expression slid into a rictus of intrigued horror. “Gosh,” he said. Sergeant Colon surveyed the butts. Then he removed his helmet and wiped his forehead. “I think perhaps Lance-Constable Angua shouldn’t have another go with the longbow until we’ve worked out how to stop her…her getting in the way. ” “Sorry, sergeant. ” They turned to Detritus, who was standing sheepishly behind a heap of broken longbows. Crossbows were out of the question. They sat in his massive hands like a hairpin. In theory the longbow would be a deadly weapon in his hands, just as soon as he mastered the art of when to let go. Detritus shrugged. “Sorry, mister,” he said. “Bows aren’t troll weapon. ” “Ha!” said Colon. “As for you, Lance-Constable Cuddy—” “Just can’t get the hang of aiming, sergeant. ” “I thought dwarfs were famous for their skills in battle!” “Yeah, but…not these skills,” said Cuddy. “Ambush,” murmured Detritus. Since he was a troll, the murmur bounced off distant buildings. Cuddy’s beard bristled. “You devious troll, I get my—” “Well now,” said Sergeant Colon quickly, “I think we’ll stop training. You’ll have to…sort of pick it up as you go along, all right?” He sighed. He was not a cruel man, but he’d been either a soldier or a guard all his life, and he was feeling put-upon. Otherwise he wouldn’t have said what he said next. “I don’t know, I really don’t. Fighting among yourselves, smashing your own weapons…I mean, who do we think we’re fooling? Now, it’s nearly noon, you take a few hours off, we’ll see you again tonight. If you think it’s worth turning up. ” There was a spang! noise. Cuddy’s crossbow had gone off in his hand. The bolt whiffled past Corporal Nobbs’ ear and landed in the river, where it stuck. “Sorry,” said Cuddy. “Tsk, tsk,” said Sergeant Colon. That was the worst part. It would have been better all round if he’d called the dwarf some names. It would have been better if he’d made it seem that Cuddy was worth an insult. He turned around and walked off towards Pseudopolis Yard. They heard his muttered comment. “What him say?” said Detritus. “‘A fine body of men ’,” said Angua, going red. Cuddy spat on the ground, which didn’t take long on account of its closeness. Then he reached under his cloak and produced, like a conjuror extracting a size 10 rabbit from a size 5 hat, his double-headed battle axe. And started to run. By the time he reached the virginal target he was a blur. There was a rip and the dummy exploded like a nuclear haystack. The other two wandered up and inspected the result, as pieces of chaff gently drifted to the ground. “Yes, all right,” said Angua. “But he did say you’re supposed to be able to ask them questions afterwards. ” “He didn’t say they’ve got to be able to answer them,” said Cuddy grimly. “Lance-Constable Cuddy, deduct one dollar for target,” said Detritus, who already owed eleven dollars for bows. “‘If it’s worth turning up’!” said Cuddy, losing the axe somewhere about his person again. “Speciesist!” “I don’t think he meant it that way,” said Angua. “Ho, it’s all right for you ,” said Cuddy. “Why?” “’Cos you a man ,” said Detritus. Angua was bright enough to pause for a moment to think this over. “A woman,” she said. “Same thing. ” “Only in broad terms. Come on, let’s go and have a drink…” The transient moment of camaraderie in adversity completely evaporated. “Drink with a troll?” “Drink with a dwarf?” “All right,” said Angua. “How about you and you coming and having a drink with me? ” Angua removed her helmet and shook out her hair. Female trolls don’t have hair, although the more fortunate ones are able to cultivate a fine growth of lichen, and a female dwarf is more likely to be complimented on the silkiness of her beard than on her scalp. But it was just possible the sight of Angua scraped little sparks off some shared, ancient, cosmic maleness. “I haven’t really had a chance to look around,” she said. “But I saw a place in Gleam Street. ” Which meant that they had to cross the river, at least two of them trying to indicate to passers-by that they weren’t with at least one of the other two. Which meant that, with desperate nonchalance, they were looking around. Which meant that Cuddy saw the dwarf in the water. If you could call it water. If you could still call it a dwarf. They looked down. “You know,” said Detritus, after a while, “that look like that dwarf who make weapons in Rime Street. ” “Bjorn Hammerhock?” said Cuddy. “That the one, yeah. ” “It looks a bit like him,” Cuddy conceded, still talking in a cold flat voice, “but not exactly like him. ” “What d’you mean?” said Angua. “Because Mr. Hammerhock,” said Cuddy, “didn’t have such a great big hole where his chest should be. ” Doesn’t he ever sleep? thought Vimes. Doesn’t the bloody man ever get his head down? Isn’t there a room somewhere with a black dressing gown hanging on the door? He knocked on the door of the Oblong Office. |
“Ah, captain,” said the Patrician, looking up from his paperwork. “You were commendably quick. ” “Was I?” “You got my message?” said Lord Vetinari. “No, sir. I’ve been…occupied. ” “Indeed. And what could occupy you?” “Someone has killed Mr. Hammerhock, sir. A big man in the dwarf community. He’s been…shot with something, some kind of siege weapon or something, and dumped in the river. We’ve just fished him out. I was on the way to tell his wife. I think he lives in Treacle Street. And then I thought, since I was passing…” “This is very unfortunate. ” “Certainly it was for Mr. Hammerhock,” said Vimes. The Patrician leaned back and stared at Vimes. “Tell me,” he said, “how was he killed?” “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it…there was just a great big hole. But I’m going to find out what it was. ” “Hmm. Did I mention that Dr. Cruces came to see me this morning?” “No, sir. ” “He was very…concerned. ” “Yes, sir. ” “I think you upset him. ” “Sir?” The Patrician seemed to be reaching a decision. His chair thumped forward. “Captain Vimes—” “Sir?” “I know that you are retiring the day after tomorrow and feel, therefore, a little…restless. But while you are captain of the Night Watch I am asking you to follow two very specific instructions…” “Sir?” “You will cease any investigations connected with this theft from the Assassins’ Guild. Do you understand? It is entirely Guild business. ” “Sir,” Vimes kept his face carefully immobile. “I’m choosing to believe that the unspoken word in that sentence was a yes , captain. ” “Sir. ” “And that one, too. As for the matter of the unfortunate Mr. Hammerhock…The body was discovered just a short while ago?” “Yes, sir. ” “Then it’s out of your jurisdiction, captain. ” “What? Sir?” “The Day Watch can deal with it. ” “But we’ve never bothered with that hours-of-day-light jurisdiction stuff!” “Nevertheless, in the current circumstances I shall instruct Captain Quirke to take over the investigation, if it turns out that one is necessary. ” If one is necessary. If people don’t end up with half their chest gone by accident. Meteorite strike, perhaps , thought Vimes. He took a deep breath and leaned on the Patrician’s desk. “Mayonnaise Quirke couldn’t find his arse with an atlas! And he’s got no idea about how to talk to dwarfs! He calls them gritsuckers! My men found the body! It’s my jurisdiction!” The Patrician glanced at Vimes’ hands. Vimes removed them from the desk as if it had suddenly grown red-hot. “Night Watch. That’s what you are, captain. Your writ runs in the hours of darkness. ” “It’s dwarfs we’re talking about! If we don’t get it right, they’ll take the law into their own hands! That usually means chopping the head off the nearest troll! And you’ll put Quirke on this?” “I’ve given you an order, captain. ” “But—” “You may go. ” “You can’t—” “I said you may go , Captain Vimes!” “ Sir. ” Vimes saluted. Then he turned about, and marched out of the room. He closed the door carefully, so that there was barely a click. The Patrician heard him thump the wall outside. Vimes wasn’t aware, but there were a number of barely perceptible dents in the wall outside the Oblong Office, their depths corresponding to his emotional state at the time. By the sound of it, this one would need the services of a plasterer. Lord Vetinari permitted himself a smile, although there was no humor in it. The city operated. It was a self-regulating college of Guilds linked by the inexorable laws of mutual self-interest, and it worked. On average. By and large. Overall. Normally. The last thing you needed was some Watchman blundering around upsetting things, like a loose…a loose…a loose siege catapult. Normally. Vimes seemed in a suitable emotional state. With any luck, the orders would have the desired effect… There’s a bar like it in every big city. It’s where the coppers drink. The Guard seldom drank in Ankh-Morpork’s more cheerful taverns when they were off duty. It was too easy to see something that would put them back on duty again. * So they generally went to The Bucket, in Gleam Street. It was small and low-ceilinged, and the presence of city guards tended to discourage other drinkers. But Mr. Cheese, the owner, wasn’t too worried about this. No one drinks like a copper who has seen too much to stay sober. Carrot counted out his change on the counter. “That’s three beers, one milk, one molten sulphur on coke with phosphoric acid—” “With umbrella in it,” said Detritus. “—and A Slow Comfortable Double-Entendre with lemonade. ” “With a fruit salad in it,” said Nobby. “Woof?” “And some beer in a bowl,” said Angua. “That little dog seems to have taken quite a shine to you,” said Carrot. “Yes,” said Angua. “I can’t think why. ” The drinks were put in front of them. They stared at the drinks. They drank the drinks. Mr. Cheese, who knew coppers, wordlessly refilled the glasses and Detritus’ insulated mug. They stared at the drinks. They drank the drinks. “You know,” said Colon, after a while, “what gets me, what really gets me, is they just dumped him in the water. I mean, not even weights. Just dumped him. Like it didn’t matter if he was found. You know what I mean?” “What gets me ,” said Cuddy, “is that he was a dwarf. ” “What gets me is that he was murdered,” said Carrot. Mr. Cheese passed along the line again. They stared at the drinks. They drank the drinks. Because the fact was that, despite all evidence to the contrary, murder was not a commonplace occurrence in Ankh-Morpork. There were, it was true, assassinations. And as aforesaid there were many ways one could inadvertently commit suicide. And there were occasional domestic fracas on a Saturday night as people sought a cheaper alternative to divorce. There were all these things, but at least they had a reason , however unreasonable. “Big man in the dwarfs, was Mr. Hammerhock,” said Carrot. “A good citizen, too. Wasn’t always stirring up old trouble like Mr. Stronginthearm. ” “He’s got a workshop in Rime Street,” said Nobby. “Had,” said Sergeant Colon. They stared at the drinks. They drank the drinks. “What I want to know is ,” said Angua, “what put that hole in him?” “Never see anything like that,” said Colon. “Hadn’t someone better go and tell Mrs. Hammerhock?” said Angua. “Captain Vimes is doing it,” said Carrot. “He said he wouldn’t ask anyone else to do it. ” “Rather him than me,” said Colon fervently. “I wouldn’t do that for a big clock. They can be fearsome when they’re angry, those little buggers. ” Everyone nodded gloomily, including the little bugger and the bigger little bugger by adoption. They stared at the drinks. They drank the drinks. “Shouldn’t we be finding out who did it?” said Angua. “Why?” said Nobby. She opened and shut her mouth once or twice, and finally came out with: “In case they do it again?” “It wasn’t an assassination, was it?” said Cuddy. “No,” said Carrot. “They always leave a note. By law. ” They looked at the drinks. They drank the drinks. “What a city,” said Angua. “It all works, that’s the funny thing,” said Carrot. “D’you know, when I first joined the Watch I was so simple I arrested the head of the Thieves’ Guild for thieving?” “Sounds good to me,” said Angua. “Got into a bit of trouble for that,” said Carrot. “You see,” said Colon, “thieves are organized here. I mean, it’s official. They’re allowed a certain amount of thieving. Not that they do much these days, mind you. If you pay them a little premium every year they give you a card and leave you alone. Saves time and effort all around. ” “And all thieves are members?” said Angua. “Oh, yes ,” said Carrot. “Can’t go thieving in Ankh-Morpork without a Guild permit. Not unless you’ve got a special talent. ” “Why? What happens? What talent? ” she said. “Well, like being able to survive being hung upside down from one of the gates with your ears nailed to your knees,” said Carrot. Then Angua said: “That’s terrible. ” “Yes, I know. But the thing is,” said Carrot, “the thing is: it works. The whole thing. Guilds and organized crimes and everything. It all seems to work. |
” “Didn’t work for Mr. Hammerhock,” said Sergeant Colon. They looked at their drinks. Very slowly, like a mighty sequoia beginning the first step towards resurrection as a million Save The Trees leaflets, Detritus toppled backward with his mug still in his hand. Apart from the 90 ° change in position, he didn’t move a muscle. “It’s the sulphur,” said Cuddy, without looking around. “It goes right to their heads. ” Carrot thumped his fist on the bar. “We ought to do something!” “We could nick his boots,” said Nobby. “I mean about Mr. Hammerhock. ” “Oh, yeah, yeah,” said Nobby. “You sound like old Vimesy. If we was to worry about every dead body in this town—” “But not like this!” snapped Carrot. “Normally it’s just…well…suicide, or Guild fighting, stuff like that. But he was just a dwarf! Pillar of the community! Spent all day making swords and axes and burial weapons and crossbows and torture implements! And then he’s in the river with a great big hole in his chest! Who’s going to do anything about it, if not us?” “You been putting anything in your milk?” said Colon. “Look, the dwarfs can sort it out. It’s like Quarry Lane. Don’t stick your nose where someone can pull it off and eat it. ” “We’re the City Watch,” said Carrot. “That doesn’t mean just that part of the city who happens to be over four feet tall and made of flesh!” “No dwarf did it,” said Cuddy, who was swaying gently. “No troll, neither. ” He tried to tap the side of his nose, and missed. “The reason being, he still had all his arms and legs on. ” “Captain Vimes’ll want it investigated,” said Carrot. “Captain Vimes is trying to learn to be a civilian,” said Nobby. “Well, I’m not going to—” Colon began, and got off his stool. He hopped. He jumped up and down a bit, his mouth opening and shutting. Then the words managed to come out. “My foot!” “What about your foot?” “Something stuck in it!” He hopped backward, clutching at one sandal, and fell over Detritus. “You’d be amazed what can get stuck to your boots in this town,” said Carrot. “There’s something on the bottom of your sandal,” said Angua. “Stop waving it about, you silly man. ” She drew her dagger. “Bit of card or something. With a drawing pin in it. You picked it up somewhere. Probably took a while for you to tread it through…there. ” “Bit of card?” said Carrot. “There’s something written on it…” Angua scraped away the mud. “GONNE” “What does that mean?” she said. “I don’t know. Something’s gone, I suppose. Perhaps it’s Mr. Gonne’s visiting card, whoever he is,” said Nobby. “Who cares? Let’s have ano—” Carrot took the card and turned it over and over in his hands. “Save the pin,” said Cuddy. “You only get five of them for a penny. My cousin Gimick makes them. ” “This is important,” said Carrot, slowly. “The captain ought to know about this. I think he was looking for it. ” “What’s important about it?” said Sergeant Colon. “Apart from my foot hurting like blazes. ” “I don’t know. The captain’ll know,” said Carrot stubbornly. “You tell him, then,” said Colon. “He’s staying up at her ladyship’s now. ” “Learning to be a gentleman,” said Nobby. “I’m going to tell him,” said Carrot. Angua glanced through the grubby window. The moon would be up soon. That was one trouble with cities. The damn thing could be lurking behind a tower if you weren’t careful. “And I’d better be getting back to my lodgings,” she said. “I’ll accompany you,” said Carrot, quickly. “I ought to go and find Captain Vimes in any case. ” “It’ll be out of your way…” “Honestly, I’d like to. ” She looked at his earnest expression. “I couldn’t put you to the trouble,” she said. “That’s all right. I like walking. It helps me think. ” Angua smiled, despite her desperation. They stepped out into the softer heat of the evening. Instinctively, Carrot settled into the policeman’s pace. “Very old street, this,” he said. “They say there’s an underground stream under it. I read that. What do you think?” “Do you really like walking?” said Angua, falling into step. “Oh, yes. There are many interesting byways and historical buildings to be seen. I often go for walks on my day off. ” She looked at his face. Ye gods, she thought. “Why did you join the Watch?” she said. “My father said it’d make a man of me. ” “It seems to have worked. ” “Yes. It’s the best job there is. ” “Really?” “Oh, yes. Do you know what ‘policeman’ means?” Angua shrugged. “No. ” “It means ‘man of the polis ’. That’s an old word for city. ” “Yes?” “I read it in a book. Man of the city. ” She glanced sideways at him again. His face glowed in the light of a torch on the street corner, but it had some inner glow of its own. He’s proud. She remembered the oath. Proud of being in the damn Watch , for gods’ sake— “Why did you join?” he said. “Me? Oh, I…I like to eat meals and sleep indoors. Anyway, there isn’t that much choice, is there? It was that or become…hah…a seamstress. ” * “And you’re not very good at sewing?” Angua’s sharp glance saw nothing but honest innocence in his face. “Yes,” she said, giving up, “that’s right. And then I saw this poster. ‘The City Watche Needs Men! Be A Man In The City Watch!’ So I thought I’d give it a go. After all, I’d only have something to gain. ” She waited to see if he’d fail to pick this one up, too. He did. “Sergeant Colon wrote the notice,” said Carrot. “He’s a fairly direct thinker. ” He sniffed. “Can you smell something?” he said. “Smells like…a bit like someone’s thrown away an old privy carpet?” “Oh, thank you very much,” said a voice very low down, somewhere in the darkness. “Oh, yes. Thank you very much. That’s very wossname of you. Old privy carpet. Oh, yes. ” “Can’t smell anything,” Angua lied. “Liar,” said the voice. “Or hear anything. ” Captain Vimes’ boots told him he was in Scoone Avenue. His feet were doing the walking of their own volition; his mind was somewhere else. In fact, some of it was dissolving gently in Jimkin Bearhugger’s finest nectar. If only they hadn’t been so damn polite! There were a number of things he’d seen in his life which he’d always try, without success, to forget. Up until now he would have put, at the top of the list, looking at the tonsils of a giant dragon as it drew the breath intended to turn him into a small pile of impure charcoal. He still woke up sweating at the memory of the little pilot light. But he dreaded now that it was going to be replaced by the recollection of all those impassive dwarf faces, watching him politely, and the feeling that his words were dropping into a deep pit. After all, what could he say? “Sorry he’s dead—and that’s official. We’re putting our worst men on the case”? The late Bjorn Hammerhock’s house had been full of dwarfs—silent, owlish, polite dwarfs. The news had got around. He wasn’t telling anyone anything they didn’t know. Many of them were holding weapons. Mr. Stronginthearm was there. Captain Vimes had talked to him before about his speeches on the subject of the need for grinding all trolls in little bits and using them to make roads. But the dwarf wasn’t saying anything now. He was just looking smug. There was an air of quiet, polite menace, that said: We’ll listen to you. Then we’ll do what we decide to do. He hadn’t even been sure which one was Mrs. Hammerhock. They all looked alike to him. When she was introduced—helmeted, bearded—he’d got polite, non-committal answers. No, she’d locked his workshop and seemed to have mislaid the key. Thank you. He’d tried to indicate as subtly as possible that a wholesale march on Quarry Lane would be frowned upon by the guard (probably from a vantage point at a safe distance) but hadn’t the face to spell it out. He couldn’t say: don’t take matters into your own hands for the guard are mightily in pursuit of the wrongdoer, because he didn’t have a clue where to start. |
Had your husband any enemies? Yes, someone put a huge great hole in him, but apart from that , did he have any enemies? So he’d extracted himself with as much dignity as possible, which wasn’t very much, and after a battle with himself which he’d lost, he’d picked up half a bottle of Bearhugger’s Old Persnickety and wandered into the night. Carrot and Angua reached the end of Gleam Street. “Where are you staying?” said Carrot. “Just down there. ” She pointed. “Elm Street? Not Mrs. Cake’s? ” “Yes. Why not? I just wanted a clean place, reasonably priced. What’s wrong with that?” “Well…I mean, I’ve nothing against Mrs. Cake, a lovely woman, one of the best…but…well…you must have noticed…” “Noticed what?” “Well…she’s not very…you know… choosy. ” “Sorry. I’m still not with you. ” “You must have seen some of the other guests? I mean, doesn’t Reg Shoe still have lodgings there?” “Oh,” said Angua, “you mean the zombie. ” “And there’s a banshee in the attic. ” “Mr. Ixolite. Yes. ” “And there’s old Mrs. Drull. ” “The ghoul. But she’s retired. She does children’s party catering now. ” “I mean, doesn’t it strike you the place is a bit odd?” “But the rates are reasonable and the beds are clean. ” “I shouldn’t think anyone ever sleeps in them. ” “All right! I had to take what I could get! ” “Sorry. I know how it is. I was like that myself when I first arrived here. But my advice is to move out as soon as it’s polite and find somewhere…well…more suitable for a young lady, if you know what I mean. ” “Not really. Mr. Shoe even tried to help me upstairs with my stuff. Mind you, I had to help him upstairs with his arms afterwards. Bits fall off him all the time, poor soul. ” “But they’re not really…our kind of people,” said Carrot wretchedly. “Don’t get me wrong. I mean…dwarfs? Some of my best friends are dwarfs. My parents are dwarfs. Trolls? No problem at all with trolls. Salt of the earth. Literally. Wonderful chaps under all that crust. But…undead…I just wish they’d go back to where they came from, that’s all. ” “Most of them came from round here. ” “I just don’t like ’em. Sorry. ” “I’ve got to go,” said Angua, coldly. She paused at the dark entrance of an alley. “Right. Right,” said Carrot. “Um. When shall I see you again?” “Tomorrow. We’re in the same job, yes?” “But maybe when we’re off duty we could take a—” “Got to go!” Angua turned and ran. The moon’s halo was already visible over the rooftops of Unseen University. “OK. Well. Right. Tomorrow, then,” Carrot called after her. Angua could feel the world spinning as she stumbled through the shadows. She shouldn’t have left it so long! She stumbled out into a cross-street with a few people in it and managed to make it to an alley mouth, pawing at her clothes… She was seen by Bundo Prung, recently expelled from the Thieves’ Guild for unnecessary enthusiasm and conduct unbecoming in a mugger, and a desperate man. An isolated woman in a dark alley was just about what he felt he could manage. He glanced around, and followed her in. Silence followed, for about five seconds. Then Bundo emerged, very fast, and didn’t stop running until he reached the docks, where a boat was leaving on the tide. He ran up the gangplank just before it was pulled up, and became a seaman, and died three years later when an armadillo fell on his head in a far-off country, and in all that time never said what he’d seen. But he did scream a bit whenever he saw a dog. Angua emerged a few seconds later, and trotted away. Lady Sybil Ramkin opened the door and sniffed the night air. “Samuel Vimes! You’re drunk!” “Not yet! But I hope to be!” said Vimes, in cheerful tones. “And you haven’t changed out of your uniform!” Vimes looked down, and then up again. “That’s right!” he said brightly. “The guests will be here any minute. Go on up to your room. There’s a tub drawn and Willikins has laid out a suit for you. Get along with you…” “Jolly good!” Vimes bathed in lukewarm water and a rosy alcoholic glow. Then he dried himself off as best he could and looked at the suit on the bed. It had been made for him by the finest tailor in the city. Sybil Ramkin had a generous heart. She was a woman out for all she could give. The suit was blue and deep purple, with lace on the wrists and at the throat. It was the height of fashion, he had been told. Sybil Ramkin wanted him to go up in the world. She’d never actually said it, but he knew she felt he was far too good to be a copper. He stared at it in muzzy incomprehension. He’d never really worn a suit before. When he was a kid there’d been whatever rags could be tied on, and later on there’d been the leather knee britches and chainmail of the Watch—comfortable, practical clothes. There was a hat with the suit. It had pearls on it. Vimes had never worn any headgear before that hadn’t been hammered out of one piece of metal. The shoes were long and pointy. He’d always worn sandals in the summer, and the traditional cheap boots in the winter. Captain Vimes could just about manage to be an officer. He wasn’t at all sure how to become a gentleman. Putting on the suit would seem to be part of it… Guests were arriving. He could hear the crunch of carriage wheels on the driveway, and the flip-flop of the sedan-chair carriers. He glanced out of the window. Scoone Avenue was higher than most of Morpork and offered unrivalled views of the city, if that was your idea of a good time. The Patrician’s Palace was a darker shape in the dusk, with one lighted window high up. It was the center of a well-lit area, which got darker and darker as the view widened and began to take in those parts of the city where you didn’t light a candle because that was wasting good food. There was red torchlight around Quarry Lane…well, Trolls’ New Year, understandable. And a faint glow over the High Energy Magic building at Unseen University; Vimes would arrest all wizards on suspicion of being too bloody clever by half. But more lights than you’d expect to see around Cable and Sheer, the part of the city that people like Captain Quirke referred to as “tinytown”… “Samuel!” Vimes adjusted his cravat as best he could. He’d faced trolls and dwarfs and dragons, but now he was having to meet an entirely new species. The rich. It was always hard to remember, afterwards, how the world looked when she was dans une certaine condition , as her mother had delicately called it. For example, she remembered seeing smells. The actual streets and buildings…they were there, of course, but only as a drab monochrome background against which the sounds and, yes, the smells seared like brilliant lines of…colored fire and clouds of…well, of colored smoke. That was the point. That was where it all broke down. There were no proper words afterwards for what she heard and smelled. If you could see an eighth distinct color just for a while, and then describe it back in the seven-colored world, it’d have to be…“something like a sort of greenish-purple”. Experience did not cross over well between species. Sometimes, although not very often, Angua thought she was very lucky to get to see both worlds. And there was always twenty minutes after a Change when all the senses were heightened, so that the world glowed in every sensory spectrum like a rainbow. It was nearly worth it just for that. There were varieties of werewolf. Some people merely had to shave every hour and wear a hat to cover the ears. They could pass for nearly normal. But she could recognize them, nevertheless. Werewolves could spot another werewolf across a crowded street. There was something about the eyes. And, of course, if you had time, there were all sorts of other clues. Werewolves tended to live alone and take jobs that didn’t bring them into contact with animals. They wore scent or aftershave a lot and tended to be very fastidious about their food. And kept diaries with the phases of the moon carefully marked in red ink. It was no life, being a werewolf in the country. A stupid chicken went missing and you were a number one suspect. Everyone said it was better in the city. |
It was certainly overpowering. Angua could see several hours of Elm Street all in one go. The mugger’s fear was a fading orange line. Carrot’s trail was an expanding pale green cloud, with an edge that suggested he was slightly worried; there were additional tones of old leather and armor polish. Other trails, faint or powerful, criss-crossed the street. There was one that smelled like an old privy carpet. “Yo, bitch,” said a voice behind her. She turned her head. Gaspode looked no better through canine vision, except that he was at the center of a cloud of mixed odors. “Oh. It’s you. ” “’S’right,” said Gaspode, feverishly scratching himself. He gave her a hopeful look. “Just askin’, you understand, just gettin’ it over with right now, for the look of the thing, for wossname’s sake as it might be, but I s’pose there’s no chance of me sniffing—” “None. ” “Just askin’. No offense meant. ” Angua wrinkled her muzzle. “How come you smell so bad? I mean, you smelled bad enough when I was human, but now—” Gaspode looked proud. “Good, innit,” he said. “It didn’t just happen. I had to work at it. If you was a true dog, this’d be like really great aftershave. By the way, you want to get a collar, miss. No one bothers you if you’ve got a collar. ” “Thanks. ” Gaspode seemed to have something on his mind. “Er…you don’t rip hearts out, do you?” “Not unless I want to,” said Angua. “Right, right, right,” said Gaspode hurriedly. “Where’re you going?” He broke into a waddling, bow-legged trot to keep up with her. “To have a sniff around Hammerhock’s place. I didn’t ask you to come. ” “Got nothing else to do,” said Gaspode. “The House of Ribs don’t put its rubbish out till midnight. ” “Haven’t you got a home to go to?” said Angua, as they trotted under a fish-and-chip stall. “Home? Me? Home? Yeah. Of course. No problemo. Laughing kids, big kitchen, three meals a day, humorous cat next door to chase, own blanket and spot by the fire, he’s an old softy but we love him, ekcetra. No problem there. I just like to get out a bit,” said Gaspode. “Only, I see you haven’t got a collar. ” “It fell off. ” “Right?” “It was the weight of all them rhinestones. ” “I expect it was. ” “They let me do pretty much as I like,” said Gaspode. “I can see that. ” “Sometimes I don’t go home for, oh, days at a time. ” “Right?” “Weeks, sometimes. ” “Sure. ” “But they’re always so glad to see me when I do,” said Gaspode. “I thought you said you slept up at the University,” said Angua, as they dodged a cart in Rime Street. For a moment Gaspode smelled uncertain, but he recovered magnificently. “Yeah, right,” he said. “We-ell, you know how it is, families…All them kids picking you up, giving you biscuits and similar, people pattin’ you the whole time. Gets on yer nerves. So I sleeps up there quite often. ” “Right. ” “More often than not, point of fact. ” “Really?” Gaspode whimpered a little. “You want to be careful, you know. A young bitch like you can meet real trouble in this dog’s city. ” They had reached the wooden jetty behind Hammerhock’s workshop. “How d’you—” Angua paused. There was a mixture of smells here, but the overpowering one was as sharp as a saw. “Fireworks?” “And fear,” said Gaspode. “Lots of fear. ” He sniffed the planks. “Human fear, not dwarf. You can tell if it’s dwarfs. It’s the rat diet, see? Phew! Must have been real bad to stay this strong. ” “I smell one male human, one dwarf,” said Angua. “Yeah. One dead dwarf. ” Gaspode stuck his battered nose along the line of the door, and snuffled noisily. “There’s other stuff,” he said, “but it’s a bugger what with the river so close and everything. There’s oil and…grease…and all sorts—hey, where’re you going?” Gaspode trotted after her as Angua headed back to Rime Street, nose close to the ground. “Following the trail. ” “What for? He won’t thank you, you know. ” “Who won’t?” “Your young man. ” Angua stopped so suddenly that Gaspode ran into her. “You mean Corporal Carrot? He’s not my young man!” “Yeah? I’m a dog, right? It’s all in the nose, right? Smell can’t lie. Pheremonies. It’s the ole sexual alchemy stuff. ” “I’ve only known him a couple of nights!” “Aha!” “What do you mean, aha? ” “Nothing, nothing. Nothing wrong with it, anyway—” “There isn’t any it to be wrong!” “Right, right. Not that it would be,” said Gaspode, adding hurriedly, “even if there was. Everyone likes Corporal Carrot. ” “They do, don’t they,” said Angua, her hackles settling down. “He’s very…likeable. ” “Even Big Fido only bit his hand when Carrot tried to pat him. ” “Who’s Big Fido?” “Chief Barker of the Dog Guild. ” “Dogs have got a Guild? Dogs? Pull one of the other ones, it’s got bells on—” “No, straight up. Scavenging rights, sunbathing spots, night-time barking duty, breeding rights, howling rotas…the whole bone of rubber. ” “Dog Guild,” snarled Angua sarcastically. “Oh, yeah. ” “Chase a rat up a pipe in the wrong street and call me a liar. ’S’good job for you I’m around, else you could get into big trouble. There’s big trouble for a dog in this town who ain’t a Guild member. It’s lucky for you,” said Gaspode, “that you met me. ” “I suppose you’re a big ma—dog in the Guild, yes?” “Ain’t a member,” said Gaspode smugly. “How come you survive, then?” “I can think on my paws, me. Anyway, Big Fido leaves me alone. I got the Power. ” “What power?” “Never you mind. Big Fido…he’s a friend o’ mine. ” “Biting a man’s arm for patting you doesn’t sound very friendly. ” “Yeah? Last man who tried to pat Big Fido, they only ever found his belt buckle. ” “Yes?” “And that was in a tree. ” “Where are we?” “Not even a tree near here. What?” Gaspode sniffed the air. His nose could read the city in a way reminiscent of Captain Vimes’ educated soles. “Junction of Scoone Avenue and Prouts,” he said. “Trail’s dying out. It’s mixed up with too much other stuff. ” Angua sniffed around for a while. Someone had come up here, but too many people had crossed the trail. The sharp smell was still there, but only as suggestion in the welter of conflicting scents. She was aware of an overwhelming smell of approaching soap. She’d noticed it before, but only as a woman and only as a faint whiff. As a quadruped, it seemed to fill the world. Corporal Carrot was walking up the road, looking thoughtful. He wasn’t looking where he was going, however, but he didn’t need to. People stood aside for Corporal Carrot. It was the first time she’d seen him through these eyes. Good grief. How did people not notice it? He walked through the city like a tiger through tall grass, or a hubland bear across the snow, wearing the landscape like a skin— Gaspode glanced sideways. Angua was sitting on her haunches, staring. “Yer tongue’s hanging out,” he said. “What?…So? So what? That’s natural. I’m panting. ” “Har, har. ” Carrot noticed them, and stopped. “Why, it’s the little mongrel dog,” he said. “Woof, woof,” said Gaspode, his traitor tail wagging. “I see you’ve got a lady friend, anyway,” said Carrot, patting him on the head and then absent-mindedly wiping his hand on his tunic. “And, my word, what a splendid bitch,” he said. “A Ramtop wolfhound, if I’m any judge. ” He stroked Angua in a vague friendly way. “Oh, well,” he said. “This isn’t getting any work done, is it?” “Woof, whine, give the doggy a biscuit,” said Gaspode. Carrot stood up and patted his pockets. “I think I’ve got a piece of biscuit here—well, I could believe you understand every word I say…” Gaspode begged, and caught the biscuit easily. “Woof, woof, fawn, fawn,” he said. Carrot gave Gaspode the slightly puzzled look that people always gave him when he said “woof” instead of barking, nodded at Angua, and carried on toward Scoone Avenue and Lady Ramkin’s house. “There,” said Gaspode, crunching the stale biscuit noisily, “goes a very nice boy. Simple, but nice. ” “Yes, he is simple, isn’t he?” said Angua. “That’s what I first noticed about him. He’s simple. And everything else here is complicated. ” “He was making sheep’s eyes at you earlier,” said Gaspode. “Not that I’ve got anything against sheep’s eyes, mind you. |
If they’re fresh. ” “You’re disgusting. ” “Yeah, but at least I stay the same shape all month, no offense meant. ” “You’re asking for a bite. ” “Oh, yeah,” moaned Gaspode. “Yeah, you’ll bite me. Aaargh. Oh, yes, that’ll really worry me, that will. I mean, think about it. I’ve got so many dog diseases I’m only alive ’cos the little buggers are too busy fighting among ’emselves. I mean, I’ve even got Licky End, and you only get that if you’re a pregnant sheep. Go on. Bite me. Change my life. Every time there’s a full moon, suddenly I grow hair and yellow teeth and have to go around on all fours. Yes, I can see that making a big difference to my ongoing situation. Actually,” he said, “I’m definitely on a losing streak in the hair department, so maybe a, you know, not the whole bite, maybe just a nibble—” “Shut up. ” At least you’ve got a lady friend, Carrot had said. As if there was something on his mind… “A quick lick, even—” “Shut up. ” “This unrest is all Vetinari’s fault,” said the Duke of Eorle. “The man has no style! So now, of course, we have a city where grocers have as much influence as barons. He even let the plumbers form a Guild! That’s against nature, in my humble opinion. ” “It wouldn’t be so bad if he set some kind of social example,” said Lady Omnius. “Or even governed,” said Lady Selachii. “People seem to be able to get away with anything. ” “I admit that the old kings were not necessarily our kind of people, toward the end,” said the Duke of Eorle, “but at least they stood for something, in my humble opinion. We had a decent city in those days. People were more respectful and knew their place. People put in a decent day’s work, they didn’t laze around all the time. And we certainly didn’t open the gates to whatever riff-raff was capable of walking through. And of course we also had law. Isn’t that so, captain?” Captain Samuel Vimes stared glassily at a point somewhere to the left and just above the speaker’s left ear. Cigar smoke hung almost motionless in the air. Vimes was dimly aware that he’d spent several hours eating too much food in the company of people he didn’t like. He longed for the smell of damp streets and the feel of the cobbles under his cardboard soles. A tray of post-prandial drinks was orbiting the table, but Vimes hadn’t touched it, because it upset Sybil. And she tried not to show it, and that upset him even more. The Bearhugger’s had worn off. He hated being sober. It meant he started to think. One of the thoughts jostling for space was that there was no such thing as a humble opinion. He hadn’t had much experience with the rich and powerful. Coppers didn’t, as a rule. It wasn’t that they were less prone to commit crimes, it was just that the crimes they committed tended to be so far above the normal level of criminality that they were beyond the reach of men with bad boots and rusting mail. Owning a hundred slum properties wasn’t a crime, although living in one was, almost. Being an Assassin—the Guild never actually said so, but an important qualification was being the son or daughter of a gentleman—wasn’t a crime. If you had enough money, you could hardly commit crimes at all. You just perpetrated amusing little peccadilloes. “And now everywhere you look it’s uppity dwarfs and trolls and rude people,” said Lady Selachii. “There’s more dwarfs in Ankh-Morpork now than there are in any of their own cities, or whatever they call their holes. ” “What do you think, captain?” said the Duke of Eorle. “Hmm?” Captain Vimes picked up a grape and started turning it over and over in his fingers. “The current ethnic problem. ” “Are we having one?” “Well, yes…Look at Quarry Lane. There’s fighting there every night!” “And they have absolutely no concept of religion!” Vimes examined the grape minutely. What he wanted to say was: Of course they fight. They’re trolls. Of course they bash one another with clubs—trollish is basically body language and, well, they like to shout. In fact, the only one who ever gives anyone any real trouble is that bastard Chrysoprase, and that’s only because he apes humans and is a quick learner. As for religion, troll gods were hitting one another with clubs ten thousand years before we’d even stopped trying to eat rocks. But the memory of the dead dwarf stirred something perverse in his soul. He put the grape back on his plate. “Definitely,” he said. “In my view, the godless bastards should be rounded up and marched out of the city at spearpoint. ” There was a moment’s silence. “It’s no more than they deserve,” Vimes added. “Exactly! They’re barely more than animals,” said Lady Omnius. Vimes suspected her first name was Sara. “Have you noticed how massive their heads are?” said Vimes. “That’s really just rock. Very small brains. ” “And morally, of course…” said Lord Eorle. There was a murmur of vague agreement. Vimes reached for his glass. “Willikins, I don’t think Captain Vimes wants any wine,” said Lady Ramkin. “Wrong!” said Vimes cheerfully. “And while we’re on the subject, how about the dwarfs?” “I don’t know if anyone’s noticed,” said Lord Eorle, “but you certainly don’t see as many dogs about as you used to. ” Vimes stared. It was true about the dogs. There didn’t seem to be quite so many mooching around these days, that was a fact. But he’d visited a few dwarf bars with Carrot, and knew that dwarfs would indeed eat dog, but only if they couldn’t get rat. And ten thousand dwarfs eating continuously with knife, fork and shovel wouldn’t make a dent in Ankh-Morpork’s rat population. It was a major feature in dwarfish letters back home: come on, everyone, and bring the ketchup. “Notice how small their heads are?” he managed. “Very limited cranial capacity, surely. Fact of measurement. ” “And you never see their women,” said Lady Sara Omnius. “I find that very…suspicious. You know what they say about dwarfs,” she added darkly. Vimes sighed. He was just about aware that you saw their women all the time, although they looked just like the male dwarfs. Surely everyone knew that, who knew anything about dwarfs? “Cunning little devils too,” said Lady Selachii. “Sharp as needles. ” “You know,” Vimes shook his head, “you know, that’s what’s so damn annoying, isn’t it? The way they can be so incapable of any rational thought and so bloody shrewd at the same time. ” Only Vimes saw the look Lady Ramkin flashed him. Lord Eorle stubbed out his cigar. “They just move in and take over. And work away like ants all the time real people should be getting some sleep. It’s not natural. ” Vimes’ mind circled the comment and compared it to the earlier one about a decent day’s work. “Well, one of them won’t be working so hard,” said Lady Omnius. “My maid said one of them was found in the river this morning. Probably some tribal war or something. ” “Hah…it’s a start, anyway,” said Lord Eorle, laughing. “Not that anyone will notice one more or less. ” Vimes smiled brightly. There was a wine bottle near his hand, despite Willikins’ tactful best efforts to remove it. The neck looked invitingly grippable— He was aware of eyes on him. He looked across the table into the face of a man who was watching him intently and whose last contribution to the conversation had been “Could you be so kind as to pass me the seasonings, captain?” There was nothing remarkable about the face, except for the gaze—which was absolutely calm and mildly amused. It was Dr. Cruces. Vimes had the strong impression that his thoughts were being read. “Samuel!” Vimes’ hand stopped halfway to the bottle. Willikins was standing next to her ladyship. “Apparently there’s a young man at the door asking for you,” said Lady Ramkin. “Corporal Carrot. ” “Gosh, this is exciting!” said Lord Eorle. “Has he come to arrest us, do you think? Hahaha. ” “Ha,” said Vimes. Lord Eorle nudged his partner. “I expect that somewhere a crime is being committed,” he said. “Yes,” said Vimes. “Quite close, I think. ” Carrot was shown in, with his helmet under his arm at a respectful angle. He gazed at the select company, licked his lips nervously, and saluted. |
Everyone was looking at him. It was hard not to notice Carrot in a room. There were bigger people than him in the city. He didn’t loom. He just seemed, without trying, to distort things around him. Everything became background to Corporal Carrot. “At ease, corporal,” said Vimes. “What’s up? I mean,” he added quickly, knowing Carrot’s erratic approach to colorful language, “what is the reason for you being here at this time?” “Got something to show you, sir. Uh. Sir, I think it’s from the Assass—” “We’ll just go and talk about it outside, shall we?” said Vimes. Dr. Cruces hadn’t twitched a muscle. Lord Eorle sat back. “Well, I must say I’m impressed,” he said. “I’d always thought you Watchmen were a pretty ineffective lot, but I see you’re pursuing your duty at all times. Always on the alert for the criminal mind, eh?” “Oh, yes,” said Vimes. “The criminal mind. Yes. ” The cooler air of the ancestral hallway came as a blessing. He leaned against the wall and squinted at the card. “‘Gonne’?” “You know you said you saw something in the courtyard—” Carrot began. “What’s a gonne?” “Maybe something wasn’t in the Assassins’ museum, and they put this sign on it?” said Carrot. “You know, like ‘Removed for Cleaning’? They do that in museums. ” “No, I shouldn’t think th—What do you know about museums, anyway?” “Oh, well, sir,” said Carrot. “I sometimes visit them on my day off. The one in the University, of course, and Lord Vetinari lets me look around the old Palace one, and then there’s the Guild ones, they generally let me in if I ask nicely, and there’s the dwarf museum off Rime Street—” “Is there?” said Vimes, interested despite himself. He’d walked along Rime Street a thousand times. “Yes, sir, just up Whirligig Alley. ” “Fancy that. What’s in it?” “Many interesting examples of dwarf bread, sir. ” Vimes thought about this for a moment. “That’s not important right now,” he said. “This isn’t how you spell gone, anyway. ” “Yes it is, sir,” said Carrot. “I meant, it’s not how gone is normally spelled. ” He flicked the card back and forth in his fingers. “A man’d have to be a fool to break into the Assassins’ Guild,” he said. “Yes, sir. ” The anger had burned away the fumes. Once again he felt…not, not the thrill, that wasn’t the right word…the sense of something. He still wasn’t sure what it was. But it was there, waiting for him— “Samuel Vimes, what’s going on?” Lady Ramkin shut the dining-room door behind her. “I was watching you,” she said. “You were being very rude, Sam. ” “I was trying not to be. ” “Lord Eorle is a very old friend. ” “Is he?” “Well, I’ve known him a long time. I can’t stand the man, actually. But you were making him look foolish. ” “He was making himself look foolish. I was merely helping. ” “But I’ve often heard you being…rude about dwarfs and trolls. ” “That’s different. I’ve got a right. That idiot wouldn’t know a troll if it walked over him. ” “Oh, he would know if a troll walked over him,” said Carrot, helpfully. “Some of them weigh as much as— “What’s so important, anyway?” said Lady Ramkin. “We’re…looking for whoever killed Chubby,” said Vimes. Lady Ramkin’s expression changed instantly. “That’s different, of course,” she said. “People like that should be publicly flogged. ” Why did I say that? thought Vimes. Maybe because it’s true. The…gonne…goes missing, next minute there’s a little dwarf artificer thrown in the river with a nasty draught where his chest should be. They’re linked. Now all I have to do is find the links… “Carrot, can you come back with me to Hammerhock’s?” “Yes, captain. Why?” “I want to see inside that workshop. And this time I’ve got a dwarf with me. ” More than that, he added, I’ve got Corporal Carrot. Everyone likes Corporal Carrot. Vimes listened while the conversation droned on in dwarfish. Carrot seemed to be winning, but it was a near thing. The clan was giving in not because of reason, or in obedience to the law, but because…well…because it was Carrot who was asking. Finally, the corporal looked up. He was sitting on a dwarf stool, so his knees practically framed his head. “You have to understand, you see, that a dwarf’s workshop is very important. ” “Right,” said Vimes. “I understand. ” “And, er…you’re a bigger. ” “Sorry?” “A bigger. Bigger than a dwarf. ” “Ah. ” “Er. The inside of a dwarf’s workshop is like…well, it’s like the inside of his clothes, if you know what I mean. They say you can look, if I’m with you. But you mustn’t touch anything. Er. They’re not very happy about this, captain. ” A dwarf who was possibly Mrs. Hammerhock produced a bunch of keys. “I’ve always got on well with dwarfs,” said Vimes. “They’re not happy, sir. Um. They don’t think we’ll do any good. ” “We’ll do our best!” “Um. I didn’t translate that properly. Um. They don’t think we’re any good. They don’t mean to be offensive, sir. They just don’t think we’ll be allowed to get anywhere, sir. ” “Ow!” “Sorry about that, captain,” said Carrot, who was walking like an inverted L. “After you. Mind your head on the—” “Ow!” “Perhaps it’d be best if you sat down and I’ll look around. ” The workshop was long and, of course, low, with another small door at the far end. There was a big workbench under a skylight. On the opposite wall was a forge and a tool rack. And a hole. A chunk of plaster had fallen away a few feet above the ground, and cracks radiated away from the shattered brickwork underneath. Vimes pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t found time to sleep today. That was another thing. He’d have to get used to sleeping when it was dark. He couldn’t remember when he’d last slept at night. He sniffed. “I can smell fireworks,” he said. “Could be from the forge,” said Carrot. “Anyway, trolls and dwarfs have been letting fireworks off all over the city. ” Vimes nodded. “All right,” he said, “so what can we see?” “Someone thumped the wall pretty hard just here,” said Carrot. “Could have happened at any time,” said Vimes. “No, sir, because there’s the plaster dust underneath and a dwarf always keeps his workshop clean. ” “Really?” There were various weapons, some of them half finished, on racks by the bench. Vimes picked up most of a crossbow. “He did good work,” he said. “Very good at mechanisms. ” “Well known for it,” said Carrot, poking around aimlessly on the bench. “A very delicate hand. He made musical boxes for a hobby. Could never resist a mechanical challenge. Er. What are we looking for actually , sir?” “Not sure. Now this is good…” It was a war axe, and so heavy that Vimes’ arm sagged. Intricate etched lines covered the blade. It must have represented weeks of work. “Not your actual Saturday night special, eh?” “Oh no,” said Carrot, “that’s a burial weapon. ” “I should think it is!” “I mean, it’s made to be buried with a dwarf. Every dwarf is buried with a weapon. You know? To take with him to…wherever he’s going. ” “But it’s fine workmanship! And it’s got an edge like—aargh,” Vimes sucked his finger, “like a razor. ” Carrot looked shocked. “Of course. It’d be no good him facing them with an inferior weapon. ” “What them are you talking about?” “Anything bad he encounters on his journey after death,” said Carrot, a shade awkwardly. “Ah. ” Vimes hesitated. This was an area in which he did not feel comfortable. “It’s an ancient tradition,” said Carrot. “I thought dwarfs didn’t believe in devils and demons and stuff like that. ” “That’s true, but…we’re not sure if they know. ” “Oh. ” Vimes laid down the axe and picked up something else from the work rack. It was a knight in armor, about nine inches high. There was a key in its back. He turned it, and then nearly dropped the thing when the figure’s legs started to move. He put it down, and it began to march stiffly across the floor, waving its sword. “Moves a bit like Colon, don’t it,” said Vimes. “Clockwork!” “It’s the coming thing,” said Carrot. “Mr. Hammerhock was good at that. ” Vimes nodded. “We’re looking for anything that shouldn’t be here,” he said. “Or something that should be and isn’t. Is there anything missing?” “Hard to say, sir. It isn’t here. |
” “What?” “Anything that’s missing, sir,” said Carrot conscientiously. “I mean,” said Vimes, patiently, “anything not here which you’d expect to find. ” “Well, he’s got—he had —all the usual tools, sir. Nice ones, too. Shame, really. ” “What is?” “They’ll be melted down, of course. ” Vimes stared at the neat racks of hammers and files. “Why? Can’t some other dwarf use them?” “What, use another dwarf’s actual tools? ” Carrot’s mouth twisted in distaste, as though someone had suggested he wear Corporal Nobbs’ old shorts. “Oh, no, that’s not…right. I mean, they’re…part of him. I mean…someone else using them, after he’s used them all these years, I mean…urrgh. ” “Really?” The clockwork soldier marched under the bench. “It’d feel…wrong,” said Carrot. “Er. Yukky. ” “Oh. ” Vimes stood up. “Capt—” “Ow!” “—mind your head. Sorry. ” Rubbing his head with one hand, Vimes used the other to examine the hole in the plaster. “There’s…something in here,” he said. “Pass me one of those chisels. ” There was silence. “A chisel, please. If it makes you feel any better, we are trying to find out who killed Mr. Hammerhock. All right?” Carrot picked one up, but with considerable reluctance. “This is Mr. Hammerhock’s chisel, this is,” he said reproachfully. “Corporal Carrot, will you stop being a dwarf for two seconds? You’re a guard! And give me the damn chisel! It’s been a long day! Thank you!” Vimes prised at the brickwork, and a rough disc of lead dropped into his hand. “Slingshot?” said Carrot. “No room in here,” said Vimes. “Anyway, how the hell could it get this far into the wall?” He slipped the disc into his pocket. “That seems about it, then,” he said, straightening up. “We’d better—ow!—oh, fish out that clockwork soldier, will you? Better leave the place tidy. ” Carrot scrabbled in the darkness under the bench. There was a rustling noise. “There’s a piece of paper under here, sir. ” Carrot emerged, waving a small yellowing sheet. Vimes squinted at it. “Looks like nonsense to me,” he said, eventually. “It’s not dwarfish, I know that. But these symbols—these things I’ve seen before. Or something like them. ” He passed the paper back to Carrot. “What can you make of it?” Carrot frowned. “I could make a hat,” he said, “or a boat. Or a sort of chrysanthemum—” “I mean the symbols. These symbols, just here. ” “Dunno, captain. They do look familiar, though. Sort of…like alchemists’ writing?” “Oh, no!” Vimes put his hands over his eyes. “Not the bloody alchemists! Oh, no! Not that bloody gang of mad firework merchants! I can take the Assassins, but not those idiots! No! Please! What time is it?” Carrot glanced at the hourglass on his belt. “About half past eleven, captain. ” “Then I’m off to bed. Those clowns can wait until tomorrow. You could make me a happy man by telling me that this paper belonged to Hammerhock. ” “Doubt it, sir. ” “Me too. Come on. Let’s go out through the back door. ” Carrot squeezed through. “Mind your head, sir. ” Vimes, almost on his knees, stopped and stared at the doorframe. “Well, corporal,” he said eventually, “we know it wasn’t a troll that did it, don’t we? Two reasons. One, a troll couldn’t get through this door, it’s dwarf sized. ” “What’s the other reason, sir?” Vimes carefully pulled something off a splinter on the low door lintel. “The other reason, Carrot, is that trolls don’t have hair. ” The couple of strands that had been caught in the grain of the beam were red and long. Someone had left them there inadvertently. Someone tall. Taller than a dwarf, anyway. Vimes peered at them. They looked more like threads than hair. Fine red threads. Oh, well. A clue was a clue. He carefully folded them up in a scrap of paper borrowed from Carrot’s notebook, and handed them to the corporal. “Here. Keep this safe. ” They crawled out into the night. There was a narrow, plank walkway attached to the walls, and beyond that was the river. Vimes straightened up carefully. “I don’t like this, Carrot,” he said. “There’s something bad underneath all this. ” Carrot looked down. “I mean, there are hidden things happening,” said Vimes, patiently. “Yes, sir. ” “Let’s get back to the Yard. ” They proceeded to the Brass Bridge, quite slowly, because Carrot cheerfully acknowledged everyone they met. Hard-edged ruffians, whose normal response to a remark from a Watchman would be genteelly paraphrased by a string of symbols generally found on the top row of a typewriter’s keyboard, would actually smile awkwardly and mumble something harmless in response to his hearty, “Good evening, Masher! Mind how you go!” Vimes stopped halfway across the bridge to light his cigar, striking a match on one of the ornamental hippos. Then he looked down into the turbid waters. “Carrot?” “Yes, captain?” “Do you think there’s such a thing as a criminal mind?” Carrot almost audibly tried to work this out. “What…you mean like…Mr. Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, sir?” “He’s not a criminal. ” “You have eaten one of his pies, sir?” “I mean… yes …but…he’s just geographically divergent in the financial hemisphere. ” “Sir?” “I mean he just disagrees with other people about the position of things. Like money. He thinks it should all be in his pocket. No, I meant—” Vimes closed his eyes, and thought about cigar smoke and flowing drink and laconic voices. There were people who’d steal money from people. Fair enough. That was just theft. But there were people who, with one easy word, would steal the humanity from people. That was something else. The point was…well, he didn’t like dwarfs and trolls. But he didn’t like anyone very much. The point was that he moved in their company every day, and he had a right to dislike them. The point was that no fat idiot had the right to say things like that. He stared at the water. One of the piles of the bridge was right below him; the Ankh sucked and gurgled around it. Debris—baulks of timber, branches, rubbish—had piled up in a sort of sordid floating island. There was even fungus growing on it. What he could do with right now was a bottle of Bearhugger’s. The world swam into focus when you looked at it through the bottom of a bottle. Something else swam into focus. Doctrine of signatures, thought Vimes. That’s what the herbalists call it. It’s like the gods put a “Use Me” label on plants. If a plant looks like a part of the body, it’s good for ailments peculiar to that part. There’s teethwort for teeth, spleenwort for…spleens, eyebright for eyes…there’s even a toadstool called Phallus impudicus , and I don’t know what that’s for but Nobby is a big man for mushroom omelettes. Now…either that fungus down there is exactly the medicine for hands, or… Vimes sighed. “Carrot, can you go and get a boathook, please?” Carrot followed his gaze. “Just to the left of that log, Carrot. ” “Oh, no!” “I’m afraid so. Haul it out, find out who he was, make out a report for Sergeant Colon. ” The corpse was a clown. Once Carrot had climbed down the pile and moved the debris aside, he floated face up, a big sad grin painted on his face. “He’s dead!” “Catching, isn’t it?” Vimes looked at the grinning corpse. Don’t investigate. Keep out of it. Leave it to the Assassins and bloody Quirke. These are your orders. “Corporal Carrot?” “Sir?” These are your orders … Well, damn that. What did Vetinari think he was? Some kind of clockwork soldier? “We’re going to find out what’s been going on here. ” “Yes, sir!” “Whatever else happens. We’re going to find out. ” The river Ankh is probably the only river in the universe on which the investigators can chalk the outline of the corpse. “Dear Sgt Colon, “I hope you are well. The weather is Fine. This is a corpse who, we fished out of the river last night but, we don’t know who he is except he is a member of the Fools’ Guild called Beano. He has been seriously hit on the back of the head and has been stuck under the bridge for some time, he is not a Pretty sight. Captain Vimes says to find out things. He says he thinks it is mixed up with the Murder of Mr. Hammerhock. He says talk to the Fools. He says Do It. |
Also please find attached Piece of Paper. Captain Vimes says, try it out on the Alchemists—” Sergeant Colon stopped reading for a while to curse all alchemists. “—because it is Puzzling Evidence. Hoping this finds you in Good Health, Yours Faithfully, Carrot Ironfoundersson, (Cpl). ” The sergeant scratched his head. What the hell did that all mean? Just after breakfast a couple of senior jesters from the Fools’ Guild had come to pick up the corpse. Corpses in the river…well, there was nothing very unusual about that. But it wasn’t the way clowns died, usually. After all, what did a clown have that was worth stealing? What sort of danger was a clown? As for the alchemists, he was blowed if he was— Of course, he didn’t have to. He looked up at the recruits. They had to be good for something. “Cuddy and Detritus— don’t salute! —I’ve got a little job for you. Just take this piece of paper to the Alchemists’ Guild, all right? And ask one of the loonies to tell you what he makes of it. ” “Where’s the Alchemists’ Guild, sergeant?” said Cuddy. “In the Street of Alchemists, of course,” said Colon, “at the moment. But I should run, if I was you. ” The Alchemists’ Guild is opposite the Gamblers’ Guild. Usually. Sometimes it’s above it, or below it, or falling in bits around it. The gamblers are occasionally asked why they continue to maintain an establishment opposite a Guild which accidentally blows up its Guild Hall every few months, and they say: “Did you read the sign on the door when you came in?” The troll and the dwarf walked toward it, occasionally barging into each other by deliberate accident. “Anyway, you so clever, he gave paper to me? ” “Hah! Can you read it, then? Can you?” “No, I tell you to read it. That called del-eg-ay-shun. ” “Hah! Can’t read! Can’t count! Stupid troll!” “Not stupid!” “Hah! Yes? Everyone knows trolls can’t even count up to four!” * “Eater of rats!” “How many fingers am I holding up? You tell me, Mr. Clever Rocks in the Head. ” “Many,” Detritus hazarded. “Har har, no, five. You’ll be in big trouble on payday. Sergeant Colon’ll say, stupid troll, he won’t know how many dollars I give him! Hah! How come you read the notice about joining the Watch, anyway? Got someone to read it to you?” “How come you read notice? Get someone to hold you up?” They walked into the door of the Alchemists’ Guild. “I knock. My job!” “I’ll knock!” When Mr. Sendivoge, the Guild secretary, opened the door it was to find a dwarf hanging on the knocker and being swung up and down by a troll. He adjusted his crash helmet. “Yes?” he said. Cuddy let go. Detritus’ massive brows knitted. “Er. You loony bastard, what you make of this?” he said. Sendivoge stared from Detritus to the paper. Cuddy was struggling to get around the troll, who was almost completely blocking the doorway. “ What’d you go and call him that for? ” “ Sergeant Colon, he said —” “I could make a hat out of it,” said Sendivoge, “or a string of dollies, if I could get some scissors—” “What my…colleague means, sir, is can you help us in our inquiries in re the writing on this alleged piece of paper here?” said Cuddy. “That bloody hurt!” Sendivoge peered at him. “Are you Watchmen?” he said. “I’m Lance-Constable Cuddy and this,” said Cuddy, gesturing upward, “is Lance-trying-to-be-Constable Detritus— don’t salu - oh…” There was a thump, and Detritus slumped sideways. “Suicide squad, is he?” said the alchemist. “He’ll come round in a minute,” said Cuddy. “It’s the saluting. It’s too much for him. You know trolls. ” Sendivoge shrugged and stared at the writing. “Looks…familiar,” he said. “Seen it somewhere before. Here…you’re a dwarf, aren’t you?” “It’s the nose, isn’t it?” said Cuddy. “It always gives me away. ” “Well, I’m sure we always try to be of help to the community,” said Sendivoge. “Do come in. ” Cuddy’s steel-tipped boots kicked Detritus back into semisensibility, and he lumbered after them. “Why the, er, why the crash helmet, mister?” said Cuddy, as they walked along the corridor. All around them was the sound of hammering. The Guild was usually being rebuilt. Sendivoge rolled his eyes. “Balls,” he said, “billiard balls, in fact. ” “I knew a man who played like that,” said Cuddy. “Oh, no. Mr. Silverfish is a good shot. That tends rather to be the problem, in fact. ” Cuddy looked at the crash helmet again. “It’s the ivory, you see. ” “Ah,” said Cuddy, not seeing, “elephants?” “Ivory without elephants. Transmuted ivory. Sound commercial venture. ” “I thought you were working on gold. ” “Ah, yes. Of course, you people know all about gold,” said Sendivoge. “Oh, yes,” said Cuddy, reflecting on the phrase “you people. ” “The gold,” said Sendivoge, thoughtfully, “is turning out to be a bit tricky…” “How long have you been trying?” “Three hundred years. ” “That’s a long time. ” “But we’ve been working on the ivory for only a week and it’s going very well!” said the alchemist quickly. “Except for some side effects which we’ll doubtless soon be able to sort out. ” He pushed open a door. It was a large room, heavily outfitted with the usual badly ventilated furnaces, rows of bubbling crucibles, and one stuffed alligator. Things floated in jars. The air smelled of a limited life expectancy. A lot of equipment had been moved away, however, to make room for a billiard table. Half a dozen alchemists were standing around it in the manner of men poised to run. “It’s the third this week,” said Sendivoge, gloomily. He nodded to a figure bent over a cue. “Er, Mr. Silverfish—” he began. “Quiet! Game on!” said the head alchemist, squinting at the white ball. Sendivoge glanced at the score rail. “Twenty-one points,” he said. “My word. Perhaps we’re adding just the right amount of camphor to the nitro-cellulose after all—” There was a click. The cue ball rolled away, bounced off the cushion— —and then accelerated. White smoke poured off it as it bore down on an innocent cluster of red balls. Silverfish shook his head. “Unstable,” he said. “Everybody down! ” Everyone in the room ducked, except for the two Watchmen, one of whom was in a sense pre-ducked and the other of whom was several minutes behind events. The black ball took off on a column of flame, whiffled past Detritus’ face trailing black smoke and then shattered a window. The green ball was staying in one spot but spinning furiously. The other balls cannoned back and forth, occasionally bursting into flame or caroming off the walls. A red one hit Detritus between the eyes, curved back on to the table, holed itself in the middle pocket and then blew up. There was silence, except for the occasional bout of coughing. Silverfish appeared through the oily smoke and, with a shaking hand, moved the score point one notch with the burning end of his cue. “One. ” he said. “Oh well. Back to the crucible. Someone order another billiard table—” “’Scuse me,” said Cuddy, prodding him in the knee. “Who’s there?” “Down here!” Silverfish looked down. “Oh. Are you a dwarf?” Cuddy gave him a blank stare. “Are you a giant?” he said. “Me? Of course not!” “Ah. Then I must be a dwarf, yes. And that’s a troll behind me,” said Cuddy. Detritus pulled himself into something resembling attention. “We’ve come to see if you can tell us what’s on this paper,” said Cuddy. “Yur,” said Detritus. Silverfish looked at it. “Oh, yes,” he said, “some of old Leonard’s stuff. Well?” “Leonard?” said Cuddy. He glared at Detritus. “Write this down,” he snapped. “Leonard of Quirm,” said the alchemist. Cuddy still looked lost. “Never heard of him?” said Silverfish. “Can’t say I have, sir. ” “I thought everyone knew about Leonard da Quirm. Quite barmy. But a genius, too. ” “Was he an alchemist?” Write this down, write this down…Detritus looked around blearily for a burnt bit of wood and a handy wall. “Leonard? No. He didn’t belong to a Guild. Or he belonged to all the Guilds, I suppose. He got around quite a bit. He tinkered , if you know what I mean?” “No, sir. ” “He painted a bit, and messed about with mechanisms. Any old thing. ” Or a hammer and chisel even, thought Detritus. |
“This,” said Silverfish, “is a formula for…oh, well, I might as well tell you, it’s hardly a big secret…it’s a formula for what we called No. l Powder. Sulphur, saltpeter and charcoal. You use it in fireworks. Any fool could make it up. But it looks odd because it’s written back to front. ” “This sounds important,” hissed Cuddy to the troll. “Oh, no. He always used to write back to front,” said Silverfish. “He was odd like that. But very clever all the same. Haven’t you seen his portrait of the Mona Ogg?” “I don’t think so. ” Silverfish handed the parchment to Detritus, who squinted at it as if he knew what it meant. Maybe he could write on this, he thought. “The teeth followed you around the room. Amazing. In fact some people said they followed them out of the room and all the way down the street. ” “I think we should talk to Mr. da Quirm,” said Cuddy. “Oh, you could do that, you could do that, certainly,” said Silverfish. “But he might not be in a position to listen. He disappeared a couple of years ago. ” …then when I find something to write with, thought Detritus, I have to find someone teach me how write… “Disappeared? How?” said Cuddy. “We think,” said Silverfish, leaning closer, “that he found a way of making himself invisible. ” “Really?” “Because,” said Silverfish, nodding conspiratorially, “ no one’s seen him. ” “Ah,” said Cuddy. “Er. This is just off of the top of my head, you understand, but I suppose he couldn’t…just have gone somewhere where you couldn’t see him?” “Nah, that wouldn’t be like old Leonard. He wouldn’t disappear. But he might vanish. ” “Oh. ” “He was a bit…unhinged, if you know what I mean. Head too full of brains. Ha, I remember he had this idea once of getting lightning out of lemons! Hey, Sendivoge, you remember Leonard and his lightning lemons?” Sendivoge made little circular motions alongside his head with one finger. “Oh, yes. ‘If you stick copper and zinc rods in the lemon, hey presto, you get tame lightning. ’ Man was an idiot!” “Oh, not an idiot,” said Silverfish, picking up a billiard ball that had miraculously escaped the detonations. “Just so sharp he kept cutting himself, as my granny used to say. Lightning lemons! Where’s the sense in that? It was as bad as his ‘voices-in-the-sky’ machine. I told him: Leonard, I said, what are wizards for, eh? There’s perfectly normal magic available for that kind of thing. Lightning lemons? It’ll be men with wings next! And you know what he said? You know what he said? He said: Funny you should say that…Poor old chap. ” Even Cuddy joined in the laughter. “And did you try it?” he said, afterwards. “Try what?” said Silverfish. “Har. Har. Har,” said Detritus, toiling behind the others. “Putting the metal rods in the lemons?” “Don’t be a damn fool. ” “What dis letter mean?” said Detritus, pointing at the paper. They looked. “Oh, that’s not a symbol,” said Silverfish. “That’s just old Leonard’s way. He was always doodling in margins. Doodle, doodle, doodle. I told him: you should call yourself Mr. Doodle. ” “I thought it was some alchemy thing,” said Cuddy. “It looks a bit like a crossbow without the bow. And this word Ennogeht. What does that mean?” “Search me. Sounds barbarian to me. Anyway…if that’s all, officer…we’ve got some serious research to do,” said Silverfish, tossing the fake ivory ball up in the air and catching it again. “We’re not all daydreamers like poor old Leonard. ” “Ennogeht,” said Cuddy, turning the paper round and round. “T-h-e-g-o-n-n-e—” Silverfish missed the ball. Cuddy got behind Detritus just in time. “I’ve done this before,” said Sergeant Colon, as he and Nobby approached the Fools’ Guild. “Keep up against the wall when I bangs the knocker, all right?” It was shaped like a pair of artificial breasts, the sort that are highly amusing to rugby players and anyone whose sense of humor has been surgically removed. Colon gave it a quick rap and then flung himself to safety. There was a whoop, a few honks on a horn, a little tune that someone somewhere must have thought was very jolly, a small hatch slid aside above the knocker and a custard pie emerged slowly, on the end of a wooden arm. Then the arm snapped and the pie collapsed in a little heap by Colon’s foot. “It’s sad, isn’t it?” said Nobby. The door opened awkwardly, but only by a few inches, and a small clown stared up at him. “I say, I say, I say,” it said, “why did the fat man knock at the door?” “I don’t know,” said Colon automatically. “Why did the fat man knock at the door?” They stared at each other, tangled in the punch-line. “That’s what I asked you ,” said the clown reproachfully. He had a depressed, hopeless voice. Sergeant Colon struck out toward sanity. “Sergeant Colon, Night Watch,” he said, “and this here is Corporal Nobbs. We’ve come to talk to someone about the man who…was found in the river, OK?” “Oh. Yes. Poor Brother Beano. I suppose you’d better come in, then,” said the clown. Nobby was about to push at the door when Colon stopped him, and pointed wordlessly upwards. “There seems to be a bucket of whitewash over the door,” he said. “Is there?” said the clown. He was very small, with huge boots that made him look like a capital L. His face was plastered with flesh-colored make-up on which a big frown had been painted. His hair had been made from a couple of old mops, painted red. He wasn’t fat, but a sort of hoop in his trousers was supposed to make him look amusingly overweight. A pair of rubber braces, so that his trousers bounced up and down when he walked, were a further component in the overall picture of a complete and utter twerp. “Yes,” said Colon. “There is. ” “Sure?” “Positive. ” “Sorry about that,” said the clown. “It’s stupid, I know, but kind of traditional. Wait a moment. ” There were sounds of a stepladder being lugged into position, and various clankings and swearwords. “All right, come on in. ” The clown led the way through the gatehouse. There was no sound but the flop-flop of his boots on the cobbles. Then an idea seemed to occur to him. “It’s a long shot, I know, but I suppose neither of you gentlemen’d like a sniff of my buttonhole?” “No. ” “No. ” “No, I suppose not. ” The clown sighed. “It’s not easy, you know. Clowning, I mean. I’m on gate duty ’cos I’m on probation. ” “You are?” “I keep on forgetting: is it crying on the outside and laughing on the inside? I always get it mixed up. ” “About this Beano—” Colon began. “We’re just holding his funeral,” said the little clown. “That’s why my trousers are at half-mast. ” They stepped out into the sunlight again. The inner courtyard was lined with clowns and fools. Bells tinkled in the breeze. Sunlight glinted off red noses and the occasional nervous jet of water from a fake buttonhole. The clown ushered the guards into a line of fools. “I’m sure Dr. Whiteface will talk to you as soon as we’ve finished,” he said. “My name’s Boffo, by the way. ” He held out his hand hopefully. “Don’t shake it,” Colon warned. Boffo looked crestfallen. A band struck up, and a procession of Guild members emerged from the chapel. A clown walked a little way ahead, carrying a small urn. “This is very moving,” said Boffo. On a dais on the opposite side of the quadrangle was a fat clown in baggy trousers, huge braces, a bow tie that was spinning gently in the breeze, and a top hat. His face had been painted into a picture of misery. He held a bladder on a stick. The clown with the urn reached the dais, climbed the steps, and waited. The band fell silent. The clown in the top hat hit the urn-carrier about the head with the bladder—once, twice, three times… The urn-bearer stepped forward, waggled his wig, took the urn in one hand and the clown’s belt in the other and, with great solemnity, poured the ashes of the late Brother Beano into the other clown’s trousers. A sigh went up from the audience. The band struck up the clown anthem “The March of the Idiots”, and the end of the trombone flew off and hit a clown on the back of the head. |
He turned and swung a punch at the clown behind him, who ducked, causing a third clown to be knocked through the bass drum. Colon and Nobby looked at one another and shook their heads. Boffo produced a large red and white handkerchief and blew his nose with a humorous honking sound. “Classic,” he said. “It’s what he would have wanted. ” “Have you any idea what happened?” said Colon. “Oh, yes. Brother Grineldi did the old heel-and-toe trick and tipped the urn down—” “I mean, why did Beano die?” “Um. We think it was an accident,” said Boffo. “An accident,” said Colon flatly. “Yes. That’s what Dr. Whiteface thinks. ” Boffo glanced upward, briefly. They followed his gaze. The rooftops of the Assassins’ Guild adjoined the Fools’ Guild. It didn’t do to upset neighbors like that, especially when the only weapon you had was a custard pie edged with short-crust pastry. “That’s what Dr. Whiteface thinks,” said Boffo again, looking at his enormous shoes. Sergeant Colon liked a quiet life. And the city could spare a clown or two. In his opinion, the loss of the whole boiling could only make the world a slightly happier place. And yet…and yet…honestly, he didn’t know what had got into the Watch lately. It was Carrot, that was what it was. Even old Vimes had picked it up. We don’t let things lie any more… “Maybe he was cleaning a club, sort of thing, and it accidentally went off,” said Nobby. He’d caught it, too. “No one’d want to kill young Beano,” said the clown, in a quiet voice. “He was a friendly soul. Friends everywhere. ” “Almost everywhere,” said Colon. The funeral was over. The jesters, jokers and clowns were going about their business, getting stuck in doorways on the way. There was much pushing and shoving and honking of noses and falling of prats. It was a scene to make a happy man slit his wrists on a fine spring morning. “All I know is,” said Boffo, in a low voice, “that when I saw him yesterday he was looking very…odd. I called out to him when he was going through the gates and—” “How do you mean, odd?” said Colon. I am detectoring, he thought, with a faint touch of pride. People are Helping me with My Inquiries. “Dunno. Odd. Not quite himself—” “This was yesterday?” “Oh, yes. In the morning. I know because the gate rota—” “ Yesterday morning?” “That’s what I said, mister. Mind you, we were all a bit nervous after the bang—” “Brother Boffo!” “Oh, no—” mumbled the clown. A figure was striding toward them. A terrible figure. No clowns were funny. That was the whole purpose of a clown. People laughed at clowns, but only out of nervousness. The point of clowns was that, after watching them, anything else that happened seemed enjoyable. It was nice to know there was someone worse off than you. Someone had to be the butt of the world. But even clowns are frightened of something, and that is the white-faced clown. The one who never gets in the way of the custard. The one in the shiny white clothes, and the deadpan white make-up. The one with the little pointy hat and the thin mouth and the delicate black eyebrows. Dr. Whiteface. “Who are these gentlemen?” he demanded. “Er—” Boffo began. “Night Watch, sir,” said Colon, saluting. “And why are you here?” “Investigating our inquiries as to the fatal demise of the clown Beano, sir,” said Colon. “I rather think that is Guild business, sergeant. Don’t you?” “Well, sir, he was found in the—” “I am sure it is something we don’t need to bother the Watch with,” said Dr. Whiteface. Colon hesitated. He’d prefer to face Dr. Cruces than this apparition. At least the Assassins were supposed to be unpleasant. Clowns were only one step away from mime artists, too. “No, sir,” he said. “It was obviously an accident, right?” “Quite so. Brother Boffo will show you to the door,” said the head clown. “And then,” he added, “he will report to my office. Does he understand?” “Yes, Dr. Whiteface,” mumbled Boffo. “What’ll he do to you?” said Nobby, as they headed for the gate. “Hat full of whitewash, probably,” said Boffo. “Pie inna face if I’m lucky. ” He opened the wicket gate. “A lot of us ain’t happy about this,” he whispered. “I don’t see why those buggers should get away with it. We ought to go round to the Assassins and have it out with them. ” “Why the Assassins?” said Colon. “Why would they kill a clown?” Boffo looked guilty. “I never said a thing!” Colon glared at him. “There’s definitely something odd happening, Mr. Boffo. ” Boffo looked around, as if expecting a vengeful custard pie at any moment. “You find his nose,” he hissed. “You just find his nose. His poor nose!” The gate slammed shut. Sergeant Colon turned to Nobby. “Did exhibit A have a nose, Nobby?” “Yes, Fred. ” “Then what was that about?” “Search me. ” Nobby scratched a promising boil. “P’raps he meant a false nose. You know. Those red ones on elastic? The ones,” said Nobby, grimacing, “they think are funny. He didn’t have one. ” Colon rapped on the door, taking care to stand out of the way of any jolly amusing booby traps. The hatch slid aside. “Yes?” hissed Boffo. “Did you mean his false nose?” said Colon. “His real one! Now bugger off!” The hatch snapped back. “Mental,” said Nobby, firmly. “Beano had a real nose. Did it look wrong to you?” said Colon. “No. It had a couple of holes in it. ” “Well, I don’t know about noses,” said Colon, “but either Brother Boffo is dead wrong or there’s something fishy going on. ” “Like what?” “Well, Nobby, you’re what I might call a career soldier, right?” “’S’right, Fred. ” “How many dishonorable discharges have you had?” “Lots,” said Nobby, proudly. “But I always puts a poultice on ’em. ” “You’ve been on a lot of battlefields, ain’t you?” “Dozens. ” Sergeant Colon nodded. “So you’ve seen a lot of corpses, right, when you’ve been ministering to the fallen—” Corporal Nobbs nodded. They both knew that “ministering” meant harvesting any personal jewelery and stealing their boots. In many a faraway battlefield the last thing many a mortally wounded foeman ever saw was Corporal Nobbs heading toward him with a sack, a knife and a calculating expression. “Shame to let good stuff go to waste,” said Nobby. “So you’ve noticed how dead bodies get…deader,” said Sergeant Colon. “Deader than dead?” “You know. More corpsey,” said Sergeant Colon, forensic expert. “Goin’ stiff and purple and suchlike?” “Right. ” “And then sort of manky and runny…” “Yes, all right—” “Makes it easier to get the rings off, mind you—” “The point is, Nobby, that you can tell how old a corpse is. That clown, for e. g. You saw him, same as me. How long, would you say?” “About 5’ 9”, I’d say. His boots didn’t fit, I know that. Too floppy. ” “I meant how long he’d been dead. ” “Couple of days. You can tell because there’s this—” “So how come Boffo saw him yesterday morning?” They strolled onward. “Bit of a poser, that is,” said Nobby. “You’re right. I expect the captain’ll be very interested. ” “Maybe he was a zombie?” “Shouldn’t think so. ” “Never could stand zombies,” Nobby mused. “Really?” “It was always so hard to nick their boots. ” Sergeant Colon nodded at a passing beggar. “You still doing the folk dancing on your nights off, Nobby?” “Yes, Fred. We’re practicing ‘Gathering Sweet Lilacs’ this week. There is a very complicated double crossover-step. ” “You’re definitely a man of many parts, Nobby. ” “Only if I couldn’t cut the rings off, Fred. ” “What I mean is, you presents an intriguing dichotomy. ” Nobby took a kick at a small scruffy dog. “You been reading books again, Fred?” “Got to improve my mind, Nobby. It’s these new recruits. Carrot’s got his nose in a book half the time, Angua knows words I has to look up, even the short-arse is brighter’n me. They keep on extracting the urine. I’m definitely a bit under-endowed in the head department. ” “You’re brighter than Detritus,” said Nobby. “That’s what I tell myself. I say, ‘Fred, whatever happens, you’re brighter than Detritus. ’ But then I say, ‘Fred—so’s yeast. ’” He turned away from the window. So. The damn Watch! That damn Vimes! Exactly the wrong man in the wrong place. |
Why didn’t people learn from history? Treachery was in his very genes! How could a city run properly with someone like that, poking around? That wasn’t what a Watch was for. Watchmen were supposed to do what they were told, and see to it that other people did too. Someone like Vimes could upset things. Not because he was clever. A clever Watchman was a contradiction in terms. But sheer randomness might cause trouble. The gonne lay on the table. “What shall I do about Vimes?” Kill him. Angua woke up. It was almost noon, she was in her own bed at Mrs. Cake’s, and someone was knocking at the door. “Mmm?” she said. “Oi don’t know. Shall I ask him to go away?” said a voice from around keyhole level. Angua thought quickly. The other residents had warned her about this. She waited for her cue. “Oh, thanks, love. Oi was forgetting,” said the voice. You had to pick your time, with Mrs. Cake. It was difficult, living in a house run by someone whose mind was only nominally attached to the present. Mrs. Cake was a psychic. “You’ve got your precognition switched on again, Mrs. Cake,” said Angua, swinging her legs out of bed and rummaging quickly through the pile of clothes on the chair. “Where’d we got to?” said Mrs. Cake, still on the other side of the door. “You just said, ‘I don’t know, shall I ask him to go away?’ Mrs. Cake,” said Angua. Clothes! That was always the trouble! At least a male werewolf only had to worry about a pair of shorts and pretend he’d been on a brisk run. “Right. ” Mrs. Cake coughed. “There’s a young man downstairs asking for you,” she said. “Who is it?” said Angua. There was a moment’s silence. “Yes, oi think that’s all sorted out,” said Mrs. Cake. “Sorry, dear. Oi get terrible headaches if’n people don’t fill in the right bits. Are you human, dear?” * “You can come in, Mrs. Cake. ” It wasn’t much of a room. It was mainly brown. Brown oilcloth flooring, brown walls, a picture over the brown bed of a brown stag being attacked by brown dogs on a brown moorland against a sky which, contrary to established meteorological knowledge, was brown. There was a brown wardrobe. Possibly, if you fought your way through the mysterious old coats * hanging in it, you’d break through into a magical fairyland full of talking animals and goblins, but it’d probably not be worth it. Mrs. Cake entered. She was a small fat woman, but made up for her lack of height by wearing a huge black hat; not the pointy witch variety, but one covered with stuffed birds, wax fruit and other assorted decorative items, all painted black. Angua quite liked her. The rooms were clean, * the rates were cheap, and Mrs. Cake had a very understanding approach to people who lived slightly unusual lives and had, for example, an aversion to garlic. Her daughter was a werewolf and she knew all about the need for ground floor windows and doors with long handles that a paw could operate. “He’s got chainmail on,” said Mrs. Cake. She was holding a bucket of gravel in either hand. “He’s got soap in his ears, too. ” “Oh. Er. Right. ” “Oi can tell ’im to bugger off if you like,” said Mrs. Cake. “That’s what I allus does if the wrong sort comes round. Especially if they’ve got a stake. I can’t be having with that sort of thing, people messing up the hallways, waving torches and stuff. ” “I think I know who it is,” said Angua. “I’ll see to it. ” She tucked in her shirt. “Pull the door to if you go out,” Mrs. Cake called after her as she went out into the hall. “Oi’m just off to change the dirt in Mr. Winkins’ coffin, on account of his back giving him trouble. ” “It looks like gravel to me, Mrs. Cake. ” “Orthopaedic, see?” Carrot was standing respectfully on the doorstep with his helmet under his arm and a very embarrassed expression on his face. “Well?” said Angua, not unkindly. “Er. Good morning. I thought, you know, perhaps, you not knowing very much about the city, really. I could, if you like, if you don’t mind, not having to go on duty for a while…show you some of it…?” For a moment Angua thought she’d contracted prescience from Mrs. Cake. Various futures flitted across her imagination. “I haven’t had breakfast,” she said. “They make a very good breakfast in Gimlet’s dwarf delicatessen in Cable Street. ” “It’s lunchtime. ” “It’s breakfast time for the Night Watch. ” “I’m practically vegetarian. ” “He does a soya rat. ” She gave in. “I’ll fetch my coat. ” “Har, har,” said a voice, full of withering cynicism. She looked down. Gaspode was sitting behind Carrot, trying to glare while scratching himself furiously. “Last night we chased a cat up a tree,” said Gaspode. “You and me, eh? We could make it. Fate has thrown us together, style of fing. ” “Go away. ” “Sorry?” said Carrot. “Not you. That dog. ” Carrot turned. “Him? Is he bothering you now? He’s a nice little chap. ” “Woof, woof, biscuit. ” Carrot automatically patted his pocket. “See?” said Gaspode. “This boy is Mister Simple, am I right?” “Do they let dogs in dwarf shops?” said Angua. “No,” said Carrot. “On a hook,” said Gaspode. “Really? Sounds good to me,” said Angua. “Let’s go. ” “Vegetarian?” mumbled Gaspode, limping after them. “Oh, my. ” “Shut up. ” “Sorry?” said Carrot. “I was just thinking aloud. ” Vimes’ pillow was cold and hard. He felt it gingerly. It was cold and hard because it was not a pillow but a table. His cheek appeared to be stuck to it, and he was not interested in speculating what with. He hadn’t even managed to take his armor off. But he did manage to unstick one eye. He’d been writing in his notebook. Trying to make sense of it all. And then he’d gone to sleep. What time was it? No time to look back. He traced out: Stolen from Assassins’ Guild: gonne->Hammerhock killed. Smell of fireworks. Lump of lead. Alchymical Symbols. 2nd body in river. A clown. Where was his red nose? Gonne. He stared at the scrawled notes. I’m on the path, he thought, I don’t have to know where it leads. I just have to follow. There’s always a crime, if you look hard enough. And the Assassins are in this somewhere. Follow every lead. Check every detail. Chip, chip away. I’m hungry. He staggered to his feet and looked at his face in the cracked mirror over the basin. Events of the previous day filtered through the clogged gauze of memory. Central to all of them was the face of Lord Vetinari. Vimes grew angry just thinking about that. The cool way he’d told Vimes that he mustn’t take an interest in the theft from— Vimes stared at his reflection— —something stung his ear and smashed the glass. Vimes stared at the hole in the plaster, surrounded by the remains of a mirror frame. Around him, the mirror glass tinkled on to the floor. Vimes stood stock still for a long moment. Then his legs, reaching the conclusion that his brain was somewhere else, threw the rest of him on to the floor. There was another tinkle and a half bottle of Bearhugger’s exploded on the desk. Vines couldn’t even remember buying it. He scrambled forward on hands and knees and pulled himself upright alongside the window. Images flashed through his mind. The dead dwarf. The hole in the wall… A thought seemed to start in the small of his back and spread upward to his brain. These were lath and plaster walls, and old ones at that; you could push a finger through them with a bit of effort. As for a lump f metal— He hit the floor at the same time as a pock coincided with a hole punched through the wall on one side of the window. Plaster dust puffed into the air. His crossbow was leaning against the wall. He wasn’t an expert but, hells, who was? You pointed it and you fired it. He pulled it toward him, rolled on his back, stuck his foot in the stirrup and hauled on the string until it clicked into place. Then he rolled back on to one knee and slotted a quarrel into the groove. A catapult, that’s what it was. It had to be. Troll-sized, perhaps. Someone up on the roof of the opera house or somewhere high… Draw their fire, draw their fire…he picked up his helmet and balanced it on the end of another quarrel. |
The thing to do was crouch below the window and… He thought for a moment. Then he shuffled across the floor to the corner, where there was a pole with a hook on the end. Once upon a time it had been used to open the upper windows, now long rusted shut. He balanced his helmet on the end, wedged himself into the corner, and with a certain amount of effort moved the pole so that the helmet just showed over the windowsi… Pock. Splinters flew up from a point on the floor where it would undoubtedly have severely inconvenienced anyone lying on the boards cautiously raising a decoy helmet on a stick. Vimes smiled. Someone was trying to kill him, and that made him feel more alive than he had done for days. And they were also slightly less intelligent than he was. This is a quality you should always pray for in your would-be murderer. He dropped the pole, picked up the crossbow, spun past the window, fired at an indistinct shape on the opera house roof opposite as if the bow could possibly carry across that range, leapt across the room and wrenched at the door. Something smashed into the doorframe as the door swung to behind him. Then it was down the back stairs, out of the door, over the privy roof, into Knuckle Passage, up the back steps of Zorgo the Retrophrenologist, * into Zorgo’s operating room and over to the window. Zorgo and his current patient looked at him curiously. Pugnant’s roof was empty. Vimes turned back and met a pair of puzzled gazes. “’Morning, Captain Vimes,” said the retrophrenologist, a hammer still upraised in one massive hand. Vimes smiled manically. “Just thought—” he began, and then went on, “—I saw an interesting rare butterfly on the roof over there. ” Troll and patient stared politely past him. “But there wasn’t,” said Vimes. He walked back to the door. “Sorry to have bothered you,” he said, and left. Zorgo’s patient watched him go with interest. “Didn’t he have a crossbow?” he said. “Bit odd, going after interesting rare butterflies with a crossbow. ” Zorgo readjusted the fit of the grid on his patient’s bald head. “Dunno,” he said, “I suppose it stops them creating all these damn thunderstorms. ” He picked up the mallet again. “Now, what were we going for today? Decisiveness, yes?” “Yes. Well, no. Maybe. ” “Right. ” Zorgo took aim. “This,” he said with absolute truth, “won’t hurt a bit. ” It was more than just a delicatessen. It was a sort of dwarf community center and meeting place. The babble of voices stopped when Angua entered, bending almost double, but started up again with slightly more volume and a few laughs when Carrot followed. He waved cheerfully at the other customers. Then he carefully removed two chairs. It was just possible to sit upright if you sat on the floor. “Very…nice,” said Angua. “Ethnic. ” “I come in here quite a lot,” said Carrot. “The food’s good and, of course, it pays to keep your ear to the ground. ” “That’d certainly be easy here,” said Angua, and laughed. “Pardon?” “Well, I mean, the ground is…so much…closer…” She felt a pit opening wider with every word. The noise level had suddenly dropped again. “Er,” said Carrot, staring fixedly at her. “How can I put this? People are talking in Dwarfish…but they’re listening in Human. ” “Sorry. ” Carrot smiled, and then nodded at the cook behind the counter and cleared his throat noisily. “I think I might have a throat sweet somewhere—” Angua began. “I was ordering breakfast,” said Carrot. “You know the menu off by heart?” “Oh, yes. But it’s written on the wall as well. ” Angua turned and looked again at what she’d thought were merely random scratches. “It’s Oggham,” said Carrot. “An ancient and poetic runic script whose origins are lost in the mists of time but it’s thought to have been invented even before the Gods. ” “Gosh. What does it say?” Carrot really cleared his throat this time. “Soss, egg, beans and rat 12p Soss, rat and fried slice 10p Cream-cheese rat 9p Rat and beans 8p Rat and ketchup 7p Rat 4p” “Why does ketchup cost almost as much as the rat?” said Angua. “Have you tried rat without ketchup?” said Carrot. “Anyway, I ordered you dwarf bread. Have you ever eaten dwarf bread?” “No. ” “Everyone should try it once,” said Carrot. He appeared to consider this. “Most people do,” he added. * Three and a half minutes after waking up, Captain Samuel Vimes, Night Watch, staggered up the last few steps on to the roof of the city’s opera house, gasped for breath and threw up allegro ma non troppo. Then he leaned against the wall, waving his crossbow vaguely in front of him. There wasn’t anyone else on the roof. There were just the leads, stretching away, drinking up the morning sunlight. It was already almost too hot to move. When he felt a bit better he poked around among the chimneys and skylight. But there were a dozen ways down, and a thousand places to hide. He could see right into his room from here. Come to that, he could see into the rooms of most of the city. Catapult…no… Oh, well. At least there’d been witnesses. He walked to the edge of the roof, and peered over. “Hello, there,” he said. He blinked. It was six stories down, and not a sight to look at on a recently emptied stomach. “Er…could you come up here, please?” he said. ’“Ight oo are. ” Vimes stood back. There was a scrape of stone and a gargoyle pulled itself laboriously over the parapet, moving like a cheap stop-motion animation. He didn’t know much about gargoyles. Carrot had said something once about how marvelous it was, an urban troll species that had evolved a symbiotic relationship with gutters, and he had admired the way they funnelled run-off water into their ears and out through fine sieves in their mouths. They were probably the strangest species on the Disc. * You didn’t get many birds nesting on buildings colonized by gargoyles, and bats tended to fly around them. “What’s your name, friend?” “’ornice-oggerooking-Oardway. ” Vimes’ lips moved as he mentally inserted all those sounds unobtainable to a creature whose mouth was stuck permanently open. Cornice-overlooking-Broadway. A gargoyle’s personal identity was intimately bound up with its normal location, like a limpet. “Well now, Cornice,” he said, “do you know who I am?” “Oh,” said the gargoyle sullenly. Vimes nodded. It sits up here in all weather straining gnats through its ears, he thought. People like that don’t have a crowded address book. Even whelks get out more. “I’m Captain Vimes of the Watch. ” The gargoyle pricked up its huge ears. “Ar. Oo erk or Ister Arrot?” Vimes worked this one out, too, and blinked. “You know Corporal Carrot?” “Oh, Ess. Air-ee-un owes Arrot. ” Vimes snorted. I grew up here, he thought, and when I walk down the street everyone says, “Who’s that glum bugger?” Carrot’s been here a few months and everyone knows him. And he knows everyone. Everyone likes him. I’d be annoyed about that, if only he wasn’t so likeable. “You live right up here,” said Vimes, interested despite the more pressing problem on his mind, “how come you know Arrot…Carrot?” “Ee cuns uk ere um-imes an awks oo ugg. ” “Uz ee?” “Egg. ” “Did someone else come up here? Just now?” “Egg. ” “Did you see who it was?” “Oh. Ee oot izh oot on i ed. Ang et ogg a ire-erk. I or ing un ah-ay a-ong Or-oh-Erns Eet. ” Holofernes Street, Vimes translated. Whoever it was would be well away by now. “Ee ad a ick,” Cornice volunteered. “A ire-erkhtick. ” “A what?” “Ire-erk. Oo oh? Ang! Ock! Arks! Ocketks! Ang!” “Oh, fireworks. ” “Egg. Aks ot I ed. ” “A firework stick? Like…like a rocket stick?” “Oh, ih-ee-ot! A htick, oo oint, ik koes ANG!” “You point it and it goes bang?” “Egg!” Vimes scratched his head. Sounded like a wizard’s staff. But they didn’t go bang. “Well…thanks,” he said. “You’ve been…eh-ee elkfhull. ” He turned back toward the stairs. Someone had tried to kill him. And the Patrician had warned him against investigating the theft from the Assassins’ Guild. Theft , he said. Up until then, Vimes hadn’t even been certain there had been a theft. And then, of course, there are the laws of chance. |
They play a far greater role in police procedure than narrative causality would like to admit. For every murder solved by the careful discovery of a vital footprint or a cigarette end, a hundred failed to be resolved because the wind blew some leaves the wrong way or it didn’t rain the night before. So many crimes are solved by a happy accident—by the random stopping of a car, by an overhead remark, by someone of the right nationality happening to be within five miles of the scene of the crime without an alibi… Even Vimes knew about the power of chance. His sandal clinked against something metallic. “And this,” said Corporal Carrot, “is the famous commemorative arch celebrating the Battle of Crumhorn. We won it, I think. It’s got over ninety statues of famous soldiers. It’s something of a landmark. ” “Should have put up a stachoo to the accounttants,” said a doggy voice behind Angua. “First battle in the universe where the enemy were persuaded to sell their weapons. ” “Where is it, then?” said Angua, still ignoring Gaspode. “Ah. Yes. That’s the problem,” said Carrot. “Excuse me, Mr. Scant. This is Mr. Scant. Official Keeper of the Monuments. According to ancient tradition, his pay is one dollar a year and a new vest every Hogswatchday. ” There was an old man sitting on a stool at the road junction, with his hat over his eyes. He pushed it up. “Afternoon, Mr. Carrot. You’ll be wanting to see the triumphal arch, will you?” “Yes, please. ” Carrot turned back to Angua. “Unfortunately, the actual practical design was turned over to Bloody Stupid Johnson. ” The old man eventually produced a small cardboard box from a pocket, and reverentially took off the lid. “Where is it?” “Just there,” said Carrot. “Behind that little bit of cotton wool. ” “Oh. ” “I’m afraid that for Mr. Johnson accurate measurements were something that happened to other people. ” Mr. Scant closed the lid. “He also did the Quirm Memorial, the Hanging Gardens of Ankh, and the Colossus of Morpork,” said Carrot. “The Colossus of Morpork?” said Angua. Mr. Scant held up a skinny finger. “Ah,” he said. “Don’t go away. ” He started to pat his pockets. “Got ’im ’ere somewhere. ” “Didn’t the man ever design anything useful?” “Well, he did design an ornamental cruet set for Mad Lord Snapcase,” said Carrot, as they strolled away. “He got that right?” “Not exactly. But here’s an interesting fact, four families live in a salt shaker and we use the pepper pot for storing grain. ” Angua smiled. Interesting facts. Carrot was full of interesting facts about Ankh-Morpork. Angua felt she was floating uneasily on a sea of them. Walking along a street with Carrot was like having three guided tours rolled into one. “Now here,” said Carrot, “is the Beggars’ Guild. They’re the oldest of the Guilds. Not many people know that. ” “Is that so?” “People think it’d be the Fools or the Assassins. Ask anyone. They’ll say ‘the oldest Guild in Ankh-Morpork is certainly the Fools’ Guild or the Assassins’ Guild. ’ But they aren’t. They’re quite recent. But there’s been a Beggars’ Guild for centuries. ” “Really?” said Angua, weakly. In the last hour she’d learned more about Ankh-Morpork than any reasonable person wanted to know. She vaguely suspected that Carrot was trying to court her. But, instead of the usual flowers or chocolate, he seemed to be trying to gift-wrap a city. And, despite all her better instincts, she was feeling jealous. Of a city! Ye gods, I’ve known him a couple of days! It was the way he wore the place. You expected him any moment to break into the kind of song that has suspicious rhymes and phrases like “my kind of town” and “I wanna be a part of it” in it; the kind of song where people dance in the street and give the singer apples and join in and a dozen lowly matchgirls suddenly show amazing choreographical ability and everyone acts like cheery lovable citizens instead of the murderous, evil-minded, self-centered individuals they suspect themselves to be. But the point was that if Carrot had erupted into a song and dance, people would have joined in. Carrot could have jollied a circle of standing stones to form up behind him and do a rumba. “There’s some very interesting old statuary in the main courtyard,” he said. “Including a very good one of Jimi, the God of Beggars. I’ll show you. They won’t mind. ” He rapped on the door. “You don’t have to,” said Angua. “It’s no trouble—” The door opened. Angua’s nostrils flared. There was a smell… A beggar looked Carrot up and down. His mouth dropped open. “It’s Cumbling Michael, isn’t it?” said Carrot, in his cheery way. The door slammed. “Well, that wasn’t very friendly,” said Carrot. “Stinks, don’t it?” said a nasty little voice from somewhere behind Angua. While she was in no mood to acknowledge Gaspode, she found herself nodding. Although the beggars were an entire cocktail of odors the second biggest one was fear, and the biggest of all was blood. The scent of it made her want to scream. There was a babble of voices behind the door, and it swung open again. This time there was a whole crowd of beggars there. They were all staring at Carrot. “All right, yer honor,” said the one hailed as Cumbling Michael, “we give in. How did you know?” “How did we know wh—” Carrot began, but Angua nudged him. “Someone’s been killed here,” she said. “Who’s she?” said Cumbling Michael. “Lance-Constable Angua is a man of the Watch,” said Carrot. “Har, har,” said Gaspode. “I must say you people are getting better,” said Cumbling Michael. “We only found the poor thing a few minutes ago. ” Angua could feel Carrot opening his mouth to say “Who?” She nudged him again. “You’d better take us to him,” she said. He turned out to be— —for one thing, he turned out to be a she. In a rag-strewn room on the top floor. Angua knelt beside the body. It was very clearly a body now. It certainly wasn’t a person. A person normally had more head on their shoulders. “Why?” she said. “Who’d do such a thing?” Carrot turned to the beggars clustered around the doorway. “Who was she?” “Lettice Knibbs,” said Cumbling Michael. “She was just the lady’s maid to Queen Molly. ” Angua glanced up at Carrot. “Queen?” “They sometimes call the head beggar king or queen,” said Carrot. He was breathing heavily. Angua pulled the maid’s velvet cloak over the corpse. “Just the maid,” she muttered. There was a full-length mirror in the middle of the floor, or at least the frame of one. The glass was scattered like sequins around it. So was the glass from a window pane. Carrot kicked aside some shards. There was a groove in the floor, and something metallic embedded in it. “Cumbling Michael, I need a nail and a length of string,” said Carrot, very slowly and carefully. His eyes never left the speck of metal. It was almost as if he expected it to do something. “I don’t think—” the beggar began. Carrot reached out without turning his head and picked him up by his grubby collar without apparent effort. “A length of string,” he repeated, “and a nail. ” “Yes, Corporal Carrot. ” “And the rest of you, go away,” said Angua. They goggled at her. “Do it!” she shouted, clenching her fists. “And stop staring at her!” The beggars vanished. “It’ll take a while to get the string,” said Carrot, brushing aside some glass. “They’ll have to beg it off someone, you see. ” He drew his knife and started digging at the floorboards, with care. Eventually he excavated a metal slug, flattened slightly by its passage through the window, the mirror, the floorboards and certain parts of the late Lettice Knibbs that had never been designed to see daylight. He turned it over and over in his hand. “Angua?” “Yes?” “How did you know there was someone dead in here?” “I…just had a feeling. ” The beggars returned, so unnerved that half a dozen of them were trying to carry one piece of string. Carrot hammered the nail into the frame under the smashed pane to hold one end of the string. He stuck his knife in the groove and affixed the other end of the string to it. Then he lay down and sighted up the string. “Good grief. |
” “What is it?” “It must have come from the roof of the operahouse. ” “Yes? So?” “That’s more than two hundred yards away. ” “Yes?” “The…thing went an inch into an oak floor. ” “Did you know the girl…at all?” said Angua, and felt embarrassed at asking. “Not really. ” “I thought you knew everyone. ” “She was just someone I’d see around. The city’s full of people who you just see around. ” “Why do beggars need servants?” “ You don’t think my hair gets like this by itself, dear, do you? ” There was an apparition in the doorway. Its face was a mass of sores. There were warts, and they had warts, and they had hair on. It was possibly female, but it was hard to tell under the layers and layers of rags. The aforementioned hair looked as though it had been permed by a hurricane. With treacle on its fingers. Then it straightened up. “Oh. Corporal Carrot. Didn’t know it was you. ” The voice was normal now, no trace of whine or wheedle. The figure turned and brought her stick down hard on something in the corridor. “Naughty boy, Dribbling Sidney! You could have told I it were Corporal Carrot!” “Arrgh!” The figure strode into the room. “And who’s your ladyfriend, Mr. Carrot?” “This is Lance-Constable Angua. Angua, this is Queen Molly of the Beggars. ” For once, Angua noted, someone wasn’t surprised to find a female in the Watch. Queen Molly nodded at her as one working woman to another. The Beggars’ Guild was an equal-opportunity non-employer. “Good day to you. You couldn’t spare I ten thousand dollars for a small mansion, could you?” “No. ” “Just asking. ” Queen Molly prodded at the gown. “What was it, corporal?” “I think it’s a new kind of weapon. ” “We heard the glass smash and there she was,” said Molly. “Why would anyone want to kill her?” Carrot looked at the velvet cloak. “Whose room is this?” he said. “Mine. It’s my dressing room. ” “Then whoever did it wasn’t after her. He was after you, Molly. ‘Some in rags, and some in tags, and one in a velvet gown’…it’s in your Charter, isn’t it? Official dress of the chief beggar. She probably couldn’t resist seeing what it looked like on her. Right gown, right room. Wrong person. ” Molly put her hand to her mouth, risking instant poisoning. “Assassination?” Carrot shook his head. “That doesn’t sound right. They like to do it up close. It’s a caring profession,” he added, bitterly. “What should I do?” “Burying the poor thing would be a good start. ” Carrot turned the metal slug over in his fingers. Then he sniffed it. “Fireworks,” he said. “Yes,” said Angua. “And what are you going to do?” said Queen Molly. “You’re Watchmen, aren’t you? What’s happening? What are you going to do about it?” Cuddy and Detritus were proceeding along Phedre Road. It was lined with tanneries and brick kilns and timber yards and was not generally considered a beauty spot which was why, Cuddy suspected, they’d been given it to patrol “to get to know the city”. It got them out of the way. Sergeant Colon thought they made the place look untidy. There was no sound but the clink of his boots and the thump of Detritus’ knuckles on the ground. Finally, Cuddy said: “I just want you to know that I don’t like being teamed up with you any more than you like being teamed up with me. ” “Right!” “But if we’re going to have to make the best of it, there’d better be some changes, OK?” “Like what?” “Like it’s ridiculous you not even being able to count. I know trolls can count. Why can’t you?” “Can count!” “How many fingers am I holding up, then?” Detritus squinted. “Two?” “OK. Now how many fingers am I holding up?” “Two…and one more…” “So two and one more is…?” Detritus looked panicky. This was calculus territory. “Two and one more is three. ” “Two and one more is three. ” “Now how many?” “Two and two. ” “That’s four. ” “Four-er. ” “ Now how many?” Cuddy tried eight fingers. “A twofour. ” Cuddy looked surprised. He’d expected “many”, or possibly “lots”. “What’s a twofour?” “A two and a two and a two and a two. ” Cuddy put his head on one side. “Hmm,” he said. “OK. A twofour is what we call an eight. ” “Ate. ” “You know,” said Cuddy, subjecting the troll to a long critical stare, “you might not be as stupid as you look. This is not hard. Let’s think about this. I mean… I’ll think about this, and you can join in when you know the words. ” Vimes slammed the Watch House door behind him. Sergeant Colon looked up from his desk. He had a pleased expression. “What’s been happening, Fred?” Colon took a deep breath. “Interesting stuff, captain. Me and Nobby did some detectoring up at the Fools’ Guild. I’ve writ it all down what we found out. It’s all here. A proper report. ” “Fine. ” “All written down, look. Properly. Punctuation and everything. ” “Well done. ” “It’s got commas and everything, look. ” “I’m sure I shall enjoy it, Fred. ” “And the—and Cuddy and Detritus have found out stuff, too. Cuddy’s done a report, too. But it’s not got so much punctuation as mine. ” “How long have I been asleep?” “Six hours. ” Vimes tried to make mental space for all of this, and failed. “I’ve got to get something inside me,” he said. “Some coffee or something. And then the world will somehow be better. ” Anyone strolling along Phedre Road might have seen a troll and a dwarf apparently shouting at one another in excitement. “A two-thirtytwo, and eight, and a one!” “See? How many bricks in that pile?” Pause. “A sixteen, an eight, a four, a one!” “Remember what I said about dividing by eight-and-two?” Longer pause. “Two-enty-nine…?” “Right!” “Right!” “You can get there!” “I can get there!” “You’re a natural at counting to two!” “I’m a nat’ral at counting to two!” “If you can count to two, you can count to anything!” “If I can count to two, I can count to anything!” “And then the world is your mollusc!” “My mollusc! What’s a mollusc?” Angua had to scurry to keep up with Carrot. “Aren’t we going to look at the opera house?” she said. “Later. Anyone up there’ll be long gone by the time we get there. We must tell the captain. ” “You think she was killed by the same thing as Hammerhock?” “Yes. ” “There are…niner birds. ” “That’s right. ” “There are…one bridge. ” “Right. ” “There are…four-ten boats. ” “All right. ” “There are…one tousand. Three hundret. Six-ty. Four bricks. ” “OK. ” “There are—” “I should give it a rest now. You don’t want to wear everything out by counting—” “There are—one running man…” “What? Where?” Sham Harga’s coffee was like molten lead, but it had this in its favor: when you’d drunk it, there was this overwhelming feeling of relief that you’d got to the bottom of the cup. “That,” said Vimes, “was a bloody awful cup of coffee, Sham. ” “Right,” said Harga. “I mean I’ve drunk a lot of bad coffee in my time but that, that was like having a saw dragged across my tongue. How long’d it been boiling?” “What’s today’s date?” said Harga, cleaning a glass. He was generally cleaning glasses. No one ever found out what happened to the clean ones. “August the fifteenth. ” “What year?” Sham Harga smiled, or at least moved various muscles around his mouth. Sham Harga had run a successful eatery for many years by always smiling, never extending credit, and realizing that most of his customers wanted meals properly balanced between the four food groups: sugar, starch, grease and burnt crunchy bits. “I’d like a couple of eggs,” said Vimes, “with the yolks real hard but the whites so runny that they drip like treacle. And I want bacon, that special bacon all covered with bony nodules and dangling bits of fat. And a slice of fried bread. The kind that makes your arteries go clang just by looking at it. ” “Tough order,” said Harga. “You managed it yesterday. And give me some more coffee. Black as midnight on a moonless night. ” Harga looked surprised. That wasn’t like Vimes. “How black’s that, then?” he said. “Oh, pretty damn black, I should think. ” “Not necessarily. ” “What?” “You get more stars on a moonless night. Stands to reason. They show up more. It can be quite bright on a moonless night. ” Vimes sighed. “An overcast moonless night?” he said. |
Harga looked carefully at his coffee pot. “Cumulus or cirro-nimbus?” “I’m sorry? What did you say?” “You gets city lights reflected off cumulus, because it’s low lying, see. Mind you, you can get high-altitude scatter off the ice crystals in—” “A moonless night,” said Vimes, in a hollow voice, “that is as black as that coffee. ” “Right!” “And a doughnut. ” Vimes grabbed Harga’s stained vest and pulled him until they were nose to nose. “A doughnut as doughnutty as a doughnut made of flour, water, one large egg, sugar, a pinch of yeast, cinnamon to taste and a jam, jelly or rat filling depending on national or species preference, OK? Not as doughnutty as something in any way metaphorical. Just a doughnut. One doughnut. ” “A doughnut. ” “Yes. ” “You only had to say. ” Harga brushed off his vest, gave Vimes a hurt look, and went back into the kitchen. “ Stop! In the name of the law!” “What the law’s name, then?” “How should I know!” “Why we chasing him?” “Because he’s running away!” Cuddy had only been a guard for a few days, but already he had absorbed one important and basic fact: it is almost impossible for anyone to be in a street without breaking the law. There are a whole quiverful of offenses available to a policeman who wishes to pass the time of day with a citizen, ranging from Loitering with Intent through Obstruction to Lingering While Being the Wrong Color/Shape/Species/Sex. It occurred briefly to him that anyone not making a dash for it when they saw Detritus knuckling along at high speed behind them was probably guilty of contravening the Being Bloody Stupid Act of 1581. But it was too late to take that into account. Someone was running, and they were chasing. They were chasing because he was running, and he was running because they were chasing. Vimes sat down with his coffee and looked at the thing he’d picked up from the rooftop. It looked like a short set of Pan pipes, provided Pan was restricted to six notes, all of them the same. They were made of steel, welded together. There was a strip of serrated metal along one side, like a flattened-out cogwheel, and the whole thing reeked of fireworks. He laid it carefully beside his plate. He read Sergeant Colon’s report. Fred Colon had spent some time on it, probably with a dictionary. It went as follows: “Report of Sgt. F. Colon. Approx. 10am today, Auguste 15, I proseeded in the company of Corporal, C. W. St. J. Nobbs, to the Guild of Fools and Joculators in God Street, whereupon we conversed with clown Boffo who said, clown Beano, the corpus derelicti , was definitely seen by him, clown Boffo, leaving the Guild the previous morning just after the explosion. {This is dead bent in my opinion, the reason being, the stiff was dead at least two days, Cpl. C. W. St. J. Nobbs agrees, so someone is telling meat pies, never trust anyone who falls on his arse for a living. } Whereupon Dr. Whiteface met us, and, damn near gave us the derriere velocite out of the place. It seemed to us, viz, me and Cpl. C. W. St. J. Nobbs, that the Fools are worried that it might have been the Assassins, but we don’t know why. Also, clown Boffo went on about us looking for Beano’s nose, but he had a nose on when we saw him here, so we said to clown Boffo, did he mean a false nose, he said, no, a real one, bugger off. Whereupon we come back here. ” Vimes worked out what derriere velocite meant. The whole nose business looked like a conundrum wrapped up in an enigma, or at least in Sergeant Colon’s handwriting, which was pretty much the same thing. Why be asked to look for a nose that wasn’t lost? He looked at Cuddy’s report, written in the careful angular handwriting of someone more used to runes. And sagas. “Captain Vimes, this herewith is the chronicle of me, Lance-Constable Cvddy. Bright was the morning and high ovr hearts when we proceeded to the Alchemists Gvild, where events eventvated as I shall now sing. These inclvded exploding balls. As to the qvest vpon which we were sent, we were informed that the attached piece of paper [attached] is in the handwriting of Leonard of Qvirm, who vanished in mysteriovs circvmstances. It is how to make a powder called No. 1 powder, which is vsed in fireworks. Mr. Silverfish the alchemist says any alchemists knows it. Also, in the margin of the paper, is a drawing of The Gonne, becavse I asked my covsin Grabpot abovt Leonard and he vsed to sell paints to Leonard and he recognized the writing and said Leonard always wrote backwards becavse he was a genivs. I have copied same herewith. ” Vimes laid the papers down and put the piece of metal on top of them. Then he reached in his pocket and produced a couple of metal pellets. A stick, the gargoyle had said. Vimes looked at the sketch. It looked, as Cuddy had noted, like the stock of a crossbow with a pipe on the top of it. There were a few sketches of strange mechanical devices alongside it, and a couple of the little six-pipe things. The whole drawing looked like a doodle. Someone, possibly this Leonard, had been reading a book about fireworks and had scribbled in the margins. Fireworks. Well…fireworks? But fireworks weren’t a weapon. Crackers went bang. Rockets went up, more or less, but all you could be sure of them hitting was the sky. Hammerhock was noted for his skill with mechanisms. That wasn’t a major dwarfish attribute. People thought it was, but it wasn’t. They were skilled with metal all right, and they made good swords and jewelery, but they weren’t too technical when it came to things like cogwheels and springs. Hammerhock was unusual. So… Supposing there was a weapon. Supposing there was something about it that was different, strange, terrifying. No, that couldn’t be it. It’d either end up all over the place, or it’d be destroyed. It wouldn’t end up in the Assassins’ museum. What got put in museums? Things that hadn’t worked, or had got lost, or ought to be remembered…so where’s the sense in putting our firework on show? There had been a lot of locks on the door. So…not a museum you just wandered into, then. Maybe you had to be a high-up Assassin, and one day one of the Guild leaders’d take you down there at dead, hah, of night, and say…and say… For some reason the face of the Patrician loomed up at this point. Once again Vimes felt the edge of something, some fundamental central thing… “Where’d he go? Where’d he go?” There was a maze of alleys around the doors. Cuddy leaned against a wall and fought for breath. “There he go!” shouted Detritus. “Along Whalebone Lane!” He lumbered off in pursuit. Vimes put down his coffee cup. Whoever had shot those lead balls at him had been very accurate across several hundred yards, and had got off six shots faster than anyone could fire an arrow… Vimes picked up the pipes. Six little pipes, six shots. And you could carry a pocketful of these things. You could shoot further, faster, more accurately than anyone else with any other kind of weapon… So. A new type of weapon. Much, much faster than a bow. The Assassins wouldn’t like that. They wouldn’t like that at all. They weren’t even keen on bows. The Assassins preferred to kill up close. So they’d put the…the gonne safely under lock and key. The gods alone knew how they’d come by it in the first place. And a few senior Assassins would know about it. They’d pass on the secret: beware of things like this … “Down there! He went into Grope Alley!” “Slow down! Slow down!” “Why?” said Detritus. “It’s a dead end. ” The two Watchmen lumbered to a halt. Cuddy knew that he was currently the brains of the partnership, even though Detritus was presently counting, his face beaming with pride, the stones in the wall beside him. Why had they chased someone halfway across the city? Because they’d run away. No one ran away from the Watch. Thieves just flashed their licenses. Unlicensed thieves had nothing to fear from the Watch, since they’d saved up all their fear for the Thieves’ Guild. Assassins always obeyed the letter of the law. And honest men didn’t run away from the Watch. * Running away from the Watch was downright suspicious. |
The origin of Grope Alley’s name was fortunately lost in the celebrated mists of time, but it had come to be deserved. It had turned into a kind of tunnel as upper stories were built out and over it, leaving a few inches of sky. Cuddy peered around the corner, into the gloom. Click. Click. It came from deep in the darkness. “Detritus?” “Yeah?” “Did he have any weapons?” “Just a stick. One stick. ” “Only…I smell fireworks. ” Cuddy pulled his head back, very carefully. There had been the smell of fireworks in Hammerhock’s workshop. And Mr. Hammerhock ended up with a big hole in his chest. And a sense of named dread, which is much more specific and terrifying than nameless dread, was stealing over Cuddy. It was similar to the feeling you get when you’re playing a high stakes game and your opponent suddenly grins and you realize that you don’t know all the rules but you do know you’ll be lucky to get out of this with, if you are very fortunate, your shirt. On the other hand…he could picture Sergeant Colon’s face. We chased this man into an alley, sarge, and then we came away… He drew his sword. “Lance-Constable Detritus?” “Yes, Lance-Constable Cuddy?” “Follow me. ” Why? The damn thing was made of metal, wasn’t it? Ten minutes in a hot crucible and that’d be the end of the problem. Something like that, something dangerous, why not just get rid of it? Why keep it? But that wasn’t human nature, was it? Sometimes things were too fascinating to destroy. He looked at the strange metal tubes. Six short pipes, welded together, sealed firmly at one end. There was a small hole in the top side of each of the pipes… Vimes slowly picked up one of the lumps of lead… The alley twisted once or twice, but there were no other alleys or doors off it. There was one at the far end. It was larger than a normal door, and heavily constructed. “Where are we?” whispered Cuddy. “Don’t know,” said Detritus. “Back of the docks somewhere. ” Cuddy pushed open the door with his sword. “Cuddy?” “Yeah?” “We walked seven-ty-nine steps!” “That’s nice. ” Cold air rushed past them. “Meat store,” whispered Cuddy. “Someone picked the lock. ” He slipped through and into a high, gloomy room, as large as a temple, which in some ways it resembled. Faint light crept through the high, ice-covered windows. From rack upon rack, all the way to the ceiling, hung meat carcasses. They were semi-transparent and so very cold Cuddy’s breath turned to crystals in the air. “Oh, my,” said Detritus. “I think this the pork futures warehouse in Morpork Road. ” “What?” “Used to work here,” said the troll. “Used to work everywhere. Go away, you stupid troll, you too thick,” he added, gloomily. “Is there any way out?” “The main door is in Morpork Street. But no one comes in here for months. Till pork exists. ” * Cuddy shivered. “You in here!” he shouted. “It’s the Watch! Step out now!” A dark figure appeared from between a couple of pre-pigs. “Now what we do?” said Detritus. The distant figure raised what looked like a stick, holding it like a crossbow. And fired. The first shot zinged off Cuddy’s helmet. A stony hand clamped on to the dwarf’s head and Detritus pushed Cuddy behind him, but then the figure was running, running toward them, still firing. Detritus blinked. Five more shots, one after another, punctured his breastplate. And then the running man was through the open door, slamming it behind him. “Captain Vimes?” He looked up. It was Captain Quirke of the Day Watch, with a couple of his men behind him. “Yes?” “You come with us. And give me your sword. ” “What?” “I think you heard me, captain. ” “Look, it’s me , Quirke. Sam Vimes? Don’t be a fool. ” “I ain’t a fool. I’ve got men with crossbows. Men. It’s you that’d be the fool if you resist arrest. ” “Oh? I’m under arrest?” “Only if you don’t come with us…” The Patrician was in the Oblong Office, staring out of the window. The multi-belled cacophony of five o’clock was just dying away. Vimes saluted. From the back, Vetinari looked like a carnivorous flamingo. “Ah, Vimes,” he said, without looking around, “come here, will you? And tell me what you see. ” Vimes hated guessing games, but he joined the Patrician anyway. The Oblong Office had a view over half the city, although most of it was rooftops and towers. Vimes’ imagination peopled the towers with men holding gonnes. The Patrician would be an easy target. “What do you see out there, captain?” “City of Ankh-Morpork, sir,” said Vimes, keeping his expression carefully blank. “And does it put you in mind of anything, captain?” Vimes scratched his head. If he was going to play games, he was going to play games… “Well, sir, when I was a kid we owned a cow once, and one day it got sick, and it was always my job to clean out the cowshed, and—” “It reminds me of a clock,” said the Patrician. “Big wheels, little wheels. All clicking away. The little wheels spin and the big wheels turn, all at different speeds, you see, but the machine works. And that is the most important thing. The machine keeps going. Because when the machine breaks down…” He turned suddenly, strode to his desk with his usual predatory stalk, and sat down. “Or, again, sometimes a piece of grit might get into the wheels, throwing them off balance. One speck of grit. ” Vetinari looked up and flashed Vimes a mirthless smile. “I won’t have that. ” Vimes stared at the wall. “I believe I told you to forget about certain recent events, captain?” “Sir. ” “Yet it appears that the Watch have been getting in the wheels. ” “Sir. ” “What am I to do with you?” “Couldn’t say, sir. ” Vimes minutely examined the wall. He wished Carrot was here. The lad might be simple, but he was so simple that sometimes he saw things that the subtle missed. And he kept coming up with simple ideas that stuck in your mind. Policeman, for example. He’d said to Vimes one day, while they were proceeding along the Street of Small Gods: Do you know where “policeman” comes from, sir? Vimes hadn’t. “Polis” used to mean “city”, said Carrot. That’s what policeman means: “a man for the city”. Not many people know that. The word “polite” comes from “polis”, too. It used to mean the proper behavior from someone living in a city. Man of the city…Carrot was always throwing out stuff like that. Like “copper”. Vimes had believed all his life that the Watch were called coppers because they carried copper badges, but no, said Carrot, it comes from the old word cappere , to capture. Carrot read books in his spare time. Not well. He’d have real difficulty if you cut his index finger off. But continuously. And he wandered around Ankh-Morpork on his day off. “Captain Vimes?” Vimes blinked. “Sir?” “You have no concept of the delicate balance of the city. I’ll tell you one more time. This business with the Assassins and the dwarf and this clown…you are to cease involving yourself. ” “No, sir. I can’t. ” “Give me your badge. ” Vimes looked down at his badge. He never really thought about it. It was just something he’d always had. It didn’t mean anything very much…really…one way or the other. It was just something he’d always had. “My badge?” “And your sword. ” Slowly, with fingers that suddenly felt like bananas, and bananas that didn’t belong to him at that, Vimes undid his sword belt. “And your badge. ” “Um. Not my badge. ” “Why not?” “Um. Because it’s my badge. ” “But you’re resigning anyway when you get married. ” “Right. ” Their eyes met. “How much does it mean to you?” Vimes stared. He couldn’t find the right words. It was just that he’d always been a man with a badge. He wasn’t sure he could be one without the other. Finally Lord Vetinari said: “Very well. I believe you’re getting married at noon tomorrow. ” His long fingers picked up the gilt-embossed invitation from the desk. “Yes. You can keep your badge, then. And have an honorable retirement. But I’m keeping the sword. And the Day Watch will be sent down to the Yard shortly to disarm your men. I’m standing the Night Watch down, Captain Vimes. In due course I might appoint another man in charge—at my leisure. |
Until then, you and your men can consider yourselves on leave. ” “The Day Watch? A bunch of—” “I’m sorry?” “Yes, sir. ” “One infraction, however, and the badge is mine. Remember. ” Cuddy opened his eyes. “You’re alive?” said Detritus. The dwarf gingerly removed his helmet. There was a gouge in the rim, and his head ached. “It looks like a mild skin abrasion,” said Detritus. “A what? Ooooh. ” Cuddy grimaced. “What about you, anyway?” he said. There was something odd about the troll. It hadn’t quite dawned on him what it was, but there was definitely something unfamiliar, quite apart from all the holes. “I suppose the armor was some help,” said Detritus. He pulled at the straps of his breastplate. Five discs of metal slid out at around belt level. “If it hadn’t slowed them down I’d be seriously abraded. ” “What’s up with you? Why are you talking like that?” “Like what, pray?” “What happened to the ‘me big troll’ talk? No offense meant. ” “I’m not sure I understand. ” Cuddy shivered, and stamped his feet to keep warm. “Let’s get out of here. ” They trotted to the door. It was shut fast. “Can you knock it down?” “No. If this place wasn’t troll proof, it’d be empty. Sorry. ” “Detritus?” “Yes?” “Are you all right? Only there’s steam coming off your head. ” “I do feel…er…” Detritus blinked. There was a tinkle of falling ice. Odd things were happening in his skull. Thoughts that normally ambulated sluggishly around his brain were suddenly springing into vibrant, coruscating life. And there seemed to be more and more of them. “My goodness,” he said, to no one in particular. This was a sufficiently un-troll-like comment that even Cuddy, whose extremities were already going numb, stared at him. “I do believe,” said Detritus, “that I am genuinely cogitating. How very interesting!” “What do you mean?” More ice cascaded off Detritus as he rubbed his head. “Of course!” he said, holding up a giant finger. “Superconductivity!” “Wha’?” “You see? Brain of impure silicon. Problem of heat dissipation. Daytime temperature too hot, processing speed slows down, weather gets hotter, brain stops completely, trolls turn to stone until nightfall, ie, coldertemperature, however, lowertemperature- enough , brainoperates faster and—” “I think I’m going to freeze to death soon,” said Cuddy. Detritus looked around. “There are small glazed apertures up there,” he said. “Too hi’ to rea’, e’en if I st’ on y’shoulders,” mumbled Cuddy, slumping down further. “Ah, but my plan involves throwing something through them to attract help,” said Detritus. “Wha’ pla’?” “I have in fact eventuated twenty-three but this one has a ninety-seven percent chance of success,” said Detritus, beaming. “Ha’nt got an’ting t’throw,” said Cuddy. “ I have,” said Detritus, scooping him up. “Do not worry. I can compute your trajectory with astonishing precision. And then all you will need to do is fetch Captain Vimes or Carrot or someone. ” Cuddy’s feeble protests described an arc through the freezing air and vanished along with the window glass. Detritus sat down again. Life was so simple, when you really thought about it. And he was really thinking. He was seventy-six percent sure he was going to get at least seven degrees colder. Mr. Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, Purveyor, Merchant Venturer and all-round salesman, had thought long and hard about going into ethnic foodstuffs. But it was a natural career procession. The old sausage-in-a-bun trade had been falling off lately, while there were all these trolls and dwarfs around with money in their pockets or wherever it was trolls kept their money, and money in the possession of other people had always seemed to Throat to be against the proper natural order of things. Dwarfs were easy enough to cater for. Rat-on-a-stick was simple enough, although it meant a general improvement in Dibbler’s normal catering standards. On the other hand, trolls were basically, when you got right down to it, no offense meant, speak as you find…basically, they were walking rocks. He’d sought advice about troll food from Chrysoprase, who was also a troll, although you’d hardly know it any more, he’d been around humans so long he wore a suit now and, as he said, had learned all kindsa civilized things, like extortion, money-lending at 300 percent interest per munf, and stuff like that. Chrysoprase might have been born in a cave above the snowline on some mountain somewhere, but five minutes in Ankh-Morpork and he’d fitted right in. Dibbler liked to think of Chrysoprase as a friend; you’d hate to think of him as an enemy. Throat had chosen today to give his new approach a try. He pushed his hot food barrow through streets broad and narrow, crying: “Sausages! Hot sausages! Inna bun! Meat pies! Get them while they’re hot!” This was by way of a warm up. The chances of a human eating anything off Dibbler’s barrow unless it was stamped flat and pushed under the door after two weeks on a starvation diet was, by now, remote. He looked around conspiratorially—there were always trolls working in the docks—and took the cover off a fresh tray. Now then, what was it? Oh, yes… “Dolomitic conglomerates! Get chore dolomitic conglomerates heeyar! Manganese nodules! Manganese nodules! Get them while they’re…uh…nodule-shaped. ” He hesitated a bit, and then rallied. “Pumice! Pumice! Tufa a dollar! Roast limestones—” A few trolls wandered up to stare at him. “You, sir, you look…hungry,” said Dibbler, grinning widely at the smallest troll. “Why not try our shale on a bun? Mmm-mmm! Taste that alluvial deposit, know what I mean?” C. M. O. T. Dibbler had a number of bad points, but species prejudice was not one of them. He liked anyone who had money, regardless of the color and shape of the hand that was proffering it. For Dibbler believed in a world where a sapient creature could walk tall, breathe free, pursue life, liberty and happiness, and step out toward the bright new dawn. If they could be persuaded to gobble something off Dibbler’s hot-food tray at the same time, this was all to the good. The troll inspected the tray suspiciously, and lifted up a bun. “Urrh, yuk,” he said, “it’s got all ammonites in it! Yuk!” “Pardon?” said Dibbler. “Dis shale,” said the troll, “is stale. ” “Lovely and fresh! Just like mother used to hew!” “Yeah, and there’s bloody quartz all through dis granite,” said another troll, towering over Dibbler. “Clogs the arteries, quartz. ” He slammed the rock back on the tray. The trolls ambled off, occasionally turning around to give Dibbler a suspicious look. “Stale? Stale! How can it be stale? It’s rock! ” shouted Dibbler after them. He shrugged. Oh, well. The hallmark of a good businessman was knowing when to cut your losses. He closed the lid of the tray, and opened another one. “Hole food! Hole food! Rat! Rat! Rat-onna-stick! Rat-in-a-bun! Get them while they’re dead! Get chore—” There was a crash of glass above him, and Lance-Constable Cuddy landed head first in the tray. “There’s no need to rush, plenty for everyone,” said Dibbler. “Pull me out,” said Cuddy, in a muffled voice. “Or pass me the ketchup. ” Dibbler hauled on the dwarf’s boots. There was ice on them. “Just come down the mountain, have you?” “Where’s the man with the key to this warehouse?” “If you liked our rat, then why not try our fine selection of—” Cuddy’s axe appeared almost magically in his hand. “I’ll cut your knees off,” he said. “GerhardtSockoftheButchers’Guildiswhoyouwant. ” “Right. ” “Nowpleasetaketheaxeaway. ” Cuddy’s boots skidded on the cobbles as he hurried off. Dibbler peered at the broken remains of the cart. His lips moved as he calculated. “Here!” he shouted. “You owe—hey, you owe me for three rats!” Lord Vetinari had felt slightly ashamed when he watched the door close behind Captain Vimes. He couldn’t work out why. Of course, it was hard on the man, but it was the only way… He took a key from a cabinet by his desk and walked over to the wall. |
His hands touched a mark on the plaster that was apparently no different from a dozen other marks, but this one caused a section of wall to swing aside on well-oiled hinges. No one knew all the passages and tunnels hidden in the walls of the Palace; it was said that some of them went a lot further than that. And there were any amount of old cellars under the city. A man with a pick-axe and a sense of direction could go where he liked just by knocking down forgotten walls. He walked down several narrow flights of steps and along a passage to a door, which he unlocked. It swung back on well-oiled hinges. It was not, exactly, a dungeon; the room on the other side was quite airy and well lit by several large but high windows. It had a smell of wood shavings and glue. “Look out!” The Patrician ducked. Something batlike clicked and whirred over his head, circled erratically in the middle of the room, and then flew apart into a dozen jerking pieces. “Oh dear,” said a mild voice. “Back to the drawing tablet. Good afternoon, your lordship. ” “Good afternoon, Leonard,” said the Patrician. “What was that?” “I call it a flapping-wing-flying-device,” said Leonard da Quirm, getting down off his launching stepladder. “It works by gutta-percha strips twisted tightly together. But not very well, I’m afraid. ” Leonard of Quirm was not, in fact, all that old. He was one of those people who started looking venerable around the age of thirty, and would probably still look about the same at the age of ninety. He wasn’t exactly bald, either. His head had just grown up through his hair, rising like a mighty rock dome through heavy forest. Inspirations sleet through the universe continuously. Their destination, as if they cared, is the right mind in the right place at the right time. They hit the right neuron, there’s a chain reaction, and a little while later someone is blinking foolishly in the TV lights and wondering how the hell he came up with the idea of pre-sliced bread in the first place. Leonard of Quirm knew about inspirations. One of his earliest inventions was an earthed metal nightcap, worn in the hope that the damn things would stop leaving their white-hot trails across his tortured imagination. It seldom worked. He knew the shame of waking up to find the sheets covered with nocturnal sketches of unfamiliar siege engines and novel designs for apple-peeling machines. The da Quirms had been quite rich and young Leonard had been to a great many schools, where he had absorbed a ragbag of information despite his habit of staring out of the window and sketching the flight of birds. Leonard was one of those unfortunate individuals whose fate it was to be fascinated by the world, the taste, shape and movement of it… He fascinated Lord Vetinari as well, which is why he was still alive. Some things are so perfect of their type that they are hard to destroy. One of a kind is always special. He was a model prisoner. Give him enough wood, wire, paint and above all give him paper and pencils, and he stayed put. The Patrician moved a stack of drawings and sat down. “These are good,” he said. “What are they?” “My cartoons,” said Leonard. “This is a good one of the little boy with his kite stuck in a tree,” said Lord Vetinari. “Thank you. May I make you some tea? I’m afraid I don’t see many people these days, apart from the man who oils the hinges. ” “I’ve come to…” The Patrician stopped and prodded at one of the drawings. “There’s a piece of yellow paper stuck to this one,” he said, suspiciously. He pulled at it. It came away from the drawing with a faint sucking noise, and then stuck to his fingers. On the note, in Leonard’s crabby backward script, were the words: “krow ot smees sihT: omeM”. “Oh, I’m rather pleased with that,” said Leonard. “I call it my ‘Handy-note-scribbling-piece-of-paper-with-glue-that-comes-unstuck when-you-want’. ” The Patrician played with it for a while. “What’s the glue made of?” “Boiled slugs. ” The Patrician pulled the paper off one hand. It stuck to the other hand. “Is that what you came to see me about?” said Leonard. “No. I came to talk to you,” said Lord Vetinari, “about the gonne. ” “Oh, dear. I’m very sorry. ” “I am afraid it has…escaped. ” “My goodness. I thought you said you’d done away with it. ” “I gave it to the Assassins to destroy. After all, they pride themselves on the artistic quality of their work. They should be horrified at the idea of anyone having that sort of power. But the damn fools did not destroy it. They thought they could lock it away. And now they’ve lost it. ” “They didn’t destroy it?” “Apparently not, the fools. ” “And nor did you. I wonder why?” “I. . . do you know, I don’t know?” “I should never have made it. It was merely an application of principles. Ballistics, you know. Simple aerodynamics. Chemical power. Some rather good alloying, although I say it myself. And I’m rather proud of the rifling idea. I had to make a quite complicated tool for that, you know. Milk? Sugar?” “No, thank you. ” “People are searching for it, I trust?” “The Assassins are. But they won’t find it. They don’t think the right way. ” The Patrician picked up a pile of sketches of the human skeleton. They were extremely good. “Oh, dear. ” “So I am relying on the Watch. ” “This would be the Captain Vimes you have spoken of. ” Lord Vetinari always enjoyed his occasional conversations with Leonard. The man always referred to the city as if it was another world. “Yes. ” “I hope you have impressed upon him the importance of the task. ” “In a way. I’ve absolutely forbidden him to undertake it. Twice. ” Leonard nodded. “Ah. I…think I understand. I hope it works. ” He sighed. “I suppose I should have dismantled it, but…it was so clearly a made thing. I had this strange fancy I was merely assembling something that already existed. Sometimes I wonder where I got the whole idea. It seemed…I don’t know…sacrilege, I suppose, to dismantle it. It’d be like dismantling a person. Biscuit?” “Dismantling a person is sometimes necessary,” said Lord Vetinari. “This, of course, is a point of view,” said Leonard da Quirm politely. “You mentioned sacrilege,” said Lord Vetinari. “Normally that involves gods of some sort, does it not?” “Did I use the word? I can’t imagine there is a god of gonnes. ” “It is quite hard, yes. ” The Patrician shifted uneasily, reached down behind him, and pulled out an object. “What,” he said, “is this?” “Oh, I wondered where that had gone,” said Leonard. “It’s a model of my spinning-up-into-the-air-machine. ” * Lord Vetinari prodded the little rotor. “Would it work?” “Oh, yes,” said Leonard. He sighed. “If you can find one man with the strength of ten men who can turn the handle at about one thousand revolutions a minute. ” The Patrician relaxed, in a way which only then drew gentle attention to the foregoing moment of tension. “Now there is in this city,” he said, “a man with a gonne. He has used it successfully once, and almost succeeded a second time. Could anyone have invented the gonne?” “No,” said Leonard. “I am a genius. ” He said it quite simply. It was a statement of fact. “Understood. But once a gonne has been invented, Leonard, how much of a genius need someone be to make the second one?” “The rifling technique requires considerable finesse, and the cocking mechanism that slides the bullette assembly is finely balanced, and of course the end of the barrel must be very…” Leonard saw the Patrician’s expression, and shrugged. “He must be a clever man,” he said. “This city is full of clever men,” said the Patrician. ” And dwarfs. Clever men and dwarfs who tinker with things. ” “I am so very sorry. ” “They never think. ” “Indeed. ” Lord Vetinari leaned back and stared at the skylight. “They do things like open the Three Jolly Luck Take-Away Fish Bar on the site of the old temple in Dagon Street on the night of the Winter solstice when it also happens to be a full moon. ” “That’s people for you, I’m afraid. ” “I never did find out what happened to Mr. Hong. ” “Poor fellow. ” “And then there’s the wizards. |
Tinker, tinker, tinker. Never think twice before grabbing a thread of the fabric of reality and giving it a pull. ” “Shocking. ” “The alchemists? Their idea of civic duty is mixing up things to see what happens. ” “I hear the bangs, even here. ” “And then, of course, along comes someone like you—” “I really am terribly sorry. ” Lord Vetinari turned the model flying machine over and over in his fingers. “You dream of flying,” he said. “Oh, yes. Then men would be truly free. From the air, there are no boundaries. There could be no more war, because the sky is endless. How happy we would be, if we could but fly. ” Vetinari turned the machine over and over in his hands. “Yes,” he said, “I daresay we would. ” “I had tried clockwork, you know. ” “I’m sorry? I was thinking about something else. ” “I meant clockwork to power my flying machine. But it won’t work. ” “Oh. ” “There’s a limit to the power of a spring, no matter how tightly one winds it. ” “Oh, yes. Yes. And you hope that if you wind a spring one way, all its energies will unwind the other way. And sometimes you have to wind the spring as tight as it will go,” said Vetinari, “and pray it doesn’t break. ” His expression changed. “Oh dear,” he said. “Pardon?” said Leonard. “He didn’t thump the wall. I may have gone too far. ” Detritus sat and steamed. Now he felt hungry—not for food, but for things to think about. As the temperature sank, the efficiency of his brain increased even more. It needed something to do. He calculated the number of bricks in the wall, first in twos and then in tens and finally in sixteens. The numbers formed up and marched past his brain in terrified obedience. Division and multiplication were discovered. Algebra was invented and provided an interesting diversion for a minute or two. And then he felt the fog of numbers drift away, and looked up and saw the sparkling, distant mountains of calculus. Trolls evolved in high, rocky and above all in cold places. Their silicon brains were used to operating at low temperatures. But down on the muggy plains the heat build-up slowed them down and made them dull. It wasn’t that only stupid trolls came down to the city. Trolls who decided to come down to the city were often quite smart—but they became stupid. Detritus was considered moronic even by city troll standards. But that was simply because his brain was naturally optimized for a temperature seldom reached in Ankh-Morpork even during the coldest winter… Now his brain was nearing its ideal temperature of operation. Unfortunately, this was pretty close to a troll’s optimum point of death. Part of his brain gave some thought to this. There was a high probability of rescue. That meant he’d have to leave. That meant he’d become stupid again, as sure as Better make the most of it, then. He went back to the world of numbers so complex that they had no meaning, only a transitional point of view. And got on with freezing to death, as well. Dibbler reached the Butchers’ Guild very shortly after Cuddy. The big red doors had been kicked open and a small butcher was sitting just inside them rubbing his nose. “Which way did he go?” “Dat way. ” And in the Guild’s main hall the master butcher Gerhardt Sock was staggering around in circles. This was because Cuddy’s boots were planted on his chest. The dwarf was hanging on to the man’s vest like a yachtsman tacking into a gale, and whirling his axe round and round in front of Sock’s face. “You give it to me right now or I’ll make you eat your own nose!” A crowd of apprentice butchers was trying to keep out of the way. “But—” “Don’t you argue with me! I’m an officer of the Watch, I am!” “But you—” “You’ve got one last chance, mister. Give it to me right now!” Sock shut his eyes. “ What is it you want? ” The crowd waited. “Ah,” said Cuddy. “Ahaha. Didn’t I say?” “No!” “I’m pretty sure I did, you know. ” “You didn’t!” “Oh. Well. It’s the key to the pork futures warehouse, if you must know. ” Cuddy jumped down. “Why?” The axe hovered in front of his nose again. “I was just asking,” said Sock, in a desperate and distant voice. “There’s a man of the Watch in there freezing to death,” said Cuddy. There was quite a crowd around them when they finally got the main door open. Lumps of ice clinked on the stones, and there was a rush of supercold air. Frost covered the floor and the rows of hanging carcasses on their backward journey through time. It also covered a Detritus-shaped lump squatting in the middle of the floor. They carried it out into the sunlight. “Should his eyes be flashing on and off like that?” said Dibbler. “Can you hear me?” shouted Cuddy. “Detritus?” Detritus blinked. Ice slid off him in the day’s heat. He could feel the cracking up of the marvelous universe of numbers. The rising temperature hit his thoughts like a flame-thrower caressing a snowflake. “Say something!” said Cuddy. Towers of intellect collapsed as the fire roared through Detritus’ brain. “Hey, look at this, ” said one of the apprentices. The inner walls of the warehouse were covered with numbers. Equations as complex as a neural network had been scraped in the frost. At some point in the calculation the mathematician had changed from using numbers to using letters, and then letters themselves hadn’t been sufficient; brackets like cages enclosed expressions which were to normal mathematics what a city is to a map. They got simpler as the goal neared—simpler, yet containing in the flowing lines of their simplicity a spartan and wonderful complexity. Cuddy stared at them. He knew he’d never be able to understand them in a hundred years. The frost crumbled in the warmer air. The equations narrowed as they were carried on down the wall and across the floor to where the troll had been sitting, until they became just a few expressions that appeared to move and sparkle with a life of their own. This was maths without numbers, pure as lightning. They narrowed to a point, and at the point was just the very simple symbol: “=”. “Equals what?” said Cuddy. “Equals what?” The frost collapsed. Cuddy went outside. Detritus was now sitting in a puddle of water, surrounded by a crowd of human onlookers. “Can’t one of you get him a blanket or something?” he said. A very fat man said, “Huh? Who’d use a blanket after it had been on a troll?” “Hah, yes, good point,” said Cuddy. He glanced at the five holes in Detritus’ breastplate. They were at about head height, for a dwarf. “Could you come over here for moment, please?” The man grinned at his friends, and sauntered over. “I expect you can see the holes in his armor, right?” said Cuddy. C. M. O. T. Dibbler was a survivor. In the same way that rodents and insects can sense an earthquake ahead of the first tremors, so he could tell if something big was about to go down on the street. Cuddy was being too nice. When a dwarf was nice like that, it meant he was saving up to be nasty later on. “I’ll just, er, go about my business, then,” he said, and backed away. “I’ve got nothing against dwarfs , mind you,” said the fat man. “I mean, dwarfs is practically people, in my book. Just shorter humans, almost. But trolls…weeeelll…they’re not the same as us, right?” “’scuse me, ’scuse me, gangway, gangway,” said Dibbler, achieving with his cart the kind of getaway customarily associated with vehicles that have fluffy dice on the windscreen. “That’s a nice coat you’ve got there,” said Cuddy. Dibbler’s cart went around the corner on one wheel. “It’s a nice coat,” said Cuddy. “You know what you should do with a coat like that?” The man’s forehead wrinkled. “Take it off right now,” said Cuddy, “and give it to the troll. ” “Why, you little—” The man grabbed Cuddy by his shirt and wrenched him upward. The dwarf’s hand moved very quickly. There was a scrape of metal. Man and dwarf made an interesting and absolute stationary tableau for a few seconds. Cuddy had been brought up almost level with the man’s face, and watched with interest as the eyes began to water. “Let me down,” said Cuddy. “Gently. I make involuntary muscle movements if I’m startled. |
” The man did so. “Now take off your coat…good…just pass it over…thank you…” “Your axe…” the man murmured. “Axe? Axe? My axe?” Cuddy looked down. “Well, well, well. Hardly knew I was holding it there. My axe. Well, there’s a thing. ” The man was trying to stand on tiptoe. His eyes were watering. “The thing about this axe,” said Cuddy, “the interesting thing, is that it’s a throwing axe. I was champion three years running up at Copperhead. I could draw it and split a twig thirty yards away in one second. Behind me. And I was ill that day. A bilious attack. ” He backed away. The man sank gratefully on to his heels. Cuddy draped the coat over the troll’s shoulders. “Come on, on your feet,” he said. “Let’s get you home. ” The troll lumbered upright. “How many fingers am I holding up?” said Cuddy. Detritus peered. “Two and one?” he suggested. “It’ll do,” said Cuddy. “For a start. ” Mr. Cheese looked over the bar at Captain Vimes, who hadn’t moved for an hour. The Bucket was used to serious drinkers, who drank without pleasure but with a sort of determination never to see sobriety again. But this was something new. This was worrying. He didn’t want a death on his hands. There was no one else in the bar. He hung his apron on a nail and hurried out toward the Watch House, almost colliding with Carrot and Angua in the doorway. “Oh, I’m glad that’s you, Corporal Carrot,” he said. “You’d better come. It’s Captain Vimes. ” “What’s happened to him?” “I don’t know. He’s drunk an awful lot. ” “I thought he was off the stuff!” “I think,” said Mr. Cheese cautiously, “that this is not the case any more. ” A scene, somewhere near Quarry Lane: “Where we going?” “I’m going to get someone to have a look at you. ” “Not dwarf doctor!” “There must be someone up here who knows how to slap some quick-drying cement on you, or whatever you do. Should you be oozing like that?” “Dunno. Never oozed before. Where we?” “Dunno. Never been down here before. ” The area was on the windward side of the cattle yards and the slaughterhouse district. That meant it was shunned as living space by everyone except trolls, to whom the organic odors were about as relevant and noticeable as the smell of granite would be to humans. The old joke went: the trolls live next to the cattle-yard? What about the stench? Oh, the cattle don’t mind… Which was daft. Trolls didn’t smell, except to other trolls. There was a slabby look about the buildings here. They had been built for humans but adapted by trolls, which broadly had meant kicking the doorways wider and blocking up the windows. It was still daylight. There weren’t any trolls visible. “Ugh,” said Detritus. “Come on, big man,” said Cuddy, pushing Detritus along like a tug pushes a tanker. “Lance-Constable Cuddy?” “Yes. ” “You a dwarf. This is Quarry Lane. You found here, you in deep trouble. ” “We’re city guards. ” “Chrysoprase, he not give a coprolith about that stuff. ” Cuddy looked around. “What do you people use for doctors, anyway?” A troll face appeared in a doorway. And another. And another. What Cuddy had thought was a pile of rubble turned out to be a troll. There were, suddenly, trolls everywhere. I’m a guard, thought Cuddy. That’s what Sergeant Colon said. Stop being a dwarf and start being a Watchman. That’s what I am. Not a dwarf. A Watchman. They gave me a badge, shaped like a shield. City Watch, that’s me. I carry a badge. I wish it was a lot bigger. Vimes was sitting quietly at a table in the corner of The Bucket. There were some pieces of paper and a handful of metal objects in front of him, but he was staring at his fist. It was lying on the table, clenched so tight the knuckles were white. “Captain Vimes?” said Carrot, waving a hand in front of his eyes. There was no response. “How much has he had?” “Two nips of whiskey, that’s all. ” “That shouldn’t do this to him, even on an empty stomach,” said Carrot. Angua pointed at the neck of a bottle protruding from Vimes’ pocket. “I don’t think he’s been drinking on an empty stomach,” she said. “I think he put some alcohol in it first. ” “Captain Vimes?” said Carrot again. “What’s he holding in his hand?” said Angua. “I don’t know. This is bad, I’ve never seen him like this before. Come on. You take the stuff. I’ll take the captain. ” “He hasn’t paid for his drink,” said Mr. Cheese. Angua and Carrot looked at him. “On the house?” said Mr. Cheese. There was a wall of trolls around Cuddy. It was as good a choice of word as any. Right now their attitude was more of surprise than menace, such as dogs might show if a cat had just sauntered into the kennels. But when they’d finally got used to the idea that he really existed, it was probably only a matter of time before this state of affairs no longer obtained. Finally, one of them said, “What dis, then?” “He a man of the Watch, same as me,” said Detritus. “Him a dwarf. ” “He a Watchman. ” “Him got bloody cheek, I know that. ” A stubby troll finger prodded Cuddy in the back. The trolls crowded in. “I count to ten,” said Detritus. “Then any troll not going about that troll’s business, he a sorry troll. ” “You Detritus,” said a particularly wide troll. “Everyone know you stupid troll, you join Watch because stupid troll, you can’t count to—” Wham. “One,” said Detritus. “Two…Tree. Four-er…Five. Six…” The recumbent troll looked up in amazement. “That Detritus, him counting. ” There was a whirring noise and an axe bounced off the wall near Detritus’ head. There were dwarfs coming up the street, with a purposeful and deadly air. The trolls scattered. Cuddy ran forward. “What are you lot doing?” he said. “Are you mad, or something?” A dwarf pointed a trembling finger at Detritus. “What’s that ?” “He’s a Watchman. ” “Looks like a troll to me. Get it!” Cuddy took a step backward and produced his axe. “I know you, Stronginthearm,” he said. “What’s this all about?” “You know, Watchman ,” said Stronginthearm. “The Watch say a troll killed Bjorn Hammerhock. They’ve found the troll!” “No, that’s not—” There was a sound behind Cuddy. The trolls were back, armed for dwarf. Detritus turned around and waved a finger at them. “Any troll move,” he said, “and I start counting. ” “Hammerhock was killed by a man,” said Cuddy. “Captain Vimes thinks—” “The Watch have got the troll,” said a dwarf. “Damn rocks!” “Gritsuckers!” “Monoliths!” “Eaters of rats!” “Hah, I been a man only hardly any time,” said Detritus, “and already I fed up with you stupid trolls. What you think humans say, eh? Oh, them ethnic, them don’t know how to behave in big city, go around waving clubs at the drop of a thing you wear on head. ” “We’re Watchmen,” said Cuddy. “Our job is to keep the peace. ” “Good,” said Stronginthearm. “Go and keep it safe somewhere until we need it. ” “This not Koom Valley,” said Detritus. “That’s right!” shouted a dwarf at the back of the crowd. “This time we can see you!” Trolls and dwarfs were pouring in at either end of the street. “What would Corporal Carrot do at a time like this?” whispered Cuddy. “He say, you bad people, make me angry, you stop toot sweet,” “And then they’d go away, right?” “Yeah. ” “What would happen if we tried that?” “We look in gutter for our heads. ” “I think you’re right. ” “You see that alley? It a nice alley. It say, hello. You out-numbered…256 + 64 + 8 + 2 + 1 to 1. Drop in and see me. ” A club bounced off Detritus’ helmet. “Run!” The two Watchmen sprinted for the alley. The impromptu armies watched them and then, differences momentarily forgotten, gave chase. “Where this go?” “It goes away from the people chasing us!” “I like this alley. ” Behind them the pursuers, suddenly trying to make progress in a gap barely wide enough to accommodate a troll, realized that they were pushing and shoving with their mortal enemies and started to fight one another in the quickest, nastiest and above all narrowest battle ever held in the city. Cuddy waved Detritus to a halt and peered around a corner. “I think we’re safe,” he said. “All we have to do is get out of the other end of this and get back to the Watch House. |
OK?” He turned around, failed to see the troll, took a step forward, and vanished temporarily from the world of men. “Oh, no,” said Sergeant Colon. “He promised he wasn’t going to touch it any more! Look, he’s had a whole bottle!” “What is it? Bearhugger’s?” said Nobby. “Shouldn’t think so, he’s still breathing. Come on, help me up with him. ” The Night Watch clustered around. Carrot had deposited Captain Vimes on a chair in the middle of the Watch House floor. Angua picked out the bottle and looked at the label. “C. M. O. T. Dibbler’s Genuine Authentic Soggy Mountain Dew,” she read. “He’s going to die! It says, ‘One hundred and fifty percent proof’!” “Nah, that’s just old Dibbler’s advertising,” said Nobby. “It ain’t got no proof. Just circumstantial evidence. ” “Why hasn’t he got his sword?” said Angua. Vimes opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the concerned face of Nobby. “Aargh!” he said. “Swor’? Gi’ it ’way! Hooray!” “What?” said Colon. “No mo’ Watsh! All go’…” “I think he’s a bit drunk,” said Carrot. “Drun’? ’m not drun’! You wouldn’ dare call m’ drun’ if I was sober!” “Get him some coffee,” said Angua. “I reckon he’s beyond our coffee,” said Colon. “Nobby, nip along to Fat Sally’s in Squeezebelly Alley and get a jug of their special Klatchian stuff. Not a metal jug, mind. ” Vimes blinked as they manhandled him into a chair. “All go ’way,” he said. “Bang! Bang!” “Lady Sybil’s going to be really mad,” said Nobby. “You know he promised to leave it alone. ” “Captain Vimes?” said Carrot. “Mm?” “How many fingers am I holding up?” “Mm?” “How many hands, then?” “Fo’?” “Blimey, I haven’t seen him like this for years,” said Colon. “Here, let me try something. Want another drink, captain ?” “He certainly doesn’t need a—” “Shut up, I know what I’m doing. Another drink, Captain Vimes?” “Mm?” “I’ve never known him not be able to give a loud clear ‘yes!’,” said Colon, standing back. “I think we’d better get him up to his room. ” “I’ll take him, poor chap. ” said Carrot. He lifted Vimes easily, and slung him over his shoulder. “I hate to see him like this,” said Angua, following him into the hallway and up the stairs. “He only drinks when he gets depressed,” said Carrot. “Why does he get depressed?” “Sometimes it’s because he hasn’t had a drink. ” The house in Pseudopolis Yard had originally been a Ramkin family residence. Now the first floor was occupied by the guards on an ad hoc basis. Carrot had a room. Nobby had rooms consecutively, four so far, moving out when the floor became hard to find. And Vimes had a room. More or less. It was hard to tell. Even a prisoner in a cell manages to stamp his personality on it somewhere, but Angua had never seen such an unlived-in room. “This is where he lives?” said Angua. “Good grief. ” “What did you expect?” “I don’t know. Anything. Something. Not nothing. ” There was a joyless iron bedstead. The springs and mattress had sagged so that they formed a sort of mould, forcing anyone who got into it to instantly fold into a sleeping position. There was a washstand, under a broken mirror. On the stand was a razor, carefully aligned toward the Hub because Vimes shared the folk belief that this kept it sharp. There was a brown wooden chair with the cane seat broken. And a small chest at the foot of the bed. And that was all. “I mean, at least a rug,” said Angua. “A picture on the wall. Something. ” Carrot deposited Vimes on the bed, where he flowed unconsciously into the shape. “Haven’t you got something in your room?” Angua asked. “Yes. I’ve got a cutaway diagram of No. 5 shaft at home. It’s very interesting strata. I helped cut it. And some books and things. Captain Vimes isn’t really an indoors kind of person. ” “But there’s not even a candle!” “He finds his way to bed by memory, he says. ” “Or an ornament or anything. ” “There’s a sheet of cardboard under the bed,” Carrot volunteered. “I remember I was with him in Filigree Street when he found it. He said ‘There’s a month’s soles in this, if I’m any judge. ’ He was very pleased about that. ” “He can’t even afford boots?” “I don’t think so. I know Lady Sybil offered to buy him all the new boots he wanted, and he got a bit offended about that. He seems to try to make them last. ” “But you can buy boots, and you get less than him. And you send money home. He must drink it all, the idiot. ” “Don’t think so. I didn’t think he’d touched the stuff for months. Lady Sybil got him on to cigars. ” Vimes snored loudly. “How can you admire a man like this?” said Angua. “He’s a very fine man. ” Angua raised the lid of the wooden chest with her foot. “Hey, I don’t think you should do that—” said Carrot wretchedly. “I’m just looking,” said Angua. “No law against that. ” “In fact, under the Privacy Act of 1467, it is an—” “There’s only old boots and stuff. And some paper. ” She reached down and picked up a crudely made book. It was merely a wad of irregular shaped bits of paper sandwiched together between card covers. “That belongs to Captain—” She opened the book and read a few lines. Her mouth dropped open. “Will you look at this? No wonder he never has any money!” “What d’you mean?” “He spends it on women! You wouldn’t think it, would you? Look at this entry. Four in one week!” Carrot looked over her shoulder. On the bed, Vimes snorted. There, on the page, in Vimes’ curly handwriting, were the words: Mrs. Gaskin, Mincing St: $5 Mrs. Scurrick, Treacle St: $4 Mrs. Maroon, Wixon’s Alley: $4 Annabel Curry, Lobsneaks: $2 “Annabel Curry couldn’t have been much good, for only two dollars,” said Angua. She was aware of a sudden drop in temperature. “I shouldn’t think so,” said Carrot, slowly. “She’s only nine years old. ” One of his hands gripped her wrist tightly and the other prised the book out of her fingers. “Hey, let go !” “Sergeant!” shouted Carrot, over his shoulder, “can you come up here a moment?” Angua tried to pull away. Carrot’s arm was as immovable as an iron bar. There was the creak of Colon’s foot on the stair, and the door swung open. He was holding a very small cup in a pair of tongs. “Nobby got the coff—” he began, and stopped. “Sergeant,” said Carrot, staring into Angua’s face, “Lance-Constable Angua wants to know about Mrs. Gaskin. ” “Old Leggy Gaskin’s widow? She lives in Mincing Street. ” “And Mrs. Scurrick?” “In Treacle Street? Takes in laundry now. ” Sergeant Colon looked from one to the other, trying to get a handle on the situation. “Mrs. Maroon?” “That’s Sergeant Maroon’s widow, she sells coal in—” “How about Annabel Curry?” “She still goes to the Spiteful Sisters of Seven-Handed Sek Charity School, doesn’t she?” Colon smiled nervously at Angua, still not sure of what was happening. “She’s the daughter of Corporal Curry, but of course he was before your time—” Angua looked up at Carrot’s face. His expression was unreadable. “They’re the widows of coppers?” she said. He nodded. “And one orphan. ” “It’s a tough old life,” said Colon. “No pensions for widows, see. ” He looked from one to the other. “Is there something wrong?” he said. Carrot relaxed his grip, turned, slipped the book into the box, and shut the lid. “No,” he said. “Look, I’m sorr—” Angua began. Carrot ignored her and nodded at the sergeant. “Give him the coffee. ” “But…fourteen dollars…that’s nearly half his pay!” Carrot picked up Vimes’ limp arm and tried to prise his fist open, but even though Vimes was out cold the fingers were locked. “I mean, half his pay !” “I don’t know what he’s holding in here,” said Carrot, ignoring her. “Maybe it’s a clue. ” He took the coffee and hauled up Vimes by his collar. “You just drink this, captain,” he said, “and everything will look a lot…clearer…” Klatchian coffee has an even bigger sobering effect than an unexpected brown envelope from the tax man. In fact, coffee enthusiasts take the precaution of getting thoroughly drunk before touching the stuff, because Klatchian coffee takes you back through sobriety and, if you’re not careful, out the other side , where the mind of man should not go. |
The Watch was generally of the opinion that Samuel Vimes was at least two drinks under par, and needed a stiff double even to be sober. “Careful…careful…” Carrot let a few drops dribble between Vimes’ lips. “Look, when I said—” Angua began. “Forget it. ” Carrot didn’t even look round. “I was only—” “I said forget it. ” Vimes opened his eyes, took a look at the world, and screamed. “Nobby!” “Yes, sarge?” “Did you buy the Red Desert Special or the Curly Mountain Straight?” “Red Desert, sarge, because—” “You could have said. Better get me—” He glanced at Vimes’ grimace of horror “—half a glass of Bearhugger’s. We’ve sent him too far the other way. ” The glass was fetched and administered. Vimes unstiffened as it took effect. His palm uncurled. “Oh, my gods,” said Angua. “Have we got any bandages?” The sky was a little white circle, high above. “Where the hell are we, partner?” said Cuddy. “Cave. ” “No caves under Ankh-Morpork. It’s on loam. ” Cuddy had fallen about thirty feet but had cushioned the fall because he landed on Detritus’ head. The troll had been sitting, surrounded by rotting woodwork, in…well…a cave. Or, Cuddy thought, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, a stone-lined tunnel. “I didn’t do nothing,” said Detritus, “I just stood there, next minute, everything going past upward. ” Cuddy reached down into the mud underfoot and brought up a piece of wood. It was very thick. It was also very rotten. “We fell through something into something,” he said. He ran his hand over the curved tunnel wall. “And this is good masonry. Very good. ” “How we get out?” There was no way to climb back. The tunnel roof was much higher than Detritus. “We walk out, I think,” said Cuddy. He sniffed the air, which was dank. Dwarfs have a very good sense of direction underground. “This way,” he added, setting off. “Cuddy?” “Yes?” “No one ever say there tunnels under the city. No one know about them. ” “So…?” “So there no way out. Because way out is way in, too, and if no one know about tunnels, then it ’cos no way in. ” “But they’ve got to lead somewhere. ” “OK. ” Black mud, more or less dry, made a path at the bottom of the tunnel. There was slime on the walls, too, indicating that at some point in the recent past the tunnel had been full of water. Here and there huge patches of fungi, luminous with decay, cast a faint glow over the ancient stonework. * Cuddy felt his spirits lift as he plodded through the darkness. Dwarfs always felt happier underground. “Bound to find a way out,” he said. “Right. ” “So…how come you joined the Watch, then?” “Hah! My girl Ruby she say, you want get married, you get proper job, I not marry a troll what people say, him no good troll, him thick as a short plank of wood. ” Detritus’ voice echoed in the darkness. “How about you?” “I got bored. I worked for my brother-in-law, Durance. He’s got a good business making fortune rats for dwarf restaurants. But I thought, this isn’t a proper job for a dwarf. ” “Sound like easy job to me. ” “I had the devil of a time getting them to swallow the fortunes. ” Cuddy stopped. A change in the air suggested a vaster tunnel up ahead. And, indeed, the tunnel opened into the side of a much larger one. There was deep mud on the floor, in the middle of which ran a trickle of water. Cuddy fancied he heard rats, or what he hoped were rats, scuttle away into the dark emptiness. He even thought he could hear the sounds of the city—indistinct, intermingled—filtering through the earth. “It’s like a temple,” he said, and his voice boomed away into the distance. “Writing here on wall,” said Detritus. Cuddy peered at the letters hacked deeply into the stone. “‘VIA CLOACA’,” he said. “Hmm. Well, now…via is an old word for street or way. Cloaca means…” He peered into the gloom. “This is a sewer,” he said. “What that?” “It’s like…well, where do trolls dump their…rubbish?” said Cuddy. “In street,” said Detritus. “Hygienic. ” “This is…an underground street just for…well, for crap,” said Cuddy. “I never knew Ankh-Morpork had them. ” “Maybe Ankh-Morpork didn’t know Ankh-Morpork had them,” said Detritus. “Right. You’re right. This place is old. We’re in the bowels of the earth. ” “In Ankh-Morpork even the shit have a street to itself,” said Detritus, awe and wonder in his voice. “Truly, this a land of opportunity. ” “Here’s some more writing,” said Cuddy. He scraped away some slime. “‘ Cirone IV me fabricat ’,” he read aloud. “He was one of the early kings, wasn’t he? Hey…do you know what that means?” “No one’s been down here since yesterday,” said Detritus. “No! This place…this place is more than two thousand years old. We’re quite probably the first people to come down here since—” “Yesterday,” said the troll. “Yesterday? Yesterday? What’s yesterday got to do with it?” “Footprints still fresh,” said Detritus. He pointed. There were footprints in the mud. “How long have you lived here?” said Cuddy, suddenly feeling very conspicuous in the middle of the tunnel. “Nine-er years. That is the number of years I have lived here. Nine-er,” said Detritus, proudly. “It only one of a large…number of numbers I can count to. ” “Have you ever heard of tunnels under the city?” “No. ” “Someone knows about them, though. ” “Yes. ” “What shall we do?” The answer was inevitable. They’d chased a man into the pork futures warehouse, and nearly died. Then they’d ended up in the middle of a small war, and nearly died. Now they were in a mysterious tunnel where there were fresh footprints. If Corporal Carrot or Sergeant Colon said, “And what did you do then?”, neither of them could face up to the thought of saying “We came back. ” “The footprints go this way,” said Cuddy, “and then they return. But the ones coming back aren’t so deep as the ones going. You can see they’re later ones because they’re over the top of the other ones. So he was heavier going than he was coming back, yes?” “Right,” said Detritus. “So that means…?” “He lose weight?” “He was carrying something, and he left it…up ahead somewhere. ” They stared at the darkness. “So we go and find what it was?” said Detritus. “I think so. How do you feel?” “Feel OK. ” Different species though they were, their minds had focused on a single image, involving a muzzle flash and a lead slug singing through the subterranean night. “He came back,” said Cuddy. “Yes,” said Detritus. They looked at the darkness again. “It has not been a nice day,” said Cuddy. “That the truth. ” “I’d just like to know something, in case…I mean…look, what happened in the pork store? You did all that maths! All that counting!” “I…dunno. I saw it all. ” “All what?” “Just all of it. Everything. All the numbers in the world. I could count them all. ” “What did they equal?” “Dunno. What does equal mean?” They trudged on, to see what the future held. The trail led eventually into a narrower tunnel, barely wide enough for the troll to stand upright. Finally they could go no further. A stone had dropped out of the roof and rubble and mud had percolated through, blocking the tunnel. But that didn’t matter because they’d found what they were looking for, even though they hadn’t been looking for it. “Oh dear,” said Detritus. “Very definitely,” said Cuddy. He looked around vaguely. “You know,” he said, “I reckon these tunnels are usually full of water. They’re well below the normal river level. ” He looked back to the pathetic discovery. “There’s going to be a lot of trouble about this,” he said. “It’s his badge,” said Carrot. “Good grief. He’s holding it so tight it’s cut right into his hand. ” Technically Ankh-Morpork is built on loam, but what it is mainly built on is Ankh-Morpork; it has been constructed, burned down, silted up, and rebuilt so many times that its foundations are old cellars, buried roads and the fossil bones and middens of earlier cities. Below these, in the darkness, sat the troll and the dwarf. “What we doing now?” “We ought to leave it here and fetch Corporal Carrot. He’ll know what to do. ” Detritus looked over his shoulder at the thing behind them. “I don’t like that,” he said. |
“It not right to leave it here. ” “Right. Yes, you’re right. But you’re a troll and I’m a dwarf. What do you think would happen if people saw us carrying that along the streets?” “ Big trouble. ” “Correct. Come on. Let’s follow the footprints back out. ” “Supposing it gone when we come back?” said Detritus, lumbering to his feet. “How? And we’re following the tracks out, so if whoever it was who put it there comes back, we’ll run straight into them. ” “Oh, good. I glad you said that. ” Vimes sat on the edge of his bed while Angua bandaged his hand. “Captain Quirke ?” said Carrot. “But he’s…not a good choice. ” “Mayonnaise Quirke, we used to call him,” said Colon. “He’s a pillock. ” “Don’t tell me,” said Angua. “He’s rich, thick and oily, yes?” “And smells faintly of eggs,” said Carrot. “Plumes in his helmet,” said Colon, “and a breastplate you can see your face in. ” “Well, Carrot’s got one of those too,” said Nobby. “Yes, but the difference is, Carrot keeps his armor polished because he…likes nice clean armor,” said Colon loyally. “While Quirke keeps his shiny because he’s a pillock. ” “But he’s wrapped up the case,” said Nobby. “I heard about it when I went out for the coffee. He’s arrested Coalface the troll. You know, captain? The privy cleaner. Someone saw him near Rime Street just before the dwarf got killed. ” “But he’s massive ,” said Carrot. “He couldn’t have got through the door. ” “He’s got a motive,” said Nobby. “Yes?” “Yes. Hammerhock was a dwarf. ” “That’s not a motive. ” “It is for a troll. Anyway, if he didn’t do that, he probably did something. There’s plenty of evidence against him. ” “Like what?” said Angua. “He’s a troll. ” “That’s not evidence. ” “It is to Captain Quirke,” said the sergeant. “He’s bound to have done something ,” Nobby repeated. In this he was echoing the Patrician’s view of crime and punishment. If there was crime, there should be punishment. If the specific criminal should be involved in the punishment process then this was a happy accident, but if not then any criminal would do, and since everyone was undoubtedly guilty of something, the net result was that, in general terms , justice was done. “He’s a nasty piece of work, that Coalface,” said Colon. “A righthand troll for Chrysoprase. ” “Yes, but he couldn’t have killed Bjorn,” said Carrot. “And what about the beggar girl?” Vimes sat looking at the floor. “What do you think, captain?” said Carrot. Vimes shrugged. “Who cares?” he said. “Well, you care,” said Carrot. “You always care. We can’t let even someone like—” “Listen to me,” said Vimes, in a small voice. “Supposing we’d found who killed the dwarf and the clown? Or the girl. It wouldn’t make any difference. It’s all rotten anyway. ” “What is, captain?” said Colon. “All of it. You might try and empty a well with a sieve. Let the Assassins try to sort it out. Or the thieves. He can try the rats next. Why not? We’re not the people for this. We ought to have just stayed with ringing our bells and shouting ‘All’s well!’” “But all isn’t well, captain,” said Carrot. “So what? When has that ever mattered?” “Oh, dear,” said Angua, under her breath. “I think perhaps you gave him too much of that coffee…” Vimes said, “I’m retiring from the Watch tomorrow. Twenty-five years on the streets—” Nobby started to grin nervously and stopped as the sergeant, without apparently shifting position, grabbed one of his arms and twisted it gently but meaningfully up his back. “—and what good’s it all been? What good have I done? I’ve just worn out a lot of boots. There’s no place in Ankh-Morpork for policemen! Who cares what’s right or wrong? Assassins and thieves and trolls and dwarfs! Might as well have a bloody king and have done with it!” The rest of the Night Watch stood looking at their feet in mute embarrassment. Then Carrot said, “It’s better to light a candle than curse the darkness, captain. That’s what they say. ” “ What ?” Vimes’ sudden rage was like a thunderclap. “Who says that? When has that ever been true? It’s never been true! It’s the kind of thing people without power say to make it all seem less bloody awful, but it’s just words , it never makes any difference —” Someone hammered at the door. “That’ll be Quirke,” said Vimes. “You’re to hand over your weapons. The Night Watch is being stood down for a day. Can’t have coppers running around upsetting things, can we? Open the door, Carrot. ” “But—” Carrot began. “That was an order. I might not be any good for anything else, but I can bloody well order you to open the door, so open the door!” Quirke was accompanied by half a dozen members of the Day Watch. They had crossbows. In deference to the fact that they were doing a mildly unpleasant job involving fellow officers, they had them pointing slightly downward. In deference to the fact that they weren’t damn fools, they had the safety catches off. Quirke wasn’t actually a bad man. He didn’t have the imagination. He dealt more in that sort of generalized low-grade unpleasantness which slightly tarnishes the soul of all who come into contact with it. * Many people are in jobs that are a little beyond them, but there are ways of reacting to the situation. Sometimes they’re flustered and nice, sometimes they’re Quirke. Quirke handled them with the maxim: it doesn’t matter if you’re right or wrong, so long as you’re definite. There was, on the whole, no real racial prejudice in Ankh-Morpork; when you’ve got dwarfs and trolls, the mere color of other humans is not a major item. But Quirke was the kind of man to whom it comes naturally to pronounce the word negro with two gs. He had a hat with plumes in it. “Come in, come in,” said Vimes. “It wasn’t as if we were doing anything. ” “Captain Vimes—” “It’s all right. We know. Give him your weapons, people. That’s an order, Carrot. One official issue sword, one pike or halberd, one night stick or truncheon, one crossbow. That’s right, isn’t it, Sergeant Colon?” “Yessir. ” Carrot hesitated only a moment. “Oh, well,” he said. “My official sword is in the rack. ” “What’s that one in your belt?” Carrot said nothing. However, he shifted position slightly. His biceps strained against the leather of his jerkin. “Official sword. Right,” said Quirke. He turned. He was one of those people who would recoil from an assault on strength, but attack weakness without mercy. “Where’s the gritsucker?” he said. “And the rock?” “Ah,” said Vimes, “you are referring to those representative members of our fellow sapient races who have chosen to throw in their lots with the people of this city?” “I mean the dwarf and the troll,” said Quirke. “Haven’t the faintest idea,” said Vimes cheerfully. It seemed to Angua that he was drunk again, if people could get drunk on despair. “We dunno, sir,” said Colon. “Haven’t seen ’em all day. ” “Probably fighting up in Quarry Lane with the rest of them,” said Quirke. “You can’t trust people of their type. You ought to know that. ” And it also seemed to Angua that although words like halfpint and gritsucker were offensive, they were as terms of universal brotherhood compared to words like “people of their type” in the mouth of men like Quirke. Much to her shock, she found her gaze concentrating on the man’s jugular vein. “Fighting?” said Carrot. “Why?” Quirke shrugged. “Who knows?” “Let me think now,” said Vimes. “It could be something to do with a wrongful arrest. It could be something to do with some of the more restless dwarfs just needing any excuse to have a go at the trolls. What do you think, Quirke?” “I don’t think, Vimes. ” “Good man. You’re just the type the city needs. ” Vimes stood up. “I’ll be going, then,” he said. “I’ll see you all tomorrow. If there is one. ” The door slammed behind him. This hall was huge. It was the size of a city square, with pillars every few yards to support the roof. Tunnels radiated off it in every direction, and at various heights in the walls. Water trickled out of many of them, from small springs and underground streams. That was the problem. |
The film of running water over the stone floor of the hall had wiped away traces of the footprints. A very large tunnel, almost blocked with debris and silt, led off in what Cuddy was pretty sure was the direction of the estuary. It was almost pleasant. There was no smell, other than a damp, under-a-stone mustiness. And it was cool. “I’ve seen big dwarf halls in the mountains,” said Cuddy, “but I’ve got to admit this is something else. ” His voice echoed back and forth in the chamber. “Oh, yes,” said Detritus, “It’s got to be something else, because it’s not a dwarf hall in the mountains. ” “Can you see any way up?” “No. ” “We could have passed a dozen ways to the surface and not known it. ” “Yes,” said the troll. “It’s a knotty problem. ” “Detritus?” “Yes?” “Did you know you’re getting smarter again, down here in the cool?” “Really?” “Can you use it to think of a way out?” “Digging?” the troll suggested. There were fallen blocks here and there in the tunnels. Not many; the place had been well built… “Nah. Haven’t got a shovel,” said Cuddy. Detritus nodded. “Give me your breastplate,” he said. He leaned it up against the wall. His fist pounded into it a few times. He handed it back. It was, more or less, shovel shaped. “It’s a long way up,” Cuddy said doubtfully. “But we know the way,” said Detritus. “It’s either that, or stay down here eating rat for rest of your life. ” Cuddy hesitated. The idea had a certain appeal… “Without ketchup,” Detritus added. “I think I saw a fallen stone just a way back there,” said the dwarf. Captain Quirke looked around the Watch room with the air of one who was doing the scenery a favor by glancing at it. “Nice place, this,” he said. “I think we’ll move in here. Better than the quarters near the Palace. ” “But we’re here,” said Sergeant Colon. “You’ll just have to squash up,” said Captain Quirke. He glanced at Angua. Her stare was getting on his nerves. “There’ll be a few changes, too,” he said. Behind him, the door creaked open. A small, smelly dog limped in. “But Lord Vetinari hasn’t said who’s commanding Night Watch,” said Carrot. “Ho, yes? Seems to me, seems to me ,” said Quirke, “that it’s not likely to be one of you lot, eh? Seems to me it’s likely the Watches’ll be combined. Seems to me there’s too much sloppiness around the place. Seems to me there’s a bit too much of a ragtag. ” He glanced at Angua again. The way she was looking at him was putting him off. “Seems to me—” Quirke began again, and then noticed the dog. “Look at this!” he said. “Dogs in the Watch House!” He kicked Gaspode hard, and grinned as the dog ran yelping under the table. “What about Lettice Knibbs, the beggar girl?” said Angua. “No troll killed her. Or the clown. ” “You got to see the big picture,” said Quirke. “Mister Captain,” said a low voice from under the table, audible at a conscious level only to Angua, “you got an itchy bottom. ” “What big picture’s this, then?” said Sergeant Colon. “Got to think in terms of the whole city,” said Quirke. He shifted uneasily. “ Really itchy,” said the sub-table voice. “You feeling all right, Captain Quirke?” said Angua. The captain squirmed. “Prickle, prickle, prickle,” said the voice. “I mean, some things are important, some ain’t,” said Quirke. “Aargh!” “Sorry?” “Prickle. ” “Can’t hang around here talking to you all day,” said Quirke. “You. Report to. Me. Tomorrow afternoon—” “Prickle, prickle, prickle—” “Abouuut face!” The Day Watch scurried out, with Quirke hopping and squirming in, as it were, the rear. “My word, he seemed anxious to get away,” said Carrot. “Yes,” said Angua. “Can’t think why. ” They looked at one another. “Is that it?” said Carrot. “No more Night Watch?” It’s generally very quiet in the Unseen University library. There’s perhaps the shuffling of feet as wizards wander between the shelves, the occasional hacking cough to disturb the academic silence, and every once in a while a dying scream as an unwary student fails to treat an old magical book with the caution it deserves. Consider orangutans. In all the worlds graced by their presence, it is suspected that they can talk but choose not to do so in case humans put them to work, possibly in the television industry. In fact they can talk. It’s just that they talk in Orangutan. Humans are only capable of listening in Bewilderment. The Librarian of Unseen University had unilaterally decided to aid comprehension by producing an Orangutan/Human Dictionary. He’d been working on it for three months. It wasn’t easy. He’d got as far as “Oook. ” * He was down in the Stacks, where it was cool. And suddenly someone was singing. He took the pen out of his foot and listened. A human would have decided they couldn’t believe their ears. Orangs are more sensible. If you won’t believe your own ears, whose ears will you believe? Someone was singing, underground. Or trying to sing. The chthonic voices went something like this: “Dlog, glod, Dlog, glod—” “Listen, you…troll! It’s the simplest song there is. Look, like this ‘Gold, Gold, Gold, Gold’?” “Gold, Gold, Gold, Gold—” “No! That’s the second verse!” There was also the rhythmical sound of dirt being shovelled and rubble being moved. The Librarian considered matters for a while. So…a dwarf and a troll. He preferred both species to humans. For one thing, neither of them were great readers. The Librarian was, of course, very much in favor of reading in general, but readers in particular got on his nerves. There was something, well, sacrilegious about the way they kept taking books off the shelves and wearing out the words by reading them. He liked people who loved and respected books, and the best way to do that, in the Librarian’s opinion, was to leave them on the shelves where Nature intended them to be. The muffled voices seemed to be getting closer. “Gold, gold, gold—” “Now you’re singing the chorus!” On the other hand, there were proper ways of entering a library. He waddled over to the shelves and selected Humptulip’s seminal work How to Kille Insects. All 2,000 pages of it. Vimes felt quite light-hearted as he walked up Scoone Avenue. He was aware that there was an inner Vimes screaming his head off. He ignored him. You couldn’t be a real copper in Ankh-Morpork and stay sane. You had to care. And caring in Ankh-Morpork was like opening a tin of meat in the middle of a piranha school. Everyone dealt with it in their own way. Colon never thought about it, and Nobby didn’t worry about it, and the new ones hadn’t been in long enough to be worn down by it, and Carrot…was just himself. Hundreds of people died in the city every day, often of suicide. So what did a few more matter? The Vimes inside hammered on the walls. There were quite a few coaches outside the Ramkin mansion, and the place seemed to be infested with assorted female relatives and Interchangeable Emmas. They were baking things and polishing things. Vimes strolled through, more or less unregarded. He found Sybil out in the dragon house, in her rubber boots and protective dragon armor. She was mucking out, apparently blissfully unaware of the controlled uproar in the mansion. She looked up as the door shut behind Vimes. “Oh, there you are. You’re home early,” she said. “I couldn’t stand the fuss, so I came out here. But I’ll have to go and change soon—” She stopped when she saw his expression. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there?” “I’m not going back,” said Vimes. “Really? Last week you said you’d do a full watch. You said you were looking forward to it. ” Not much gets past old Sybil, Vimes thought. She patted his hand. “I’m glad you’re out of it,” she said. Corporal Nobbs darted into the Watch House and slammed the door behind him. “Well?” said Carrot. “It’s not good,” said Nobby. “They say the trolls are planning to march to the Palace to get Coalface out. There’s gangs of dwarfs and trolls wandering around looking for trouble. And beggars. Lettice was very popular. And there’s a lot of Guild people out there, too. The city,” he said, importantly, “is def’nitely a keg of No. I Powder. |
” “How do you like the idea of camping out on the open plain?” said Colon. “What’s that got to do with it?” “If anyone puts a match to anything tonight, it’s goodbye Ankh,” said the sergeant morosely. “Usually we can shut the city gates, right? But there’s hardly more’n a few feet of water in the river. ” “You flood the city just to put out fires?” said Angua. “Yep. ” “Another thing,” said Nobby. “People threw stuff at me!” Carrot had been staring at the wall. Now he produced a small, battered black book from his pocket, and started to thumb through the pages. “Tell me,” he said, in a slightly distant voice, “has there been an irretrievable breakdown of law and order?” “Yeah. For about five hundred years,” said Colon. “Irretrievable breakdown of law’n’order is what Ankh-Morpork is all about. ” “No, I mean more than usual. It’s important. ” Carrot turned a page. His lips moved silently as he read. “Throwing stuff at me sounds like a breakdown in law and order,” said Nobby. He was aware of their expressions. “I don’t think we could make that stick,” said Colon. “It stuck all right,” said Nobby, “ and some of it went down my shirt. ” “Why throw things at you?” said Angua. “It’s ’cos I was a Watchman,” said Nobby. “The dwarfs don’t like the Watch ’cos of Mr. Hammerhock, and the trolls don’t like the Watch ’cos of Coalface being arrested, and people don’t like the Watch ’cos of all these angry dwarfs and trolls around. ” Someone thumped at the door. “That’s probably an angry mob right now,” said Nobby. Carrot opened the door. “It’s not an angry mob,” he announced. “Ook. ” “It’s an orangutan carrying a stunned dwarf followed by a troll. But he is quite angry, if that’s any help. ” Lady Ramkin’s butler, Willikins, had filled him a big bath. Hah! Tomorrow it’d be his butler, and his bath. And this wasn’t one of the old hip baths, drag-it-in-front-of-the-fire jobs, no. The Ramkin mansion collected water off the roof into a big cistern, after straining out the pigeons, and then it was heated by an ancient geyser * and flowed along drumming, groaning lead pipes to a pair of mighty brass taps and then into an enamelled tub. There were things laid out on a fluffy towel beside it—huge scrubbing brushes, three kinds of soap, a loofah. Willikins was standing patiently beside the bath, like a barely heated towel rail. “Yes?” said Vimes. “His lordship…that is, her ladyship’s father…he required to have his back scrubbed,” said Willikins. “You go and help the old geyser stoke the furnace,” said Vimes firmly. Left alone, he struggled out of his breastplate and threw it in the corner. The chainmail shirt followed it, and the helmet, and the money pouch, and various leather and cotton oddments that came between a Watchman and the world. And then he sank, gingerly at first, into the suds. “Try soap. Soap’ll work,” said Detritus. “Hold still, will you?” said Carrot. “You’re twisting my head off!” “Go on, soap him head. ” “Soap your own head!” There was a thung noise and Cuddy’s helmet came free. Cuddy emerged, blinking, into the light. He focused on the Librarian, and growled. “He hit me on the head !” “Oook. ” “He says you came up through the floor,” said Carrot. “That’s no reason to hit me on the head. ” “Some of the things that come up through the floor at Unseen University don’t even have a head,” said Carrot. “Oook!” “Or they have hundreds. Why were you digging down there?” “We weren’t digging down. We were digging up…” Carrot sat and listened. He interrupted only twice. “ Shot at you?” “Five time,” said Detritus, happily. “Have to report damage to breastplate but not to backplate on account of fortunately my body got in way, saving valuable city property worth three dollars. ” Carrot listened some more. “Sewers?” he said, eventually. “It’s like the whole city, underground. We saw crowns and stuff carved on the walls. ” Carrot’s eyes sparkled. “That means they must date right back to the days when we had kings! And then when we kept on rebuilding the city we forgot they were down there…” “Um. That’s not all that’s down there,” said Cuddy. “We…found something. ” “Oh?” “Something bad. ” “You won’t like it at all,” said Detritus. “Bad, bad, bad. Even worse. ” “We thought it would be best to leave it there,” said Cuddy, “on account of it being Evidence. But you ought to see it. ” “It’s going to upset everything,” said the troll, warming to the part. “What was it?” “If we tell you, you say, stupid ethnic people, you pulling my leg off,” said Detritus. “So you’d better come and see,” said Cuddy. Sergeant Colon looked at the rest of the Watch. “All of us?” he said, nervously. “Er. Shouldn’t a couple of senior officers stay up here? In case anything happens?” “Do you mean in case anything happens up here?” said Angua, tartly. “Or in case anything happens down there?” “I’ll go with Lance-Constable Cuddy and Lance-Constable Detritus,” said Carrot. “I don’t think anyone else ought to come. ” “But it could be dangerous!” said Angua. “If I find who’s been shooting at Watchmen,” said Carrot, “it will be. ” Samuel Vimes reached up with a big toe and turned on the hot tap. There was a respectful knock at the door, and Willikins old-retainer’d in. “Would sir be wanting anything?” Vimes thought about it. “Lady Ramkin said you wouldn’t be wanting any alcohol,” said Willikins, as if reading his thoughts. “Did she?” “Emphatically, sir. But I have here a very fine cigar. ” He winced as Vimes bit the end off and spat it over the side of the bath, but produced some matches and lit it for him. “Thank you, Willikins. What’s your first name?” “First name, sir?” “I mean, what do people call you when they’ve got to know you better?” “Willikins, sir. ” “Oh, Right, then. Well. You may go, Willikins. ” “Yes, sir. ” Vimes lay back in the warm water. The inner voice was still in there somewhere, but he tried not to pay any attention. About now, it was saying, you’d be proceeding along the Street of Small Gods, just by the bit of old city wall where you could stop and smoke a rollup out of the wind… To drown it out, he started to sing at the top of his voice. The cavernous sewers under the city echoed with human and near-human voices for the first time in millennia. “Hi-ho—” “—hi-ho—” “Oook oook oook oook ook—” “You all stupid !” “I can’t help it. It’s my nearly-dwarfish blood. We just like singing underground. It comes naturally to us. ” “All right, but why him singing? Him ape. ” “He’s a people person. ” They’d brought torches. Shadows jumped among the pillars in the big cavern, and fled along the tunnels. Whatever the possible lurking dangers, Carrot was beside himself with the joy of discovery. “It’s amazing! The Via Cloaca is mentioned in some old book I read, but everyone thought it was a lost street! Superb workmanship. Lucky for you the river was so low. It looks as though these are normally full of water. ” “That’s what I said,” said Cuddy. “Full of water, I said. ” He glanced cautiously at the dancing shadows, which made weird and worrying shapes on the far wall—strange biped animals, eldritch underground things… Carrot sighed. “Stop making shadow pictures, Detritus. ” “Oook. ” “What him say?” “He said ‘Do Deformed Rabbit, it’s my favorite’,” Carrot translated. Rats rustled in the darkness. Cuddy peered around. He kept imagining figures, back there, sighting along some kind of pipe… There were a disturbing few moments when he lost sight of the tracks on the wet stone, but he picked them up again near a mold-hung wall. And then, there was the particular pipe. He’d made a scratch on the stones. “It’s not far along,” he said, handing Carrot the torch. Carrot disappeared. They heard his footsteps in the mud, and then a whistle of surprise, and then silence for a while. Carrot reappeared. “My word,” he said. “You two know who this is?” “It looks like—” Cuddy began. “It looks like trouble,” said Carrot. “You see why we didn’t bring it back up?” said Cuddy. “Carrying a human’s corpse through the streets right now would not be a good idea, I thought. Especially this one. |
” “I thought some of that, too,” Detritus volunteered. “Right enough,” said Carrot. “Well done, men. I think we’d better…leave it for now, and come back with a sack later on. And…don’t tell anyone else. ” “Except the sergeant and everyone,” said Cuddy. “No…not even them. It’d make everyone very…jumpy. ” “Just as you say, Corporal Carrot. ” “We’re dealing with a sick mind here, men. ” Underground light dawned on Cuddy. “Ah,” he said. “You suspect Corporal Nobbs, sir?” “This is worse. Come on, let’s get back up. ” He looked back toward the big pillar-barred cavern. “Any idea where we are, Cuddy?” “Could be under the Palace, sir. ” “That’s what I reckoned. Of course, the tunnels go everywhere…” Carrot’s worried train of thought faltered away on some distant track. There was water in the sewers, even in this drought. Springs flowed into them, or water filtered down from far above. Everywhere was the drip and splash of water. And cool, cool air. It would almost be pleasant were it not for the sad, hunched corpse of someone that looked for all the world like Beano the clown. Vimes dried himself off. Willikins had also laid out a dressing gown with brocade on the sleeves. He put it on, and wandered into his dressing room. That was another new thing. The rich even had rooms for dressing in, and clothes to wear while you went into the dressing rooms to get dressed. Fresh clothes had been laid out for him. Tonight there was something dashing in red and yellow… … about now he’d be patrolling Treacle Mine Road … …and a hat. It had a feather in it. Vimes dressed himself, and even wore the hat. And he seemed quite normal and composed, until you realized that he avoided meeting his own gaze in the mirror. The Watch sat around the big table in the guardroom and in deep gloom. They were Off Duty. They’d never really been Off Duty before. “What say we have a game of cards?” said Nobby, brightly. He produced a greasy pack from somewhere in the noisome recesses of his uniform. “You won everyone’s wages off them yesterday,” said Sergeant Colon. “Now’s the chance to win ’em back, then. ” “Yeah, but there were five kings in your hand, Nobby. ” Nobby shuffled the cards. “’S’funny, that,” he said, “there’s kings everywhere, when you look. ” “There certainly is if you look up your sleeve. ” “No, I mean, there’s Kings Way in Ankh, and kings in cards, and we get the King’s Shilling when we join up,” said Nobby. “We got kings all over the place except on that gold throne in the Palace. I’ll tell you…there wouldn’t be all this trouble around the place if we had a king. ” Carrot was staring at the ceiling, his eyebrows locked in concentration. Detritus was counting on his fingers. “Oh, yes ,” said Sergeant Colon. “Beer’d be a penny a pint, the trees’d bloom again. Oh, yeah. Every time someone stubs a toe in this town, turns out it wouldn’t have happened if there’d been a king. Vimes’d go spare to hear you talk like that. ” “People’d listen to a king, though,” said Nobby. “Vimes’d say that’s the trouble,” said Colon. “It’s like that thing of his about using magic. That stuff makes him angry. ” “How you get king inna first place?” said Detritus. “Someone sawed up a stone,” said Colon. “Hah! Anti-siliconism!” “Nah, someone pulled a sword out of a stone,” said Nobby. “How’d he know it was in there, then?” Colon demanded. “It…it was sticking out, wasn’t it?” “Where anyone could’ve grabbed it? In this town?” “Only the rightful king could do it, see,” said Nobby. “Oh, right ,” said Colon. “I understand. Oh, yes. So what you’re saying is , someone’d decided who the rightful king was before he pulled it out? Sounds like a fix to me. Prob’ly someone had a fake hollow stone and some dwarf inside hanging on the other end with a pair of pliers until the right guy came along—” A fly bounced on the window pane for a while, then zigzagged across the room and settled on a beam, where Cuddy’s idly thrown axe cut it in half. “You got no soul, Fred,” said Nobby. “I wouldn’t’ve minded being a knight in shining armor. That’s what a king does if you’re useful. He makes you a knight. ” “A night watchman in crappy armor is about your métier,” said Colon, who looked around proudly to see if anyone had noticed the slanty thing over the e. “Nah, catch me being respectful to some bloke because he just pulled a sword out of a stone. That don’t make you a king. Mind you,” he said, “someone who could shove a sword into a stone…a man like that , now, he’s a king. ” “A man like that’d be an ace,” said Nobby. Angua yawned. Ding-ding a-ding-ding — “What the hell’s that?” said Colon. Carrot’s chair thumped forward. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a velvet bag, which he upended on to the table. Out slid a golden disc about three inches across. When he pressed a catch on one side it opened like a clamshell. The stopped Watch peered at it. “It’s a clock?” said Angua. “A watch,” said Carrot. “It’s very big. ” “That’s because of the clockwork. There has to be room for all the little wheels. The small watches just have those little time demons in and they don’t last and anyway they keep rotten time—” Ding-ding a-ding-ding, ding dingle ding ding … “And it plays a tune!” said Angua. “Every hour,” said Carrot. “It’s part of the clockwork. ” Ding. Ding. Ding. “And it chimes the hours afterwards,” said Carrot. “It’s slow, then,” said Sergeant Colon. “All the others just struck, you couldn’t miss ’em. ” “My cousin Jorgen makes ones like these,” said Cuddy. “They keep better time than demons or water clocks or candles. Or those big pendulum things. ” “There’s a spring and wheels,” said Carrot. “The important bit,” said Cuddy, taking an eyeglass from somewhere in his beard and examining the watch carefully, “is a little rocking thingummy that stops the wheels from going too fast. ” “How does it know if they’re going too fast?” said Angua. “It’s kind of built-in,” said Cuddy. “Don’t understand it much myself. What’s this inscription here…” He read it aloud. “‘A Watch From, Your Old Freinds in the Watch’?” “It’s a play on words,” said Carrot. There was a long, embarrassed silence. “Um. I chipped in a few dollars each from you new recruits,” he added, blushing. “I mean…you can pay me back when you like. If you want to. I mean…you’d be bound to be friends. Once you got to know him. ” The rest of the Watch exchanged glances. He could lead armies, Angua thought. He really could. Some people have inspired whole countries to great deeds because of the power of their vision. And so could he. Not because he dreams about marching hordes, or world domination, or an empire of a thousand years. Just because he thinks that everyone’s really decent underneath and would get along just fine if only they made the effort, and he believes that so strongly it burns like a flame which is bigger than he is. He’s got a dream and we’re all part of it, so that it shapes the world around him. And the weird thing is that no one wants to disappoint him. It’d be like kicking the biggest puppy in the universe. It’s a kind of magic. “The gold’s rubbing off,” said Cuddy. “But it’s a good watch,” he added quickly. “I was hoping we could give it to him tonight,” said Carrot. “And all go out for a…drink…” “Not a good idea,” said Angua. “Leave it until tomorrow,” said Colon. “We’ll form a guard of honor at the wedding. That’s traditional. Everyone holds their swords up in a kind of arch. ” “We’ve only got one sword between us,” said Carrot glumly. They all stared at the floor. “It’s not fair,” said Angua. “I don’t care who stole whatever they stole from the Assassins, but he was right to try to find out who killed Mr. Hammerhock. And no one cares about Lettice Knibbs. ” “I like to find out who shoot me,” said Detritus. “Beats me why anyone’d be daft enough to steal from the Assassins,” said Carrot. “That’s what Captain Vimes said. He said you’d have to be a fool to think of breaking into that place. ” They stared at the floor again. “Like a clown or a jester?” said Detritus. |
“Detritus, he didn’t mean a cap-and-bells Fool,” said Carrot, in a kindly voice. “He just meant you’d have to be some sort of idi—” He stopped. He stared at the ceiling. “Oh, my,” he said. “It’s as simple as that ?” “Simple as what?” said Angua. Someone hammered at the door. It wasn’t a polite knock. It was the thumping of someone who was either going to have the door opened for them or break it down. A guard stumbled into the room. Half his armor was off and he had a black eye, but he was just recognizable as Skully Muldoon of the Day Watch. Colon helped him up. “Been in a fight, Skully?” Skully looked up at Detritus, and whimpered. “The buggers attacked the Watch House!” “Who?” “Them!” Carrot patted him on the shoulder. “This isn’t a troll,” he said. “This is Lance-Constable Detritus— don’t salute. Trolls attacked the Day Watch?” “They’re chucking cobbles!” “You can’t trust ’em,” said Detritus. “Who?” said Skully. “Trolls. Nasty pieces of work in my opinion,” said Detritus, with all the conviction of a troll with a badge. “They need keeping a eye on. ” “What’s happened to Quirke?” said Carrot. “I don’t know! You lot have got to do something !” “We’re stood down,” said Colon. “Official. ” “Don’t give me that!” “Ah,” said Carrot, brightly. He pulled a stub of pencil out of his pocket and made a little tick in his black book. “You still got that little house in Easy Street, Sergeant Muldoon?” “What? What? Yes! What about it?” “Is the rent worth more than a farthing a month?” Muldoon stared at him with his one operating eye. “Are you simple or what?” Carrot gave him a big smile. “That’s right, Sergeant Muldoon. Is it, though? Worth a farthing, would you say?” “There’s dwarfs running around the streets looking for a fight and you want to know about property prices?” “A farthing?” “Don’t be daft! It’s worth at least five dollars a month!” “Ah,” said Carrot, ticking the book again. “That’d be inflation, of course. And I expect you’ve got a cooking pot…do you own at least two-and-one-third acres and more than half a cow?” “All right, all right,” said Muldoon. “It’s some kind of joke, right?” “I think probably the property qualification can be waived,” said Carrot. “It says here that it can be waived for a citizen in good standing. Finally, has there been, in your opinion, an irreparable breakdown of law and order in the city?” “They turned over Throat Dibbler’s barrow and made him eat two of his sausages-inna-bun!” “Oh, I say!” said Colon. “Without mustard!” “I think we can call that a Yes,” said Carrot. He ticked the page again, and closed the book with a definite snap. “We’d better be going,” he said. “We were told—” Colon began. “According to the Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork,” said Carrot, “ any residents of the city, in times of the irreparable breakdown of law and order, shall, at the request of an officer of the city who is a citizen in good standing—there’s a lot of stuff here about property and stuff, and then it goes on—form themselves into a militia for city defense. ” “What does that mean?” said Angua. “Militia…” mused Sergeant Colon. “Hang on, you can’t do that!” said Muldoon. “That’s nonsense!” “It’s the law. Never been repealed,” said Carrot. “We’ve never had a militia! Never needed one!” “Until now, I think. ” “Now look here,” said Muldoon, “you come back with me to the Palace. You’re men of the Watch—” “And we’re going to defend the city,” said Carrot. People were streaming past the Watch House. Carrot stopped a couple by the simple expedient of sticking out his hand. “Mr. Poppley, isn’t it?” he said. “How’s the grocery business? Hello, Mrs. Poppley. ” “Ain’t you heard?” said the flustered man. “The trolls have set fire to the Palace!” He followed Carrot’s gaze up Broad Way, to where the Palace stood squat and dark in the early evening light. Ungovernable flames failed to billow from every window. “My word,” said Carrot. “And there’s dwarfs breaking windows and everything!” said the grocer. “A dog’s not safe!” “You can’t trust ’em,” said Cuddy. The grocer stared at him. “Are you a dwarf?” he said. “Amazing! How do people do it,” said Cuddy. “Well, I’m off! I’m not stopping to see Mrs. Poppley ravished by the little devils! You know what they say about dwarfs!” The Watch watched the couple head off into the crowd again. “Well, I don’t,” said Cuddy, to no one in particular. “What is it they say about dwarfs?” Carrot fielded a man pushing a barrow. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on, sir?” he said. “And do you know what it is they say about dwarfs?” said a voice behind him. “That’s not a sir, that’s Throat,” said Colon. “And will you look at the color of him!” “Should he be all shiny like that?” said Detritus. “Feeling fine! Feeling fine!” said Dibbler. “Hah! So much for people importuning the standard of my merchandise!” “What’s happening, Throat?” said Colon. “They say—” Dibbler began, green in the face. “Who says?” said Carrot. “ They say,” said Dibbler. “You know. They. Everyone. They say the trolls have killed someone up at Dolly Sisters and the dwarfs have smashed up Chalky the troll’s all-night pottery and they’ve broken down the Brass Bridge and—” Carrot looked up the road. “You just came over the Brass Bridge,” he said. “Yeah, well…that’s what they say,” said Dibbler. “Oh, I see. ” Carrot straightened up. “Did they happen to say…sort of, in passing…anything else about dwarfs?” said Cuddy. “I think we’re going to have to go and have a word with the Day Watch about the arrest of Coalface,” Carrot said. “We ain’t got no weapons,” said Colon. “I’m certain Coalface has nothing to do with the murder of Hammerhock,” said Carrot. “We are armed with the truth. What can harm us if we are armed with the truth?” “Well, a crossbow bolt can, e. g. , go right through your eye and out the back of your head,” said Sergeant Colon. “All right, sergeant,” said Carrot, “so where do we get some more weapons?” The bulk of the Armory loomed against the sunset. It was strange to find an armory in a city which relied on deceit, bribery and assimilation to defeat its enemies but, as Sergeant Colon said, once you’d won their weapons off ’em you needed somewhere to store the things. Carrot rapped on the door. After a while there were footsteps, and a small window slid back. A suspicious voice said: “Yes?” “Corporal Carrot, city militia. ” “Never heard of it. Bugger off. ” The hatch snapped back. Carrot heard Nobby snigger. He thumped on the door again. “Yes?” “I’m Corporal Carrot—” The hatch moved, but hit Carrot’s truncheon as he rammed it in the hole. “—and I’m here to collect some arms for my men. ” “Yeah? Where’s your authority?” “What? But I’m—” The truncheon was knocked away and the hatch thudded into place. “’Scuse me,” said Corporal Nobbs, pushing past. “Let me have a go. I’ve been here before, sort of thing. ” He kicked the door with his steel capped boots, known and feared wherever men were on the floor and in no position to fight back. Snap. “I told you to bug—” “Auditors,” said Nobby. There was a moment’s silence. “What?” “Here to take inventory. ” “Where’s your auth—” “Oh? Oh? He says where’s my authority?” Nobby leered at the guards. “Oh? Keeps me hanging around here while his cronies can nip out the back to bring the stuff back out of hock, eh?” “I nev—” “And, and then, yeah, we’ll get the old thousand swords trick, yeah? Fifty crates stacked up, turns out the bottom forty are full of rocks?” “I—” “What’s your name, mister?” “I—” “You open this door right now!” The hatch shut. There was a sound of bolts being pulled back by someone who was not at all convinced it was a good idea and would be asking searching questions in a minute. “Got a piece of paper on you, Fred? Quick!” “Yes, but—” said Sergeant Colon. “Any paper! Now !” Colon fumbled in his pocket and handed Nobby his grocery bill just as the door opened. Nobby swaggered in at high speed, forcing the man inside to walk backward. |
“Don’t run off!” he shouted, “I haven’t found anything wrong—” “I wasn’t r—” “—YET!” Carrot had time to get an impression of a cavernous place full of complicated shadows. Apart from the man, who was fatter than Colon, there were a couple of trolls who appeared to be operating a grindstone. Current events did not seem to have penetrated the thick walls. “All right, no one panic, just stop what you’re doing, stop what you’re doing, please. I’m Corporal Nobbs, Ankh-Morpork City Ordnance Inspection City Audit—” The piece of paper was waved in front of the man’s eyes at vision-blurring speed, and Nobby’s voice faltered a bit as he contemplated the end of the sentence, “—Bureau…Special…Audit…Inspection. How many people work here?” “Just me—” Nobby pointed at the trolls. “What about them?” The man spat on the floor. “Oh, I thought you said people. ” Carrot stuck out his hand automatically and it slammed against Detritus’ breastplate. “OK,” said Nobby, “let’s see what we’ve got here…” He walked fast along the racks, so that everyone else had to run to keep up. “What’s this?” “Er—” “Don’t know, eh?” “Sure…it’s…it’s…” “A triple-stringed 2,000 lb. carriage-mounted siege crossbow with the double-action windlass?” “Right. ” “Isn’t this a Klatchian reinforced crossbow with the goat-leg cocking mechanism and the underhaft bayonet?” “Er…yeah?” Nobby gave it a cursory examination, and then tossed it aside. The rest of the Night Watch looked on in astonishment. Nobby had never been known to wield any weapon beyond a knife. “Have you got one of those Hershebian twelve-shot bows with the gravity feed?” he snapped. “Eh? What you see is what we got, mister. ” Nobby pulled a hunting crossbow from its rack. His skinny arms twanged as he hauled on the cocking lever. “Sold the bolts for this thing?” “They’re right there!” Nobby selected one from the shelf and dropped it into its slot. Then he sighted along the shaft. He turned. “I like this inventory,” said Nobby. “We’ll take it all. ” The man looked down the sights at Nobby’s eye and, to Angua’s horrified admiration, didn’t faint. “That little bow don’t scare me ,” he said. “This little bow scare you?” said Nobby. “No. Right. This is a little bow. A little bow like this wouldn’t scare a man like you, because it’s such a little bow. It’d need a bigger bow than this to scare a man like you. ” Angua would have given a month’s pay to see the quartermaster’s face from the front. She’d watched as Detritus had lifted down the siege bow, cocked it with one hand and a barely audible grunt, and stepped forward. Now she could imagine the eyeballs swivelling as the coldness of the metal penetrated the back of the armorer’s fleshy red neck. “Now, the one behind you, that’s a big bow,” said Nobby. It wasn’t as if the six-foot iron arrow was sharp. It was supposed to smash through doorways, not do surgery. “Can I pull the trigger yet?” Detritus rumbled, into the man’s ear. “You wouldn’t dare fire that thing in here! That’s a siege weapon! It’d go right through the wall!” “Eventually,” said Nobby. “What this bit for?” said Detritus. “Now, look—” “I hope you keep that thing maintained,” said Nobby. “Them things were a bugger for metal fatigue. Especially on the safety catch. ” “What are a safety catch?” said Detritus. Everything went quiet. Carrot found his voice, a long way off. “Corporal Nobbs?” “Yessir?” “I’ll take over from this point, if you don’t mind. ” He gently pushed the siege bow away, but Detritus hadn’t liked the crack about people and it kept swinging back again. “Now,” said Carrot, “I don’t like this element of coercion. We’re not here to bully this poor man. He’s a city employee, just like us. It’s very wrong of you to put him in fear. Why not just ask?” “Sorry, sir,” said Nobby. Carrot patted the armorer on the shoulder. “May we take some weapons?” he said. “What?” “Some weapons? For official purposes?” The armorer looked unable to cope with this. “You mean I got a choice?” he said. “Why, certainly. We practice policing by consent in Ankh-Morpork. If you feel unable to agree to our request, you only have to say the word. ” There was a faint bong as the tip of the iron arrow once again bounced on the back of the armorer’s skull. He sought in vain for something to say, because the only word he could think of right now was “Fire!” “Uh,” he said. “Uh. Yeah. Right. Sure. Take what you want. ” “Fine, fine. And Sergeant Colon will give you a receipt, adding of course that you release the weapons of your own free will. ” “My own free will?” “You have absolute choice in the matter, of course. ” The man’s face screwed up in the effort of desperate cogitation. “I reckon…” “Yes?” “I reckon it’s OK for you to take ’em. Take ’em right away. ” “Good man. Do you have a trolley?” “And do you happen to know what it is they say about dwarfs?” said Cuddy. It crept over Angua once again that Carrot had no irony in his soul. He meant every word. If the man had really held out, Carrot would probably have given in. Of course, there was a bit of a gap between probably and certainly. Nobby was down the end of the row, occasionally squeaking with delight as he found an interesting war hammer or an especially evil-looking glaive. He was trying to hold everything, all at once. Then he dropped the lot and ran forward. “Oh, wow! A Klatchian fire engine! This is more my meteor!” They heard him rummaging around in the gloom. He emerged pushing a sort of bin on small squeaky wheels. It had various handles and fat leathery bags, and a nozzle at the front. It looked like a very large kettle. “The leather’s been kept greased, too!” “What is it?” said Carrot. “ And there’s oil in the reservoir!” Nobby pumped a handle energetically. “Last I heard, this thing had been banned in eight countries and three religions said they’d excommunicate any soldiers found using it! * Anyone got a light?” “Here,” said Carrot, “but what’s—” “Watch!” Nobby lit a match, applied it to the tube at the front of the device, and pulled a lever. They put out the flames eventually. “Needs a bit of adjustment,” said Nobby, through his mask of soot. “No,” said Carrot. For the rest of his life he’d remember the jet of fire scorching his face en route to the opposite wall. “But it’s—” “No. It’s too dangerous. ” “It’s meant to be—” “I mean it could hurt people. ” “Ah,” said Nobby, “right. You should have said. We’re after weapons that don’t hurt people, right?” “Corporal Nobbs?” said Sergeant Colon, who’d been even closer to the flame than Carrot. “Yes, sarge?” “You heard Corporal Carrot. No heathen weapons. Anyway, how come you know so much about all this stuff?” “Milit’ry service. ” “Really, Nobby?” said Carrot. “Had a special job, sir. Very responsible. ” “And what was that?” “Quartermaster, sir,” said Nobby, saluting smartly. “ You were a quartermaster?” said Carrot. “In whose army?” “Duke of Pseudopolis, sir. ” “But Pseudopolis always lost its wars!” “Ah…well…” “Who did you sell the weapons to?” “That’s a slander, that is! They just used to spend a lot of time away for polishing and sharpening. ” “Nobby, this is Carrot talking to you. How much time, approximately?” “Approximately? Oh. About a hundred percent, if we’re talking approximately , sir. ” “Nobby?” “Sir?” “You don’t have to call me sir. ” “Yessir. ” In the end, Cuddy remained faithful to his axe, but added a couple more as an afterthought; Sergeant Colon chose a pike because the thing about a pike, the important thing, was that everything happened at the other end of it, i. e. , a long way off; Lance-Constable Angua selected, without much enthusiasm, a short sword, and Corporal Nobbs— —Corporal Nobbs was a kind of mechanical porcupine of blades, bows, points and knobbly things on the end of chains. “You sure, Nobby?” said Carrot. “There’s nothing you want to leave?” “It’s so hard to choose, sir. ” Detritus was hanging on to his huge bow. “That all you’re taking, Detritus?” “No sir! Taking Flint and Morraine, sir!” The two trolls who had been working in the armory had formed up behind Detritus. |
“Swore ’em in, sir,” said Detritus. “Used troll oath. ” Flint saluted amateurishly. “He said he’d kick our goohuloog heads in if we didn’t join up and do what we’re told, sir,” he said. “Very old troll oath,” said Detritus. “Very famous, very traditional. ” “One of ’em could carry the Klatchian fire engine—” Nobby began hopefully. “ No , Nobby. Well…welcome to the Watch, men. ” “Corporal Carrot?” “Yes, Cuddy?” “It’s not fair. They’re trolls. ” “We need every man we can get, Cuddy. ” Carrot stood back. “Now, we don’t want people to think we’re looking for trouble,” he said. “Oh, dressed like this, sir, we won’t have to look for trouble,” said Sergeant Colon despondently. “Question, sir ?” said Angua. “Yes, Lance-Constable Angua?” “Who’s the enemy?” “Looking like this, we won’t have any problem finding enemies,” said Sergeant Colon. “We’re not looking for enemies, we’re looking for information,” said Carrot. “The best weapon we can use right now is the truth, and to start with, we’re going to the Fools’ Guild to find out why Brother Beano stole the gonne. ” “Did he steal the gonne?” “I think he may have, yes. ” “But he died before the gonne was stolen!” said Colon. “Yes,” said Carrot. “I know that. ” “Now that,” said Colon, “is what I calls an alibi. ” The squad formed up and, after a brief discussion among the trolls as to which was their left foot and which was their right, marched away. Nobby kept looking back longingly to the fire machine. Sometimes it’s better to light a flamethrower than curse the darkness. Ten minutes later they’d pushed through the crowds and were outside the Guilds. “See?” Carrot said. “They back on to each other,” said Nobby. “So what? There’s still a wall between them. ” “I’m not so sure,” said Carrot. “We’ll jolly well find out. ” “Have we got time?” said Angua. “I thought we were going to see the Day Watch. ” “There’s something I must find out first,” said Carrot. “The Fools haven’t told me the truth. ” “Hang on a minute, hang on a minute,” said Sergeant Colon. “This is going altogether just a bit too far by half. Look, I don’t want us to kill anyone, right? I happen to be sergeant around here, if anyone’s interested. Understand, Carrot? Nobby? No shooting or swordplay. It’s bad enough barging into Guild property, but we’ll get into really serious trouble if we shoot anyone. Lord Vetinari won’t stop at sarcasm. He might use”—Colon swallowed—” irony. So that’s an order. What do you want to do, anyway?” “I just want people to tell me things,” said Carrot. “Well, if they don’t, you’re not to hurt them,” said Colon. “Look, you can ask questions, fair enough. But if Dr. Whiteface starts getting difficult, we’re to come away, right? Clowns give me the creeps. And he’s worst of all. If he won’t answer, we’re to leave peacefully and, oh, I don’t know, think of something else. That’s an order, like I said. Are you clear about this? It’s an order. ” “If he won’t answer my questions,” said Carrot, “I’m to leave peacefully. Right. ” “So long as that’s understood. ” Carrot knocked on the Fools’ door, reached up, caught the custard pie as it emerged from the slot and rammed it back hard. Then he kicked the door so that it swung inward a few inches. Someone behind it said “Ow. ” The door opened a bit further to reveal a small clown covered in whitewash and custard. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said. “I just wanted to get into the spirit of the thing,” said Carrot. “I’m Corporal Carrot and this is the citizens’ militia, and we all enjoy a good laugh. ” “’Scuse me—” “Except for Lance-Constable Cuddy. And Lance-Constable Detritus enjoys a good laugh too, although some minutes after everyone else. And we’re here to see Dr. Whiteface. ” The clown’s hair rose. Water squirted from his buttonhole. “Have—have you got an appointment?” he said. “I don’t know,” said Carrot. “Have we got an appointment?” “I’ve got an iron ball with spikes on,” Nobby volunteered. “That’s a morningstar, Nobby. ” “Is it?” “Yes,” said Carrot. “An appointment is an engagement to see someone, while a morningstar is a large lump of metal used for viciously crushing skulls. It is important not to confuse the two, isn’t it, Mr. —?” He raised his eyebrows. “Boffo, sir. But—” “So if you could perhaps run along and tell Dr. Whiteface we’re here with an iron ball with spi—What am I saying? I mean, without an appointment to see him? Please? Thank you. ” The clown scuttled off. “There,” said Carrot. “Was that all right, sergeant?” “He’s probably going to be satirical , even,” said Colon, morosely. They waited. After a while Lance-Constable Cuddy took a screwdriver from his pocket and inspected the custard-pie-throwing machine bolted to the door. The rest of them shuffled their feet, except for Nobby, who kept dropping things on his. Boffo reappeared, flanked by two muscular jesters who didn’t look as though they had a sense of humor at all. “Dr. Whiteface says there’s no such thing as a city militia,” he ventured. “But. Um. Dr. Whiteface says, if it’s really important he’ll see some of you. But not the trolls or the dwarf. We heard there’s gangs of trolls and dwarfs terrorizing the city. ” “Dat’s what they say,” said Detritus, nodding. “Incidentally, do you know what it is they—” Cuddy began, but Nobby nudged him into silence. “You and me, sergeant?” said Carrot. “And you, Lance-Constable Angua. ” “Oh dear,” said Sergeant Colon. But they followed Carrot into the somber buildings and along the gloomy corridors to Dr. Whiteface’s office. The chief of all the clowns, fools and jesters was standing in the middle of the floor, while a jester tried to sew extra sequins on his coat. “Well?” “’Evening, doctor,” said Carrot. “I should like to make it clear that Lord Vetinari will be hearing about this directly,” said Dr. Whiteface. “Oh, yes. I shall tell him,” said Carrot. “I can’t imagine why you’re bothering me when there’s rioting in the streets. ” “Ah, well…we shall deal with that later. But Captain Vimes always told me, sir, that there’s big crimes and little crimes. Sometimes the little crimes look big and the big crimes you can hardly see, but the crucial thing is to decide which is which. ” They stared at one another. “Well?” the clown demanded. “I should like you to tell me,” said Carrot, “about events in this Guild House the night before last. ” Dr. Whiteface stared at him in silence. Then he said, “If I don’t?” “Then,” said Carrot, “I am afraid I shall, with extreme reluctance, be forced to carry out the order I was given just before entering. ” He glanced at Colon. “That’s right, isn’t it, sergeant?” “What? Eh? Well, yes—” “I would much prefer not to do so, but I have no choice,” said Carrot. Dr. Whiteface glared at the two of them. “But this is Guild property! You have no right to…to…” “I don’t know about that, I’m only a corporal,” said Carrot. “But I’ve never disobeyed a direct order yet, and I am sorry to have to tell you that I will carry out this one fully and to the letter. ” “Now, see here—” Carrot moved a little closer. “If it’s any comfort, I’ll probably be ashamed about it,” he said. The clown stared into his honest eyes and saw, as did everyone, only simple truth. “Listen! If I shout,” said Dr. Whiteface, going red under his makeup, “I can have a dozen men in here. ” “Believe me,” said Carrot, “that will only make it easier for me to obey. ” Dr. Whiteface prided himself on his ability to judge character. In Carrot’s resolute expression there was nothing but absolute, meticulous honesty. He fiddled with a quill pen and then threw it down in a sudden movement. “Confound it!” he shouted. “How did you find out, eh? Who told you?” “I really couldn’t say,” said Carrot. “But it makes sense anyway. There’s only one entrance to each Guild, but the Guild Houses are back to back. Someone just had to cut through the wall. ” “I assure you we didn’t know about it,” said the clown. Sergeant Colon was lost in admiration. He’d seen people bluff on a bad hand, but he’d never seen anyone bluff with no cards. “We thought it was just a prank,” said the clown. |
“We thought young Beano had just done it with humorous intent, and then he turned up dead and we didn’t—” “You’d better show me the hole,” said Carrot. The rest of the Watch stood to variations on the theme of At Ease in the courtyard. “Corporal Nobbs?” “Yes, Lance-Constable Cuddy?” “What is it everyone says about dwarfs?” “Oh, come on, you’re pulling my leg, right? Everyone knows that who knows anything about dwarfs,” said Nobby. Cuddy coughed. “Dwarfs don’t,” he said. “What do you mean, dwarfs don’t?” “No one’s told us what everyone knows about dwarfs,” said Cuddy. “Well…I expect they thought you knew,” said Nobby, weakly. “Not me. ” “Oh, all right ,” said Nobby. He glanced at the trolls, then leaned across to Cuddy and whispered in the approximate region of his ear. Cuddy nodded. “Oh, is that all?” “Yes. Er…is it true?” “What? Oh, yes. Of course. It’s nat’ral for a dwarf. Some have got more than others, of course. ” “That’s the case all round,” said Nobby. “I myself, for example, have saved more than seventy-eight dollars. ” “ No ! I mean, no. I mean, I don’t mean well-endowed with money. I mean…” Nobby whispered again. Cuddy’s expression didn’t change. Nobby waggled his eyebrows. “True, is it?” “How should I know? I don’t know how much money humans generally have. ” Nobby subsided. “There’s one thing that’s true at least,” he said. “You dwarfs really love gold, don’t you?” “Of course we don’t. Don’t be silly. ” “Well—” “We just say that to get it into bed. ” It was in a clown’s bedroom. Colon had occasionally wondered what clowns did in private, and it was all here—the overlarge shoe tree, the very wide trouser press, the mirror with all the candles round it, some industrial-sized sticks of make-up…and a bed which looked like nothing more complicated than a blanket on the floor, because that’s what it was. Clowns and fools weren’t encouraged to live the soft life. Humor was a serious business. There was also a hole in the wall, just big enough to admit a man. A little pile of crumbling bricks was heaped next to it. There was darkness on the other side. On the other side, people killed other people for money. Carrot stuck his head and shoulders through the hole, but Colon tried to pull him back. “Hang on, lad, you don’t know what horrors lie beyond these walls—” “I’m just having a look to find out. ” “It could be a torture chamber or a dungeon or a hideous pit or anything!” “It’s just a student’s bedroom, sergeant. ” “You see?” Carrot stepped through. They could hear him moving around in the gloom. It was Assassin’s gloom, somehow richer and less gloomy than clown’s gloom. He poked his head through again. “No one’s been in here for a while, though,” he said. “There’s dust all over the floor but there’s footprints in it. And the door’s locked and bolted. On this side. ” The rest of his body followed Carrot. “I just want to make sure I fully understand this,” he said to Dr. Whiteface. “Beano made a hole into the Assassins’ Guild, yes? And then he went and exploded that dragon? And then he came back through this hole? So how did he get killed?” “By the Assassins, surely,” said Dr. Whiteface. “They’d be within their rights. Trespass on Guild property is a very serious offense, after all. ” “Did anyone see Beano after the explosion?” said Carrot. “Oh yes. Boffo was on gate duty and he distinctly remembers him going out. ” “He knows it was him?” Dr. Whiteface looked blank. “Of course. ” “How?” “How? He recognized him, of course. That’s how you know who people are. You look at them and you say…that’s him. That’s called re-cog-nit-ion,” said the clown, with pointed deliberation. “It was Beano. Boffo said he looked very worried. ” “Ah. Fine. No more questions, doctor. Did Beano have any friends among the Assassins?” “Well…possibly, possibly. We don’t discourage visitors. ” Carrot stared at the clown’s face. Then he smiled. “Of course. Well, that about wraps it all up, I think. ” “If only he’d stuck to something, you know, original ,” said Dr. Whiteface. “Like a bucket of whitewash over the door, or a custard pie?” said Sergeant Colon. “That’s right!” “Well, we might as well be going,” said Carrot. “I imagine you don’t want to lay a complaint about the Assassins?” Dr. Whiteface tried to look panicky, but this did not work very well under a mouth painted into a wide grin. “What? No! I mean—if an Assassin broke into our Guild, I mean, not on proper business, and stole something, well, we’d definitely consider we were within our rights to, well—” “Pour jelly into his shirt?” said Angua. “Hit him around the head with a bladder on a stick?” said Colon. “Possibly. ” “Each Guild to their own, of course,” said Carrot. “I suggest we might as well be going, sergeant. Nothing more for us to do here. Sorry to have troubled you, Dr. Whiteface. I can see this must have been a great strain on you. ” The clown was limp with relief. “Don’t mention it. Don’t mention it. Happy to help. I know you have your job to do. ” He ushered them down the stairs and into the courtyard, bubbling with small talk now. The rest of the Watch clanked to attention. “Actually…” said Carrot, just as he was being ushered out of the gate, “there is one thing you could do. ” “Of course, of course. ” “Um, I know it’s a bit cheeky,” said Carrot, “but I’ve always been very interested in Guild customs…so…do you think someone could show me your museum?” “Sorry? What museum?” “The clown museum?” “Oh, you mean the Hall of Faces. That’s not a museum. Of course. Nothing secret about it. Boffo, make a note. We’d be happy to show you around any time, corporal. ” “Thank you very much, Dr. Whiteface. ” “Any time. ” “I’m just going off duty,” said Carrot. “Right now would be nice. Since I happen to be here. ” “You can’t go off duty when—ow!” said Colon. “Sorry, sergeant?” “You kicked me!” “I accidentally trod on your sandal, sergeant. I’m sorry. ” Colon tried to see a message in Carrot’s face. He’d got used to simple Carrot. Complicated Carrot was as unnerving as being savaged by a duck. “We’ll, er, we’ll just be going, then, shall we?” he said. “No point in staying here now it’s all settled ,” said Carrot, mugging furiously. “May as well take the night off, really. ” He glanced at the rooftops. “Oh, well, now it’s all settled we’ll be off, right,” said Colon. “Right, Nobby?” “Oh, yeah, we’ll be off all right, because it’s all settled ,” said Nobby. “You hear that, Cuddy?” “What, that it’s all settled ?” said Cuddy. “Oh, yeah. We might as well be off. OK, Detritus?” Detritus was staring moodily at nothing with his knuckles resting on the ground. This was a normal stance for a troll while waiting for the next thought to arrive. The syllables of his name kicked a neuron into fitful activity. “What?” he said. “It’s all settled. ” “What is?” “You know—Mr. Hammerhock’s death and everything. ” “Is it?” “Yes!” “Oh. ” Detritus considered this for a while, nodded, and settled back into whatever state of mind he normally occupied. Another neuron gave a fizzle. “Right,” he said. Cuddy watched him for a moment. “That’s about it,” he said, sadly. “That’s all we’re getting. ” “I’ll be back shortly,” said Carrot. “Shall we be off…Joey, wasn’t it? Dr. Whiteface?” “I suppose there’s no harm,” said Dr. Whiteface. “Very well. Show Corporal Carrot anything he likes, Boffo. ” “Right, sir,” said the little clown. “It must be a jolly job, being a clown,” said Carrot. “Must it?” “Lots of japes and jokes, I mean. ” Boffo gave Carrot a lopsided look. “Well…” he said. “It has its moments…” “I bet it does. I bet it does. ” “Are you often on gate duty, Boffo?” said Carrot pleasantly, as they strolled through the Fools’ Guild. “Huh! Just about all the time,” said Boffo. “So when did that friend of his, you know, the Assassin…visit him?” “Oh, you know about him, then,” said Boffo. “Oh, yes,” said Carrot. “About ten days ago,” said Boffo. “It’s through here, past the pie range. ” “He’d forgotten Beano’s name, but he did know the room. He didn’t know the number but he went straight to it,” Carrot went on. “That’s right. I expect Dr. |
Whiteface told you,” said Boffo. “I’ve spoken to Dr. Whiteface,” said Carrot. Angua felt she was beginning to understand the way Carrot asked questions. He asked them by not asking them. He simply told people what he thought or suspected, and they found themselves filling in the details in an attempt to keep up. And he never, actually, told lies. Boffo pushed open a door and fussed around lighting a candle. “Here we are then,” he said. “I’m in charge of this, when I’m not on the bloody gate. ” “Ye gods,” said Angua, under her breath. “It’s horrible. ” “It’s very interesting,” said Carrot. “It’s historical,” said Boffo the clown. “All those little heads…” They stretched away in the candlelight, shelf on shelf of them, tiny little clown faces—as if a tribe of headhunters had suddenly developed a sophisticated sense of humor and a desire to make the world a better place. “Eggs,” said Carrot. “Ordinary hens’ eggs. What you do is, you get a hen’s egg, and you make a hole in either end and you blow the egg stuff out, and then a clown paints his make-up on the egg and that’s his official make-up and no other clown can use it. That’s very important. Some faces have been in the same family for generations, you know. Very valuable thing, a clown’s face. Isn’t that so, Boffo?” The clown was staring at him. “How do you know all that?” “I read it in a book. ” Angua picked up an ancient egg. There was a label attached to it, and on the label were a dozen names, all crossed out except the last one. The ink on the earlier ones had faded almost to nothing. She put it down and unconsciously wiped her hand on her tunic. “What happens if a clown wants to use another clown’s face?” she said. “Oh, we compare all the new eggs with the ones on the shelves,” said Boffo. “It’s not allowed. ” They walked between aisles of faces. Angua fancied she could hear the squelch of a million custard-filled trousers and the echoes of a thousand honking noses and a million grins of faces that weren’t smiling. About halfway along was a sort of alcove containing a desk and chair, a shelf piled with old ledgers, and a workbench covered with crusted pots of paint, scraps of colored horsehair, sequins and other odds and ends of the egg-painter’s specialized art. Carrot picked up a wisp of colored horsehair and twiddled it thoughtfully. “But supposing,” he said, “that a clown, I mean a clown with his own face…supposing he used another clown’s face?” “Pardon?” said Boffo. “Supposing you used another clown’s make-up?” said Angua. “Oh, that happens all the time,” said Boffo. “People’re always borrowing slap off each other—” “Slap?” said Angua. “Make-up,” Carrot translated. “No, I think what the lance-constable is asking, Boffo, is: could a clown make himself up to look like another clown?” Boffo’s brow wrinkled, like someone trying hard to understand an impossible question. “Pardon?” “Where’s Beano’s egg, Boffo?” “That’s here on the desk,” said Boffo. “You can have a look if you like. ” An egg was handed up. It had a blobby red nose and a red wig. Angua saw Carrot hold it up to the light and produce a couple of red strands from his pocket. “But,” she said, trying one more time to get Boffo to understand, “couldn’t you wake up one morning and put on make-up so that you looked like a different clown?” He looked at her. It was hard to tell his expression under the permanently downcast mouth, but as far as she could tell she might as well have suggested that he performed a specific sex act with a small chicken. “How could I do that?” he said. “Then I wouldn’t be me. ” “Someone else might do it, though?” Boffo’s buttonhole squirted. “I don’t have to listen to this sort of dirty talk, miss. ” “What you’re saying, then,” said Carrot, “is that no clown would ever make up his face in another clown’s, urn, design?” “You’re doing it again!” “Yes, but perhaps sometimes by accident a young clown might perhaps—” “Look, we’re decent people, all right?” “Sorry,” said Carrot. “I think I understand. Now…when we found poor Mr. Beano, he didn’t have his clown wig on, but something like that could easily have got knocked off in the river. But his nose, now…you told Sergeant Colon that someone had taken his nose. His real nose. Could you,” said Carrot, in the pleasant tones of someone talking to a simpleton, “point to your real nose, Boffo?” Boffo tapped the big red nose on his face. “But that’s—” Angua began. “—your real nose,” said Carrot. “Thank you. ” The clown wound down a little. “I think you’d better go,” he said. “I don’t like this sort of thing. It upsets me. ” “Sorry,” said Carrot again. “It’s just that…I think I’m having an idea. I wondered about it before…and I’m pretty certain now. I think I know about the person who did it. But I had to see the eggs to be sure. ” “You saying another clown killed him?” said Boffo belligerently. “’Cos if you are, I’m going straight to—” “Not exactly,” said Carrot. “But I can show you the killer’s face. ” He reached down and took something from the debris on the table. Then he turned to Boffo and opened his hand. He had his back to Angua, and she could not quite see what he was holding. But Boffo gave a strangled cry and ran away down the avenue of faces, his big shoes flip-flopping hugely on the stone flags. “Thank you,” said Carrot, at his retreating back. “You’ve been very helpful. ” He folded his hand again. “Come on,” he said. “We’d better be going. I don’t think we’re going to be popular here in a minute or two. ” “What was that you showed him?” Angua asked, as they proceeded with dignity yet speed toward the gate. “It was something you came here to find, wasn’t it? All that stuff about wanting to see the museum—” “I did want to see it. A good copper should always be open to new experiences,” said Carrot. They made it to the gate. No vengeful pies floated out of the darkness. Angua leaned against the wall outside. The air smelled sweeter here, which was an unusual thing to say about Ankh-Morpork air. But at least out here people could laugh without getting paid for it. “You didn’t show me what frightened him,” she said. “I showed him a murderer,” said Carrot. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think he’d take it like that. I suppose they’re all a bit wound up right now. And it’s like dwarfs and tools. Everyone thinks in their own ways. ” “You found the murderer’s face in there?” “Yes. ” Carrot opened his hand. It contained a bare egg. “He looks like this,” he said. “He didn’t have a face ?” “No, you’re thinking like a clown. I am very simple,” said Carrot, “but I think what happened was this. Someone in the Assassins wanted a way of getting in and out without being seen. He realized there’s only a thin wall between the two Guilds. He had a room. All he had to do was find out who lived on the other side. Later he killed Beano, and he took his wig and his nose. His real nose. That’s how clowns think. Make-up wouldn’t have been hard. You can get that anywhere. He walked into the Guild made up to look like Beano. He cut through the wall. Then he strolled down to the quad outside the museum, only this time he was dressed as an Assassin. He got the…the gonne and came back here. He went through the wall again, dressed up as Beano, and strolled away. And then someone killed him. ” “Boffo said Beano looked worried,” said Angua. “And I thought: that’s odd, because you’d have to see a clown right up close to know what his real expression was. But you might notice if the make-up wasn’t on quite right. Like, maybe, if it was put on by someone who wasn’t too used to it. But the important thing is that if another clown sees Beano’s face go out of the door, he’s seen the person leave. They can’t think about someone else wearing that face. It’s not how they think. A clown and his make-up are the same thing. Without his make-up a clown doesn’t exist. A clown wouldn’t wear another clown’s face in the same way a dwarf wouldn’t use another dwarf’s tools. ” “Sounds risky, though,” said Angua. “It was. It was very risky. |
” “Carrot? What are you going to do now?” “I think it might be a good idea to find out whose room was on the other side of the hole, don’t you? I think it might belong to Beano’s little friend. ” “In the Assassins’ Guild? Just us?” “Um. You’ve got a point. ” Carrot looked so crestfallen that Angua gave in. “What time is it?” she said. Carrot very carefully took Captain Vimes’ presentation watch out of its cloth case. “It’s—” — abing, abing, abong, bong…bing…bing … They waited patiently until it had finished. “A quarter to seven,” said Carrot. “Absolutely accurate, too. I put it right by the big sundial in the University. ” Angua glanced at the sky. “OK,” she said. “I can find out, I think. Leave it to me. ” “How?” “Er…I…well, I could get out of uniform, couldn’t I, and, oh, talk my way in as a kitchen maid’s sister or something…” Carrot looked doubtful. “You think that’ll work?” “Can you think of anything better?” “Not right now. ” “Well, then. I’ll…er…look…you go back to the rest of the men and…I’ll find somewhere to change into something more suitable. ” She didn’t have to look around to recognize where the snigger came from. Gaspode had a way of turning up silently like a small puff of methane in a crowded room, and with the latter’s distressing ability to fill up all available space. “Where can you get a change of clothes around here?” said Carrot. “A good Watchman is always ready to improvise,” said Angua. “That little dog is awfully wheezy,” said Carrot. “Why does he always follow us around?” “I really couldn’t say. ” “He’s got a present for you. ” Angua risked a glance. Gaspode was holding, but only just, a very large bone in his mouth. It was wider than he was long, and might have belonged to something that died in a tar pit. It was green and furry in places. “How nice,” she said, coldly. “Look, you go on. Let me see what I can do…” “If you’re sure…” Carrot began, in a reluctant tone of voice. “Yes. ” When he’d gone Angua headed for the nearest alley. There were only a few minutes to moonrise. Sergeant Colon saluted when Carrot came back, frowning in thought. “We can go home now, sir?” he suggested. “What? Why?” “Now it’s all sorted out?” “I just said that to waylay suspicion,” said Carrot. “Ah. Very clever,” said the sergeant quickly. “That’s what I thought. He’s saying that to waylay suspicion, I thought. ” “There’s still a murderer out there somewhere. Or something worse. ” Carrot ran his gaze over the ill-assorted soldiery. “But right now I think we’re going to have to sort out this business with the Day Watch,” he said. “Er. People say it’s practically a riot up there,” said Colon. “That’s why we’ve got to sort it out. ” Colon bit his lip. He was not, as such, a coward. Last year the city had been invaded by a dragon and he’d actually stood on a rooftop and fired arrows at it while it was bearing down on him with its mouth open, although admittedly he’d had to change his underwear afterwards. But that had been simple. A great big fire-breathing dragon was straightforward. There it was, right in front of you, about to broil you alive. That was all you had to worry about. Admittedly, it was a lot to worry about, but it was…simple. It wasn’t any kind of mystery. “We’re going to have to sort it out?” he said. “Yes. ” “Oh. Good. I like sorting things out. ” Foul Ole Ron was a Beggars’ Guild member in good standing. He was a Mutterer, and a good one. He would walk behind people muttering in his own private language until they gave him money not to. People thought he was mad, but this was not, technically, the case. It was just that he was in touch with reality on the cosmic level, and had a bit of trouble focusing on things smaller, like other people, walls and soap (although on very small things, such as coins, his eyesight was Grade A). Therefore he was not surprised when a handsome young woman streaked past him and removed all her clothes. This sort of thing happened all the time, although up until now only on the inner side of his head. Then he saw what happened next. He watched as the sleek golden shape streaked away. “I told ’em! I told ’em! I told ’em!” he said. “I’ll give ’em the wrong end of a ragman’s trumpet, so I shall. Bug’r’em. Millennium hand and shrimp! I told ’em!” Gaspode wagged what was technically a tail when Angua reemerged. “‘Change into fomefing more fuitable’,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the bone. “Good one. I brung you thif little token—” He dropped it on the cobbles. It didn’t look any better to Angua’s lupine eyes. “What for?” she said. “Stuffed with nourishin’ marrowbone jelly, that bone,” he said accusingly. “Forget it,” said Angua. “Now, how do you normally get into the Assassins’ Guild?” “And maybe afterwards we could kind of hang out in the middens along Phedre Road?” said Gaspode, his stump of a tail still thumping the ground. “There’s rats along there that’ll make your hair stand on—No, all right, forget I mentioned it,” he finished quickly, when fire flashed for a moment in Angua’s eyes. He sighed. “There’s a drain by the kitchens,” he said. “Big enough for a human?” “Not even for a dwarf. But it won’t be worth it. It’s spaghetti tonight. You don’t get many bones in spaghetti—” “Come on. ” He limped along. “That was a good bone,” he said. “Hardly even started going green. Hah! I bet you wouldn’t say no to a box of chocolates from Mr. Hunk, though. ” He cringed as she rounded on him. “What are you talking about?” “Nothing! Nothing!” He trailed after her, whining. Angua wasn’t happy, either. It was always a problem, growing hair and fangs every full moon. Just when she thought she’d been lucky before, she’d found that few men are happy in a relationship where their partner grows hair and howls. She’d sworn: no more entanglements like that. As for Gaspode, he was resigning himself to a life without love, or at least any more than the practical affection experienced so far, which had consisted of an unsuspecting chihuahua and a brief liaison with a postman’s leg. The No. 1 powder slid down the folded paper into the metal tube. Blast Vimes! Who’d have thought he’d actually head for the opera house? He’d lost a set of tubes up there. But there were still three left, packed neatly in the hollow stock. A bag of No. 1 powder and a rudimentary knowledge of lead casting was all a man needed to rule the city… The gonne lay on the table. There was a bluish sheen to the metal. Or, perhaps, not so much a sheen as a glisten. And, of course, that was only the oil. You had to believe it was only the oil. It was clearly a thing of metal. It couldn’t possibly be alive. And yet… And yet… “They say it was only a beggar girl in the Guild. ” Well? What of it? She was a target of opportunity. That was not my fault. That was your fault. I am merely the gonne. Gonnes don’t kill people. People kill people. “You killed Hammerhock! The boy said you fired yourself! And he’d repaired you!” You expect gratitude? He would have made another gonne. “Was that a reason to kill him?” Certainly. You have no understanding. Was the voice in his head or in the gonne? He couldn’t be certain. Edward had said there was a voice…it said that everything you wanted, it could give you… Getting into the Guild was easy for Angua, even through the angry crowds. Some of the Assassins, the ones from noble homes that had big floppy dogs around the place in the same way that lesser folk have rugs, had brought a few with them. Besides, Angua was pure pedigree. She drew admiring glances as she trotted through the buildings. Finding the right corridor was easy, too. She’d remembered the view from the Guild next door, and counted the number of floors. In any case, she didn’t have to look hard. The reek of fireworks hung in the air all along the corridor. There was a crowd of Assassins in the corridor, too. The door of the room had been forced open. As Angua peered around the corner she saw Dr. Cruces emerge, his face suffused with rage. “Mr. Downey?” A white-haired Assassin drew himself to attention. |
“Sir?” “I want him found!” “Yes, doctor—” “In fact I want him inhumed! With Extreme Impoliteness! And I’m setting the fee at ten thousand dollars—I shall pay it personally, you understand? Without Guild tax, either. ” Several Assassins nonchalantly strolled away from the crowd. Ten thousand untaxed dollars was good money. Downey looked uncomfortable. “Doctor, I think—” “Think? You’re not paid to think! Heaven knows where the idiot has got to. I ordered the Guild searched! Why didn’t anyone force the door?” “Sorry, doctor, Edward left us weeks ago and I didn’t think—” “You didn’t think ? What are you paid for?” “Never seen him in such a temper,” said Gaspode. There was a cough behind the chief Assassin. Dr. Whiteface had emerged from the room. “Ah, doctor,” said Dr. Cruces. “I think perhaps we’d better go and discuss this further in my study, yes?” “I really am most terribly sorry, my lord—” “Don’t mention it. The little…devil has made us both look like fools. Oh…nothing personal, of course. Mr. Downey, the Fools and the Assassins will be guarding this hole until we can get some masons in tomorrow. No one is to go through, you understand?” “Yes, doctor. ” “Very well. ” “That’s Mr. Downey,” said Gaspode, as Dr. Cruces and the chief clown disappeared down the corridor. “Number two in the Assassins. ” He scratched his ear. “He’d knock off old Cruces for tuppence if it wasn’t against the rules. ” Angua trotted forward. Downey, who was wiping his forehead with a black handkerchief, looked down. “Hello, you’re new,” he said. He glanced at Gaspode. “And the mutt’s back, I see. ” “Woof, woof,” said Gaspode, his stump of a tail thumping the floor. “Incident’ly,” he added for Angua’s benefit, “he’s often good for a peppermint if you catch him in the right mood. He’s poisoned fifteen people this year. He’s almost as good with poisons as old Cruces. ” “Do I need to know that?” said Angua. Downey patted her on the head. “Oh, Assassins shouldn’t kill unless they’re being paid. It’s these little tips that make all the difference. ” Now Angua was in a position to see the door. There was a name written on a piece of card stuck in a metal bracket. Edward d’Eath. “Edward d’Eath,” she said. “There’s a name that tolls a bell,” said Gaspode. “Family used to live up Kingsway. Used to be as rich as Creosote. ” “Who was Creosote?” “Some foreign bugger who was rich. ” “Oh. ” “But great-granddad had a terrible thirst, and granddad chased anything in a dress, his dress, you understand, and old d’Eath, well, he was sober and clean but lost the rest of the family money on account of having a blind spot when it came to telling the difference between a one and an eleven. ” “I can’t see how that loses you money. ” “It does if you think you can play Cripple Mr. Onion with the big boys. ” The werewolf and the dog padded back down the corridor. “Do you know anything about Master Edward?” said Angua. “Nope. The house was flogged off recently. Family debts. Haven’t seen him around. ” “You’re certainly a mine of information,” she said. “I gets around. No one notices dogs. ” Gaspode wrinkled his nose. It looked like a withered truffle. “Blimey. Stinks of gonne, doesn’t it. ” “Yes. Something odd about that,” said Angua. “What?” “Something not right. ” There were other smells. Unwashed socks, other dogs, Dr. Whiteface’s greasepaint, yesterday’s dinner—the scents filled the air. But the firework smell of what Angua was now automatically thinking of as the gonne wound around everything else, acrid as acid. “What’s not right?” “Don’t know…maybe it’s the gonne smell…” “Nah. That started off here. The gonne was kept here for years. ” “Right. OK. Well, we’ve got a name. It might mean something to Carrot—” Angua trotted down the stairs. “’Scuse me…” said Gaspode. “Yes?” “How can you turn back into a woman again?” “I just get out of the moonlight and…concentrate. That’s how it works. ” “Cor. That’s all?” “If it’s technically full moon I can Change even during the day if I want to. I only have to Change when I’m in the moonlight. ” “Get away? What about wolfbane?” “Wolfbane? It’s a plant. A type of aconite, I think. What about it?” “Don’t it kill you?” “Look, you don’t have to believe everything you hear about werewolves. We’re human, just like everyone else. Most of the time,” she added. By now they were outside the Guild and heading for the alley, which indeed they reached, but it lacked certain important features that it had included when they were last there. Most notable of these was Angua’s uniform, but there was also a world shortage of Foul Ole Ron. “Damn. ” They looked at the empty patch of mud. “Got any other clothes?” said Gaspode. “Yes, but only back in Elm Street. This is my only uniform. ” “You have to put some clothes on when you’re human?” “Yes. ” “Why? I would have thought a nude woman would be at home in any company, no offense meant. ” “I prefer clothes. ” Gaspode sniffed at the dirt. “Come on, then,” he sighed. “We’d better catch up Foul Ole Ron before your chainmail becomes a bottle of Bearhugger’s, yes?” Angua looked around. The scent of Foul Ole Ron was practically tangible. “All right. But let’s be quick about it. ” Wolfbane? You didn’t need daft old herbs to make your life a problem, if you spent one week every month with two extra legs and four extra nipples. There were crowds around the Patrician’s Palace, and outside the Assassins’ Guild. A lot of beggars were in evidence. They looked ugly. Looking ugly is a beggar’s stock in trade in any case. These looked uglier than necessary. The militia peered around a corner. “There’s hundreds of people,” said Colon. “And loads of trolls outside the Day Watch. ” “Where’s the crowd thickest?” said Carrot. “Anywhere the trolls are,” said Colon. He remembered himself. “Only joking,” he added. “Very well,” said Carrot. “Everyone follow me. ” The babble stopped as the militia marched, lumbered, trotted and knuckled toward the Day Watch House. A couple of very large trolls blocked the way. The crowd watched in expectant silence. Any minute now, Colon thought, someone’s going to throw something. And then we’re all going to die. He glanced up. Slowly and jerkily, gargoyle heads were appearing along the gutters. No one wanted to miss a good fight. Carrot nodded at the two trolls. They’d got lichen all over them, Colon noticed. “It’s Bluejohn and Bauxite, isn’t it?” said Carrot. Bluejohn, despite himself, nodded. Bauxite was tougher, and merely glared. “You’re just the sort I was looking for,” Carrot went on. Colon gripped his helmet like a size #10 limpet trying to crawl up into a size #1 shell. Bauxite was an avalanche with feet. “You’re conscripted,” said Carrot. Colon peeked out from under the brim. “Report to Corporal Nobbs for your weapons. Lance-Constable Detritus will administer the oath. ” He stood back. “Welcome to the Citizens’ Watch. Remember, every lance-constable has a field-marshal’s baton in his knapsack. ” The trolls hadn’t moved. “Ain’t gonna be inna Watch,” said Bauxite. “Officer material if ever I saw it,” said Carrot. “Hey, you can’t put them in the Watch!” shouted a dwarf from the crowd. “Why, hello, Mr. Stronginthearm,” said Carrot. “Good to see community leaders here. Why can’t they be in the militia?” All the trolls listened intently. Stronginthearm realized that he was suddenly the center of attention, and hesitated. “Well…you’ve only got the one dwarf, for one thing…” he began. “ I’m a dwarf,” said Carrot, “technically. ” Stronginthearm looked a little nervous. The whole issue of Carrot’s keenly embraced dwarfishness was a difficult one for the more politically minded dwarfs. “You’re a bit big,” he said lamely. “Big? What’s size got to do with being a dwarf?” Carrot demanded. “Um…a lot?” whispered Cuddy. “Good point,” said Carrot. “That’s a good point. ” He scanned the faces. “Right. We need some honest, law-abiding dwarfs…you there…” “Me?” said an unwary dwarf. “Have you got any previous convictions?” “Well, I dunno…I suppose I used to believe very firmly that a penny saved is a penny earned—” “Good. |
And I’ll take…you two…and you. Four more dwarfs, yes? Can’t complain about that, eh?” “Ain’t gonna be inna Watch,” said Bauxite again, but uncertainty modulated his tone. “You trolls can’t leave now,” said Detritus. “Otherwise, too many dwarfs. That’s numbers , that is. ” “I’m not joining any Watch!” said a dwarf. “Not man enough, eh?” said Cuddy. “What? I’m as good as any bloody troll any day!” “Right, that’s sorted out then,” said Carrot, rubbing his hands together. “Acting-Constable Cuddy?” “Sir?” “Hey,” said Detritus, “how come he suddenly full constable?” “Since he was in charge of the dwarf recruits,” said Carrot. “And you’re in charge of the troll recruits, Acting-Constable Detritus. ” “I full acting-constable in charge of the troll recruits?” “Of course. Now, if you would step out of the way, Lance-Constable Bauxite—” Behind Carrot, Detritus drew a big proud breath. “Ain’t gonna—” “Lance-Constable Bauxite! You horrible big troll! You standing up straight! You saluting right now! You stepping out of the way of Corporal Carrot! You two troll, you come here! Wurn…two-er…tree…four-er! You in the Watch now! Aaargh, I cannot believe it what my eye it seeing! Where you from, Bauxite?” “Slice Mountain, but—” “Slice Mountain! Slice Mountain ? Only…” Detritus looked at his fingers for a moment, and rammed them behind his back. “Only two-er things come from Slice Mountain! Rocks…an’…an’…” he struck out wildly, “other sortsa rocks! What kind you , Bauxite?” “What the hell’s going on here?” The Watch House door had opened. Captain Quirke emerged, sword in hand. “ You two horrible troll! You raise your hand right now, you repeat troll oath —” “Ah, captain,” said Carrot. “Can we have a word?” “You’re in real trouble, Corporal Carrot,” snarled Quirke. “Who do you think you are?” “ I will do what I told —” “Don’t wanna be inna—” Wham! “ I will do what I told —” “Just the man on the spot, captain,” said Carrot cheerfully. “Well, man on the spot, I’m the senior officer here, and you can damn well—” “Interesting point,” said Carrot. He produced his black book. “I’m relieving you of your command. ” “— otherwise I get my goohuloog head kicked in. ” “— otherwise I get my goohuloog head kicked in. ” “Wha—? Are you mad?” “No, sir, but I’m choosing to believe that you are. There are regulations laid down for this eventuality. ” “Where is your authority?” Quirke stared at the crowd. “Hah! I suppose you’ll say this armed mob is your authority, eh?” Carrot looked shocked. “No. The Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork, sir. It’s all down here. Can you tell me what evidence you have against the prisoner Coalface?” “That damn troll? It’s a troll!” “Yes?” Quirke looked around. “Look, I don’t have to tell you with everyone here—” “As a matter of fact, according to the rules, you do. That’s why it’s called evidence. It means ‘that which is seen’. ” “Listen!” hissed Quirke, leaning toward Carrot. “He’s a troll. He’s as guilty as hell of something. They all are!” Carrot smiled brightly. Colon had come to know that smile. Carrot’s face seemed to go waxy and glisten when he smiled like that. “And so you locked him up?” “Right!” “Oh. I see. I understand now. ” Carrot turned away. “I don’t know what you think you’re—” Quirke began. People hardly saw Carrot move. There was just a blur, a sound like a steak being thumped on a slab, and the captain was flat on the cobbles. A couple of members of the Day Watch appeared cautiously in the doorway. Everyone became aware of a rattling noise. Nobby was spinning the morningstar round and round on the end of its chain, except that because the spiky ball was a very heavy spiky ball, and because the difference between Nobby and a dwarf was species rather than height, it was more a case of both of them orbiting around each other. If he let go, it was an even chance that the target would be hit by a spiky ball or an unexploded Corporal Nobbs. Neither prospect pleased. “Put it down, Nobby,” hissed Colon, “I don’t think they’re going to make trouble…” “I can’t let go, Fred!” Carrot sucked his knuckles. “Do you think that comes under the heading of ‘minimum necessary force’, sergeant?” he asked. He appeared to be genuinely worried. “Fred! Fred! What’ll I do?” Nobby was a terrified blur. When you are swinging a spiky ball on a chain, the only realistic option is to keep moving. Standing still is an interesting but brief demonstration of a spiral in action. “Is he still breathing?” said Colon. “Oh, yes. I pulled the punch. ” “Sounds minimum enough to me, sir,” said Colon loyally. “ Fredddd !” Carrot reached out absent-mindedly as the morningstar rocketed past and caught it by the chain. Then he threw it against the wall, where it stuck. “You men in there in the Watch House,” he said, “come out now. ” Five men emerged, edging cautiously around the prone captain. “Good. Now go and get Coalface. ” “Er…he’s in a bit of a bad temper, Corporal Carrot. ” “On account of being chained to the floor,” volunteered another guard. “Well, now,” said Carrot. “The thing is, he’s going to be unchained right now. ” The men shuffled their feet nervously, possibly remembering an old proverb that fitted the occasion very well. * Carrot nodded. “I won’t ask you to do it, but I might suggest you take some time off,” he said. “Quirm is very nice at this time of year,” said Sergeant Colon helpfully. “They’ve got a floral clock. ” “Er…since you mention it…I’ve got some sick leave coming up,” one of them said. “I should think that’s very probable, if you hang around,” said Carrot. They sidled off as fast as decency allowed. The crowd hardly paid them any attention. There was still a lot more mileage in watching Carrot. “Right,” said Carrot. “Detritus, you take some men and go and bring out the prisoner. ” “I don’t see why—” a dwarf began. “You shut up, you horrible man,” said Detritus, drunk with power. You could have heard a guillotine drop. In the crowd, a number of different-sized knobbly hands gripped a variety of concealed weapons. Everyone looked at Carrot. That was the strange thing, Colon remembered later. Everyone looked at Carrot. Gaspode sniffed a lamppost. “I see Three-legged Shep has been ill again,” he said. “And old Willy the Pup is back in town. ” To a dog, a well-placed hitching post or lamp is a social calendar. “Where are we?” said Angua. Foul Ole Ron’s trail was hard to follow. There were so many other smells. “Somewhere in the Shades,” said Gaspode. “Sweetheart Lane, smells like. ” He snuffled across the ground. “Ah, here he is again, the little…” “’ ullo, Gaspode …” It was a deep, hoarse voice, a kind of whisper with sand in it. It came from somewhere in an alley. “’ o’s yer fwiend, Gaspode ?” There was a snigger. “Ah,” said Gaspode. “Uh. Hi, guys. ” Two dogs emerged from the alley. They were huge. Their species was indeterminate. One of them was jet black and looked like a pit bull terrier crossed with a mincing machine. The other…the other looked like a dog whose name was almost certainly “Butch”. Both top and bottom set of fangs had grown so large that he appeared to be looking at the world through bars. He was also bow-legged, although it would probably be a bad if not terminal move for anyone to comment on this. Gaspode’s tail vibrated nervously. “These are my friends Black Roger and—” “Butch?” suggested Angua. “How did you know that?” “A lucky guess,” said Angua. The two big dogs had moved around so that they were on either side of them. “Well, well, well,” said Black Roger. “Who’s this, then?” “Angua,” said Gaspode. “She’s a—” “—wolfhound,” said Angua. The two dogs paced around them hungrily. “Big Fido know about her?” said Black Roger. “I was just—” Gaspode began. “Well, now,” said Black Roger, “I reckon you’d be wanting to come with us. Guild night tonight. ” “Sure, sure,” said Gaspode. “No problem there. ” I could certainly manage either of them, Angua thought. But not both at once. Being a werewolf meant having the dexterity and jaw power to instantly rip out a man’s jugular. |
It was a trick of her father’s that had always annoyed her mother, especially when he did it just before meals. But Angua had never been able to bring herself to do it. She’d preferred the vegetarian option. “’ullo,” said Butch, in her ear. “Don’t you worry about anything,” moaned Gaspode. “Me an’ Big Fido…we’re like that. ” “What’re you trying to do? Cross your claws? I didn’t know dogs could do that. ” “We can’t,” said Gaspode miserably. Other dogs slunk out of the shadows as the two of them were half led, half driven along byways that weren’t even alleys any more, just gaps between walls. They opened out eventually into a bare area, nothing more than a large light well for the buildings around it. There was a very large barrel on its side in one corner, with a ragged bit of blanket in it. A variety of dogs were waiting around in front of it, looking expectant; some of them had only one eye, some of them had only one ear, all of them had scars, and all of them had teeth. “You,” said Black Roger, “wait here. ” “Do not twy to wun away,” said Butch, “’cos having your intestines chewed often offends. ” Angua lowered her head to Gaspode level. The little dog was shaking. “What have you got me into?” she growled. “This is the dog Guild, right? A pack of strays?” “Shsssh! Don’t say that! These aren’t strays. Oh, blimey. ” Gaspode glanced around. “You don’t just get any hound in the Guild. Oh, dear me, no. These are dogs that have been…” he lowered his voice, “…er…bad dogs. ” “Bad dogs?” “Bad dogs. You naughty boy. Give him a smack. You bad dog,” muttered Gaspode, like some horrible litany. “Every dog you see here, right, every dog…run away. Run away from his or her actual owner. ” “Is that all?” “All? All ? Well. Of course. You ain’t exactly a dog. You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t know what it was like. But Big Fido…he told ’em. Throw off your choke chains, he said. Bite the hand that feeds you. Rise up and howl. He gave ’em pride,” said Gaspode, his voice a mixture of fear and fascination. “He told ’em. Any dog he finds not bein’ a free spirit—that dog is a dead dog. He killed a Dobermann last week, just for wagging his tail when a human went past. ” Angua looked at some of the other dogs. They were all unkempt. They were also, in a strange way, un-doglike. There was a small and rather dainty white poodle that still just about had the overgrown remains of its poodle cut, and a lapdog with the tattered remains of a tartan jacket still hanging from its shoulder. But they weren’t milling around, or squabbling. They had a uniform intent look that she’d seen before, although never on dogs. Gaspode was clearly trembling now. Angua slunk over to the poodle. It still had a diamante collar visible under the crusty fur. “This Big Fido,” she said, “is he some kind of wolf, or what?” “Spiritually, all dogs are wolves,” said the poodle, “but cynically and cruelly severed from their true destiny by the manipulations of so-called humanity. ” It sounded like a quote. “Big Fido said that?” Angua hazarded. The poodle turned its head. For the first time she saw its eyes. They were red, and as mad as hell. Anything with eyes like that could kill anything it wanted because madness, true madness, can drive a fist through a plank. “Yes,” said Big Fido. He had been a normal dog. He’d begged, and rolled over, and heeled, and fetched. Every night he’d been taken for a walk. There was no flash of light when It happened. He’d just been lying in his basket one night and he’d thought about his name, which was Fido, and the name on the basket, which was Fido. And he thought about his blanket with Fido on it, and his bowl with Fido on it, and above all he brooded on the collar with Fido on it, and something somewhere deep in his brain had gone “click” and he’d eaten his blanket, savaged his owner and dived out through the kitchen window. In the street outside a labrador four times the size of Fido had sniggered at the collar, and thirty seconds later had fled, whimpering. That had just been the start. The dog hierarchy was a simple matter. Fido had simply asked around, generally in a muffled voice because he had someone’s leg in his jaws, until he located the leader of the largest gang of feral dogs in the city. People—that is, dogs—still talked about the fight between Fido and Barking Mad Arthur, a rottweiler with one eye and a very bad temper. But most animals don’t fight to the death, only to the defeat, and Fido was impossible to defeat; he was simply a very small fast killing streak with a collar. He’d hung on to bits of Barking Mad Arthur until Barking Mad Arthur had given in, and then to his amazement Fido had killed him. There was something inexplicably determined about the dog—you could have sandblasted him for five minutes and what was left still wouldn’t have given up and you’d better not turn your back on it. Because Big Fido had a dream. “Is there a problem?” said Carrot. “That troll insulted that dwarf ,” said Stronginthearm the dwarf. “I heard Acting-Constable Detritus give an order to Lance-Constable…Hrolf Pyjama,” said Carrot. “What about it?” “He’s a troll !” “Well?” “He insulted a dwarf!” “Actually, it’s a technical milit’ry term—” said Sergeant Colon. “That damn troll just happened to save my life today,” shouted Cuddy. “What for?” “What for? What for ? ’Cos it was my life, that’s what for! I happen to be very attached to it!” “I didn’t mean—” “You just shut up, Abba Stronginthearm! What do you know about anything, you civilian! Why’re you so stupid? Aargh! I’m too short for this shit!” A shadow loomed in the doorway. Coalface was a basically horizontal shape, a dark mass of fracture lines and sheer surfaces. His eyes gleamed red and suspicious. “Now you’re letting it go!” moaned a dwarf. “This is because we have no reason to keep him locked up,” said Carrot. “Whoever killed Mr. Hammerhock was small enough to get through a dwarfs doorway. A troll his size couldn’t manage that. ” “But everyone knows he’s a bad troll!” shouted Stronginthearm. “I never done nuffin,” said Coalface. “You can’t turn him loose now, sir,” hissed Colon. “They’ll set on him!” “I never done nuffin. ” “Good point, sergeant. Acting-Constable Detritus!” “Sir?” “Volunteer him. ” “I never done nuffin. ” “You can’t do that!” shouted the dwarf. “Ain’t gonna be in no Watch,” growled Coalface. Carrot leaned toward him. “There’s a hundred dwarfs over there. With great big axes,” he whispered. Coalface blinked. “I’ll join. ” “Swear him in, acting-constable. ” “Permission to enrol another dwarf, sir? To maintain parity?” “Go ahead, Acting-Constable Cuddy. ” Carrot removed his helmet and wiped his forehead. “I think that’s about it, then,” he said. The crowd stared at him. He smiled brightly. “No one has to stay here unless they want to,” he said. “I never done nuffin. ” “Yes…but…look,” said Stronginthearm. “If he didn’t kill old Hammerhock, who did?” “I never done nuffin. ” “Our inquiries are proceeding. ” “You don’t know!” “But I’m finding out. ” “Oh, yes? And when, pray, will you know ?” “Tomorrow. ” The dwarf hesitated. “All right, then,” he said, with extreme reluctance. “Tomorrow. But it had better be tomorrow. ” “All right,” said Carrot. The crowd dispersed, or at least spread out a bit. Trolls, dwarfs and humans alike, an Ankh-Morpork citizen is never keen on moving on if there’s some street theater left. Acting-Constable Detritus, his chest so swollen with pride and pomposity that his knuckles barely touched the ground, reviewed his troops. “You listen up, you horrible trolls!” He paused, while the next thoughts shuffled into position. “You listen up good right now! You in the Watch, boy! It a job with opportunity!” said Detritus. “I only been doin’ it ten minute and already I get promoted! Also got education and training for a good job in Civilian Street! “This your club with a nail in it. You will eat it. You will sleep on it! When Detritus say Jump, you say…what color! We goin’ to do this by the numbers! And I got lotsa numbers!” “I never done nuffin. |
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