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When Brother Fingers turned towards 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 wit, 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 of 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 speak. "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. "Pouncing 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 realise it wasn't coming from him.
Carrot appeared around the corner at a dead run. He had a felling axe 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 any thing 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 tantalising 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 at last.
He was home a week ago before now.
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 onwards.
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 upmost 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 honour. 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 pummelling, but bits were fighting back. Any of them get. . . ?
"Any of who?" he said.
"The people in the house, of course," said Wonse. "I assume there were people in it. At night, I mean."
"Oh? Oh. Yes. It wasn't like a normal house. I think it was some sort of secret society thing," Vimes managed. Something was clicking in his mind, but he was too tired to examine it.
"Magic, you mean?"
"Dunno," said Vimes. "Could be. Guys in robes."
He's going to tell me I've been overdoing it, he said. He'll be right, too.
"Look," said Wonse, kindly. "People who mess around with magic and don't know how to control it, well, they can blow themselves up and…"
"Blow themselves up?"
"And you've had a busy few days," said Wonse soothingly. "If I'd been knocked down and almost burned alive by a dragon I expect I'd be seeing them all the time."
Vimes stared at him with his mouth open. He couldn't think of anything to say. Whatever stretched and knotted elastic had been driving him along these last few days had gone entirely limp.
"You don't think you've been overdoing it, do you?" said Wonse.
Ah, thought Vimes. Jolly good.
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 armour on.
"I hope you didn't eat his pizzas."
"Errol et 'em. It's the cheese, see, it goes all…"
"Goon."
"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 thought 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 armour 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 upwards 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 toil."
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.
"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 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 wit, 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 of 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 speak. "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. "Pouncing 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 realise it wasn't coming from him.
Carrot appeared around the corner at a dead run. He had a felling axe 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 any thing 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 tantalising 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 at last.
He was home a week ago before now.
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 onwards.
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 upmost 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 honour. 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 pummelling, but bits were fighting back. Any of them get. . . ?
"Any of who?" he said.
"The people in the house, of course," said Wonse. "I assume there were people in it. At night, I mean."
"Oh? Oh. Yes. It wasn't like a normal house. I think it was some sort of secret society thing," Vimes managed. Something was clicking in his mind, but he was too tired to examine it.
"Magic, you mean?"
"Dunno," said Vimes. "Could be. Guys in robes."
He's going to tell me I've been overdoing it, he said. He'll be right, too.
"Look," said Wonse, kindly. "People who mess around with magic and don't know how to control it, well, they can blow themselves up and…"
"Blow themselves up?"
"And you've had a busy few days," said Wonse soothingly. "If I'd been knocked down and almost burned alive by a dragon I expect I'd be seeing them all the time."
Vimes stared at him with his mouth open. He couldn't think of anything to say. Whatever stretched and knotted elastic had been driving him along these last few days had gone entirely limp.
"You don't think you've been overdoing it, do you?" said Wonse.
Ah, thought Vimes. Jolly good.
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 armour on.
"I hope you didn't eat his pizzas."
"Errol et 'em. It's the cheese, see, it goes all…"
"Goon."
"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 thought 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 armour 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 upwards 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 toil."
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.
"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.