Страница:
' 'What is my own kind, then?'' said Carrot, bewildered.
The old dwarf took a deep breath. "You're human," he said.
' 'What, like Mr Varneshi?'' Mr Varneshi drove an ox-cart up the mountain trails once a week, to trade things for gold. "One of the Big People?"
"You're six foot six, lad. He's only five foot." The dwarf twiddled the loose rivet again. "You see how it is."
"Yes, but — but maybe I'm just tall for my height," said Carrot desperately. "After all, if you can have short humans, can't you have tall dwarfs?"
His father patted him companionably on the back of the knees.
"You've got to face facts, boy. You'd be much more at home up on the surface. It's in your blood. The roof isn't so low, either." You can't keep knocking yourself out on the sky, he told himself.
"Hold on," said Carrot, his honest brow wrinkling with the effort of calculation. "You're a dwarf, right? And mam's a dwarf. So I should be a dwarf, too. Fact of life."
The dwarf sighed. He'd hoped to creep up on this, over a period of months maybe, sort of break it to him gently, but there wasn't any time any more.
"Sit down, lad," he said. Carrot sat.
"The thing is," he said wretchedly, when the boy's big honest face was a little nearer his own, "we found you in the woods one day. Toddling about near one of the tracks . . . um." The loose rivet squeaked. The king plunged on.
"Thing is, you see ... there were these carts. On fire, as you might say. And dead people. Um, yes. Extremely dead people. Because of bandits. It was a bad winter that winter, there were all sorts coming into the hills ... So we took you in, of course, and then, well, it was a long winter, like I said, and your mam got used to you, and, well, we never got around to asking Varneshi to make inquiries. That's the long and the short of it."
Carrot took this fairly calmly, mostly because he didn't understand nearly all of it. Besides, as far as he was aware, being found toddling in the woods was the normal method of childbirth. A dwarf is not considered old enough to have the technical processes explained to him[3] until he has reached puberty.[4]
"All right, dad," he said, and leaned down so as to be level with the dwarf's ear. "But you know, me and-you know Minty Rocksmacker? She's really beautiful, dad, got a beard as soft as a, a, a very soft thing-we've got an understanding, and-"
"Yes," said the dwarf, coldly, "I know. Her father's had a word with me." So did her mother with your mother, he added silently, and then she had a word with me. Lots of words.
"It's not that they don't like you, you're a steady lad and a fine worker, you'd make a good son-in-law. Four good sons-in-law. That's the trouble. And she's only sixty, anyway. It's not proper. It's not right."
He'd heard about children being reared by wolves.
He wondered whether the leader of the pack ever had to sort out something tricky like this. Perhaps he'd have to take him into a quiet clearing somewhere and say, Look, son, you might have wondered why you're not as hairy as everyone else . . .
He'd discussed it with Varneshi. A good solid man, Varneshi. Of course, he'd known the man's father. And his grandfather, now he came to think about it. Humans didn't seem to last long, it was probably all the effort of pumping blood up that high.
"Got a problem there, king.[5] Right enough," the old man had said, as they shared a nip of spirits on a bench outside Shaft #2.
"He's a good lad, mind you," said the king. "Sound character. Honest. Not exactly brilliant, but you tell him to do something, he don't rest until he's done it. Obedient."
"You could chop his legs off," said Varneshi.
"It's not his legs that's going to be the problem," said the king darkly.
"Ah. Yes. Well, in that case you could…"
"No."
"No," agreed Varneshi, thoughtfully. "Hmm. Well, then what you should do is, you should send him away for a bit. Let him mix a bit with humans." He sat back. "What you've got here, king, is a duck," he added, in knowledgeable tones.
"I don't think I should tell him that. He's refusing to believe he's a human as it is."
"What I mean is, a duck brought up among chickens. Well-known farmyard phenomenon. Finds it can't bloody well peck and doesn't know what swimming is." The king listened politely. Dwarfs don't go in much for agriculture. "But you send him off to see a lot of other ducks, let him get his feet wet, and he won't go running around after bantams any more. And Bob's your uncle. "
Varneshi sat back and looked rather pleased with himself.
When you spend a large part of your life underground, you develop a very literal mind. Dwarfs have no use for metaphor and simile. Rocks are hard, the darkness is dark. Start messing around with descriptions like that and you're in big trouble, is their motto. But after two hundred years of talking to humans the king had, as it were, developed a painstaking mental toolkit which was nearly adequate for the job of understanding them.
"Surely Bjorn Stronginthearm is my uncle, " he pointed out, slowly.
"Same thing. "
There was a pause while the king subjected this to careful analysis.
"You're saying, " he said, weighing each word, "that we should send Carrot away to be a duck among humans because Bjorn Stronginthearm is my uncle. "
"He's a fine lad. Plenty of openings for a big strong lad like him, " said Varneshi.
"I have heard that dwarfs go off to work in the Big City, " said the king uncertainly. "And they send back money to their families, which is very commendable and proper. "
"There you are then. Get him a job in… in…" Varneshi sought for inspiration,"…in the Watch, or something. My great-grandfather was in the Watch, you know. Fine job for a big lad, my grandad said. "
"What is a Watch?" said the king.
"Oh, " said Varneshi, with the vagueness of someone whose family for the last three generations hadn't travelled more than twenty miles, "they goes about making sure people keep the laws and do what they're told. "
"That is a very proper concern, " said the king who, since he was usually the one doing the telling, had very solid views about people doing what they were told.
"Of course, they don't take just anyone, " said Varneshi, dredging the depths of his recollection.
"I should think not, for such an important task. I shall write to their king. "
"I don't think they have a king there, " said Varneshi. "Just some man who tells them what to do. "
The king of the dwarfs took this calmly. This seemed to be about ninety-seven per cent of the definition of kingship, as far as he was concerned.
Carrot took the news without fuss, just as he took instructions about re-opening Shaft #4 or cutting timber for shoring props. All dwarfs are by nature dutiful, serious, literate, obedient and thoughtful people whose only minor failing is a tendency, after one drink, to rush at enemies screaming "Arrrrrrgh!" and axing their legs off at the knee. Carrot saw no reason to be any different. He would go to this city — whatever that was — and have a man made of him.
They took only the finest, Varneshi had said. A watchman had to be a skilled fighter and clean in thought, word and deed. From the depths of his ancestral anecdotage the old man had dragged tales of moonlight chases across rooftops, and tremendous battles with miscreants which, of course, his great-grandad had won despite being heavily outnumbered.
Carrot had to admit it sounded better than mining.
After some thought, the king wrote to the ruler of Ankh-Morpork, respectfully asking if Carrot could be considered for a place amongst the city's finest.
Letters rarely got written in that mine. Work stopped and the whole clan had sat around in respectful silence as his pen scrittered across the parchment. His aunt had been sent up to Varneshi's to beg his pardon but could he see his way clear to sparing a smidgen of wax His sister had been sent down to the village to ask Mistress Garlick the witch how you stopped spelling recommendation.
Months had gone by.
And then there'd been the reply. It was fairly grubby, since mail in the Ramtops was generally handed to whoever was going in more or less the right direction, and it was also fairly short. It said, baldly, that his application was accepted, and would he present himself for duty immediately.
"Just like that?" he said. "I thought there'd be tests and things. To see if I was suitable. "
"You're my son, " said the king. "I told them that, see. Stands to reason you'll be suitable. Probably officer material. "
He'd pulled a sack from under his chair, rummaged around in it and presented Carrot with a length of metal, more a sword than a saw but only just.
"This might rightly belong to you, " he said. "When we found the... carts, this was the only thing left. The bandits, you see. Just between you and me," he beckoned Carrot closer,"we had a witch look at it. In case it was magic. But it isn't. Quite the most un-magical sword she'd ever seen, she said. They normally have a bit, see, on account of it's like magnetism, I suppose. Got quite a nice balance, though. "
He handed it over.
He rummaged around some more. "And then there's this. " He held up a shirt. "It'll protect you. "
Carrot fingered it carefully. It was made from the wool of Ramtop sheep, which had all the warmth and softness of hog bristles. It was one of the legendary woolly dwarf vests, the kind of vest that needs hinges.
"Protect me from what?" he said.
"Colds, and so on, " said the king. "Your mother says you've got to wear it. And… er... that reminds me. Mr Varneshi says he'd like you to drop in on the way down the mountain. He's got something for you. "
His father and mother had waved him out of sight. Minty didn't. Funny, that. She seemed to have been avoiding him lately.
He'd taken the sword, slung on his back, sandwiches and clean underwear in his pack, and the world, more or less, at his feet. In his pocket was the famous letter from the Patrician, the man who ruled the great fine city of Ankh-Morpork.
At least, that's how his mother had referred to it. It certainly had an important-looking crest at the top, but the signature was something like "Lupin Squiggle, Sec'y, pp".
Still, if it wasn't actually signed by the Patrician then it had certainly been written by someone who worked for him. Or in the same building. Probably the Patrician had at least known about the letter. In general terms. Not this letter, perhaps, but probably he knew about the existence of letters in general.
Carrot walked steadfastly down the mountain paths, disturbing clouds of bumblebees. After a while he unsheathed the sword and made experimental stabs at felonious tree stumps and unlawful assemblies of stinging nettles.
Varneshi was sitting outside his hut, threading dried mushrooms on a string.
"Hallo, Carrot, " he said, leading the way inside. "Looking forward to the city?"
Carrot gave this due consideration.
"No, " he said.
"Having second thoughts, are you?"
"No. I was just walking along, " said Carrot honestly. "I wasn't thinking about anything much. "
"Your dad give you the sword, did he?" said Varneshi, rummaging on a fetid shelf.
"Yes. And a woolly vest to protect me against chills. "
"Ah. Yes, it can be very damp down there, so I've heard. Protection. Very important. " He turned around and added, dramatically, "This belonged to my great-grandfather. "
It was a strange, vaguely hemispherical device surrounded by straps.
"It's some sort of sling?" said Carrot, after examining it in polite silence.
Varneshi told him what it was.
"Codpiece like in fish?" said Carrot, mystified.
"No. It's for the fighting, " mumbled Varneshi. "You should wear it all the time. Protects your vitals, like. "
Carrot tried it on.
"It's a bit small, Mr Varneshi. "
"That's because you don't wear it on your head, you see. "
Varneshi explained some more, to Carrot's mounting bewilderment and, subsequently, horror. "My great-grandad used to say, " Varneshi finished, "that but for this I wouldn't be here today. "
"What did he mean by that?"
Varneshi's mouth opened and shut a few times. "I've no idea, " he said, spinelessly.
Anyway, the shameful thing was now at the very bottom of Carrot's pack. Dwarfs didn't have much truck with things like that. The ghastly preventative represented a glimpse into a world as alien as the backside of the moon.
There had been another gift from Mr Varneshi. It was a small but very thick book, bound in a leather that had become like wood over the years.
It was called: The Laws And Ordinances of The Cities of Ankh And Morpork.
"This belonged to my great-grandad as well, " he said. "This is what the Watch has to know. You have to know all the laws, " he said virtuously, "to be a good officer. ''
Perhaps Varneshi should have recalled that, in the whole of Carrot's life, no one had ever really lied to him or given him an instruction that he wasn't meant to take quite literally. Carrot solemnly took the book. It would never have occurred to him, if he was going to be an officer of the Watch, to be less than a good one.
It was a five hundred mile journey and, surprisingly, quite uneventful. People who are rather more than six feet tall and nearly as broad across the shoulders often have uneventful journeys. People jump out at them from behind rocks then say things like, "Oh. Sorry. I thought you were someone else. "
He'd spent most of the journey reading.
And now Ankh-Morpork was before him.
It was a little disappointing. He'd expected high white towers rearing over the landscape, and flags. Ankh-Morpork didn't rear. Rather, it sort of skulked, clinging to the soil as if afraid someone might steal it. There were no flags.
There was a guard on the gate. At least, he was wearing chain mail and the thing he was propped up against was a spear. He had to be a guard.
Carrot saluted him and presented the letter. The man looked at it for some time.
"Mm?" he said, eventually.
"I think I've got to see Lupin Squiggle Sec'y pp, " said Carrot.
"What's the pp for?" said the guard suspiciously.
"Could it be Pretty Promptly?" said Carrot, who had wondered about this himself.
"Well, I don't know about any Sec'y, " said the guard. "You want Captain Vimes of the Night Watch. "
' 'And where is he based?'' said Carrot, politely.
"At this time of day I'd try The Bunch of Grapes in Easy Street, " said the guard. He looked Carrot up and down. "Joining the watch, are you?"
"I hope to prove worthy, yes, " said Carrot.
The guard gave him what could loosely be called an old-fashioned look. It was practically neolithic.
"What was it you done?" he said.
"I'm sorry?" said Carrot.
"You must of done something, " said the guard.
"My father wrote a letter, " said Carrot proudly. "I've been volunteered. "
"Bloody hellfire, " said the guard.
Now it was night again, and beyond the dread portal:
"Are the Wheels of Torment duly spun?" said the Supreme Grand Master.
The Elucidated Brethren shuffled around their circle.
"Brother Watchtower?" said the Supreme Grand Master.
"Not my job to spin the Wheels of Torment, " muttered Brother Watchtower. " 's Brother Plasterer's job, spinning the Wheels of Torment…"
"No it bloody well isn't, it's my job to oil the Axles of the Universal Lemon, " said Brother Plasterer hotly. "You always say it's my job…"
The Supreme Grand Master sighed in the depths of his cowl as yet another row began. From this dross he was going to forge an Age of Rationality?
"Just shut up, will you?" he snapped. "We don't really need the Wheels of Torment tonight. Stop it, the pair of you. Now, Brethren — you have all brought the items as instructed?"
There was a general murmuring.
"Place them in the Circle of Conjuration, " said the Supreme Grand Master.
It was a sorry collection. Bring magical things, he'd said. Only Brother Fingers had produced anything worthwhile. It looked like some sort of altar ornament, best not to ask from where. The Supreme Grand Master stepped forward and prodded one of the other things with his toe.
"What, " he said, "is this?"
" 'S 'n amulet, " muttered Brother Dunnykin, " 's very powerful. Bought it off a man. Guaranteed. Protects you against crocodile bites. "
"Are you sure you can spare it?" said the Supreme Grand Master. There was a dutiful titter from the rest of the Brethren.
"Less of that, brothers, " said the Grand Master, spinning around. "Bring magical things, I said. Not cheap jewellery and rubbish! Good grief, this city is lousy with magic!" He reached down. "What are these things, for heaven's sake?"
"They're stones, " said Brother Plasterer uncertainly.
"I can see that. Why 're they magical?"
Brother Plasterer began to tremble. "They've got holes in them, Supreme Grand Master. Everyone knows that stones with holes in them are magical. "
The Supreme Grand Master walked back to his place on the circle. He threw his arms up.
"Right, fine, okay, " he said wearily. "If that's how we're going to do it, that's how we're going to do it. If we get a dragon six inches long we'll all know the reason why. Won't we, Brother Plasterer. Brother Plasterer? Sorry. I didn't hear what you said? Brother Plasterer?"
"I said yes, Supreme Grand Master, " whispered Brother Plasterer.
"Very well. So long as that's quite understood. " The Supreme Grand Master turned and picked up the book.
"And now, " he said, "if we are all quite ready... "
"Um. " Brother Watchtower meekly raised his hand.
"Ready for what, Supreme Grand Master?" he said.
"For the summoning, of course. Good grief, I should have thought-"
"But you haven't told us what we're supposed to do, Supreme Grand Master, " whined Brother Watch-tower.
The Grand Master hesitated. This was quite true, but he wasn't going to admit it.
"Well, of course, " he said. "It's obvious. You have to focus your concentration. Think hard about dragons, " he translated. "All of you. "
"That's all, is it?" said Brother Doorkeeper.
"Yes. "
"Don't we have to chant a mystic prune or something?"
The Supreme Grand Master stared at him. Brother Doorkeeper managed to look as defiant in the face of oppression as an anonymous shadow in a black cowl could look. He hadn't joined a secret society not to chant mystic runes. He'd been looking forward to it.
"You can if you like, " said the Supreme Grand Master. "Now, I want you — yes, what is it, Brother Dunnykin?"
The little Brother lowered his hand. "Don't know any mystic prunes, Grand Master. Not to what you might call chant... "
"Hm!"
He opened the book.
He'd been rather surprised to find, after pages and pages of pious ramblings, that the actual Summoning itself was one short sentence. Not a chant, not a brief piece of poetry, but a mere assemblage of meaningless syllables. De Malachite said they caused interference patterns in the waves of reality, but the daft old fool was probably making it up as he went along. That was the trouble with wizards, they had to make everything look difficult. All you really needed was willpower. And the Brethren had a lot of that. Small-minded and vitriolic willpower, yes, lousy with malignity maybe, but still powerful enough in its way...
They'd try nothing fancy this time round. Somewhere inconspicuous...
Around him the Brethren were chanting what each man considered, according to his lights, to be something mystical. The general effect was actually quite good, if you didn't listen to the words.
The words. Oh, yes...
He looked down, and spoke them aloud.
Nothing happened.
He blinked.
When he opened his eyes again he was in a dark alley, his stomach was full of fire, and he was very angry.
It was about to be the worst night of his life for Zebbo Mooty, Thief Third Class, and it wouldn't have made him any happier to know that it was also going to be the last one. The rain was keeping people indoors, and he was way behind on his quota. He was, therefore, a little less cautious than he might otherwise have been.
In the night time streets of Ankh-Morpork caution is an absolute. There is no such thing as moderately cautious. You are either very cautious, or you are dead. You might be walking around and breathing, but you're dead, just the same.
He heard the muffled sounds coming from the nearby alley, slid his leather-bound cosh from his sleeve, waited until the victim was almost turning the corner, sprang out, said "Oh, shi…," and died.
It was a most unusual death. No-one else had died like that for hundreds of years.
The stone wall behind him glowed cherry red with heat, which gradually faded into darkness.
He was the first to see the Ankh-Morpork dragon. He derived little comfort from knowing this, however, because he was dead.
"…t, " he said, and his disembodied self looked down at the small heap of charcoal which, he knew with an unfamiliar sort of certainty, was what he had just been disembodied from. It was a strange sensation, seeing your own mortal remains. He didn't find it as horrifying as he would have imagined if you'd asked him, say, ten minutes ago. Finding that you are dead is mitigated by also finding that there really is a you who can find you dead.
The alley opposite was empty again.
"That was really strange, " said Mooty.
"Extremely unusual, certainly."
"Did you see that? What was it?" Mooty looked up at the dark figure emerging from the shadows. "Who're you, anyway?" he added suspiciously.
"Guess, " said the voice.
Mooty peered at the hooded figure.
"Cor!" he said. "I thought you dint turn up for the likes o' me. "
I TURN UP FOR EVERYONE.
"I mean in... person, sort of thing. "
"Sometimes. On special occasions."
"Yeah, well, " said Mooty, "this is one of them, all right! I mean, it looked like a bloody dragon! What's a man to do? You don't expect to find a dragon around the corner!"
"And now, if you would care to step this way ..". said Death, laying a skeletal hand on Mooty's shoulder.
"Do you know, a fortune teller once told me I'd die in my bed, surrounded by grieving greatgrandchildren, " said Mooty, following the stately figure. "What do you think of that, eh?"
I THINK SHE WAS WRONG.
"A bloody dragon, " said Mooty. "Fire breathing, too. Did I suffer much?"
NO. IT WAS PRACTICALLY INSTANTANEOUS.
"That's good. I wouldn't like to think I'd suffered much. " Mooty looked around him. "What happens now?" he said.
Behind them, the rain washed the little heap of black ash into the mud.
...
The Supreme Grand Master opened his eyes. He was lying on his back. Brother Dunnykin was preparing to give him the kiss of life. The mere thought was enough to jerk anyone from the borders of consciousness.
He sat up, trying to shed the feeling that he weighed several tons and was covered in scales.
"We did it, " he whispered. "The dragon! It came! I felt it!"
The Brethren glanced at one another.
"We never saw nothing, " said Brother Plasterer.
"I might of seen something, " said Brother Watchtower loyally.
"No, not here, " snapped the Supreme Grand Master. "You hardly want it to materialise here, do you? It was out there, in the city. Just for a few seconds... "
He pointed. "Look!"
The Brethren turned around guiltily, expecting at any moment the hot flame of retribution.
In the centre of the circle the magic items were gently crumbling to dust. Even as they watched, Brother Dunnykin's amulet collapsed.
"Sucked dry, " whispered Brother Fingers. "I'll be damned!"
"Three dollars that amulet cost me, " muttered Brother Dunnykin.
"But it proves it works, " said the Supreme Grand Master. "Don't you see, you fools? It works! We can summon dragons!"
"Could be a bit expensive in magical items, " said Brother Fingers doubtfully.
"…three dollars, it was. No rubbish…"
"Power, " growled the Supreme Grand Master, "does not come cheap. "
"Very true, " nodded Brother Watchtower. "Not cheap. Very true. " He looked at the little heap of exhausted magic again. "Cor, " he said. "We did it though, dint we! We only went and bloody well did some magic, right?"
"See?" said Brother Fingers. "I tole you there was nothin' to it. "
"You all did exceptionally well, " said the Supreme Grand Master encouragingly.
"…should've been six dollars, but he said he'd cut his own throat and sell it me for three dollars…"
"Yeah, " said Brother Watchtower. "We got the hang of it all right! Dint hurt a bit. We done real magic! And dint get et by tooth fairies from out of the woodwork either, Brother Plasterer, I couldn't help noticing. "
The other Brethren nodded. Real magic. Nothing to it. Everyone had just better watch out.
"Hang on, though, " said Brother Plasterer. "Where's this dragon gone? I mean, did we really summon it or not?"
"Fancy you asking a silly question like that, " said Brother Watchtower doubtfully.
The Supreme Grand Master brushed the dust off his mystic robe.
"We summoned it, " he said, "and it came. But only as long as the magic lasted. Then it went back. If we want it to stay longer, we need more magic. Understand? And that is what we must get. "
"…three dollars I shan't see again in a hurry…"
"Shut up!"
...
Dearest Father [wrote Carrot] Well, here I am in Ankh-Morpork. It is not like at home. I think it must have changed a bit since Mr Varneshi's great-grandfather was here. I don't think people here know Right from Wrong.
I found Captain Vimes in a common ale-house. I remembered what you said about a good dwarf not going into such places, but since he did not come out, I went in. He was lying with his head on the table. When I spoke to him, he said, pull the other one, kid, it has got bells on. I believe he was the worse for drink. He told me to find a place to stay and report to Sgt Colon at the Watch House tonight. He said, anyone wanting to join the guard needed their head examined.
Mr Varneshi did not mention this. Perhaps it is done for reasons of Hygiene.
I went for a walk. There are many people here. I found a place, it is called The Shades. Then I saw some men trying to rob a young Lady. I set about them. They did not know how to fight properly and one of them tried to kick me in the Vitals, but I was wearing the Protective as instructed and he hurt himself. Then the Lady came up to me and said, ' 'Was I Interested in Bed.' I said yes. She took me to where she lived, a boarding house, I think it is called. It is run by a Mrs Palm. The Lady whose purse it was, she is called Reel, said, You should of seen him, there were 3 of them, it was amazing. Mrs Palm said, It is on the house. She said, what a big Protective. So I went upstairs and fell asleep, although it is a very noisy place. Reel woke me up once or twice to say, Do you want anything, but they had no apples. So I have fallen on my Feet, as they say here but, I don't see how that is possible because, if you fall you fall off your Feet, it is Common Sense.
There is certainly a lot to do. When I went to see the Sgt I saw a place called, The Thieves' Guild!! I asked Mrs Palm and she said, Of course. She said the leaders of the Thieves in the City meet there. I went to the Watch House and met Sgt Colon, a very fat man, and when I told him about the Thieves' Guild he said, 'Don't be An Idiot.' I do not think he is serious. He says, 'Don't you worry about Thieves' Guilds, This is all what you have to do, you walk along the Streets at Night, shouting, It's Twelve O'clock and All's Well.
I said, 'What if it is not all well,' and he said, 'You bloody well find another street.'
This is not Leadership.
I have been given some chain mail. It is rusty and not well made.
They give you money for being a guard. It is, 20 dollars a month. When I get it I will send you it.
I hope you are all well and that Shaft #5 is now open. This afternoon I will go and look at the Thieves' Guild. It is disgraceful. If I do something about it, it will be a Feather in my Cap. I am getting the Hang of how they talk here already. Your loving son, Carrot.
PS. Please give all my love to Minty. I really miss her.
...
Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, put his hand over his eyes.
"He did what?"
"I was marched through the streets, " said Urdo van Pew, currently President of the Guild of Thieves, Burglars and Allied Trades. "In broad daylight! With my hands tied together!" He took a few steps towards the Patrician's severe chair of office, waving a finger.
"You know very well that we have kept within the Budget, " he said. "To be humiliated like that! Like a common criminal! There had better be a full apology, " he said, "or you will have another strike on your hands. We will be driven to it, despite our natural civic responsibilities, " he added.
It was the finger. The finger was a mistake. The Patrician was staring coldly at the finger. Van Pew followed his gaze, and quickly lowered the digit. The Patrician was not a man you shook a finger at unless you wanted to end up being able to count only to nine.
"And you say this was one person?" said Lord Vetinari.
"Yes! That is…" Van Pew hesitated.
It did sound weird, now he came to tell someone.
"But there are hundreds of you in there, " said the Patrician calmly. "Thick as, you should excuse the expression, thieves. "
Van Pew opened and shut his mouth a few times. The honest answer would have been: yes, and if anyone had come sidling in and skulking around the corridors it would have been the worse for them. It was the way he strode in as if he owned the place that fooled everyone. That and the fact that he kept hitting people and telling them to Mend their Ways.
The Patrician nodded.
"I shall deal with the matter momentarily, " he said. It was a good word. It always made people hesitate. They were never quite sure whether he meant he'd deal with it now, or just deal with it briefly. And no one ever dared ask.
Van Pew backed down.
"A full apology, mark you. I have a position to maintain, " he added.
"Thank you. Do not let me detain you, " said the Patrician, once again giving the language his own individual spin.
"Right. Good. Thank you. Very well, " said the thief.
' 'After all, you have such a lot of work to do, '' Lord Vetinari went on.
"Well, of course this is the case. " The thief hesitated. The Patrician's last remark had barbs on it. You found yourself waiting for him to strike.
"Er, " he said, hoping for a clue.
"With so much business being conducted, that is."
Panic took over the thief's features. Randomised guilt flooded his mind. It wasn't a case of what had he done, it was a question of what the Patrician had found out about. The man had eyes everywhere, none of them so terrifying as the icy blue ones just above his nose.
"I, er, don't quite follow... "he began.
"Curious choice of targets. " The Patrician picked up a sheet of paper. " For example, a crystal ball belonging to a fortune teller in Sheer Street. A small ornament from the temple of Offler the Crocodile God. And so on. Gewgaws. "
"I am afraid I really don't know-" said the head thief. The Patrician leaned forward.
"No unlicensed thieving, surely?" he said.[6]
"I shall look into it directly!" stuttered the head thief. "Depend upon it!"
The Patrician gave him a sweet smile. "I'm sure I can, " he said. "Thank you for coming to see me. Don't hesitate to leave. "
The thief shuffled out. It was always like this with the Patrician, he reflected bitterly. You came to him with a perfectly reasonable complaint. Next thing you knew, you were shuffling out backwards, bowing and scraping, relieved simply to be getting away. You had to hand it to the Patrician, he admitted grudgingly. If you didn't, he sent men to come and take it away.
When he'd gone Lord Vetinari rang the little bronze bell that summoned his secretary. The man's name, despite his handwriting, was Lupine Wonse. He appeared, pen poised.
You could say this about Lupine Wonse. He was neat. He always gave the impression of just being completed. Even his hair was so smoothed-down and oiled it looked as though it had been painted on.
"The Watch appears to be having some difficulty with the Thieves' Guild, " said the Patrician. "Van Pew has been in here claiming that a member of the Watch arrested him. "
"What for, sir?"
"Being a thief, apparently. "
"A member of the Watch? " said the secretary.
"I know. But just sort it out, will you?"
The Patrician smiled to himself.
It was always hard to fathom Lord Vetinari's idiosyncratic sense of humour, but a vision of the red-faced, irate head thief kept coming back to him.
One of the Patrician's greatest contributions to the reliable operation of Ankh-Morpork had been, very early in his administration, the legalising of the ancient Guild of Thieves. Crime was always with us, he reasoned, and therefore, if you were going to have crime, it at least should be organised crime.
And so the Guild had been encouraged to come out of the shadows and build a big Guildhouse, take their place at civic banquets, and set up their training college with day-release courses and City and Guilds certificates and everything. In exchange for the winding down of the Watch, they agreed, while trying to keep their faces straight, to keep crime levels to a level to be determined annually. That way, everyone could plan ahead, said Lord Vetinari, and part of the uncertainty had been removed from the chaos that is life.
And then, a little while later, the Patrician summoned the leading thieves again and said, oh, by the way, there was something else. What was it, now? Oh, yes...
I know who you are, he said. I know where you live. I know what kind of horse you ride. I know where your wife has her hair done. I know where your lovely children, how old are they now, my, doesn't time fly, I know where they play. So you won't forget about what we agreed, will you? And he smiled.
The old dwarf took a deep breath. "You're human," he said.
' 'What, like Mr Varneshi?'' Mr Varneshi drove an ox-cart up the mountain trails once a week, to trade things for gold. "One of the Big People?"
"You're six foot six, lad. He's only five foot." The dwarf twiddled the loose rivet again. "You see how it is."
"Yes, but — but maybe I'm just tall for my height," said Carrot desperately. "After all, if you can have short humans, can't you have tall dwarfs?"
His father patted him companionably on the back of the knees.
"You've got to face facts, boy. You'd be much more at home up on the surface. It's in your blood. The roof isn't so low, either." You can't keep knocking yourself out on the sky, he told himself.
"Hold on," said Carrot, his honest brow wrinkling with the effort of calculation. "You're a dwarf, right? And mam's a dwarf. So I should be a dwarf, too. Fact of life."
The dwarf sighed. He'd hoped to creep up on this, over a period of months maybe, sort of break it to him gently, but there wasn't any time any more.
"Sit down, lad," he said. Carrot sat.
"The thing is," he said wretchedly, when the boy's big honest face was a little nearer his own, "we found you in the woods one day. Toddling about near one of the tracks . . . um." The loose rivet squeaked. The king plunged on.
"Thing is, you see ... there were these carts. On fire, as you might say. And dead people. Um, yes. Extremely dead people. Because of bandits. It was a bad winter that winter, there were all sorts coming into the hills ... So we took you in, of course, and then, well, it was a long winter, like I said, and your mam got used to you, and, well, we never got around to asking Varneshi to make inquiries. That's the long and the short of it."
Carrot took this fairly calmly, mostly because he didn't understand nearly all of it. Besides, as far as he was aware, being found toddling in the woods was the normal method of childbirth. A dwarf is not considered old enough to have the technical processes explained to him[3] until he has reached puberty.[4]
"All right, dad," he said, and leaned down so as to be level with the dwarf's ear. "But you know, me and-you know Minty Rocksmacker? She's really beautiful, dad, got a beard as soft as a, a, a very soft thing-we've got an understanding, and-"
"Yes," said the dwarf, coldly, "I know. Her father's had a word with me." So did her mother with your mother, he added silently, and then she had a word with me. Lots of words.
"It's not that they don't like you, you're a steady lad and a fine worker, you'd make a good son-in-law. Four good sons-in-law. That's the trouble. And she's only sixty, anyway. It's not proper. It's not right."
He'd heard about children being reared by wolves.
He wondered whether the leader of the pack ever had to sort out something tricky like this. Perhaps he'd have to take him into a quiet clearing somewhere and say, Look, son, you might have wondered why you're not as hairy as everyone else . . .
He'd discussed it with Varneshi. A good solid man, Varneshi. Of course, he'd known the man's father. And his grandfather, now he came to think about it. Humans didn't seem to last long, it was probably all the effort of pumping blood up that high.
"Got a problem there, king.[5] Right enough," the old man had said, as they shared a nip of spirits on a bench outside Shaft #2.
"He's a good lad, mind you," said the king. "Sound character. Honest. Not exactly brilliant, but you tell him to do something, he don't rest until he's done it. Obedient."
"You could chop his legs off," said Varneshi.
"It's not his legs that's going to be the problem," said the king darkly.
"Ah. Yes. Well, in that case you could…"
"No."
"No," agreed Varneshi, thoughtfully. "Hmm. Well, then what you should do is, you should send him away for a bit. Let him mix a bit with humans." He sat back. "What you've got here, king, is a duck," he added, in knowledgeable tones.
"I don't think I should tell him that. He's refusing to believe he's a human as it is."
"What I mean is, a duck brought up among chickens. Well-known farmyard phenomenon. Finds it can't bloody well peck and doesn't know what swimming is." The king listened politely. Dwarfs don't go in much for agriculture. "But you send him off to see a lot of other ducks, let him get his feet wet, and he won't go running around after bantams any more. And Bob's your uncle. "
Varneshi sat back and looked rather pleased with himself.
When you spend a large part of your life underground, you develop a very literal mind. Dwarfs have no use for metaphor and simile. Rocks are hard, the darkness is dark. Start messing around with descriptions like that and you're in big trouble, is their motto. But after two hundred years of talking to humans the king had, as it were, developed a painstaking mental toolkit which was nearly adequate for the job of understanding them.
"Surely Bjorn Stronginthearm is my uncle, " he pointed out, slowly.
"Same thing. "
There was a pause while the king subjected this to careful analysis.
"You're saying, " he said, weighing each word, "that we should send Carrot away to be a duck among humans because Bjorn Stronginthearm is my uncle. "
"He's a fine lad. Plenty of openings for a big strong lad like him, " said Varneshi.
"I have heard that dwarfs go off to work in the Big City, " said the king uncertainly. "And they send back money to their families, which is very commendable and proper. "
"There you are then. Get him a job in… in…" Varneshi sought for inspiration,"…in the Watch, or something. My great-grandfather was in the Watch, you know. Fine job for a big lad, my grandad said. "
"What is a Watch?" said the king.
"Oh, " said Varneshi, with the vagueness of someone whose family for the last three generations hadn't travelled more than twenty miles, "they goes about making sure people keep the laws and do what they're told. "
"That is a very proper concern, " said the king who, since he was usually the one doing the telling, had very solid views about people doing what they were told.
"Of course, they don't take just anyone, " said Varneshi, dredging the depths of his recollection.
"I should think not, for such an important task. I shall write to their king. "
"I don't think they have a king there, " said Varneshi. "Just some man who tells them what to do. "
The king of the dwarfs took this calmly. This seemed to be about ninety-seven per cent of the definition of kingship, as far as he was concerned.
Carrot took the news without fuss, just as he took instructions about re-opening Shaft #4 or cutting timber for shoring props. All dwarfs are by nature dutiful, serious, literate, obedient and thoughtful people whose only minor failing is a tendency, after one drink, to rush at enemies screaming "Arrrrrrgh!" and axing their legs off at the knee. Carrot saw no reason to be any different. He would go to this city — whatever that was — and have a man made of him.
They took only the finest, Varneshi had said. A watchman had to be a skilled fighter and clean in thought, word and deed. From the depths of his ancestral anecdotage the old man had dragged tales of moonlight chases across rooftops, and tremendous battles with miscreants which, of course, his great-grandad had won despite being heavily outnumbered.
Carrot had to admit it sounded better than mining.
After some thought, the king wrote to the ruler of Ankh-Morpork, respectfully asking if Carrot could be considered for a place amongst the city's finest.
Letters rarely got written in that mine. Work stopped and the whole clan had sat around in respectful silence as his pen scrittered across the parchment. His aunt had been sent up to Varneshi's to beg his pardon but could he see his way clear to sparing a smidgen of wax His sister had been sent down to the village to ask Mistress Garlick the witch how you stopped spelling recommendation.
Months had gone by.
And then there'd been the reply. It was fairly grubby, since mail in the Ramtops was generally handed to whoever was going in more or less the right direction, and it was also fairly short. It said, baldly, that his application was accepted, and would he present himself for duty immediately.
"Just like that?" he said. "I thought there'd be tests and things. To see if I was suitable. "
"You're my son, " said the king. "I told them that, see. Stands to reason you'll be suitable. Probably officer material. "
He'd pulled a sack from under his chair, rummaged around in it and presented Carrot with a length of metal, more a sword than a saw but only just.
"This might rightly belong to you, " he said. "When we found the... carts, this was the only thing left. The bandits, you see. Just between you and me," he beckoned Carrot closer,"we had a witch look at it. In case it was magic. But it isn't. Quite the most un-magical sword she'd ever seen, she said. They normally have a bit, see, on account of it's like magnetism, I suppose. Got quite a nice balance, though. "
He handed it over.
He rummaged around some more. "And then there's this. " He held up a shirt. "It'll protect you. "
Carrot fingered it carefully. It was made from the wool of Ramtop sheep, which had all the warmth and softness of hog bristles. It was one of the legendary woolly dwarf vests, the kind of vest that needs hinges.
"Protect me from what?" he said.
"Colds, and so on, " said the king. "Your mother says you've got to wear it. And… er... that reminds me. Mr Varneshi says he'd like you to drop in on the way down the mountain. He's got something for you. "
His father and mother had waved him out of sight. Minty didn't. Funny, that. She seemed to have been avoiding him lately.
He'd taken the sword, slung on his back, sandwiches and clean underwear in his pack, and the world, more or less, at his feet. In his pocket was the famous letter from the Patrician, the man who ruled the great fine city of Ankh-Morpork.
At least, that's how his mother had referred to it. It certainly had an important-looking crest at the top, but the signature was something like "Lupin Squiggle, Sec'y, pp".
Still, if it wasn't actually signed by the Patrician then it had certainly been written by someone who worked for him. Or in the same building. Probably the Patrician had at least known about the letter. In general terms. Not this letter, perhaps, but probably he knew about the existence of letters in general.
Carrot walked steadfastly down the mountain paths, disturbing clouds of bumblebees. After a while he unsheathed the sword and made experimental stabs at felonious tree stumps and unlawful assemblies of stinging nettles.
Varneshi was sitting outside his hut, threading dried mushrooms on a string.
"Hallo, Carrot, " he said, leading the way inside. "Looking forward to the city?"
Carrot gave this due consideration.
"No, " he said.
"Having second thoughts, are you?"
"No. I was just walking along, " said Carrot honestly. "I wasn't thinking about anything much. "
"Your dad give you the sword, did he?" said Varneshi, rummaging on a fetid shelf.
"Yes. And a woolly vest to protect me against chills. "
"Ah. Yes, it can be very damp down there, so I've heard. Protection. Very important. " He turned around and added, dramatically, "This belonged to my great-grandfather. "
It was a strange, vaguely hemispherical device surrounded by straps.
"It's some sort of sling?" said Carrot, after examining it in polite silence.
Varneshi told him what it was.
"Codpiece like in fish?" said Carrot, mystified.
"No. It's for the fighting, " mumbled Varneshi. "You should wear it all the time. Protects your vitals, like. "
Carrot tried it on.
"It's a bit small, Mr Varneshi. "
"That's because you don't wear it on your head, you see. "
Varneshi explained some more, to Carrot's mounting bewilderment and, subsequently, horror. "My great-grandad used to say, " Varneshi finished, "that but for this I wouldn't be here today. "
"What did he mean by that?"
Varneshi's mouth opened and shut a few times. "I've no idea, " he said, spinelessly.
Anyway, the shameful thing was now at the very bottom of Carrot's pack. Dwarfs didn't have much truck with things like that. The ghastly preventative represented a glimpse into a world as alien as the backside of the moon.
There had been another gift from Mr Varneshi. It was a small but very thick book, bound in a leather that had become like wood over the years.
It was called: The Laws And Ordinances of The Cities of Ankh And Morpork.
"This belonged to my great-grandad as well, " he said. "This is what the Watch has to know. You have to know all the laws, " he said virtuously, "to be a good officer. ''
Perhaps Varneshi should have recalled that, in the whole of Carrot's life, no one had ever really lied to him or given him an instruction that he wasn't meant to take quite literally. Carrot solemnly took the book. It would never have occurred to him, if he was going to be an officer of the Watch, to be less than a good one.
It was a five hundred mile journey and, surprisingly, quite uneventful. People who are rather more than six feet tall and nearly as broad across the shoulders often have uneventful journeys. People jump out at them from behind rocks then say things like, "Oh. Sorry. I thought you were someone else. "
He'd spent most of the journey reading.
And now Ankh-Morpork was before him.
It was a little disappointing. He'd expected high white towers rearing over the landscape, and flags. Ankh-Morpork didn't rear. Rather, it sort of skulked, clinging to the soil as if afraid someone might steal it. There were no flags.
There was a guard on the gate. At least, he was wearing chain mail and the thing he was propped up against was a spear. He had to be a guard.
Carrot saluted him and presented the letter. The man looked at it for some time.
"Mm?" he said, eventually.
"I think I've got to see Lupin Squiggle Sec'y pp, " said Carrot.
"What's the pp for?" said the guard suspiciously.
"Could it be Pretty Promptly?" said Carrot, who had wondered about this himself.
"Well, I don't know about any Sec'y, " said the guard. "You want Captain Vimes of the Night Watch. "
' 'And where is he based?'' said Carrot, politely.
"At this time of day I'd try The Bunch of Grapes in Easy Street, " said the guard. He looked Carrot up and down. "Joining the watch, are you?"
"I hope to prove worthy, yes, " said Carrot.
The guard gave him what could loosely be called an old-fashioned look. It was practically neolithic.
"What was it you done?" he said.
"I'm sorry?" said Carrot.
"You must of done something, " said the guard.
"My father wrote a letter, " said Carrot proudly. "I've been volunteered. "
"Bloody hellfire, " said the guard.
Now it was night again, and beyond the dread portal:
"Are the Wheels of Torment duly spun?" said the Supreme Grand Master.
The Elucidated Brethren shuffled around their circle.
"Brother Watchtower?" said the Supreme Grand Master.
"Not my job to spin the Wheels of Torment, " muttered Brother Watchtower. " 's Brother Plasterer's job, spinning the Wheels of Torment…"
"No it bloody well isn't, it's my job to oil the Axles of the Universal Lemon, " said Brother Plasterer hotly. "You always say it's my job…"
The Supreme Grand Master sighed in the depths of his cowl as yet another row began. From this dross he was going to forge an Age of Rationality?
"Just shut up, will you?" he snapped. "We don't really need the Wheels of Torment tonight. Stop it, the pair of you. Now, Brethren — you have all brought the items as instructed?"
There was a general murmuring.
"Place them in the Circle of Conjuration, " said the Supreme Grand Master.
It was a sorry collection. Bring magical things, he'd said. Only Brother Fingers had produced anything worthwhile. It looked like some sort of altar ornament, best not to ask from where. The Supreme Grand Master stepped forward and prodded one of the other things with his toe.
"What, " he said, "is this?"
" 'S 'n amulet, " muttered Brother Dunnykin, " 's very powerful. Bought it off a man. Guaranteed. Protects you against crocodile bites. "
"Are you sure you can spare it?" said the Supreme Grand Master. There was a dutiful titter from the rest of the Brethren.
"Less of that, brothers, " said the Grand Master, spinning around. "Bring magical things, I said. Not cheap jewellery and rubbish! Good grief, this city is lousy with magic!" He reached down. "What are these things, for heaven's sake?"
"They're stones, " said Brother Plasterer uncertainly.
"I can see that. Why 're they magical?"
Brother Plasterer began to tremble. "They've got holes in them, Supreme Grand Master. Everyone knows that stones with holes in them are magical. "
The Supreme Grand Master walked back to his place on the circle. He threw his arms up.
"Right, fine, okay, " he said wearily. "If that's how we're going to do it, that's how we're going to do it. If we get a dragon six inches long we'll all know the reason why. Won't we, Brother Plasterer. Brother Plasterer? Sorry. I didn't hear what you said? Brother Plasterer?"
"I said yes, Supreme Grand Master, " whispered Brother Plasterer.
"Very well. So long as that's quite understood. " The Supreme Grand Master turned and picked up the book.
"And now, " he said, "if we are all quite ready... "
"Um. " Brother Watchtower meekly raised his hand.
"Ready for what, Supreme Grand Master?" he said.
"For the summoning, of course. Good grief, I should have thought-"
"But you haven't told us what we're supposed to do, Supreme Grand Master, " whined Brother Watch-tower.
The Grand Master hesitated. This was quite true, but he wasn't going to admit it.
"Well, of course, " he said. "It's obvious. You have to focus your concentration. Think hard about dragons, " he translated. "All of you. "
"That's all, is it?" said Brother Doorkeeper.
"Yes. "
"Don't we have to chant a mystic prune or something?"
The Supreme Grand Master stared at him. Brother Doorkeeper managed to look as defiant in the face of oppression as an anonymous shadow in a black cowl could look. He hadn't joined a secret society not to chant mystic runes. He'd been looking forward to it.
"You can if you like, " said the Supreme Grand Master. "Now, I want you — yes, what is it, Brother Dunnykin?"
The little Brother lowered his hand. "Don't know any mystic prunes, Grand Master. Not to what you might call chant... "
"Hm!"
He opened the book.
He'd been rather surprised to find, after pages and pages of pious ramblings, that the actual Summoning itself was one short sentence. Not a chant, not a brief piece of poetry, but a mere assemblage of meaningless syllables. De Malachite said they caused interference patterns in the waves of reality, but the daft old fool was probably making it up as he went along. That was the trouble with wizards, they had to make everything look difficult. All you really needed was willpower. And the Brethren had a lot of that. Small-minded and vitriolic willpower, yes, lousy with malignity maybe, but still powerful enough in its way...
They'd try nothing fancy this time round. Somewhere inconspicuous...
Around him the Brethren were chanting what each man considered, according to his lights, to be something mystical. The general effect was actually quite good, if you didn't listen to the words.
The words. Oh, yes...
He looked down, and spoke them aloud.
Nothing happened.
He blinked.
When he opened his eyes again he was in a dark alley, his stomach was full of fire, and he was very angry.
It was about to be the worst night of his life for Zebbo Mooty, Thief Third Class, and it wouldn't have made him any happier to know that it was also going to be the last one. The rain was keeping people indoors, and he was way behind on his quota. He was, therefore, a little less cautious than he might otherwise have been.
In the night time streets of Ankh-Morpork caution is an absolute. There is no such thing as moderately cautious. You are either very cautious, or you are dead. You might be walking around and breathing, but you're dead, just the same.
He heard the muffled sounds coming from the nearby alley, slid his leather-bound cosh from his sleeve, waited until the victim was almost turning the corner, sprang out, said "Oh, shi…," and died.
It was a most unusual death. No-one else had died like that for hundreds of years.
The stone wall behind him glowed cherry red with heat, which gradually faded into darkness.
He was the first to see the Ankh-Morpork dragon. He derived little comfort from knowing this, however, because he was dead.
"…t, " he said, and his disembodied self looked down at the small heap of charcoal which, he knew with an unfamiliar sort of certainty, was what he had just been disembodied from. It was a strange sensation, seeing your own mortal remains. He didn't find it as horrifying as he would have imagined if you'd asked him, say, ten minutes ago. Finding that you are dead is mitigated by also finding that there really is a you who can find you dead.
The alley opposite was empty again.
"That was really strange, " said Mooty.
"Extremely unusual, certainly."
"Did you see that? What was it?" Mooty looked up at the dark figure emerging from the shadows. "Who're you, anyway?" he added suspiciously.
"Guess, " said the voice.
Mooty peered at the hooded figure.
"Cor!" he said. "I thought you dint turn up for the likes o' me. "
I TURN UP FOR EVERYONE.
"I mean in... person, sort of thing. "
"Sometimes. On special occasions."
"Yeah, well, " said Mooty, "this is one of them, all right! I mean, it looked like a bloody dragon! What's a man to do? You don't expect to find a dragon around the corner!"
"And now, if you would care to step this way ..". said Death, laying a skeletal hand on Mooty's shoulder.
"Do you know, a fortune teller once told me I'd die in my bed, surrounded by grieving greatgrandchildren, " said Mooty, following the stately figure. "What do you think of that, eh?"
I THINK SHE WAS WRONG.
"A bloody dragon, " said Mooty. "Fire breathing, too. Did I suffer much?"
NO. IT WAS PRACTICALLY INSTANTANEOUS.
"That's good. I wouldn't like to think I'd suffered much. " Mooty looked around him. "What happens now?" he said.
Behind them, the rain washed the little heap of black ash into the mud.
...
The Supreme Grand Master opened his eyes. He was lying on his back. Brother Dunnykin was preparing to give him the kiss of life. The mere thought was enough to jerk anyone from the borders of consciousness.
He sat up, trying to shed the feeling that he weighed several tons and was covered in scales.
"We did it, " he whispered. "The dragon! It came! I felt it!"
The Brethren glanced at one another.
"We never saw nothing, " said Brother Plasterer.
"I might of seen something, " said Brother Watchtower loyally.
"No, not here, " snapped the Supreme Grand Master. "You hardly want it to materialise here, do you? It was out there, in the city. Just for a few seconds... "
He pointed. "Look!"
The Brethren turned around guiltily, expecting at any moment the hot flame of retribution.
In the centre of the circle the magic items were gently crumbling to dust. Even as they watched, Brother Dunnykin's amulet collapsed.
"Sucked dry, " whispered Brother Fingers. "I'll be damned!"
"Three dollars that amulet cost me, " muttered Brother Dunnykin.
"But it proves it works, " said the Supreme Grand Master. "Don't you see, you fools? It works! We can summon dragons!"
"Could be a bit expensive in magical items, " said Brother Fingers doubtfully.
"…three dollars, it was. No rubbish…"
"Power, " growled the Supreme Grand Master, "does not come cheap. "
"Very true, " nodded Brother Watchtower. "Not cheap. Very true. " He looked at the little heap of exhausted magic again. "Cor, " he said. "We did it though, dint we! We only went and bloody well did some magic, right?"
"See?" said Brother Fingers. "I tole you there was nothin' to it. "
"You all did exceptionally well, " said the Supreme Grand Master encouragingly.
"…should've been six dollars, but he said he'd cut his own throat and sell it me for three dollars…"
"Yeah, " said Brother Watchtower. "We got the hang of it all right! Dint hurt a bit. We done real magic! And dint get et by tooth fairies from out of the woodwork either, Brother Plasterer, I couldn't help noticing. "
The other Brethren nodded. Real magic. Nothing to it. Everyone had just better watch out.
"Hang on, though, " said Brother Plasterer. "Where's this dragon gone? I mean, did we really summon it or not?"
"Fancy you asking a silly question like that, " said Brother Watchtower doubtfully.
The Supreme Grand Master brushed the dust off his mystic robe.
"We summoned it, " he said, "and it came. But only as long as the magic lasted. Then it went back. If we want it to stay longer, we need more magic. Understand? And that is what we must get. "
"…three dollars I shan't see again in a hurry…"
"Shut up!"
...
Dearest Father [wrote Carrot] Well, here I am in Ankh-Morpork. It is not like at home. I think it must have changed a bit since Mr Varneshi's great-grandfather was here. I don't think people here know Right from Wrong.
I found Captain Vimes in a common ale-house. I remembered what you said about a good dwarf not going into such places, but since he did not come out, I went in. He was lying with his head on the table. When I spoke to him, he said, pull the other one, kid, it has got bells on. I believe he was the worse for drink. He told me to find a place to stay and report to Sgt Colon at the Watch House tonight. He said, anyone wanting to join the guard needed their head examined.
Mr Varneshi did not mention this. Perhaps it is done for reasons of Hygiene.
I went for a walk. There are many people here. I found a place, it is called The Shades. Then I saw some men trying to rob a young Lady. I set about them. They did not know how to fight properly and one of them tried to kick me in the Vitals, but I was wearing the Protective as instructed and he hurt himself. Then the Lady came up to me and said, ' 'Was I Interested in Bed.' I said yes. She took me to where she lived, a boarding house, I think it is called. It is run by a Mrs Palm. The Lady whose purse it was, she is called Reel, said, You should of seen him, there were 3 of them, it was amazing. Mrs Palm said, It is on the house. She said, what a big Protective. So I went upstairs and fell asleep, although it is a very noisy place. Reel woke me up once or twice to say, Do you want anything, but they had no apples. So I have fallen on my Feet, as they say here but, I don't see how that is possible because, if you fall you fall off your Feet, it is Common Sense.
There is certainly a lot to do. When I went to see the Sgt I saw a place called, The Thieves' Guild!! I asked Mrs Palm and she said, Of course. She said the leaders of the Thieves in the City meet there. I went to the Watch House and met Sgt Colon, a very fat man, and when I told him about the Thieves' Guild he said, 'Don't be An Idiot.' I do not think he is serious. He says, 'Don't you worry about Thieves' Guilds, This is all what you have to do, you walk along the Streets at Night, shouting, It's Twelve O'clock and All's Well.
I said, 'What if it is not all well,' and he said, 'You bloody well find another street.'
This is not Leadership.
I have been given some chain mail. It is rusty and not well made.
They give you money for being a guard. It is, 20 dollars a month. When I get it I will send you it.
I hope you are all well and that Shaft #5 is now open. This afternoon I will go and look at the Thieves' Guild. It is disgraceful. If I do something about it, it will be a Feather in my Cap. I am getting the Hang of how they talk here already. Your loving son, Carrot.
PS. Please give all my love to Minty. I really miss her.
...
Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, put his hand over his eyes.
"He did what?"
"I was marched through the streets, " said Urdo van Pew, currently President of the Guild of Thieves, Burglars and Allied Trades. "In broad daylight! With my hands tied together!" He took a few steps towards the Patrician's severe chair of office, waving a finger.
"You know very well that we have kept within the Budget, " he said. "To be humiliated like that! Like a common criminal! There had better be a full apology, " he said, "or you will have another strike on your hands. We will be driven to it, despite our natural civic responsibilities, " he added.
It was the finger. The finger was a mistake. The Patrician was staring coldly at the finger. Van Pew followed his gaze, and quickly lowered the digit. The Patrician was not a man you shook a finger at unless you wanted to end up being able to count only to nine.
"And you say this was one person?" said Lord Vetinari.
"Yes! That is…" Van Pew hesitated.
It did sound weird, now he came to tell someone.
"But there are hundreds of you in there, " said the Patrician calmly. "Thick as, you should excuse the expression, thieves. "
Van Pew opened and shut his mouth a few times. The honest answer would have been: yes, and if anyone had come sidling in and skulking around the corridors it would have been the worse for them. It was the way he strode in as if he owned the place that fooled everyone. That and the fact that he kept hitting people and telling them to Mend their Ways.
The Patrician nodded.
"I shall deal with the matter momentarily, " he said. It was a good word. It always made people hesitate. They were never quite sure whether he meant he'd deal with it now, or just deal with it briefly. And no one ever dared ask.
Van Pew backed down.
"A full apology, mark you. I have a position to maintain, " he added.
"Thank you. Do not let me detain you, " said the Patrician, once again giving the language his own individual spin.
"Right. Good. Thank you. Very well, " said the thief.
' 'After all, you have such a lot of work to do, '' Lord Vetinari went on.
"Well, of course this is the case. " The thief hesitated. The Patrician's last remark had barbs on it. You found yourself waiting for him to strike.
"Er, " he said, hoping for a clue.
"With so much business being conducted, that is."
Panic took over the thief's features. Randomised guilt flooded his mind. It wasn't a case of what had he done, it was a question of what the Patrician had found out about. The man had eyes everywhere, none of them so terrifying as the icy blue ones just above his nose.
"I, er, don't quite follow... "he began.
"Curious choice of targets. " The Patrician picked up a sheet of paper. " For example, a crystal ball belonging to a fortune teller in Sheer Street. A small ornament from the temple of Offler the Crocodile God. And so on. Gewgaws. "
"I am afraid I really don't know-" said the head thief. The Patrician leaned forward.
"No unlicensed thieving, surely?" he said.[6]
"I shall look into it directly!" stuttered the head thief. "Depend upon it!"
The Patrician gave him a sweet smile. "I'm sure I can, " he said. "Thank you for coming to see me. Don't hesitate to leave. "
The thief shuffled out. It was always like this with the Patrician, he reflected bitterly. You came to him with a perfectly reasonable complaint. Next thing you knew, you were shuffling out backwards, bowing and scraping, relieved simply to be getting away. You had to hand it to the Patrician, he admitted grudgingly. If you didn't, he sent men to come and take it away.
When he'd gone Lord Vetinari rang the little bronze bell that summoned his secretary. The man's name, despite his handwriting, was Lupine Wonse. He appeared, pen poised.
You could say this about Lupine Wonse. He was neat. He always gave the impression of just being completed. Even his hair was so smoothed-down and oiled it looked as though it had been painted on.
"The Watch appears to be having some difficulty with the Thieves' Guild, " said the Patrician. "Van Pew has been in here claiming that a member of the Watch arrested him. "
"What for, sir?"
"Being a thief, apparently. "
"A member of the Watch? " said the secretary.
"I know. But just sort it out, will you?"
The Patrician smiled to himself.
It was always hard to fathom Lord Vetinari's idiosyncratic sense of humour, but a vision of the red-faced, irate head thief kept coming back to him.
One of the Patrician's greatest contributions to the reliable operation of Ankh-Morpork had been, very early in his administration, the legalising of the ancient Guild of Thieves. Crime was always with us, he reasoned, and therefore, if you were going to have crime, it at least should be organised crime.
And so the Guild had been encouraged to come out of the shadows and build a big Guildhouse, take their place at civic banquets, and set up their training college with day-release courses and City and Guilds certificates and everything. In exchange for the winding down of the Watch, they agreed, while trying to keep their faces straight, to keep crime levels to a level to be determined annually. That way, everyone could plan ahead, said Lord Vetinari, and part of the uncertainty had been removed from the chaos that is life.
And then, a little while later, the Patrician summoned the leading thieves again and said, oh, by the way, there was something else. What was it, now? Oh, yes...
I know who you are, he said. I know where you live. I know what kind of horse you ride. I know where your wife has her hair done. I know where your lovely children, how old are they now, my, doesn't time fly, I know where they play. So you won't forget about what we agreed, will you? And he smiled.