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Only Brother Plasterer was actually happy.
"Let that be a lesson to all oppressive vegetable sellers," he kept saying.
"Yes, er," said Brother Doorkeeper. "Only, the thing is, there's no chance of us sort of accidentally summoning the dragon here, is there?"
"I-that is, we-have it under perfect control," said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly. "The power is ours. I can assure you."
The Brothers cheered up a little bit.
"And now," the Supreme Grand Master continued, "there is the matter of the king."
The Brothers looked solemn, except for Brother Plasterer.
"Have we found him, then?" he said. "That's a stroke of luck.''
"You never listen, do you?" snapped Brother Watchtower. "It was all explained last week, we don't go around finding anyone, we make a king."
"I thought he was supposed to turn up. 'Cos of destiny."
Brother Watchtower sniggered. "We sort of help Destiny along a bit."
The Supreme Grand Master smiled in the depths of his robe. It was amazing, this mystic business. You tell them a lie, and then when you don't need it any more you tell them another lie and tell them they're progressing along the road to wisdom. Then instead of laughing they follow you even more, hoping that at the heart of all the lies they'll find the truth. And bit by bit they accept the unacceptable. Amazing.
"Bloody hell, that's clever," said Brother Doorkeeper. "How do we do that, then?"
"Look, the Supreme Grand Master said what we do, we find some handsome lad who's good at taking orders, he kills the dragon, and Bob's your uncle. Simple. Much more intelligent than waitin' for a so-called real king."
"But," Brother Plasterer seemed deep in the toils of cerebration, "if we control the dragon, and we do control the dragon, right? Then we don't need anyone killing it, we just stop summoning it, and everyone 'll be happy, right?"
"Ho yes," said Brother Watchtower nastily, "I can just see it, can you? We just trot out, say 'Hallo, we won't set fire to your houses any more, aren't we nice', do we? The whole point about the thing with the king is that he'll be a, a sort of…"
"Undeniably potent and romantic symbol of absolute authority," said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly.
"That's it," said Brother Watchtower. "A potent authority."
"Oh, I see," said Brother Plasterer. "Right. Okay. That's what the king 'll be."
"That's it," said Brother Watchtower.
"No-one going to argue with a potent authority, are they?"
"Too right," said Brother Watchtower.
"Stroke of luck, then, finding the true king right now," said Brother Plasterer. "Million to one chance, really."
"We haven't found the right king. We don't need the right king," said the Supreme Grand Master wearily. "For the last time! I've just found us a likely lad who looks good in a crown and can take orders and knows how to flourish a sword. Now just listen ..."
Flourishing, of course, was important. It didn't have much to do with wielding. Wielding a sword, the Supreme Grand Master considered, was simply the messy business of dynastic surgery. It was just a matter of thrust and cut. Whereas a king had to flourish one. It had to catch the light in just the right way, leaving watchers in no doubt that here was Destiny's chosen. He'd taken a long time preparing the sword and shield. It had been very expensive. The shield shone like a dollar in a sweep's earhole but the sword, the sword was magnificent . . .
It was long and shiny. It looked like something some genius of metalwork — one of those little Zen guys who works only by the light of dawn and can beat a club sandwich of folded steels into something with the cutting edge of a scalpel and the stopping-power of a sex-crazed rhinoceros on bad acid-had made and then retired in tears because he'd never, ever, do anything so good again. There were so many jewels on the hilt it had to be sheathed in velvet, you had to look at it through smoked glass. Just laying a hand on it practically conferred kingship.
As for the lad ... he was a distant cousin, keen and vain, and stupid in a passably aristocratic way. Currently he was under guard in a distant farmhouse, with an adequate supply of drink and several young ladies, although what the boy seemed most interested in was mirrors. Probably hero material, the Supreme Grand Master thought glumly.
"I suppose," said Brother Watchtower, "that he isn't the real air to the throne?"
"What do you mean?" said the Supreme Grand Master.
"Well, you know how it is. Fate plays funny tricks. Ha-ha. It'd be a laugh, wouldn't it," said Brother Watchtower, ' 'if this lad turned out to be the real king. After all this trouble-"
"There is no real king any more!" snapped the Supreme Grand Master. "What do you expect? Some people wandering in the wilderness for hundreds and hundreds of years, patiently handing down a sword and a birthmark? Some sort of magic?" He spat the word. He'd make use of magic, means to an end, end justifies means and so forth, but to go around believing it, believing it had some sort of moral force, like logic, made him wince. "Good grief, man, be logical! Be rational. Even if any of the old royal family survived, the blood line'd be so watered down by now that there must be thousands of people who lay claim to the throne. Even," he tried to think of the least likely claimant,"even someone like Brother Dunnykin." He stared at the assembled Brethren. "Don't see him here tonight, by the way."
"Funny thing, that," said Brother Watchtower thoughtfully. "Didn't you hear?"
"What?"
"He got bitten by a crocodile on his way home last night. Poor little bugger."
"What?"
"Million to one chance. It'd escaped from a menagerie, or something, and was lying low in his back yard. He went to feel under his doormat for his door key and it had him by the funes."[14] Brother Watchtower fumbled under his robe and produced a grubby brown envelope. "We're having a whip-round to buy him some grapes and that, I don't know whether you'd like to, er . . ."
"Put me down for three dollars," said the Supreme Grand Master.
Brother Watchtower nodded. "Funny thing," he said, "I already have."
Just a few more nights, thought the Supreme Grand Master. By tomorrow the people 'll be so desperate, they'd crown even a one-legged troll if he got rid of the dragon. And we'll have a king, and he'll have an advisor, a trusted man, of course, and this stupid rabble can go back to the gutter. No more dressing up, no more ritual.
No more summoning the dragon.
I can give it up, he thought. I can give it up any time I like.
...
The streets outside the Patrician's palace were thronged. There was a manic air of carnival. Vimes ran a practiced eye over the assortment before him. It was the usual Ankh-Morpork mob in times of crisis; half of them were here to complain, a quarter of them were here to watch the other half, and the remainder were here to rob, importune or sell hot-dogs to the rest. There were a few new faces, though. There were a number of grim men with big swords slung over their shoulders and whips slung on their belts, striding through the crowds.
"News spreads quick, don't it," observed a familiar voice by his ear. "Morning, Captain."
Vimes looked into the grinning, cadaverous face of Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, purveyor of absolutely anything that could be sold hurriedly from an open suitcase in a busy street and was guaranteed to have fallen off the back of an oxcart.
"Morning, Throat," said Vimes absently. "What're you selling?"
"Genuine article, Captain." Throat leaned closer. He was the sort of person who could make "Good morning" sound like a once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated offer. His eyes swivelled back and forth in their sockets, like two rodents trying to find a way out. "Can't afford to be without it," he hissed. "Anti-dragon cream. Personal guarantee: if you're incinerated you get your money back, no quibble."
"What you're saying," said Vimes slowly, "if I understand the wording correctly, is that if I am baked alive by the dragon you'll return the money?"
"Upon personal application," said Cut-me-own-Throat. He unscrewed the lid from a jar of vivid green ointment and thrust it under Vimes's nose. "Made from over fifty different rare spices and herbs to a recipe known only to a bunch of ancient monks what live on some mountain somewhere. One dollar a jar, and I'm cutting my own throat. It's a public service, really," he added piously.
"You've got to hand it to those ancient monks, brewing it up so quickly," said Vimes.
"Clever buggers," agreed Cut-me-own-Throat. "It must be all that meditation and yak yogurt."
"So what's happening, Throat?" said Vimes. "Who're all the guys with the big swords?"
"Dragon hunters, Cap'n. The Patrician announced a reward of fifty thousand dollars to anyone who brings him the dragon's head. Not attached to the dragon, either; he's no fool, that man."
"What?"
"That's what he said. It's all written on posters."
"Fifty thousand dollars!"
"Not chicken feed, eh?"
"More like dragon fodder," said Vimes. It'd bring trouble, you mark his words. "I'm amazed you're not grabbing a sword and joining in."
"I'm more in what you might call the service sector, Cap'n." Throat looked both ways conspiratorially, and then passed Vimes a slip of parchment.
It said:
Anti-dragon mirror shields A$ 500
Portable lair detectors A$250
Dragon-piercing arrows A$100 per each
Shovels A$5 Picks A$5 Sacks A$l
Vimes handed it back. "Why the sacks?" he said.
"On account of the hoard," said Throat.
"Oh, yes," said Vimes gloomily. "Of course."
"Tell you what," said Throat, "tell you what. For our boys in brown, ten percent off."
"And you're cutting your own throat, Throat?"
"Fifteen percent for officers!" urged Throat, as Vimes walked away. The cause of the slight panic in his voice was soon apparent. He had plenty of competition.
The people of Ankh-Morpork were not by nature heroic but were, by nature, salesmen. In the space of a few feet Vimes could have bought any number of magical weapons Genuine certyfycate of orthenticity with everyone, a cloak of invisibility — a good touch, he thought, and he was really impressed by the way the stall owner was using a mirror with no glass in it— and, by way of lighter relief, dragon biscuits, balloons and windmills on sticks. Copper bracelets guaranteed to bring relief from dragons were a nice thought.
There seemed to be as many sacks and shovels about as there were swords.
Gold, that was it. The hoard. Hah!
Fifty thousand dollars! An officer of the Watch earned thirty dollars a month and had to pay to have his own dents beaten out.
What he couldn't do with fifty thousand dollars . . .
Vimes thought about this for a while and then thought of the things he could do with fifty thousand dollars. There were so many more of them, for a start.
He almost walked into a group of men clustered around a poster nailed to the wall. It declared, indeed, that the head of the dragon that had terrorized the city would be worth A$50,000 to the brave hero that delivered it to the palace.
One of the cluster, who from his size, weaponry and that way he was slowly tracing the lettering with his finger Vimes decided was a leading hero, was doing the reading for the others.
"…to ter-her pal-ack-ee," he concluded.
"Fifty thousand," said one of them reflectively, rubbing his chin.
"Cheap job," said the intellectual. "Well below the rate. Should be half the kingdom and his daughter's hand in marriage."
"Yes, but he ain't a king. He's a Patrician."
"Well, half his Patrimony or whatever. What's his daughter like?"
The assembled hunters didn't know.
"He's not married," Vimes volunteered. "So he hasn't got a daughter."
They turned and looked him up and down. He could see the disdain in their eyes. They probably got through dozens like him every day. ' 'Not got a daughter?'' said one of them. "Wants people to kill dragons and he hasn't got a daughter?"
Vimes felt, in an odd way, that he ought to support the lord of the city. "He's got a little dog that he's very fond of," he said helpfully.
"Bleeding disgusting, not even having a daughter," said one of the hunters. "And what's fifty thousand dollars these days? You spend that much in nets."
"S'right," said another. "People think it's a fortune, but they don't reckon on, well, it's not pensionable, there's all the medical expenses, you've got to buy and maintain your own gear…"
"…wear and tear on virgins…" nodded a small fat hunter.
"Yeah, and then there's . . . what?"
"My specialty is unicorns," the hunter explained, with an embarrassed smile.
"Oh, right." The first speaker looked like someone who'd always been dying to ask the question. "I thought they were very rare these days."
"You're right there. You don't see many unicorns, either," said the unicorn hunter. Vimes got the impression that, in his whole life, this was his only joke.
"Yeah, well. Times are hard," said the first speaker sharply.
"Monsters are getting more uppity, too," said another. "I heard where this guy, he killed this monster in this lake, no problem, stuck its arm up over the door…"
"Pour encourjay lays ortras," said one of the listeners.
"Right, and you know what? Its mum come and complained. Its actual mum come right down to the hall next day and complained. Actually complained. That's the respect you get."
"The females are always the worst," said another hunter gloomily. "I knew this cross-eyed gorgon once, oh, she was a terror. Kept turning her own nose to stone."
"It's our arses on the line every time," said the intellectual. "I mean, I wish I had a dollar for every horse I've had eaten out from underneath me."
"Right. Fifty thousand dollars? He can stuff it."
"Yeah."
"Right. Cheapskate."
"Let's go and have a drink."
"Right."
They nodded in righteous agreement and strode off towards the Mended Drum, except for the intellectual, who sidled uneasily back to Vimes.
"What sort of dog?" he said.
"What?" said Vimes.
"I said, what sort of dog?"
"A small wire-haired terrier, I think," said Vimes.
The hunter thought about this for some time.
"Nah," he said eventually, and hurried off after the others.
"He's got an aunt in Pseudopolis, I believe," Vimes called after him.
There was no response. The captain of the Watch shrugged, and carried on through the throng to the Patrician's palace . . .
...
. . . where the Patrician was having a difficult lunch-time.
"Gentlemen!" he snapped. "I really don't see what else there is to do!"
The assembled civic leaders muttered amongst themselves.
"At times like this it's traditional that a hero comes forth," said the President of the Guild of Assassins. "A dragon slayer. Where is he, that's what I want to know? Why aren't our schools turning out young people with the kind of skills society needs?"
"Fifty thousand dollars doesn't sound much," said the Chairman of the Guild of Thieves.
"It may not be much to you, my dear sir, but it is all the city can afford," said the Patrician firmly.
"If it doesn't afford any more than that I don't think there'll be a city for long," said the thief.
"And what about trade?" said the representative of the Guild of Merchants. "People aren't going to sail here with a cargo of rare comestibles just to have it incinerated, are they?"
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" The Patrician raised his hands in a conciliatory fashion. "It seems to me," he went on, taking advantage of the brief pause, "that what we have here is a strictly magical phenomenon. I would like to hear from our learned friend on this point. Hmm?"
Someone nudged the Archchancellor of Unseen University, who had nodded off.
"Eh? What?" said the wizard, startled into wakefulness.
"We were wondering," said the Patrician loudly, "what you were intending to do about this dragon of yours?"
The Archchancellor was old, but a lifetime of survival in the world of competitive wizardry and the byzantine politics of Unseen University meant that he could whip up a defensive argument in a split second. You didn't remain Archchancellor for long if you let that sort of ingenuous remark whizz past your ear.
"My dragon?" he said.
"It's well known that the great dragons are extinct," said the Patrician brusquely. "And, besides, their natural habitat was definitely rural. So it seems to me that this one must be mag…"
"With respect, Lord Vetinari," said the Archchancellor, "it has often been claimed that dragons are extinct, but the current evidence, if I may make so bold, tends to cast a certain doubt on the theory. As to habitat, what we are seeing here is simply a change of behaviour pattern, occasioned by the spread of urban areas into the countryside which has led many hitherto rural creatures to adopt, nay in many cases to positively embrace, a more municipal mode of existence, and many of them thrive on the new opportunities thereby opened to them. For example, foxes are always knocking over my dustbins."
He beamed. He'd managed to get all the way through it without actually needing to engage his brain.
"Are you saying," said the assassin slowly, "that what we've got here is the first civic dragon?"
"That's evolution for you," said the wizard, happily. "It should do well, too," he added. "Plenty of nesting sites, and a more than adequate food supply."
Silence greeted this statement, until the merchant said. "What exactly is it that they do eat?"
The thief shrugged. "I seem to recall stories about virgins chained to huge rocks," he volunteered.
"It'll starve round here, then," said the assassin. "We 're on loam."
"They used to go around ravening," said the thief. "Dunno if that's any help ..."
"Anyway," said the leader of the merchants, "it seems to be your problem again, my lord."
Five minutes later the Patrician was striding the length of the Oblong Office, fuming.
"They were laughing at me," said the Patrician. "I could tell!"
"Did you suggest a working party?" said Wonse.
"Of course I did! It didn't do the trick this time. You know, I really am inclined to increase the reward money."
"I don't think that would work, my lord. Any proficient monster slayer knows the rate for the job."
"Ha! Half the kingdom," muttered the Patrician.
"And your daughter's hand in marriage," said Wonse.
"I suppose an aunt isn't acceptable?" the Patrician said hopefully.
"Tradition demands a daughter, my lord."
The Patrician nodded gloomily.
"Perhaps we can buy it off," he said aloud. "Are dragons intelligent?"
"I believe the word traditionally is 'cunning', my lord," said Wonse. "I understand they have a liking for gold."
"Really? What do they spend it on?"
"They sleep on it, my lord."
"What, do you mean in a mattress?"
"No, my lord. On it. "
The Patrician turned this fact over in his mind. "Don't they find it rather knobbly?" he said.
"So I would imagine, sir. I don't suppose anyone has ever asked."
"Hmm. Can they talk?"
"They're apparently good at it, my lord."
"Ah. Interesting."
The Patrician was thinking: if it can talk, it can negotiate. If it can negotiate, then I have it by the short…-by the small scales, or whatever it is they have.
"And they are said to be silver tongued," said Wonse. The Patrician leaned back in his chair.
"Only silver?" he said.
There was the sound of muted voices in the passageway outside and Vimes was ushered in.
"Ah, Captain," said the Patrician, "what progress?"
"I'm sorry, my lord?" said Vimes, as the rain dripped off his cape.
"Towards apprehending this dragon," said the Patrician firmly.
"The wading bird?" said Vimes.
"You know very well what I mean," said Vetinari sharply.
"Investigations are in hand," said Vimes automatically.
The Patrician snorted. "All you have to do is find its lair," he said. "Once you have the lair, you have the dragon. That's obvious. Half the city seems to be looking for it."
"If there is a lair," said Vimes.
Wonse looked up sharply.
"Why do you say that?"
"We are considering a number of possibilities," said Vimes woodenly.
"If it has no lair, where does it spend its days?" said the Patrician.
"Inquiries are being pursued," said Vimes.
"Then pursue them with alacrity. And find the lair," said the Patrician sourly.
"Yes, sir. Permission to leave, sir?"
"Very well. But I shall expect progress by tonight, do you understand?"
Now why did I wonder if it has a lair? Vimes thought, as he stepped out into the daylight and the crowded square. Because it didn't look real, that's why. If it isn't real, it doesn't need to do anything we expect. How can it walk out of an alley it didn't go into?
Once you've ruled out the impossible then whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth. The problem lay in working out what was impossible, of course. That was the trick, all right.
There was also the curious incident of the orangutan in the night-time . . .
...
By day the Library buzzed with activity. Vimes moved through it diffidently. Strictly speaking, he could go anywhere in the city, but the University had always held that it fell under thaumaturgical law and he felt it wouldn't be wise to make the kind of enemies where you were lucky to end up the same temperature, let alone the same shape.
He found the Librarian hunched over his desk. The ape gave him an expectant look.
"Haven't found it yet. Sorry," said Vimes. "Enquiries are continuing. But there is a little help you can give me."
"Oook?"
"Well, this is a magical library, right? I mean, these books are sort of intelligent, isn't that so? So I've been thinking: I bet if I got in here at night, they'd soon kick up a fuss. Because they don't know me. But if they did know me, they'd probably not mind. So whoever took the book would have to be a wizard, wouldn't they? Or someone who works for the University, at any rate."
The Librarian glanced from side to side, then grasped Vimes's hand and led him into the seclusion of a couple of bookshelves. Only then did he nod his head.
"Someone they know?"
A shrug, and then another nod.
"That's why you told us, is it?"
"Oook."
"And not the University Council?"
"Oook."
"Any idea who it is?"
The Librarian shrugged, a decidedly expressive gesture for a body which was basically a sack between a pair of shoulderblades.
"Well, it's something. Let me know if any other strange things happen, won't you?" Vimes looked up at the banks of shelves. ' 'Stranger than usual, I mean.''
"Oook."
"Thank you. It's a pleasure to meet a citizen who regards it as their duty to assist the Watch."
The Librarian gave him a banana.
Vimes felt curiously elated as he stepped out into the city's throbbing streets again. He was definitely detecting things. They were little bits of things, like a jigsaw. No one of them made any real sense, but they all hinted at a bigger picture. All he needed to do was find a corner, or a bit of an edge . . .
He was pretty certain it wasn't a wizard, whatever the Librarian might think. Not a proper, paid-up wizard. This sort of thing wasn't their style.
And there was, of course, this business about the lair. The most sensible course would be to wait and see if the dragon turned up tonight, and try and see where. That meant a high place. Was there some way of detecting dragons themselves? He'd had a look at Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler's dragon detectors, which consisted solely of a piece of wood on a metal stick. When the stick was burned through, you'd found your dragon. Like a lot of Cut-me-own-Throat's devices, it was completely efficient in its own special way while at the same time being totally useless.
There had to be a better way of finding the thing than waiting until your fingers were burned off.
...
The setting sun spread out on the horizon like a lightly-poached egg.
The rooftops of Ankh-Morpork sprouted a fine array of gargoyles even in normal times, but now they were alive with as ghastly an array of faces as ever were seen outside a woodcut about the evils of gin-drinking among the non-woodcut-buying classes. Many of the faces were attached to bodies holding a fearsome array of homely weapons that had been handed down from generation to generation for centuries, often with some force.
From his perch on the roof of the Watch House Vimes could see the wizards lining the rooftops of the University, and the gangs of opportunist hoard-researchers waiting in the streets, shovels at the ready. If the dragon really did have a bed somewhere in the city, then it would be sleeping on the floor tomorrow.
From somewhere below came the cry of Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, or one of his colleagues, selling hot sausages. Vimes felt a sudden surge of civic pride. There had to be something right about a citizenry which, when faced with catastrophe, thought about selling sausages to the participants.
The city waited. A few stars came out.
Colon, Nobby and Carrot were also on the roof. Colon was sulking because Vimes had forbidden him to use his bow and arrow.
These weren't encouraged in the city, since the heft and throw of a longbow's arrow could send it through an innocent bystander a hundred yards away rather than the innocent bystander at whom it was aimed.
"That's right," said Carrot, "the Projectile Weapons (Civic Safety) Act, 1634."
"Don't you keep on quoting all that sort of stuff," snapped Colon. "We don't have any of them laws any more! That's all old stuff! It's all more wossname now. Pragmatic."
"Law or no law," said Vimes, "I say put it away."
"But Captain, I was a dab hand at this!" protested Colon. "Anyway," he added peevishly, "a lot of other people have got them."
That was true enough. Neighbouring rooftops bristled like hedgehogs. If the wretched thing turned up, it was going to think it was flying through solid wood with slots in it. You could almost feel sorry for it.
"I said put it away," said Vimes. "I'm not having my guards shooting citizens. So put it away."
"That's very true," said Carrot. "We're here to protect and to serve, aren't we, Captain."
Vimes gave him a sidelong look. "Er," he said. "Yeah. Yes. That's right."
On the roof of her house on the hill, Lady Ramkin adjusted a rather inadequate folding chair on the roof, arranged the telescope, coffee flask and sandwiches on the parapet in front of her, and settled down to wait. She had a notebook on her knee.
Half an hour went by. Hails of arrows greeted a passing cloud, several unfortunate bats, and the rising moon.
"Bugger this for a game of soldiers," said Nobby, eventually. "It's been scared off."
Sgt Colon lowered his pike. "Looks like it," he conceded.
"And it's getting chilly up here," said Carrot. He politely nudged Captain Vimes, who was slumped against the chimney, staring moodily into space.
"Maybe we ought to be getting down, sir?" he said. "Lots of people are."
"Hmm?" said Vimes, without moving his head.
"Could be coming on to rain, too," said Carrot.
Vimes said nothing. For some minutes he had been watching the Tower of Art, which was the centre of Unseen University and reputedly the oldest building hi the city. It was certainly the tallest. Time, weather and indifferent repairs had given it a gnarled appearance, like a tree that has seen too many thunderstorms.
He was trying to remember its shape. As in the case with many things that are totally familiar, he hadn't really looked at it for years. Now he was trying to convince himself that the forest of little turrets and crenellations at its top looked just the same tonight as they had done yesterday.
It was giving him some difficulty.
Without taking his eyes off it, he grabbed Sgt Colon's shoulder and gently pointed him in the right direction.
He said, "Can you see anything odd about the top of the tower?"
Colon stared up for a while, and then laughed nervously. "Well, it looks like there's a dragon sitting on it, doesn't it?"
"Yes. That's what I thought."
"Only, only, only when you sort of look properly, you can see it's just made up out of shadows and clumps of ivy and that. I mean, if you half-close one eye, it looks like two old women and a wheelbarrow."
Vimes tried this. "Nope," he said. "It still looks like a dragon. A huge one. Sort of hunched up, and looking down. Look, you can see its wings folded up."
"Beg pardon, sir. That's just a broken turret giving the effect."
They watched it for a while.
Then Vimes said, "Tell me, Sergeant — I ask in a spirit of pure inquiry — what do you think 's causing the effect of a pair of huge wings unfurling?"
Colon swallowed.
"I think that's caused by a pair of huge wings, sir," he said.
"Spot on, Sergeant."
The dragon dropped. It wasn't a swoop. It simply kicked away from the top of the tower and half-fell, half-flew straight downwards, disappearing from view behind the University buildings.
Vimes caught himself listening for the thump.
And then the dragon was in view again, moving like an arrow, moving like a shooting star, moving like something that has somehow turned a thirty-two feet per second plummet into an unstoppable upward swoop. It glided over the rooftops at little more than head height, all the more horrible because of the sound. It was as though the air was slowly and carefully being torn in half.
The Watch threw themselves flat. Vimes caught a glimpse of huge, vaguely horse-like features before it slid past.
"Sodding arseholes," said Nobby, from somewhere in the guttering.
Vimes redoubled his grip on the chimney and pulled himself upright. "You are in uniform, Corporal Nobbs," he said, his voice hardly shaking at all.
"Sorry, Captain. Sodding arseholes, sir. "
"Where's Sergeant Colon?"
"Down here, sir. Holding on to this drainpipe, sir."
"Oh, for goodness sake. Help him up, Carrot."
' 'Gosh,'' said Carrot, "look at it go!"
You could tell the position of the dragon by the rattle of arrows across the city, and by the screams and gurgles of all those hit by the misses and ricochets.
"He hasn't even flapped his wings yet!" shouted Carrot, trying to stand on the chimney pot. "Look at him go!''
It shouldn't be that big, Vimes told himself, watching the huge shape wheel over the river. It's as long as a street!
There was a puff of flame above the docks, and for a moment the creature passed in front of the moon. Then it flapped its wings, once, with a sound like the damp hides of a pedigree herd being slapped across a cliff.
It turned in a tight circle, pounded the air a few times to build up speed, and came back.
When it passed over the Watch House it coughed a column of spitting white fire. Tiles under it didn't just melt, they erupted in red-hot droplets. The chimney stack exploded and rained bricks across the street.
Vast wings hammered at the air as the creature hovered over the burning building, fire spearing down on what rapidly became a glowing heap. Then, when all that was left was a spreading puddle of melted rock with interesting streaks and bubbles in it, the dragon raised itself with a contemptuous flick of its wings and soared away and upwards, over the city.
...
Lady Ramkin lowered her telescope and shook her head slowly.
"That's not right," she whispered. "That's not right at all. Shouldn't be able to do anything like that. "
She raised the lens again and squinted, trying to see what was on fire. Down below, in their long kennels, the little dragons howled.
...
Traditionally, upon waking from blissfully uneventful insensibility, you ask: "Where am I?" It's probably part of the racial consciousness or something.
Vimes said it.
Tradition allows a choice of second lines. A key point in the selection process is an audit to see that the body has all the bits it remembers having yesterday.
Vimes checked.
Then comes the tantalising bit. Now that the snowball of consciousness is starting to roll, is it going to find that it's waking up inside a body lying in a gutter with something multiple, the noun doesn't matter after an adjective like "multiple", nothing good ever follows "multiple", or is it going to be a case of crisp sheets, a soothing hand, and a businesslike figure in white pulling open the curtains on a bright new day? Is it all over, with nothing worse to look forward to now than weak tea, nourishing gruel, short, strengthening walks in the garden and possibly a brief platonic love affair with a ministering angel, or was this all just a moment's blackout and some looming bastard is now about to get down to real business with the thick end of a pickaxe helve? Are there, the consciousness wants to know, going to be grapes?
At this point some outside stimulus is helpful. "It's going to be all right" is favourite, whereas "Did anyone get his number?" is definitely a bad sign; either, however, is better than "You two hold his hands behind his back".
In fact someone said, "You were nearly a goner there, Captain."
The pain sensations, which had taken advantage of Vimes's unconscious state to bunk off for a metaphorical quick cigarette, rushed back.
Vimes said, "Arrgh." Then he opened his eyes.
There was a ceiling. This ruled out one particular range of unpleasant options and was very welcome. His blurred vision also revealed Corporal Nobbs, which was less so. Corporal Nobbs proved nothing; you could be dead and see something like Corporal Nobbs.
Ankh-Morpork did not have many hospitals. All the Guilds maintained their own sanitariums, and there were a few public ones run by the odder religious organisations, like the Balancing Monks, but by and large medical assistance was nonexistent and people had to die inefficiently, without the aid of doctors. It was generally thought that the existence of cures encouraged sickness and was in any case probably against Nature's way.
"Have I already said 'Where am I?' " said Vimes faintly.
"Yes."
"Did I get an answer?"
"Dunno where this place is, Captain. It belongs to some posh bint. She said to bring you up here."
Even though Vimes's mind appeared to be full of pink treacle he nevertheless grabbed two clues and wrestled them together. The combination of 'rich' and 'up here' meant something. So did the strange chemical smell in the room, which even overpowered Nobby's more everyday odours.
"We're not talking about Lady Ramkin, are we?" he said cautiously.
"You could be right. Great big biddy. Mad for dragons." Nobby's rodent face broke into the most horribly knowing grin Vimes had ever seen. "You're in her bed," he said.
Vimes peered around him, feeling the first overtures of a vague panic. Because now that he could halfway focus, he could see a certain lack of bachelor sockness about the place. There was a faint hint of talcum powder.
"Bit of a boodwah," said Nobby, with the air of a connoisseur.
"Hang on, hang on a minute," said Vimes. "There was this dragon. It was right over us ..."
The memory rose up and hit him like a zombie with a grudge.
"You all right, Captain?"
The talons, outspread, wide as a man's reach; the boom and thump of the wings, bigger than sails; the stink of chemicals, the gods alone knew what sort. . .
It had been so close he could see the tiny scales on its legs and the red gleam in its eyes. They were more than just reptile eyes. They were eyes you could drown in.
And the breath, so hot that it wasn't like fire at all, but something almost solid, not burning things but smashing them apart ...
On the other hand, he was here and alive. His left side felt as though it had been hit with an iron bar, but he was quite definitely alive.
"What happened?" he said.
"It was young Carrot," said Nobby. "He grabbed you and the sergeant and jumped off the roof just before it got us."
"My side hurts. It must have got me," said Vimes.
"No, I reckon that was where you hit the privy roof," said Nobby. "And then you rolled off and hit the water butt."
"What about Colon? Is he hurt?"
"Not hurt. Not exactly hurt. He landed more sort of softly. Him being so heavy, he went through the roof. Talk about a short sharp shower of…"
"And then what happened?"
"Well, we sort of made you comfy, and then everyone went blundering about and shouting for the sergeant. Until they found out where he was, o'course, then they just stood where they were and shouted. And then this woman come running up yelling," said Nobby.
"This is Lady Ramkin you're referring to?" said Vimes coldly. His ribs were aching really magnificently now.
"Yeah. Big fat party," said Nobby, unmoved. "Cor, she can't half boss people about! 'Oh, the poor dear man, you must bring him up to my house this instant.' So we did. Best place, too. Everyone's running around down in the city like chickens with their heads cut off."
"Let that be a lesson to all oppressive vegetable sellers," he kept saying.
"Yes, er," said Brother Doorkeeper. "Only, the thing is, there's no chance of us sort of accidentally summoning the dragon here, is there?"
"I-that is, we-have it under perfect control," said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly. "The power is ours. I can assure you."
The Brothers cheered up a little bit.
"And now," the Supreme Grand Master continued, "there is the matter of the king."
The Brothers looked solemn, except for Brother Plasterer.
"Have we found him, then?" he said. "That's a stroke of luck.''
"You never listen, do you?" snapped Brother Watchtower. "It was all explained last week, we don't go around finding anyone, we make a king."
"I thought he was supposed to turn up. 'Cos of destiny."
Brother Watchtower sniggered. "We sort of help Destiny along a bit."
The Supreme Grand Master smiled in the depths of his robe. It was amazing, this mystic business. You tell them a lie, and then when you don't need it any more you tell them another lie and tell them they're progressing along the road to wisdom. Then instead of laughing they follow you even more, hoping that at the heart of all the lies they'll find the truth. And bit by bit they accept the unacceptable. Amazing.
"Bloody hell, that's clever," said Brother Doorkeeper. "How do we do that, then?"
"Look, the Supreme Grand Master said what we do, we find some handsome lad who's good at taking orders, he kills the dragon, and Bob's your uncle. Simple. Much more intelligent than waitin' for a so-called real king."
"But," Brother Plasterer seemed deep in the toils of cerebration, "if we control the dragon, and we do control the dragon, right? Then we don't need anyone killing it, we just stop summoning it, and everyone 'll be happy, right?"
"Ho yes," said Brother Watchtower nastily, "I can just see it, can you? We just trot out, say 'Hallo, we won't set fire to your houses any more, aren't we nice', do we? The whole point about the thing with the king is that he'll be a, a sort of…"
"Undeniably potent and romantic symbol of absolute authority," said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly.
"That's it," said Brother Watchtower. "A potent authority."
"Oh, I see," said Brother Plasterer. "Right. Okay. That's what the king 'll be."
"That's it," said Brother Watchtower.
"No-one going to argue with a potent authority, are they?"
"Too right," said Brother Watchtower.
"Stroke of luck, then, finding the true king right now," said Brother Plasterer. "Million to one chance, really."
"We haven't found the right king. We don't need the right king," said the Supreme Grand Master wearily. "For the last time! I've just found us a likely lad who looks good in a crown and can take orders and knows how to flourish a sword. Now just listen ..."
Flourishing, of course, was important. It didn't have much to do with wielding. Wielding a sword, the Supreme Grand Master considered, was simply the messy business of dynastic surgery. It was just a matter of thrust and cut. Whereas a king had to flourish one. It had to catch the light in just the right way, leaving watchers in no doubt that here was Destiny's chosen. He'd taken a long time preparing the sword and shield. It had been very expensive. The shield shone like a dollar in a sweep's earhole but the sword, the sword was magnificent . . .
It was long and shiny. It looked like something some genius of metalwork — one of those little Zen guys who works only by the light of dawn and can beat a club sandwich of folded steels into something with the cutting edge of a scalpel and the stopping-power of a sex-crazed rhinoceros on bad acid-had made and then retired in tears because he'd never, ever, do anything so good again. There were so many jewels on the hilt it had to be sheathed in velvet, you had to look at it through smoked glass. Just laying a hand on it practically conferred kingship.
As for the lad ... he was a distant cousin, keen and vain, and stupid in a passably aristocratic way. Currently he was under guard in a distant farmhouse, with an adequate supply of drink and several young ladies, although what the boy seemed most interested in was mirrors. Probably hero material, the Supreme Grand Master thought glumly.
"I suppose," said Brother Watchtower, "that he isn't the real air to the throne?"
"What do you mean?" said the Supreme Grand Master.
"Well, you know how it is. Fate plays funny tricks. Ha-ha. It'd be a laugh, wouldn't it," said Brother Watchtower, ' 'if this lad turned out to be the real king. After all this trouble-"
"There is no real king any more!" snapped the Supreme Grand Master. "What do you expect? Some people wandering in the wilderness for hundreds and hundreds of years, patiently handing down a sword and a birthmark? Some sort of magic?" He spat the word. He'd make use of magic, means to an end, end justifies means and so forth, but to go around believing it, believing it had some sort of moral force, like logic, made him wince. "Good grief, man, be logical! Be rational. Even if any of the old royal family survived, the blood line'd be so watered down by now that there must be thousands of people who lay claim to the throne. Even," he tried to think of the least likely claimant,"even someone like Brother Dunnykin." He stared at the assembled Brethren. "Don't see him here tonight, by the way."
"Funny thing, that," said Brother Watchtower thoughtfully. "Didn't you hear?"
"What?"
"He got bitten by a crocodile on his way home last night. Poor little bugger."
"What?"
"Million to one chance. It'd escaped from a menagerie, or something, and was lying low in his back yard. He went to feel under his doormat for his door key and it had him by the funes."[14] Brother Watchtower fumbled under his robe and produced a grubby brown envelope. "We're having a whip-round to buy him some grapes and that, I don't know whether you'd like to, er . . ."
"Put me down for three dollars," said the Supreme Grand Master.
Brother Watchtower nodded. "Funny thing," he said, "I already have."
Just a few more nights, thought the Supreme Grand Master. By tomorrow the people 'll be so desperate, they'd crown even a one-legged troll if he got rid of the dragon. And we'll have a king, and he'll have an advisor, a trusted man, of course, and this stupid rabble can go back to the gutter. No more dressing up, no more ritual.
No more summoning the dragon.
I can give it up, he thought. I can give it up any time I like.
...
The streets outside the Patrician's palace were thronged. There was a manic air of carnival. Vimes ran a practiced eye over the assortment before him. It was the usual Ankh-Morpork mob in times of crisis; half of them were here to complain, a quarter of them were here to watch the other half, and the remainder were here to rob, importune or sell hot-dogs to the rest. There were a few new faces, though. There were a number of grim men with big swords slung over their shoulders and whips slung on their belts, striding through the crowds.
"News spreads quick, don't it," observed a familiar voice by his ear. "Morning, Captain."
Vimes looked into the grinning, cadaverous face of Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, purveyor of absolutely anything that could be sold hurriedly from an open suitcase in a busy street and was guaranteed to have fallen off the back of an oxcart.
"Morning, Throat," said Vimes absently. "What're you selling?"
"Genuine article, Captain." Throat leaned closer. He was the sort of person who could make "Good morning" sound like a once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated offer. His eyes swivelled back and forth in their sockets, like two rodents trying to find a way out. "Can't afford to be without it," he hissed. "Anti-dragon cream. Personal guarantee: if you're incinerated you get your money back, no quibble."
"What you're saying," said Vimes slowly, "if I understand the wording correctly, is that if I am baked alive by the dragon you'll return the money?"
"Upon personal application," said Cut-me-own-Throat. He unscrewed the lid from a jar of vivid green ointment and thrust it under Vimes's nose. "Made from over fifty different rare spices and herbs to a recipe known only to a bunch of ancient monks what live on some mountain somewhere. One dollar a jar, and I'm cutting my own throat. It's a public service, really," he added piously.
"You've got to hand it to those ancient monks, brewing it up so quickly," said Vimes.
"Clever buggers," agreed Cut-me-own-Throat. "It must be all that meditation and yak yogurt."
"So what's happening, Throat?" said Vimes. "Who're all the guys with the big swords?"
"Dragon hunters, Cap'n. The Patrician announced a reward of fifty thousand dollars to anyone who brings him the dragon's head. Not attached to the dragon, either; he's no fool, that man."
"What?"
"That's what he said. It's all written on posters."
"Fifty thousand dollars!"
"Not chicken feed, eh?"
"More like dragon fodder," said Vimes. It'd bring trouble, you mark his words. "I'm amazed you're not grabbing a sword and joining in."
"I'm more in what you might call the service sector, Cap'n." Throat looked both ways conspiratorially, and then passed Vimes a slip of parchment.
It said:
Anti-dragon mirror shields A$ 500
Portable lair detectors A$250
Dragon-piercing arrows A$100 per each
Shovels A$5 Picks A$5 Sacks A$l
Vimes handed it back. "Why the sacks?" he said.
"On account of the hoard," said Throat.
"Oh, yes," said Vimes gloomily. "Of course."
"Tell you what," said Throat, "tell you what. For our boys in brown, ten percent off."
"And you're cutting your own throat, Throat?"
"Fifteen percent for officers!" urged Throat, as Vimes walked away. The cause of the slight panic in his voice was soon apparent. He had plenty of competition.
The people of Ankh-Morpork were not by nature heroic but were, by nature, salesmen. In the space of a few feet Vimes could have bought any number of magical weapons Genuine certyfycate of orthenticity with everyone, a cloak of invisibility — a good touch, he thought, and he was really impressed by the way the stall owner was using a mirror with no glass in it— and, by way of lighter relief, dragon biscuits, balloons and windmills on sticks. Copper bracelets guaranteed to bring relief from dragons were a nice thought.
There seemed to be as many sacks and shovels about as there were swords.
Gold, that was it. The hoard. Hah!
Fifty thousand dollars! An officer of the Watch earned thirty dollars a month and had to pay to have his own dents beaten out.
What he couldn't do with fifty thousand dollars . . .
Vimes thought about this for a while and then thought of the things he could do with fifty thousand dollars. There were so many more of them, for a start.
He almost walked into a group of men clustered around a poster nailed to the wall. It declared, indeed, that the head of the dragon that had terrorized the city would be worth A$50,000 to the brave hero that delivered it to the palace.
One of the cluster, who from his size, weaponry and that way he was slowly tracing the lettering with his finger Vimes decided was a leading hero, was doing the reading for the others.
"…to ter-her pal-ack-ee," he concluded.
"Fifty thousand," said one of them reflectively, rubbing his chin.
"Cheap job," said the intellectual. "Well below the rate. Should be half the kingdom and his daughter's hand in marriage."
"Yes, but he ain't a king. He's a Patrician."
"Well, half his Patrimony or whatever. What's his daughter like?"
The assembled hunters didn't know.
"He's not married," Vimes volunteered. "So he hasn't got a daughter."
They turned and looked him up and down. He could see the disdain in their eyes. They probably got through dozens like him every day. ' 'Not got a daughter?'' said one of them. "Wants people to kill dragons and he hasn't got a daughter?"
Vimes felt, in an odd way, that he ought to support the lord of the city. "He's got a little dog that he's very fond of," he said helpfully.
"Bleeding disgusting, not even having a daughter," said one of the hunters. "And what's fifty thousand dollars these days? You spend that much in nets."
"S'right," said another. "People think it's a fortune, but they don't reckon on, well, it's not pensionable, there's all the medical expenses, you've got to buy and maintain your own gear…"
"…wear and tear on virgins…" nodded a small fat hunter.
"Yeah, and then there's . . . what?"
"My specialty is unicorns," the hunter explained, with an embarrassed smile.
"Oh, right." The first speaker looked like someone who'd always been dying to ask the question. "I thought they were very rare these days."
"You're right there. You don't see many unicorns, either," said the unicorn hunter. Vimes got the impression that, in his whole life, this was his only joke.
"Yeah, well. Times are hard," said the first speaker sharply.
"Monsters are getting more uppity, too," said another. "I heard where this guy, he killed this monster in this lake, no problem, stuck its arm up over the door…"
"Pour encourjay lays ortras," said one of the listeners.
"Right, and you know what? Its mum come and complained. Its actual mum come right down to the hall next day and complained. Actually complained. That's the respect you get."
"The females are always the worst," said another hunter gloomily. "I knew this cross-eyed gorgon once, oh, she was a terror. Kept turning her own nose to stone."
"It's our arses on the line every time," said the intellectual. "I mean, I wish I had a dollar for every horse I've had eaten out from underneath me."
"Right. Fifty thousand dollars? He can stuff it."
"Yeah."
"Right. Cheapskate."
"Let's go and have a drink."
"Right."
They nodded in righteous agreement and strode off towards the Mended Drum, except for the intellectual, who sidled uneasily back to Vimes.
"What sort of dog?" he said.
"What?" said Vimes.
"I said, what sort of dog?"
"A small wire-haired terrier, I think," said Vimes.
The hunter thought about this for some time.
"Nah," he said eventually, and hurried off after the others.
"He's got an aunt in Pseudopolis, I believe," Vimes called after him.
There was no response. The captain of the Watch shrugged, and carried on through the throng to the Patrician's palace . . .
...
. . . where the Patrician was having a difficult lunch-time.
"Gentlemen!" he snapped. "I really don't see what else there is to do!"
The assembled civic leaders muttered amongst themselves.
"At times like this it's traditional that a hero comes forth," said the President of the Guild of Assassins. "A dragon slayer. Where is he, that's what I want to know? Why aren't our schools turning out young people with the kind of skills society needs?"
"Fifty thousand dollars doesn't sound much," said the Chairman of the Guild of Thieves.
"It may not be much to you, my dear sir, but it is all the city can afford," said the Patrician firmly.
"If it doesn't afford any more than that I don't think there'll be a city for long," said the thief.
"And what about trade?" said the representative of the Guild of Merchants. "People aren't going to sail here with a cargo of rare comestibles just to have it incinerated, are they?"
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" The Patrician raised his hands in a conciliatory fashion. "It seems to me," he went on, taking advantage of the brief pause, "that what we have here is a strictly magical phenomenon. I would like to hear from our learned friend on this point. Hmm?"
Someone nudged the Archchancellor of Unseen University, who had nodded off.
"Eh? What?" said the wizard, startled into wakefulness.
"We were wondering," said the Patrician loudly, "what you were intending to do about this dragon of yours?"
The Archchancellor was old, but a lifetime of survival in the world of competitive wizardry and the byzantine politics of Unseen University meant that he could whip up a defensive argument in a split second. You didn't remain Archchancellor for long if you let that sort of ingenuous remark whizz past your ear.
"My dragon?" he said.
"It's well known that the great dragons are extinct," said the Patrician brusquely. "And, besides, their natural habitat was definitely rural. So it seems to me that this one must be mag…"
"With respect, Lord Vetinari," said the Archchancellor, "it has often been claimed that dragons are extinct, but the current evidence, if I may make so bold, tends to cast a certain doubt on the theory. As to habitat, what we are seeing here is simply a change of behaviour pattern, occasioned by the spread of urban areas into the countryside which has led many hitherto rural creatures to adopt, nay in many cases to positively embrace, a more municipal mode of existence, and many of them thrive on the new opportunities thereby opened to them. For example, foxes are always knocking over my dustbins."
He beamed. He'd managed to get all the way through it without actually needing to engage his brain.
"Are you saying," said the assassin slowly, "that what we've got here is the first civic dragon?"
"That's evolution for you," said the wizard, happily. "It should do well, too," he added. "Plenty of nesting sites, and a more than adequate food supply."
Silence greeted this statement, until the merchant said. "What exactly is it that they do eat?"
The thief shrugged. "I seem to recall stories about virgins chained to huge rocks," he volunteered.
"It'll starve round here, then," said the assassin. "We 're on loam."
"They used to go around ravening," said the thief. "Dunno if that's any help ..."
"Anyway," said the leader of the merchants, "it seems to be your problem again, my lord."
Five minutes later the Patrician was striding the length of the Oblong Office, fuming.
"They were laughing at me," said the Patrician. "I could tell!"
"Did you suggest a working party?" said Wonse.
"Of course I did! It didn't do the trick this time. You know, I really am inclined to increase the reward money."
"I don't think that would work, my lord. Any proficient monster slayer knows the rate for the job."
"Ha! Half the kingdom," muttered the Patrician.
"And your daughter's hand in marriage," said Wonse.
"I suppose an aunt isn't acceptable?" the Patrician said hopefully.
"Tradition demands a daughter, my lord."
The Patrician nodded gloomily.
"Perhaps we can buy it off," he said aloud. "Are dragons intelligent?"
"I believe the word traditionally is 'cunning', my lord," said Wonse. "I understand they have a liking for gold."
"Really? What do they spend it on?"
"They sleep on it, my lord."
"What, do you mean in a mattress?"
"No, my lord. On it. "
The Patrician turned this fact over in his mind. "Don't they find it rather knobbly?" he said.
"So I would imagine, sir. I don't suppose anyone has ever asked."
"Hmm. Can they talk?"
"They're apparently good at it, my lord."
"Ah. Interesting."
The Patrician was thinking: if it can talk, it can negotiate. If it can negotiate, then I have it by the short…-by the small scales, or whatever it is they have.
"And they are said to be silver tongued," said Wonse. The Patrician leaned back in his chair.
"Only silver?" he said.
There was the sound of muted voices in the passageway outside and Vimes was ushered in.
"Ah, Captain," said the Patrician, "what progress?"
"I'm sorry, my lord?" said Vimes, as the rain dripped off his cape.
"Towards apprehending this dragon," said the Patrician firmly.
"The wading bird?" said Vimes.
"You know very well what I mean," said Vetinari sharply.
"Investigations are in hand," said Vimes automatically.
The Patrician snorted. "All you have to do is find its lair," he said. "Once you have the lair, you have the dragon. That's obvious. Half the city seems to be looking for it."
"If there is a lair," said Vimes.
Wonse looked up sharply.
"Why do you say that?"
"We are considering a number of possibilities," said Vimes woodenly.
"If it has no lair, where does it spend its days?" said the Patrician.
"Inquiries are being pursued," said Vimes.
"Then pursue them with alacrity. And find the lair," said the Patrician sourly.
"Yes, sir. Permission to leave, sir?"
"Very well. But I shall expect progress by tonight, do you understand?"
Now why did I wonder if it has a lair? Vimes thought, as he stepped out into the daylight and the crowded square. Because it didn't look real, that's why. If it isn't real, it doesn't need to do anything we expect. How can it walk out of an alley it didn't go into?
Once you've ruled out the impossible then whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth. The problem lay in working out what was impossible, of course. That was the trick, all right.
There was also the curious incident of the orangutan in the night-time . . .
...
By day the Library buzzed with activity. Vimes moved through it diffidently. Strictly speaking, he could go anywhere in the city, but the University had always held that it fell under thaumaturgical law and he felt it wouldn't be wise to make the kind of enemies where you were lucky to end up the same temperature, let alone the same shape.
He found the Librarian hunched over his desk. The ape gave him an expectant look.
"Haven't found it yet. Sorry," said Vimes. "Enquiries are continuing. But there is a little help you can give me."
"Oook?"
"Well, this is a magical library, right? I mean, these books are sort of intelligent, isn't that so? So I've been thinking: I bet if I got in here at night, they'd soon kick up a fuss. Because they don't know me. But if they did know me, they'd probably not mind. So whoever took the book would have to be a wizard, wouldn't they? Or someone who works for the University, at any rate."
The Librarian glanced from side to side, then grasped Vimes's hand and led him into the seclusion of a couple of bookshelves. Only then did he nod his head.
"Someone they know?"
A shrug, and then another nod.
"That's why you told us, is it?"
"Oook."
"And not the University Council?"
"Oook."
"Any idea who it is?"
The Librarian shrugged, a decidedly expressive gesture for a body which was basically a sack between a pair of shoulderblades.
"Well, it's something. Let me know if any other strange things happen, won't you?" Vimes looked up at the banks of shelves. ' 'Stranger than usual, I mean.''
"Oook."
"Thank you. It's a pleasure to meet a citizen who regards it as their duty to assist the Watch."
The Librarian gave him a banana.
Vimes felt curiously elated as he stepped out into the city's throbbing streets again. He was definitely detecting things. They were little bits of things, like a jigsaw. No one of them made any real sense, but they all hinted at a bigger picture. All he needed to do was find a corner, or a bit of an edge . . .
He was pretty certain it wasn't a wizard, whatever the Librarian might think. Not a proper, paid-up wizard. This sort of thing wasn't their style.
And there was, of course, this business about the lair. The most sensible course would be to wait and see if the dragon turned up tonight, and try and see where. That meant a high place. Was there some way of detecting dragons themselves? He'd had a look at Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler's dragon detectors, which consisted solely of a piece of wood on a metal stick. When the stick was burned through, you'd found your dragon. Like a lot of Cut-me-own-Throat's devices, it was completely efficient in its own special way while at the same time being totally useless.
There had to be a better way of finding the thing than waiting until your fingers were burned off.
...
The setting sun spread out on the horizon like a lightly-poached egg.
The rooftops of Ankh-Morpork sprouted a fine array of gargoyles even in normal times, but now they were alive with as ghastly an array of faces as ever were seen outside a woodcut about the evils of gin-drinking among the non-woodcut-buying classes. Many of the faces were attached to bodies holding a fearsome array of homely weapons that had been handed down from generation to generation for centuries, often with some force.
From his perch on the roof of the Watch House Vimes could see the wizards lining the rooftops of the University, and the gangs of opportunist hoard-researchers waiting in the streets, shovels at the ready. If the dragon really did have a bed somewhere in the city, then it would be sleeping on the floor tomorrow.
From somewhere below came the cry of Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, or one of his colleagues, selling hot sausages. Vimes felt a sudden surge of civic pride. There had to be something right about a citizenry which, when faced with catastrophe, thought about selling sausages to the participants.
The city waited. A few stars came out.
Colon, Nobby and Carrot were also on the roof. Colon was sulking because Vimes had forbidden him to use his bow and arrow.
These weren't encouraged in the city, since the heft and throw of a longbow's arrow could send it through an innocent bystander a hundred yards away rather than the innocent bystander at whom it was aimed.
"That's right," said Carrot, "the Projectile Weapons (Civic Safety) Act, 1634."
"Don't you keep on quoting all that sort of stuff," snapped Colon. "We don't have any of them laws any more! That's all old stuff! It's all more wossname now. Pragmatic."
"Law or no law," said Vimes, "I say put it away."
"But Captain, I was a dab hand at this!" protested Colon. "Anyway," he added peevishly, "a lot of other people have got them."
That was true enough. Neighbouring rooftops bristled like hedgehogs. If the wretched thing turned up, it was going to think it was flying through solid wood with slots in it. You could almost feel sorry for it.
"I said put it away," said Vimes. "I'm not having my guards shooting citizens. So put it away."
"That's very true," said Carrot. "We're here to protect and to serve, aren't we, Captain."
Vimes gave him a sidelong look. "Er," he said. "Yeah. Yes. That's right."
On the roof of her house on the hill, Lady Ramkin adjusted a rather inadequate folding chair on the roof, arranged the telescope, coffee flask and sandwiches on the parapet in front of her, and settled down to wait. She had a notebook on her knee.
Half an hour went by. Hails of arrows greeted a passing cloud, several unfortunate bats, and the rising moon.
"Bugger this for a game of soldiers," said Nobby, eventually. "It's been scared off."
Sgt Colon lowered his pike. "Looks like it," he conceded.
"And it's getting chilly up here," said Carrot. He politely nudged Captain Vimes, who was slumped against the chimney, staring moodily into space.
"Maybe we ought to be getting down, sir?" he said. "Lots of people are."
"Hmm?" said Vimes, without moving his head.
"Could be coming on to rain, too," said Carrot.
Vimes said nothing. For some minutes he had been watching the Tower of Art, which was the centre of Unseen University and reputedly the oldest building hi the city. It was certainly the tallest. Time, weather and indifferent repairs had given it a gnarled appearance, like a tree that has seen too many thunderstorms.
He was trying to remember its shape. As in the case with many things that are totally familiar, he hadn't really looked at it for years. Now he was trying to convince himself that the forest of little turrets and crenellations at its top looked just the same tonight as they had done yesterday.
It was giving him some difficulty.
Without taking his eyes off it, he grabbed Sgt Colon's shoulder and gently pointed him in the right direction.
He said, "Can you see anything odd about the top of the tower?"
Colon stared up for a while, and then laughed nervously. "Well, it looks like there's a dragon sitting on it, doesn't it?"
"Yes. That's what I thought."
"Only, only, only when you sort of look properly, you can see it's just made up out of shadows and clumps of ivy and that. I mean, if you half-close one eye, it looks like two old women and a wheelbarrow."
Vimes tried this. "Nope," he said. "It still looks like a dragon. A huge one. Sort of hunched up, and looking down. Look, you can see its wings folded up."
"Beg pardon, sir. That's just a broken turret giving the effect."
They watched it for a while.
Then Vimes said, "Tell me, Sergeant — I ask in a spirit of pure inquiry — what do you think 's causing the effect of a pair of huge wings unfurling?"
Colon swallowed.
"I think that's caused by a pair of huge wings, sir," he said.
"Spot on, Sergeant."
The dragon dropped. It wasn't a swoop. It simply kicked away from the top of the tower and half-fell, half-flew straight downwards, disappearing from view behind the University buildings.
Vimes caught himself listening for the thump.
And then the dragon was in view again, moving like an arrow, moving like a shooting star, moving like something that has somehow turned a thirty-two feet per second plummet into an unstoppable upward swoop. It glided over the rooftops at little more than head height, all the more horrible because of the sound. It was as though the air was slowly and carefully being torn in half.
The Watch threw themselves flat. Vimes caught a glimpse of huge, vaguely horse-like features before it slid past.
"Sodding arseholes," said Nobby, from somewhere in the guttering.
Vimes redoubled his grip on the chimney and pulled himself upright. "You are in uniform, Corporal Nobbs," he said, his voice hardly shaking at all.
"Sorry, Captain. Sodding arseholes, sir. "
"Where's Sergeant Colon?"
"Down here, sir. Holding on to this drainpipe, sir."
"Oh, for goodness sake. Help him up, Carrot."
' 'Gosh,'' said Carrot, "look at it go!"
You could tell the position of the dragon by the rattle of arrows across the city, and by the screams and gurgles of all those hit by the misses and ricochets.
"He hasn't even flapped his wings yet!" shouted Carrot, trying to stand on the chimney pot. "Look at him go!''
It shouldn't be that big, Vimes told himself, watching the huge shape wheel over the river. It's as long as a street!
There was a puff of flame above the docks, and for a moment the creature passed in front of the moon. Then it flapped its wings, once, with a sound like the damp hides of a pedigree herd being slapped across a cliff.
It turned in a tight circle, pounded the air a few times to build up speed, and came back.
When it passed over the Watch House it coughed a column of spitting white fire. Tiles under it didn't just melt, they erupted in red-hot droplets. The chimney stack exploded and rained bricks across the street.
Vast wings hammered at the air as the creature hovered over the burning building, fire spearing down on what rapidly became a glowing heap. Then, when all that was left was a spreading puddle of melted rock with interesting streaks and bubbles in it, the dragon raised itself with a contemptuous flick of its wings and soared away and upwards, over the city.
...
Lady Ramkin lowered her telescope and shook her head slowly.
"That's not right," she whispered. "That's not right at all. Shouldn't be able to do anything like that. "
She raised the lens again and squinted, trying to see what was on fire. Down below, in their long kennels, the little dragons howled.
...
Traditionally, upon waking from blissfully uneventful insensibility, you ask: "Where am I?" It's probably part of the racial consciousness or something.
Vimes said it.
Tradition allows a choice of second lines. A key point in the selection process is an audit to see that the body has all the bits it remembers having yesterday.
Vimes checked.
Then comes the tantalising bit. Now that the snowball of consciousness is starting to roll, is it going to find that it's waking up inside a body lying in a gutter with something multiple, the noun doesn't matter after an adjective like "multiple", nothing good ever follows "multiple", or is it going to be a case of crisp sheets, a soothing hand, and a businesslike figure in white pulling open the curtains on a bright new day? Is it all over, with nothing worse to look forward to now than weak tea, nourishing gruel, short, strengthening walks in the garden and possibly a brief platonic love affair with a ministering angel, or was this all just a moment's blackout and some looming bastard is now about to get down to real business with the thick end of a pickaxe helve? Are there, the consciousness wants to know, going to be grapes?
At this point some outside stimulus is helpful. "It's going to be all right" is favourite, whereas "Did anyone get his number?" is definitely a bad sign; either, however, is better than "You two hold his hands behind his back".
In fact someone said, "You were nearly a goner there, Captain."
The pain sensations, which had taken advantage of Vimes's unconscious state to bunk off for a metaphorical quick cigarette, rushed back.
Vimes said, "Arrgh." Then he opened his eyes.
There was a ceiling. This ruled out one particular range of unpleasant options and was very welcome. His blurred vision also revealed Corporal Nobbs, which was less so. Corporal Nobbs proved nothing; you could be dead and see something like Corporal Nobbs.
Ankh-Morpork did not have many hospitals. All the Guilds maintained their own sanitariums, and there were a few public ones run by the odder religious organisations, like the Balancing Monks, but by and large medical assistance was nonexistent and people had to die inefficiently, without the aid of doctors. It was generally thought that the existence of cures encouraged sickness and was in any case probably against Nature's way.
"Have I already said 'Where am I?' " said Vimes faintly.
"Yes."
"Did I get an answer?"
"Dunno where this place is, Captain. It belongs to some posh bint. She said to bring you up here."
Even though Vimes's mind appeared to be full of pink treacle he nevertheless grabbed two clues and wrestled them together. The combination of 'rich' and 'up here' meant something. So did the strange chemical smell in the room, which even overpowered Nobby's more everyday odours.
"We're not talking about Lady Ramkin, are we?" he said cautiously.
"You could be right. Great big biddy. Mad for dragons." Nobby's rodent face broke into the most horribly knowing grin Vimes had ever seen. "You're in her bed," he said.
Vimes peered around him, feeling the first overtures of a vague panic. Because now that he could halfway focus, he could see a certain lack of bachelor sockness about the place. There was a faint hint of talcum powder.
"Bit of a boodwah," said Nobby, with the air of a connoisseur.
"Hang on, hang on a minute," said Vimes. "There was this dragon. It was right over us ..."
The memory rose up and hit him like a zombie with a grudge.
"You all right, Captain?"
The talons, outspread, wide as a man's reach; the boom and thump of the wings, bigger than sails; the stink of chemicals, the gods alone knew what sort. . .
It had been so close he could see the tiny scales on its legs and the red gleam in its eyes. They were more than just reptile eyes. They were eyes you could drown in.
And the breath, so hot that it wasn't like fire at all, but something almost solid, not burning things but smashing them apart ...
On the other hand, he was here and alive. His left side felt as though it had been hit with an iron bar, but he was quite definitely alive.
"What happened?" he said.
"It was young Carrot," said Nobby. "He grabbed you and the sergeant and jumped off the roof just before it got us."
"My side hurts. It must have got me," said Vimes.
"No, I reckon that was where you hit the privy roof," said Nobby. "And then you rolled off and hit the water butt."
"What about Colon? Is he hurt?"
"Not hurt. Not exactly hurt. He landed more sort of softly. Him being so heavy, he went through the roof. Talk about a short sharp shower of…"
"And then what happened?"
"Well, we sort of made you comfy, and then everyone went blundering about and shouting for the sergeant. Until they found out where he was, o'course, then they just stood where they were and shouted. And then this woman come running up yelling," said Nobby.
"This is Lady Ramkin you're referring to?" said Vimes coldly. His ribs were aching really magnificently now.
"Yeah. Big fat party," said Nobby, unmoved. "Cor, she can't half boss people about! 'Oh, the poor dear man, you must bring him up to my house this instant.' So we did. Best place, too. Everyone's running around down in the city like chickens with their heads cut off."