Guards! Guards!, page 8
“Well, that’s one mistake we won’t make again in a hurry,” said the captain. Then he wished he hadn’t.
They could hear footsteps. Somewhere off to their left, there was a snigger.
“We must form a square,” said the captain. They all tried to form a point.
“Hey! What was that?” said Sergeant Colon.
“What?”
“There it was again. Sort of a leathery sound.”
Captain Vimes tried not to think about hoods and garrotting.
There were, he knew, many gods. There was a god for every trade. There was a beggars’ god, a whores’ goddess, a thieves’ god, probably even an assassins’ god.
He wondered whether there was, somewhere in that vast pantheon, a god who would look kindly on hard-pressed and fairly innocent law-enforcement officers who were quite definitely about to die.
There probably wasn’t, he thought bitterly. Something like that wasn’t stylish enough for gods. Catch any god worrying about any poor sod trying to do his best for a handful of dollars a month. Not them. Gods went overboard for smart bastards whose idea of a day’s work was prising the Ruby Eye of the Earwig King out of its socket, not for some unimaginative sap who just pounded the pavement every night…
“More sort of slithery,” said the sergeant, who liked to get things right.
And then there was a sound—
—perhaps a volcanic sound, or the sound of a boiling geyser, but at any rate a long, dry roar of a sound, like the bellows in the forges of the Titans—
—but it was not so bad as the light, which was blue-white and the sort of light to print the pattern of your eyeballs’ blood vessels on the back of the inside of your skull.
They both went on for hundreds of years and then, instantly, stopped.
The dark aftermath was filled with purple images and, once the ears regained an ability to hear, a faint, clinkery sound.
The guards remained perfectly still for some time.
“Well, well,” said the captain weakly.
After a further pause he said, very clearly, every consonant slotting perfectly into place, “Sergeant, take some men and investigate that, will you?”
“Investigate what, sir?” said Colon, but it had already dawned on the captain that if the sergeant took some men it would leave him, Captain Vimes, all alone.
“No, I’ve a better idea. We’ll all go,” he said firmly. They all went.
Now that their eyes were used to the darkness they could see an indistinct red glow ahead of them.
It turned out to be a wall, cooling rapidly. Bits of calcined brickwork were falling off as they contracted, making little pinging noises.
That wasn’t the worst bit. The worst bit was what was on the wall.
They stared at it.
They stared at it for a long time.
It was only an hour or two till dawn, and no-one even suggested trying to find their way back in the dark. They waited by the wall. At least it was warm.
They tried not to look at it.
Eventually Colon stretched uneasily and said, “Chin up, Captain. It could have been worse.”
Vimes finished the bottle. It didn’t have any effect. There were some types of sobriety that you just couldn’t budge.
“Yes,” he said. “It could have been us.”
———
The Supreme Grand Master opened his eyes.
“Once again,” he said, “we have achieved success.”
The Brethren burst into a ragged cheer. The Brothers Watchtower and Fingers linked arms and danced an enthusiastic jig in their magic circle.
The Supreme Grand Master took a deep breath.
First the carrot, he thought, and now the stick. He liked the stick.
“Silence!” he screamed.
“Brother Fingers, Brother Watchtower, cease this shameful display!” he screeched. “The rest of you, be silent!”
They quietened down, like rowdy children who have just seen the teacher come into the room. Then they quieted down a lot more, like children who have just seen the teacher’s expression.
The Supreme Grand Master let this sink in, and then stalked along their ragged ranks.
“I suppose,” he said, “that we think we’ve done some magic, do we? Hmm? Brother Watchtower?”
Brother Watchtower swallowed. “Well, er, you said we were, er, I mean—”
“You haven’t done ANYTHING yet!”
“Well, er, no, er—” Brother Watchtower trembled.
“Do real wizards leap about after a tiny spell and start chanting ‘Here we go, here we go, here we go’, Brother Watchtower? Hmm?”
“Well, we were sort of—”
The Supreme Grand Master spun on his heel.
“And do they keep looking apprehensively at the woodwork, Brother Plasterer?”
Brother Plasterer hung his head. He hadn’t realised anyone had noticed.
When the tension was twanging satisfactorily, like a bowstring, the Supreme Grand Master stood back.
“Why do I bother?” he said, shaking his head. “I could have chosen anyone. I could have picked the best. But I’ve got a bunch of children.”
“Er, honest,” said Brother Watchtower, “we was making an effort, I mean, we was really concentrating. Weren’t we, lads?”
“Yes,” they chorused. The Supreme Grand Master glared at them.
“There’s no room in this Brotherhood for Brothers who are not behind us all the way,” he warned.
With almost visible relief the Brethren, like panicked sheep who see that a hurdle has been opened in the fold, galloped towards the opening.
“No worries about that, your supremity,” said Brother Watchtower fervently.
“Commitment must be our watchword!” said the Supreme Grand Master.
“Watchword. Yeah,” said Brother Watchtower. He nudged Brother Plasterer, whose eyes had strayed to the skirting board again.
“Wha? Oh. Yeah. Watchword. Yeah,” said Brother Plasterer.
“And trust and fraternity,” said the Supreme Grand Master.
“Yeah. And them, too,” said Brother Fingers.
“So,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “if there be any one here not anxious, yea, eager to continue in this great work, let him step forward now.”
No-one moved.
They’re hooked. Ye gods, I’m good at this, thought the Supreme Grand Master. I can play on their horrible little minds like a xylophone. It’s amazing, the sheer power of mundanity. Who’d have thought that weakness could be a greater force than strength? But you have to know how to direct it. And I do.
“Very well, then,” he said. “And now, we will repeat the Oath.”
He led their stumbling, terrified voices through it, noting with approval the strangled way they said “figgin”. And he kept one eye on Brother Fingers, too.
He’s slightly brighter than the others, he thought. Slightly less gullible, at least. Better make sure I’m always the last to leave. Don’t want any clever ideas about following me home.
———
You need a special kind of mind to rule a city like Ankh-Morpork, and Lord Vetinari had it. But then, he was a special kind of person.
He baffled and infuriated the lesser merchant princes, to the extent that they had long ago given up trying to assassinate him and now merely jockeyed for position amongst themselves. Anyway, any assassin who tried to attack the Patrician would be hard put to it to find enough flesh to insert the dagger.
While other lords dined on larks stuffed with peacocks’ tongues, Lord Vetinari considered that a glass of boiled water and half a slice of dry bread was an elegant sufficiency.
It was exasperating. He appeared to have no vice that anyone could discover. You’d have thought, with that pale, equine face, that he’d incline towards stuff with whips, needles, and young women in dungeons. The other lords could have accepted that. Nothing wrong with whips and needles, in moderation. But the Patrician apparently spent his evenings studying reports and, on special occasions, if he could stand the excitement, playing chess.
He wore black a lot. It wasn’t particularly impressive black, such as the best assassins wore, but the sober, slightly shabby black of a man who doesn’t want to waste time in the mornings wondering what to wear. And you had to get up very early in the morning to get the better of the Patrician; in fact, it was wiser not to go to bed at all.
But he was popular, in a way. Under his hand, for the first time in a thousand years, Ankh-Morpork operated. It might not be fair or just or particularly democratic, but it worked. He tended it as one tends a topiary bush, encouraging a growth here, pruning an errant twig there. It was said that he would tolerate absolutely anything apart from anything that threatened the city [xi], and here it was…
He stared at the stricken wall for a long time, while the rain dripped off his chin and soaked his clothes. Behind him, Wonse hovered nervously.
Then one long, thin, blue-veined hand reached out and the fingertips traced the shadows.
Well, not so much shadows, more a series of silhouettes. The outline was very distinct. Inside, there was the familiar pattern of brickwork. Outside, though, something had fused the wall in a rather nice ceramic substance, giving the ancient flettons a melted, mirror-like finish.
The shapes outlined in brickwork showed a tableau of six men frozen in an attitude of surprise. Various upraised hands had quite clearly been holding knives and cutlasses.
Then Patrician looked down silently on the pile of ash at his feet. A few streaks of molten metal might once have been the very same weapons that were now so decisively etched into the wall.
“Hmm,” he said.
Captain Vimes respectfully led him across the lane and into Fast Luck Alley, where he pointed out Exhibit A, to whit…
“Footprints,” he said. “Which is stretching it a bit, sir. They’re more what you’d call claws. One might go so far as to say talons.”
The Patrician stared at the prints in the mud. His expression was quite unreadable.
“I see,” he said eventually. “And do you have an opinion about all this, Captain?”
The captain did. In the hours until dawn he’d had all sorts of opinions, starting with a conviction that it had been a big mistake to be born.
And then the grey light had filtered even into the Shades, and he was still alive and uncooked, and had looked around him with an expression of idiot relief and seen, not a yard away, these footprints. That had not been a good moment to be sober.
“Well, sir,” he said, “I know that dragons have been extinct for thousands of years, sir—”
“Yes?” The Patrician’s eyes narrowed.
Vimes plunged on. “But, sir, the thing is, do they know? Sergeant Colon said he heard a leathery sound just before, just before, just before the, er… offence.”
“So you think an extinct, and indeed a possibly entirely mythical, dragon flew into the city, landed in this narrow alley, incinerated a group of criminals, and then flew away?” said the Patrician. “One might say, it was a very public-spirited creature.”
“Well, when you put it like that—”
“If I recall, the dragons of legend were solitary and rural creatures who shunned people and dwelt in forsaken, out of the way places,” said the Patrician. “They were hardly urban creatures.”
“No, sir,” said the captain, repressing a comment that if you wanted to find a really forsaken, out of the way place then the Shades would fit the bill pretty well.
“Besides,” said Lord Vetinari, “one would imagine that someone would have noticed, wouldn’t you agree?”
The captain nodded at the wall and its dreadful frieze. “Apart from them, you mean, sir?”
“In my opinion,” said Lord Vetinari, “it’s some kind of warfare. Possibly a rival gang has hired a wizard. A little local difficulty.”
“Could be linked to all this strange thieving, sir,” volunteered Wonse.
“But there’s the footprints, sir,” said Vimes doggedly.
“We’re close to the river,” said the Patrician. “Possibly it was, perhaps, a wading bird of some sort. A mere coincidence,” he added, “but I should cover them over, if I were you. We don’t want people getting the wrong idea and jumping to silly conclusions, do we?” he added sharply.
Vimes gave in.
“As you wish, sir,” he said, looking at his sandals.
The Patrician patted him on the shoulder.
“Never mind,” he said. “Carry on. Good show of initiative, that man. Patrolling in the Shades, too. Well done.”
He turned, and almost walked into the wall of chain mail that was Carrot.
To his horror, Captain Vimes saw his newest recruit point politely to the Patrician’s coach. Around it, fully-armed and wary, were six members of the Palace Guard, who straightened up and took a wary interest. Vimes disliked them intensely. They had plumes on their helmets. He hated plumes on a guard.
He heard Carrot say. “Excuse me, sir, is this your coach, sir?” and the Patrician looked him blankly up and down and said, “It is. Who are you, young man?”
Carrot saluted. “Lance-constable Carrot, sir.”
“Carrot, Carrot. That name rings a bell.”
Lupine Wonse, who had been hovering behind him, whispered in the Patrician’s ear. His face brightened. “Ah, the young thief-taker. A little error there, I think, but commendable. No person is above the law, eh?”
“No, sir,” said Carrot.
“Commendable, commendable,” said the Patrician. “And now, gentlemen—”
“About your coach, sir,” said Carrot doggedly, “I couldn’t help noticing that the front offside wheel, contrary to the—”
He’s going to arrest the Patrician, Vimes told himself, the thought trickling through his brain like an icy rivulet. He’s actually going to arrest the Patrician. The supreme ruler. He’s going to arrest him. This is what he’s actually going to do. The boy doesn’t know the meaning of the word “fear’. Oh, wouldn’t it be a good idea if he knew the meaning of the word “survival’…
And I can’t get my jaw muscles to move.
We’re all dead. Or worse, we’re all detained at the Patrician’s pleasure. And as we all know, he’s seldom that pleased.
It was at this precise moment that Sergeant Colon earned himself a metaphorical medal.
“Lance-constable Carrot!” he shouted. “Attention! Lance-constable Carrot, abou-uta turna! Lance-constable Carrot, qui-uck marcha!”
Carrot brought himself to attention like a barn being raised and stared straight ahead with a ferocious expression of acute obedience.
“Well done, that man,” said the Patrician thoughtfully, as Carrot strode stiffly away. “Carry on, Captain. And do come down heavily on any silly rumours about dragons, right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Captain Vimes.
“Goodman.”
The coach rattled off, the bodyguard running alongside.
Behind him, Captain Vimes was only vaguely aware of the sergeant yelling at the retreating Carrot to stop.
He was thinking.
He looked at the prints in the mud. He used his regulation pike, which he knew was exactly seven feet long, to measure their size and the distance between them. He whistled under his breath. Then, with considerable caution, he followed the alley around the corner; it led to a small, padlocked and dirt-encrusted door in the back of a timber warehouse.
There was something very wrong, he thought.
The prints come out of the alley, but they don’t go in. And we don’t often get any wading birds in the Ankh, mainly because the pollution would eat their legs away and anyway, it’s easier for them to walk on the surface.
He looked up. A myriad washing lines criss-crossed the narrow rectangle of the sky as efficiently as a net.
So, he thought, something big and fiery came out of this alley but didn’t come into it.
And the Patrician is very worried about it.
I’ve been told to forget about it.
He noticed something else at the side of the alley, and bent down and picked up a fresh, empty peanut shell.
He tossed it from hand to hand, staring at nothing.
Right now, he needed a drink. But perhaps it ought to wait.
———
The Librarian knuckled his way urgently along the dark aisles between the slumbering bookshelves.
The rooftops of the city belonged to him. Oh, assassins and thieves might make use of them, but he’d long ago found the forest of chimneys, buttresses, gargoyles and weathervanes a convenient and somehow comforting alternative to the streets.
At least, up until now.
It had seemed amusing and instructive to follow the Watch into the Shades, an urban jungle which held no fears for a 300-lb ape. But now the nightmare he had seen while brachiating across a dark alley would, if he had been human, have made him doubt the evidence of his own eyes.
As an ape, he had no doubts whatsoever about his eyes and believed them all the time.
Right now he wanted to concentrate them urgently on a book that might hold a clue. It was in a section no-one bothered with much these days; the books in there were not really magical. Dust lay accusingly on the floor.
Dust with footprints in it.
“Oook?” said the Librarian, in the warm gloom.
He proceeded cautiously now, realising with a sense of inevitability that the footprints seemed to have the same destination in mind as he did.
He turned a corner and there it was.
The section.
The bookcase.
The shelf.
The gap.
There are many horrible sights in the multiverse. Somehow, though, to a soul attuned to the subtle rhythms of a library, there are few worse sights than a hole where a book ought to be.
Someone had stolen a book.
———
In the privacy of the Oblong Office, his personal sanctum, the Patrician paced up and down. He was dictating a stream of instructions.
“And send some men to paint that wall,” he finished.
Lupine Wonse raised an eyebrow.
