Guards guards, p.15
Guards! Guards!, page 15
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Colon ran a finger round his collar. His skin was impressively pink, the result of a morning’s scrubbing, but people were still staying at a respectful distance.
Some people are born to command. Some people achieve command. And others have command thrust upon them, and the sergeant was now included in this category and wasn’t very happy about it.
Any minute now, he knew, he was going to have to say that it was time they went out on patrol. He didn’t want to go out on patrol. He wanted to find a nice sub-basement somewhere. But nobblyess obligay —if he was in charge, he had to do it.
It wasn’t the loneliness of command that was bothering him. It was the being-fried-alive of command that was giving him problems.
He was also pretty sure that unless they came up with something about this dragon very soon then the Patrician was going to be unhappy. And when the Patrician was unhappy, he became very democratic. He found intricate and painful ways of spreading that unhappiness as far as possible. Responsibility, the sergeant thought, was a terrible thing. So was being horribly tortured. As far as he could see, the two facts were rapidly heading towards one another.
And thus he was terribly relieved when a small coach pulled up outside the Yard. It was very old, and battered. There was a faded coat of arms on the door. Painted on the back, and rather newer, was the little message: Whinny If You Love Dragons.
Out of it, wincing as he got down, stepped Captain Vimes. Following him was the woman known to the sergeant as Mad Sybil Ramkin. And finally, hopping down obediently on the end of its lead, was a small—
The sergeant was too nervous to take account of actual size.
“Well, I’ll be mogadored! They’ve only gone and caught it!”
Nobby looked up from the table in the corner where he was continually failing to learn that it is almost impossible to play a game of skill and bluff against an opponent who smiles all the time. The Librarian took advantage of the diversion to help himself to a couple of cards off the bottom of the pack.
“Don’t be daft. That’s just a swamp dragon,” said Nobby. “She’s all right, is Lady Sybil. A real lady.”
The other two guards turned and stared at him. This was Nobby talking.
“You two can bloody well stop that,” he said. “Why shouldn’t I know a lady when I sees one? She give me a cup of tea in a cup fin as paper and a silver spoon in it,” he said, speaking as one who had peeped over the plateau of social distinction. “And I give it back to her, so you can stop looking at me like that!”
“What is it you actually do on your evenings off?” said Colon.
“No business of yourn.”
“Did you really give the spoon back?” said Carrot.
“Yes I bloody well did!” said Nobby hotly.
“Attention, lads,” said the sergeant, flooded with relief.
The other two entered the room. Vimes gave his men his usual look of resigned dismay. “My squad,” he mumbled.
“Fine body of men,” said Lady Ramkin. “The good old rank and file, eh?”
“The rank, anyway,” said Vimes.
Lady Ramkin beamed encouragingly. This led to a strange shuffling among the men. Sergeant Colon, by dint of some effort, managed to make his chest stick out more than his stomach. Carrot straightened up from his habitual stoop. Nobby vibrated with soldierly bearing, hands thrust straight down by his sides, thumbs pointing sharply forward, pigeon chest inflated so much that his feet were in danger of leaving the ground.
“I always think we can all sleep safer in my bed knowing that these brave men are watching over us,” said Lady Ramkin, walking sedately along the rank, like a treasure galleon running ahead of a mild breeze. “And who is this?”
It is difficult for an orangutan to stand to attention. Its body can master the general idea, but its skin can’t. The Librarian was doing his best, however, standing in a sort of respectful heap at the end of the line and maintaining the kind of complex salute you can only achieve with a four-foot arm.
“‘E’s plain clothes, ma’am,” said Nobby smartly. “Special Ape Services.”
“Very enterprising. Very enterprising indeed,” said Lady Ramkin. “How long have you been an ape, my man?”
“Oook.”
“Well done.” She turned to Vimes, who was definitely looking incredulous.
“A credit to you,” she said. “A fine body of men—”
“Oook.”
“—anthropoids,” corrected Lady Ramkin, with barely a break in the flow.
For a moment the rank felt as though they had just returned from single-handedly conquering a distant province. They felt, in fact, tremendously bucked-up, which was how Lady Ramkin would almost certainly have put it and which was definitely several letters of the alphabet away from how they normally felt. Even the Librarian felt favoured, and for once had let the phrase “my man” pass without comment.
A trickling noise and a strong chemical smell prompted them to look around.
Goodboy Bindle Featherstone was squatting with an air of sheepish innocence alongside what was not so much a stain on the carpet as a hole in the floor. A few wisps of smoke were curling up from the edges.
Lady Ramkin sighed.
“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” volunteered Nobby cheerfully. “Soon have that cleaned up.”
“I’m afraid they’re often like that when they’re excited,” she said.
“Fine specimen you got there, ma’am,” Nobby went on, revelling in the new-found experience of social intercourse.
“It’s not mine,” she said. “It belongs to the captain now. Or all of you, perhaps. A sort of mascot. His name is Goodboy Bindle Featherstone.”
Goodboy Bindle Featherstone bore up stoically under the weight of the name, and sniffed a table leg.
“He looks more like my brother Errol,” said Nobby, playing the cheeky chirpy lovable city sparrow card for all it was worth. “Got the same pointed nose, excuse me for saying so, milady.”
Vimes looked at the creature, which was investigating its new environment, and knew that it was now, irrevocably, an Errol. The little dragon took an experimental bite out of the table, chewed it for a few seconds, spat it out, curled up and went to sleep.
“He ain’t going to set fire to anything, is he?” said the sergeant anxiously.
“I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem to have worked out what his flame ducts are for yet,” said Lady Ramkin.
“You can’t teach him anything about relaxing, though,” said Vimes. “Anyway, men…”
“Oook.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, sir. What’s this doing here?”
“Er,” said Sergeant Colon hurriedly, “I, er… with you being away and all, and us likely to be short-handed… Carrot here says it’s all according to the law and that… I swore him in, sir. The ape, sir.”
“Swore him in what, Sergeant?” said Vimes.
“As Special Constable, sir,” said Colon, blushing. “You know, sir. Sort of citizen’s Watch.”
Vimes threw up his hands. “Special? Bloody unique!”
The Librarian gave Vimes a big smile.
“Just temporarily, sir. For the duration, like,” said Colon pleadingly. “We could do with the help, sir, and… well, he’s the only one who seems to like us…”
“I think it’s a frightfully good idea,” said Lady Ramkin. “Well done, that ape.”
Vimes shrugged. The world was mad enough already, what could make it worse?
“Okay,” he said. “Okay! I give in. Fine! Give him a badge, although I’m damned if I know where he’ll wear it! Fine! Yes! Why not?”
“You all right, Captain?” said Colon, all concern.
“Fine! Fine! Welcome to the new Watch!” snapped Vimes, striding vaguely around the room. “Great! After all, we pay peanuts, don’t we, so we might as well employ mon—”
The sergeant’s hand slapped respectfully across Vimes’s mouth.
“Er, just one thing, Captain,” said Colon urgently, to Vimes’s astonished eyes. “You don’t use the “M” word. Gets right up his nose, sir. He can’t help it, he loses all self-control. Like a red rag to a wossname, sir. “Ape” is all right, sir, but not the “M” word. Because, sir, when he gets angry he doesn’t just go and sulk, sir, if you get my drift. He’s no trouble at all apart from that, sir. All right? Just don’t say monkey. Ohshit.”
———
The Brethren were nervous.
He’d heard them talking. Things were moving too fast for them. He thought he’d led them into the conspiracy a bit at a time, never giving them more truth than their little brains could cope with, but he’d still overestimated them. A firm hand was needed. Firm but fair.
“Brothers,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “are the Cuffs of Veracity duly enhanced?”
“What?” said Brother Watchtower vaguely. “Oh. The Cuffs. Yeah. Enhanced. Right.”
“And the Martlets of Beckoning, are they fittingly divested?”
Brother Plasterer gave a guilty start. “Me? What? Oh. Fine, no problem. Divested. Yes.”
The Supreme Grand Master paused.
“Brothers,” he said softly. “We are so near. Just once more. Just a few hours. Once more and the world is ours. Do you understand, Brothers?”
Brother Plasterer shuffled a foot.
“Well,” he said. “I mean, of course. Yes. No fears about that. Behind you one hundred and ten percent—”
He’s going to say only, thought the Supreme Grand Master.
“—only—”
Ah.
“—we, that is, all of us, we’ve been… odd, really, you feel so different, don’t you, after summoning the dragon, sort of—”
“Cleaned out,” said Brother Plasterer helpfully.
“—yes, like it’s sort of—” Brother Watchtower struggled with the serpents of self-expression “—taking something out of you…”
“Sucked dry,” said Brother Plasterer.
“Yes, like he said, and we… well, it’s maybe it’s a bit risky…”
“Like stuff’s been dragged from your actual living brain by eldritch creatures from the Beyond,” said Brother Plasterer.
“I’d have said more like a bit of a sick headache, myself,” said Brother Watchtower helplessly. “And we was wondering, you know, about all this stuff about cosmic balance and that, because, well, look what happened to poor old Dunnykin. Could be a bit of a judgement. Er.”
“It was just a maddened crocodile hidden in a flower bed,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “It could have happened to anyone. I understand your feelings, however.”
“You do?” said Brother Watchtower.
“Oh, yes. They’re only natural. All the greatest wizards feel a little ill-at-ease before undertaking a great work such as this.” The Brethren preened themselves. Great wizards. That’s us. Yeah. “But in a few hours it’ll be over, and I am sure that the king will reward you handsomely. The future will be glorious.”
This normally did the trick. It didn’t appear to be working this time.
“But the dragon—” Brother Watchtower began.
“There won’t be any dragon! We won’t need it. Look,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “it’s quite simple. The lad will have a marvellous sword. Everyone knows kings have marvellous swords—”
“This’d be the marvellous sword you’ve been telling us about, would it?” said Brother Plasterer.
“And when it touches the dragon,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “it’ll be… foom!”
“Yeah, they do that,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “My uncle kicked a swamp dragon once. He found it eating his pumpkins. Damn thing nearly took his leg off.”
The Supreme Grand Master sighed. A few more hours, yes, and then no more of this. The only thing he hadn’t decided was whether to let them alone—who’d believe them, after all?—or send the Guard to arrest them for being terminally stupid.
“No,” he said patiently, “I mean the dragon will vanish. We’ll have sent it back. End of dragon.”
“Won’t people be a bit suspicious?” said Brother Plasterer. “Won’t they expect lumps of dragon all over the place?”
“No,” said the Supreme Grand Master triumphantly, “because one touch from the Sword of Truth and Justice will totally destroy the Spawn of Evil!”
The Brethren stared at him.
“That’s what they’ll believe, anyway,” he added. “We can provide a bit of mystic smoke at the time.”
“Dead easy, mystic smoke,” said Brother Fingers.
“No bits, then?” said Brother Plasterer, a shade disappointed.
Brother Watchtower coughed. “Dunno if people will accept that,” he said. “Sounds a bit too neat, like.”
“Listen,” snapped the Supreme Grand Master, “they’ll accept anything! They’ll see it happen! People will be so keen to see the boy win, they won’t think twice about it! Depend upon it! Now… let us commence…”
He concentrated.
Yes, it was easier. Easier every time. He could feel the scales, feel the rage of the dragon as he reached into the place where the dragons went and took control.
This was power, and it was his.
———
Sergeant Colon winced. “Ow.”
“Don’t be a big softy,” said Lady Ramkin cheerfully, tightening the bandage with a well-practised skill handed down through many generations of Ramkin womenfolk. “He hardly touched you.”
“And he’s very sorry,” said Carrot sharply. “Show the sergeant how sorry you are. Go on.”
“Oook,” said the Librarian, sheepishly.
“Don’t let him kiss me!” squeaked Colon.
“Do you think picking someone up by their ankles and bouncing their head on the floor comes under the heading of Striking a Superior Officer?” said Carrot.
“I’m not pressing charges, me,” said the sergeant hurriedly.
“Can we get on?” said Vimes impatiently. “We’re going to see if Errol can sniff out the dragon’s lair. Lady Ramkin thinks it’s got to be worth a try.”
“You mean set a deep hole with spring-loaded sides, tripwires, whirling knife blades driven by water power, broken glass and scorpions, to catch a thief, Captain?” said the sergeant doubtfully. “Ow!”
“Yes, we don’t want to lose the scent,” said Lady Ramkin. “Stop being a big baby, Sergeant.”
“Brilliant idea about using Errol, ma’am, if I may make so bold,” said Nobby, while the sergeant blushed under his bandage.
Vimes was not certain how long he would be able to put up with Nobby the social mountaineer.
Carrot said nothing. He was gradually coming to terms with the fact that he probably wasn’t a dwarf, but dwarf blood flowed in his veins in accordance with the famous principle of morphic resonance, and his borrowed genes were telling him that nothing was going to be that simple. Finding a hoard even when the dragon wasn’t at home was pretty risky. Anyway, he was certain he’d know if there was one around. The presence of large amounts of gold always made a dwarf’s palms itch, and his weren’t itching.
“We’ll start by that wall in the Shades,” said the captain.
Sergeant Colon glanced sideways at Lady Ramkin, and found it impossible to show cowardice in the face of the supportive. He contented himself with, “Is that wise, Captain?”
“Of course it isn’t. If we were wise, we wouldn’t be in the Watch.”
“I say! All this is tremendously exciting,” said Lady Ramkin.
“Oh, I don’t think you should come, m’lady—” Vimes began.
“—Sybil, please!—”
“—it’s a very disreputable area, you see.”
“But I’m sure I shall be perfectly safe with your men,” she said. “I’m sure vagabonds just melt away when they see you.”
That’s dragons, thought Vimes. They melt away when they see dragons, and just leave their shadows on the wall. Whenever he felt that he was slowing down, or that he was losing interest, he remembered those shadows, and it was like having dull fire poured down his backbone. Things like that shouldn’t be allowed to happen. Not in my city.
———
In fact the Shades were not a problem. Many of its denizens were out hoard-hunting anyway, and those that remained were far less inclined than hitherto to lurk in dark alleys. Besides, the more sensible of them recognised that Lady Ramkin, if waylaid, would probably tell them to pull up their socks and not be silly, in a voice so used to command that they would probably find themselves doing it.
The wall hadn’t been knocked down yet and still bore its grisly fresco. Errol sniffed around it, trotted up the alley once or twice, and went to sleep.
“Dint work,” said Sergeant Colon.
“Good idea, though,” said Nobby loyally.
“It could be all the rain and people walking about, I suppose,” said Lady Ramkin.
Vimes scooped up the dragon. It had been a vain hope anyway. It was just better to be doing something than nothing.
“We’d better get back,” he said. “The sun’s gone down.”
They walked back in silence. The dragon’s even tamed the Shades, Vimes thought. It’s taken over the whole city, even when it isn’t here. People’ll start tying virgins to rocks any day now.
It’s a metaphor of human bloody existence, a dragon. And if that wasn’t bad enough, it’s also a bloody great hot flying thing.
He pulled out the key to the new headquarters. While he was fumbling in the lock, Errol woke up and started to yammer.
“Not now,” Vimes said. His side twinged. The night had barely started and already he felt too tired.
A slate slid down the roof and smashed on the cobbles beside him.
“Captain,” hissed Sergeant Colon.
“What?”
“It’s on the roof, Captain.”
Something about the sergeant’s voice got through to Vimes. It wasn’t excited. It wasn’t frightened. It just had a tone of dull, leaden terror.
He looked up. Errol started to bounce up and down under his arm.
The dragon—the dragon was peering down interestedly over the guttering. Its face alone was taller than a man. Its eyes were the size of very large eyes, coloured a smouldering red and filled with an intelligence that had nothing to do with human beings. It was far older, for one thing. It was an intelligence that had already been long basted in guile and marinated in cunning by the time a group of almost-monkeys were wondering whether standing on two legs was a good career move. It wasn’t an intelligence that had any truck with, or even understood, the arts of diplomacy.
