Guards! Guards! tds-8

by Terry Pratchett

  "He's still trying to challenge it!" said Vines. "You'd think he'd give in, wouldn't you?"

  "They fight like blazes," said Lady Ramkin, as he climbed on to the coach. "It's a matter of making your opponent explode, you see."

  "I thought, in Nature, the defeated animal just rolls on its back hi submission and that's the end of it," said Vimes, as they clattered after the disappearing swamp dragon.

  "Wouldn't work with dragons," said Lady Ramkin. "Some daft creature rolls on its back, you disembowel it. That's how they look at it. Almost human, really."

  The clouds were clustered thickly over Ankh-Morpork. Above them, the slow golden sunlight of the Discworld unrolled.

  The dragon sparkled in the dawn as it trod the air joyously, doing impossible turns and rolls for the sheer delight of it. Then it remembered the business of the day.

  They'd had the presumption to summon it ...

  Below it, the rank wandered from side to side up the Street of Small Gods. Despite the thick fog it was beginning to get busy.

  "What d'you call them things, like thin stairs?" said Sergeant Colon.

  "Ladders," said Carrot.

  "Lot of 'em about," said Nobby. He mooched over to the nearest one, and kicked it.

  "Oi!" A figure struggled down, half buried in a string of flags.

  "What's going on?" said Nobby.

  The flag bearer looked him up and down.

  "Who wants to know, tiddler?" he said.

  "Excuse me, we do," said Carrot, looming out of the fog like an iceberg. The man gave a sickly grin.

  "Well, it's the coronation, isn't it," he said. "Got to get the streets ready for the coronation. Got to have the flags up. Got to get the old bunting out, haven't we?"

  Nobby gave the dripping finery a jaundiced look. "Doesn't look that old to me," he said. "It looks new. What're them fat saggy things on that shield?"

  "Those are the royal hippos of Ankh," said the man proudly. "Reminders of our noble heritage."

  "How long have we had a noble heritage, then?" said Nobby.

  "Since yesterday, of course."

  "You can't have a heritage in a day," said Carrot. "It has to last a long time."

  "If we haven't got one," said Sergeant Colon, "I bet we'll soon have had one. My wife left me a note about it. All these years, and she turns out to be a monarchist." He kicked the pavement viciously. "Huh!" he said. "A man knocks his pipes out for thirty years to put a bit of meat on the table, but all she's talking about is some boy who gets to be king for five minutes' work. Know what was for my tea last night? Beef dripping sandwiches!"

  This did not have the expected response from the two bachelors.

  "Cor!" said Nobby.

  "Real beef dripping?" said Carrot. "The kind with the little crunchy bits on top? And shiny blobs of fat?"

  "Can't remember when I last addressed the crust on a bowl of dripping," mused Nobby, in a gastronomic heaven. "With just a bit of salt and pepper, you've got a meal fit for a k…"

  "Don't even say it," warned Colon.

  "The best bit is when you stick the knife in and crack the fat and all the browny gold stuff bubbles up," said Carrot dreamily. "A moment like that is worth a ki…"

  "Shutup! Shutup!" shouted Colon. "You're just— what the hell was that?"

  They felt the sudden downdraught, saw the mist above them roll into coils that broke against the house walls. A blast of colder air swept along the street, and was gone.

  "It was like something gliding past, up there somewhere," said the sergeant. He froze. "Here, you don't think…?"

  "We saw it killed, didn't we?" said Nobby urgently.

  "We saw it vanish, " said Carrot.

  They looked at one another, alone and damp in the mist-shrouded street. There could be anything up there. The imagination peopled the dank air with terrible apparitions. And what was worse was the knowledge that Nature might have done an even better job.

  "Nah," said Colon. "It was probably just some . . . some big wading bird. Or something."

  "Isn't there anything we should do?" said Carrot.

  "Yes," said Nobby. "We should go away quickly. Remember Gaskin."

  "Maybe it's another dragon," said Carrot. "We should warn people and…"

  "No," said Sergeant Colon vehemently, "because, Ae, they wouldn't believe us and, Bee, we've got a king now. 'S his job, dragons."

  "S'right," said Nobby. "He'd probably be really angry. Dragons are probably, you know, royal animals. Like deer. A man could probably have his tridlins plucked just for thinking about killing one, when there's a king around."[17]

  "Makes you glad you're common," said Colon.

  "Commoner," corrected Nobby.

  "That's not a very civic attitude…" Carrot began. He was interrupted by Errol.

  The little dragon came trotting up the middle of the street, stumpy tail high, his eyes fixed on the clouds above him. He went right by the rank without giving them any attention at all.

  "What's up with him?" said Nobby.

  A clatter behind them introduced the Ramkin coach.

  "Men?" said Vimes hesitantly, peering through the fog.

  "Definitely," said Sergeant Colon.

  "Did you see a dragon go past? Apart from Errol?"

  "Well, er," said the sergeant, looking at the other two. "Sort of, sir. Possibly. It might of been."

  "Then don't stand there like a lot of boobies," said Lady Ramkin. "Get in! Plenty of room inside!"

  There was. When it was built, the coach had probably been the marvel of the day, all plush and gilt and tasselled hangings. Time, neglect and the ripping out of the seats to allow its frequent use to transport dragons to shows had taken their toll, but it still reeked of privilege, style and, of course, dragons.

  "What do you think you're doing?" said Colon, as it rattled off through the fog.

  "Wavin'," said Nobby, gesturing graciously to the billows around them.

  "Disgusting, this sort of thing, really," mused Sergeant Colon. "People goin' around in coaches like this when there's people with no roof to their heads."

  "It's Lady Ramkin's coach," said Nobby. "She's all right."

  "Well, yes, but what about her ancestors, eh? You don't get big houses and carriages without grindin' the faces of the poor a bit."

  "You're just annoyed because your missus has been embroidering crowns on her undies," said Nobby.

  "That's got nothing to do with it," said Sergeant Colon indignantly. "I've always been very firm on the rights of man."

  "And dwarf," said Carrot.

  "Yeah, right," said the sergeant uncertainly. "But all this business about kings and lords, it's against basic human dignity. We're all born equal. It makes me sick."

  "Never heard you talk like this before, Frederick," said Nobby.

  "It's Sergeant Colon to you, Nobby.

  "Sorry, Sergeant."

  The fog itself was shaping up to be a real Ankh-Morpork autumn gumbo.* Vimes squinted through it as the droplets buckled down to a good day's work soaking him to the skin.

  "I can just make him out," he said. "Turn left here."

  "Any ideas where we are?" said Lady Ramkin.

  "Business district somewhere," said Vimes shortly. Errol's progress was slowing a bit. He kept looking up and whining.

  "Can't see a damn thing above us in the fog," he said. "I wonder if…"

  The fog, as if in acknowledgement, lit up. Ahead of them it blossomed like a chrysanthemum and made a noise like "whoomph".

  "Oh, no," moaned Vimes. "Not again!"

  Like a pea-souper, only much thicker, fishier, and with things in it you'd probably rather not know about.

  "Are the Cups of Integrity well and truly suffused?" intoned Brother Watchtower.

  "Aye, suffused full well."

  "The Waters of the World, are they Abjured?"

  "Yea, abjured full mightily."

  "Have the Demons of Infinity been bound with many chains?"

  "Damn," said Br
other Plasterer, "there's always something."

  Brother Watchtower sagged. "Just once it would be nice if we could get the ancient and timeless rituals right, wouldn't it. You'd better get on with it."

  "Wouldn't it be quicker, Brother Watchtower, if I just did it twice next time?" said Brother Plasterer.

  Brother Watchtower gave this some grudging consideration. It seemed reasonable.

  "All right," he said. "Now get back down there with the others. And you should call me Acting Supreme Grand Master, understand?"

  This did not meet with what he considered to be a proper and dignified reception among the brethren.

  "No one said anything to us about you being Acting Supreme Grand Master," muttered Brother Doorkeeper.

  "Well, that's all you know because I bloody well am because Supreme Grand Master asked me to open the Lodge on account of him being delayed with all this coronation work," said Brother Watchtower haughtily. "If that doesn't make me Acting Supreme Grand bloody Master I'd like to know what does, all right?"

  "I don't see why," muttered Brother Doorkeeper. "You don't have a grand title like that. You could just be called something like, well . . . Rituals Monitor."

  "Yeah," said Brother Plasterer. "Don't see why you should give yourself airs. You ain't even been taught the ancient and mystic mysteries by monks, or anything."

  "We’ve been hanging around for hours, too," said Brother Doorkeeper. "That's not right. I thought we'd get rewarded…"

  Brother Watchtower realized that he was losing control. He tried wheedling diplomacy.

  "I'm sure Supreme Grand Master will be along directly," he said. "Let's not spoil it all now, eh? Lads? Arranging that fight with the dragon and everything, getting it all off right, that was something, wasn't it? We've been through a lot, right? It's worth waiting just a bit longer, okay?'

  The circle of robed and cowled figures shuffled in grudging agreement.

  "Okay."

  "Fair enough."

  "Yeah."

  "Certainly."

  "Okay."

  "If you say so."

  It began to creep over Brother Watchtower that something wasn't right, but he couldn't quite put a name to it.

  "Uh," he said. "Brothers?"

  They, too, shifted uneasily. Something in the room was setting their teeth on edge. There was an atmosphere.

  "Brothers," repeated Brother Watchtower, trying to reassert himself, "we are all here, aren't we?"

  There was a worried chorus of agreement.

  "Of course we are."

  "What's the matter?"

  "Yes!"

  "Yes."

  "Yes."

  There it was again, a subtle wrongness about things that you couldn't quite put your finger on because your finger was too scared. But Brother Watchtower's troublesome thoughts were interrupted by a scrabbling sound on the roof. A few nubs of plaster dropped into the circle.

  "Brothers?" repeated Brother Watchtower nervously.

  Now there was one of those silent sounds, a long, buzzing silence of extreme concentration and just possibly the indrawing of breath into lungs the size of haystacks. The last rats of Brother Watchtower's self-confidence fled the sinking ship of courage.

  "Brother Doorkeeper, if you could just unbolt the dread portal…" he quavered.

  And then there was light.

  There was no pain. There was no time.

  Death strips away many things, especially when it arrives at a temperature hot enough to vaporize iron, and among them are your illusions. The immortal remains of Brother Watchtower watched the dragon flap away into the fog, and then looked down at the congealing puddle of stone, metal and miscellaneous trace elements that was all that remained of the secret headquarters. And of its occupants, he realized in the dispassionate way that is part of being dead. You go through your whole life and end up a smear swirling around like cream in a coffee cup. Whatever the gods' games were, they played them in a damn mysterious way.

  He looked up at the hooded figure beside him.

  "We never intended this," he said weakly. "Honestly. No offence. We just wanted what was due to us."

  A skeletal hand patted him on the shoulder, not unkindly.

  And Death said, congratulations .

  Apart from the Supreme Grand Master, the only Elucidated Brother to be away at the time of the dragon was Brother Fingers. He'd been sent out for some pizzas. Brother Fingers was always the one sent out for takeaway food. It was cheaper. He'd never bothered to master the art of paying for things.

  When the guards rolled up just behind Errol, Brother Fingers was standing with a stack of cardboard boxes in his hands and his mouth open.

  Where the dread portal should have been was a warm melted patch of assorted substances.

  "Oh, my goodness," said Lady Ramkin.

  Vimes slid down from the coach and tapped Brother Fingers on the shoulder.

  "Excuse me, sir," he said, "did you by any chance see what…"

  When Brother Fingers turned towards him his face was the face of a man who has hang-glided over the entrance to Hell. He kept opening and shutting his mouth but no words were coming out.

  Vimes tried again. The sheer terror frozen in Brother Fingers's expression was getting to him.

  "If you would be so kind to accompany me to the Yard," said Vimes, "I have reason to believe that you…" He hesitated. He wasn't entirely certain what it was that he had reason to believe. But the man was clearly guilty. You could tell just by looking at him. Not, perhaps, guilty of anything specific. Just guilty in general terms.

  "Mmmmmuh," said Brother Fingers.

  Sergeant Colon gently lifted the lid of the top box.

  "What do you make of it, Sergeant?" said Vimes, stepping back.

  "Er. It looks like a Klatchian Hots with anchovies, sir," said Sergeant Colon knowledgeably.

  "I mean the man," said Vimes wearily.

  "Nnnnn," said Brother Fingers.

  Colon peered under the hood. "Oh, I know him, sir," he said. "Bengy 'Lightfoot' Boggis, sir. He's a capo de monty in the Thieves' Guild. I know him of old, sir. Sly little bugger. Used to work at the University."

  "What, as a wizard?" said Vimes.

  "Odd job man, sir. Gardening and carpentry and that."

  "Oh. Did he?"

  "Can't we do something for the poor man?" said Lady Ramkin.

  Nobby saluted smartly. "I could kick him in the bollocks for you if you like, m'lady."

  "Dddrrr," said Brother Fingers, beginning to shake uncontrollably, while Lady Ramkin smiled the iron-hard blank smile of a high-born lady who is determined not to show that she has understood what has just been said to her.

  "Put him in the coach, you two," said Vimes. "If it's all right with you, Lady Ramkin…"

  "Sybil," corrected Lady Ramkin. Vimes blushed, and plunged on,"…it might be a good idea to get him indoors. Charge him with the theft of one book, to wit, The Summoning of Dragons. "

  "Right you are, sir," said Sergeant Colon. "The pizzas're getting cold, too. You know how the cheese goes all manky when it gets cold."

  "And no kicking him, either," Vimes warned. "Not even where it doesn't show. Carrot, you come with me."

  "DDddrrraa," Brother Fingers volunteered.

  "And take Errol," added Vimes. "He's driving himself mad here. Game little devil, I'll give him that."

  "Marvellous, when you come to think about it," said Colon.

  Errol was trotting up and down in front of the ravaged building, whining.

  "Look at him," said Vimes. "Can't wait to get to grips." His gaze found itself drawn, as though by wires, up to the rolling clouds of fog.

  It's in there somewhere, he thought.

  "What we going to do now, sir?" said Carrot, as the carriage rattled off.

  "Not nervous, are you?" said Vimes.

  "No, sir."

  The way he said it jogged something in Vimes's mind.

  "No," he said, "you're not, are you? I suppose it's be
ing brought up by the dwarfs that did it. You've got no imagination."

  "I'm sure I try to do my best, sir," said Carrot firmly.

  "Still sending all your pay home to your mother?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You're a good boy."

  "Yessir. So what are we going to do, Captain Vimes?" Carrot repeated.

  Vimes looked around him. He walked a few aimless, exasperated steps. He spread his arms wide and then flopped them down by his sides.

  "How should I know?" he said. "Warn people, I guess. We'd better get over to the Patrician's palace. And then…"

  There were footsteps in the fog. Vimes stiffened, put his finger to his lips and pulled Carrot into the shelter of a doorway.

  A figure loomed out of the billows.

  Another one of 'em, thought Vimes. Well, there's no law about wearing long black robes and deep cowls. There could be dozens of perfectly innocent reasons why this person is wearing long black robes and a deep cowl and standing in front of a melted-down house at dawn.

  Perhaps I should ask him to name just one.

  He stepped out.

  "Excuse me, sir…" he began.

  The cowl swung around. There was a hiss of indrawn breath.

  "I just wonder if you would mind…After him, lance-constable!… ''

  The figure had a good start. It scuttled along the street and had reached the corner before Vimes was halfway there. He skidded around it in time to see a shape vanish down an alley.

  Vimes realized he was running alone. He panted to a halt and looked back just in time to see Carrot jog gently around the corner.

  "What's wrong?" he wheezed.

  "Sergeant Colon said I wasn't to run," said Carrot.

  Vimes looked at him vaguely. Then slow comprehension dawned.

  "Oh," he said. "I, er, see. I don't think he meant in every circumstance, lad." He stared back into the fog. "Not that we had much of a chance in this fog and these streets."

  "Might have been just an innocent bystander, sir," said Carrot.

  "What, in Ankh-Morpork?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "We should have grabbed him, then, just for the rarity value," said Vimes.

  He patted Carrot on the shoulder. "Come on. We'd better get along to the Patrician's palace."

  "The King's palace," corrected Carrot.