"Yeah," said Nobby, peering around the captain. "Up against the wall and spread 'em, motherbreath!"
"Eh? What's he supposed to spread?" whispered Sergeant Colon anxiously.
Nobby shrugged. "Dunno," he said. "Everything, I reckon. Safest way."
Wonse stared at the rank in disbelief.
"Ah, Vimes," said the Patrician. "You will…"
"Shut up," said Vimes calmly. "Lance-constable Carrot?"
"Sir!"
"Read the prisoner his rights."
"Yes, sir." Carrot produced his notebook, licked his thumb, flicked through the pages.
"Lupine Wonse," he said, "AKA Lupin Squiggle Sec'y PP…"
"Wha?" said Wonse.
"…currently domiciled in the domicile known as The Palace, Ankh-Morpork, it is my duty to inform you that you have been arrested and will be charged with…" Carrot gave Vimes an agonised look,"…a number of offences of murder by means of a blunt instrument, to whit, a dragon, and many further offences of generalised abetting, to be more specifically ascertained later. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right not to be summarily thrown into a piranha tank. You have the right to trial by ordeal. You have the…"
"This is madness," said the Patrician calmly.
"I thought I told you to shut up!" snapped Vimes, spinning around and shaking a finger under the Patrician's nose.
"Tell me, Sarge," whispered Nobby, "do you think we're going to like it in the scorpion pit?"
"…say anything, er, but anything you do say will be written down, er, here, in my notebook, and, er, may be used in evidence.."
Carrot's voice trailed into silence.
"Well, if this pantomime gives you any pleasure, Vimes," said the Patrician eventually, "take him down to the cells. I'll deal with him in the morning."
Wonse made no signal. There was no scream or cry. He just rushed at the Patrician, sword raised.
Options flickered across Vimes's mind. In the lead came the suggestion that standing back would be a good plan, let Wonse do it, disarm him afterwards, let the city clean itself up. Yes. A good plan.
And it was therefore a total mystery to him why he chose to dart forward, bringing Carrot's sword up in a half-baked attempt at blocking the stroke . . .
Perhaps it was something to do with doing it by the book.
There was a clang. Not a particularly loud one. He felt something bright and silver whirr past his ear and strike the wall.
Wonse's mouth fell open. He dropped the remnant of his sword and backed away, clutching The Summoning.
"You'll be sorry," he hissed. "You'll all be very sorry!"
He started to mumble under his breath.
Vimes felt himself trembling. He was pretty certain he knew what had zinged past his head, and the mere thought was making his hands sweat. He'd come to the palace ready to kill and there'd been this minute, just this minute, when for once the world had seemed to be operating properly and he was in charge of it and now, now all he wanted was a drink. And a nice week's sleep.
"Oh, give up!" he said. "Are you going to come quietly?"
The mumbling went on. The air began to feel hot and dry.
Vimes shrugged. "That's it, then," he said, and turned away. "Throw the book at him, Carrot."
"Right, sir."
Vimes remembered too late.
Dwarfs have trouble with metaphors.
They also have a very good aim.
The Laws and Ordinances of Ankh and Morpork caught the secretary on the forehead. He blinked, staggered, and stepped backwards.
It was the longest step he ever took. For one thing, it lasted the rest of his life.
After several seconds they heard him hit, five storeys below.
After several more seconds their faces appeared over the edge of the ravaged floor.
"What a way to go," said Sergeant Colon.
"That's a fact," said Nobby, reaching up to his ear for a dog-end.
"Killed by a wossname. A metaphor."
"Dunno," said Nobby. "Looks like the ground to me. Got a light, Sarge?"
"That was right, wasn't it, sir?" said Carrot anxiously. "You said to…"
"Yes, yes," said Vimes. "Don't worry." He reached down with a shaking hand, picked up the bag Wonse had been holding, and tipped out a pile of stones. Every one had a hole in it. Why? he thought.
A metallic noise behind him made him look around. The Patrician was holding the remains of the royal sword. As the captain watched, the man wrenched the other half of the sword out of the far wall. It was a clean break.
"Captain Vimes," he said.
"Sir?"
"That sword, if you please?"
Vimes handed it over. He couldn't, right now, think of anything else to do. He was probably due for a scorpion pit of his very own as it was.
Lord Vetinari examined the rusty blade carefully.
"How long have you had this, Captain?" he said mildly.
"Isn't mine, sir. Belongs to Lance-constable Carrot, sir."
"Lance…?"
"Me, sir, your graciousness," said Carrot, saluting.
"Ah."
The Patrician turned the blade over and over slowly, staring at it as if fascinated. Vimes felt the air thicken, as though history was clustering around this point, but for the life of him he couldn't think why. This was one of those points where the Trousers of Time bifurcated themselves, and if you weren't careful you'd go down the wrong leg…
Wonse arose in a world of shades, icy confusion pouring into his mind. But all he could think of at the moment was the tall cowled figure standing over him.
"I thought you were all dead," he mumbled. It was strangely quiet and the colours around him seemed washed-out, muted. Something was very wrong. "Is that you, Brother Doorkeeper?" he ventured.
The figure reached out.
METAPHORICALLY, it said.
…and the Patrician handed the sword to Carrot.
"Very well done, young man," he said. "Captain Vimes, I suggest you give your men the rest of the day off."
"Thank you, sir," said Vimes. "Okay, lads. You heard his lordship."
"But not you, Captain. We must have a little talk."
"Yes, sir?" said Vimes innocently.
The rank scurried out, giving Vimes sympathetic and sorrowful glances.
The Patrician walked to the edge of the floor and looked down.
"Poor Wonse," he said.
"Yes, sir." Vimes stared at the wall.
"I would have preferred him alive, you know."
"Sir?"
"Misguided, yes, but a useful man. His head could have been of further use to me."
"Yes, sir."
"The rest, of course, we could have thrown away."
"Yes, sir."
"That was a joke, Vimes."
"Yes, sir."
"The chap never grasped the idea of secret passages, mind you."
"No, sir."
"That young fellow. Carrot, you called him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Keen fellow. Likes it in the Watch?"
"Yes, sir. Right at home, sir."
"You saved my life."
"Sir?"
"Come with me."
He stalked away through the ruined palace, Vimes trailing behind, until he reached the Oblong Office. It was quite tidy. It had escaped most of the devastation with nothing more than a layer of dust. The Patrician sat down, and suddenly it was as if he'd never left. Vimes wondered if he ever had.
He picked up a sheaf of papers and brushed the plaster off them.
"Sad," he said. "Lupine was such a tidy-minded man."
"Yes, sir."
The Patrician steepled his hands and looked at Vimes over the top of them.
"Let me give you some advice, Captain," he said.
"Yes, sir?"
"It may help you make some sense of the world."
"Sir."
"I believe you find life such a problem because you think there are the good p
eople and the bad people," said the man. "You're wrong, of course. There are, always and only, the bad people, but some of them are on opposite sides. "
He waved his thin hand towards the city and walked over to the window.
"A great rolling sea of evil," he said, almost proprietorially. "Shallower in some places, of course, but deeper, oh, so much deeper in others. But people like you put together little rafts of rules and vaguely good intentions and say, this is the opposite, this will triumph in the end. Amazing!" He slapped Vimes good-naturedly on the back.
"Down there," he said, "are people who will follow any dragon, worship any god, ignore any iniquity. All out of a kind of humdrum, everyday badness. Not the really high, creative loathesomeness of the great sinners, but a sort of mass-produced darkness of the soul. Sin, you might say, without a trace of originality. They accept evil not because they say yes, but because they don't say no. I'm sorry if this offends you,'' he added, patting the captain's shoulder, "but you fellows really need us."
"Yes, sir?" said Vimes quietly.
"Oh, yes. We're the only ones who know how to make things work. You see, the only thing the good people are good at is overthrowing the bad people. And you're good at that, I'll grant you. But the trouble is that it's the only thing you're good at. One day it's the ringing of the bells and the casting down of the evil tyrant, and the next it's everyone sitting around complaining that ever since the tyrant was overthrown no one's been taking out the trash. Because the bad people know how to plan. It's part of the specification, you might say. Every evil tyrant has a plan to rule the world. The good people don't seem to have the knack."
"Maybe. But you're wrong about the rest!" said Vimes. "It's just because people are afraid, and alone…" He paused. It sounded pretty hollow, even to him.
He shrugged. "They're just people," he said. "They're just doing what people do. Sir."
Lord Vetinari gave him a friendly smile.
"Of course, of course," he said. "You have to believe that, I appreciate. Otherwise you'd go quite mad. Otherwise you'd think you're standing on a feather-thin bridge over the vaults of Hell. Otherwise existence would be a dark agony and the only hope would be that there is no life after death. I quite understand." He looked at his desk, and sighed, "And now," he said, "there is such a lot to do. I'm afraid poor Wonse was a good servant but an inefficient master. So you may go. Have a good night's sleep. Oh, and do bring your men in tomorrow. The city must show its gratitude."
"It must what?" said Vimes.
The Patrician looked at a scroll. Already his voice was back to the distant tones of one who organises and plans and controls.
"Its gratitude," he said. "After every triumphant victory there must be heroes. It is essential. Then everyone will know that everything has been done properly."
He glanced at Vimes over the top of the scroll.
"It's all part of the natural order of things,'' he said.
After a while he made a few pencil annotations to the paper in front of him and looked up.
"I said," he said, "that you may go."
Vimes paused at the door.
"Do you believe all that, sir?" he said. "About the endless evil and the sheer blackness?"
"Indeed, indeed," said the Patrician, turning over the page. "It is the only logical conclusion."
"But you get out of bed every morning, sir?"
"Hmm? Yes? What is your point?"
"I'd just like to know why, sir."
"Oh, do go away, Vimes. There's a good fellow."
In the dark and draughty cave hacked from the heart of the palace the Librarian knuckled across the floor. He clambered over the remains of the sad hoard and looked down at the splayed body of Wonse.
Then he reached down, very gently, and prised The Summoning of Dragons from the stiffening fingers. He blew the dust off it. He brushed it tenderly, as if it was a frightened child.
He turned to climb down the heap, and stopped. He bent down again, and carefully pulled another book from among the glittering rubble. It wasn't one of his, except in the wide sense that all books came under his domain. He turned a few pages carefully.
"Keep it," said Vimes behind him. "Take it away. Put it somewhere."
The orangutan nodded at the captain, and rattled down the heap. He tapped Vimes gently on the kneecap, opened The Summoning of Dragons, leafed through its ravaged pages until he found the one he'd been looking for, and silently passed the book up.
Vimes squinted at the crabbed writing.
Yet draggons are notte liken unicornes, I willen. They dwellyth in some Realm defined bye thee Fancie of the Wille and, thus, it myte bee thate whomsoever calleth upon them, and giveth them theyre patheway unto thys worlde, calleth theyre Owne dragon of the Mind.
Yette, I trow, the Pure in Harte maye stille call a Draggon of Power as a Forsefor Goode in thee worlde, and this one nighte the Grate Worke will commense. All hathe been prepared. I hath laboured most mytily to be a Worthie Vessle . . .
A realm of fancy, Vimes thought. That's where they went, then. Into our imaginations. And when we call them back we shape them, like squeezing dough into pastry shapes. Only you don't get gingerbread men, you get what you are. Your own darkness, given shape . . .
Vimes read it through again, and then looked at the following pages.
There weren't many. The rest of the book was a charred mass.
Vimes handed it back to the ape.
"What kind of a man was de Malachite?" he said.
The Librarian gave this the consideration due from someone who knew the Dictionary of City Biography by heart. Then he shrugged.
"Particularly holy?" said Vimes.
The ape shook his head.
"Well, noticeably evil, then?"
The ape shrugged, and shook his head again.
"If I were you, " said Vimes, "I'd put that book somewhere very safe. And the book of the Law with it. They're too bloody dangerous. "
"Oook."
Vimes stretched. ' 'And now,'' he said, ' 'let's go and have a drink. "
"Oook. "
"But just a small one. "
"Oook."
' 'And you 're paying.''
"Eeek. "
Vimes stopped and stared down at the big, mild face.
"Tell me," he said. "I've always wanted to know . . . is it better, being an ape?"
The Librarian thought about it. "Oook," he said.
"Oh. Really?" said Vimes.
It was the next day. The room was wall-to-wall with civic dignitaries. The Patrician sat on his severe chair, surrounded by the Council. Everyone present was wearing the shiny waxen grins of those bent on good works.
Lady Sybil Ramkin sat off to one side, wearing a few acres of black velvet. The Ramkin family jewels glittered on her fingers, neck and in the black curls of today's wig. The total effect was striking, like a globe of the heavens.
Vimes marched the rank to the centre of the hall and stamped to a halt with his helmet under his arm, as per regulations. He'd been amazed to see that even Nobby had made an effort — the suspicion of shiny metal could be seen here and there on his breastplate. And Colon was wearing an expression of almost constipated importance. Carrot's armour gleamed.
Colon ripped off a textbook salute for the first time in his life.
"All present and correct, sah!" he barked.
"Very good, Sergeant," said Vimes coldly. He turned to the Patrician and raised an eyebrow politely.
Lord Vetinari gave a little wave of his hand.
"Stand easy, or whatever it is you chaps do," he said. "I'm sure we needn't wait on ceremony here. What do you say, Captain?"
"Just as you like, sir," said Vimes.
"Now, men," said the Patrician, leaning forward, "we have heard some remarkable accounts of your magnificent efforts in defence of the city ..."
Vimes let his mind wander as the golden platitudes floated past. For a while he derived a certain amount of amusement from watching the faces of t
he Council. A whole sequence of expressions drifted across them as the Patrician spoke. It was, of course, vitally important that there be a ceremony like this. Then the whole thing could be neat and settled. And forgotten. Just another chapter in the long and exciting history of eckcetra, eckcetra. Ankh-Morpork was good at starting new chapters.
His trawling gaze fell on Lady Ramkin. She winked. Vimes's eyes swivelled front again, his expression suddenly as wooden as a plank.
"... token of our gratitude," the Patrician finished, sitting back.
Vimes realized that everyone was looking at him.
"Pardon?" he said.
"I said, we have been trying to think of some suitable recompense, Captain Vimes. Various public-spirited citizens…" the Patrician's eyes took in the Council and Lady Ramkin,"…and, of course, myself, feel that an appropriate reward is due."
Vimes still looked blank.
"Reward?" he said.
"It is customary for such heroic endeavour," said the Patrician, a little testily.
Vimes faced forward again. "Really haven't thought about it, sir," he said. "Can't speak for the men, of course."
There was an awkward pause. Out of the corner of his eye Vimes was aware of Nobby nudging the sergeant in the ribs. Eventually Colon stumbled forward and ripped off another salute. "Permission to speak, sir," he muttered.
The Patrician nodded graciously.
The sergeant coughed. He removed his helmet and pulled out a scrap of paper.
"Er," he said. "The thing is, saving your honour's presence, we think, you know, what with saving the city and everything, or sort of, or, what I mean is ... we just had a go you see, man on the spot and that sort of thing ... the thing is, we reckon we're entitled. If you catch my drift."
The assembled company nodded. This was exactly how it should be.
"Do go on," said the Patrician.
"So we, like, put our heads together," said the sergeant. "A bit of a cheek, I know ..."
"Please carry on, Sergeant," said the Patrician. "You needn't keep stopping. We are well aware of the magnitude of the matter."
"Right, sir. Well, sir. First, it's the wages."
"The wages?" said Lord Vetinari. He stared at Vimes, who stared at nothing.
The sergeant raised his head. His expression was the determined expression of a man who is going to see it through.
Guards! Guards! tds-8 Page 30
