Turtle Recall: The Discworld Companion ... So Far

by Terry Pratchett

  Under the current ruler, Queen PTRACI I, it is quite likely that the mask has been sold and the money spent on plumbing.

  Dog Guild. No motto; no coat of arms, not even a little tartan one. Led by the Chief Barker. The Guild consists of dogs who have all been ‘bad dogs’; every dog has to have run away from his or her owner. It controls scavenging rights, night-time barking duties, breeding permissions and howling rotas. [MAA]

  Dolly. Kitchen girl at the Unseen University. [SM]

  Dolly Sisters. Once a separate village in Ankh-Morpork, but the city sprawl had rolled over it. Residents still consider themselves apart from the rest of the city, with their own customs – Dog Turd Monday, Up Needles All – and almost their own language.

  Dongo. Barman in a pub in DIJABRINGABEERALONG, Xxxx. He is a crocodile, though he wears a grubby shirt and a pair of shorts. He’s called ‘Crocodile’ Crocodile, because of the fact of him being a crocodile. [TLC]

  Door, Bill. Name adopted by DEATH while temporarily alive and working for Miss FLITWORTH. [RM]

  Doorkeeper, Brother. A member of the ELUCIDATED BRETHREN OF THE EBON NIGHT. A baker by trade. [GG]

  Dopplepunkt, Sgt. One half (the largest half), with Cpl Knopf, of the Bad Blintz official Watch. [TAMAHER]

  Dorfl. A GOLEM by species, and a butcher by trade until the events recounted in Feet of Clay caused him to look for a new life as a Watchman. He lurches a little, because one leg is shorter than the other, and like most golems he wears no clothes because he has nothing to conceal. His surface is mottled where fresh clay has been added over the years. Originally, some attempt had been made to depict human musculature, but the endless repairs have nearly obscured these. Dorfl in fact looks hand-made and, by now, those hands have mainly been his own. Incredibly strong, like all golems. And also the world’s first ceramic atheist. The gods really hate that sort of thing. [SM, FOC ]

  Downey, Lord. White-haired Master of the ASSASSINS’ GUILD. He is an amiable-looking man whose speciality is poison, in particular (it is believed) poisoned peppermints. He was a large and unpleasant bully when he was a student at the Guild.

  Downspout. Constable in the Ankh-Morpork City WATCH. A gargoyle with huge pointy ears. Somewhat of a lonely soul, like all gargoyles, but an incredibly good officer on a stake-out. [FOC]

  Dragon King of Arms. Manipulative vampiric head of the Ankh-Morpork Royal College of HERALDS. And we are not talking here about lah-di-dah modern vampires who wear ponytails, fancy waistcoats and agonise all the time about being forced to look cool and live for ever. We are talking about a vampire of the old school, where all the agonising is done by other people. We are talking a voice from the crypt and not going out in daylight, no, not even in stylish shades. [FOC]

  Dragons. Until recently, these were only thought to exist in two forms – Draco nobilis and Draco vulgaris, more commonly known as Noble Dragons and Swamp Dragons. There are a number of differences between the two forms, but they can all be summed up succinctly: Noble Dragons are dragons as they are imagined, and Swamp Dragons are dragons as they have to be. There has also been a more recent new discovery – Draco Stellaris Nauticae (Star Voyaging Dragons), but details of this breed are still very sketchy.

  Noble Dragons, although obviously weighing up to 20 tons and with a wingspan of 80 feet, can fly and breathe very hot fire. There is considerable argument about this, but it is believed that they were transmuted from the common swamp dragons during the MAGE WARS, when the intense magical flux allowed the existence of many creatures quite unviable in normal conditions. Any flapping-winged creature weighing 20 tons would, even with the Discworld’s amiable natural laws, leave a large hole if it ever tried to get airborne.

  When favourable conditions ceased to exist, the theory runs, Draco nobilis used its magical nature to exploit an under-used ecological niche – the human imagination. In very exceptional circumstances the dragons can be recalled. They are intelligent, cunning and cruel. The dragon which for a brief period ruled Ankh-Morpork was entirely representative of the breed. They eat meat and do not physically need to eat people, but will do so for ceremonial purposes because such things are expected of them and they are sticklers for tradition even if it means having clothing stuck in their teeth.

  Their ancestral swamp dragon, on the other hand, is totally real although this state of affairs is often quite brief owing to the explosive nature of their digestive system, which is very unstable. Their internal plumbing can rearrange itself to make the best possible use of any raw materials available for flame-making (although there is at least one recorded case of a dragon being able to flame ventrally for ramjet propulsion). The drawback to this talent is that the swamp dragon is capable of exploding violently if excited, frightened, aroused, surprised or bored. It is prey to a whole host of diseases, including a number only otherwise contracted by the common household oil-fired boiler. Most of its body fluids are corrosive.

  It is has been presumed that the explosive capability is a defence mechanism acting for the good of the species as a whole, since it certainly doesn’t work for the individual concerned. Any general advantage is also in doubt. There are many creatures that use bitterness and poisons to discourage predators, but blowing them to pieces serves no useful purpose. A wolf cannot teach its young that ‘these things are bad to eat’ when it is an expanding cloud of fur.

  More recently, observations during the orbital flight of the KITE suggest that dragons may originally be space-dwelling, and their flame merely an evolution of their original propulsion system. Further research is clearly necessary, as people say when they are on the earhole for further grant money.

  In the wild places where these dragons are still found, incidentally, the occasional explosion is all part of the normal background noise (hence the Ankh-Morpork saying, used to mean ‘Unquestionably’: ‘Is the High Priest an Offlian? Does a dragon explode in the woods?’).

  Nevertheless, there is an occasional vogue for the smaller varieties of swamp dragon as pets. And, as often happens when pets get too big, too difficult or, in this case, explosive, they are frequently abandoned on the streets of Ankh-Morpork. Others are cruelly used as paint-strippers or fire-lighters. The SUNSHINE SANCTUARY in Morphic Street endeavours to rescue and care for as many as possible of these unfortunates, but the occasional ‘bang!’ of a lost pet is still heard in the city. On at least one occasion a dragon has deliberately been used as an explosive (MAA) and a handgun (GG).

  There are thirty-seven known varieties of swamp dragon:

  Avery’s ‘Epolette’ (miniature shoulder dragon)

  Big-Nosed Jolly (frightened of shovels)

  Big-Nosed Smut (seldom breeds true. Attracted to mirrors)

  Birbright’s Lizard (rare mountain breed. Flightless)

  Birbright’s Smut (morbidly afraid of spoons)

  Brindisian Courser (not a very special dragon at all)

  Broken-Faced Cowper (seldom seen these days)

  Classic Smut

  Common Smut

  Curly-Maned Slottie (amiable, tendency to slimp, seldom explodes)

  Flared Smut (good with cabbage)

  Golden Deceiver (good watch dragon; should not be allowed near children)

  Golden Rharn

  Guttley’s Leaper (flightless, but can exceed 30 mph running over open ground)

  Horned Regal (largely nocturnal, flightless, well-coloured, short in the wouters)

  Jessington’s Blunt (rare and very stupid)

  Jessington’s Deceiver (small and better behaved than the Golden; hoards pickle jars)

  Lion-Headed Cowper (large breed, easy to keep, but often afflicted with skiplets)

  Narrow-eared Smut (nervous and, thus, short-lived)

  Nothingfjord Blue (good scales, tendency to homesickness)

  Pique (small, flightless, lives indoors. Eats only chicken and furniture)

  Pixy-Faced Smut (many congenital problems; for experts only)

  Porpoise-Headed Cowper (a breed for aficionado
s)

  Quirmian Long-ear (mild-natured, needs regular exercise)

  Ramkin’s Optimist (good natured, rarely explodes)

  Retiring Smut (not often seen)

  Rough-Nosed Smut Silver Regal (classic breed, popular in Sto Lat)

  Smooth Courser Smooth Deceiver (good-natured, suitable for the smaller home)

  Smooth-Nosed Smut Spiked Oncer (rare. Needs much attention)

  Spike-Nosed Regal (hates shoes)

  pouter (flies very badly. Explodes in the presence of mint)

  Collecting box outside the Sunshine Sanctuary

  Tabby Cowper (best of the Cowpers, quite popular)

  Tomkin’s Neurovore (handsome, but highly explosive owing to nerves)

  Wivelspiker, Excitable (walks into windows)

  A typical swamp dragon may reach a length of about 2 feet, tail excluded, although varieties and individuals down to 6 inches and up to more than a yard have been recorded. In the lexicon of dragon breeders a female dragon is a hen, and a male dragon is a pewmet (up to eight months), a cock (eight to fourteen months), a snood (fourteen months to two years) and then a cobb (two years to death). After death a swamp dragon is known as a crater.

  Drapes, Miss. The very conscientious Senior Clerk at the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork. She is a skinny woman, sparse-bosom’d, in a white blouse and long black dress. She lodges in Welcome Soap and is a regular reader of the Tanty Bugle – full of ’orrible murders. [MM]

  Dread, Evil Harry. A wholly professional, if unsuccessful, Dark Lord.

  History has not been kind to Evil Harry. He is, in his way, a kind of mirror image of NIGEL the Destroyer, in that he has a deep passionate desire to be a Dark Lord yet lacks absolutely any talent in that area.

  This is unfair, because he has mastered all the essential elements (in his own mind, at least.)

  His stupid henchmen are incredibly stupid, his gaolers always sleep right up close to the cell bars with the keys hanging from an easy-to-reach hook on their belt, and his guards wouldn’t stop a departing washerwoman even if she had a beard like a prophet. He installs big, wide ventilation ducts in every cell, has a white hamster in a diamante treadmill (he is allergic to cats) explains his plans in explicit detail, often with slides and numbered charts, to every hero that falls into his clutches . . . but, for some reason, it never quite comes together. On the rare occasions when he appears to be making any kind of progress, a larger Dark Lord sets up on an out of town site where the parking is better.

  Yet Harry, in true Dark Lord tradition, never gives up. He has met most of the Discworld’s great professional heroes, who make a point of calling whenever he sets up a new Dark Tower-lette and are very supportive. Heroes tend to be old-fashioned, and respect tradition. Harry may effectively be less evil than the average pensions salesman, but at least his heart is in the wrong place. [TLH]

  D’regs. A desert tribe of Klatch. Very warlike, fierce and honourable. If a D’reg is your friend, he’s your friend for life. If he is your enemy, then he is your enemy for life, which is now about twenty seconds. Their word is their bond (though they set no store at all by ‘oaths’). When they attack, they attack at dawn – the whole tribe: women, children, camels, goats, sheep, chickens. Oh, and the men, of course. [J]

  Drongo, Big Mad. A student wizard at Unseen University. His real name is Adrian Turnipseed. General assistant to PONDER STIBBONS. Now works at Brazeneck’s Higher Energy Magic Building, where he is the inventor of their version of Hex – Pex. [SM, UA]

  Druellae. Smooth-voiced Dryad encountered by RINCEWIND. She had green flesh and wore nothing but a medallion around her neck. Her long hair had a faintly mossy look about it; her eyes had no pupils and were a luminous green. [COM]

  Druids. The Druids of the Disc pride themselves on their forward-looking approach to the discovery of the mysteries of the universe. Of course, they believe in the essential unity of all life, the healing power of plants, the natural rhythm of the seasons and the burning alive of anyone who doesn’t approach all this in the right frame of mind.

  Their theory of creation is that the universe depends for its operation on the balance of four forces which they have identified as charm, persuasion, uncertainty and bloody-mindedness. Thus it is that the sun and moon orbit the Disc because they are persuaded not to fall down, but don’t actually fly away because of uncertainty. Charm allows trees to grow and bloody-mindedness keeps them up and so on. Some druids suggest from time to time that there are certain flaws in this theory, but senior druids explain very pointedly that there is indeed room for informed argument and the cut and thrust of exciting scientific debate, and basically it lies on top of the next solstice bonfire.

  The home of druidism is in the small wet country of LLAMEDOS. Druids occupy themselves with the building of large stone circles for computing purposes; these seldom work properly, but the druids always take the view that the problems can be solved only by building a much larger and more expensive circle. Sixty-six-megalith circles are now commonplace.

  On this basis, it can be tentatively suggested that the circle at Stonehenge in England, which is actually a number of circles and isolated stones, was originally commissioned by a local tribe who wanted nothing more than a simple circle, suitable for basic calendar use and possibly the occasional sacrifice. But within a year or two they were forced to upgrade. Everyone is. [LF]

  Drull, Mrs. A ghoul, and a past member of the FRESH START CLUB. A vague, shy old lady in a shapeless grey dress. Resides at Mrs CAKE’S. Now retired, she does children’s party catering. It is best not to touch her food, although this is not because of her past. She just doesn’t cook very well. [RM, MAA]

  Drum, the Broken/Mended. Principal inn of Ankh-Morpork. Located in Filigree Street, at the junction with Short Street. A battered sign hangs over the door, showing a drum, not very well drawn.

  The pub opens straight on to the street at the front (guarded by a troll), and its rear backs straight on to the river. The current landlord is Hibiscus DUNELM, but he probably won’t last long – the Drum breaks men, or at least men who are not satisfied with the tavern as it is and have dreams of striped umbrellas and a better class of clientele. You have to take the Drum as you find it, which you do by following the noise of breaking glass . . .

  . . . down the stairs into the beamed bar, with its walls stained with smoke and its floor a compost of old rushes and nameless beetles. Its sour beer is not so much purchased as hired for a while (a comment so old that it probably postdates the invention of beer by an afternoon). But the Drum is famed not for its beer, which looks like maiden’s water and tastes like battery acid, but for its clientele. It is said that if you sit long enough in the Drum, then sooner or later every major hero in the Disc will steal your horse.

  The atmosphere inside is loud with talk and heavy with smoke. Thick coils of the stuff hang in the air, perhaps to avoid touching the walls. Nevertheless, it is a reputable disreputable tavern. Its customers have a certain rough-hewn respectability – they might murder each other in an easygoing way, as between equals, but they don’t do it vindictively. A young woman could happily spend an evening in the Drum without being molested, unless that was her intention. A child could go in for a glass of lemonade and be certain of getting nothing worse than a clip round the ear when his mother heard his expanded vocabulary. On a quiet night, when he’s certain that the LIBRARIAN isn’t going to come in, the barman is even known to put bowls of peanuts on the bar.

  The Drum is now conscious of its near-legendary status as the most famous tavern on the Discworld and is such a feature of the city that, after one bout of unavoidable redecorations, the then owner spent days recreating the original patina of dirt, soot and less identifiable substances on the walls and imported a ton of pre-rotted rushes for the floor.

  Drumknott. Rufus Drumknott is Personal Secretary to Lord VETINARI. He is a man with no discernible character.

  Dryad. (See HAMADRYAD.)

  Duc of Genua, the. When first enc
ountered, the Duc appeared to be a vain and stupid man with long and well-turned legs and a wide mouth. He wore black silk and smoked glasses, in order to conceal his eyes (a fundamental rule of magical change that even gods have to obey – you can alter your shape, age, sex and species, but the look of your eyes cannot be changed). His bedroom, in the castle in GENUA, was green and full of flies. There was no bed, just a big, wooden cover on the floor with a pond under it.

  The Duc was a frog under enchantment, and he met an unfortunate and rather depressing end. He really served only to be on the throne behind which Lily WEATHERWAX was the power. [WA]

  Duck Man, the. A beggar in Ankh-Morpork and member of the Canting Crew. He has a duck on his head. At least, everyone else thinks he has a duck on his head. The Duck Man knows he has no duck on his head. The duck’s views on this are unrecorded. If it wasn’t for the duck, he would be viewed as well-spoken and educated and as sane as the next man. Admittedly, the next man is probably FOUL OLD RON.

  Duncan, Done-it. Skinny little thief in Ankh-Morpork. Not very bright, and with a matted beard. In his day, he was a good thief but now, he confesses to everything and anything. He calls the Watch every day – mainly to secure a hot meal and a bed for the night. [J, TFE, TT]

  Dunelm, Hibiscus. Current landlord of the Mended DRUM and, like many before him, full of ideas for attracting new customers. The idea of selling good beer cheaply is always the last one they think of. [SM]

  Dungeon Dimensions, the. The endless wastelands outside space and time. The sad, mad things that dwell there have no understanding of the world but simply crave light and shape and try to warm themselves by the fires of reality, clustering around it with about the same effect – if they ever broke through – as an ocean trying to warm itself around a candle.