Guards! Guards! (17 page)

The leader made what he hoped was a vaguely conciliatory gesture, but unfortunately did it with the hand that was still holding a knife.

“Drop it,” said Vimes sharply, “or you’re history.”

The knife clanged on the flagstones. There was a scuffle at the back of the crowd as a number of people, metaphorically speaking, were a long way away and knew nothing about it.

“But before the rest of you good citizens disperse quietly and go about your business,”
said Vimes meaningfully, “I suggest you look hard at these dragons. Do any of them look sixty feet long? Would you say they’ve got an eighty-foot wingspan? How hot do they flame, would you say?”

“Dunno,” said the leader.

Vimes raised the dragon’s head slightly. The leader rolled his eyes.

“Dunno, sir,” he corrected.

“Do you want to find out?”

The leader shook his head. But he did manage to find his voice.

“Who are you, anyway?” he said.

Vimes drew himself up. “Captain Vimes, City Watch,” he said.

This met with almost complete silence. The exception was the cheerful voice, somewhere in the back of the crowd, which said: “Night shift, is it?”

Vimes looked down at his nightshirt. In his hurry to get off his sickbed he’d shuffled hastily into a pair of Lady Ramkin’s slippers. For the first time he saw they had pink pompoms on them.

And it was at this moment that Lord Mountjoy Quickfang Winterforth IV chose to belch.

It wasn’t another stab of roaring fire. It was just a near-invisible ball of damp flame which rolled over the mob and singed a few eyebrows. But it definitely made an impression.

Vimes rallied magnificently. They couldn’t have noticed his brief moment of sheer horror.

“That one was just to get your attention,” he said, pokerfaced. “The next one will be a little lower.”

“Er,” said the leader. “Right you are. No problem. We were just going anyhow. No big dragons here, right enough. Sorry you’ve been troubled.”

“Oh, no,” said Lady Ramkin triumphantly. “You don’t get away
that
easily!” She reached up onto a shelf and produced a tin box. It had a slot in the lid. It rattled. On the side was the legend:
The Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons
.

The initial whip-around produced four dollars and thirty-one pence. After Captain Vimes gestured pointedly with the dragon, a further twenty-five dollars and sixteen pence were miraculously forthcoming. Then the mob fled.

“We made a profit on the day, anyway,” said Vimes, when they were alone again.

“That was jolly brave of you!”

“Let’s just hope it doesn’t catch on,” said Vimes, gingerly putting the exhausted dragon back in its pen. He felt quite lightheaded.

Once again he was aware of eyes staring fixedly at him. He glanced sideways into the long, pointed face of Goodboy Bindle Featherstone, rearing up in a pose best described as The Last Puppy in the Shop.

To his astonishment, he found himself reaching over and scratching it behind its ears, or at least behind the two spiky things at the sides of its head which were presumably its ears. It responded with a strange noise that sounded like a complicated blockage in a brewery. He took his hand away hurriedly.

“It’s all right,” said Lady Ramkin. “It’s his stomachs rumbling. That means he likes you.”

To his amazement, Vimes found that he was rather pleased about this. As far as he could recall, nothing in his life before had thought him worth a burp.

“I thought you were, er, going to get rid of him,” he said.

“I suppose I shall have to,” she said. “You know how it is, though. They look up at you with those big, soulful eyes—”

There was a brief, mutual, awkward silence.

“How would it be if I—”

“You don’t think you might like—”

They stopped.

“It’d be the least I could do,” said Lady Ramkin.

“But you’re already giving us the new headquarters and everything!”

“That was simply my duty as a good citizen,” said Lady Ramkin. “Please accept Goodboy as, as a
friend
.”

Vimes felt that he was being inched out over a very deep chasm on a very thin plank.

“I don’t even know what they eat,” he said.

“They’re omnivores, actually,” she said. “They eat everything except metal and igneous rocks. You can’t be finicky, you see, when you evolve in a swamp.”

“But doesn’t he need to be taken for walks? Or flights, or whatever?”

“He seems to sleep most of the time.” She scratched the ugly thing on top of its scaly head. “He’s the most relaxed dragon I’ve ever bred, I must say.”

“What about, er, you know?” He indicated the dunging fork.

“Well, it’s mainly gas. Just keep him somewhere well ventilated. You haven’t got any valuable carpets, have you? It’s best not to let them lick your face, but they can be trained to control their flame. They’re very helpful for lighting fires.”

Goodboy Bindle Featherstone curled up amidst a barrage of plumbing noises.

They’ve got eight stomachs, Vimes remembered; the drawings in the book had been very detailed. And there’s lots of other stuff like fractional-distillation tubes and mad alchemy sets in there.

No swamp dragon could ever terrorize a kingdom, except by accident. Vimes wondered how many had been killed by enterprising heroes. It was terribly cruel to do something like that to creatures whose only crime was to blow themselves absent-mindedly to pieces in mid-air, which was not something any individual dragon made a habit of. It made him quite angry to think about it. A race of, of
whittles
, that’s what dragons were. Born to lose. Live fast, die wide. Omnivores or not, what they must
really
live on was their nerves, flapping apologetically through the world in mortal fear of their own digestive system. The family would be just getting over father’s explosion, and some twerp in a suit of armor would come plodding into the swamp to stick a sword into a bag of guts that was only one step away from self-destruction in any case.

Huh. It’d be interesting to see how the great dragon slayers of the past stood up to the
big
dragon. Armor? Best not to wear it. It’d all be the same in any case, and at least your ashes wouldn’t come prepackaged in their own foil.

He stared and stared at the malformed little thing, and the idea that had been knocking for attention for the last few minutes finally gained entrance. Everyone in Ankh-Morpork wanted to find the dragon’s lair. At least, wanted to find it empty. Bits of wood on a stick wouldn’t do it, he was certain. But, as they said, set a thief…
1

He said, “Cloud one dragon sniff out another? I mean, follow a scent?”

Dearest Mother [wrote Carrot] Talk about a Turn Up for the Books. Last night the dragon burned up our Headquarters and Lo and Behold we have been given a better one, it is in a place called Pseudopolis Yard, opposite the Opera House. Sgt. Colon said we have gone Up in the World and has told Nobby not to try to sell the furnishings. Going Up in the World is a metaphor, which I am learning about, it is like Lying but more decorative. There are proper carpets to spit on. Twice today groups of people have tried to search the cellars here for the dragon, it is amazing. And digging up people’s privies and poking into attics, it is like a Fever. One thing is, people haven’t got time for much else, and Sgt. Colon says, when you go out on your Rounds and shout Twelve of the Clock and All’s Well while a dragon is melting the street you feel a bit of a Burke.

I have moved out of Mrs. Palm’s because, there are dozens of bedrooms here. It was sad and they made me a cake but I think it is for the best, although Mrs. Palm never charged me rent which was very nice of her considering she is a widow with so many fine daughters to bring up plus dowries ekcetra.

Also I have made friends with this ape who keeps coming around to see if we have found his book. Nobby says it is a flea-ridden moron because it won 18d off him playing Cripple Mr. Onion, which is a game of chance with cards which I do not play, I have told Nobby about the Gambling (Regulation) Acts, and he said Piss off, which I think is in violation of the Decency Ordinances of 1389 but I have decided to use my Discretion.

Capt Vimes is ill and is being looked after by a Lady. Nobby says it is well known she is Mental, but Sgt. Colon says its just because of living in a big house with a lot of dragons but she is worth a Fortune and well done to the Capt for getting his feet under the table. I do not see what the furniture has to do with it. This morning I went for a walk with Reet and showed her many interesting examples of the iron-work to be found in the city. She said it was very interesting. She said I was quite different to anyone she’s ever met. Your loving son, Carrot.X

PS I hope Minty is keeping well.

He folded the paper carefully and shoved it into the envelope.

“Sun’s going down,” said Sergeant Colon.

Carrot looked up from his sealing wax.

“That means it will be night soon,” Colon went on, accurately.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Colon ran a finger around 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 toward 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 favored, 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.