Guards! Guards! tds-8 Read online

Brother Plasterer began to tremble. "They've got holes in them, Supreme Grand Master. Everyone knows that stones with holes in them are magical. "

  The Supreme Grand Master walked back to his place on the circle. He threw his arms up.

  "Right, fine, okay, " he said wearily. "If that's how we're going to do it, that's how we're going to do it. If we get a dragon six inches long we'll all know the reason why. Won't we, Brother Plasterer. Brother Plasterer? Sorry. I didn't hear what you said? Brother Plasterer?"

  "I said yes, Supreme Grand Master, " whispered Brother Plasterer.

  "Very well. So long as that's quite understood. " The Supreme Grand Master turned and picked up the book.

  "And now, " he said, "if we are all quite ready... "

  "Um. " Brother Watchtower meekly raised his hand.

  "Ready for what, Supreme Grand Master?" he said.

  "For the summoning, of course. Good grief, I should have thought-"

  "But you haven't told us what we're supposed to do, Supreme Grand Master, " whined Brother Watch-tower.

  The Grand Master hesitated. This was quite true, but he wasn't going to admit it.

  "Well, of course, " he said. "It's obvious. You have to focus your concentration. Think hard about dragons, " he translated. "All of you. "

  "That's all, is it?" said Brother Doorkeeper.

  "Yes. "

  "Don't we have to chant a mystic prune or something?"

  The Supreme Grand Master stared at him. Brother Doorkeeper managed to look as defiant in the face of oppression as an anonymous shadow in a black cowl could look. He hadn't joined a secret society not to chant mystic runes. He'd been looking forward to it.

  "You can if you like, " said the Supreme Grand Master. "Now, I want you — yes, what is it, Brother Dunnykin?"

  The little Brother lowered his hand. "Don't know any mystic prunes, Grand Master. Not to what you might call chant... "

  "Hm!"

  He opened the book.

  He'd been rather surprised to find, after pages and pages of pious ramblings, that the actual Summoning itself was one short sentence. Not a chant, not a brief piece of poetry, but a mere assemblage of meaningless syllables. De Malachite said they caused interference patterns in the waves of reality, but the daft old fool was probably making it up as he went along. That was the trouble with wizards, they had to make everything look difficult. All you really needed was willpower. And the Brethren had a lot of that. Small-minded and vitriolic willpower, yes, lousy with malignity maybe, but still powerful enough in its way...

  They'd try nothing fancy this time round. Somewhere inconspicuous...

  Around him the Brethren were chanting what each man considered, according to his lights, to be something mystical. The general effect was actually quite good, if you didn't listen to the words.

  The words. Oh, yes...

  He looked down, and spoke them aloud.

  Nothing happened.

  He blinked.

  When he opened his eyes again he was in a dark alley, his stomach was full of fire, and he was very angry.

  It was about to be the worst night of his life for Zebbo Mooty, Thief Third Class, and it wouldn't have made him any happier to know that it was also going to be the last one. The rain was keeping people indoors, and he was way behind on his quota. He was, therefore, a little less cautious than he might otherwise have been.

  In the night time streets of Ankh-Morpork caution is an absolute. There is no such thing as moderately cautious. You are either very cautious, or you are dead. You might be walking around and breathing, but you're dead, just the same.

  He heard the muffled sounds coming from the nearby alley, slid his leather-bound cosh from his sleeve, waited until the victim was almost turning the corner, sprang out, said "Oh, shi…," and died.

  It was a most unusual death. No-one else had died like that for hundreds of years.

  The stone wall behind him glowed cherry red with heat, which gradually faded into darkness.

  He was the first to see the Ankh-Morpork dragon. He derived little comfort from knowing this, however, because he was dead.

  "…t, " he said, and his disembodied self looked down at the small heap of charcoal which, he knew with an unfamiliar sort of certainty, was what he had just been disembodied from. It was a strange sensation, seeing your own mortal remains. He didn't find it as horrifying as he would have imagined if you'd asked him, say, ten minutes ago. Finding that you are dead is mitigated by also finding that there really is a you who can find you dead.

  The alley opposite was empty again.

  "That was really strange, " said Mooty.

  "Extremely unusual, certainly."

  "Did you see that? What was it?" Mooty looked up at the dark figure emerging from the shadows. "Who're you, anyway?" he added suspiciously.

  "Guess, " said the voice.

  Mooty peered at the hooded figure.

  "Cor!" he said. "I thought you dint turn up for the likes o' me. "

  I TURN UP FOR EVERYONE.

  "I mean in... person, sort of thing. "

  "Sometimes. On special occasions."

  "Yeah, well, " said Mooty, "this is one of them, all right! I mean, it looked like a bloody dragon! What's a man to do? You don't expect to find a dragon around the corner!"

  "And now, if you would care to step this way ..". said Death, laying a skeletal hand on Mooty's shoulder.

  "Do you know, a fortune teller once told me I'd die in my bed, surrounded by grieving greatgrandchildren, " said Mooty, following the stately figure. "What do you think of that, eh?"

  I THINK SHE WAS WRONG.

  "A bloody dragon, " said Mooty. "Fire breathing, too. Did I suffer much?"

  NO. IT WAS PRACTICALLY INSTANTANEOUS.

  "That's good. I wouldn't like to think I'd suffered much. " Mooty looked around him. "What happens now?" he said.

  Behind them, the rain washed the little heap of black ash into the mud.

  ...

  The Supreme Grand Master opened his eyes. He was lying on his back. Brother Dunnykin was preparing to give him the kiss of life. The mere thought was enough to jerk anyone from the borders of consciousness.

  He sat up, trying to shed the feeling that he weighed several tons and was covered in scales.

  "We did it, " he whispered. "The dragon! It came! I felt it!"

  The Brethren glanced at one another.

  "We never saw nothing, " said Brother Plasterer.

  "I might of seen something, " said Brother Watchtower loyally.

  "No, not here, " snapped the Supreme Grand Master. "You hardly want it to materialise here, do you? It was out there, in the city. Just for a few seconds... "

  He pointed. "Look!"

  The Brethren turned around guiltily, expecting at any moment the hot flame of retribution.

  In the centre of the circle the magic items were gently crumbling to dust. Even as they watched, Brother Dunnykin's amulet collapsed.

  "Sucked dry, " whispered Brother Fingers. "I'll be damned!"

  "Three dollars that amulet cost me, " muttered Brother Dunnykin.

  "But it proves it works, " said the Supreme Grand Master. "Don't you see, you fools? It works! We can summon dragons!"

  "Could be a bit expensive in magical items, " said Brother Fingers doubtfully.

  "…three dollars, it was. No rubbish…"

  "Power, " growled the Supreme Grand Master, "does not come cheap. "

  "Very true, " nodded Brother Watchtower. "Not cheap. Very true. " He looked at the little heap of exhausted magic again. "Cor, " he said. "We did it though, dint we! We only went and bloody well did some magic, right?"

  "See?" said Brother Fingers. "I tole you there was nothin' to it. "

  "You all did exceptionally well, " said the Supreme Grand Master encouragingly.

  "…should've been six dollars, but he said he'd cut his own throat and sell it me for three dollars…"

  "Yeah, " said Brother Watchtower. "We got the hang of it all
right! Dint hurt a bit. We done real magic! And dint get et by tooth fairies from out of the woodwork either, Brother Plasterer, I couldn't help noticing. "

  The other Brethren nodded. Real magic. Nothing to it. Everyone had just better watch out.

  "Hang on, though, " said Brother Plasterer. "Where's this dragon gone? I mean, did we really summon it or not?"

  "Fancy you asking a silly question like that, " said Brother Watchtower doubtfully.

  The Supreme Grand Master brushed the dust off his mystic robe.

  "We summoned it, " he said, "and it came. But only as long as the magic lasted. Then it went back. If we want it to stay longer, we need more magic. Understand? And that is what we must get. "

  "…three dollars I shan't see again in a hurry…"

  "Shut up!"

  ...

  Dearest Father [wrote Carrot] Well, here I am in Ankh-Morpork. It is not like at home. I think it must have changed a bit since Mr Varneshi's great-grandfather was here. I don't think people here know Right from Wrong.

  I found Captain Vimes in a common ale-house. I remembered what you said about a good dwarf not going into such places, but since he did not come out, I went in. He was lying with his head on the table. When I spoke to him, he said, pull the other one, kid, it has got bells on. I believe he was the worse for drink. He told me to find a place to stay and report to Sgt Colon at the Watch House tonight. He said, anyone wanting to join the guard needed their head examined.

  Mr Varneshi did not mention this. Perhaps it is done for reasons of Hygiene.

  I went for a walk. There are many people here. I found a place, it is called The Shades. Then I saw some men trying to rob a young Lady. I set about them. They did not know how to fight properly and one of them tried to kick me in the Vitals, but I was wearing the Protective as instructed and he hurt himself. Then the Lady came up to me and said, ' 'Was I Interested in Bed.' I said yes. She took me to where she lived, a boarding house, I think it is called. It is run by a Mrs Palm. The Lady whose purse it was, she is called Reel, said, You should of seen him, there were 3 of them, it was amazing. Mrs Palm said, It is on the house. She said, what a big Protective. So I went upstairs and fell asleep, although it is a very noisy place. Reel woke me up once or twice to say, Do you want anything, but they had no apples. So I have fallen on my Feet, as they say here but, I don't see how that is possible because, if you fall you fall off your Feet, it is Common Sense.

  There is certainly a lot to do. When I went to see the Sgt I saw a place called, The Thieves' Guild!! I asked Mrs Palm and she said, Of course. She said the leaders of the Thieves in the City meet there. I went to the Watch House and met Sgt Colon, a very fat man, and when I told him about the Thieves' Guild he said, 'Don't be An Idiot.' I do not think he is serious. He says, 'Don't you worry about Thieves' Guilds, This is all what you have to do, you walk along the Streets at Night, shouting, It's Twelve O'clock and All's Well.

  I said, 'What if it is not all well,' and he said, 'You bloody well find another street.'

  This is not Leadership.

  I have been given some chain mail. It is rusty and not well made.

  They give you money for being a guard. It is, 20 dollars a month. When I get it I will send you it.

  I hope you are all well and that Shaft #5 is now open. This afternoon I will go and look at the Thieves' Guild. It is disgraceful. If I do something about it, it will be a Feather in my Cap. I am getting the Hang of how they talk here already. Your loving son, Carrot.

  PS. Please give all my love to Minty. I really miss her.

  ...

  Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, put his hand over his eyes.

  "He did what?"

  "I was marched through the streets, " said Urdo van Pew, currently President of the Guild of Thieves, Burglars and Allied Trades. "In broad daylight! With my hands tied together!" He took a few steps towards the Patrician's severe chair of office, waving a finger.

  "You know very well that we have kept within the Budget, " he said. "To be humiliated like that! Like a common criminal! There had better be a full apology, " he said, "or you will have another strike on your hands. We will be driven to it, despite our natural civic responsibilities, " he added.

  It was the finger. The finger was a mistake. The Patrician was staring coldly at the finger. Van Pew followed his gaze, and quickly lowered the digit. The Patrician was not a man you shook a finger at unless you wanted to end up being able to count only to nine.

  "And you say this was one person?" said Lord Vetinari.

  "Yes! That is…" Van Pew hesitated.

  It did sound weird, now he came to tell someone.

  "But there are hundreds of you in there, " said the Patrician calmly. "Thick as, you should excuse the expression, thieves. "

  Van Pew opened and shut his mouth a few times. The honest answer would have been: yes, and if anyone had come sidling in and skulking around the corridors it would have been the worse for them. It was the way he strode in as if he owned the place that fooled everyone. That and the fact that he kept hitting people and telling them to Mend their Ways.

  The Patrician nodded.

  "I shall deal with the matter momentarily, " he said. It was a good word. It always made people hesitate. They were never quite sure whether he meant he'd deal with it now, or just deal with it briefly. And no one ever dared ask.

  Van Pew backed down.

  "A full apology, mark you. I have a position to maintain, " he added.

  "Thank you. Do not let me detain you, " said the Patrician, once again giving the language his own individual spin.

  "Right. Good. Thank you. Very well, " said the thief.

  ' 'After all, you have such a lot of work to do, '' Lord Vetinari went on.

  "Well, of course this is the case. " The thief hesitated. The Patrician's last remark had barbs on it. You found yourself waiting for him to strike.

  "Er, " he said, hoping for a clue.

  "With so much business being conducted, that is."

  Panic took over the thief's features. Randomised guilt flooded his mind. It wasn't a case of what had he done, it was a question of what the Patrician had found out about. The man had eyes everywhere, none of them so terrifying as the icy blue ones just above his nose.

  "I, er, don't quite follow... "he began.

  "Curious choice of targets. " The Patrician picked up a sheet of paper. " For example, a crystal ball belonging to a fortune teller in Sheer Street. A small ornament from the temple of Offler the Crocodile God. And so on. Gewgaws. "

  "I am afraid I really don't know-" said the head thief. The Patrician leaned forward.

  "No unlicensed thieving, surely?" he said.[6]

  "I shall look into it directly!" stuttered the head thief. "Depend upon it!"

  The Patrician gave him a sweet smile. "I'm sure I can, " he said. "Thank you for coming to see me. Don't hesitate to leave. "

  The thief shuffled out. It was always like this with the Patrician, he reflected bitterly. You came to him with a perfectly reasonable complaint. Next thing you knew, you were shuffling out backwards, bowing and scraping, relieved simply to be getting away. You had to hand it to the Patrician, he admitted grudgingly. If you didn't, he sent men to come and take it away.

  When he'd gone Lord Vetinari rang the little bronze bell that summoned his secretary. The man's name, despite his handwriting, was Lupine Wonse. He appeared, pen poised.

  You could say this about Lupine Wonse. He was neat. He always gave the impression of just being completed. Even his hair was so smoothed-down and oiled it looked as though it had been painted on.

  "The Watch appears to be having some difficulty with the Thieves' Guild, " said the Patrician. "Van Pew has been in here claiming that a member of the Watch arrested him. "

  "What for, sir?"

  "Being a thief, apparently. "

  "A member of the Watch? " said the secretary.

  "I know. But just sort it out, will you?"

 
The Patrician smiled to himself.

  It was always hard to fathom Lord Vetinari's idiosyncratic sense of humour, but a vision of the red-faced, irate head thief kept coming back to him.

  One of the Patrician's greatest contributions to the reliable operation of Ankh-Morpork had been, very early in his administration, the legalising of the ancient Guild of Thieves. Crime was always with us, he reasoned, and therefore, if you were going to have crime, it at least should be organised crime.

  And so the Guild had been encouraged to come out of the shadows and build a big Guildhouse, take their place at civic banquets, and set up their training college with day-release courses and City and Guilds certificates and everything. In exchange for the winding down of the Watch, they agreed, while trying to keep their faces straight, to keep crime levels to a level to be determined annually. That way, everyone could plan ahead, said Lord Vetinari, and part of the uncertainty had been removed from the chaos that is life.

  And then, a little while later, the Patrician summoned the leading thieves again and said, oh, by the way, there was something else. What was it, now? Oh, yes...

  I know who you are, he said. I know where you live. I know what kind of horse you ride. I know where your wife has her hair done. I know where your lovely children, how old are they now, my, doesn't time fly, I know where they play. So you won't forget about what we agreed, will you? And he smiled.

  So did they, after a fashion.

  And in fact it had turned out very satisfactorily from everyone's point of view. It took the head thieves a very little time to grow paunches and start having coats-of-arms made and meet in a proper building rather than smoky dens, which no one had liked much. A complicated arrangement of receipts and vouchers saw to it that, while everyone was eligible for the attentions of the Guild, no one had too much, and this was very acceptable — at least to those citizens who were rich enough to afford the quite reasonable premiums the Guild charged for an uninterrupted life. There was a strange foreign word for this: inn-sewer-ants. No-one knew exactly what it had originally meant, but Ankh-Morpork had made it its own.

  The Watch hadn't liked it, but the plain fact was that the thieves were far better at controlling crime than the Watch had ever been. After all, the Watch had to work twice as hard to cut crime just a little, whereas all the Guild had to do was to work less.