This is where the dragons went.

They lie . . .

Not dead, not asleep. Not waiting, because waiting implies expectation. Possibly the word we’re looking for here is. . .

. . . dormant.

And although the space they occupy isn’t like normal space, nevertheless they are packed in tightly. Not a cubic inch there but is filled by a claw, a talon, a scale, the tip of a tail, so the effect is like one of those trick drawings and your eyeballs eventually realise that the space between each dragon is, in fact, another dragon:

They could put you in mind of a can of sardines, if you thought sardines were huge and scaly and proud and arrogant.

And presumably, somewhere, there’s the key.

In another space entirely, it was early morning in Ankh-Morpork, oldest and greatest and grubbiest of cities. A thin drizzle dripped from the grey sky and punctuated the river mist that coiled among the streets. Rats of various species went about their nocturnal occasions. Under night’s damp cloak assassins assassinated, thieves thieved, hussies hustled. And so on. And drunken Captain Vimes of the Night Watch staggered slowly down the street, folded gently into the gutter outside the Watch House and lay there while, above him, strange letters made of light sizzled in the damp and changed colour . . .

The city wasa, wasa, wasa wossname. Thing. Woman. Thass what it was. Woman. Roaring, ancient, centuries old. Strung you along, let you fall in thingy, love, with her, then kicked you inna, inna, thingy. Thingy, in your mouth. Tongue. Tonsils. Teeth. That’s what it, she, did. She wasa . . . thing, you know, lady dog. Puppy. Hen. Bitch. And then you hated her and, and just when you thought you’d got her, it, out of your, your, whatever, then she opened her great booming rotten heart to you, caught you off bal, bal, bal, thing. Ance. Yeah. Thassit. Never knew where where you stood. Lay. Only thing you were sure of, you couldn’t let her go. Because, because she was yours, all you had, even in her gutters . . .

Damp darkness shrouded the venerable buildings of Unseen University, premier college of wizardry. The only light was a faint octarine flicker from the tiny windows of the new High Energy Magic building, where keen-edged minds were probing the very fabric of the universe, whether it liked it or not.

And there was light, of course, in the Library.

The Library was the greatest assemblage of magical texts anywhere in the multiverse. Thousands of volumes of occult lore weighted its shelves.

It was said that, since vast amounts of magic can seriously distort the mundane world, the Library did not obey the normal rules of space and time. It was said that it went on forever. It was said that you could wander for days among the distant shelves, that there were lost tribes of research students somewhere in there, that strange things lurked in forgotten alcoves and were preyed on by other things that were even stranger.[1]

Wise students in search of more distant volumes took care to leave chalk marks on the shelves as they roamed deeper into the fusty darkness, and told friends to come looking for them if they weren’t back by supper.

And, because magic can only loosely be bound, the Library books themselves were more than mere pulped wood and paper.

Raw magic crackled from their spines, earthing itself harmlessly in the copper rails nailed to every shelf for that very purpose. Faint traceries of blue fire crawled across the bookcases and there was a sound, a papery whispering, such as might come from a colony of roosting starlings. In the silence of the night the books talked to one another.

There was also the sound of someone snoring.

The light from the shelves didn’t so much illuminate as highlight the darkness, but by its violet flicker a watcher might just have identified an ancient and battered desk right under the central dome.

The snoring was coming from underneath it, where a piece of tattered blanket barely covered what looked like a heap of sandbags but was in fact an adult male orangutan.

It was the Librarian.

Not many people these days remarked upon the fact that he was an ape. The change had been brought about by a magical accident, always a possibility where so many powerful books are kept together, and he was considered to have got off lightly. After all, he was still basically the same shape. And he had been allowed to keep his job, which he was rather good at, although ‘allowed’ is not really the right word. It was the way he could roll his upper lip back to reveal more incredibly yellow teeth than any other mouth the University Council had ever seen before that somehow made sure the matter was never really raised.

But now there was another sound, the alien sound of a door creaking open. Footsteps padded across the floor and disappeared amongst the clustering shelves. The books rustled indignantly, and some of the larger grimoires rattled their chains.

The Librarian slept on, lulled by the whispering of the rain.

In the embrace of his gutter, half a mile away, Captain Vimes of the Night Watch opened his mouth and started to sing.

Now a black-robed figure scurried through the midnight streets, ducking from doorway to doorway, and reached a grim and forbidding portal. No mere doorway got that grim without effort, one felt. It looked as though the architect had been called in and given specific instructions. We want something eldritch in dark oak, he’d been told. So put an unpleasant gargoyle thing over the archway, give it a slam like the footfall of a giant and make it clear to everyone, in fact, that this isn’t the kind of door that goes ‘ding-dong’ when you press the bell.

The figure rapped a complex code on the dark woodwork. A tiny barred hatch opened and one suspicious eye peered out.

“ ‘The significant owl hoots in the night,’ “ said the visitor, trying to wring the rainwater out of its robe.

“ ‘Yet many grey lords go sadly to the masterless men,’ “ intoned a voice on the other side of the grille.

“ ‘Hooray, horray for the spinster’s sister’s daughter,’ “ countered the dripping figure.

“ ‘To the axeman, all supplicants are the same height.’ “

“ ‘Yet verily, the rose is within the thorn.’ “

“ ‘The good mother makes bean soup for the errant boy,’ “ said the voice behind the door.

There was a pause, broken only by the sound of the rain. Then the visitor said, “What?”

“ ‘The good mother makes bean soup for the errant boy.’ “

There was another, longer pause. Then the damp figure said, “Are you sure the ill-built tower doesn’t tremble mightily at a butterfly’s passage?”

“Nope. Bean soup it is. I’m sorry.”

The rain hissed down relentlessly in the embarrassed silence.

“What about the caged whale?” said the soaking visitor, trying to squeeze into what little shelter the dread portal offered.

“What about it?”

“It should know nothing of the mighty deeps, if you must know.”

“Oh, the caged whale. You want the Elucidated Brethren of the Ebon Night. Three doors down.”

“Who’re you, then?”

“We’re the Illuminated and Ancient Brethren of Ee.”

“I thought you met over in Treacle Street,” said the damp man, after a while.

“Yeah, well. You know how it is. The fretwork club have the room Tuesdays. There was a bit of a mix-up.”

“Oh? Well, thanks anyway.”

“My pleasure.” The little door slammed shut.

The robed figure glared at it for a moment, and then splashed further down the street. There was indeed another portal there. The builder hadn’t bothered to change the design much.

He knocked. The little barred hatch shot back.

“Yes?”

“Look, ‘The significant owl hoots in the night’, all right?”

“ ‘Yet many grey lords go sadly to the masterless men.’ “

“ ‘Hooray, horray for the spinster’s sister’s daughter’, okay?’ “

“ ‘To the axeman, all supplicants are the same height.’ “

“ ‘Yet verily, the rose is within the thorn.’ It’s pissing down out here. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said the voice, in the tones of one who indeed does know it, and is not the one standing in it.

The visitor sighed.

“ ‘The caged whale knows nothing of the mighty deeps,’ “ he said. “If it makes you any happier.”

“ ‘The ill-built tower trembles mightily at a butterfly’s passage.’ “

The supplicant grabbed the bars of the window, pulled himself up to it, and hissed: “Now let us in, I’m soaked.”

There was another damp pause.

“These deeps . . . did you say mighty or nightly?”

“Mighty, I said. Mighty deeps. On account of being, you know, deep. It’s me, Brother Fingers.”

“It sounded like nightly to me,” said the invisible doorkeeper cautiously.

“Look, do you want the bloody book or not? I don’t have to do this. I could be at home in bed.”

“You sure it was mighty?”

“Listen, I know how deep the bloody deeps are all right,” said Brother Fingers urgently. “I knew how mighty they were when you were a perishing neophyte. Now will you open this door?”

“Well . . . all right.”

There was the sound of bolts sliding back. Then the voice said, “Would you mind giving it a push? The Door of Knowledge Through Which the Untutored May Not Pass sticks something wicked in the damp.”

Brother Fingers put his shoulder to it, forced his way through, gave Brother Doorkeeper a dirty look, and hurried within.

The others were waiting for him in the Inner Sanctum, standing around with the sheepish air of people not normally accustomed to wearing sinister hooded black robes. The Supreme Grand Master nodded at him.

“Brother Fingers, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Supreme Grand Master.”

“Do you have that which you were sent to get?”

Brother Fingers pulled a package from under his robe.

“Just where I said it would be,” he said. “No problem.”

“Well done, Brother Fingers.”

“Thank you, Supreme Grand Master.”

The Supreme Grand Master rapped his gavel for attention. The room shuffled into some sort of circle.

“I call the Unique and Supreme Lodge of the Elucidated Brethren to order,” he intoned. “Is the Door of Knowledge sealed fast against heretics and knowlessmen?”

“Stuck solid,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “It’s the damp. I’ll bring my plane in next week, soon have it-“

“All right, all right,” said the Supreme Grand Master testily. “Just a yes would have done. Is the triple circle well and truly traced? Art all here who Art Here? And it be well for an knowlessman that he should not be here, for he would be taken from this place and his gaskin slit, his moules shown to the four winds, his welchet torn asunder with many hooks and his figgin placed upon a spike yes what is it?”

“Sorry, did you say Elucidated Brethren?”

The Supreme Grand Master glared at the solitary figure with its hand up.

“Yea, the Elucidated Brethren, guardian of the sacred knowledge since a time no man may wot of-“

“Last February,” said Brother Doorkeeper helpfully. The Supreme Grand Master felt that Brother Doorkeeper had never really got the hang of things.

“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” said the worried figure. “Wrong society, I’m afraid. Must have taken a wrong turning. I’ll just be going, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“And his figgin placed upon a spike,” repeated the Supreme Grand Master pointedly, against a background of damp wooden noises as Brother Doorkeeper tried to get the dread portal open. “Are we quite finished? Any more knowlessmen happened to drop in on their way somewhere else?” he added with bitter sarcasm. “Right. Fine. So glad. I suppose it’s too much to ask if the Four Watchtowers are secured? Oh, good. And the Trouser of Sanctity, has anyone bothered to shrive it? Oh, you did. Properly? I’ll check, you know . . . all right. And have the windows been fastened with the Red Cords of Intellect, in accordance with ancient prescription? Good. Now perhaps we can get on with it.”

With the slightly miffed air of one who has run their finger along a daughter-in-law’s top shelf and found against all expectation that it is sparkling clean, the Grand Master got on with it.

What a shower, he told himself. A bunch of incompetents no other secret society would touch with a ten-foot Sceptre of Authority. The sort to dislocate their fingers with even the simplest secret handshake.

But incompetents with possibilities, nevertheless. Let the other societies take the skilled, the hopefuls, the ambitious, the self-confident. He’d take the whining resentful ones, the ones with a bellyful of spite and bile, the ones who knew they could make it big if only they’d been given the chance. Give him the ones in which the floods of venom and vindictiveness were dammed up behind thin walls of ineptitude and low-grade paranoia.

And stupidity, too. They’ve all sworn the oath, he thought, but not a man jack of ‘em has even asked what a figgin is.

“Brethren,” he said. “Tonight we have matters of profound importance to discuss. The good governance, nay, the very future of Ankh-Morpork lies in our hands.”

They leaned closer. The Supreme Grand Master felt the beginnings of the old thrill of power. They were hanging on his words. This was a feeling worth dressing up in bloody silly robes for.

“Do we not well know that the city is in thrall to corrupt men, who wax fat on their ill-gotten gains, while better men are held back and forced into virtual servitude?”

“We certainly do!” said Brother Doorkeeper vehemently, when they’d had time to translate this mentally. “Only last week, down at the Bakers’ Guild, I tried to point out to Master Critchley that-“

It wasn’t eye contact, because the Supreme Grand Master had made sure the Brethren’s hoods shrouded their faces in mystic darkness, but nevertheless he managed to silence Brother Doorkeeper by dint of sheer outraged silence.

“Yet it was not always thus,” the Supreme Grand Master continued. “There was once a golden age, when those worthy of command and respect were justly rewarded. An age when Ankh-Morpork wasn’t simply a big city but a great one. An age of chivalry. An age when-yes, Brother Watchtower?”

A bulky robed figure lowered its hand. “Are you talking about when we had kings?”

“Well done, Brother,” said the Supreme Grand Master, slightly annoyed at this unusual evidence of intelligence. “And-“

“But that was all sorted out hundreds of years ago,” said Brother Watchtower. “Wasn’t there this great battle, or something? And since then we’ve just had the ruling lords, like the Patrician.”

“Yes, very good, Brother Watchtower.”

“There aren’t any more kings, is the point I’m trying to make,” said Brother Watchtower helpfully.

“As Brother Watchtower says, the line of-“

“It was you talking about chivalry that give me the clue,” said Brother Watchtower.

“Quite so, and-“

“You get that with kings, chivalry,” said Brother Watchtower happily. “And knights. And they used to have these-“

“However,” said the Supreme Grand Master sharply, “it may well be that the line of the kings of Ankh is not as defunct as hitherto imagined, and that progeny of the line exists even now. Thus my researches among the ancient scrolls do indicate.”

He stood back expectantly. There didn’t seem to be the effect he’d expected, however. Probably they can manage ‘defunct’, he thought, but I ought to have drawn the line at ‘progeny’.

Brother Watchtower had his hand up again.

“Yes?”

“You saying there’s some sort of heir to the throne hanging around somewhere?” said Brother Watch-tower.

“This may be the case, yes.”

“Yeah. They do that, you know,” said Brother Watchtower knowledgeably. “Happens all the time. You read about it. Skions, they’re called. They go lurking around in the distant wildernesses for ages, handing down the secret sword and birthmark and so forth from generation to generation. Then just when the old kingdom needs them, they turn up and turf out any usurpers that happen to be around. And then there’s general rejoicing.”

The Supreme Grand Master felt his own mouth drop open. He hadn’t expected it to be as easy as this.

“Yes, all right,” said a figure the Supreme Grand Master knew to be Brother Plasterer. “But so what? Let’s say a skion turns up, walks up to the Patrician, says ‘What ho, I’m king, here’s the birthmark as per spec, now bugger off’. What’s he got then? Life expectancy of maybe two minutes, that’s what.”

“You don’t listen, “ said Brother Watchtower. “The thing is, the skion has to arrive when the kingdom is threatened, doesn’t he? Then everyone can see, right? Then he gets carried off to the palace, cures a few people, announces a half-holiday, hands round a bit of treasure, and Bob’s your uncle.”

“He has to marry a princess, too,” said Brother Doorkeeper. ‘ ‘On account of him being a swineherd.”

They looked at him.

“Who said anything about him being a swineherd?” said Brother Watchtower. “I never said he was a swineherd. What’s this about swineherds?”

“He’s got a point, though,” said Brother Plasterer. “He’s generally a swineherd or a forester or similar, your basic skion. It’s to do with being in wossname. Cognito. They’ve got to appear to be of, you know, humble origins.”

“Nothing special about humble origins,” said a very small Brother, who seemed to consist entirely of a little perambulatory black robe with halitosis. “I’ve got lots of humble origins. In my family we thought swineherding was a posh job.”

“But your family doesn’t have the blood of kings, Brother Dunnykin,” said Brother Plasterer.

“We might of,” said Brother Dunnykin sulkily.

“Right, then,” said Brother Watchtower grudgingly. “Fair enough. But at the essential moment, see your genuine kings throw back their cloak and say ‘Lo!’ and their essential kingnessness shines through.”

“How, exactly?” said Brother Doorkeeper.

“-might of got the blood of kings,” muttered Brother Dunnykin. “Got no right saying I might not have got the blood of-“

“Look, it just does, okay? You just know it when you see it.”

“But before that they’ve got to save the kingdom,” said Brother Plasterer.

“Oh, yes,” said Brother Watchtower heavily. “That’s the main thing, is that.”

“What from, then?”

“-got as much right as anyone to might have the blood of kings-“

“The Patrician?” said Brother Doorkeeper.

Brother Watchtower, as the sudden authority on the ways of royalty, shook his head.

“I dunno that the Patrician is a threat, exactly,” he said. “He’s not your actual tyrant, as such. Not as bad as some we’ve had. I mean, he doesn’t actually oppress.”

“I get oppressed all the time,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “Master Critchley, where I work, he oppresses me morning, noon and night, shouting at me and everything. And the woman in the vegetable shop, she oppresses me all the time.”

“That’s right,” said Brother Plasterer. “My landlord oppresses me something wicked. Banging on the door and going on and on about all the rent I allegedly owe, which is a total lie. And the people next door oppress me all night long. I tell them, I work all day, a man’s got to have some time to learn to play the tuba. That’s oppression, that is. If I’m not under the heel of the oppressor, I don’t know who is.”

“Put like that-“ said Brother Watchtower slowly- “I reckon my brother-in-law is oppressing me all the time with having this new horse and buggy he’s been and bought. I haven’t got one. I mean, where’s the justice in that? I bet a king wouldn’t let that sort of oppression go on, people’s wives oppressing ‘em with why haven’t they got a new coach like our Rodney and that.”

The Supreme Grand Master listened to this with a slightly light-headed feeling. It was as if he’d known that there were such things as avalanches, but had never dreamed when he dropped the little snowball on top of the mountain that it could lead to such astonishing results. He was hardly having to egg them on at all.

“I bet a king’d have something to say about landlords,” said Brother Plasterer.

“And he’d outlaw people with showy coaches,” said Brother Watchtower. “Probably bought with stolen money, too, I reckon.”

“I think,” said the Supreme Grand Master, tweaking things a little, “that a wise king would only, as it were, outlaw showy coaches for the undeserving. “

There was a thoughtful pause in the conversation as the assembled Brethren mentally divided the universe into the deserving and the undeserving, and put themselves on the appropriate side.

“It’d be only fair,” said Brother Watchtower slowly. “But Brother Plasterer was right, really. I can’t see a skion manifesting his destiny just because Brother Doorkeeper thinks the woman in the vegetable shop keeps giving him funny looks. No offense.”

“And bloody short weight,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “And she-“

“Yes, yes, yes,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Truly the right-thinking folk of Ankh-Morpork are beneath the heel of the oppressors. However, a king generally reveals himself in rather more dramatic circumstances. Like a war, for example.”

Things were going well. Surely, for all their self-centred stupidity, one of them would be bright enough to make the suggestion?

“There used to be some old prophecy or something,” said Brother Plasterer. “My grandad told me.” His eyes glazed with the effort of dramatic recall. “ ‘Yea, the king will come bringing Law and Justice, and know nothing but the Truth, and Protect and Serve the People with his Sword.’ You don’t all have to look at me like that, I didn’t make it up.”

“Oh, we all know that one. And a fat lot of good that’d be,” said Brother Watchtower. “I mean, what does he do, ride in with Law and Truth and so on like the Four Horsemen of the Apocralypse? Hallo everyone,” he squeaked, “I’m the king, and that’s Truth over there, watering his horse. Not very practical, is it? Nah. You can’t trust old legends.”

“Why not?” said Brother Dunnykin, in a peeved voice.

“ ‘Cos they’re legendary. That’s how you can tell,” said Brother Watchtower.

“Sleeping princesses is a good one,” said Brother Plasterer. “Only a king can wake ‘em up.”

“Don’t be daft,” said Brother Watchtower severely. “We haven’t got a king, so we can’t have princesses. Stands to reason.”

“Of course, in the old days it was easy,” said Brother Doorkeeper happily.

“Why?”

“He just had to kill a dragon.”

The Supreme Grand Master clapped his hands together and offered a silent prayer to any god who happened to be listening. He’d been right about these people. Sooner or later their rambling little minds took them where you wanted them to go.

“What an interesting idea,” he trilled.

“Wouldn’t work,” said Brother Watchtower dourly. “There ain’t no big dragons now.”

“There could be.”

The Supreme Grand Master cracked his knuckles.

“Come again?” said Brother Watchtower.

“I said there could be.”

There was a nervous laugh from the depths of Brother Watchtower’s cowl.

“What, the real thing? Great big scales and wings?”

“Yes.”

“Breath like a blast furnace.”

“Yes.”

“Them big claw things on its feet?”

“Talons? Oh, yes. As many as you want.”

“What do you mean, as many as I want?”

“I would hope it’s self-explanatory, Brother Watch-tower. If you want dragons, you can have dragons. You can bring a dragon here. Now. Into the city.”

“Me?”

“All of you. I mean us,” said the Supreme Grand Master.

Brother Watchtower hesitated. “Well, I don’t know if that’s a very good-“

“And it would obey your every command.”

That stopped them. That pulled them up. That dropped in front of their weaselly little minds like a lump of meat in a dog pound.

“Can you just repeat that?” said Brother Plasterer slowly.

“You can control it. You can make it do whatever you want.”

“What? A real dragon?”

The Supreme Grand Master’s eyes rolled in the privacy of his hood.

“Yes, a real one. Not a little pet swamp dragon. The genuine article.”

“But I thought they were, you know . . . miffs.”

The Supreme Grand master leaned forward.

“’They were myths and they were real,” he said loudly. “Both a wave and a particle.”

“You’ve lost me there,” said Brother Plasterer.

“I will demonstrate, then. The book please, Brother Fingers. Thank you. Brethren, I must tell you that when I was undergoing my tuition by the Secret Masters-“

“The what, Supreme Grand Master?” said Brother Plasterer.

“Why don’t you listen? You never listen. He said the Secret Masters!” said Brother Watchtower. “You know, the venerable sages what live on some mountain and secretly run everything and taught him all this lore and that, and can walk on fires and that. He told us last week. He’s going to teach us, aren’t you, Supreme Grand Master,” he finished obsequiously.

“Oh, the Secret Masters,” said Brother Plasterer. “Sorry. It’s these mystic hoods. Sorry. Secret. I remember.”

But when I rule the city, the Supreme Grand Master said to himself, there is going to be none of this. I shall form a new secret society of keen-minded and intelligent men, although not too intelligent of course, not too intelligent. And we will overthrow the cold tyrant and we will usher in a new age of enlightenment and fraternity and humanism and Ankh-Morpork will become a Utopia and people like Brother Plasterer will be roasted over slow fires if I have any say in the matter, which I will. And his figgin.[2]

“When I was, as I said, undergoing my tuition by the Secret Masters-“ he continued.

“That was where they told you you had to walk on ricepaper, wasn’t it,” said Brother Watchtower conversationally. “I always thought that was a good bit. I’ve been saving it off the bottom of my macaroons ever since. Amazing, really. I can walk on it no trouble. Shows what being in a proper secret society does for you, does that.”

When he is on the griddle, the Supreme Grand Master thought, Brother Plasterer will not be lonely.

“Your footfalls on the road of enlightenment are an example to us all, Brother Watchtower,” he said. “If I may continue, however-among the many secrets-“

“-from the Heart of Being-“ said Brother Watch-tower approvingly.

“-from the Heart, as Brother Watchtower says, of Being, was the current location of the noble dragons. The belief that they died out is quite wrong. They simply found a new evolutionary niche. And they can be summoned from it. This book-“ he flourished it- “gives specific instructions.”

“It’s just in a book?” said Brother Plasterer.

“No ordinary book. This is the only copy. It has taken me years to track it down,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “It’s in the handwriting of Tubal de Malachite, a great student of dragon lore. His actual handwriting. He summoned dragons of all sizes. And so can you.”

There was another long, awkward silence.

“Um,” said Brother Doorkeeper.

“Sounds a bit like, you know . . . magic to me,” said Brother Watchtower, in the nervous tone of the man who has spotted which cup the pea is hidden under but doesn’t like to say. “I mean, not wishing to question your supreme wisdomship and that, but . . . well . . . you know . . . magic . . .”

His voice trailed off.

“Yeah,” said Brother Plasterer uncomfortably.

“It’s, er, the wizards, see,” said Brother Fingers. “You prob’ly dint know this, when you was banged up with them venerable herberts on their mountain, but the wizards round here come down on you like a ton of bricks if they catches you doin’ anything like that.”

“Demarcation, they call it,” said Brother Plasterer.

“Like, I don’t go around fiddling with the mystic interleaved wossnames of causality, and they don’t do any plastering.”

“I fail to see the problem,” said the Supreme Grand Master. In fact, he saw it all too clearly. This was the last hurdle. Help their tiny little minds over this, and he held the world in the palm of his hand. Their stupe-fyingly unintelligent self-interest hadn’t let him down so far, surely it couldn’t fail him now . . .

The Brethren shuffled uneasily. Then Brother Dunnykin spoke.

“Huh. Wizards. What do they know about a day’s work?”

The Supreme Grand master breathed deeply. Ah . , .

The air of mean-minded resentfulness thickened noticeably.

“Nothing, and that’s a fact,” said Brother Fingers. “Goin1 around with their noses in the air, too good for the likes a’us. I used to see ‘em when I worked up the University. Backsides a mile wide, I’m telling you. Catch ‘em doing a job of honest toil?”

“Like thieving, you mean?” said Brother Watch-tower, who had never liked Brother Fingers much.

“O’course, they tell you,” Brother Fingers went on, pointedly ignoring the comment, “that you shouldn’t go round doin’ magic on account of only them knowin’ about not disturbin’ the universal harmony and whatnot. Load of rubbish, in my opinion.”

“We-ell,” said Brother Plasterer, “I dunno, really. I mean, you get the mix wrong, you just got a lot of damp plaster round your ankles. But you get a bit of magic wrong, and they say ghastly things comes out the woodwork and stitches you right up.”

“Yeah, but it’s the wizards that say that,” said Brother Watchtower thoughtfully. “Never could stand them myself, to tell you the truth. Could be they’re on to a good thing and don’t want the rest of us to find out. It’s only waving your arms and chanting, when all’s said and done.”

The Brethren considered this. It sounded plausible. If they were on to a good thing, they certainly wouldn’t want anyone else muscling in.

The Supreme Grand Master decided that the time was ripe.

“Then we are agreed, brethren? You are prepared to practise magic?”

“Oh, practise,” said Brother Plaster, relieved. “I don’t mind practising. So long as we don’t have to do it for real-“

The Supreme Grand Master thumped the book.

“I mean carry out real spells! Put the city back on the right lines! Summon a dragon!” he shouted.

They took a step back. Then Brother Doorkeeper said, “And then, if we get this dragon, the rightful king’ll turn up, just like that?”

“Yes!” said the Supreme Grand Master.

“I can see that,” said Brother Watchtower supportively.

“Stands to reason. Because of destiny and the gnomic workings of fate.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, and then a general nodding of cowls. Only Brother Plasterer looked vaguely unhappy.

“We-ell,” he said. “It won’t get out of hand, will it?”

“I assure you, Brother Plasterer, that you can give it up any time you like,” said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly.

“Well . . . all right,” said the reluctant Brother. “Just for a bit, then. Could we get it to stay here long enough to burn down, for example, any oppressive vegetable shops?” Ah. . .

He’d won. There’d be dragons again. And a king again. Not like the old kings. A king who would do what he was told.

“That,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “depends on how much help you can be. We shall need, initially, any items of magic you can bring . . .”

It might not be a good idea to let them see that the last half of de Malachite’s book was a charred lump. The man was clearly not up to it.

He could do a lot better. And absolutely no-one would be able to stop him.

Thunder rolled . . .

It is said that the gods play games with the lives of men. But what games, and why, and the identities of the actual pawns, and what the game is, and what the rules are-who knows?

Best not to speculate.

Thunder rolled. . . .

It rolled a six.

Now pull back briefly from the dripping streets of Ankh-Morpork, pan across the morning mists of the Disc, and focus in again on a young man heading for the city with all the openness, sincerity and innocence of purpose of an iceberg drifting into a major shipping lane.

The young man is called Carrot. This is not because of his hair, which his father has always clipped short for reasons of Hygiene. It is because of his shape.

It is the kind of tapering shape a boy gets through clean living, healthy eating, and good mountain air in huge lungfuls. When he flexes his shoulder muscles, other muscles have to move out of the way first.

He is also bearing a sword presented to him in mysterious circumstances. Very mysterious circumstances. Surprisingly, therefore, there is something very unexpected about this sword. It isn’t magical. It hasn’t got a name. When you wield it you don’t get a feeling of power, you just get blisters; you could believe it was a sword that had been used so much that it had ceased to be anything other than a quintessential sword, a long piece of metal with very sharp edges. And it hasn’t got destiny written all over it. It’s practically unique, in fact.

Thunder rolled.

The gutters of the city gurgled softly as the detritus of the night was carried along, in some cases protesting feebly.

When it came to the recumbent figure of Captain Vimes, the water diverted and flowed around him in two streams. Vimes opened his eyes. There was a moment of empty peace before memory hit him like a shovel.

It had been a bad day for the Watch. There had been the funeral of Herbert Gaskin, for one thing. Poor old Gaskin. He had broken one of the fundamental rules of being a guard. It wasn’t the sort of rule that someone like Gaskin could break twice. And so he’d been lowered into the sodden ground with the rain drumming on his coffin and no-one present to mourn him but the three surviving members of the Night Watch, the most despised group of men in the entire city. Sergeant Colon had been in tears. Poor old Gaskin.

Poor old Vimes, Vimes thought.

Poor old Vimes, here in gutter. But that’s where he started. Poor old Vimes, with the water swirling in under breastplate. Poor old Vimes, watching rest of gutter’s contents ooze by. Prob’ly even poor old Gas-kin has got better view now, he thought.

Lessee . . . he’d gone off after the funeral and got drunk. No, not drunk, another word, ended with ‘er’. Drunker, that was it. Because world all twisted up and wrong, like distorted glass, only came back into focus if you looked at it through bottom of bottle.

Something else now, what was it.

Oh, yes. Night-time. Time for duty. Not for Gaskin, though. Have to get new fellow. New fellow coming anyway, wasn’t that it? Some stick from the hicks. Written letter. Some tick from the snicks . . .

Vimes gave up, and slumped back. The gutter continued to swirl.

Overhead, the lighted letters fizzed and flickered in the rain.

It wasn’t only the fresh mountain air that had given Carrot his huge physique. Being brought up in a gold mine run by dwarfs and working a twelve-hour day hauling wagons to the surface must have helped.

He walked with a stoop. What will do that is being brought up in a gold mine run by dwarfs who thought that five feet was a good height for a ceiling.

He’d always known he was different. More bruised for one thing. And then one day his father had come up to him or, rather, come up to his waist, and told him that he was not, in fact, as he had always believed, a dwarf.

It’s a terrible thing to be nearly sixteen and the wrong species.

“We didn’t like to say so before, son,” said his father. “We thought you’d grow out of it, see.”

“Grow out of what?” said Carrot.

“Growing. But now your mother thinks, that is, we both think, it’s time you went out among your own kind. I mean, it’s not fair, keeping you cooped up here without company of your own height.” His father twiddled a loose rivet on his helmet, a sure sign that he was worried. “Er,” he added.

“But you’re my kind!” said Carrot desperately.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” said his father.

“In another manner of speaking, which is a rather more precise and accurate manner of speaking, no. It’s all this genetics business, you see. So it might be a very good idea if you were to go out and see something of the world.”

“What, for good?”

“Oh, no! No. Of course not. Come back and visit whenever you like. But, well, a lad your age, stuck down here . . . It’s not right. You know. I mean. Not a child any more. Having to shuffle around on your knees most of the time, and everything. It’s not right.”

“What is my own kind, then?” said Carrot, bewildered.

The old dwarf took a deep breath. “You’re human,” he said.

“What, like Mr Varneshi?” Mr Varneshi drove an ox-cart up the mountain trails once a week, to trade things for gold. “One of the Big People?”

“You’re six foot six, lad. He’s only five foot.” The dwarf twiddled the loose rivet again. “You see how it is.”

“Yes, but-but maybe I’m just tall for my height,” said Carrot desperately. “After all, if you can have short humans, can’t you have tall dwarfs?”

His father patted him companionably on the back of the knees.

“You’ve got to face facts, boy. You’d be much more at home up on the surface. It’s in your blood. The roof isn’t so low, either.” You can’t keep knocking yourself out on the sky, he told himself.

“Hold on,” said Carrot, his honest brow wrinkling with the effort of calculation. “You’re a dwarf, right? And mam’s a dwarf. So I should be a dwarf, too. Fact of life.”

The dwarf sighed. He’d hoped to creep up on this, over a period of months maybe, sort of break it to him gently, but there wasn’t any time any more.

“Sit down, lad,” he said. Carrot sat.

“The thing is,” he said wretchedly, when the boy’s big honest face was a little nearer his own, “we found you in the woods one day. Toddling about near one of the tracks . . . um.” The loose rivet squeaked. The king plunged on.

“Thing is, you see . . . there were these carts. On fire, as you might say. And dead people. Um, yes. Extremely dead people. Because of bandits. It was a bad winter that winter, there were all sorts coming into the hills . . . So we took you in, of course, and then, well, it was a long winter, like I said, and your mam got used to you, and, well, we never got around to asking Varneshi to make enquiries. That’s the long and the short of it.”

Carrot took this fairly calmly, mostly because he didn’t understand nearly all of it. Besides, as far as he was aware, being found toddling in the woods was the normal method of childbirth. A dwarf is not considered old enough to have the technical processes explained to him[3] until he has reached puberty.[4]

“All right, dad,” he said, and leaned down so as to be level with the dwarf’s ear. “But you know, me and-you know Minty Rocksmacker? She’s really beautiful, dad, got a beard as soft as a, a, a very soft thing-we’ve got an understanding, and-“

“Yes,” said the dwarf, coldly. “I know. Her father’s had a word with me.” So did her mother with your mother, he added silently, and then she had a word with me. Lots of words.

It’s not that they don’t like you, you’re a steady lad and a fine worker, you’d make a good son-in-law. Four good sons-in-law. That’s the trouble. And she’s only sixty, anyway. It’s not proper. It’s not right.

He’d heard about children being reared by wolves.

He wondered whether the leader of the pack ever had to sort out something tricky like this. Perhaps he’d have to take him into a quiet clearing somewhere and say, Look, son, you might have wondered why you’re not as hairy as everyone else . . .

He’d discussed it with Varneshi. A good solid man, Varneshi. Of course, he’d known the man’s father. And his grandfather, now he came to think about it. Humans didn’t seem to last long, it was probably all the effort of pumping blood up that high.

“Got a problem there, king.[5] Right enough,” the old man had said, as they shared a nip of spirits on a bench outside Shaft #2.

“He’s a good lad, mind you,” said the king. “Sound character. Honest. Not exactly brilliant, but you tell him to do something, he don’t rest until he’s done it. Obedient.”

“You could chop his legs off,” said Varneshi.

“It’s not his legs that’s going to be the problem,” said the king darkly.

“Ah. Yes. Well, in that case you could-“

“No.”

“No,” agreed Varneshi, thoughtfully. “Hmm. Well, then what you should do is, you should send him away for a bit. Let him mix a bit with humans.” He sat back. “What you’ve got here, king, is a duck,” he added, in knowledgeable tones.

“I don’t think I should tell him that. He’s refusing to believe he’s a human as it is.”

“What I mean is, a duck brought up among chickens. Well-known farmyard phenomenon. Finds it can’t bloody well peck and doesn’t know what swimming is.” The king listened politely. Dwarfs don’t go in much for agriculture. “But you send him off to see a lot of other ducks, let him get his feet wet, and he won’t go running around after bantams any more. And Bob’s your uncle. “

Varneshi sat back and looked rather pleased with himself.

When you spend a large part of your life underground, you develop a very literal mind. Dwarfs have no use for metaphor and simile. Rocks are hard, the darkness is dark. Start messing around with descriptions like that and you’re in big trouble, is their motto. But after two hundred years of talking to humans the king had, as it were, developed a painstaking mental toolkit which was nearly adequate for the job of understanding them.

“Surely Bjorn Stronginthearm is my uncle, “ he pointed out, slowly.

“Same thing. “

There was a pause while the king subjected this to careful analysis.

“You’re saying, “ he said, weighing each word, “that we should send Carrot away to be a duck among humans because Bjorn Stronginthearm is my uncle. “

“He’s a fine lad. Plenty of openings for a big strong lad like him, “ said Varneshi.

“I have heard that dwarfs go off to work in the Big City, “ said the king uncertainly. “And they send back money to their families, which is very commendable and proper. “

“There you are then. Get him a job in, in-“ Varneshi sought for inspiration-“in the Watch, or something. My great-grandfather was in the Watch, you know. Fine job for a big lad, my grandad said. “

“What is a Watch?” said the king.

“Oh, “ said Varneshi, with the vagueness of someone whose family for the last three generations hadn’t travelled more than twenty miles, “they goes about making sure people keep the laws and do what they’re told. “

“That is a very proper concern, “ said the king who,

since he was usually the one doing the telling, had very solid views about people doing what they were told.

“Of course, they don’t take just anyone, “ said Varneshi, dredging the depths of his recollection.

“I should think not, for such an important task. I shall write to their king. “

“I don’t think they have a king there, “ said Varneshi. “Just some man who tells them what to do. “

The king of the dwarfs took this calmly. This seemed to be about ninety-seven per cent of the definition of kingship, as far as he was concerned.

Carrot took the news without fuss, just as he took instructions about re-opening Shaft #4 or cutting timber for shoring props. All dwarfs are by nature dutiful, serious, literate, obedient and thoughtful people whose only minor failing is a tendency, after one drink, to rush at enemies screaming “Arrrrrrgh!” and axing their legs off at the knee. Carrot saw no reason to be any different. He would go to this city-whatever that was-and have a man made of him.

They took only the finest, Varneshi had said. A watchman had to be a skilled fighter and clean in thought, word and deed. From the depths of his ancestral anecdotage the old man had dragged tales of moonlight chases across rooftops, and tremendous battles with miscreants which, of course, his great-grandad had won despite being heavily outnumbered.

Carrot had to admit it sounded better than mining.

After some thought, the king wrote to the ruler of Ankh-Morpork, respectfully asking if Carrot could be considered for a place amongst the city’s finest.

Letters rarely got written in that mine. Work stopped and the whole clan had sat around in respectful silence as his pen scrittered across the parchment. His aunt had been sent up to Varneshi’s to beg his pardon but could he see his way clear to sparing a smidgen of wax His sister had been sent down to the village to ask Mistress Garlick the witch how you stopped spelling recommendation.

Months had gone by.

And then there’d been the reply. It was fairly grubby, since mail in the Ramtops was generally handed to whoever was going in more or less the right direction, and it was also fairly short. It said, baldly, that his application was accepted, and would he present himself for duty immediately.

“Just like that?” he said. “I thought there’d be tests and things. To see if I was suitable. “

“You’re my son, “ said the king. “I told them that, see. Stands to reason you’ll be suitable. Probably officer material. “

He’d pulled a sack from under his chair, rummaged around in it and presented Carrot with a length of metal, more a sword than a saw but only just.

“This might rightly belong to you, “ he said. “When we found the. . . carts, this was the only thing left. The bandits, you see. Just between you and me-“ he beckoned Carrot closer-“we had a witch look at it. In case it was magic. But it isn’t. Quite the most un-magical sword she’d ever seen, she said. They normally have a bit, see, on account of it’s like magnetism, I suppose. Got quite a nice balance, though. “

He handed it over.

He rummaged around some more. “And then there’s this. “ He held up a shirt. “It’ll protect you.“

Carrot fingered it carefully. It was made from the wool of Ramtop sheep, which had all the warmth and softness of hog bristles. It was one of the legendary woolly dwarf vests, the kind of vest that needs hinges.

“Protect me from what?” he said.

“Colds, and so on, “ said the king. “Your mother says you’ve got to wear it. And, er. . . that reminds me. Mr Varneshi says he’d like you to drop in on the way down the mountain. He’s got something for you. “

His father and mother had waved him out of sight. Minty didn’t. Funny, that. She seemed to have been avoiding him lately.

He’d taken the sword, slung on his back, sandwiches and clean underwear in his pack, and the world, more or less, at his feet. In his pocket was the famous letter from the Patrician, the man who ruled the great fine city of Ankh-Morpork.

At least, that’s how his mother had referred to it. It certainly had an important-looking crest at the top, but the signature was something like “Lupin Squiggle, Sec’y, pp”.

Still, if it wasn’t actually signed by the Patrician then it had certainly been written by someone who worked for him. Or in the same building. Probably the Patrician had at least known about the letter. In general terms. Not this letter, perhaps, but probably he knew about the existence of letters in general.

Carrot walked steadfastly down the mountain paths, disturbing clouds of bumblebees. After a while he unsheathed the sword and made experimental stabs at felonious tree stumps and unlawful assemblies of stinging nettles.

Varneshi was sitting outside his hut, threading dried mushrooms on a string.

“Hallo, Carrot, “ he said, leading the way inside. “Looking forward to the city?”

Carrot gave this due consideration.

“No, “ he said.

“Having second thoughts, are you?”

“No. I was just walking along, “ said Carrot honestly. “I wasn’t thinking about anything much. “

“Your dad give you the sword, did he?” said Varneshi, rummaging on a fetid shelf.

“Yes. And a woolly vest to protect me against chills. “

“Ah. Yes, it can be very damp down there, so I’ve heard. Protection. Very important. “ He turned around and added, dramatically, “This belonged to my great-grandfather. “

It was a strange, vaguely hemispherical device surrounded by straps.

“It’s some sort of sling?” said Carrot, after examining it in polite silence.

Varneshi told him what it was.

“Codpiece like in fish?” said Carrot, mystified.

“No. It’s for the fighting, “ mumbled Varneshi. “You should wear it all the time. Protects your vitals, like. “

Carrot tried it on.

“It’s a bit small, Mr Varneshi. “

“That’s because you don’t wear it on your head, you see. “

Varneshi explained some more, to Carrot’s mounting bewilderment and, subsequently, horror. “My great-grandad used to say, “ Varneshi finished, “that but for this I wouldn’t be here today. “

“What did he mean by that?”

Varneshi’s mouth opened and shut a few times. “I’ve no idea, “ he said, spinelessly.

Anyway, the shameful thing was now at the very bottom of Carrot’s pack. Swarfs didn’t have much truck with things like that. The ghastly preventative represented a glimpse into a world as alien as the backside of the moon.

There had been another gift from Mr Varneshi. It was a small but very thick book, bound in a leather that had become like wood over the years.

It was called: The Laws And Ordinances of The Cities of Ankh And Morpork.

“This belonged to my great-grandad as well, “ he said. “This is what the Watch has to know. You have to know all the laws, “ he said virtuously, “to be a good officer. “

Perhaps Varneshi should have recalled that, in the whole of Carrot’s life, no-one had ever really lied to him or given him an instruction that he wasn’t meant to take quite literally. Carrot solemnly took the book. It would never have occurred to him, if he was going to be an officer of the Watch, to be less than a good one.

It was a five hundred mile journey and, surprisingly, quite uneventful. People who are rather more than six feet tall and nearly as broad across the shoulders often have uneventful journeys. People jump out at them from behind rocks then say things like, “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were someone else. “

He’d spent most of the journey reading.

And now Ankh-Morpork was before him.

It was a little disappointing. He’d expected high white towers rearing over the landscape, and flags. Ankh-Morpork didn’t rear. Rather, it sort of skulked, clinging to the soil as if afraid someone might steal it. There were no flags.

There was a guard on the gate. At least, he was wearing chainmail and the thing he was propped up against was a spear. He had to be a guard.

Carrot saluted him and presented the letter. The man looked at it for some time.

“Mm?” he said, eventually.

“I think I’ve got to see Lupin Squiggle Sec’y pp, “ said Carrot.

“What’s the pp for?” said the guard suspiciously.

“Could it be Pretty Promptly?” said Carrot, who had wondered about this himself.

“Well, I don’t know about any Sec’y, “ said the guard. “You want Captain Vimes of the Night Watch. “

“And where is he based?” said Carrot, politely.

“At this time of day I’d try The Bunch of Grapes in Easy Street, “ said the guard. He looked Carrot up and down. “Joining the watch, are you?”

“I hope to prove worthy, yes, “ said Carrot.

The guard gave him what could loosely be called an old-fashioned look. It was practically neolithic.

“What was it you done?” he said. “I’m sorry?” said Carrot. “You must of done something, “ said the guard. “My father wrote a letter, “ said Carrot proudly. “I’ve been volunteered. “ “Bloody hellfire,“ said the guard.

Now it was night again, and beyond the dread portal:

“Are the Wheels of Torment duly spun?” said the Supreme Grand Master.

The Elucidated Brethren shuffled around their circle.

“Brother Watchtower?” said the Supreme Grand Master.

“Not my job to spin the Wheels of Torment, “ muttered Brother Watchtower. “ ‘s Brother Plasterer’s job, spinning the Wheels of Torment-“

“No it bloody well isn’t, it’s my job to oil the Axles of the Universal Lemon, “ said Brother Plasterer hotly. “You always say it’s my job-“

The Supreme Grand Master sighed in the depths of his cowl as yet another row began. From this dross he was going to forge an Age of Rationality?

“Just shut up, will you?” he snapped. “We don’t really need the Wheels of Torment tonight. Stop it, the pair of you. Now, Brethren-you have all brought the items as instructed?”

There was a general murmuring.

“Place them in the Circle of Conjuration, “ said the Supreme Grand Master.

It was a sorry collection. Bring magical things, he’d said. Only Brother Fingers had produced anything worthwhile. It looked like some sort of altar ornament, best not to ask from where. The Supreme Grand Master stepped forward and prodded one of the other things with his toe.

“What, “ he said, “is this?”

“ ‘s a amulet, “ muttered Brother Dunnykin. “ ‘s very powerful. Bought it off a man. Guaranteed. Protects you against crocodile bites. “

“Are you sure you can spare it?” said the Supreme Grand Master. There was a dutiful titter from the rest of the Brethren.

“Less of that, brothers, “ said the Grand Master, spinning around. “Bring magical things, I said. Not cheap jewellery and rubbish! Good grief, this city is lousy with magic!” He reached down. “What are these things, for heaven’s sake?”

“They’re stones, “ said Brother Plasterer uncertainly.

“I can see that. Why’re they magical?”

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. . . “

“Hum!”

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 Watch-tower 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 Reet, 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. Reet 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 A 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.

And so the city prospered, while the Watch had dwindled away, like a useless appendix, into a handful of unemployables who no-one in their right mind could ever take seriously.

The last thing anyone wanted them to do was get it into their heads to fight crime. But seeing the head thief discommoded was always worth the trouble, the Patrician felt.

. . .

Captain Vimes knocked very hesitantly at the door, because each tap echoed around his skull.

“Enter. “

Vimes removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm and pushed the door open. Its creak was a blunt saw across the front of his brain.

He always felt uneasy in the presence of Lupine Wonse. Come to that, he felt uneasy in the presence of Lord Vetinari-but that was different, that was down to breeding. And ordinary fear, of course. Whereas he’d known Wonse since their childhood in the Shades. The boy had shown promise even then. He was never a gang leader. Never a gang leader. Hadn’t got the strength or stamina for that. And, after all, what was the point in being the gang leader? Behind every gang leader were a couple of lieutenants bucking for promotion. Being a gang leader is not a job with long-term prospects. But in every gang there is a pale youth who’s allowed to stay because he’s the one who comes up with all the clever ideas, usually to do with old women and unlocked shops; this was Wonse’s natural place in the order of things.

Vimes had been one of the middle rankers, the falsetto equivalent of a yes-man. He remembered Wonse as a skinny little kid, always tagging along behind in hand-me-down pants with the kind of odd skipping run he’d invented to keep up with the bigger boys, and forever coming up with fresh ideas to stop them idly ganging up on him, which was the usual recreation if nothing more interesting presented itself. It was superb training for the rigours of adulthood, and Wonse became good at it.

Yes, they’d both started in the gutter. But Wonse had worked his way up whereas, as he himself would be the first to admit, Vimes had merely worked his way along. Every time he seemed to be getting anywhere he spoke his mind, or said the wrong thing. Usually both at once.

That was what made him uncomfortable around Wonse. It was the ticking of the bright clockwork of ambition.

Vimes had never mastered ambition. It was something that happened to other people.

“Ah, Vimes. “

“Sir, “ said Vimes woodenly. He didn’t try to salute in case he fell over. He wished he’d had time to drink dinner.

Wonse rummaged in the papers of his desk.

“Strange things afoot, Vimes. Serious complaint about you, I’m afraid, “ he said. Wonse didn’t wear glasses. If he had worn glasses, he’d have peered at Vimes over the top of them.

“Sir?”

“One of your Night Watch men. Seems he arrested the head of the Thieves’ Guild. “

Vimes swayed a little and tried hard to focus. He wasn’t ready for this sort of thing.

“Sorry, sir, “ he said. “Seem to have lost you there. “

“I said, Vimes, that one of your men arrested the head of the Thieves’ Guild. “

“One of my men?”

“Yes. “

Vimes’s scattered brain cells tried valiantly to regroup. “A member of the Watch?” he said.

Wonse grinned mirthlessly. “Tied him up and left him in front of the palace. There’s a bit of a stink about it, I’m afraid. There was a note. . .. ah. . . here it is. . . ‘This man is charged with, Conspiracy to commit Crime, under Section 14 (iii) of the General Felonies Act, 1678, by me, Carrot Ironfoundersson. ‘ “

Vimes squinted at him.

“Fourteen eye-eye-eye?”

“Apparently, “ said Wonse.

“What does that mean?”

“I really haven’t the faintest notion, “ said Wonse drily. “And what about the name. . . Carrot?”

“But we don’t do things like that!” said Vimes. “You can’t go around arresting the Thieves’ Guild. I mean, we’d be at it all day!”

“Apparently this Carrot thinks otherwise. “

The captain shook his head, and winced. “Carrot? Doesn’t ring a bell. “ The tone of blurred conviction was enough even for Wonse, who was momentarily taken aback.

“He was quite-“ The secretary hesitated. “Carrot, Carrot, “ he said. “I’ve heard the name before.

Seen it written down. “ His face went blank. “The volunteer, that was it! Remember me showing you?”

Vimes stared at him. “Wasn’t there a letter from, I don’t know, some dwarf-?”

“All about serving the community and keeping the streets safe, that’s right. Begging that his son would be found suitable for a humble position in the Watch. “ The secretary was rummaging among his files.

“What’d he done?” said Vimes.

“Nothing. That was it. Not a blessed thing. “

Vimes’s brow creased as his thoughts shaped themselves around a new concept.

“A volunteer?” he said.

“Yes. “

“He didn’t have to join?”

“He wanted to join. And you said it must be a joke, and I said we ought to try and get more ethnic minorities into the Watch. You remember?”

Vimes tried to. It wasn’t easy. He was vaguely aware that he drank to forget. What made it rather pointless was that he couldn’t remember what it was he was forgetting any more. In the end he just drank to forget about drinking.

A trawl of the chaotic assortment of recollections that he didn’t even try to dignify any more by the name of memory produced no clue.

“Do I?” he said helplessly.

Wonse folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward.

“Now look, Captain, “ he said. “Lordship wants an explanation. I don’t want to have to tell him the captain of the Night Watch hasn’t the faintest idea what goes on among the men under, if I may use the term loosely, his command. That sort of thing only leads to trouble, questions asked, that sort of thing. We don’t want that, do we. Do we?”

“No, sir, “ Vimes muttered. A vague recollection of someone earnestly talking to him in the Bunch of Grapes was bobbing guiltily at the back of his mind. Surely that hadn’t been a dwarf? Not unless the qualification had been radically altered, at any rate.

“Of course we don’t, “ said Wonse. “For old times’ sake. And so on. So I’ll think of something to tell him and you, Captain, will make a point of finding out what’s going on and putting a stop to it. Give this dwarf a short lesson in what it means to be a guard, all right?”

“Haha, “ said Vimes dutifully.

“I’m sorry?” said Wonse.

“Oh. Thought you made an ethnic joke, there. Sir. “

“Look, Vimes, I’m being very understanding. In the circumstances. Now, I want you to get out there and sort this out. Do you understand?”

Vimes saluted. The black depression that always lurked ready to take advantage of his sobriety moved in on his tongue.

“Right you are, Mr Secretary, “ he said. “I’ll see to it that he learns that arresting thieves is against the law. “

He wished he hadn’t said that. If he didn’t say things like that he’d have been better off now. Captain of the Palace Guard, a big man. Giving him the Watch had been the Patrician’s little joke. But Wonse was already reading a new document on his desk. If he noticed the sarcasm, he didn’t show it.

“Very good, “ he said.

. . .

Dearest Mother [Carrot wrote] It has been a much better day. I went into the Thieves’ Guild and arrested the chief Miscreant and dragged him to the Patrician’s Palace. No more trouble from him, I fancy. And Mrs Palm says I can stay in the attic because, it is always useful to have a man around the place. This was because, in the night, there were men the Worse for Drink making a Fuss in one of the Girl’s Rooms, and I had to speak to them and they Showed Fight and one of them tried to hurt me with his knee but I had the Protective and Mrs Palm says he has broken his Patella but I needn’t pay for a new one.

I do not understand some of the Watch duties. I have a partner, his name is Nobby. He says I am too keen. He says I have got a lot to learn. I think this is true, because, I have only got up to Page 326 in, The Laws and Ordinances of the Cities of Ankh and Morpork. Love to all, Your Son, Carrot.

PS. Love to Minty.

. . .

It wasn’t just the loneliness, it was the back-to-front way of living. That was it, thought Vimes.

The Night Watch got up when the rest of the world was going to bed, and went to bed when dawn drifted over the landscape. You spent your whole time in the damp, dark streets, in a world of shadows. The Night Watch attracted the kind of people who for one reason or another were inclined to that kind of life.

He reached the Watch House. It was an ancient and surprisingly large building, wedged between a tannery and a tailor who made suspicious leather goods. It must have been quite imposing once, but quite a lot of it was now uninhabitable and patrolled only by owls and rats. Over the door a motto in the ancient tongue of the city was now almost eroded by time and grime and lichen, but could just be made out:

FABRICATI DIEM, PVNC

It translated-according to Sergeant Colon, who had served in foreign parts and considered himself an expert on languages-as ‘To Protect and to Serve’.

Yes. Being a guard must have meant something, once.

Sergeant Colon, he thought, as he stumbled into the musty gloom. Now there was a man who liked the dark. Sergeant Colon owed thirty years of happy marriage to the fact that Mrs Colon worked all day and Sergeant Colon worked all night. They communicated by means of notes. He got her tea ready before he left at night, she left his breakfast nice and hot in the oven in the mornings. They had three grown-up children, all born, Vimes had assumed, as a result of extremely persuasive handwriting.

And Corporal Nobbs. . . well, anyone like Nobby had unlimited reasons for not wishing to be seen by other people. You didn’t have to think hard about that. The only reason you couldn’t say that Nobby was close to the animal kingdom was that the animal kingdom would get up and walk away.

And then, of course, there was himself. Just a skinny, unshaven collection of bad habits marinated in alcohol. And that was the Night Watch. Just the three of them. Once there had been dozens, hundreds. And now-just three.

Vimes fumbled his way up the stairs, groped his way into his office, slumped into the primeval leather chair with its prolapsed stuffing, scrabbled at the bottom drawer, grabbed bottle, bit cork, tugged, spat out cork, drank. Began his day.

The world swam into focus.

Life is just chemicals. A drop here, a drip there, everything’s changed. A mere dribble of fermented juices and suddenly you’re going to live another few hours.

Once, in the days when this had been a respectable district, some hopeful owner of the tavern next door had paid a wizard a considerable sum of money for an illuminated sign, every letter a different colour. Now it worked erratically and sometimes short-circuited in the damp. At the moment the E was a garish pink and flashed on and off at random.

Vimes had grown accustomed to it. It seemed like part of life.

He stared at the flickering play of light on the crumbling plaster for a while, and then raised one sandalled foot and thumped heavily on the floorboards, twice.

After a few minutes a distant wheezing indicated that Sergeant Colon was climbing the stairs.

Vimes counted silently. Colon always paused for six seconds at the top of the flight to get some of his breath back.

On the seventh second the door opened. The sergeant’s face appeared around it like a harvest moon.

You could describe Sergeant Colon like this: he was the sort of man who, if he took up a military career, would automatically gravitate to the post of sergeant. You couldn’t imagine him ever being a corporal. Or, for that matter, a captain. If he didn’t take up a military career, then he looked cut out for something like, perhaps, a sausage butcher; some job where a big red face and a tendency to sweat even in frosty weather were practically part of the specification.

He saluted and, with considerable care, placed a scruffy piece of paper on Vimes’s desk and smoothed it out.

“Evenin’, Captain, “ he said. “Yesterday’s incident reports, and that. Also, you owe fourpence to the Tea Club. “

“What’s this about a dwarf, Sergeant?” said Vimes abruptly.

Colon’s brow wrinkled. “What dwarf?”

“The one who’s just joined the Watch. Name of-“ Vimes hesitated-“Carrot, or something. “

“Him?” Colon’s mouth dropped open. “He’s a dwarf? I always said you couldn’t trust them little buggers! He fooled me all right, Captain, the little sod must of lied about his height!” Colon was a sizeist, at least when it came to people smaller than himself.

“Do you know he arrested the President of the Thieves’ Guild this morning?”

“What for?”

“For being president of the Thieves’ Guild, it seems. “

The sergeant looked puzzled. “Where’s the crime in that?”

“I think perhaps I had better have a word with this Carrot, “ said Vimes.

“Didn’t you see him, sir?” said Colon. “He said he’d reported to you, sir. “

“I, uh, must have been busy at the time. Lot on my mind, “ said Vimes.

“Yes, sir, “ said Colon, politely. Vimes had just enough self-respect left to look away and shuffle the strata of paperwork on his desk.

“We’ve got to get him off the streets as soon as possible, “ he muttered. “Next thing you know he’ll be bringing in the chief of the Assassins’ Guild for bloody well killing people! Where is he?”

“I sent him out with Corporal Nobbs, Captain. I said he’d show him the ropes, sort of thing. “

“You sent a raw recruit out with Nobby?” said Vimes wearily.

Colon stuttered. “Well, sir, experienced man, I thought, Corporal Nobbs could teach him a lot-“

“Let’s just hope he’s a slow learner, “ said Vimes, ramming his brown iron helmet on his head. “Come on. “

When they stepped out of the Watch House there was a ladder against the tavern wall. A bulky man at the top of it swore under his breath as he wrestled with the illuminated sign.

“It’s the E that doesn’t work properly, “ Vimes called up.

“What?”

“The E. And the T sizzles when it rains. It’s about time it was fixed. “

“Fixed? Oh. Yes. Fixed. That’s what I’m doing all right. Fixing. “

The Watch men splashed off through the puddles.

Brother Watchtower shook his head slowly, and turned his attention once again to his screwdriver.

. . .

Men like Corporal Nobbs can be found in every armed force. Although their grasp of the minutiae of the Regulations is usually encyclopedic, they take good care never to be promoted beyond, perhaps, corporal. He tended to speak out of the corner of his mouth. He smoked incessantly but the weird thing, Carrot noticed, was that any cigarette smoked by Nobby became a dog-end almost instantly but remained a dog-end indefinitely or until lodged behind his ear, which was a sort of nicotine Elephant’s Graveyard. On the rare occasions he took one out of his mouth he held it cupped in his hand.

He was a small, bandy-legged man, with a certain resemblance to a chimpanzee who never got invited to tea parties.

His age was indeterminate. But in cynicism and general world weariness, which is a sort of carbon dating of the personality, he was about seven thousand years old.

“A cushy number, this route, “ he said, as they strolled along a damp street in the merchants’ quarter. He tried a doorhandle. It was locked. “You stick with me, “ he added, “and I’ll see you’re all right. Now, you try the handles on the other side of the street. “

“Ah. I understand, Corporal Nobbs. We’ve got to see if anyone’s left their store unlocked, “ said Carrot.

“You catch on fast, son. “

“I hope I can apprehend a miscreant in the act, “ said Carrot zealously.

“Er, yeah, “ said Nobby, uncertainly.

“But if we find a door unlocked I suppose we must summon the owner, “ Carrot went on. “And one of us would have to stay to guard things, right?”

“Yeah?” Nobby brightened. “I’ll do that, “ he said.

“Don’t you worry about it. Then you could go and find the victim. Owner, I mean. “

He tried another doorknob. It turned under his grip.

“Back in the mountains, “ said Carrot, “if a thief was caught, he was hung up by the-“

He paused, idly rattling a doorknob.

Nobby froze.

“By the what?” he said, in horrified fascination.

“Can’t remember now, “ said Carrot. “My mother said it was too good for them, anyway. Stealing is Wrong. “

Nobby had survived any number of famous massacres by not being there. He let go of the doorknob, and gave it a friendly pat.

“Got it!” said Carrot. Nobby jumped.

“Got what?” he shouted.

“I remember what we hang them up by, “ said Carrot.

“Oh, “ said Nobby weakly. “Where?”

“We hang them up by the town hall, “ said Carrot. “Sometimes for days. They don’t do it again, I can tell you. And Bjorn Stronginthearm’s your uncle. “

Nobby leaned his pike against the wall and fumbled a fag-end from the recesses of his ear. One or two things, he decided, needed to be sorted out.

“Why did you have to become a guard, lad?” he said.

“Everyone keeps on asking me that, “ said Carrot. “I didn’t have to. I wanted to. It will make a Man of me. “

Nobby never looked anyone directly in the eye. He stared at Carrot’s right ear in amazement.

“You mean you ain’t running away from anything?” he said.

“What would I want to run away from anything for?”

Nobby floundered a bit. “Ah. There’s always something. Maybe-maybe you was wrongly accused of something. Like, maybe, “ he grinned, “maybe the stores was mysteriously short on certain items and you was unjustly blamed. Or certain items was found in your kit and you never knew how they got there. That sort of thing. You can tell old Nobby. Or, “ he nudged Carrot, “p’raps it was something else, eh? Shershay la fern, eh? Got a girl into trouble?”

“I-“ Carrot began, and then remembered that, yes, one should tell the truth, even to odd people like Nobby who didn’t seem to know what it was. And the truth was that he was always getting Minty in trouble, although exactly how and why was a bit of a mystery. Just about every time he left after paying calls on her at the Rocksmacker cave, he could hear her father and mother shouting at her. They were always very polite to him, but somehow merely being seen with him was enough to get Minty into trouble.

“Yes, “ he said.

“Ah. Often the case, “ said Nobby wisely.

“All the time, “ said Carrot. “Just about every night, really. “

“Blimey, “ said Nobby, impressed. He looked down at the Protective. “Is that why they make you wear that, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, don’t worry about it, “ said Nobby. “Everyone’s got their little secret. Or big secret, as it might be. Even the captain. He’s only with us because he was Brung Low by a Woman. That’s what the sergeant says. Brung low. “

“Goodness, “ said Carrot. It sounded painful.

“But I reckon it’s ‘cos he speaks his mind. Spoke it once too often to the Patrician, I heard. Said the Thieves’ Guild was nothing but a pack of thieves, or something. That’s why he’s with us. Dunno, really. “ He looked speculatively at the pavement and then said: “So where’re you staying, lad?”

“There’s a lady called Mrs Palm-“ Carrot began.

Nobby choked on some smoke that went the wrong way.

“In the Shades?” he wheezed. “You’re staying there?”

“Oh, yes. “

“Every night?”

“Well, every day, really. Yes. “

“And you’ve come here to have a man made of you?”

“Yes!”

“I don’t think I should like to live where you come from, “ said Nobby.

“Look, “ said Carrot, thoroughly lost, “I came because Mr Varneshi said it was the finest job in the world, upholding the law and everything. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Well, er, “ said Nobby. “As to that. . . I mean, upholding the Law. . . I mean, once, yes, before we had all the Guilds and stuff. . . the law, sort of thing, ain’t really, I mean, these days, everything’s more. . . oh, I dunno. Basically you just ring your bell and keep your head down. “

Nobby sighed. Then he grunted, snatched his hourglass from his belt, and peered in at the rapidly-draining sand grains. He put it back, pulled the leather muffler off his bell’s clapper, and shook it once or twice, not very loudly.

“Twelve of the clock, “ he muttered, “and all’s well. “

“And that’s it, is it?” said Carrot, as the tiny echoes died away.

“More or less. More or less. “ Nobby took a quick drag on his dog-end.

“Just that? No moonlight chases across rooftops? No swinging on chandeliers? Nothing like that?” said Carrot.

“Shouldn’t think so, “ said Nobby fervently. “I never done anything like that. No-one ever said anything to me about that. “ He snatched a puff on the cigarette. “A man could catch his death of cold, chasing around on rooftops. I reckon I’ll stick to the bell, if it’s all the same to you. “

“Can I have a go?” said Carrot.

Nobby was feeling unbalanced. It can be the only reason why he made the mistake of wordlessly handing Carrot the bell.

Carrot examined it for a few seconds. Then he waved it vigorously over his head.

“Twelve o’clock!” he bellowed. “And all’s weeeeelllll!”

The echoes bounced back and forth across the street and finally were overwhelmed by a horrible, thick silence. Several dogs barked somewhere in the night. A baby started crying.

“Ssshh!” hissed Nobby.

“Well, it is all well, isn’t it?” said Carrot.

“It won’t be if you keep on ringing that bloody bell! Give it here. “

“I don’t understand!” said Carrot. “Look, I’ve got this book Mr Varneshi gave me-“ He fumbled for the Laws and Ordinances.

Nobby glanced at them, and shrugged. “Never heard of ‘em, “ he said. “Now just shut up your row. You don’t want to go making a din like that. You could attract all sorts. Come on, this way. “

He grabbed Carrot’s arm and bustled him along the street.

“What sorts?” protested Carrot as he was pushed determinedly forward.

“Bad sorts, “ muttered Nobby.

“But we’re the Watch!”

“Damn right! And we don’t want to go tangling with people like that! Remember what happened to Gas-kin!”

“I don’t remember what happened to Gaskin!” said Carrot, totally bewildered. “Who’s Gaskin?”

“Before your time, “ mumbled Nobby. He deflated a bit. “Poor bugger. Could of happened to any of us. “ He looked up and glared at Carrot. “Now stop all this, you hear? It’s getting on my nerves. Moonlight bloody chases, my bum!”

He stalked along the street. Nobby’s normal method of locomotion was a kind of sidle, and the combination of stalking and sidling at the same time created a strange effect, like a crab limping.

“But, but, “ said Carrot, “in this book it says-“

“I don’t want to know from no book, “ growled Nobby.

Carrot looked utterly crestfallen.

“But it’s the Law-“ he began.

He was nearly terminally interrupted by an axe that whirred out of a low doorway beside him and bounced off the opposite wall. It was followed by sounds of splintering timber and breaking glass.

“Hey, Nobby!” said Carrot urgently, “There’s a fight going on!”

Nobby glanced at the doorway. “O’course there is, “ he said. “It’s a dwarf bar. Worst kind. You keep out of there, kid. Them little buggers like to trip you up and then kick twelve kinds of shit out of you. You come along o’Nobby and he’ll-“

He grabbed Carrot’s treetrunk arm. It was like trying to tow a building.

Carrot had gone pale.

“Dwarfs drinking? And fighting?” he said.

“You bet, “ said Nobby. “All the time. And they use the kind of language I wouldn’t even use to my own dear mother. You don’t want to mix it with them, they’re a poisonous bunch of-don’t go in there!”

. . .

No-one knows why dwarfs, who at home in the mountains lead quiet, orderly lives, forget it all when they move to the big city. Something comes over even the most blameless iron-ore miner and prompts him to wear chain-mail all the time, carry an axe, change his name to something like Grabthroat Shinkicker and drink himself into surly oblivion.

It’s probably because they do live such quiet and orderly lives back home. After all, probably the first thing a young dwarf wants to do when he hits the big city after seventy years of working for his father at the bottom of a pit is have a big drink and then hit someone.

The fight was one of those enjoyable dwarfish fights with about a hundred participants and one hundred and fifty alliances. The screams, oaths and the ringing of axes on iron helmets mingled with the sounds of a drunken group by the fireplace who-another dwarfish custom-were singing about gold.

Nobby bumped into the back of Carrot, who was watching the scene with horror.

“Look, it’s like this every night in here, “ said Nobby. “Don’t interfere, that’s what the sergeant says. It’s their ethnic folkways, or somethin’. You don’t go messin’ with ethnic folkways. “

“But, but, “ Carrot stuttered, “these are my people. Sort of. It’s shameful, acting like this. What must everyone think?”

“We think they’re mean little buggers, “ said Nobby. “Now, come on!”

But Carrot had waded into the scuffling mass. He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed something in a language Nobby didn’t understand. Practically any language including his native one would have fitted that description, but in this case it was Dwarfish.

“Gr’duzk! Gr’duzk! aaK’zt ezem ke bur’k tze tzim?”[7]

The fighting stopped. A hundred bearded faces glared up at Carrot’s stooped figure, their annoyance mingled with surprise.

A battered tankard bounced off his breastplate. Carrot reached down and picked up a struggling figure, without apparent effort.

“J’uk, ydtruz-t’rud-eztuza, hudr’zddezek drez’huk, huzukruk ‘t b ‘tduz g ‘ke ‘k me ‘ek b ‘tduzt’ be ‘tk kce ‘drutk ke’hkt’d. aaDb’thuk?”[8]

No dwarf had ever heard so many Old Tongue words from the mouth of anyone over four feet high. They were astonished.

Carrot lowered the offending dwarf to the floor. There were tears in his eyes.

“You’re dwarfs!” he said. “Dwarfs shouldn’t be acting like this! Look at you all. Aren’t you ashamed?”

One hundred bone-hard jaws dropped.

“I mean, look at you!” Carrot shook his head. “Can you imagine what your poor, white-bearded old mother, slaving away back in her little hole, wondering how her son is getting on tonight, can you imagine what she’d think if she saw you now? Your own dear mothers, who first showed you how to use a pickaxe-“

Nobby, standing by the doorway in terror and amazement, was aware of a growing chorus of nose-blowings and muffled sobs as Carrot went on: “-she’s probably thinking, I expect he’s having a quiet game of dominoes or something-“

A nearby dwarf, wearing a helmet encrusted with six-inch spikes, started to cry gently into his beer.

“And I bet it’s a long time since any of you wrote her a letter, too, and you promised to write every week-“

Nobby absent-mindedly took out a grubby handkerchief and passed it to a dwarf who was leaning against the wall, shaking with grief.

“Now, then, “ said Carrot kindly. “I don’t want to be hard on anyone, but I shall be coming past here every night from now on and I shall expect to see proper standards of dwarf behaviour. I know what it’s like when you’re far from home, but there’s no excuse for this sort of thing. “ He touched his helmet. “G’hruk, t’uk. “[9]

He gave them all a bright smile and half-walked, half-crouched out of the bar. As he emerged into the street Nobby tapped him on the arm.

“Don’t you ever do anything like that to me again, “ he fumed. “You’re in the City Watch! Don’t give me any more of this law business!”

“But it is very important, “ said Carrot seriously, trotting after Nobby as he sidled into a narrower street.

“Not as important as stay in’ in one piece, “ said Nobby. “Dwarf bars! If you’ve got any sense, my lad, you’ll come in here. And shut up. “

Carrot stared up at the building they had reached. It was set back a little from the mud of the street. The sounds of considerable drinking were coming from inside. A battered sign hung over the door. It showed a drum.

“A tavern, is it?” said Carrot, thoughtfully. “Open at this hour?”

“Don’t see why not, “ said Nobby, pushing open the door. “Damn useful idea. The Mended Drum. “

“And more drinking?” Carrot thumbed hastily through the book.

“I hope so, “ said Nobby. He nodded to the troll which was employed by the Drum as a splatter, [10] “Eve-nin’, Detritus. Just showing the new lad the ropes. “

The troll grunted, and waved a crusted arm.

The inside of the Mended Drum is now legendary as the most famous disreputable tavern on the Disc-world, and such a feature of the city that, after recent unavoidable redecorations, the new 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. The drinkers were the usual bunch of heroes, cut throats, mercenaries, desperadoes and villains, and only microscopic analysis could have told which was which. Thick coils of smoke hung in the air, perhaps to avoid touching the walls.

The conversation dipped fractionally as the two guards wandered in, and then rose to its former level. A couple of cronies waved to Nobby.

He realised that Carrot was busy.

“What you doin’?” he said. “And no talkin’ about mothers, right?”

“I’m taking notes,” said Carrot, grimly. “I’ve got a notebook.”

“That’s the ticket,” said Nobby. “You’ll like this place. I comes here every night for my supper.”

“How do you spell ‘contravention’?” said Carrot, turning over a page.

“I don’t,” said Nobby, pushing through the crowds. A rare impulse to generosity lodged in his mind. “What d’you want to drink?”

“I don’t think that would be very appropriate,” said Carrot. “Anyway, Strong Drink is a Mocker.”

He was aware of a penetrating stare in the back of his neck, and turned and looked into the big, bland and gentle face of an orangutan.

It was seated at the bar with a pint mug and a bowl of peanuts in front of it. It tilted its glass amicably towards Carrot and then drank deeply and noisily by apparently forming its lower lip into a sort of prehensile funnel and making a noise like a canal being drained.

Carrot nudged Nobby.

“There’s a monk-“ he began.

“Don’t say it!” said Nobby urgently. “Don’t say the word! It’s the Librarian. Works up at the University. Always comes down here for a nightcap of an evening.”

“And people don’t object?”

“Why should they?” said Nobby. “He always stands his round, just like everyone else.”

Carrot turned and looked at the ape again. A number of questions pressed for attention, such as: where does it keep its money? The Librarian caught his gaze, misinterpreted it, and gently pushed the bowl of peanuts towards him.

Carrot pulled himself to his full impressive height and consulted his notebook. The afternoon spent reading The Laws and Ordinances had been well spent.

“Who is the owner, proprietor, lessee, or landlord of these premises?” he said to Nobby.

“Wassat?” said the small guard. “Landlord? Well, I suppose Charley here is in charge tonight. Why?” He indicated a large, heavy-set man whose face was a net of scars; its owner paused in the act of spreading the dirt more evenly around some glasses by means of a damp cloth, and gave Carrot a conspiratorial wink.

“Charley, this is Carrot,” said Nobby. “He’s stopping along of Rosie Palm’s.”

“What, every night?” said Charley.

Carrot cleared his throat.

“If you are in charge,” he intoned, “then it is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest.”

“A rest of what, friend?” said Charley, still polishing.

“Under arrest,” said Carrot, “with a view to the presentation of charges to whit l)(i) that on or about 18^th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did a) serve or b) did cause to serve alcoholic beverages after the hours of 12 (twelve) midnight, contrary to the provisions of the Public Ale Houses (Opening) Act of 1678, and l)(ii) on or about 18^th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did serve or did cause to serve alcoholic beverages in containers other than of a size and capacity laid down by aforesaid Act, and 2)(i) that on or about 18^th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did allow customers to carry unsheathed edge weapons of a length greater than 7 (seven) inches, contrary to Section Three of said Act and 2)(ii) that on or about 18^th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did serve alcoholic beverages in premises apparently unlicensed for the sale and/or consumption of said beverages, contrary to Section Three of the aforesaid Act.”

There was dead silence as Carrot turned over another page, and went on: “It is also my duty to inform you that it is my intention to lay evidence before the Justices with a view to the consideration of charges under the Public Foregatherings (Gambling) Act, 1567, the Licensed Premises (Hygiene) Acts of 1433, 1456, 1463, 1465, er, and 1470 through 1690, and also-“ he glanced sideways at the Librarian, who knew trouble when he heard it coming and was hurriedly trying to finish his drink-“the Domestic and Domesticated Animals (Care and Protection) Act, 1673.”

The silence that followed held a rare quality of breathless anticipation as the assembled company waited to see what would happen next.

Charley carefully put down the glass, whose smears had been buffed up to a brilliant shine, and looked down at Nobby.

Nobby was endeavoring to pretend that he was totally alone and had no connection whatsoever with anyone who might be standing next to him and coincidentally wearing an identical uniform.

“What’d he mean, Justices?” he said to Nobby. “There ain’t no Justices.”

Nobby gave a terrified shrug.

“New, is he?” said Charley.

“Make it easy on yourself,” said Carrot.

“This is nothing personal, you understand,” said Charley to Nobby. “It’s just a wossname. Had a wizard in here the other night talking about it. Sort of bendy educational thing, you know?” He appeared to think for a moment. “Learning curve. That was it. It’s a learning curve. Detritus, get your big stony arse over here a moment.”

Generally, about this time in the Mended Drum, someone throws a glass. And, in fact, this now happened.

. . .

Captain Vimes ran up Short Street-the longest in the city, which shows the famous Morpork subtle sense of humour in a nutshell-with Sergeant Colon stumbling along behind, protesting.

Nobby was outside the Drum, hopping from one foot to another. In times of danger he had a way of propelling himself from place to place without apparently moving through the intervening space which could put any ordinary matter transporter to shame.

“ ‘E’s fighting in there!” he stuttered, grabbing the captain’s arm.

“All by himself?” said the captain.

“No, with everyone!” shouted Nobby, hopping from one foot to the other.

“Oh.”

Conscience said: There’s three of you. He’s wearing the same uniform. He’s one of your men. Remember poor old Gaskin.

Another part of his brain, the hated, despicable part which had nevertheless enabled him to survive in the Guards these past ten years, said: It’s rude to butt in. We’ll wait until he’s finished, and then ask him if he wants any assistance. Besides, it isn’t Watch policy to interfere in fights. It’s a lot simpler to go in afterwards and arrest anyone recumbent.

There was a crash as a nearby window burst outwards and deposited a stunned fighter on the opposite side of the street.

“I think,” said the captain carefully, “that we’d better take prompt action.”

“That’s right,” said Sgt Colon, “a man could get hurt standing here.”

They sidled cautiously a little way down the street, where the sound of splintering wood and breaking glass wasn’t so overpowering, and carefully avoided one another’s eyes. There was the occasional scream from within the tavern, and every now and again a mysterious ringing noise, as though someone was hitting a gong with their knee.

They stood in a little pool of embarrassed silence.

“You had your holidays this year, Sergeant?” said Captain Vimes eventually, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Yessir. Sent the wife to Quirm last month, sir, to see her aunt.”

“Very nice at this time of year, I’m told.”

“Yessir.”

“All the geraniums and whatnot.”

A figure tumbled out of an upper window and crumpled on the cobbles.

“That’s where they’ve got the floral sundial, isn’t it?” said the captain desperately.

“Yessir. Very nice, sir. All done with little flowers, sir.”

There was a sound like something hitting something else repeatedly with something heavy and wooden. Vimes winced.

“I don’t think he’d of been happy in the Watch, sir,” said the sergeant, in a kindly voice.

The door of the Mended Drum had been torn off during riots so often that specially-tempered hinges had recently been installed, and the fact that the next tremendous crash tore the whole door and doorframe out of the wall only showed that quite a lot of money had been wasted. A figure in the midst of the wreckage tried to raise itself on its elbows, groaned, and slumped back.

“Well, it would seem that it’s all-“ the captain began, and Nobby said: “It’s that bloody troll!”

“What?” said Vimes.

“It’s the troll! The one they have on the door!”

They advanced with extreme caution.

It was, indeed, Detritus the splatter.

It is very difficult to hurt a creature that is, to all intents and purposes, a mobile stone. Someone seemed to have managed it, though. The fallen figure was groaning like a couple of bricks being crushed together.

“That’s a turnup for the books,” said the sergeant vaguely. All three of them turned and peered at the brightly-lit rectangle where the doorway had been. Things had definitely quietened down a bit in there.

“You don’t think,” said the sergeant, “that he’s winning, do you?”

The captain thrust out his jaw. “We owe it to our colleague and fellow officer,” he said, “to find out.”

There was a whimper from behind them. They turned and saw Nobby hopping on one leg and clutching a foot.

“What’s up with you, man?” said Vimes.

Nobby made agonised noises.

Sergeant Colon began to understand. Although cautious obsequiousness was the general tenor of Watch behaviour, there wasn’t one member of the entire squad who hadn’t, at some time, been at the wrong end of Detritus’s fists. Nobby had merely tried to play catch-up in the very best traditions of policemen everywhere.

“He went and kicked him inna rocks, sir,” he said.

“Disgraceful,” said the captain vaguely. He hesitated. “Do trolls have rocks?” he said.

“Take it from me, sir.”

“Good grief,” Vimes said. “Dame Nature moves in strange ways, doesn’t she.”

“Right you are, sir,” said the sergeant obediently.

“And now,” said the captain, drawing his sword, “forward!”

“Yessir.”

“This means you too, Sergeant,” the captain added.

“Yessir.”

. . .

It was possibly the most circumspect advance in the history of military manoeuvres, right down at the bottom end of the scale that things like the Charge of the Light Brigade are at the top of.

They peered cautiously around the ravished doorway.

There were a number of people sprawled across the tables, or what remained of the tables. Those who were still conscious looked unhappy about it.

Carrot stood in the middle of the floor. His rusty chain mail was torn, his helmet was missing, he was swaying a little from side to side and one eye was already starting to swell, but he recognised the captain, dropped the feebly-protesting customer he was holding, and threw a salute.

“Beg to report thirty-one offences of Making an Affray, sir, and fifty-six cases of Riotous Behaviour, forty-one offences of Obstructing an Officer of the Watch in the Execution of his Duty, thirteen offences of Assault with a Deadly Weapon, six cases of Malicious Lingering, and-and-Corporal Nobby hasn’t even shown me one rope yet-“

He fell backwards, breaking a table.

Captain Vimes coughed. He wasn’t at all sure what you were supposed to do next. As far as he knew, the Watch had never been in this position before.

“I think you should get him a drink, Sergeant,” he said.

“Yessir.”

“And get me one, too.”

“Yessir.”

“Have one yourself, why don’t you.”

“Yessir.”

“And you, Corporal, will you please-what are you doing?”

“Searchingthebodiesir,” said Nobby quickly, straightening up. “For incriminating evidence, and that.”

“In their money pouches?”

Nobby thrust his hands behind his back. “You never know, sir,” he said.

The sergeant had located a miraculously unbroken bottle of spirits in the wreckage and forced a lot of its contents between Carrot’s lips.

“What we going to do with all this lot, Captain?” he said over his shoulder.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Vimes, sitting down. The Watch jail was just about big enough for six very small people, which were usually the only sort to be put in it. Whereas these-

He looked around him desperately. There was Nork the Impaler, lying under a table and making bubbling noises. There was Big Henri. There was Grabber Sim-mons, one of the most feared bar-room fighters in the city. All in all, there were a lot of people it wouldn’t pay to be near when they woke up.

“We could cut their froats, sir,” said Nobby, veteran of a score of residual battlefields. He had found an unconscious fighter who was about the right size and was speculatively removing his boots, which looked quite new and about the right size.

“That would be entirely wrong,” said Vimes. He wasn’t sure how you actually went about cutting a throat. It had never hitherto been an option.

“No,” he said, “I think perhaps we’ll let them off with a caution.”

There was a groan from under the bench.

“Besides,” he went on quickly, “we should get our fallen comrade to a place of safety as soon as possible.”

“Good point,” said the sergeant. He took a swig of the spirits, for the sake of his nerves.

The two of them managed to sling Carrot between them and guide his wobbling legs up the steps. Vimes, collapsing under the weight, looked around for Nobby.

“Corporal Nobbs,” he rasped, “why are you kicking people when they’re down?”

“Safest way, sir,” said Nobby.

Nobby had long ago been told about fighting fair and not striking a fallen opponent, and had then given some creative thought to how these rules applied to someone four feet tall with the muscle tone of an elastic band.

“Well, stop it. I want you to caution the felons,” said the captain.

“How, sir?”

“Well, you-“ Captain Vimes stopped. He was blowed if he knew. He’d never done it.

“Just do it,” he snapped. “Surely I don’t have to tell you everything?”

Nobby was left alone at the top of the stairs. A general muttering and groaning from the floor indicated that people were waking up. Nobby thought quickly. He shook an admonitory cheese-straw of a finger.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” he said. “Don’t do it again.”

And ran for it.

Up in the darkness of the rafters the Librarian scratched himself reflectively. Life was certainly full of surprises. He was going to watch developments with interest. He shelled a thoughtful peanut with his feet, and swung away into the darkness.

. . .

The Supreme Grand Master raised his hands.

“Are the Thuribles of Destiny ritually chastised, that Evil and Loose Thinking may be banished from this Sanctified Circle?”

“Yep.”

The Supreme Grand Master lowered his hands.

“Yep?” he said.

“Yep,” said Brother Dunnykin happily. “Done it myself.”

“You are supposed to say ‘Yea, O Supreme One’,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Honestly, I’ve told you enough times, if you’re not all going to enter into the spirit of the thing-“

“Yes, you listen to what the Supreme Grand Master tells you,” said Brother Watchtower, glaring at the errant Brother.

“I spent hours chastising them thuribles,” muttered Brother Dunnykin.

“Carry on, O Supreme Grand Master,” said Brother Watchtower.

“Very well, then,” said the Grand Master. “Tonight we’ll try another experimental summoning. I trust you have obtained suitable raw material, brothers?”

“-scrubbed and scrubbed, not that you get any thanks-“

“All sorted out, Supreme Grand Master,” said Brother Watchtower.

It was, the Grand Master conceded, a slightly better collection. The Brothers had certainly been busy. Pride of place was given to an illuminated tavern sign whose removal, the Grand Master thought, should have merited some sort of civic aware. At the moment the E was a ghastly pink and flashed on and off at random.

“I got that,” said Brother Watchtower proudly. “They thought I was mending it or something, but I took my screwdriver and I-“

“Yes, well done,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Shows initiative.”

“Thank you, Supreme Grand Master,” beamed Brother Watchtower.

“-knuckles rubbed raw, all red and cracked. Never even got my three dollars back, either, no-one as much as says-“

“And now,” said the Supreme Grand Master, taking up the book, “we will begin to commence. Shut up, Brother Dunnykin.”

. . .

Every town in the multiverse has a part that is something like Ankh-Morpork’s Shades. It’s usually the oldest part, its lanes faithfully following the original tracks of medieval cows going down to the river, and they have names like the Shambles, the Rookery, Sniggs Alley . . .

Most of Ankh-Morpork is like that in any case. But the Shades was even more so, a sort of black hole of bred-in-the-brickwork lawlessness. Put it like this: even the criminals were afraid to walk the streets. The Watch didn’t set foot in it.

They were accidentally setting foot in it now. Not very reliably. It had been a trying night, and they had been steadying their nerves. They were now so steady that all four were relying on the other three to keep them upright and steer.

Captain Vimes passed the bottle back to the sergeant.

“Shame on, on, on,” he thought for a bit, “you,” he said. “Drun’ in fron’ of a super, super, superererer ofisiler.”

The sergeant tried to speak, but could only come out with a series of esses.

“Put yoursel’ onna charge,” said Captain Vimes, rebounding off a wall. He glared at the brickwork. “This wall assaulted me,” he declared. “Hah! Think you’re tough, eh! Well, ‘m a ofisler of, of, of the Law, I’llhaveyouknow, and we don’ take any, any, any.”

He blinked slowly, once or twice.

“What’s it we don’ take any of, Sar’nt?” he said.

“Chances, sir?” said Colon.

“No, no, no. S’other stuff. Never mind. Anyway, we don’ take any of, of, of it from anyone.” Vague visions were trotting through his mind, of a room full of criminal types, people that had jeered at him, people whose very existence had offended and taunted him for years, lying around and groaning. He was a little unclear how it had happened, but some almost forgotten part of him, some much younger Vimes with a bright shining breastplate and big hopes, a Vimes he thought the alcohol had long ago drowned, was suddenly restless.

“Shallie, shallie, shallie tell you something, Sarn’t?” he said.

“Sir?” The four of them bounced gently off another wall and began another slow crabwise waltz across the alley.

“This city. This city. This city, Sar’nt. This city is a, is a, is a Woman, Sarn’t. So t’is. A Woman, Sarn’t. Ancient raddled old beauty, Sarn’t. Butifyoufallinlove-withher, then, then, then shekicksyouinnateeth-“

“ ‘s woman?” said Colon.

He screwed up his sweating face with the effort of thought.

“ ‘s eight miles wide, sir. “s gotta river in it. Lots of, of houses and stuff, sir,” he reasoned.

“Ah. Ah. Ah.” Vimes waggled an unsteady finger at him. “Never, never, never said it wasa small woman, did I. Be fair.” He waved the bottle. Another random thought exploded in the froth of his mind.

“We showed ‘em, anyway,” he said excitedly, as the four of them began an oblique shuffle back to the opposite wall. “Showed them, dint we? Taught thema forget they won’t lesson inna hurry, eh?”

“S’right,” said the sergeant, but not very enthusiastically. He was still wondering about his superior officer’s sex life.

But Vimes was in the kind of mood that didn’t need encouragement.

“Hah!” he shouted, at the dark alleyways. “Don’ like it, eh? Taste of your, your, your own medicine thingy. Well, now you can bootle in your trems!” He threw the empty bottle into the air.

“Two o’clock!” he yelled. “And all’s weeeellll!”

Which was astonishing news to the various shadowy figures who had been silently shadowing the four of them for some time. Only sheer puzzlement had prevented them making their attentions sharp and plain. These people are clearly guards, they were thinking, they’ve got the right helmets and everything, and yet here they are in the Shades. So they were being watched with the fascination that a pack of wolves might focus on a handful of sheep who had not only trotted into the clearing, but were making playful butts and baa-ing noises; the outcome was, of course, going to be mutton but in the meantime inquisitiveness gave a stay of execution.

Carrot raised his muzzy head.

“Where’re we?” he groaned.

“On our way home,” said the sergeant. He looked up at the pitted, worm-eaten and knife-scored sign above them. “We’re jus’ goin’ down, goin’ down, goin’ down-“ he squinted-“Sweetheart Lane.”

“Sweetheart Lane s’not on the way home,” slurred Nobby. “We wouldn’t wanta go down Sweetheart Lane, it’s in the Shades. Catch us goin’ down Sweetheart Lane-“

There was a crowded moment in which realisation did the icy work of a good night’s sleep and several pints of black coffee. The three of them, by unspoken agreement, clustered up towards Carrot.

“What we gonna do, Captain?” said Colon.

“Er. We could call for help,” said the captain uncertainly.

“What, here?”

“You’ve got a point.”

“I reckon we must of turned left out of Silver Street instead of right,” quavered Nobby.

“Well, that’s one mistake we won’t make again in a hurry,” said the captain. Then he wished he hadn’t.

They could hear footsteps. Somewhere off to their left, there was a snigger.

“We must form a square,” said the captain. They all tried to form a point.

“Hey! What was that?” said Sergeant Colon.

“What?”

“There it was again. Sort of a leathery sound.”

Captain Vimes tried not to think about hoods and garrotting.

There were, he knew, many gods. There was a god for every trade. There was a beggars’ god, a whores’ goddess, a thieves’ god, probably even an assassins’ god.

He wondered whether there was, somewhere in that vast pantheon, a god who would look kindly on hard-pressed and fairly innocent law-enforcement officers who were quite definitely about to die.

There probably wasn’t, he thought bitterly. Something like that wasn’t stylish enough for gods. Catch any god worrying about any poor sod trying to do his best for a handful of dollars a month. Not them. Gods went overboard for smart bastards whose idea of a day’s work was prising the Ruby Eye of the Earwig King out of its socket, not for some unimaginative sap who just pounded the pavement every night . . .

“More sort of slithery,” said the sergeant, who liked to get things right.

And then there was a sound-

-perhaps a volcanic sound, or the sound of a boiling geyser, but at any rate a long, dry roar of a sound, like the bellows in the forges of the Titans-

-but it was not so bad as the light, which was blue-white and the sort of light to print the pattern of your eyeballs’ blood vessels on the back of the inside of your skull.

They both went on for hundreds of years and then, instantly, stopped.

The dark aftermath was filled with purple images and, once the ears regained an ability to hear, a faint, clinkery sound.

The guards remained perfectly still for some time.

“Well, well,” said the captain weakly.

After a further pause he said, very clearly, every consonant slotting perfectly into place, “Sergeant, take some men and investigate that, will you?”

“Investigate what, sir?” said Colon, but it had already dawned on the captain that if the sergeant took some men it would leave him, Captain Vimes, all alone.

“No, I’ve a better idea. We’ll all go,” he said firmly. They all went.

Now that their eyes were used to the darkness they could see an indistinct red glow ahead of them.

It turned out to be a wall, cooling rapidly. Bits of calcined brickwork were falling off as they contracted, making little pinging noises.

That wasn’t the worst bit. The worst bit was what was on the wall.

They stared at it.

They stared at it for a long time.

It was only an hour or two till dawn, and no-one even suggested trying to find their way back in the dark. They waited by the wall. At least it was warm.

They tried not to look at it.

Eventually Colon stretched uneasily and said, “Chin up, Captain. It could have been worse.”

Vimes finished the bottle. It didn’t have any effect. There were some types of sobriety that you just couldn’t budge.

“Yes,” he said. “It could have been us.”

. . .

The Supreme Grand Master opened his eyes.

“Once again,” he said, “we have achieved success.”

The Brethren burst into a ragged cheer. The Brothers Watchtower and Fingers linked arms and danced an enthusiastic jig in their magic circle.

The Supreme Grand Master took a deep breath.

First the carrot, he thought, and now the stick. He liked the stick.

“Silence!” he screamed.

“Brother Fingers, Brother Watchtower, cease this shameful display!” he screeched. “The rest of you, be silent!”

They quietened down, like rowdy children who have just seen the teacher come into the room. Then they quieted down a lot more, like children who have just seen the teacher’s expression.

The Supreme Grand Master let this sink in, and then stalked along their ragged ranks.

“I suppose,” he said, “that we think we’ve done some magic, do we? Hmm? Brother Watchtower?”

Brother Watchtower swallowed. “Well, er, you said we were, er, I mean-“

“You haven’t done ANYTHING yet!”

“Well, er, no, er-“ Brother Watchtower trembled.

“Do real wizards leap about after a tiny spell and start chanting ‘Here we go, here we go, here we go’, Brother Watchtower? Hmm?”

“Well, we were sort of-“

The Supreme Grand Master spun on his heel.

“And do they keep looking apprehensively at the woodwork, Brother Plasterer? “

Brother Plasterer hung his head. He hadn’t realised anyone had noticed.

When the tension was twanging satisfactorily, like a bowstring, the Supreme Grand Master stood back.

“Why do I bother?” he said, shaking his head. “I could have chosen anyone. I could have picked the best. But I’ve got a bunch of children. “

“Er, honest,” said Brother Watchtower, “we was making an effort, I mean, we was really concentrating. Weren’t we, lads?”

“Yes,” they chorused. The Supreme Grand Master glared at them.

“There’s no room in this Brotherhood for Brothers who are not behind us all the way,” he warned.

With almost visible relief the Brethren, like panicked sheep who see that a hurdle has been opened in the fold, galloped towards the opening.

“No worries about that, your supremity,” said Brother Watchtower fervently.

“Commitment must be our watchword!” said the Supreme Grand Master.

“Watchword. Yeah,” said Brother Watchtower. He nudged Brother Plasterer, whose eyes had strayed to the skirting board again.

“Wha? Oh. Yeah. Watchword. Yeah,” said Brother Plasterer.

“And trust and fraternity,” said the Supreme Grand Master.

“Yeah. And them, too,” said Brother Fingers.

“So,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “if there be any one here not anxious, yea, eager to continue in this great work, let him step forward now.”

No-one moved.

They’re hooked. Ye gods, I’m good at this, thought the Supreme Grand Master. I can play on their horrible little minds like a xylophone. It’s amazing, the sheer power of mundanity. Who’d have thought that weakness could be a greater force than strength? But you have to know how to direct it. And I do.

“Very well, then,” he said. “And now, we will repeat the Oath.”

He led their stumbling, terrified voices through it, noting with approval the strangled way they said ‘fig-gin’. And he kept one eye on Brother Fingers, too.

He’s slightly brighter than the others, he thought. Slightly less gullible, at least. Better make sure I’m always the last to leave. Don’t want any clever ideas about following me home.

. . .

You need a special kind of mind to rule a city like Ankh-Morpork, and Lord Vetinari had it. But then, he was a special kind of person.

He baffled and infuriated the lesser merchant princes, to the extent that they had long ago given up trying to assassinate him and now merely jockeyed for position amongst themselves. Anyway, any assassin who tried to attack the Patrician would be hard put to it to find enough flesh to insert the dagger.

While other lords dined on larks stuffed with peacocks’ tongues, Lord Vetinari considered that a glass of boiled water and half a slice of dry bread was an elegant sufficiency.

It was exasperating. He appeared to have no vice that anyone could discover. You’d have thought, with that pale, equine face, that he’d incline towards stuff with whips, needles, and young women in dungeons. The other lords could have accepted that. Nothing wrong with whips and needles, in moderation. But the Patrician apparently spent his evenings studying reports and, on special occasions, if he could stand the excitement, playing chess.

He wore black a lot. It wasn’t particularly impressive black, such as the best assassins wore, but the sober, slightly shabby black of a man who doesn’t want to waste time in the mornings wondering what to wear. And you had to get up very early in the morning to get the better of the Patrician; in fact, it was wiser not to go to bed at all.

But he was popular, in a way. Under his hand, for the first time in a thousand years, Ankh-Morpork operated. It might not be fair or just or particularly democratic, but it worked. He tended it as one tends a topiary bush, encouraging a growth here, pruning an errant twig there. It was said that he would tolerate absolutely anything apart from anything that threatened the city[11], and here it was . . .

He stared at the stricken wall for a long time, while the rain dripped off his chin and soaked his clothes. Behind him, Wonse hovered nervously.

Then one long, thin, blue-veined hand reached out and the fingertips traced the shadows.

Well, not so much shadows, more a series of silhouettes. The outline was very distinct. Inside, there was the familiar pattern of brickwork. Outside, though, something had fused the wall in a rather nice ceramic substance, giving the ancient flettons a melted, mirror-like finish.

The shapes outlined in brickwork showed a tableau of six men frozen in an attitude of surprise. Various upraised hands had quite clearly been holding knives and cutlasses.

Then Patrician looked down silently on the pile of ash at his feet. A few streaks of molten metal might once have been the very same weapons that were now so decisively etched into the wall.

“Hmm,” he said.

Captain Vimes respectfully led him across the lane and into Fast Luck Alley, where he pointed out Exhibit A, to whit . . .

“Footprints,” he said. “Which is stretching it a bit, sir. They’re more what you’d call claws. One might go so far as to say talons.”

The Patrician stared at the prints in the mud. His expression was quite unreadable.

“I see,” he said eventually. “And do you have an opinion about all this, Captain?”

The captain did. In the hours until dawn he’d had all sorts of opinions, starting with a conviction that it had been a big mistake to be born.

And then the grey light had filtered even into the Shades, and he was still alive and uncooked, and had looked around him with an expression of idiot relief and seen, not a yard away, these footprints. That had not been a good moment to be sober.

“Well, sir,” he said, “I know that dragons have been extinct for thousands of years, sir-“

“Yes?” The Patrician’s eyes narrowed.

Vimes plunged on. “But, sir, the thing is, do they know? Sergeant Colon said he heard a leathery sound just before, just before, just before the, er . . . offence.”

“So you think an extinct, and indeed a possibly entirely mythical, dragon flew into the city, landed in this narrow alley, incinerated a group of criminals, and then flew away?” said the Patrician. “One might say, it was a very public-spirited creature.”

“Well, when you put it like that-“

“If I recall, the dragons of legend were solitary and rural creatures who shunned people and dwelt in forsaken, out of the way places,” said the Patrician. “They were hardly urban creatures.”

“No, sir,” said the captain, repressing a comment that if you wanted to find a really forsaken, out of the way place then the Shades would fit the bill pretty well.

“Besides,” said Lord Vetinari, “one would imagine that someone would have noticed, wouldn’t you agree?”

The captain nodded at the wall and its dreadful frieze. “Apart from them, you mean, sir?”

“In my opinion,” said Lord Vetinari, “it’s some kind of warfare. Possibly a rival gang has hired a wizard. A little local difficulty.”

“Could be linked to all this strange thieving, sir,” volunteered Wonse.

“But there’s the footprints, sir,” said Vimes doggedly.

“We’re close to the river,” said the Patrician. “Possibly it was, perhaps, a wading bird of some sort. A mere coincidence,” he added, “but I should cover them over, if I were you. We don’t want people getting the wrong idea and jumping to silly conclusions, do we?” he added sharply.

Vimes gave in.

“As you wish, sir,” he said, looking at his sandals.

The Patrician patted him on the shoulder.

“Never mind,” he said. “Carry on. Good show of initiative, that man. Patrolling in the Shades, too. Well done.”

He turned, and almost walked into the wall of chain mail that was Carrot.

To his horror, Captain Vimes saw his newest recruit point politely to the Patrician’s coach. Around it, fully-armed and wary, were six members of the Palace Guard, who straightened up and took a wary interest. Vimes disliked them intensely. They had plumes on their helmets. He hated plumes on a guard.

He heard Carrot say. “Excuse me, sir, is this your coach, sir?” and the Patrician looked him blankly up and down and said, “It is. Who are you, young man?”

Carrot saluted. “Lance-constable Carrot, sir.”

“Carrot, Carrot. That name rings a bell.”

Lupine Wonse, who had been hovering behind him, whispered in the Patrician’s ear. His face brightened.”Ah, the young thief-taker. A little error there, I think, but commendable. No person is above the law, eh?”

“No, sir,” said Carrot.

“Commendable, commendable,” said the Patrician. “And now, gentlemen-“

“About your coach, sir,” said Carrot doggedly, “I couldn’t help noticing that the front offside wheel, contrary to the-“

He’s going to arrest the Patrician, Vimes told himself, the thought trickling through his brain like an icy rivulet. He’s actually going to arrest the Patrician. The supreme ruler. He’s going to arrest him. This is what he’s actually going to do. The boy doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘fear’. Oh, wouldn’t it be a good idea if he knew the meaning of the word ‘survival’ . . .

And I can’t get my jaw muscles to move.

We’re all dead. Or worse, we’re all detained at the Patrician’s pleasure. And as we all know, he’s seldom that pleased.

It was at this precise moment that Sergeant Colon earned himself a metaphorical medal.

“Lance-constable Carrot!” he shouted. “Attention! Lance-constable Carrot, abou-uta turna! Lance-constable Carrot, qui-uck marcha!”

Carrot brought himself to attention like a barn being raised and stared straight ahead with a ferocious expression of acute obedience.

“Well done, that man,” said the Patrician thoughtfully, as Carrot strode stiffly away. “Carry on, Captain. And do come down heavily on any silly rumours about dragons, right?”

“Yes, sir,” said Captain Vimes.

“Goodman.”

The coach rattled off, the bodyguard running alongside.

Behind him, Captain Vimes was only vaguely aware of the sergeant yelling at the retreating Carrot to stop.

He was thinking.

He looked at the prints in the mud. He used his regulation pike, which he knew was exactly seven feet long, to measure their size and the distance between them. He whistled under his breath. Then, with considerable caution, he followed the alley around the corner; it led to a small, padlocked and dirt-encrusted door in the back of a timber warehouse.

There was something very wrong, he thought.

The prints come out of the alley, but they don’t go in. And we don’t often get any wading birds in the Ankh, mainly because the pollution would eat their legs away and anyway, it’s easier for them to walk on the surface.

He looked up. A myriad washing lines criss-crossed the narrow rectangle of the sky as efficiently as a net.

So, he thought, something big and fiery came out of this alley but didn’t come into it.

And the Patrician is very worried about it.

I’ve been told to forget about it.

He noticed something else at the side of the alley, and bent down and picked up a fresh, empty peanut shell.

He tossed it from hand to hand, staring at nothing.

Right now, he needed a drink. But perhaps it ought to wait.

. . .

The Librarian knuckled his way urgently along the dark aisles between the slumbering bookshelves.

The rooftops of the city belonged to him. Oh, assassins and thieves might make use of them, but he’d long ago found the forest of chimneys, buttresses, gargoyles and weathervanes a convenient and somehow comforting alternative to the streets.

At least, up until now.

It had seemed amusing and instructive to follow the Watch into the Shades, an urban jungle which held no fears for a 300-lb ape. But now the nightmare he had seen while brachiating across a dark alley would, if he had been human, have made him doubt the evidence of his own eyes.

As an ape, he had no doubts whatsoever about his eyes and believed them all the time.

Right now he wanted to concentrate them urgently on a book that might hold a clue. It was in a section no-one bothered with much these days; the books in there were not really magical. Dust lay accusingly on the floor.

Dust with footprints in it.

“Oook?” said the Librarian, in the warm gloom.

He proceeded cautiously now, realising with a sense of inevitability that the footprints seemed to have the same destination in mind as he did.

He turned a corner and there it was.

The section.

The bookcase.

The shelf.

The gap.

There are many horrible sights in the multiverse. Somehow, though, to a soul attuned to the subtle rhythms of a library, there are few worse sights than a hole where a book ought to be.

Someone had stolen a book.

. . .

In the privacy of the Oblong Office, his personal sanctum, the Patrician paced up and down. He was dictating a stream of instructions.

“And send some men to paint that wall,” he finished.

Lupine Wonse raised an eyebrow.

“Is that wise, sir?” he said.

“You don’t think a frieze of ghastly shadows will cause comment and speculation?” said the Patrician sourly.

“Not as much as fresh paint in the Shades,” said Wonse evenly.

The Patrician hesitated a moment. “Good point,” he snapped. “Have some men demolish it.”

He reached the end of the room, spun on his heel, and stalked up it again. Dragons! As if there were not enough important, enough real things to take up his time.

“Do you believe in dragons?” he said.

Wonse shook his head. “They’re impossible, sir.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Lord Vetinari. He reached the opposite wall, turned.

“Would you like me to investigate further?” said Wonse.

“Yes. Do so.”

“And I shall ensure the Watch take great care,” said Wonse.

The Patrician stopped his pacing. “The Watch? The Watch? My dear chap, the Watch are a bunch of incompetents commanded by a drunkard. It’s taken me years to achieve it. The last thing we need to concern ourselves with is the Watch.”

He thought for a moment. “Ever seen a dragon, Wonse? One of the big ones, I mean? Oh, they’re impossible. You said.”

“They’re just legend, really. Superstition,” said Wonse.

“Hmm,” said the Patrician. “And the thing about legends, of course, is that they are legendary.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“Even so-“ The Patrician paused, and stared at Wonse for some time. “Oh, well,” he said. “Sort it out. I’m not having any of this dragon business. It’s the type of thing that makes people restless. Put a stop to it.”

When he was alone he stood and looked out gloomily over the twin city. It was drizzling again.

Ankh-Morpork! Brawling city of a hundred thousand souls! And, as the Patrician privately observed, ten times that number of actual people. The fresh rain glistened on the panorama of towers and rooftops, all unaware of the teeming, rancorous world it was dropping into. Luckier rain fell on upland sheep, or whispered gently over forests, or patterned somewhat incestuously into the sea. Rain that fell on Ankh-Morpork, though, was rain that was in trouble. They did terrible things to water, in Ankh-Morpork. Being drunk was only the start of its problems.

The Patrician liked to feel that he was looking out over a city that worked. Not a beautiful city, or a renowned city, or a well-drained city, and certainly not an architecturally favoured city; even its most enthusiastic citizens would agree that, from a high point of vantage, Ankh-Morpork looked as though someone had tried to achieve in stone and wood an effect normally associated with the pavements outside all-night takeaways.

But it worked. It spun along cheerfully like a gyroscope on the lip of a catastrophe curve. And this, the Patrician firmly believed, was because no one group was ever powerful enough to push it over. Merchants, thieves, assassins, wizards-all competed energetically in the race without really realising that it needn’t be a race at all, and certainly not trusting one another enough to stop and wonder who had marked out the course and was holding the starting flag.

The Patrician disliked the word ‘dictator.’ It affronted him. He never told anyone what to do. He didn’t have to, that was the wonderful part. A large part of his life consisted of arranging matters so that this state of affairs continued.

Of course, there were various groups seeking his overthrow, and this was right and proper and the sign of a vigorous and healthy society. No-one could call him unreasonable about the matter. Why, hadn’t he founded most of them himself? And what was so beautiful was the way in which they spent nearly all their time bickering with one another.

Human nature, the Patrician always said, was a marvellous thing. Once you understood where its levers were.

He had an unpleasant premonition about this dragon business. If ever there was a creature that didn’t have any obvious levers, it was a dragon. It would have to be sorted out.

The Patrician didn’t believe in unnecessary cruelty.[12] He did not believe in pointless revenge. But he was a great believer in the need for things to be sorted out.

Funnily enough, Captain Vimes was thinking the same thing. He found he didn’t like the idea of citizens, even of the Shades, being turned into a mere ceramic tint.

And it had been done in front of the Watch, more or less. As if the Watch didn’t matter, as if the Watch was just an irrelevant detail. That was what rankled.

Of course, it was true. That only made it worse.

What was making him even angrier was that he had disobeyed orders. He had scuffed up the tracks, certainly. But in the bottom drawer of his ancient desk, hidden under a pile of empty bottles, was a plaster cast. He could feel it staring at him through three layers of wood.

He couldn’t imagine what had got into him. And now he was going even further out on to the limb.

He reviewed his, for want of a better word, troops. He’d asked the senior pair to turn up in plain clothes. This meant that Sergeant Colon, who’d worn uniform all his life, was looking red-faced and uncomfortable in the suit he wore for funerals. Whereas Nobby-

“I wonder if I made the word ‘plain’ clear enough?” said Captain Vimes.

“It’s what I wear outside work, guv,” said Nobby reproachfully.

“Sir,” corrected Sergeant Colon.

“My voice is in plain clothes too,” said Nobby. “Initiative, that is.”

Vimes walked slowly around the corporal.

“And your plain clothes do not cause old women to faint and small boys to run after you in the street?” he said.

Nobby shifted uneasily. He wasn’t at home with irony.

“No, sir, guv,” he said. “It’s all the go, this style.”

This was broadly true. There was a current fad in Ankh for big, feathered hats, ruffs, slashed doublets with gold frogging, flared pantaloons and boots with ornamental spurs. The trouble was, Vimes reflected, that most of the fashion-conscious had more body to go between these component bits, whereas all that could be said of Corporal Nobbs was that he was in there somewhere.

It might be advantageous. After all, absolutely no-one would ever believe, when they saw him coming down the street, that here was a member of the Watch trying to look inconspicuous.

It occurred to Vimes that he knew absolutely nothing about Nobbs outside working hours. He couldn’t even remember where the man lived. All these years he’d known the man and he’d never realised that, in his secret private life, Corporal Nobbs was a bit of a peacock. A very short peacock, it was true, a peacock that had been hit repeatedly with something heavy, perhaps, but a peacock nonetheless. It just went to show, you never could tell.

He brought his attention back to the business in hand.

“I want you two,” he said to Nobbs and Colon, “to mingle unobtrusively, or obtrusively in your case, Corporal Nobbs, with people tonight and, er, see if you can detect anything unusual.”

“Unusual like what?” said the sergeant.

Vimes hesitated. He wasn’t exactly sure himself. “ Anything,” he said, “ pertinent.”

“Ah.” The sergeant nodded wisely. “Pertinent. Right.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Maybe people have seen weird things,” said Captain Vimes. “Or perhaps there have been unexplained fires. Or footprints. You know,” he finished, desperately, “signs of dragons.”

“You mean, like, piles of gold what have been slept on,” said the sergeant.

“And virgins being chained to rocks,” said Nobbs, knowingly.

“I can see you’re experts,” sighed Vimes. “Just do the best you can.”

“This mingling,” said Sergeant Colon delicately, “it would involve going into taverns and drinking and similar, would it?”

“To a certain extent,” said Vimes.

“Ah,” said the sergeant, happily.

“In moderation.”

“Right you are, sir.”

“And at your own expense.”

“Oh.”

“But before you go,” said the captain, “do either of you know anyone who might know anything about dragons? Apart from sleeping on gold and the bit with the young women, I mean.”

“Wizards would,” volunteered Nobby.

“Apart from wizards,” said Vimes firmly. You couldn’t trust wizards. Every guard knew you couldn’t trust wizards. They were even worse than civilians.

Colon thought about it. “There’s always Lady Ramkin,” he said. “Lives in Scoone Avenue. Breeds swamp dragons. You know, the little buggers people keep as pets?”

“Oh, her,” said Vimes gloomily. “I think I’ve seen her around. The one with the ‘Whinny If You Love Dragons’ sticker on the back of her carriage?”

“That’s her. She’s mental,” said Sergeant Colon.

“What do you want me to do, sir?” said Carrot.

“Er. You have the most important job,” said Vimes hurriedly. “I want you to stay here and watch the office.”

Carrot’s face broadened in a slow, unbelieving grin.

“You mean I’m left in charge, sir?” he said.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Vimes. “But you’re not allowed to arrest anyone, understand?” he added quickly.

“Not even if they’re breaking the law, sir?”

“Not even then. Just make a note of it.”

“I’ll read my book, then,” said Carrot. “And polish my helmet.”

“Good boy,” said the captain. It should be safe enough, he thought. No-one ever comes in here, not even to report a lost dog. No-one ever thinks about the Watch. You’d have to be really out of touch to go to the Watch for help, he thought bitterly.

. . .

Scoone Avenue was a wide, tree-lined, and incredibly select part of Ankh, high enough above the river to be away from its all-pervading smell. People in Scoone Avenue had old money, which was supposed to be much better than new money, although Captain Vimes had never had enough of either to spot the difference. People in Scoone Avenue had their own personal bodyguards. People in Scoone Avenue were said to be so aloof they wouldn’t even talk to the gods. This was a slight slander. They would talk to gods, if they were well-bred gods of decent family.

Lady Ramkin’s house was not hard to find. It commanded an outcrop that gave it a magnificent view of the city, if that was your idea of a good time. There were stone dragons on the gatepost, and the gardens had an unkempt overgrown look. Statues of Ramkins long gone loomed up out of the greenery. Most of them had swords and were covered in ivy up to the neck.

Vimes sensed that this was not because the garden’s owner was too poor to do anything about it, but rather that the garden’s owner thought there were much more important things than ancestors, which was a pretty unusual point of view for an aristocrat.

They also apparently thought that there were more important things than property repair. When he rang the bell of the rather pleasant old house itself, in the middle of a flourishing rhododendron forest, several bits of the plaster facade fell off.

That seemed to be the only effect, except that something round the back of the house started to howl. Some things.

It started to rain again. After a while Vimes felt the dignity of his position and cautiously edged around the building, keeping well back in case anything else collapsed.

He reached a heavy wooden gate in a heavy wooden wall. In contrast with the general decrepitude of the rest of the place, it seemed comparatively new and very solid.

He knocked. This caused another fusillade of strange whistling noises.

The door opened. Something dreadful loomed over him.

“Ah, good man. Do you know anything about mating?” it boomed.

. . .

It was quiet and warm in the Watch House. Carrot listened to the hissing of sand in the hourglass and concentrated on buffing up his breastplate. Centuries of tarnish had given up under his cheerful onslaught. It gleamed.

You knew where you were with a shiny breastplate. The strangeness of the city, where they had all these laws and concentrated on ignoring them, was too much for him. But a shiny breastplate was a breastplate well shined.

The door opened. He peered across the top of the ancient desk. There was no-one there.

He tried a few more industrious rubs.

There was the vague sound of someone who had got fed up with waiting. Two purple-fingernailed hands grasped the edge of the desk, and the Librarian’s face rose slowly into view like an early-morning coconut.

“Oook,” he said.

Carrot stared. It had been explained to him carefully that, contrary to appearances, laws governing the animal kingdom did not apply to the Librarian. On the other hand, the Librarian himself was never very interested in obeying the laws governing the human kingdom, either. He was one of those little anomalies you have to build around.

“Hallo,” said Carrot uncertainly. (“Don’t call him ‘boy’ or pat him, that always gets him annoyed.”)