"I expect you'd be really interested in finding out where that hoard is, wouldn't you?" said Vimes experimentally.
Nobby looked even more shifty than usual. "Well, Cap'n, I was thinking of having a bit of a look around. You know. When I'm off duty, of course," he added virtuously.
"Oh, dear," said Captain Vimes.
He lifted up the empty bottle and, with great care, put it back in the drawer.
...
The Elucidated Brethren were nervous. A kind of fear crackled from brother to brother. It was the fear of someone who, having cheerfully experimented with pouring the powder and wadding the ball, has found that pulling the trigger had led to a godawful bang and pretty soon someone is bound to come and see who's making all the noise.
The Supreme Grand Master knew that he had them, though. Sheep and lamb, sheep and lamb. Since they couldn't do anything much worse than they had already done they might as well press on and damn the world, and pretend they'd wanted it like this all along. Oh, the joy of it ...
Only Brother Plasterer was actually happy.
"Let that be a lesson to all oppressive vegetable sellers," he kept saying.
"Yes, er," said Brother Doorkeeper. "Only, the thing is, there's no chance of us sort of accidentally summoning the dragon here, is there?"
"I-that is, we-have it under perfect control," said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly. "The power is ours. I can assure you."
The Brothers cheered up a little bit.
"And now," the Supreme Grand Master continued, "there is the matter of the king."
The Brothers looked solemn, except for Brother Plasterer.
"Have we found him, then?" he said. "That's a stroke of luck.''
"You never listen, do you?" snapped Brother Watchtower. "It was all explained last week, we don't go around finding anyone, we make a king."
"I thought he was supposed to turn up. 'Cos of destiny."
Brother Watchtower sniggered. "We sort of help Destiny along a bit."
The Supreme Grand Master smiled in the depths of his robe. It was amazing, this mystic business. You tell them a lie, and then when you don't need it any more you tell them another lie and tell them they're progressing along the road to wisdom. Then instead of laughing they follow you even more, hoping that at the heart of all the lies they'll find the truth. And bit by bit they accept the unacceptable. Amazing.
"Bloody hell, that's clever," said Brother Doorkeeper. "How do we do that, then?"
"Look, the Supreme Grand Master said what we do, we find some handsome lad who's good at taking orders, he kills the dragon, and Bob's your uncle. Simple. Much more intelligent than waitin' for a so-called real king."
"But," Brother Plasterer seemed deep in the toils of cerebration, "if we control the dragon, and we do control the dragon, right? Then we don't need anyone killing it, we just stop summoning it, and everyone 'll be happy, right?"
"Ho yes," said Brother Watchtower nastily, "I can just see it, can you? We just trot out, say 'Hallo, we won't set fire to your houses any more, aren't we nice', do we? The whole point about the thing with the king is that he'll be a, a sort of…"
"Undeniably potent and romantic symbol of absolute authority," said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly.
"That's it," said Brother Watchtower. "A potent authority."
"Oh, I see," said Brother Plasterer. "Right. Okay. That's what the king 'll be."
"That's it," said Brother Watchtower.
"No-one going to argue with a potent authority, are they?"
"Too right," said Brother Watchtower.
"Stroke of luck, then, finding the true king right now," said Brother Plasterer. "Million to one chance, really."
"We haven't found the right king. We don't need the right king," said the Supreme Grand Master wearily. "For the last time! I've just found us a likely lad who looks good in a crown and can take orders and knows how to flourish a sword. Now just listen ..."
Flourishing, of course, was important. It didn't have much to do with wielding. Wielding a sword, the Supreme Grand Master considered, was simply the messy business of dynastic surgery. It was just a matter of thrust and cut. Whereas a king had to flourish one. It had to catch the light in just the right way, leaving watchers in no doubt that here was Destiny's chosen. He'd taken a long time preparing the sword and shield. It had been very expensive. The shield shone like a dollar in a sweep's earhole but the sword, the sword was magnificent . . .
It was long and shiny. It looked like something some genius of metalwork — one of those little Zen guys who works only by the light of dawn and can beat a club sandwich of folded steels into something with the cutting edge of a scalpel and the stopping-power of a sex-crazed rhinoceros on bad acid-had made and then retired in tears because he'd never, ever, do anything so good again. There were so many jewels on the hilt it had to be sheathed in velvet, you had to look at it through smoked glass. Just laying a hand on it practically conferred kingship.
As for the lad ... he was a distant cousin, keen and vain, and stupid in a passably aristocratic way. Currently he was under guard in a distant farmhouse, with an adequate supply of drink and several young ladies, although what the boy seemed most interested in was mirrors. Probably hero material, the Supreme Grand Master thought glumly.
"I suppose," said Brother Watchtower, "that he isn't the real air to the throne?"
"What do you mean?" said the Supreme Grand Master.
"Well, you know how it is. Fate plays funny tricks. Ha-ha. It'd be a laugh, wouldn't it," said Brother Watchtower, ' 'if this lad turned out to be the real king. After all this trouble-"
"There is no real king any more!" snapped the Supreme Grand Master. "What do you expect? Some people wandering in the wilderness for hundreds and hundreds of years, patiently handing down a sword and a birthmark? Some sort of magic?" He spat the word. He'd make use of magic, means to an end, end justifies means and so forth, but to go around believing it, believing it had some sort of moral force, like logic, made him wince. "Good grief, man, be logical! Be rational. Even if any of the old royal family survived, the blood line'd be so watered down by now that there must be thousands of people who lay claim to the throne. Even," he tried to think of the least likely claimant,"even someone like Brother Dunnykin." He stared at the assembled Brethren. "Don't see him here tonight, by the way."
"Funny thing, that," said Brother Watchtower thoughtfully. "Didn't you hear?"
"What?"
"He got bitten by a crocodile on his way home last night. Poor little bugger."
"What?"
"Million to one chance. It'd escaped from a menagerie, or something, and was lying low in his back yard. He went to feel under his doormat for his door key and it had him by the funes."[14] Brother Watchtower fumbled under his robe and produced a grubby brown envelope. "We're having a whip-round to buy him some grapes and that, I don't know whether you'd like to, er . . ."
"Put me down for three dollars," said the Supreme Grand Master.
Brother Watchtower nodded. "Funny thing," he said, "I already have."
Just a few more nights, thought the Supreme Grand Master. By tomorrow the people 'll be so desperate, they'd crown even a one-legged troll if he got rid of the dragon. And we'll have a king, and he'll have an advisor, a trusted man, of course, and this stupid rabble can go back to the gutter. No more dressing up, no more ritual.
No more summoning the dragon.
I can give it up, he thought. I can give it up any time I like.
...
The streets outside the Patrician's palace were thronged. There was a manic air of carnival. Vimes ran a practiced eye over the assortment before him. It was the usual Ankh-Morpork mob in times of crisis; half of them were here to complain, a quarter of them were here to watch the other half, and the remainder were here to rob, importune or sell hot-dogs to the rest. There were a few new faces, though. There were a number of grim men with big swords slung over their shoulders and whips slung on their belts, s
triding through the crowds.
"News spreads quick, don't it," observed a familiar voice by his ear. "Morning, Captain."
Vimes looked into the grinning, cadaverous face of Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, purveyor of absolutely anything that could be sold hurriedly from an open suitcase in a busy street and was guaranteed to have fallen off the back of an oxcart.
"Morning, Throat," said Vimes absently. "What're you selling?"
"Genuine article, Captain." Throat leaned closer. He was the sort of person who could make "Good morning" sound like a once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated offer. His eyes swivelled back and forth in their sockets, like two rodents trying to find a way out. "Can't afford to be without it," he hissed. "Anti-dragon cream. Personal guarantee: if you're incinerated you get your money back, no quibble."
"What you're saying," said Vimes slowly, "if I understand the wording correctly, is that if I am baked alive by the dragon you'll return the money?"
"Upon personal application," said Cut-me-own-Throat. He unscrewed the lid from a jar of vivid green ointment and thrust it under Vimes's nose. "Made from over fifty different rare spices and herbs to a recipe known only to a bunch of ancient monks what live on some mountain somewhere. One dollar a jar, and I'm cutting my own throat. It's a public service, really," he added piously.
"You've got to hand it to those ancient monks, brewing it up so quickly," said Vimes.
"Clever buggers," agreed Cut-me-own-Throat. "It must be all that meditation and yak yogurt."
"So what's happening, Throat?" said Vimes. "Who're all the guys with the big swords?"
"Dragon hunters, Cap'n. The Patrician announced a reward of fifty thousand dollars to anyone who brings him the dragon's head. Not attached to the dragon, either; he's no fool, that man."
"What?"
"That's what he said. It's all written on posters."
"Fifty thousand dollars!"
"Not chicken feed, eh?"
"More like dragon fodder," said Vimes. It'd bring trouble, you mark his words. "I'm amazed you're not grabbing a sword and joining in."
"I'm more in what you might call the service sector, Cap'n." Throat looked both ways conspiratorially, and then passed Vimes a slip of parchment.
It said:
Anti-dragon mirror shields A$ 500
Portable lair detectors A$250
Dragon-piercing arrows A$100 per each
Shovels A$5 Picks A$5 Sacks A$l
Vimes handed it back. "Why the sacks?" he said.
"On account of the hoard," said Throat.
"Oh, yes," said Vimes gloomily. "Of course."
"Tell you what," said Throat, "tell you what. For our boys in brown, ten percent off."
"And you're cutting your own throat, Throat?"
"Fifteen percent for officers!" urged Throat, as Vimes walked away. The cause of the slight panic in his voice was soon apparent. He had plenty of competition.
The people of Ankh-Morpork were not by nature heroic but were, by nature, salesmen. In the space of a few feet Vimes could have bought any number of magical weapons Genuine certyfycate of orthenticity with everyone, a cloak of invisibility — a good touch, he thought, and he was really impressed by the way the stall owner was using a mirror with no glass in it— and, by way of lighter relief, dragon biscuits, balloons and windmills on sticks. Copper bracelets guaranteed to bring relief from dragons were a nice thought.
There seemed to be as many sacks and shovels about as there were swords.
Gold, that was it. The hoard. Hah!
Fifty thousand dollars! An officer of the Watch earned thirty dollars a month and had to pay to have his own dents beaten out.
What he couldn't do with fifty thousand dollars . . .
Vimes thought about this for a while and then thought of the things he could do with fifty thousand dollars. There were so many more of them, for a start.
He almost walked into a group of men clustered around a poster nailed to the wall. It declared, indeed, that the head of the dragon that had terrorized the city would be worth A$50,000 to the brave hero that delivered it to the palace.
One of the cluster, who from his size, weaponry and that way he was slowly tracing the lettering with his finger Vimes decided was a leading hero, was doing the reading for the others.
"…to ter-her pal-ack-ee," he concluded.
"Fifty thousand," said one of them reflectively, rubbing his chin.
"Cheap job," said the intellectual. "Well below the rate. Should be half the kingdom and his daughter's hand in marriage."
"Yes, but he ain't a king. He's a Patrician."
"Well, half his Patrimony or whatever. What's his daughter like?"
The assembled hunters didn't know.
"He's not married," Vimes volunteered. "So he hasn't got a daughter."
They turned and looked him up and down. He could see the disdain in their eyes. They probably got through dozens like him every day. ' 'Not got a daughter?'' said one of them. "Wants people to kill dragons and he hasn't got a daughter?"
Vimes felt, in an odd way, that he ought to support the lord of the city. "He's got a little dog that he's very fond of," he said helpfully.
"Bleeding disgusting, not even having a daughter," said one of the hunters. "And what's fifty thousand dollars these days? You spend that much in nets."
"S'right," said another. "People think it's a fortune, but they don't reckon on, well, it's not pensionable, there's all the medical expenses, you've got to buy and maintain your own gear…"
"…wear and tear on virgins…" nodded a small fat hunter.
"Yeah, and then there's . . . what?"
"My specialty is unicorns," the hunter explained, with an embarrassed smile.
"Oh, right." The first speaker looked like someone who'd always been dying to ask the question. "I thought they were very rare these days."
"You're right there. You don't see many unicorns, either," said the unicorn hunter. Vimes got the impression that, in his whole life, this was his only joke.
"Yeah, well. Times are hard," said the first speaker sharply.
"Monsters are getting more uppity, too," said another. "I heard where this guy, he killed this monster in this lake, no problem, stuck its arm up over the door…"
"Pour encourjay lays ortras," said one of the listeners.
"Right, and you know what? Its mum come and complained. Its actual mum come right down to the hall next day and complained. Actually complained. That's the respect you get."
"The females are always the worst," said another hunter gloomily. "I knew this cross-eyed gorgon once, oh, she was a terror. Kept turning her own nose to stone."
"It's our arses on the line every time," said the intellectual. "I mean, I wish I had a dollar for every horse I've had eaten out from underneath me."
"Right. Fifty thousand dollars? He can stuff it."
"Yeah."
"Right. Cheapskate."
"Let's go and have a drink."
"Right."
They nodded in righteous agreement and strode off towards the Mended Drum, except for the intellectual, who sidled uneasily back to Vimes.
"What sort of dog?" he said.
"What?" said Vimes.
"I said, what sort of dog?"
"A small wire-haired terrier, I think," said Vimes.
The hunter thought about this for some time.
"Nah," he said eventually, and hurried off after the others.
"He's got an aunt in Pseudopolis, I believe," Vimes called after him.
There was no response. The captain of the Watch shrugged, and carried on through the throng to the Patrician's palace . . .
...
. . . where the Patrician was having a difficult lunch-time.
"Gentlemen!" he snapped. "I really don't see what else there is to do!"
The assembled civic leaders muttered amongst themselves.
"At times like this it's traditional that a hero comes forth," said the President of the Guild of
Assassins. "A dragon slayer. Where is he, that's what I want to know? Why aren't our schools turning out young people with the kind of skills society needs?"
"Fifty thousand dollars doesn't sound much," said the Chairman of the Guild of Thieves.
"It may not be much to you, my dear sir, but it is all the city can afford," said the Patrician firmly.
"If it doesn't afford any more than that I don't think there'll be a city for long," said the thief.
"And what about trade?" said the representative of the Guild of Merchants. "People aren't going to sail here with a cargo of rare comestibles just to have it incinerated, are they?"
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" The Patrician raised his hands in a conciliatory fashion. "It seems to me," he went on, taking advantage of the brief pause, "that what we have here is a strictly magical phenomenon. I would like to hear from our learned friend on this point. Hmm?"
Someone nudged the Archchancellor of Unseen University, who had nodded off.
"Eh? What?" said the wizard, startled into wakefulness.
"We were wondering," said the Patrician loudly, "what you were intending to do about this dragon of yours?"
The Archchancellor was old, but a lifetime of survival in the world of competitive wizardry and the byzantine politics of Unseen University meant that he could whip up a defensive argument in a split second. You didn't remain Archchancellor for long if you let that sort of ingenuous remark whizz past your ear.
"My dragon?" he said.
"It's well known that the great dragons are extinct," said the Patrician brusquely. "And, besides, their natural habitat was definitely rural. So it seems to me that this one must be mag…"
"With respect, Lord Vetinari," said the Archchancellor, "it has often been claimed that dragons are extinct, but the current evidence, if I may make so bold, tends to cast a certain doubt on the theory. As to habitat, what we are seeing here is simply a change of behaviour pattern, occasioned by the spread of urban areas into the countryside which has led many hitherto rural creatures to adopt, nay in many cases to positively embrace, a more municipal mode of existence, and many of them thrive on the new opportunities thereby opened to them. For example, foxes are always knocking over my dustbins."
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