Guards! Guards! tds-8

by Terry Pratchett

"Oh, has he?"

  "And Sergeant Hummock and the day squad will be lining the route, sir."

  "What with?" said Vimes vaguely, watching the skies.

  "Sorry, sir?"

  Vimes squinted upwards to get a better view of the roof. "Hmm?" he said.

  "I said they'll be lining the route, sir," said Sergeant Colon.

  "It's up there, Sergeant," said Vimes. "I can practically smell it."

  "Yes, sir," said Colon obediently.

  "It's deciding what to do next."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "They're not unintelligent, you know. They just don't think like us."

  "Yes, sir."

  "So be damned to any lining of the route. I want you three up on roofs, understand?"

  "Yes, si — what?"

  "Up on the roofs. Up high. When it makes its move, I want us to be the first to know."

  Colon tried to indicate by his expression that he didn't.

  "Do you think that's a good idea, sir?" he ventured.

  Vimes gave him a blank look. "Yes, Sergeant, I do. It was one of mine," he said coldly. "Now go and see toil."

  When he was left to himself Vimes washed and shaved in cold water, and then rummaged in his campaign chest until he unearthed his ceremonial breastplate and red cloak. Well, the cloak had been red once, and still was, here and there, although most of it resembled a small net used very successfully for catching moths. There was also a helmet, defiantly without plumes, from which the molecule-thick gold leaf had long ago peeled.

  He'd started saving up for a new cloak, once. Whatever had happened to the money?

  There was no one in the guardroom. Errol lay in the wreckage of the fourth fruit box Nobby had scrounged for him. The rest had all been eaten, or had dissolved.

  In the warm silence the everlasting rumbling of his stomach sounded especially loud. Occasionally he whimpered.

  "What's up with you, boy?" he said.

  The door creaked open. Carrot came in, saw Vimes hunkered down by the ravaged box, and saluted.

  "We're a bit worried about him, Captain," he volunteered. "He hasn't eaten his coal. Just lies there twitching and whining all the time. You don't think something's wrong with him, do you?"

  "Possibly," said Vimes. "But having something wrong with them is quite normal for a dragon. They always get over it. One way or another."

  Errol gave him a mournful look and closed his eyes again. Vimes pulled his scrap of blanket over him.

  There was a squeak. He fished around beside the dragon's shivering body, pulled out a small rubber hippo, stared at it in surprise and then gave it one or two experimental squeezes.

  "I thought it would be something for him to play with," said Carrot, slightly shamefaced.

  "You bought him a little toy?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What a kind thought."

  Vimes hoped Carrot hadn't noticed the fluffy ball tucked into the back of the box. It had been quite expensive.

  He left the two of them and stepped into the outside world.

  There was even more bunting now. People were beginning to line the main streets, even though there were hours to wait. It was still very depressing.

  He felt an appetite for once, one that it'd take more than a drink or two to satisfy. He strolled along for breakfast at Harga's House of Ribs, the habit of years, and got another unpleasant surprise. Normally the only decoration in there was on Sham Harga's vest and the food was good solid stuff for a cold morning, all calories and fat and protein and maybe a vitamin crying softly because it was all alone. Now laboriously-made paper streamers criss-crossed the room and he was confronted with a crayonned menu in which the words "Coronasion" and "Royall" figured somewhere on every crooked line.

  Vimes pointed wearily at the top of the menu.

  "What's this?" he said.

  Harga peered at it. They were alone in the grease-walled cafe.

  "It says 'Bye Royarl Appointmente', Captain," he said proudly.

  "What's it mean?"

  Harga scratched his head with a ladle. "What it means is," he said, "if the king comes in here, he'll like it."

  "Have you got anything that isn't too aristocratic for me to eat, then?" said Vimes sourly, and settled for a slice of plebeian fried bread and a proletarian steak cooked so rare you could still hear it bray. Vimes ate it at the counter.

  A vague scraping noise disturbed his thoughts. "What're you doing?" he said.

  Harga looked up guiltily from his work behind the counter.

  "Nothing, Cap'n," he said. He tried to hide the evidence behind him when Vimes glared over the knife-chewed woodwork.

  "Come on, Sham. You can show me."

  Harga's beefy hands came reluctantly into view.

  "I was only scraping the old fat out of the pan," he mumbled.

  "I see. And how long have we known each other, Sham?" said Vimes, with terrible kindness.

  "Years, Cap'n," said Harga. "You bin coming in here nearly every day, reg'lar. One of my best customers."

  Vimes leaned over the counter until his nose was level with the squashy pink thing in the middle of Harga's face.

  "And in all that time, have you ever changed the fat?" he demanded.

  Harga tried to back away. "Well…"

  "It's been like a friend to me, that old fat," said Vimes. "There's little black bits in there I've grown to know and love. It's a meal in itself. And you've cleaned out the coffee jug, haven't you. I can tell. This is love-in-a-canoe coffee if ever I tasted it. The other stuff had flavour. "

  "Well, I thought it was time…"

  "Why?"

  Harga let the pan fall from his pudgy fingers. "Well, I thought, if the king should happen to come in…"

  Vimes's accusing finger buried itself up to the second joint in Harga 's expansive vest.

  "You don't even know the wretched fellow's name!" he shouted.

  Harga rallied. "I do, Cap'n," he stuttered. "Course I do. Seen it on the decorations and everything. He's called Rex Vivat."

  Very gently, shaking his head in despair, crying in his heart for the essential servility of mankind, Vimes let him go.

  In another time and place, the Librarian finished reading. He'd reached the end of the text. Not the end of the book — there was plenty more book. It had been scorched beyond the point of legibility, though.

  Not that the last few unburned pages were very easy to read. The author's hand had been shaking, he'd been writing fast, and he'd blotted a lot. But the Librarian had wrestled with many a terrifying text in some of the worst books ever bound, words that tried to read you as you read them, words that writhed on the page. At least these weren't words like that. These were just the words of a man frightened for his life. A man writing a dreadful warning.

  It was a page a little back from the burned section that drew the Librarian's eye. He sat and stared at it for some time.

  Then he stared at the darkness.

  It was his darkness. He was asleep out there somewhere. Somewhere out there a thief was heading for this place, to steal this book. And then someone would read this book, read these words, and do it anyway.

  His hands itched.

  All he had to do was hide the book, or drop on to the thief's head and unscrew it by the ears.

  He stared into the darkness again . . .

  But that would be interfering with the course of history. Horrible things could happen. The Librarian knew all about this sort of thing, it was part of what you had to know before you were allowed into L-space. He'd seen pictures in ancient books. Time could bifurcate, like a pair of trousers. You could end up in the wrong leg, living a life that was actually happening in the other leg, talking to people who weren't in your leg, walking into walls that weren't there any more. Life could be horrible in the wrong trouser of Time.

  Besides, it was against Library rules.[18] The assembled Librarians of Time and Space would certainly have something to say about it if he started to tinker with causality.

/>   He closed the book carefully and tucked it back into the shelf. Then he swung gently from bookcase to bookcase until he reached the doorway. For a moment he stopped and looked down at his own sleeping body. Perhaps he wondered, briefly, whether to wake himself up, have a little chat, tell himself that he had friends and not to worry. If so, he must have decided against it. You could get yourself into a lot of trouble that way.

  Instead he slipped out of the door, and lurked in the shadows, and followed the hooded thief when it came out clutching the book, and waited near the dread portal in the rain until the Elucidated Brethren had met and, when the last one left, followed him to his home, and murmured to himself in anthropoid surprise . . .

  And then ran back to his Library and the treacherous pathways of L-space.

  By mid-morning the streets were packed, Vimes had docked Nobby a day's salary for waving a flag, and an air of barbed gloom settled over the Yard, like a big black cloud with occasional flashes of lightning in it.

  "Get up in a high place, " muttered Nobby. "That's all very well to say."

  "I was looking forward to lining the streets," said Colon. "I'd have got a good view."

  "You were going on about privilege and the rights of man the other night," said Nobby accusingly.

  "Yes, well, one of the privileges and rights of this man is getting a good view," said the sergeant. "That's all I'm saying."

  "I've never seen the captain in such a filthy temper," said Nobby. "I liked it better when he was on the drink. I reckon he's…"

  "You know, I think Errol is really ill," said Carrot.

  They turned towards the fruit basket.

  "He's very hot. And his skin looks all shiny."

  "What's the right temperature for a dragon?" said Colon.

  "Yeah. How do you take it?" said Nobby.

  "I think we ought to ask Lady Ramkin to have a look at him," said Carrot. "She knows about these things."

  "No, she'll be getting ready for the coronation. We shouldn't go disturbing her," said Colon. He stretched out his hand to Errol's quivering flanks. "I used to have a dog that — arrgh! That's not hot, that's boiling!"

  "I've offered him lots of water and he just won't touch it. What are you doing with that kettle, Nobby?"

  Nobby looked innocent. "Well, I thought we might as well make a cup of tea before we go out. It's a shame to waste…"

  "Take it off him!"

  Noon came. The fog didn't lift but it did thin a bit, to allow a pale yellow haze where the sun should have been.

  Although the passage of years had turned the post of Captain of the Watch into something rather shabby, it still meant that Vimes was entitled to a seat at official occasions. The pecking order had moved it, though, so that now he was in the lowest tier on the rickety bleachers between the Master of the Fellowship of Beggars and the head of the Teachers' Guild. He didn't mind that. Anything was better than the top row, among the Assassins, Thieves, Merchants and all the other things that had floated to the top of society. He never knew what to talk about. Anyway, the teacher was restful company since he didn't do much but clench and unclench his hands occasionally, and whimper.

  "Something wrong with your neck, Captain?" said the chief beggar politely, as they waited for the coaches.

  "What?" said Vimes distractedly.

  "You keep on staring upwards," said the beggar.

  "Hmm? Oh. No. Nothing wrong," said Vimes.

  The beggar wrapped his velvet cloak around him.

  "You couldn't by any chance spare…," he paused, calculating a sum in accordance with his station, "…about three hundred dollars for a twelve-course civic banquet, could you?"

  "No."

  "Fair enough. Fair enough," said the chief beggar amiably. He sighed. It wasn't a rewarding job, being chief beggar. It was the differentials that did for you. Low-grade beggars made a reasonable enough living on pennies, but people tended to look the other way when you asked them for a sixteen-bedroom mansion for the night.

  Vimes resumed his study of the sky.

  Up on the dais the High Priest of Blind Io, who last night by dint of elaborate ecumenical argument and eventually by a club with nails in it had won the right to crown the king, fussed over his preparations. By the small portable sacrificial altar a tethered billy goat was peacefully chewing the cud and possibly thinking, in Goat: What a lucky billy goat I am, to be given such a good view of the proceedings. This is going to be something to tell the kids.

  Vimes scanned the diffused outlines of the nearest buildings.

  A distant cheering suggested that the ceremonial procession was on its way.

  There was a scuffle of activity around the dais as Lupine Wonse chivvied a scramble of servants who rolled a purple carpet down the steps.

  Across the square, amongst the ranks of Ankh-Morpork's faded aristocracy, Lady Ramkin's face tilted upwards.

  Around the throne, which had been hastily created out of wood and gold foil, a number of lesser priests, some of them with slight head wounds, shuffled into position.

  Vimes shifted in his seat, aware of the sound of his own heartbeat, and glared at the haze over the river.

  . . . and saw the wings.

  Dear Mother and Father [wrote Carrot, in between staring dutifully into the fog] Well, the town is On Fate for the coronation, which is more complicated than at home, and now I am on Day duty as well. This is a shame because, I was going to watch the Coronation with Reel, but it does not do to complain. I must go now because we are expecting a dragon any minute although it does not exist really. Your loving son, Carrot. PS. Have you seen anything of Minty lately?

  "You idiot!"

  "Sorry," said Vimes. "Sorry."

  People were climbing back into their seats, many of them giving him furious looks. Wonse was white with fury.

  "How could you have been so stupid? " he raged.

  Vimes stared at his own fingers.

  "I thought I saw…" he began.

  "It was a raven! You know what ravens are? There must be hundreds of them in the city!"

  "In the fog, you see, the size wasn't easy to…" Vimes mumbled.

  "And poor Master Greetling, you ought to have known what loud noises do to him!" The head of the Teachers' Guild had to be led away by some kind people.

  "Shouting out like that!" Wonse went on.

  "Look, I said I'm sorry! It was an honest mistake!"

  "I've had to hold up the procession and everything!"

  Vimes said nothing. He could feel hundreds of amused or unsympathetic eyes on him.

  "Well," he muttered, "I'd better be getting back to the Yard…"

  Wonse's eyes narrowed. "No," he snapped. "But you can go home, if you like. Or anywhere your fancies take you. Give me your badge."

  "Huh?"

  Wonse held out his hand.

  "Your badge," he repeated.

  "My badge?"

  "That's what I said. I want to keep you out of trouble."

  Vimes looked at him in astonishment. "But it's my badge!"

  "And you're going to give it to me," said Wonse grimly. "By order of the king."

  "What d'you mean? He doesn't even know!" Vimes heard the wailing in his own voice.

  Wonse scowled. "But he will," he said. "And I don't expect he'll even bother to appoint a successor."

  Vimes slowly undipped the verdigrised disc of copper, weighed it in his hand, and then tossed it to Wonse without a word.

  For a moment he considered pleading, but something rebelled. He turned, and stalked off through the crowd.

  So that was it.

  As simple as that. After half a lifetime of service. No more City Watch. Huh. Vimes kicked at the pavement. It'd be some sort of Royal Guard now.

  With plumes in their damn helmets.

  Well, he'd had enough. It wasn't a proper life anyway, in the Watch. You didn't meet people in the best of circumstances. There must be hundreds of other things he could do, and if he thought for long enough he could probab
ly remember what some of them were.

  Pseudopolis Yard was off the route of the procession, and as he stumbled into the Watch House he could hear the distant cheering beyond the rooftops. Across the city the temple gongs were being sounded.

  Now they are ringing the gongs, thought Vimes, but soon they will-they will-they will not be ringing the gongs. Not much of an aphorism, he thought, but he could work on it. He had the time, now.

  Vimes noticed the mess.

  Errol had started eating again. He'd eaten most of the table, the grate, the coal scuttle, several lamps and the squeaky rubber hippo. Now he lay in his box again, skin twitching, whimpering in his sleep.

  "A right mess you've made," said Vimes enigmatically. Still, at least he wouldn't have to tidy it up.

  He opened his desk drawer.

  Someone had eaten into that, too. All that was left was a few shards of glass.

  Sergeant Colon hauled himself on to the parapet around the Temple of Small Gods. He was too old for this sort of thing. He'd joined for the bell ringing, not sitting around on high places waiting for dragons to find him.

  He got his breath back, and peered through the fog.

  "Anyone human still up here?" he whispered.

  Carrot's voice sounded dead and featureless in the dull air.

  "Here I am, Sergeant," he said.

  "I was just checking if you were still here," said Colon.

  "I'm still here, Sergeant," said Carrot, obediently.

  Colon joined him.

  "Just checking you were not et," he said, trying to grin.

  "I haven't been et," said Carrot.

  "Oh," said Colon. "Good, then." He tapped his fingers on the damp stonework, feeling he ought to make his position absolutely clear.

  "Just checking," he repeated. "Part of my duty, see. Going around, sort of thing. It's not that I'm frightened of being up on the roofs by myself, you understand. Thick up here, isn't it."

  "Yes, Sergeant."

  "Everything all okay?" Nobby's muffled voice sidled its way through the thick air, quickly followed by its owner.

  "Yes, Corporal," said Carrot.

  "What you doing up here?" Colon demanded.

  "I was just coming up to check Lance-constable Carrot was all right," said Nobby innocently. "What were you doing, Sergeant?"