“Me and Nobby have been doing some
detectoring
,” said Colon. “You know that house that got melted? Well, no one lives there. It’s just rooms that get hired out. So we found out who hires them. There’s a caretaker who goes along every night to put the chairs away and lock up. He wasn’t half creating about it being burned down. You know what caretakers are like.”
He stood back, waiting for the applause.
“Well done,” said Vimes dutifully, dunking the figgin into the tea.
“There’s three societies use it,” said Colon. He extracted his notebook. “To wit, viz, The Ankh-Morpork Fine Art Appreciation Society, hem hem, the Morpork Folk-Dance and Song Club, and the Elucidated Brethren of the Ebon Night.”
“Why hem hem?” said Vimes.
“Well, you know. Fine
Art
. It’s just men paintin’ pictures of young wimmin in the nudd. The altogether,” explained Colon the connoisseur. “The caretaker told me. Some of them don’t even have any paint on their brushes, you know. Shameful.”
There must be a million stories in the naked city, thought Vimes. So why do I always have to listen to ones like these?
“When do they meet?” he said.
“Mondays, 7:30, admission ten pence,” said Colon, promptly. “As for the folk-dance people—well, no problem there. You know you always wondered what Corporal Nobbs does on his evenings off?”
Colon’s face split into a watermelon grin.
“No!” said Vimes incredulously. “Not Nobby?”
“Yep!” said Colon, delighted at the result.
“What, jumping about with bells on and waving his hanky in the air?”
“He says it is important to preserve old folkways,” said Colon.
“Nobby? Mr. Steel-toecaps-in-the-groin, I-was-just-checking-the-doorhandle-and-it-opened-all-by-itself?”
“Yeah! Funny old world, ain’t it? He was very bashful about it.”
“Good grief,” said Vimes.
“It just goes to show, you never can tell,” said Colon. “Anyway, the caretaker said the Elucidated Brethren always leave the place in a mess. Scuffed chalk marks on the floor, he said. And they never put the chairs back properly or wash out the tea urn. They’ve been meeting a lot lately, he said. The nuddy wimmin painters had to meet somewhere else last week.”
“What did you do with our suspect?” said Vimes.
“Him? Oh, he done a runner, Captain,” said the sergeant, looking embarrassed.
“Why? He didn’t look in any shape to run anywhere.”
“Well, when we got back here, we sat him down by the fire and wrapped him up because he kept on shivering,” said Sergeant Colon, as Vimes buckled his armor on.
“I hope you didn’t eat his pizzas.”
“Errol et ’em. It’s the cheese, see, it goes all—”
“Go on.”
“Well,” said Colon awkwardly, “he kept on shivering, sort of thing, and groaning on about dragons and that. We felt sorry for him, to tell the truth. And then he jumps up and runs out of the door for no reason at all.”
Vimes glanced at the sergeant’s big, open, dishonest face.
“No reason?” he prompted.
“
Well
, we decided to have a bite, so I sent Nobby out to the baker’s, see, and, well, we fought the prisoner ought to have something to eat…”
“Yes?” said Vimes encouragingly.
“
Well
, when Nobby asked him if he wanted his figgin toasted, he just give a scream and ran off.”
“Just that?” said Vimes. “You didn’t threaten him in any way?”
“Straight up, Captain. Bit of a mystery, if you ask me. He kept going on about someone called Supreme Grand Master.”
“Hmm.” Vimes glanced out of the window. Grey fog lagged the world with dim light. “What time is it?” he said.
“Five of the clock, sir.”
“Right. Well, before it gets dark—”
Colon gave a cough. “In the morning, sir. This is tomorrow, sir.”
“You let me sleep all
day
?”
“Didn’t have the heart to wake you up, sir. No dragon activity, if that’s what you’re thinking. Dead quiet all round, in fact.”
Vimes glared at him and threw the window open.
The fog rolled in, in a slow, yellow-edged waterfall.
“We reckon it must of flown away,” said Colon’s voice, behind him.
Vimes stared up into the heavy, rolling clouds.
“Hope it clears up for the coronation,” Colon went on, in a worried voice. “You all right, sir?”
It hasn’t flown away, Vimes thought. Why should it fly away? We can’t hurt it, and it’s got everything it wants right here. It’s up there somewhere.
“You all right, sir?” Colon repeated.
It’s got to be up high somewhere, in the fog. There’s all kinds of towers and things.
“What time’s the coronation, Sergeant?” he said.
“Noon, sir. And Mr. Wonse has sent a message about how you’re to be in your best armor among all the civic leaders, sir.”
“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 upward 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 to it.”
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.
Vimes scratched him vaguely behind the ears.
“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
flavor.
”
“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—”
“You’re all
mad
!”
“But, Cap’n—”
Vimes’s accusing finger buried itself up to the second joint in Harga’s expensive 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 onto 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 anymore. Life could be horrible in the wrong trouser of Time.
Besides, it was against Library rules.
1
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.”