Guards! Guards! - Terry Pratchett [30]
“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 quietened 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 realized 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 toward 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 “figgin’.” 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 among 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