Guards! Guards! - Terry Pratchett [33]
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, realizing 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 pattered 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