Guards! Guards! - Terry Pratchett [41]
“Well, I don’t see what we can do about it,” said Carrot. “What’s the book called?”
The Librarian scratched his head. This one was going to be tricky. He faced Carrot, put his leather-glove hands together, then folded them open.
“I know it’s a book. What’s its name?”
The Librarian sighed, and held up a hand.
“Four words?” said Carrot. “First word.” The ape pinched two wrinkled fingers together. “Small word? A. The. Fo—”
“Oook!”
“The? The. Second word…third word? Small word. The? A? To? Of? Fro–Of? Of. The something Of something. Second word. What? Oh. First syllable. Fingers? Touching your fingers. Thumbs.”
The orangutan growled and tugged theatrically at one large hairy ear.
“Oh, sounds like. Fingers? Hand? Adding up. Sums. Cut off. Smaller word…Sum. Sum! Second syllable. Small. Very small syllable. A. In. Un. On. On! Sum. On. Sum On. Summon! Summon-er? Summon-ing? Summoning. Summoning. The Summoning of Something. This is fun, isn’t it! Fourth word. Whole word—”
He peered intently as the Librarian gyrated mysteriously.
“Big thing. Huge big thing. Flapping. Great big flapping leaping thing. Teeth. Huffing. Blowing. Great big huge blowing flapping thing.” Sweat broke out on Carrot’s forehead as he tried obediently to understand. “Sucking fingers. Sucking fingers thing. Burnt. Hot. Great big hot blowing flapping thing…”
The Librarian rolled his eyes. Homo sapiens? You could keep it.
The great dragon danced and spun and trod the air over the city. Its color was moonlight, gleaming off its scales. Sometimes it would twist and glide with deceptive speed over the rooftops for the sheer joy of existing.
And it was all wrong, Vimes thought. Part of him was marveling at the sheer beauty of the sight, but an insistent, weaselly little group of brain cells from the wrong side of the synapses was scrawling its graffiti on the walls of wonderment.
It’s a bloody great lizard, they jeered. Must weigh tons. Nothing that big can fly, not even on beautiful wings. And what is a flying lizard doing with great big scales on its back?
Five hundred feet above him a lance of blue-white flame roared into the sky.
It can’t do something like that! It’d burn its own lips off!
Beside him Lady Ramkin stood with her mouth open. Behind her, the little caged dragons yammered and howled.
The great beast turned in the air and swooped over the rooftops. The flame darted out again. Below it, yellow flames sprang up. It was done so quietly and stylishly that it took Vimes several seconds to realize that several buildings had in fact been set on fire.
“Golly!” said Lady Ramkin. “Look! It’s using the thermals! That’s what the fire is for!” She turned to Vimes, her eyes hopelessly aglow. “Do you realize we’re very probably seeing something that no one has seen for centuries?”
“Yes, it’s a bloody flying alligator setting fire to my city!” shouted Vimes.
She wasn’t listening to him. “There must be a breeding colony somewhere,” she said. “After all this time! Where do you think it lives?”
Vimes didn’t know. But he swore to himself that he would find out, and ask it some very serious questions.
“One egg,” breathed the breeder. “Just let me get my hands on one egg…”
Vimes stared at her in genuine astonishment. It dawned on him that he was very probably a flawed character.
Below them, another building exploded into flame.
“How far exactly,” he said, speaking very slowly and carefully, as to a child, “did these things fly?”
“They’re very territorial animals,” murmured her ladyship. “According to legend, they—”
Vimes realized he was in for another dose of dragon lore. “Just give me the facts, m’lady,” he said impatiently.
“Not very far, really,” she said, slightly taken aback.
“Thank you very much, ma’am, you’ve been very helpful,” muttered Vimes, and broke into a run.
Somewhere in the city. There was nothing outside for miles except low fields and swamp. It had to be living somewhere in the city.
His sandals flapped on the cobbles