Guards! Guards! - Terry Pratchett [42]
He didn’t deserve this. Of all the cities in all the world it could have flown into, he thought, it’s flown into mine…
By the time he reached the river the dragon had vanished. But a pall of smoke was hanging over the streets and several human bucket chains had been formed to pass lumps of the river to the stricken buildings.1 The job was considerably hampered by the droves of people streaming out of the streets, carrying their possessions. Most of the city was wood and thatch, and they weren’t taking any chances.
In fact the danger was surprisingly small. Mysteriously small, when you came to think about it.
Vimes had surreptitiously taken to carrying a notebook these days, and he had noted the damage as if the mere act of writing it down somehow made the world a more understandable place.
Itym: Ae Coache House (belonging to an inoffensive businessman, who’d seen his new carriage go up in flames).
Itym: Ae smalle vegettable shope (with pin-point accuracy).
Vimes wondered about that. He’d bought some apples in there once, and there didn’t appear to be anything about it that a dragon could possibly take offense at.
Still, very considerate of the dragon, he thought as he made his way to the Watch House. When you think of all the timber yards, hayricks, thatched roofs and oil stores it could have hit by chance, it’s managed to really frighten everyone without actually harming the city.
Rays of early morning sunlight were piercing the drifts of smoke as he pushed open the door. This was home. Not the bare little room over the candlemaker’s shop in Wixon’s Alley, where he slept, but this nasty brown room that smelled of unswept chimneys, Sgt. Colon’s pipe, Nobby’s mysterious personal problem and, latterly, Carrot’s armor polish. It was almost like home.
No one else was there. He wasn’t entirely surprised. He clumped up to his office and leaned back in his chair, whose cushion would have been thrown out of its basket in disgust by an incontinent dog, pulled his helmet over his eyes, and tried to think.
No good rushing about. The dragon had vanished in all the smoke and confusion, as suddenly as it had come. Time for rushing about soon enough. The important thing was working out where to rush to…
He’d been right. Wading bird! But where did you start looking for a bloody great dragon in a city of a million people?
He was aware that his right hand, entirely unbidden, had pulled open the bottom drawer, and three of his fingers, acting on sealed orders from his hindbrain, had lifted out a bottle. It was one of those bottles that emptied themselves. Reason told him that sometimes he must occasionally start one, break the seal, see amber liquid glistening all the way up to the neck. It was just that he couldn’t remember the sensation. It was as if the bottles arrived two-thirds empty…
He stared at the label. It seemed to be Jimkin Bearhugger’s Old Selected Dragon’s Blood Whiskey. Cheap and powerful, you could light fires with it, you could clean spoons. You didn’t have to drink much of it to be drunk, which was just as well.
It was Nobby who shook him awake with the news that there was a dragon in the city, and also that Sgt. Colon had had a nasty turn. Vimes sat and blinked owlishly while the words washed around him. Apparently having a fire-breathing lizard focusing interestedly on one’s nether regions from a distance of a few feet can upset the strongest constitution. An experience like that could leave a lasting mark on a person.
Vimes was still digesting this when Carrot turned up with the Librarian swinging along behind him.
“Did you see it? Did you see it?” he said.
“We all saw it,” said Vimes.
“I know all about it!” said Carrot triumphantly. “Someone’s brought it here with magic. Someone’s stolen a book out of the Library and guess what it’s called?”
“Can’t even begin to,” said Vimes weakly.
“It’s called The Summoning of Dragons!”
“Oook,” confirmed the Librarian.
“Oh? What