Guards! Guards! - Terry Pratchett [60]
Vimes looked at the creature, which was investigating its new environment, and knew that it was now, irrevocably, an Errol. The little dragon took an experimental bite out of the table, chewed it for a few seconds, spat it out, curled up and went to sleep.
“He ain’t going to set fire to anything, is he?” said the sergeant anxiously.
“I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem to have worked out what his flame ducts are for yet,” said Lady Ramkin.
“You can’t teach him anything about relaxing, though,” said Vimes. “Anyway, men…”
“Oook.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, sir. What’s this doing here?”
“Er,” said Sergeant Colon hurriedly, “I, er…with you being away and all, and us likely to be short-handed…Carrot here says it’s all according to the law and that…I swore him in, sir. The ape, sir.”
“Swore him in what, Sergeant?” said Vimes.
“As Special Constable, sir,” said Colon, blushing. “You know, sir. Sort of citizen’s Watch.”
Vimes threw up his hands. “Special? Bloody unique!”
The Librarian gave Vimes a big smile.
“Just temporarily, sir. For the duration, like,” said Colon pleadingly. “We could do with the help, sir, and…well, he’s the only one who seems to like us…”
“I think it’s a frightfully good idea,” said Lady Ramkin. “Well done, that ape.”
Vimes shrugged. The world was mad enough already, what could make it worse?
“Okay,” he said. “Okay! I give in. Fine! Give him a badge, although I’m damned if I know where he’ll wear it! Fine! Yes! Why not?”
“You all right, Captain?” said Colon, all concern.
“Fine! Fine! Welcome to the new Watch!” snapped Vimes, striding vaguely around the room. “Great! After all, we pay peanuts, don’t we, so we might as well employ mon—”
The sergeant’s hand slapped respectfully across Vimes’s mouth.
“Er, just one thing, Captain,” said Colon urgently, to Vimes’s astonished eyes. “You don’t use the ‘M’ word. Gets right up his nose, sir. He can’t help it, he loses all self-control. Like a red rag to a wossname, sir. ‘Ape’ is all right, sir, but not the ‘M’ word. Because, sir, when he gets angry he doesn’t just go and sulk, sir, if you get my drift. He’s no trouble at all apart from that, sir. All right? Just don’t say monkey. Ohshit.”
The Brethren were nervous.
He’d heard them talking. Things were moving too fast for them. He thought he’d led them into the conspiracy a bit at a time, never giving them more truth than their little brains could cope with, but he’d still overestimated them. A firm hand was needed. Firm but fair.
“Brothers,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “are the Cuffs of Veracity duly enhanced?”
“What?” said Brother Watchtower vaguely. “Oh. The Cuffs. Yeah. Enhanced. Right.”
“And the Martlets of Beckoning, are they fittingly divested?”
Brother Plasterer gave a guilty start. “Me? What? Oh. Fine, no problem. Divested. Yes.”
The Supreme Grand Master paused.
“Brothers,” he said softly. “We are so near. Just once more. Just a few hours. Once more and the world is ours. Do you understand, Brothers?”
Brother Plasterer shuffled a foot.
“Well,” he said. “I mean, of course. Yes. No fears about that. Behind you one hundred and ten percent—”
He’s going to say only, thought the Supreme Grand Master.
“—only—”
Ah.
“—we, that is, all of us, we’ve been…odd, really, you feel so different, don’t you, after summoning the dragon, sort of—”
“Cleaned out,” said Brother Plasterer helpfully.
“—yes, like it’s sort of—” Brother Watchtower struggled with the serpents of self-expression—“taking something out of you…”
“Sucked dry,” said Brother Plasterer.
“Yes, like he said, and we…well, it’s maybe it’s a bit risky…”
“Like stuff’s been dragged from your actual living brain by eldritch creatures from the Beyond,” said Brother Plasterer.
“I’d have said more like a bit of a sick headache, myself,” said Brother Watchtower helplessly. “And we was wondering, you know, about all this stuff about cosmic balance and that, because, well, look what happened to poor old Dunnykin. Could be