Guards! Guards! - Terry Pratchett [7]
“We-ell,” said Brother Plasterer, “I dunno, really. I mean, you get the mix wrong, you just got a lot of damp plaster around your ankles. But you get a bit of magic wrong, and they say ghastly things comes out the woodwork and stitches you right up.”
“Yeah, but it’s the wizards that say that,” said Brother Watchtower thoughtfully. “Never could stand them myself, to tell you the truth. Could be they’re onto a good thing and don’t want the rest of us to find out. It’s only waving your arms and chanting, when all’s said and done.”
The Brethren considered this. It sounded plausible. If they were onto a good thing, they certainly wouldn’t want anyone else muscling in.
The Supreme Grand Master decided that the time was ripe.
“Then we are agreed, brethren? You are prepared to practice magic?”
“Oh, practice,” said Brother Plasterer, relieved. “I don’t mind practicing. So long as we don’t have to do it for real—”
The Supreme Grand Master thumped the book.
“I mean carry out real spells! Put the city back on the right lines! Summon a dragon!” he shouted.
They took a step back. Then Brother Doorkeeper said, “And then, if we get this dragon, the rightful king’ll turn up, just like that?”
“Yes!” said the Supreme Grand Master.
“I can see that,” said Brother Watchtower supportively. “Stands to reason. Because of destiny and the gnomic workings of fate.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then a general nodding of cowls. Only Brother Plasterer looked vaguely unhappy.
“We-ell,” he said. “It won’t get out of hand, will it?”
“I assure you, Brother Plasterer, that you can give it up any time you like,” said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly.
“Well…all right,” said the reluctant Brother. “Just for a bit, then. Could we get it to stay here long enough to burn down, for example, any oppressive vegetable shops?”
Ah…
He’d won. There’d be dragons again. And a king again. Not like the old kings. A king who would do what he was told.
“That,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “depends on how much help you can be. We shall need, initially, any items of magic you can bring…”
It might not be a good idea to let them see that the last half of de Malachite’s book was a charred lump. The man was clearly not up to it.
He could do a lot better. And absolutely no one would be able to stop him.
Thunder rolled…
It is said that the gods play games with the lives of men. But what games, and why, and the identities of the actual pawns, and what the game is, and what the rules are—who knows?
Best not to speculate.
Thunder rolled…
It rolled a six.
Now pull back briefly from the dripping streets of Ankh-Morpork pan across the morning mists of the Disc, and focus in again on a young man heading for the city with all the openness, sincerity and innocence of purpose of an iceberg drifting into a major shipping lane.
The young man is called Carrot. This is not because of his hair, which his father has always clipped short for reasons of Hygiene. It is because of his shape.
It is the kind of tapering shape a boy gets through clean living, healthy eating, and good mountain air in huge lungfuls. When he flexes his shoulder muscles, other muscles have to move out of the way first.
He is also bearing a sword presented to him in mysterious circumstances. Very mysterious circumstances. Surprisingly, therefore, there is something very unexpected about this sword. It isn’t magical. It hasn’t got a name. When you wield it you don’t get a feeling of power, you just get blisters; you could believe it was a sword that had been used so much that it had ceased to be anything other than a quintessential sword, a long piece of metal with very sharp edges. And it hasn’t got destiny written all over it.
It’s practically unique, in fact.
Thunder rolled.
The gutters of the city gurgled softly as the detritus of the night was carried along,