Book 8 - Page 49 (2/2)

“I said,” he said, “that you may go.”

Vimes paused at the door.

“Do you believe all that, sir?” he said. “About the endless evil and the sheer blackness?”

“Indeed, indeed,” said the Patrician, turning over the page. “It is the only logical conclusion.”

“But you get out of bed every morning, sir?”

“Hmm? Yes? What is your point?”

“I'd just like to know why, sir.”

“Oh, do go away, Vimes. There's a good fellow.”

...

In the dark and draughty cave hacked from the heart of the palace the Librarian knuckled across the floor. He clambered over the remains of the sad h.o.a.rd and looked down at the splayed body of Wonse.

Then he reached down, very gently, and prised The Summoning of Dragons from the stiffening fingers. He blew the dust off it. He brushed it tenderly, as if it was a frightened child.

He turned to climb down the heap, and stopped. He bent down again, and carefully pulled another book from among the glittering rubble. It wasn't one of his, except in the wide sense that all books came under his domain. He turned a few pages carefully.

“Keep it,” said Vimes behind him. “Take it away. Put it somewhere.”

The orangutan nodded at the captain, and rattled down the heap. He tapped Vimes gently on the kneecap, opened The Summoning of Dragons, leafed through its ravaged pages until he found the one he'd been looking for, and silently pa.s.sed the book up.

Vimes squinted at the crabbed writing.

Yet draggons are notte liken unicornes, I willen. They dwellyth in some Realm defined bye thee Fancie of the Wille and, thus, it myte bee thate whomsoever calleth upon them, and giveth them theyre patheway unto thys worlde, calleth theyre Owne dragon of the Mind.

Yette, I trow, the Pure in Harte maye stille call a Draggon of Power as a Forsefor Goode in thee worlde, and this one nighte the Grate Worke will commense. All hathe been prepared. I hath laboured most mytily to be a Worthie Vessle . . .

A realm of fancy, Vimes thought. That's where they went, then. Into our imaginations. And when we call them back we shape them, like squeezing dough into pastry shapes. Only you don't get gingerbread men, you get what you are. Your own darkness, given shape . . .

Vimes read it through again, and then looked at the following pages.

There weren't many. The rest of the book was a charred ma.s.s.

Vimes handed it back to the ape.

“What kind of a man was de Malachite?” he said.

The Librarian gave this the consideration due from someone who knew the Dictionary of City Biography by heart. Then he shrugged.

“Particularly holy?” said Vimes.

The ape shook his head.

“Well, noticeably evil, then?-”

The ape shrugged, and shook his head again.

“If I were you, ” said Vimes, “I'd put that book somewhere very safe. And the book of the Law with it. They're too b.l.o.o.d.y dangerous. ”

“Oook.”

Vimes stretched. ' 'And now,'' he said, ' 'let's go and have a drink. ”

“Oook. ”

“But just a small one. ”

“Oook.”

' 'And you 're paying.''

“Eeek. ”

Vimes stopped and stared down at the big, mild face.

“Tell me,” he said. “I've always wanted to know . . . is it better, being an ape?”

The Librarian thought about it. “Oook,” he said.

“Oh. Really?” said Vimes.

...

It was the next day. The room was wall-to-wall with civic dignitaries. The Patrician sat on his severe chair, surrounded by the Council. Everyone present was wearing the s.h.i.+ny waxen grins of those bent on good works.

Lady Sybil Ramkin sat off to one side, wearing a few acres of black velvet. The Ramkin family jewels glittered on her fingers, neck and in the black curls of today's wig. The total effect was striking, like a globe of the heavens.

Vimes marched the rank to the centre of the hall and stamped to a halt with his helmet under his arm, as per regulations. He'd been amazed to see that even n.o.bby had made an effort-the suspicion of s.h.i.+ny metal could be seen here and there on his breastplate. And Colon was wearing an expression of almost constipated importance. Carrot's armour gleamed.

Colon ripped off a textbook salute for the first time in his life.

“All present and correct, sah!” he barked.

“Very good, Sergeant,” said Vimes coldly. He turned to the Patrician and raised an eyebrow politely.

Lord Vetinari gave a little wave of his hand.

“Stand easy, or whatever it is you chaps do,” he said. “I'm sure we needn't wait on ceremony here. What do you say, Captain?”

“Just as you like, sir,” said Vimes.

“Now, men,” said the Patrician, leaning forward, “we have heard some remarkable accounts of your magnificent efforts in defence of the city ...”

Vimes let his mind wander as the golden plat.i.tudes floated past. For a while he derived a certain amount of amus.e.m.e.nt from watching the faces of the Council. A whole sequence of expressions drifted across them as the Patrician spoke. It was, of course, vitally important that there be a ceremony like this. Then the whole thing could be neat and settled. And forgotten. Just another chapter in the long and exciting history of eckcetra, eckcetra. Ankh-Morpork was good at starting new chapters.

His trawling gaze fell on Lady Ramkin. She winked. Vimes's eyes swivelled front again, his expression suddenly as wooden as a plank.

“... token of our grat.i.tude,” the Patrician finished, sitting back.

Vimes realised that everyone was looking at him.

“Pardon?” he said.

<script>