Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

The shelf.

The gap.

There are many horrible sights in the multiverse. Somehow, though, to a soul attuned to the subtle rhythms of a library, there are few worse sights than a hole where a book ought to be.

Someone had stolen a book.

...

In the privacy of the Oblong Office, his personal sanctum, the Patrician paced up and down. He was dictating a stream of instructions.

“And send some men to paint that wall,” he finished.

Lupine Wonse raised an eyebrow.

“Is that wise, sir?” he said.

“You don't think a frieze of ghastly shadows will cause comment and speculation?” said the Patrician sourly.

“Not as much as fresh paint in the Shades,” said Wonse evenly.

The Patrician hesitated a moment. “Good point,” he snapped. “Have some men demolish it.”

He reached the end of the room, spun on his heel, and stalked up it again. Dragons! As if there were not enough important, enough real things to take up his time.

“Do you believe in dragons?” he said.

Wonse shook his head. “They're impossible, sir.”

“So I've heard,” said Lord Vetinari. He reached the opposite wall, turned.

“Would you like me to investigate further?” said Wonse.

“Yes. Do so.”

“And I shall ensure the Watch take great care,” said Wonse.

The Patrician stopped his pacing. “The Watch? The Watch? My dear chap, the Watch are a bunch of incompetents commanded by a drunkard. It's taken me years to achieve it. The last thing we need to concern ourselves with is the Watch.”

He thought for a moment. “Ever seen a dragon, Wonse? One of the big ones, I mean? Oh, they're impossible. You said.”

“They're just legend, really. Superstition,” said Wonse.

“Hmm,” said the Patrician. “And the thing about legends, of course, is that they are legendary.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“Even so-” The Patrician paused, and stared at Wonse for some time. “Oh, well,” he said. “Sort it out. I'm not having any of this dragon business. It's the type of thing that makes people restless. Put a stop to it.”

When he was alone he stood and looked out gloomily over the twin city. It was drizzling again.

Ankh-Morpork! Brawling city of a hundred thousand souls! And, as the Patrician privately observed, ten times that number of actual people. The fresh rain glistened on the panorama of towers and rooftops, all unaware of the teeming, rancorous world it was dropping into. Luckier rain fell on upland sheep, or whispered gently over forests, or patterned somewhat incestuously into the sea. Rain that fell on Ankh-Morpork, though, was rain that was in trouble. They did terrible things to water, in Ankh-Morpork. Being drunk was only the start of its problems.

The Patrician liked to feel that he was looking out over a city that worked. Not a beautiful city, or a renowned city, or a well-drained city, and certainly not an architecturally favoured city; even its most enthusiastic citizens would agree that, from a high point of vantage, Ankh-Morpork looked as though someone had tried to achieve in stone and wood an effect normally associated with the pavements outside all-night takeaways.

But it worked. It spun along cheerfully like a gyroscope on the lip of a catastrophe curve. And this, the Patrician firmly believed, was because no one group was ever powerful enough to push it over. Merchants, thieves, assassins, wizards-all competed energetically in the race without really realising that it needn't be a race at all, and certainly not trusting one another enough to stop and wonder who had marked out the course and was holding the starting flag.

The Patrician disliked the word 'dictator.' It affronted him. He never told anyone what to do. He didn't have to, that was the wonderful part. A large part of his life consisted of arranging matters so that this state of affairs continued.