Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

Vimes handed it back. “Why the sacks?” he said.

“On account of the hoard,” said Throat.

“Oh, yes,” said Vimes gloomily. “Of course.”

“Tell you what,” said Throat, “tell you what. For our boys in brown, ten percent off.”

“And you're cutting your own throat, Throat?”

“Fifteen percent for officers!” urged Throat, as Vimes walked away. The cause of the slight panic in his voice was soon apparent. He had plenty of competition.

The people of Ankh-Morpork were not by nature heroic but were, by nature, salesmen. In the space of a few feet Vimes could have bought any number of magical weapons Genuine certyfycate of orthenticity with everyone, a cloak of invisibility-a good touch, he thought, and he was really impressed by the way the stallowner was using a mirror with no glass in it- and, by way of lighter relief, dragon biscuits, balloons and windmills on sticks. Copper bracelets guaranteed to bring relief from dragons were a nice thought.

There seemed to be as many sacks and shovels about as there were swords.

Gold, that was it. The hoard. Hah!

Fifty thousand dollars! An officer of the Watch earned thirty dollars a month and had to pay to have his own dents beaten out.

What he couldn't do with fifty thousand dollars . . .

Vimes thought about this for a while and then thought of the things he could do with fifty thousand dollars. There were so many more of them, for a start.

He almost walked into a group of men clustered around a poster nailed to the wall. It declared, indeed, that the head of the dragon that had terrorised the city would be worth A$50,000 to the brave hero that delivered it to the palace.

One of the cluster, who from his size, weaponry and that way he was slowly tracing the lettering with his finger Vimes decided was a leading hero, was doing the reading for the others.

“-to ter-her pal-ack-ee,” he concluded.

“Fifty thousand,” said one of them reflectively, rubbing his chin.

“Cheap job,” said the intellectual. “Well below the rate. Should be half the kingdom and his daughter's hand in marriage.”

“Yes, but he ain't a king. He's a Patrician.”

“Well, half his Patrimony or whatever. What's his daughter like?”

The assembled hunters didn't know.

“He's not married,” Vimes volunteered. “And he hasn't got a daughter.”

They turned and looked him up and down. He could see the disdain in their eyes. They probably got through dozens like him every day. ' 'Not got a daughter?'' said one of them. “Wants people to kill dragons and he hasn't got a daughter?”

Vimes felt, in an odd way, that he ought to support the lord of the city. “He's got a little dog that he's very fond of,” he said helpfully.

“Bleeding disgusting, not even having a daughter,” said one of the hunters. “And what's fifty thousand dollars these days? You spend that much in nets.”

“S'right,” said another. “People think it's a fortune, but they don't reckon on, well, it's not pensionable, there's all the medical expenses, you've got to buy and maintain your own gear-”

“-wear and tear on virgins-” nodded a small fat hunter.

“Yeah, and then there's . . . what?”

“My speciality is unicorns,” the hunter explained, with an embarrassed smile.

“Oh, right.” The first speaker looked like someone who'd always been dying to ask the question. “I thought they were very rare these days.”

“You're right there. You don't see many unicorns, either,” said the unicorn hunter. Vimes got the impression that, in his whole life, this was his only joke.