Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

“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 a bit of a judgement. Er.”

“It was just a maddened crocodile hidden in a flower bed,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “It could have happened to anyone. I understand your feelings, however.”

“You do?” said Brother Watchtower.

“Oh, yes. They're only natural. All the greatest wizards feel a little ill-at-ease before undertaking a great work such as this.” The Brethren preened themselves. Great wizards. That's us. Yeah. “But in a few hours it'll be over, and I am sure that the king will reward you handsomely. The future will be glorious.”

hope Minty is keeping well.

He folded the paper carefully and shoved it into the envelope.

“Sun's going down,” said Sergeant Colon.

Carrot looked up from his sealing wax.

“That means it will be night soon,” Colon went on, accurately.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Colon ran a finger round his collar. His skin was impressively pink, the result of a morning's scrubbing, but people were still staying at a respectful distance.

Some people are born to command. Some people achieve command. And others have command thrust upon them, and the sergeant was now included in this category and wasn't very happy about it.

Any minute now, he knew, he was going to have to say that it was time they went out on patrol. He didn't want to go out on patrol. He wanted to find a nice sub-basement somewhere. But nobblyess obligay-if he was in charge, he had to do it.

It wasn't the loneliness of command that was bothering him. It was the being-fried-alive of command that was giving him problems.

He was also pretty sure that unless they came up with something about this dragon very soon then the Patrician was going to be unhappy. And when the Patrician was unhappy, he became very democratic. He found intricate and painful ways of spreading that un-happiness as far as possible. Responsibility, the sergeant thought, was a terrible thing. So was being horribly tortured. As far as he could see, the two facts were rapidly heading towards one another.

And thus he was terribly relieved when a small coach pulled up outside the Yard. It was very old, and battered. There was a faded coat of arms on the door. Painted on the back, and rather newer, was the little message: Whinny If You Love Dragons.

Out of it, wincing as he got down, stepped Captain Vimes. Following him was the woman known to the sergeant as Mad Sybil Ramkin. And finally, hopping down obediently on the end of its lead, was a small-

The sergeant was too nervous to take account of actual size.

“Well, I'll be mogadored! They've only gone and caught it!”

Nobby looked up from the table in the corner where he was continually failing to learn that it is almost impossible to play a game of skill and bluff against an opponent who smiles all the time. The Librarian took advantage of the diversion to help himself to a couple of cards off the bottom of the pack.

“Don't be daft. That's just a swamp dragon,” said Nobby. “She's all right, is Lady Sybil. A real lady.”

The other two guards turned and stared at him. This was Nobby talking.

“You two can bloody well stop that,” he said. “Why shouldn't I know a lady when I sees one? She give me a cup of tea in a cup fin as paper and a silver spoon in it,” he said, speaking as one who had peeped over the plateau of social distinction. “And I give it back to her, so you can stop looking at me like that!”

“What is it you actually do on your evenings off?” said Colon.

“No business of yourn.”

“Did you really give the spoon back?” said Carrot.

“Yes I bloody well did!” said Nobby hotly.

“Attention, lads,” said the sergeant, flooded with relief.