Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

o;Why, Captain,” she said winsomely, “This is a who the hell are you?”

The head of the palace guard took several steps backwards and, because he was of peasant stock, made a few surreptitious signs to ward off evil spirits. They clearly didn't work. When he opened his eyes again the thing was still there, still bristling with rage, still reeking of something sickly and fermented, still crowned with a skewed mass of curls, still looming behind a quivering bosom that made the roof of his mouth go dry-

He'd heard about these sort of things. Harpies, they were called. What had it done with Lady Ramkin?

The sight of the rubber boots had him confused, though. Legends about harpies were short on references to rubber boots.

“Out with it, fellow,” Lady Ramkin boomed, hitching up her nightie to a more respectable neckline. “Don't just stand there opening and shutting your mouth. What d'you want?”

“Lady Sybil Ramkin?” said the guard, not in the polite way of someone seeking mere confirmation but in the incredulous tones of someone who found it very hard to believe the answer could be 'yes'.

“Use your eyes, young man. Who d'you think I am?”

The guard pulled himself together.

“Only I've got a summons for Lady Sybil Ramkin,” he said uncertainly.

Her voice was withering. "What do you mean, a summons?''

“To attend upon the palace, you see.”

“I can't imagine why that is necessary at this time in the morning,” she said, and made to slam the door. It wouldn't shut, though, because of the sword point jammed into it at the last moment.

“If you don't come,” said the guard, “I have been ordered to take steps.”

The door shot back and her face pressed against his, almost knocking him unconscious with the scent of rotting rose petals.

“If you think you'll lay a hand on me-” she began.

The guard's glance darted sideways, just for a moment, to the dragon kennels. Sybil Ramkin's face went pale.

“You wouldn't!” she hissed.

He swallowed. Fearsome though she was, she was only human. She could only bite your head off metaphorically. There were, he told himself, far worse things than Lady Ramkin although, admittedly, they weren't three inches from his nose at this point in time.

“Take steps,” he repeated, in a croak.

She straightened up, and eyed the row of guards behind him.

“I see,” she said coldly. “That's the way, is it? Six of you to fetch one feeble woman. Very well. You will, of course, allow me to fetch a coat. It is somewhat chilly.”

She slammed the door.

The palace guards stamped their feet in the cold and tried not to look at one another. This obviously wasn't the way you went around arresting people. They weren't allowed to keep you waiting on the doorstep, this wasn't the way the world was supposed to work. On the other hand, the only alternative was to go in there and drag her out, and it wasn't one anyone could summon any enthusiasm for. Besides, the guard captain wasn't sure he had enough men to drag Lady Ramkin anywhere. You'd need teams of thousands, with log rollers.

The door creaked open again, revealing only the musty darkness of the hall within.

“Right, men-” said the captain, uneasily.

Lady Ramkin appeared. He got a brief, blurred vision of her bounding through the doorway, screaming, and it might well have been the last thing he remembered if a guard hadn't had the presence of mind to trip her up as she hurtled down the steps. She plunged forward, cursing, ploughed into the overgrown lawn, hit her head on a crumbling statue of an antique Ramkin, and slid to a halt.

The double-handed broadsword she had been holding landed beside her, bolt upright, and vibrated to a standstill.

After a while one of the guards crept forward cautiously and tested the blade with his finger.

“Bloody hell,” he said, in a voice of mixed horror and respect. “And the dragon wants to eat her?”

“Fits the bill,” said the captain. “She's got to be the highest-born lady in the city. I don't know about maiden,” he added, “and right at this minute I'm not going to speculate. Someone go and fetch a cart.”