“But, Cap'n-”
Vimes's accusing finger buried itself up to the second joint in Harga 's expansive vest.
“You don't even know the wretched fellow's name!” he shouted.
Harga rallied. “I do, Cap'n,” he stuttered. “Course I do. Seen it on the decorations and everything. He's called Rex Vivat.”
Very gently, shaking his head in despair, crying in his heart for the essential servility of mankind, Vimes let him go.
...
In another time and place, the Librarian finished reading. He'd reached the end of the text. Not the end of the book-there was plenty more book. It had been scorched beyond the point of legibility, though.
Not that the last few unburned pages were very easy to read. The author's hand had been shaking, he'd been writing fast, and he'd blotted a lot. But the Librarian had wrestled with many a terrifying text in some of the worst books ever bound, words that tried to read you as you read them, words that writhed on the page. At least these weren't words like that. These were just the words of a man frightened for his life. A man writing a dreadful warning.
It was a page a little back from the burned section that drew the Librarian's eye. He sat and stared at it for some time.
Then he stared at the darkness.
It was his darkness. He was asleep out there somewhere. Somewhere out there a thief was heading for this place, to steal this book. And then someone would read this book, read these words, and do it anyway.
His hands itched.
All he had to do was hide the book, or drop on to the thief's head and unscrew it by the ears.
He stared into the darkness again . . .
But that would be interfering with the course of history. Horrible things could happen. The Librarian knew all about this sort of thing, it was part of what you had to know before you were allowed into L-space. He'd seen pictures in ancient books. Time could bifurcate, like a pair of trousers. You could end up in the wrong leg, living a life that was actually happening in the other leg, talking to people who weren't in your leg, walking into walls that weren't there any more. Life could be horrible in the wrong trouser of Time.
Besides, it was against Library rules.[18] The assembled Librarians of Time and Space would certainly have something to say about it if he started to tinker with causality.
He closed the book carefully and tucked it back into the shelf. Then he swung gently from bookcase to bookcase until he reached the doorway. For a moment he stopped and looked down at his own sleeping body. Perhaps he wondered, briefly, whether to wake himself up, have a little chat, tell himself that he had friends and not to worry. If so, he must have decided against it. You could get yourself into a lot of trouble that way.
Instead he slipped out of the door, and lurked in the shadows, and followed the hooded thief when it came out clutching the book, and waited near the dread portal in the rain until the Elucidated Brethren had met and, when the last one left, followed him to his home, and murmured to himself in anthropoid surprise . . .
And then ran back to his Library and the treacherous pathways of L-space.
...
By mid-morning the streets were packed, Vimes had docked Nobby a day's salary for waving a flag, and an air of barbed gloom settled over the Yard, like a big black cloud with occasional flashes of lightning in it.
“ 'Get up in a high place', ” muttered Nobby. “That's all very well to say.”
“I was looking forward to lining the streets,” said Colon. “I'd have got a good view.”
“You were going on about privilege and the rights of man the other night,” said Nobby accusingly.
“Yes, well, one of the privileges and rights of this man is getting a good view,” said the sergeant. “That's all I'm saying.”
“I've never seen the captain in such a filthy temper,” said Nobby. “I liked it better when he was on the drink. I reckon he's-”
“You know, I think Errol is really ill,” said Carrot.
They turned towards the fruit basket.
“He's very hot. And his skin looks all shiny.”
“What's the right temperature for a dragon?” said Colon.