Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

“I can see that. Why're they magical?”

Brother Plasterer began to tremble. “They've got holes in them, Supreme Grand Master. Everyone knows that stones with holes in them are magical. ”

The Supreme Grand Master walked back to his place on the circle. He threw his arms up.

“Right, fine, okay, ” he said wearily. “If that's how we're going to do it, that's how we're going to do it. If we get a dragon six inches long we'll all know the reason why. Won't we, Brother Plasterer. Brother Plasterer? Sorry. I didn't hear what you said? Brother Plasterer?”

“I said yes, Supreme Grand Master, ” whispered Brother Plasterer.

“Very well. So long as that's quite understood. ” The Supreme Grand Master turned and picked up the book.

“And now, ” he said, “if we are all quite ready... ”

“Um. ” Brother Watchtower meekly raised his hand.

“Ready for what, Supreme Grand Master?” he said.

“For the summoning, of course. Good grief, I should have thought-”

“But you haven't told us what we're supposed to do, Supreme Grand Master, ” whined Brother Watch-tower.

The Grand Master hesitated. This was quite true, but he wasn't going to admit it.

“Well, of course, ” he said. “It's obvious. You have to focus your concentration. Think hard about dragons, ” he translated. “All of you. ”

“That's all, is it?” said Brother Doorkeeper.

“Yes. ”

“Don't we have to chant a mystic prune or something?”

The Supreme Grand Master stared at him. Brother Doorkeeper managed to look as defiant in the face of oppression as an anonymous shadow in a black cowl could look. He hadn't joined a secret society not to chant mystic runes. He'd been looking forward to it.

“You can if you like, ” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Now, I want you-yes, what is it, Brother Dunnykin?”

The little Brother lowered his hand. “Don't know any mystic prunes, Grand Master. Not to what you might call chant... ”

“Hum!”

He opened the book.

He'd been rather surprised to find, after pages and pages of pious ramblings, that the actual Summoning itself was one short sentence. Not a chant, not a brief piece of poetry, but a mere assemblage of meaningless syllables. De Malachite said they caused interference patterns in the waves of reality, but the daft old fool was probably making it up as he went along. That was the trouble with wizards, they had to make everything look difficult. All you really needed was willpower. And the Brethren had a lot of that. Small-minded and vitriolic willpower, yes, lousy with malignity maybe, but still powerful enough in its way...

pulled a sack from under his chair, rummaged around in it and presented Carrot with a length of metal, more a sword than a saw but only just.

“This might rightly belong to you, ” he said. “When we found the... carts, this was the only thing left. The bandits, you see. Just between you and me-” he beckoned Carrot closer-“we had a witch look at it. In case it was magic. But it isn't. Quite the most un-magical sword she'd ever seen, she said. They normally have a bit, see, on account of it's like magnetism, I suppose. Got quite a nice balance, though. ”

He handed it over.

He rummaged around some more. “And then there's this. ” He held up a shirt. “It'll protect you. ”

Carrot fingered it carefully. It was made from the wool of Ramtop sheep, which had all the warmth and softness of hog bristles. It was one of the legendary woolly dwarf vests, the kind of vest that needs hinges.

“Protect me from what?” he said.

“Colds, and so on, ” said the king. “Your mother says you've got to wear it. And, er... that reminds me. Mr Varneshi says he'd like you to drop in on the way down the mountain. He's got something for you. ”

His father and mother had waved him out of sight. Minty didn't. Funny, that. She seemed to have been avoiding him lately.