“It must what?” said Vimes.
The Patrician looked at a scroll. Already his voice was back to the distant tones of one who organises and plans and controls.
“Its gratitude,” he said. “After every triumphant victory there must be heroes. It is essential. Then everyone will know that everything has been done properly.”
He glanced at Vimes over the top of the scroll.
' 'It's all part of the natural order of things,'' he said.
After a while he made a few pencil annotations to the paper in front of him and looked up.
“I said,” he said, “that you may go.”
Vimes paused at the door.
“Do you believe all that, sir?” he said. “About the endless evil and the sheer blackness?”
“Indeed, indeed,” said the Patrician, turning over the page. “It is the only logical conclusion.”
“But you get out of bed every morning, sir?”
“Hmm? Yes? What is your point?”
“I'd just like to know why, sir.”
“Oh, do go away, Vimes. There's a good fellow.”
...
In the dark and draughty cave hacked from the heart of the palace the Librarian knuckled across the floor. He clambered over the remains of the sad hoard and looked down at the splayed body of Wonse.
Then he reached down, very gently, and prised The Summoning of Dragons from the stiffening fingers. He blew the dust off it. He brushed it tenderly, as if it was a frightened child.
He turned to climb down the heap, and stopped. He bent down again, and carefully pulled another book from among the glittering rubble. It wasn't one of his, except in the wide sense that all books came under his domain. He turned a few pages carefully.
“Keep it,” said Vimes behind him. “Take it away. Put it somewhere.”
The orangutan nodded at the captain, and rattled down the heap. He tapped Vimes gently on the kneecap, opened The Summoning of Dragons, leafed through its ravaged pages until he found the one he'd been looking for, and silently passed the book up.
Vimes squinted at the crabbed writing.
Yet draggons are notte liken unicornes, I willen. They dwellyth in some Realm defined bye thee Fancie of the Wille and, thus, it myte bee thate whomsoever calleth upon them, and giveth them theyre patheway unto thys worlde, calleth theyre Owne dragon of the Mind.
Yette, I trow, the Pure in Harte maye stille call a Draggon of Power as a Forsefor Goode in thee worlde, and this one nighte the Grate Worke will commense. All hathe been prepared. I hath laboured most mytily to be a Worthie Vessle . . .
A realm of fancy, Vimes thought. That's where they went, then. Into our imaginations. And when we call them back we shape them, like squeezing dough into pastry shapes. Only you don't get gingerbread men, you get what you are. Your own darkness, given shape . . .
Vimes read it through again, and then looked at the following pages.
There weren't many. The rest of the book was a charred mass.
Vimes handed it back to the ape.
“What kind of a man was de Malachite?” he said.
The Librarian gave this the consideration due from someone who knew the Dictionary of City Biography by heart. Then he shrugged.
“Particularly holy?” said Vimes.