Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

Just a few more nights, thought the Supreme Grand Master. By tomorrow the people'll be so desperate, they'd crown even a one-legged troll if he got rid of the dragon. And we'll have a king, and he'll have an advisor, a trusted man, of course, and this stupid rabble can go back to the gutter. No more dressing up, no more ritual.

No more summoning the dragon.

I can give it up, he thought. I can give it up any time I like.

...

The streets outside the Patrician's palace were thronged. There was a manic air of carnival. Vimes ran a practised eye over the assortment before him. It was the usual Ankh-Morpork mob in times of crisis; half of them were here to complain, a quarter of them were here to watch the other half, and the remainder were here to rob, importune or sell hot-dogs to the rest. There were a few new faces, though. There were a number of grim men with big swords slung over their shoulders and whips slung on their belts, striding through the crowds.

“News spreads quick, don't it,” observed a familiar voice by his ear. “Morning, Captain.”

Vimes looked into the grinning, cadaverous face of Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, purveyor of absolutely anything that could be sold hurriedly from an open suitcase in a busy street and was guaranteed to have fallen off the back of an oxcart.

“Morning, Throat,” said Vimes absently. “What're you selling?”

“Genuine article, Captain.” Throat leaned closer. He was the sort of person who could make “Good morning” sound like a once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated offer. His eyes swivelled back and forth in their sockets, like two rodents trying to find a way out. “Can't afford to be without it,” he hissed. “Anti-dragon cream. Personal guarantee: if you're incinerated you get your money back, no quibble.”

“What you're saying,” said Vimes slowly, “if I understand the wording correctly, is that if I am baked alive by the dragon you'll return the money?”

“Upon personal application,” said Cut-me-own-Throat. He unscrewed the lid from a jar of vivid green ointment and thrust it under Vimes's nose. “Made from over fifty different rare spices and herbs to a recipe known only to a bunch of ancient monks what live on some mountain somewhere. One dollar a jar, and I'm cutting my own throat. It's a public service, really,” he added piously.

“You've got to hand it to those ancient monks, brewing it up so quickly,” said Vimes.

“Clever buggers,” agreed Cut-me-own-Throat. “It must be all that meditation and yak yogurt.”

“So what's happening, Throat?” said Vimes. “Who're all the guys with the big swords?”

“Dragon hunters, Cap'n. The Patrician announced a reward of fifty thousand dollars to anyone who brings him the dragon's head. Not attached to the dragon, either; he's no fool, that man.”

“What?”

“That's what he said. It's all written on posters.”

“Fifty thousand dollars!”

“Not chicken feed, eh?”

“More like dragon fodder,” said Vimes. It'd bring trouble, you mark his words. “I'm amazed you're not grabbing a sword and joining in.”

“I'm more in what you might call the service sector, Cap'n.” Throat looked both ways conspiratorially, and then passed Vimes a slip of parchment.

It said:

Anti-dragon mirror shields A$ 500

Portable lair detectors A$250

Dragon-piercing arrows A$100 per each

Shovels A$5 Picks A$5 Sacks A$l

Vimes handed it back. “Why the sacks?” he said.

“On account of the hoard,” said Throat.

“Oh, yes,” said Vimes gloomily. “Of course.”

“Tell you what,” said Throat, “tell you what. For our boys in brown, ten percent off.”