He thought for a moment. “Ever seen a dragon, Wonse? One of the big ones, I mean? Oh, they’re impossible. You said.”
“They’re just legend, really. Superstition,” said Wonse.
“Hmm,” said the Patrician. “And the thing about legends, of course, is that they are legendary.”
“Exactly, sir.”
“Even so-” The Patrician paused, and stared at Wonse for some time. “Oh, well,” he said. “Sort it out. I’m not having any of this dragon business. It’s the type of thing that makes people restless. Put a stop to it.”
When he was alone he stood and looked out gloomily over the twin city. It was drizzling again.
Ankh-Morpork! Brawling city of a hundred thousand souls! And, as the Patrician privately observed, ten times that number of actual people. The fresh rain glistened on the panorama of towers and rooftops, all unaware of the teeming, rancorous world it was dropping into. Luckier rain fell on upland sheep, or whispered gently over forests, or patterned somewhat incestuously into the sea. Rain that fell on Ankh-Morpork, though, was rain that was in trouble. They did terrible things to water, in Ankh-Morpork. Being drunk was only the start of its problems.
The Patrician liked to feel that he was looking out over a city that worked. Not a beautiful city, or a renowned city, or a well-drained city, and certainly not an architecturally favoured city; even its most enthusiastic citizens would agree that, from a high point of vantage, Ankh-Morpork looked as though someone had tried to achieve in stone and wood an effect normally associated with the pavements outside all-night takeaways.
But it worked. It spun along cheerfully like a gyroscope on the lip of a catastrophe curve. And this, the Patrician firmly believed, was because no one group was ever powerful enough to push it over. Merchants, thieves, assassins, wizards-all competed energetically in the race without really realising that it needn’t be a race at all, and certainly not trusting one another enough to stop and wonder who had marked out the course and was holding the starting flag.
The Patrician disliked the word ‘dictator.’ It affronted him. He never told anyone what to do. He didn’t have to, that was the wonderful part. A large part of his life consisted of arranging matters so that this state of affairs continued.
Of course, there were various groups seeking his overthrow, and this was right and proper and the sign of a vigorous and healthy society. No-one could call him unreasonable about the matter. Why, hadn’t he founded most of them himself? And what was so beautiful was the way in which they spent nearly all their time bickering with one another.
Human nature, the Patrician always said, was a marvellous thing. Once you understood where its levers were.
He had an unpleasant premonition about this dragon business. If ever there was a creature that didn’t have any obvious levers, it was a dragon. It would have to be sorted out.
The Patrician didn’t believe in unnecessary cruelty.[12] He did not believe in pointless revenge. But he was a great believer in the need for things to be sorted out.
Funnily enough, Captain Vimes was thinking the same thing. He found he didn’t like the idea of citizens, even of the Shades, being turned into a mere ceramic tint.
And it had been done in front of the Watch, more or less. As if the Watch didn’t matter, as if the Watch was just an irrelevant detail. That was what rankled.
Of course, it was true. That only made it worse.
What was making him even angrier was that he had disobeyed orders. He had scuffed up the tracks, certainly. But in the bottom drawer of his ancient desk, hidden under a pile of empty bottles, was a plaster cast. He could feel it staring at him through three layers of wood.
He couldn’t imagine what had got into him. And now he was going even further out on to the limb.
He reviewed his, for want of a better word, troops. He’d asked the senior pair to turn up in plain clothes. This meant that Sergeant Colon, who’d worn uniform all his life, was looking red-faced and uncomfortable in the suit he wore for funerals. Whereas Nobby-
“I wonder if I made the word ‘plain’ clear enough?” said Captain Vimes.
“It’s what I wear outside work, guv,” said Nobby reproachfully.
“Sir,” corrected Sergeant Colon.
“My voice is in plain clothes too,” said Nobby. “Initiative, that is.”
Vimes walked slowly around the corporal.
“And your plain clothes do not cause old women to faint and small boys to run after you in the street?” he said.
Nobby shifted uneasily. He wasn’t at home with irony.
“No, sir, guv,” he said. “It’s all the go, this style.”
This was broadly true. There was a current fad in Ankh for big, feathered hats, ruffs, slashed doublets with gold frogging, flared pantaloons and boots with ornamental spurs. The trouble was, Vimes reflected, that most of the fashion-conscious had more body to go between these component bits, whereas all that could be said of Corporal Nobbs was that he was in there somewhere.
It might be advantageous. After all, absolutely no-one would ever believe, when they saw him coming down the street, that here was a member of the Watch trying to look inconspicuous.
It occurred to Vimes that he knew absolutely nothing about Nobbs outside working hours. He couldn’t even remember where the man lived. All these years he’d known the man and he’d never realised that, in his secret private life, Corporal Nobbs was a bit of a peacock. A very short peacock, it was true, a peacock that had been hit repeatedly with something heavy, perhaps, but a peacock nonetheless. It just went to show, you never could tell.
He brought his attention back to the business in hand.
“I want you two,” he said to Nobbs and Colon, “to mingle unobtrusively, or obtrusively in your case, Corporal Nobbs, with people tonight and, er, see if you can detect anything unusual.”
“Unusual like what?” said the sergeant.
Vimes hesitated. He wasn’t exactly sure himself. ” Anything,” he said, ” pertinent.”
“Ah.” The sergeant nodded wisely. “Pertinent. Right.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Maybe people have seen weird things,” said Captain Vimes. “Or perhaps there have been unexplained fires. Or footprints. You know,” he finished, desperately, “signs of dragons.”
“You mean, like, piles of gold what have been slept on,” said the sergeant.
“And virgins being chained to rocks,” said Nobbs, knowingly.
“I can see you’re experts,” sighed Vimes. “Just do the best you can.”
“This mingling,” said Sergeant Colon delicately, “it would involve going into taverns and drinking and similar, would it?”
“To a certain extent,” said Vimes.
“Ah,” said the sergeant, happily.
“In moderation.”
“Right you are, sir.”
“And at your own expense.”
“Oh.”
“But before you go,” said the captain, “do either of you know anyone who might know anything about dragons? Apart from sleeping on gold and the bit with the young women, I mean.”
“Wizards would,” volunteered Nobby.
“Apart from wizards,” said Vimes firmly. You couldn’t trust wizards. Every guard knew you couldn’t trust wizards. They were even worse than civilians.
Colon thought about it. “There’s always Lady Ramkin,” he said. “Lives in Scoone Avenue. Breeds swamp dragons. You know, the little buggers people keep as pets?”
“Oh, her,” said Vimes gloomily. “I think I’ve seen her around. The one with the ‘Whinny If You Love Dragons’ sticker on the back of her carriage?”
“That’s her. She’s mental,” said Sergeant Colon.
“What do you want me to do, sir?” said Carrot.
“Er. You have the most important job,” said Vimes hurriedly. “I want you to stay here and watch the office.”
Carrot’s face broadened in a slow, unbelieving grin.
“You mean I’m left in charge, sir?” he said.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Vimes. “But you’re not allowed to arrest anyone, understand?” he added quickly.
“Not even if they’re breaking the law, sir?”
“Not even then. Just make a note of it.”
“I’ll read my book, then,” said Carrot. “And polish my helmet.”
“Good boy,” said the captain. It should be safe enough, he thought. No-one ever comes in here, not even to report a lost dog. No-one ever thinks about the Watch. You’d have to be really out of touch to go to the Watch for help, he thought bitterly.
…
Scoone Avenue was a wide, tree-lined, and incredibly select part of Ankh, high enough above the river to be away from its all-pervading smell. People in Scoone Avenue had old money, which was supposed to be much better than new money, although Captain Vimes had never had enough of either to spot the difference. People in Scoone Avenue had their own personal bodyguards. People in Scoone Avenue were said to be so aloof they wouldn’t even talk to the gods. This was a slight slander. They would talk to gods, if they were well-bred gods of decent family.