“No-one said anything to us about you being Acting Supreme Grand Master,” muttered Brother Doorkeeper.
“Well, that’s all you know because I bloody well am because Supreme Grand Master asked me to open the Lodge on account of him being delayed with all this coronation work,” said Brother Watchtower haughtily. “If that doesn’t make me Acting Supreme Grand bloody Master I’d like to know what does, all right?”
“I don’t see why,” muttered Brother Doorkeeper. “You don’t have a grand title like that. You could just be called something like, well . . . Rituals Monitor.”
“Yeah,” said Brother Plasterer. “Don’t see why you should give yourself airs. You ain’t even been taught the ancient and mystic mysteries by monks, or anything.”
“We’ve been hanging around for hours, too,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “That’s not right. I thought we’d get rewarded-”
Brother Watchtower realised that he was losing control. He tried wheedling diplomacy.
“I’m sure Supreme Grand Master will be along directly,” he said. “Let’s not spoil it all now, eh? Lads? Arranging that fight with the dragon and everything, getting it all off right, that was something, wasn’t it? We’ve been through a lot, right? It’s worth waiting just a bit longer, okay?’
The circle of robed and cowled figures shuffled in grudging agreement.
“Okay.”
“Fair enough.”
“Yeah.”
certainly.
“Okay.”
“If you say so.”
It began to creep over Brother Watchtower that something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t quite put a name to it.
“Uh,” he said. “Brothers?”
They, too, shifted uneasily. Something in the room was setting their teeth on edge. There was an atmosphere.
“Brothers,” repeated Brother Watchtower, trying to reassert himself, “we are all here, aren’t we?”
There was a worried chorus of agreement.
“Of course we are.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Yes!”
yes.
“Yes.”
There it was again, a subtle wrongness about things that you couldn’t quite put your finger on because your finger was too scared. But Brother Watchtower’s troublesome thoughts were interrupted by a scrabbling sound on the roof. A few nubs of plaster dropped into the circle.
“Brothers?” repeated Brother Watchtower nervously.
Now there was one of those silent sounds, a long, buzzing silence of extreme concentration and just possibly the indrawing of breath into lungs the size of haystacks. The last rats of Brother Watchtower’s self-confidence fled the sinking ship of courage.
“Brother Doorkeeper, if you could just unbolt the dread portal-” he quavered.
And then there was light.
There was no pain. There was no time.
Death strips away many things, especially when it arrives at a temperature hot enough to vaporise iron, and among them are your illusions. The immortal remains of Brother Watchtower watched the dragon flap away into the fog, and then looked down at the congealing puddle of stone, metal and miscellaneous trace elements that was all that remained of the secret headquarters. And of its occupants, he realised in the dispassionate way that is part of being dead. You go through your whole life and end up a smear swirling around like cream in a coffee cup. Whatever the gods’ games were, they played them in a damn mysterious way.
He looked up at the hooded figure beside him.
“We never intended this,” he said weakly. “Honestly. No offence. We just wanted what was due to us.”
A skeletal hand patted him on the shoulder, not unkindly.
And Death said, congratulations.
…
Apart from the Supreme Grand Master, the only Elucidated Brother to be away at the time of the dragon was Brother Fingers. He’d been sent out for some pizzas. Brother Fingers was always the one sent out for takeaway food. It was cheaper. He’d never bothered to master the art of paying for things.
When the guards rolled up just behind Errol, Brother Fingers was standing with a stack of cardboard boxes in his hands and his mouth open.
Where the dread portal should have been was a warm melted patch of assorted substances.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Lady Ramkin.
Vimes slid down from the coach and tapped Brother Fingers on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “did you by any chance see what-”
When Brother Fingers turned towards him his face was the face of a man who has hang-glided over the entrance to Hell. He kept opening and shutting his mouth but no words were coming out.
Vimes tried again. The sheer terror frozen in Brother Fingers’s expression was getting to him.
“If you would be so kind to accompany me to the Yard,” said Vimes, “I have reason to believe that you-” He hesitated. He wasn’t entirely certain what it was that he had reason to believe. But the man was clearly guilty. You could tell just by looking at him. Not, perhaps, guilty of anything specific. Just guilty in general terms.
“Mmmmmuh,” said Brother Fingers.
Sergeant Colon gently lifted the lid of the top box.
“What do you make of it, Sergeant?” said Vimes, stepping back.
“Er. It looks like a Klatchian Hots with anchovies, sir,” said Sergeant Colon knowledgeably.
“I mean the man,” said Vimes wearily.
“Nnnnn,” said Brother Fingers.
Colon peered under the hood. “Oh, I know him,
sir,” he said. “Bengy ‘Lightfoot’ Boggis, sir. He’s a capo de monty in the Thieves’ Guild. I know him of old, sir. Sly little bugger. Used to work at the University.”
“What, as a wizard?” said Vimes.
“Odd job man, sir. Gardening and carpentry and that.”
“Oh. Did he?”
“Can’t we do something for the poor man?” said Lady Ramkin.
Nobby saluted smartly. “I could kick him in the bollocks for you if you like, m’lady.”
“Dddrrr,” said Brother Fingers, beginning to shake uncontrollably, while Lady Ramkin smiled the iron-hard blank smile of a high-born lady who is determined not to show that she has understood what has just been said to her.
“Put him in the coach, you two,” said Vimes. “If it’s all right with you, Lady Ramkin-”
“-Sybil-” corrected Lady Ramkin. Vimes blushed, and plunged on-“it might be a good idea to get him indoors. Charge him with the theft of one book, to wit, The Summoning of Dragons. ”
“Right you are, sir,” said Sergeant Colon. “The pizzas’re getting cold, too. You know how the cheese goes all manky when it gets cold.”
“And no kicking him, either,” Vimes warned. “Not even where it doesn’t show. Carrot, you come with me.”
“DDddrrraa,” Brother Fingers volunteered.
“And take Errol,” added Vimes. “He’s driving himself mad here. Game little devil, I’ll give him that.”
“Marvellous, when you come to think about it,” said Colon.
Errol was trotting up and down in front of the ravaged building, whining.
“Look at him,” said Vimes. “Can’t wait to get to grips.” His gaze found itself drawn, as though by wires, up to the rolling clouds of fog.
It’s in there somewhere, he thought.
“What we going to do now, sir?” said Carrot, as the carriage rattled off.
“Not nervous, are you?” said Vimes.
“No, sir.”
The way he said it jogged something in Vimes’s mind.
“No,” he said, “you’re not, are you? I suppose it’s being brought up by the dwarfs that did it. You’ve got no imagination.”
“I’m sure I try to do my best, sir,” said Carrot firmly.
“Still sending all your pay home to your mother?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re a good boy.”
“Yessir. So what are we going to do, Captain Vimes?” Carrot repeated.
Vimes looked around him. He walked a few aimless, exasperated steps. He spread his arms wide and then flopped them down by his sides.
“How should I know?” he said. “Warn people, I guess. We’d better get over to the Patrician’s palace. And then-”
There were footsteps in the fog. Vimes stiffened, put his finger to his lips and pulled Carrot into the shelter of a doorway.
A figure loomed out of the billows.
Another one of ’em, thought Vimes. Well, there’s no law about wearing long black robes and deep cowls. There could be dozens of perfectly innocent reasons why this person is wearing long black robes and a deep cowl and standing in front of a melted-down house at dawn.
Perhaps I should ask him to name just one.
He stepped out.
“Excuse me, sir-” he began.
The cowl swung around. There was a hiss of indrawn breath.
‘ ‘I just wonder if you would mind-after him, lance-constable! ”
The figure had a good start. It scuttled along the street and had reached the corner before Vimes was halfway there. He skidded around it in time to see a shape vanish down an alley.
Vimes realised he was running alone. He panted to a halt and looked back just in time to see Carrot jog gently around the corner.
“What’s wrong?” he wheezed.
“Sergeant Colon said I wasn’t to run,” said Carrot.
Vimes looked at him vaguely. Then slow comprehension dawned.
“Oh,” he said. “I, er, see. I don’t think he meant in every circumstance, lad.” He stared back into the fog. “Not that we had much of a chance in this fog and these streets.”