Guards! Guards!

sinners, but a sort of mass-produced darkness of the soul. Sin, you might say, without a trace of originality. They accept evil not because they say yes , but because they don’t say no . I’m sorry if this offends you,” he added, patting the captain’s shoulder, “but you fellows really need us.”
    “Yes, sir?” said Vimes quietly.
    “Oh, yes. We’re the only ones who know how to make things work. You see, the only thing the good people are good at is overthrowing the bad people. And you’re good at that, I’ll grant you. But the trouble is that it’s the only thing you’re good at. One day it’s the ringing of the bells and the casting down of the evil tyrant, and the next it’s everyone sitting around complaining that ever since the tyrant was overthrown no one’s been taking out the trash. Because the bad people know how to plan . It’s part of the specification, you might say. Every evil tyrant has a plan to rule the world. The good people don’t seem to have the knack.”
    “Maybe. But you’re wrong about the rest!” said Vimes. “It’s just because people are afraid, and alone—” He paused. It sounded pretty hollow, even to him.
    He shrugged. “They’re just people,” he said. “They’re just doing what people do. Sir.”
    Lord Vetinari gave him a friendly smile.
    “Of course, of course,” he said. “You have to believe that, I appreciate. Otherwise you’d go quite mad. Otherwise you’d think you’re standing on a feather-thin bridge over the vaults of Hell. Otherwise existence would be a dark agony and the only hope would be that there is no life after death. I quite understand.” He looked at his desk, and sighed. “And now,” he said, “there is such a lot to do. I’m afraid poor Wonse was a good servant but an inefficient master. So you may go. Have a good night’s sleep. Oh, and do bring your men in tomorrow. The city must show its gratitude.”
    “It must what ?” said Vimes.
    The Patrician looked at a scroll. Already his voice was back to the distant tones of one who organizes and plans and controls.
    “It’s 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 drafty 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 definèd 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 Forse for Goode in thee worlde, and this ane nighte the Grate Worke will commense. All bathe been prepared. I hath labored most mytily to be a Worthie Vessle …
    A realm of fancy, Vimes thought. That’s where