More Tales from the Guilds Ch. 06

Given a puppy's attention span, this only went on for a short while but by the end of the 'conversation' Rolf had established that he was a very happy good puppy who had nice people, and that the carpet was a fun plaything that didn't always do what he thought it should. That maybe Sammy wanted the carpet to 'misbehave' was not an acceptable argument. Rolf's favorite person might get hurt if the carpet was naughty!

Tucking the little furball under one arm, Angua went back into the house and reported her findings to Lady Sybil. Her ladyship was amused.

"So, part of the pup's job is to help keep Sammy safe? That's reassuring, you know. The boy will possibly be a bit disappointed but his father and I are quite relieved. Thank-you so much, Captain."

*****

Lord Downey examined the month's accounting with his Under-Master, Mr. Mericet and the Guild Treasurer, Mr. Winvoe. It was both heartening and puzzling.

"I would hope that no one should find me complaining, Mericet," Lord Downey began, "but while the sudden flood of payments into the Guild coffers is greatly appreciated, I find the concentration of contracts among the Lavish family a bit, shall we say, peculiar?"

"Quite so," the Under-Master hissed, "I am unable to recall any of the family, while students here, who studied the Black Syllabus. Most of them, for that matter, had little interest in the traditional sports so it comes as no surprise that this sudden eruption is all contractual."

Lord Downey nodded his patrician, white-maned head. "Not only did none of them study the Black Syllabus, but to my best recollection not a single one showed any interest in our sense of decorum and ethics. Their approach to life always seemed more inclined to bribery and legal action than refined bloodshed."

Mr. Winvoe looked at the list a few moments longer then raising one eyebrow began to count quickly on his fingers. Reaching into a drawer in the desk, he rummaged around for a sheet or two of graph paper and a pencil. Drawing a few points on the graph he nodded to himself.

"According to the current rate of inhumation, the family is well on its way to halving its ranks by next Soul Cake Tuesday. This would have the effect of restoring each member's share of The Money to what it was before the Patrician seized half their assets to pay for The Undertaking. I find it hard to believe there is no connection."

"Indeed," Lord Downey replied, "It occurs to me that in the Guild's entire history, we have always concentrated our services on active inhumation, leaving the Old Boys to either defend themselves or hire their chums to fortify the family manse. Evidently the Lavishes have failed to do an adequate job of the first. Perhaps we could further enhance the Guild's coffers by offering assistance with the second. Naturally, we would have to keep arrangements confidential. It wouldn't do to have one Old Boy fortify a Lavish estate and then hand the blueprints over to another."

"It would be most unsporting," Mericet agreed, "I believe a quiet word to Cockwomble Lavish would be a good start, though I wonder whether he would ever tell any of the others. These are the Lavishes we're talking about, after all."

*****

At the Palace, Lord Vetinari was smiling ominously over a similar set of calculations. "Drumknot, you once admitted to having the occasional 'flutter' at the casino. What odds would you give that by, say next Soul Cake Tuesday, that the ratio of Lavish: The Money will readjust to what it was before the ridiculous attempt to tamper with The Undertaking?"

His clerk paused in the midst of straightening up His Lordship's In/ and Out/ boxes and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "I would have to have more background, Your Lordship, but just off the top of my head I would put it at an easy 75%. It's quite a strange thing, milord, that this family which has famously taken out its spite on itself in court should suddenly turn to more—final ways of settling disagreements. Didn't it all start when Accumulata decided that Avariso was taking entirely too long to shuttle off this mortal coil and decide to assist with a dramatic exit?"

"It did, indeed. And now that one domino has fallen the rest are rattling away at some speed. First Cupidita, then Aurumfer, then about ten others and just last night, Diablo. Some of them were quite straightforward stabbings and garrotings but a couple show unmistakable signs of Lord Downey's expertise. In other words, they showed symptoms of being poisoned but with no signs of poison. In his youth, Downey was a bully and a braggart but in his maturity, he has developed admirable subtlety. He is, quite obviously, an extremely skilled poisoner."

"The fees assessed must have been rather high. Lord Downey would hardly bestir himself for less than AM$50,000. It isn't as though the Downey family is in any way lacking funds."

"That is so, Drumknot. Or he might have taken a lesser amount simply as a challenge, to see whether or not he still has his old touch. And obviously he does. It's going to be amusing to see how this all falls out. Given their miserly tendency to hoard instead of spending, a reduction in the Lavish population can hardly be bad for business. Money works best when it circulates."

*****

A couple of months later the faculty assembled around the conference table in Lord Downey's office. After being brought up to date on all matters relating to the Guild School, His Lordship opened the meeting to 'Any Other Business'.

Miss Band had been very quietly drumming her fingers on the table and taking a deep breath, addressed the rest of the faculty. "Were any of you students when one or more of the Lavishes were here?"

Mr. Graumunchen scowled and nodded. "I was and I must admit that I did everything in my power to avoid them. You never saw such a bunch of lowlifes put on airs as though they were bluebloods! Why do you ask?"

Miss Band rolled her eyes. "On the Master's suggestion, I accepted a consulting position with one of them with an eye to increasing the security of their country estate. I now understand why some one (or some ones!) of the family have decided to prune the tree. It appears to have been a good thing that I demanded full payment in advance because they kept trying to niggle down the cost of every suggestion I made. And upon my return to Ankh-Morpork, I find a demand for a refund of my fee because the suggestions I made 'were unacceptable'!"

Lord Downey sighed in agreement. "Yes," he said, "once again it seems that if you take a couple of them prisoner and tell them, 'your money or your life', you'd better have a folding chair and a packed lunch because the debate will go into the evening. There is just no helping some people. How can you be paranoid and fearful of assassination but unwilling to spend anything to prevent it? No, the idea of fortification consultations was a good one for any reasonable person but for the Lavishes? We were wasting our breath. By the way, are there any new contracts?"

"Mas oui!," Mme. les Deux-Epees trilled happily, "I 'ave just accepted a commission myself. Mme. Jocasta Wiggs almost got it ahead of me but I looked it over and 'ave decided to take it on, as you say."

"Well if it's for one Silverster Lavish," Miss Band muttered dourly, "I might just consider adding a tip on the contract when you succeed. Terrible person, and well deserving inhumation."

"He's the one you consulted with?"

"Yes!"

*****

Sammy, Rolf and the carpet finally exhausted the possibilities of Ramkin House's buildings and grounds. Except, that is, for the dragon pens. His mother didn't even consider the point negotiable and once she took him into the barns and fed up a Golden Wouter with coal, the boy agreed. There is something about seeing, in operation, a dragon with flame so hot it can penetrate a two-inch thick steel plate in under five seconds that gives even a pre-adolescent boy pause. Rolf was even more impressed and hid behind Lady Sybil with his tail between his legs. Few people knew just how genuinely dangerous swamp dragons could be, but one young Kh'olli dog definitely did.

So, while the grounds along Scoone Ave were extensive and provided lots of possibilities for a ten-year-old and a flying carpet, eventually a desire to leave the grounds was too much to resist and the three of them slipped out a side garden gate and cruised down the broad, tree-lined avenue that held homes of the majority of the city's wealthiest residents.

They got as far as the von Lipswig-Dearheart residence, arriving just as free golem was coming down the walkway. It stopped and towered over the trio.

"Master Samuel, You Are Not Supposed To Be This Far Down The Street From Your House. Does Lady Sybil Know That You Have Escaped?"

Rolf didn't like the huge, clay talking thing one bit and began to bark with all the ferocity a 16-week-old puppy can muster. The golem, though incapable of smiling or having any facial expression whatever, changed its posture into something that looked softer, more amiable.

"Such A Brave Little Puppy. He's Trying To Protect You From Me, Master Samuel. I Think You Should Return The Favor And Take Him Home. Tell Him What A Good Boy He Is And Give Him A Treat. You May Be Grateful For His Courage Some Day."

Sammy looked up at the eight foot tall golem and down at the four month old puppy. He reached over and gathered Rolf up in his arms and held him tightly on his lap.

"Thank-you, sir," he said, "I will. I hope he never has anything scarier than you to protect me from. Good day."

And with that he turned the carpet and rushed back to the garden gate with all the speed it could manage. He was somewhat accustomed to trolls, there being quite a few of them on the Watch, especially Sergeant Detritus who seemed to be among his father's most trusted officers. But he'd never met a golem before and there was something different about them that made him feel that going home was a very good idea. Arriving at the gate, he looked both ways, lifted the latch and pushed it open—just in time to see his nanny, Purity, with her arms crossed and her foot tapping. He and Rolf both sagged. There was no getting past it now, the carpet would be rolled up and put away for at least a week, maybe two.

*****

Senior Sergeant Detritus, highest ranking troll officer on The Watch, looked out at the ranks in front of him. Every troll in the Watch stood at erect attention (or as erect as they were able) from Corporal Bluejohn in the rear (who took up almost three positions all by himself) to Detritus' adopted son, Lance Constable Brick, in front. He nodded approvingly.

"At youse EASE!"

He held up a metal object that seemed to be the offspring of an illicit relationship of between a clock, a fan and a bucket.

"Dis," he began, "are der Mk II coolin' helmet. It are 'specially designed for der troll officer who fine it diffycult to tink during der heat ob der city summer. My mate, der late Constable Cuddy (may he restin' in peace) designed der Mk I jus' for me. I hab suggested to Captain Carrot and der Commander dat it would be a good idear if we wuz all equipped wif one. Most ob us has no problem tinkin' straight when dere are snow on der groun' just like in der mountains. But when der summer come along and der streets start to shimmer in der heat, we habbin a hard time keepin' our—what you call dem, der feathery tings wif der flat feet . . ."

"Ducks, Senior Sergeant!" one of the officers called out.

"Right. As I were sayin', in der summer we sometimes hab trouble keepin' our ducks rowin'. Commander Vimes agree and hab paid for one ob dese for each ob us. Remember to wine it up when you firs' leab der house and again right after lunch. Do dis an' der criminal class won't hab no chance. Any question? No? Come sign for youse new helmet."

*****

In an upstairs office over The Cavern Club Chrysoprase examined the object in the box.

"So, der Watch are issuin' one ob dese to ebery troll officer?" he asked.

"Dat what der dwarf artisan who are buildin' dem say," Basalt replied, "I don't know what der point are but he tol' me dat I should bring it to you, so I did."

Chrysoprase shook his head. Der were jus' no helpin' some trolls. Basalt were a useful currier an' strongarm-around-der-place kinda troll but as far as aksin' anyting beyond 'Yuz wan' I should munch him, boss'? he were not terrible intylek-tual. On der odder han', it made him a good subjec' for experymentin'. If der helmet work on him, it would work on any troll. Dis might be useful . . .

"Good ting youse t'ought ob dat. An' in reward, I'm gonna let you try it on before de odders," Chrysoprase took the helmet out of the box and retrieved the key that came with it. He wound up the spring good and tight, flicked the switch that activated the fan blades and handed it to his minion.

"Here, Basalt, put dis on and jus' sit dere for a while."

About ten minutes later, Basalt turned to his boss and said, "It a funny ting. Usual when you tell me to sit and wait I jus' sits an' waits but now my head are fillin' up wif stuff I dint know I knew."

Chrysoprase raised a polished eyebrow. "Like?"

"Like ol' stories 'n' songs 'n' such"

"Sing one for me."

Slightly embarrassed at this newfound erudition, Basalt cleared his throat and began,

"Him who mountain crush him no

Him who sun him stop him no,

Him who hammer him break him no

Him who fire him fear him no

Him who raise him head above him heart

Him diamond."

Through the chant, Chrysoprase had been waving his index finger, conducting the ancient song. When it was finished, he nodded. "Dis dwarf artisan, how much he tell you he charge for der helmet?"

"He say twenny-fibe dollar."

"You go back to him and tell him if he make fifty ob dem, I pay him twenny dollar each. And I wan' dem in two weeks, okay?"

"Yes, Mr. Chrysoprase, I do it."

"An' you can keep dis one."

*****

Sammy and Rolf sat disconsolately in the gazebo near the ornamental lake where the elderly hippos, Roderick and Keith, were spending their retirement from the College of Heralds. It was bad enough that the young were confined to the property and that the flying carpet was under lock and key for two weeks but even worse, neither Roderick nor Keith were the least interested in being herded. There is something about weighing 9,000 lbs. and having enormous lower canine teeth in a huge mouth that greatly reduces one's ability to be impressed by a small, noisy dog—even one that can fly.

And any possibility of entertaining themselves with Lady Sybil's collection of swamp dragons was simply out of the question—or so it seemed. The disgraced pair sat and moped in the gazebo until, behind them, they heard a flapping and a snuffling. They turned around and there, on the picnic table sat a plump, long-winged, perky-looking young dragon. Its collar bore a tag proclaiming that its name was Twyla and it sat looking at them cheerfully—or so one might surmise, given that she was wagging her tail.

Rolf crouched and slinked forward, his nose out and snuffling. To his amazement, the little dragon did the same and then jumped into the air and hovered, her leather wings fluttering. Delightful! He jumped up and did a little aerial dance inviting Twyla to play with him. She puffed out a little cloud of smoke and did a pirouette. Rolf replied with a barrel roll and within minutes the two were playing tag around the gazebo and over the lake to Sammy's delight and the hippos' confusion.

The happy scene continued for a few minutes until, with a great thumping and rattling of armor, Calliope (one of the 'interchangeable Emmas' who assisted Lady Sybil in the dragon barns) came running up waving a long-handled net. She stopped.

"Oh, hello Master Samuel, what . . .?"

"We were just sitting here watching Roderick and Keith and not doing anything at all, when this little dragon came over. It seemed to want to play and so did Rolf. So they are. They even fetch sticks!"

"Master Samuel, that is a young, fire-breathing swamp dragon. It's not a toy and it's not a puppy. It shouldn't even be outside the barns. Don't you realize it could do serious injury?"

"Yes," Sammy replied in annoyance, "it could, but it isn't! She must have been bored and since Rolf and I were too, she came over to play. We're having a good time, Calliope, and not causing any trouble. When we're done I'll bring Twyla back to the barns. Now please go find something else to do and leave us alone."

Calliope stiffened. Being told off by a ten-year-old boy was insulting. However, this ten-year-old was the Marquess of Quire, her employers' only son and heir. Technically, he outranked even the redoubtable Willikins. Biting her tongue, she took a deep breath and answered unhappily, "Very well, I shall. But if Twyla sets fire to anything it is your responsibility, Master Samuel. I wash my hands of it."

And with that she turned on her heel and flounced off.

*****

That evening, Commander Vimes quietly and deliberately hid his face in the Ankh-Morpork Times. For the entirety of their marriage, he and Sybil had a clearly demarked set of responsibilities. He commanded the Watch and she commanded him and the household staff. Who, exactly, commanded Young Sam, though, was subject to the variabilities of the occasion. Tonight, he was sure it was her turn.

"Samuel, you promised to return Twyla to the barns. Calliope swears you did."

"But—but Mother, she—she was—crying!" Tears began to trickle down her son's cheeks and both the puppy and the little dragon crouched at his feet, trembling slightly. "She doesn't want to go back to the barn, she wants to stay with me and Rolf. Please, Mother? She can take Dribble's place. Please? Please?"

He bent down and lifted the little dragon in his arms, cradling it and turning slightly, positioning his body between Twyla and his mother.

Behind his paper, Commander Vimes winced. The boy had just scored a winning point. Old Dribble, toothless, ragged-winged and flameless, had taken up position beneath the baby's crib from the night he was moved into the nursery. No one knew why. He'd still been there the horrible night a Dark Dwarf had invaded the Vimes' home and attempted to kill both Young Sam and Sybil. The old dragon had stood his ground, snarling defiance at the intruder, ready to die in his charge's defense until the dwarf saw the sign of the Summoning Dark on the floor and fled.

Next the dwarf had gone to the dragon pens to attack Sybil but his fire weapon had no effect on her dragon-owners' armor. And as he pumped his weapon up for another try, all down the lines of pens, dragon heads rose on long dragon necks.

Their nostrils flared. They breathed in.

They'd been challenged. They'd been offended. And they'd just had their supper. Twenty-six streams of answering dragon fire rose to the occasion and reduced the attacker to a pair of iron boots cooling from white heat in a puddle of molten sand.

When the old dragon finally died a few years later the mourning in the nursery went on for months. Sammy missed Dribble, tragically missed him. And now a new, young dragon was there to take the elder's place.

The Commander peeked around the edge of the sports section to see his wife's pleading look. Almost imperceptibly he nodded. With a sigh of relief, Sybil smiled and said, "Very well, then. But she's your responsibility just the way Rolf is and you will have to be very careful. She's young and healthy and fully able to burn down the house so keep her happy, clean up after her and don't let her get either hungry or upset. Understood?"