Стража! Стража!

           Anddocomedownheavilyonanysillyrumoursaboutdragons,right?"

           "Yes,sir,"saidCaptainVimes.

           "Goodman."

           Thecoachrattledoff,thebodyguardrunningalongside.

           Behindhim,CaptainVimeswasonlyvaguelyawareofthesergeantyellingattheretreatingCarrottostop.

           Hewasthinking.

           Helookedattheprintsinthemud.Heusedhisregulationpike,whichheknewwasexactlysevenfeetlong,tomeasuretheirsizeandthedistancebetweenthem.Hewhistledunderhisbreath.Then,withconsiderablecaution,hefollowedthealleyaroundthecorner;itledtoasmall,padlockedanddirt-encrusteddoorinthebackofatimberwarehouse.

           Therewassomethingverywrong,hethought.

           Theprintscomeoutofthealley,buttheydon’tgoin.Andwedon’toftengetanywadingbirdsintheAnkh,mainlybecausethepollutionwouldeattheirlegsawayandanyway,it’seasierforthemtowalkonthesurface.

           Helookedup.Amyriadwashinglinescriss-crossedthenarrowrectangleoftheskyasefficientlyasanet.

           So,hethought,somethingbigandfierycameoutofthisalleybutdidn’tcomeintoit.

           AndthePatricianisveryworriedaboutit.

           I’vebeentoldtoforgetaboutit.

           Henoticedsomethingelseatthesideofthealley,andbentdownandpickedupafresh,emptypeanutshell.

           Hetosseditfromhandtohand,staringatnothing.

           Rightnow,heneededadrink.Butperhapsitoughttowait.

           TheLibrarianknuckledhiswayurgentlyalongthedarkaislesbetweentheslumberingbookshelves.

           Therooftopsofthecitybelongedtohim.