Guards! Guards!

they went, then. Into our imaginations. And when we call them back we shape them, like squeezing dough into pastry shapes. Only you don’t get gingerbread men, you get what you are. Your own darkness, given shape…
    Vimes read it through again, and then looked at the following pages.
    There weren’t many. The rest of the book was a charred mass.
    Vimes handed it back to the ape.
    “What kind of a man was de Malachite?” he said.
    The Librarian gave this the consideration due from someone who knew the Dictionary of City Biography by heart. Then he shrugged.
    “Particularly holy?” said Vimes.
    The ape shook his head.
    “Well, noticeably evil, then?”
    The ape shrugged, and shook his head again.
    “If I were you,” said Vimes, “I’d put that book somewhere very safe. And the book of the Law with it. They’re too bloody dangerous.”
    “Oook.”
    Vimes stretched. “And now,” he said, “let’s go and have a drink.”
    “Oook.”
    “But just a small one.”
    “Oook.”
    “And you’re paying.”
    “Eeek.”
    Vimes stopped and stared down at the big, mild face.
    “Tell me,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to know…is it better , being an ape?”
    The Librarian thought about it. “Oook,” he said.
    “Oh. Really?” said Vimes.

    It was next day. The room was wall-to-wall with civic dignitaries. The Patrician sat on his severe chair, surrounded by the Council. Everyone present was wearing the shiny waxen grins of those bent on good works.
    Lady Sybil Ramkin sat off to one side, wearing a few acres of black velvet. The Ramkin family jewels glittered on her fingers, neck and in the black curls of today’s wig. The total effect was striking, like a globe of the heavens.
    Vimes marched the rank to the center of the hall and stamped to a halt with his helmet under his arm, as per regulations. He’d been amazed to see that even Nobby had made an effort—the suspicion of shiny metal could be seen here and there on his breastplate. And Colon was wearing an expression of almost constipated importance. Carrot’s armor gleamed.
    Colon ripped off a textbook salute for the first time in his life.
    “All present and correct, sah!” he barked.
    “Very good, Sergeant,” said Vimes coldly. He turned to the Patrician and raised an eyebrow politely.
    Lord Vetinari gave a little wave of his hand.
    “Stand easy, or whatever it is you chaps do,” he said. “I’m sure we needn’t wait on ceremony here. What do you say, Captain?”
    “Just as you like, sir,” said Vimes.
    “Now, men,” said the Patrician, leaning forward, “we have heard some remarkable accounts of your magnificent efforts in defense of the city…”
    Vimes let his mind wander as the golden platitudes floated past. For a while he derived a certain amount of amusement from watching the faces of the Council. A whole sequence of expressions drifted across them as the Patrician spoke. It was, of course, vitally important that there be a ceremony like this. Then the whole thing could be neat and settled . And forgotten. Just another chapter in the long and exciting history of eckcetra, eckcetra. Ankh-Morpork was good at starting new chapters.
    His trawling gaze fell on Lady Ramkin. She winked. Vimes’s eyes swiveled front again, his expression suddenly as wooden as a plank.
    “…token of our gratitude,” the Patrician finished, sitting back.
    Vimes realized that everyone was looking at him.
    “Pardon?” he said.
    “I said , we have been trying to think of some suitable recompense, Captain Vimes. Various public-spirited citizens—” the Patrician’s eyes took in the Council and Lady Ramkin—“and, of course, myself, feel that an appropriate reward is due.”
    Vimes still looked blank.
    “Reward?” he said.
    “It is customary for such heroic endeavor,” said the Patrician, a little testily.
    Vimes faced forward again. “Really haven’t thought about it, sir,” he said. “Can’t speak for the men, of course.”
    There was an awkward pause. Out of the corner of his eye Vimes was aware of Nobby nudging the sergeant in the ribs. Eventually Colon stumbled forward and ripped off another salute. “Permission to speak, sir,” he muttered.
    The Patrician nodded graciously.
    The sergeant coughed. He removed his helmet and pulled out a scrap of paper.
    “Er,” he said. “The thing is, saving your honor’s presence, we think, you know, what with saving the city and everything, or sort of, or, what I mean is…we just had