Guards! Guards!

was a dutiful titter from the rest of the Brethren.
    “Less of that, brothers,” said the Grand Master, spinning around. “Bring magical things, I said. Not cheap jewelry and rubbish! Good grief, this city is lousy with magic!” He reached down. “What are these things, for heaven’s sake?”
    “They’re stones,” said Brother Plasterer uncertainly.
    “I can see that. Why’re they magical?”
    Brother Plasterer began to tremble. “They’ve got holes in them, Supreme Grand Master. Everyone knows that stones with holes in them are magical.”
    The Supreme Grand Master walked back to his place on the circle. He threw his arms up.
    “Right, fine, okay,” he said wearily. “If that’s how we’re going to do it, that’s how we’re going to do it. If we get a dragon six inches long we’ll all know the reason why. Won’t we, Brother Plasterer. Brother Plasterer? Sorry. I didn’t hear what you said? Brother Plasterer?”
    “I said yes, Supreme Grand Master,” whispered Brother Plasterer.
    “Very well. So long as that’s quite understood.” The Supreme Grand Master turned and picked up the book.
    “And now,” he said, “if we are all quite ready…”
    “Um.” Brother Watchtower meekly raised his hand.
    “Ready for what, Supreme Grand Master?” he said.
    “For the summoning, of course. Good grief, I should have thought—”
    “But you haven’t told us what we’re supposed to do , Supreme Grand Master,” whined Brother Watchtower.
    The Grand Master hesitated. This was quite true, but he wasn’t going to admit it.
    “Well, of course,” he said. “It’s obvious. You have to focus your concentration. Think hard about dragons,” he translated. “All of you.”
    “That’s all, is it?” said Brother Doorkeeper.
    “Yes.”
    “Don’t we have to chant a mystic prune or something?”
    The Supreme Grand Master stared at him. Brother Doorkeeper managed to look as defiant in the face of oppression as an anonymous shadow in a black cowl could look. He hadn’t joined a secret society not to chant mystic runes. He’d been looking forward to it.
    “You can if you like,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Now, I want you— yes, what is it, Brother Dunnykin? ”
    The little Brother lowered his hand. “Don’t know any mystic prunes, Grand Master. Not to what you might call chant…”
    “Hum!”
    He opened the book.
    He’d been rather surprised to find, after pages and pages of pious ramblings, that the actual Summoning itself was one short sentence. Not a chant, not a brief piece of poetry, but a mere assemblage of meaningless syllables. De Malachite said they caused interference patterns in the waves of reality, but the daft old fool was probably making it up as he went along. That was the trouble with wizards, they had to make everything look difficult. All you really needed was willpower. And the Brethren had a lot of that. Small-minded and vitriolic willpower, yes, lousy with malignity maybe, but still powerful enough in its way…
    They’d try nothing fancy this time round. Somewhere inconspicuous…
    Around him the Brethren were chanting what each man considered, according to his lights, to be something mystical. The general effect was actually quite good, if you didn’t listen to the words.
    The words. Oh, yes…
    He looked down, and spoke them aloud.
    Nothing happened.
    He blinked.
    When he opened his eyes again he was in a dark alley, his stomach was full of fire, and he was very angry.

    It was about to be the worst night of his life for Zebbo Mooty, Thief Third Class, and it wouldn’t have made him any happier to know that it was also going to be the last one. The rain was keeping people indoors, and he was way behind on his quota. He was, therefore, a little less cautious than he might otherwise have been.
    In the night time streets of Ankh-Morpork caution is an absolute. There is no such thing as moderately cautious. You are either very cautious, or you are dead. You might be walking around and breathing, but you’re dead, just the same.
    He heard the muffled sounds coming from the nearby alley, slid his leather-bound cosh from his sleeve, waited until the victim was almost turning the corner, sprang out, said “Oh, shi—” and died.
    It was a most unusual death. No one else had died like that for hundreds of years.
    The stone wall behind him glowed cherry red with heat, which gradually faded into darkness.
    He was the first to see the Ankh-Morpork dragon. He