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 Forsefor Goode in thee worlde, and this one nighte the Grate Worke will commense. All hathe been prepared. I hath laboured most mytily to be a Worthie Vessle . . .
A realm of fancy, Vimes thought. That's where 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?'
Вы читаете Guards! Guards!
