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He
turned
to
climb
down
the
heap
,
and
stopped
.
He
bent
down
again
,
and
carefully
pulled
another
book
from
among
the
glittering
rubble
.
It
wasn
’
t
one
of
his
,
except
in
the
wide
sense
that
all
books
came
under
his
domain
.
He
turned
a
few
pages
carefully
.
"
Keep
it
,
"
said
Vimes
behind
him
.
"
Take
it
away
.
Put
it
somewhere
.
"
The
orangutan
nodded
at
the
captain
,
and
rattled
down
the
heap
.
He
tapped
Vimes
gently
on
the
kneecap
,
opened
The
Summoning
of
Dragons
,
leafed
through
its
ravaged
pages
until
he
found
the
one
he
’
d
been
looking
for
,
and
silently
passed
the
book
up
.
Vimes
squinted
at
the
crabbed
writing
.
Yet
draggons
are
notte
liken
unicornes
,
I
willen
.
They
dwellyth
in
some
Realm
defined
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
.
