Chapter 9

Spike looked up at his visitor.

The man standing before him was exceptionally tall, and thin, and pallid - and with terrible posture. He sagged inwards at chest height, his shoulders bent forwards. His hands were clasped together in front of him, and a black cape fluttered around his shoulders. His clothing was black, except for his stiff shirt, which glowed so brilliantly white that it was almost blue. It was complimented by his skin, which was a deathly white, while his slicked back hair was black, his sunken eyes were black, and he had added to the general black effect with paint, ensuring that his nails were black, his lips were black, and his eyeliner likewise.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Count Nosferatu, is it?"

"Hah, hah," said his visitor. "My appellation is not Nosferatu, no. But you may call me Count, certainly. That is fitting enough."

Spike got to his feet, and approached his new acquaintance. "Well, hello, Count old son - is there any special reason you look like a recently deceased member of the Magic Circle? Cause you don't smell like one. In fact," he paused significantly, "you smell quite fresh, and tasty." He grinned in a shark-like fashion and moved a little closer.

The Count chuckled again, "Very droll, Sir Vampire. Though I do not know this Magic Circle of which you speak. Instead, I am Grand Master of the Brotherhood of the Orb!" He drew himself up as he spoke and flashed Spike a significant look.

Spike pounced at the same moment, and then fell back, snarling, his forehead crinkling involuntarily from the pain in his head and the pain in his hands.

"I take a tincture of silver nitrate daily," said the Count, looking modestly pleased with himself. "I find it most effective in warding off the various creatures of the night that I inevitably encounter in my work. Oh, and I also wear a number of holy symbols stitched into my underwear, and my clothes are steeped in a garlic washing solution on a regular basis. And of course," he flourished the red garnet ring glowing on his right index finger, "I have this useful little geegaw, which you may or may not recognise. And the tools of my trade, of course." He lifted a large gladstone bag and shook it. It gave an unpleasant rattle, as of dead and dried things rolling together, dustily. "Worked it out yet?" said the Count brightly. He held up a pair of silver handcuffs, lined with fur, and snapped them shut upon Spike's wrists with a triumphant flourish, and then turned the ring on his finger.

Spike rose, the pull on his wrists irresitible. He snarled. If there was one thing he really hated (apart from the Slayer, of course - oh, and Angel) it was a know-it-all smartarse Necromancer.

"She's a what?" Commander Vimes' eyebrows drew together. Wasn't it enough, he was thinking, that he had to worry about a dragon on the loose, without Watch members being exposed as wind-up toys? And why the delegation? Lance Constable Bott was accompanied by two Sergeants, and two Corporals - who should all have been home in their beds at this time of day. Well, except Dorfl, who should be attending a prayer meeting or ... Vimes imagination rebelled as he tried to imagine what else golems did when off duty.

"I'm a Bot," said Buffybot guiltily. She trembled, and her hand went to the Watch badge pinned to her left breast. Was she going to be fired? She felt a small, reassuring hand land on her shoulder, and she straightened. If it turned out to be an offence not to mention your non-organic origins on the Ankh Morpork Night Watch application form, then she would take it like a Bot.

"Apparently she's a sort of metal version of a golem, sir." Sergeant Angua stood upright, restored to her two legged state, her armour correctly re-buckled. Corporal Cheery Littlebottom stood beside her, with her hand on Buffybot's shoulder, the pair of them flanking their new constable. "She's got words in her head, same as they do, written on a board - although she says we can't actually see them."

"Hmm," said Vimes. "And these words tell her how to act, and to behave, and so forth?"

"So I understand, Sir." Angua gave a frustrated sideways glance at Buffybot. It had proved very difficult to understand half of what she said on the subject, which was annoying when the speaker was as fluffy-headed as the lance-constable.

Vimes sniffed. "Then whoever wrote the skipping and giggling parts needs locking up." He turned to Buffybot. "So, why were you sent here, Bot - and what is it your master wishes you to do?"

"I don't have a master, Mister Commander Vimes, sir," said Buffybot blinking. "Warren made me for Spike, but Buffy took me away from him and gave me to Willow. And she sort of shares me with Tara - and Dawn of course. I make Dawn pancakes."

Dorfl shifted from his spot against the wall, and prodded Detritus, who stepped forward, looming in the small room with the top of his helmet brushing the ornate plastered ceiling, its vents pulsing little jets of steam. "And dat is sounding like slavery to us, sir, which is contrary to Onion rules."

"Union," whispered Angua, "Onions are quite different."

Detritus coughed, "Union rules, I was meanin' to say. As Lance-Constable Bott's Onion - Union - representative I would like to respectfully suggest that she should be," Detritus looked at the scrap of paper in his hand, written in exquisite Golem script, "e-man-ci-pated, sir."

Buffybot stood up straighter still. She still wasn't clear what being emancipated was, but it was really sweet of all her new friends to be trying to get it for her. She zinged her best smile at Commander Vimes, who flinched.

"Well, she's not a man, is she?" he said irritably, "she's some sort of fancy clockwork."

There was a pall of silent disapproval at his words. He looked at his gathered subordinates, all grouped around Buffybot, and sighed. "Oh, fine, fine. She can be emancipated if you all want her to be. After you tell me you think a Union is for. Sergeant Angua?"

She scratched her head. "As far as I can tell, it's a bit like a Guild, sir - only the members don't actually have to be any good at anything."

Vimes steepled his hands, and lowered his chin. Cheery and Angua shifted uncomfortably, and took a little step backwards. Hand steepling was a bad sign. But Vimes remained mild. "And since when did the Watch have a union, Sergeant Detritus?"

Detritus continued to look straight ahead. "Dat would be from this morning, sir. We presented our demands to Captain Carrot and he said it was a corker of an idea, sir." Vimes turned to look at Captain Carrot and raised an eyebrow.

"I thought it was an excellent notion," said Carrot brightly. "Solidarity and mutual aid, and ... um, things. I haven't actually had a chance to read the whole document yet. But it's the golems' idea. And the lads are very enthusiastic."

Commander Vimes rubbed his eyes. "Oh, whatever," he said tiredly, "as long as they realise they can't go on strike."

"Dat is a matter still open to negotiation, sir," said Detritus, staring straight ahead. "I am not able to give such an assurance on behalf of my members at dis time."

Vimes groaned. This day was getting worse.

Gaspode sat in the courtyard of Lady Sybil's mansion in the sunshine, scratching vigorously. After Lord Vimes had declared him to be under house arrest, her ladyship had whisked him off and subjected him to the indignity of a bath with insecticidal shampoo, cheerfully ignoring all his protests, and turning a deaf ear to his cursing. Short of actually biting her he'd been unable to put a halt to events. And Commander Vimes had made it very clear what would happen if he did bite Lady Sybil. Red hot pokers had featured.

The bath had been followed by vigorous brushing with a metal comb, and the application of a number of patent salves to his various bald patches, and drops in the filthy wax encrusted recesses of his ears. It'll be perfume next, thought Gaspode mournfully to himself, or ribbons round me neck, or clipping me hair in funny shapes, or something equally bleedin' embarrassing.

Lady Sybil came around the corner of the stables building, pails of dragon chow in hand. Gaspode cast a jaundiced eye in her direction, waited until she was walking past him, and then shook his head vigorously. Ear drops and softened lumps of earwax flew through the air in every direction, splattering themselves on Lady Sybil's dress, legs and boots. She looked down.

"Oh good," she said brightly, "my wax dissolver is really getting to work, isn't it? I must be sure to send the recipe to 'Pet's Corner' in the Ankh-Morpork Times." She leaned forward and lifted the flap of Gaspode's nearest ear and peered in. "I'll get after the rest of that with a damp cloth later. We'll have you shipshape in no time!" And she strode off across the yard, pails swinging.

Gaspode sank his head onto his paws. He hadn't realised prison would be so terrible.

As he lay, a dark shadow fell over him, and he looked up. A great dragon, corruscating in the sunshine, glided overhead on silent wings. Gaspode sat up hurriedly, and scurried to the safety of the open kitchen door. He paused just inside the doorstep and looked up. "Bugger off!" he shouted from his place of relative safety. "Stop following me around, you big scaly bugger!"

Just for a moment it seemed that dragon tilted its huge head and looked down at him - then it glided on by, sinuous and otherworldly, glittering like a jewel.

"Oh!"

Gaspode became aware that he had company. Somehow in his flight from the dragon he had backed himself up against the rubber clad shins of Lady Sybil, who was looking up out of the open kitchen door with him.

"Oh my!" said Lady Sybil. "What a wonderful, magical thing."