“Here there be dragons…and the denizens of Ankh-Morpork wish one huge firebreather would return from whence it came. … Not only does this unwelcome visitor have a nasty habit of charbroiling everything in its path, in rather short order it is crowned King (it is a noble dragon, after all…).”
The third Discworld novel, introducing Granny Weatherwax, the placebo eff–err, that is, headology–and a handy tip about pesky rules.
“Terry Pratchett’s maiden voyage through the now-legendary land of Discworld. This is where it all begins — with the tourist Twoflower and his wizard guide, Rincewind.”
The sugar lump passed under his chair on matchstick rollers, the squeaking of the slavedriver ants just at the edge of hearing.
“This building is frightened of thunderstorms,” said Granny. “It could do with comforting.”
Very carefully, without knowing exactly why, he reached out and gave the wall a friendly pat.
“There, there,” he said.
Strangely enough, he felt a lot better.
…Not that he could be certain of the fine figure, of course, what with the rain and the wind and Granny’s habit of wearing her entire wardrobe in one go.
It was the kind of storm that suggests that the whole sky has swallowed a diuretic.
He had a nasty feeling that Granny would have won eventually. Fighting her was like swatting a fly on your own nose.
The lodgings were on the top floor next to the well-guarded premises of a respectable dealer in stolen property because, as Granny had heard, good fences make good neighbors.
For the first time in her life Granny wondered whether there might be something important in all these books people were setting such store by these days, although she was opposed to books on strict moral grounds, since she had heard that many of them were written by dead people and therefore it stood to reason reading them would be as bad as necromancy.