The Elucidated Brethren were nervous. A kind of fear crackled from brother to brother. It was the fear of someone who, having cheerfully experimented with pouring the powder and wadding the ball, has found that pulling the trigger had led to a godawful bang and pretty soon someone is bound to come and see who's making all the noise.
   The Supreme Grand Master knew that he had them, though. Sheep and lamb, sheep and lamb. Since they couldn't do anything much worse than they had al­ready done they might as well press on and damn the world, and pretend they'd wanted it like this all along. Oh, the joy of it ...
   Only Brother Plasterer was actually happy.
   "Let that be a lesson to all oppressive vegetable sellers," he kept saying.
   "Yes, er," said Brother Doorkeeper. "Only, the thing is, there's no chance of us sort of accidentally summoning the dragon here, is there?"
   "I-that is, we-have it under perfect control," said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly. "The power is ours. I can assure you."
   The Brothers cheered up a little bit.
   "And now," the Supreme Grand Master continued, "there is the matter of the king."
   The Brothers looked solemn, except for Brother Plasterer.
   "Have we found him, then?" he said. "That's a stroke of luck.''
   "You never listen, do you?" snapped Brother Watchtower. "It was all explained last week, we don't go around finding anyone, we make a king."
   "I thought he was supposed to turn up. 'Cos of des­tiny."
   Brother Watchtower sniggered. "We sort of help Destiny along a bit."
   The Supreme Grand Master smiled in the depths of his robe. It was amazing, this mystic business. You tell them a lie, and then when you don't need it any more you tell them another lie and tell them they're progressing along the road to wisdom. Then instead of laughing they follow you even more, hoping that at the heart of all the lies they'll find the truth. And bit by bit they accept the unacceptable. Amazing.
   "Bloody hell, that's clever," said Brother Door­keeper. "How do we do that, then?"
   "Look, the Supreme Grand Master said what we do, we find some handsome lad who's good at taking orders, he kills the dragon, and Bob's your uncle. Sim­ple. Much more intelligent than waitin' for a so-called real king."
   "But," Brother Plasterer seemed deep in the toils of cerebration, "if we control the dragon, and we do control the dragon, right? Then we don't need anyone killing it, we just stop summoning it, and everyone 'll be happy, right?"
   "Ho yes," said Brother Watchtower nastily, "I can just see it, can you? We just trot out, say 'Hallo, we won't set fire to your houses any more, aren't we nice', do we? The whole point about the thing with the king is that he'll be a, a sort of…"
   "Undeniably potent and romantic symbol of abso­lute authority," said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly.
   "That's it," said Brother Watchtower. "A potent authority."
   "Oh, I see," said Brother Plasterer. "Right. Okay. That's what the king 'll be."
   "That's it," said Brother Watchtower.
   "No-one going to argue with a potent authority, are they?"
   "Too right," said Brother Watchtower.
   "Stroke of luck, then, finding the true king right now," said Brother Plasterer. "Million to one chance, really."
   "We haven't found the right king. We don't need the right king," said the Supreme Grand Master wea­rily. "For the last time! I've just found us a likely lad who looks good in a crown and can take orders and knows how to flourish a sword. Now just listen ..."
   Flourishing, of course, was important. It didn't have much to do with wielding. Wielding a sword, the Su­preme Grand Master considered, was simply the messy business of dynastic surgery. It was just a matter of thrust and cut. Whereas a king had to flourish one. It had to catch the light in just the right way, leaving watchers in no doubt that here was Destiny's chosen. He'd taken a long time preparing the sword and shield. It had been very expensive. The shield shone like a dollar in a sweep's earhole but the sword, the sword was magnificent . . .
   It was long and shiny. It looked like something some genius of metalwork - one of those little Zen guys who works only by the light of dawn and can beat a club sandwich of folded steels into something with the cut­ting edge of a scalpel and the stopping-power of a sex-crazed rhinoceros on bad acid-had made and then retired in tears because he'd never, ever, do anything so good again. There were so many jewels on the hilt it had to be sheathed in velvet, you had to look at it through smoked glass. Just laying a hand on it prac­tically conferred kingship.
   As for the lad ... he was a distant cousin, keen and vain, and stupid in a passably aristocratic way. Cur­rently he was under guard in a distant farmhouse, with an adequate supply of drink and several young ladies, although what the boy seemed most interested in was mirrors. Probably hero material, the Supreme Grand Master thought glumly.
   "I suppose," said Brother Watchtower, "that he isn't the real air to the throne?"
   "What do you mean?" said the Supreme Grand Master.
   "Well, you know how it is. Fate plays funny tricks. Ha-ha. It'd be a laugh, wouldn't it," said Brother Watchtower, ' 'if this lad turned out to be the real king. After all this trouble-"
   "There is no real king any more!" snapped the Su­preme Grand Master. "What do you expect? Some people wandering in the wilderness for hundreds and hundreds of years, patiently handing down a sword and a birthmark? Some sort of magic?" He spat the word. He'd make use of magic, means to an end, end justifies means and so forth, but to go around believ­ing it, believing it had some sort of moral force, like logic, made him wince. "Good grief, man, be logical! Be rational. Even if any of the old royal family sur­vived, the blood line'd be so watered down by now that there must be thousands of people who lay claim to the throne. Even," he tried to think of the least likely claimant,"even someone like Brother Dunnykin." He stared at the assembled Brethren. "Don't see him here tonight, by the way."
   "Funny thing, that," said Brother Watchtower thoughtfully. "Didn't you hear?"
   "What?"
   "He got bitten by a crocodile on his way home last night. Poor little bugger."
   "What?"
   "Million to one chance. It'd escaped from a menag­erie, or something, and was lying low in his back yard. He went to feel under his doormat for his door key and it had him by the funes."[14] Brother Watchtower fum­bled under his robe and produced a grubby brown en­velope. "We're having a whip-round to buy him some grapes and that, I don't know whether you'd like to, er . . ."
   "Put me down for three dollars," said the Supreme Grand Master.
   Brother Watchtower nodded. "Funny thing," he said, "I already have."
   Just a few more nights, thought the Supreme Grand Master. By tomorrow the people 'll be so desperate, they'd crown even a one-legged troll if he got rid of the dragon. And we'll have a king, and he'll have an advisor, a trusted man, of course, and this stupid rab­ble can go back to the gutter. No more dressing up, no more ritual.
   No more summoning the dragon.
   I can give it up, he thought. I can give it up any time I like.
   ...
   The streets outside the Patrician's palace were thronged. There was a manic air of carnival. Vimes ran a practiced eye over the assortment before him. It was the usual Ankh-Morpork mob in times of crisis; half of them were here to complain, a quarter of them were here to watch the other half, and the remainder were here to rob, importune or sell hot-dogs to the rest. There were a few new faces, though. There were a number of grim men with big swords slung over their shoulders and whips slung on their belts, striding through the crowds.
   "News spreads quick, don't it," observed a familiar voice by his ear. "Morning, Captain."
   Vimes looked into the grinning, cadaverous face of Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, purveyor of absolutely anything that could be sold hurriedly from an open suitcase in a busy street and was guaranteed to have fallen off the back of an oxcart.
   "Morning, Throat," said Vimes absently. "What're you selling?"
   "Genuine article, Captain." Throat leaned closer. He was the sort of person who could make "Good morning" sound like a once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated offer. His eyes swivelled back and forth in their sockets, like two rodents trying to find a way out. "Can't afford to be without it," he hissed. "Anti-dragon cream. Personal guarantee: if you're incinerated you get your money back, no quibble."
   "What you're saying," said Vimes slowly, "if I un­derstand the wording correctly, is that if I am baked alive by the dragon you'll return the money?"
   "Upon personal application," said Cut-me-own-Throat. He unscrewed the lid from a jar of vivid green ointment and thrust it under Vimes's nose. "Made from over fifty different rare spices and herbs to a rec­ipe known only to a bunch of ancient monks what live on some mountain somewhere. One dollar a jar, and I'm cutting my own throat. It's a public service, re­ally," he added piously.
   "You've got to hand it to those ancient monks, brewing it up so quickly," said Vimes.
   "Clever buggers," agreed Cut-me-own-Throat. "It must be all that meditation and yak yogurt."
   "So what's happening, Throat?" said Vimes. "Who're all the guys with the big swords?"
   "Dragon hunters, Cap'n. The Patrician announced a reward of fifty thousand dollars to anyone who brings him the dragon's head. Not attached to the dragon, either; he's no fool, that man."
   "What?"
   "That's what he said. It's all written on posters."
   "Fifty thousand dollars!"
   "Not chicken feed, eh?"
   "More like dragon fodder," said Vimes. It'd bring trouble, you mark his words. "I'm amazed you're not grabbing a sword and joining in."
   "I'm more in what you might call the service sector, Cap'n." Throat looked both ways conspiratorially, and then passed Vimes a slip of parchment.
   It said:
   Anti-dragon mirror shields A$ 500
   Portable lair detectors A$250
   Dragon-piercing arrows A$100 per each
   Shovels A$5 Picks A$5 Sacks A$l
   Vimes handed it back. "Why the sacks?" he said.
   "On account of the hoard," said Throat.
   "Oh, yes," said Vimes gloomily. "Of course."
   "Tell you what," said Throat, "tell you what. For our boys in brown, ten percent off."
   "And you're cutting your own throat, Throat?"
   "Fifteen percent for officers!" urged Throat, as Vimes walked away. The cause of the slight panic in his voice was soon apparent. He had plenty of com­petition.
   The people of Ankh-Morpork were not by nature heroic but were, by nature, salesmen. In the space of a few feet Vimes could have bought any number of magical weapons Genuine certyfycate of orthenticity with everyone, a cloak of invisibility - a good touch, he thought, and he was really impressed by the way the stall owner was using a mirror with no glass in it- and, by way of lighter relief, dragon biscuits, balloons and windmills on sticks. Copper bracelets guaranteed to bring relief from dragons were a nice thought.
   There seemed to be as many sacks and shovels about as there were swords.
   Gold, that was it. The hoard. Hah!
   Fifty thousand dollars! An officer of the Watch earned thirty dollars a month and had to pay to have his own dents beaten out.
   What he couldn't do with fifty thousand dollars . . .
   Vimes thought about this for a while and then thought of the things he could do with fifty thousand dollars. There were so many more of them, for a start.
   He almost walked into a group of men clustered around a poster nailed to the wall. It declared, indeed, that the head of the dragon that had terrorized the city would be worth A$50,000 to the brave hero that de­livered it to the palace.
   One of the cluster, who from his size, weaponry and that way he was slowly tracing the lettering with his finger Vimes decided was a leading hero, was doing the reading for the others.
   "…to ter-her pal-ack-ee," he concluded.
   "Fifty thousand," said one of them reflectively, rubbing his chin.
   "Cheap job," said the intellectual. "Well below the rate. Should be half the kingdom and his daughter's hand in marriage."
   "Yes, but he ain't a king. He's a Patrician."
   "Well, half his Patrimony or whatever. What's his daughter like?"
   The assembled hunters didn't know.
   "He's not married," Vimes volunteered. "So he hasn't got a daughter."
   They turned and looked him up and down. He could see the disdain in their eyes. They probably got through dozens like him every day. ' 'Not got a daughter?'' said one of them. "Wants people to kill dragons and he hasn't got a daughter?"
   Vimes felt, in an odd way, that he ought to support the lord of the city. "He's got a little dog that he's very fond of," he said helpfully.
   "Bleeding disgusting, not even having a daughter," said one of the hunters. "And what's fifty thousand dollars these days? You spend that much in nets."
   "S'right," said another. "People think it's a for­tune, but they don't reckon on, well, it's not pension­able, there's all the medical expenses, you've got to buy and maintain your own gear…"
   "…wear and tear on virgins…" nodded a small fat hunter.
   "Yeah, and then there's . . . what?"
   "My specialty is unicorns," the hunter explained, with an embarrassed smile.
   "Oh, right." The first speaker looked like someone who'd always been dying to ask the question. "I thought they were very rare these days."
   "You're right there. You don't see many unicorns, either," said the unicorn hunter. Vimes got the im­pression that, in his whole life, this was his only joke.
   "Yeah, well. Times are hard," said the first speaker sharply.
   "Monsters are getting more uppity, too," said an­other. "I heard where this guy, he killed this monster in this lake, no problem, stuck its arm up over the door…"
   "Pour encourjay lays ortras," said one of the listen­ers.
   "Right, and you know what? Its mum come and complained. Its actual mum come right down to the hall next day and complained. Actually complained. That's the respect you get."
   "The females are always the worst," said another hunter gloomily. "I knew this cross-eyed gorgon once, oh, she was a terror. Kept turning her own nose to stone."
   "It's our arses on the line every time," said the intellectual. "I mean, I wish I had a dollar for every horse I've had eaten out from underneath me."
   "Right. Fifty thousand dollars? He can stuff it."
   "Yeah."
   "Right. Cheapskate."
   "Let's go and have a drink."
   "Right."
   They nodded in righteous agreement and strode off towards the Mended Drum, except for the intellectual, who sidled uneasily back to Vimes.
   "What sort of dog?" he said.
   "What?" said Vimes.
   "I said, what sort of dog?"
   "A small wire-haired terrier, I think," said Vimes.
   The hunter thought about this for some time.
   "Nah," he said eventually, and hurried off after the others.
   "He's got an aunt in Pseudopolis, I believe," Vimes called after him.
   There was no response. The captain of the Watch shrugged, and carried on through the throng to the Patrician's palace . . .
   ...
   . . . where the Patrician was having a difficult lunch-time.
   "Gentlemen!" he snapped. "I really don't see what else there is to do!"
   The assembled civic leaders muttered amongst themselves.
   "At times like this it's traditional that a hero comes forth," said the President of the Guild of Assassins. "A dragon slayer. Where is he, that's what I want to know? Why aren't our schools turning out young peo­ple with the kind of skills society needs?"
   "Fifty thousand dollars doesn't sound much," said the Chairman of the Guild of Thieves.
   "It may not be much to you, my dear sir, but it is all the city can afford," said the Patrician firmly.
   "If it doesn't afford any more than that I don't think there'll be a city for long," said the thief.
   "And what about trade?" said the representative of the Guild of Merchants. "People aren't going to sail here with a cargo of rare comestibles just to have it incinerated, are they?"
   "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" The Patrician raised his hands in a conciliatory fashion. "It seems to me," he went on, taking advantage of the brief pause, "that what we have here is a strictly magical phenomenon. I would like to hear from our learned friend on this point. Hmm?"
   Someone nudged the Archchancellor of Unseen University, who had nodded off.
   "Eh? What?" said the wizard, startled into wakefulness.
   "We were wondering," said the Patrician loudly, "what you were intending to do about this dragon of yours?"
   The Archchancellor was old, but a lifetime of sur­vival in the world of competitive wizardry and the byzantine politics of Unseen University meant that he could whip up a defensive argument in a split second. You didn't remain Archchancellor for long if you let that sort of ingenuous remark whizz past your ear.
   "My dragon?" he said.
   "It's well known that the great dragons are extinct," said the Patrician brusquely. "And, besides, their nat­ural habitat was definitely rural. So it seems to me that this one must be mag…"
   "With respect, Lord Vetinari," said the Archchan­cellor, "it has often been claimed that dragons are extinct, but the current evidence, if I may make so bold, tends to cast a certain doubt on the theory. As to habitat, what we are seeing here is simply a change of behaviour pattern, occasioned by the spread of ur­ban areas into the countryside which has led many hitherto rural creatures to adopt, nay in many cases to positively embrace, a more municipal mode of exis­tence, and many of them thrive on the new opportu­nities thereby opened to them. For example, foxes are always knocking over my dustbins."
   He beamed. He'd managed to get all the way through it without actually needing to engage his brain.
   "Are you saying," said the assassin slowly, "that what we've got here is the first civic dragon?"
   "That's evolution for you," said the wizard, hap­pily. "It should do well, too," he added. "Plenty of nesting sites, and a more than adequate food supply."
   Silence greeted this statement, until the merchant said. "What exactly is it that they do eat?"
   The thief shrugged. "I seem to recall stories about virgins chained to huge rocks," he volunteered.
   "It'll starve round here, then," said the assassin. "We 're on loam."
   "They used to go around ravening," said the thief. "Dunno if that's any help ..."
   "Anyway," said the leader of the merchants, "it seems to be your problem again, my lord."
   Five minutes later the Patrician was striding the length of the Oblong Office, fuming.
   "They were laughing at me," said the Patrician. "I could tell!"
   "Did you suggest a working party?" said Wonse.
   "Of course I did! It didn't do the trick this time. You know, I really am inclined to increase the reward money."
   "I don't think that would work, my lord. Any pro­ficient monster slayer knows the rate for the job."
   "Ha! Half the kingdom," muttered the Patrician.
   "And your daughter's hand in marriage," said Wonse.
   "I suppose an aunt isn't acceptable?" the Patrician said hopefully.
   "Tradition demands a daughter, my lord."
   The Patrician nodded gloomily.
   "Perhaps we can buy it off," he said aloud. "Are dragons intelligent?"
   "I believe the word traditionally is 'cunning', my lord," said Wonse. "I understand they have a liking for gold."
   "Really? What do they spend it on?"
   "They sleep on it, my lord."
   "What, do you mean in a mattress?"
   "No, my lord. On it. "
   The Patrician turned this fact over in his mind. "Don't they find it rather knobbly?" he said.
   "So I would imagine, sir. I don't suppose anyone has ever asked."
   "Hmm. Can they talk?"
   "They're apparently good at it, my lord."
   "Ah. Interesting."
   The Patrician was thinking: if it can talk, it can ne­gotiate. If it can negotiate, then I have it by the short…-by the small scales, or whatever it is they have.
   "And they are said to be silver tongued," said Wonse. The Patrician leaned back in his chair.
   "Only silver?" he said.
   There was the sound of muted voices in the pas­sageway outside and Vimes was ushered in.
   "Ah, Captain," said the Patrician, "what prog­ress?"
   "I'm sorry, my lord?" said Vimes, as the rain dripped off his cape.
   "Towards apprehending this dragon," said the Pa­trician firmly.
   "The wading bird?" said Vimes.
   "You know very well what I mean," said Vetinari sharply.
   "Investigations are in hand," said Vimes automat­ically.
   The Patrician snorted. "All you have to do is find its lair," he said. "Once you have the lair, you have the dragon. That's obvious. Half the city seems to be looking for it."
   "If there is a lair," said Vimes.
   Wonse looked up sharply.
   "Why do you say that?"
   "We are considering a number of possibilities," said Vimes woodenly.
   "If it has no lair, where does it spend its days?" said the Patrician.
   "Inquiries are being pursued," said Vimes.
   "Then pursue them with alacrity. And find the lair," said the Patrician sourly.
   "Yes, sir. Permission to leave, sir?"
   "Very well. But I shall expect progress by tonight, do you understand?"
   Now why did I wonder if it has a lair? Vimes thought, as he stepped out into the daylight and the crowded square. Because it didn't look real, that's why. If it isn't real, it doesn't need to do anything we ex­pect. How can it walk out of an alley it didn't go into?
   Once you've ruled out the impossible then whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth. The problem lay in working out what was impossible, of course. That was the trick, all right.
   There was also the curious incident of the orangutan in the night-time . . .
   ...
   By day the Library buzzed with activity. Vimes moved through it diffidently. Strictly speaking, he could go anywhere in the city, but the University had always held that it fell under thaumaturgical law and he felt it wouldn't be wise to make the kind of enemies where you were lucky to end up the same temperature, let alone the same shape.
   He found the Librarian hunched over his desk. The ape gave him an expectant look.
   "Haven't found it yet. Sorry," said Vimes. "En­quiries are continuing. But there is a little help you can give me."
   "Oook?"
   "Well, this is a magical library, right? I mean, these books are sort of intelligent, isn't that so? So I've been thinking: I bet if I got in here at night, they'd soon kick up a fuss. Because they don't know me. But if they did know me, they'd probably not mind. So who­ever took the book would have to be a wizard, wouldn't they? Or someone who works for the University, at any rate."
   The Librarian glanced from side to side, then grasped Vimes's hand and led him into the seclusion of a couple of bookshelves. Only then did he nod his head.
   "Someone they know?"
   A shrug, and then another nod.
   "That's why you told us, is it?"
   "Oook."
   "And not the University Council?"
   "Oook."
   "Any idea who it is?"
   The Librarian shrugged, a decidedly expressive ges­ture for a body which was basically a sack between a pair of shoulderblades.
   "Well, it's something. Let me know if any other strange things happen, won't you?" Vimes looked up at the banks of shelves. ' 'Stranger than usual, I mean.''
   "Oook."
   "Thank you. It's a pleasure to meet a citizen who regards it as their duty to assist the Watch."
   The Librarian gave him a banana.
   Vimes felt curiously elated as he stepped out into the city's throbbing streets again. He was definitely detecting things. They were little bits of things, like a jigsaw. No one of them made any real sense, but they all hinted at a bigger picture. All he needed to do was find a corner, or a bit of an edge . . .
   He was pretty certain it wasn't a wizard, whatever the Librarian might think. Not a proper, paid-up wiz­ard. This sort of thing wasn't their style.
   And there was, of course, this business about the lair. The most sensible course would be to wait and see if the dragon turned up tonight, and try and see where. That meant a high place. Was there some way of detecting dragons themselves? He'd had a look at Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler's dragon detectors, which consisted solely of a piece of wood on a metal stick. When the stick was burned through, you'd found your dragon. Like a lot of Cut-me-own-Throat's devices, it was completely efficient in its own special way while at the same time being totally useless.
   There had to be a better way of finding the thing than waiting until your fingers were burned off.
   ...
   The setting sun spread out on the horizon like a lightly-poached egg.
   The rooftops of Ankh-Morpork sprouted a fine array of gargoyles even in normal times, but now they were alive with as ghastly an array of faces as ever were seen outside a woodcut about the evils of gin-drinking among the non-woodcut-buying classes. Many of the faces were attached to bodies holding a fearsome array of homely weapons that had been handed down from generation to generation for centuries, often with some force.
   From his perch on the roof of the Watch House Vimes could see the wizards lining the rooftops of the University, and the gangs of opportunist hoard-researchers waiting in the streets, shovels at the ready. If the dragon really did have a bed somewhere in the city, then it would be sleeping on the floor tomorrow.
   From somewhere below came the cry of Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, or one of his colleagues, selling hot sausages. Vimes felt a sudden surge of civic pride. There had to be something right about a citizenry which, when faced with catastrophe, thought about selling sausages to the participants.
   The city waited. A few stars came out.
   Colon, Nobby and Carrot were also on the roof. Colon was sulking because Vimes had forbidden him to use his bow and arrow.
   These weren't encouraged in the city, since the heft and throw of a longbow's arrow could send it through an innocent bystander a hundred yards away rather than the innocent bystander at whom it was aimed.
   "That's right," said Carrot, "the Projectile Weap­ons (Civic Safety) Act, 1634."
   "Don't you keep on quoting all that sort of stuff," snapped Colon. "We don't have any of them laws any more! That's all old stuff! It's all more wossname now. Pragmatic."
   "Law or no law," said Vimes, "I say put it away."
   "But Captain, I was a dab hand at this!" protested Colon. "Anyway," he added peevishly, "a lot of other people have got them."
   That was true enough. Neighbouring rooftops bris­tled like hedgehogs. If the wretched thing turned up, it was going to think it was flying through solid wood with slots in it. You could almost feel sorry for it.
   "I said put it away," said Vimes. "I'm not having my guards shooting citizens. So put it away."
   "That's very true," said Carrot. "We're here to protect and to serve, aren't we, Captain."
   Vimes gave him a sidelong look. "Er," he said. "Yeah. Yes. That's right."
   On the roof of her house on the hill, Lady Ramkin adjusted a rather inadequate folding chair on the roof, arranged the telescope, coffee flask and sandwiches on the parapet in front of her, and settled down to wait. She had a notebook on her knee.
   Half an hour went by. Hails of arrows greeted a passing cloud, several unfortunate bats, and the rising moon.
   "Bugger this for a game of soldiers," said Nobby, eventually. "It's been scared off."
   Sgt Colon lowered his pike. "Looks like it," he conceded.
   "And it's getting chilly up here," said Carrot. He politely nudged Captain Vimes, who was slumped against the chimney, staring moodily into space.
   "Maybe we ought to be getting down, sir?" he said. "Lots of people are."
   "Hmm?" said Vimes, without moving his head.
   "Could be coming on to rain, too," said Carrot.
   Vimes said nothing. For some minutes he had been watching the Tower of Art, which was the centre of Unseen University and reputedly the oldest building hi the city. It was certainly the tallest. Time, weather and indifferent repairs had given it a gnarled appearance, like a tree that has seen too many thunderstorms.
   He was trying to remember its shape. As in the case with many things that are totally familiar, he hadn't really looked at it for years. Now he was trying to convince himself that the forest of little turrets and crenellations at its top looked just the same tonight as they had done yesterday.
   It was giving him some difficulty.
   Without taking his eyes off it, he grabbed Sgt Co­lon's shoulder and gently pointed him in the right di­rection.
   He said, "Can you see anything odd about the top of the tower?"
   Colon stared up for a while, and then laughed ner­vously. "Well, it looks like there's a dragon sitting on it, doesn't it?"
   "Yes. That's what I thought."
   "Only, only, only when you sort of look properly, you can see it's just made up out of shadows and clumps of ivy and that. I mean, if you half-close one eye, it looks like two old women and a wheelbarrow."
   Vimes tried this. "Nope," he said. "It still looks like a dragon. A huge one. Sort of hunched up, and looking down. Look, you can see its wings folded up."
   "Beg pardon, sir. That's just a broken turret giving the effect."
   They watched it for a while.
   Then Vimes said, "Tell me, Sergeant - I ask in a spirit of pure inquiry - what do you think 's causing the effect of a pair of huge wings unfurling?"
   Colon swallowed.
   "I think that's caused by a pair of huge wings, sir," he said.
   "Spot on, Sergeant."
   The dragon dropped. It wasn't a swoop. It simply kicked away from the top of the tower and half-fell, half-flew straight downwards, disappearing from view behind the University buildings.
   Vimes caught himself listening for the thump.
   And then the dragon was in view again, moving like an arrow, moving like a shooting star, moving like something that has somehow turned a thirty-two feet per second plummet into an unstoppable upward swoop. It glided over the rooftops at little more than head height, all the more horrible because of the sound. It was as though the air was slowly and care­fully being torn in half.
   The Watch threw themselves flat. Vimes caught a glimpse of huge, vaguely horse-like features before it slid past.
   "Sodding arseholes," said Nobby, from somewhere in the guttering.
   Vimes redoubled his grip on the chimney and pulled himself upright. "You are in uniform, Corporal Nobbs," he said, his voice hardly shaking at all.
   "Sorry, Captain. Sodding arseholes, sir. "
   "Where's Sergeant Colon?"
   "Down here, sir. Holding on to this drainpipe, sir."
   "Oh, for goodness sake. Help him up, Carrot."
   ' 'Gosh,'' said Carrot, "look at it go!"
   You could tell the position of the dragon by the rattle of arrows across the city, and by the screams and gur­gles of all those hit by the misses and ricochets.
   "He hasn't even flapped his wings yet!" shouted Carrot, trying to stand on the chimney pot. "Look at him go!''
   It shouldn't be that big, Vimes told himself, watch­ing the huge shape wheel over the river. It's as long as a street!
   There was a puff of flame above the docks, and for a moment the creature passed in front of the moon. Then it flapped its wings, once, with a sound like the damp hides of a pedigree herd being slapped across a cliff.
   It turned in a tight circle, pounded the air a few times to build up speed, and came back.
   When it passed over the Watch House it coughed a column of spitting white fire. Tiles under it didn't just melt, they erupted in red-hot droplets. The chimney stack exploded and rained bricks across the street.
   Vast wings hammered at the air as the creature hov­ered over the burning building, fire spearing down on what rapidly became a glowing heap. Then, when all that was left was a spreading puddle of melted rock with interesting streaks and bubbles in it, the dragon raised itself with a contemptuous flick of its wings and soared away and upwards, over the city.
   ...
   Lady Ramkin lowered her telescope and shook her head slowly.
   "That's not right," she whispered. "That's not right at all. Shouldn't be able to do anything like that. "
   She raised the lens again and squinted, trying to see what was on fire. Down below, in their long kennels, the little dragons howled.
   ...
   Traditionally, upon waking from blissfully uneventful insensibility, you ask: "Where am I?" It's probably part of the racial consciousness or something.
   Vimes said it.
   Tradition allows a choice of second lines. A key point in the selection process is an audit to see that the body has all the bits it remembers having yester­day.
   Vimes checked.
   Then comes the tantalising bit. Now that the snow­ball of consciousness is starting to roll, is it going to find that it's waking up inside a body lying in a gutter with something multiple, the noun doesn't matter after an adjective like "multiple", nothing good ever fol­lows "multiple", or is it going to be a case of crisp sheets, a soothing hand, and a businesslike figure in white pulling open the curtains on a bright new day? Is it all over, with nothing worse to look forward to now than weak tea, nourishing gruel, short, strength­ening walks in the garden and possibly a brief platonic love affair with a ministering angel, or was this all just a moment's blackout and some looming bastard is now about to get down to real business with the thick end of a pickaxe helve? Are there, the consciousness wants to know, going to be grapes?
   At this point some outside stimulus is helpful. "It's going to be all right" is favourite, whereas "Did any­one get his number?" is definitely a bad sign; either, however, is better than "You two hold his hands be­hind his back".
   In fact someone said, "You were nearly a goner there, Captain."
   The pain sensations, which had taken advantage of Vimes's unconscious state to bunk off for a metaphor­ical quick cigarette, rushed back.
   Vimes said, "Arrgh." Then he opened his eyes.
   There was a ceiling. This ruled out one particular range of unpleasant options and was very welcome. His blurred vision also revealed Corporal Nobbs, which was less so. Corporal Nobbs proved nothing; you could be dead and see something like Corporal Nobbs.
   Ankh-Morpork did not have many hospitals. All the Guilds maintained their own sanitariums, and there were a few public ones run by the odder religious or­ganisations, like the Balancing Monks, but by and large medical assistance was nonexistent and people had to die inefficiently, without the aid of doctors. It was generally thought that the existence of cures en­couraged sickness and was in any case probably against Nature's way.
   "Have I already said 'Where am I?' " said Vimes faintly.
   "Yes."
   "Did I get an answer?"
   "Dunno where this place is, Captain. It belongs to some posh bint. She said to bring you up here."
   Even though Vimes's mind appeared to be full of pink treacle he nevertheless grabbed two clues and wrestled them together. The combination of 'rich' and 'up here' meant something. So did the strange chem­ical smell in the room, which even overpowered Nob­by's more everyday odours.
   "We're not talking about Lady Ramkin, are we?" he said cautiously.
   "You could be right. Great big biddy. Mad for drag­ons." Nobby's rodent face broke into the most horri­bly knowing grin Vimes had ever seen. "You're in her bed," he said.
   Vimes peered around him, feeling the first overtures of a vague panic. Because now that he could halfway focus, he could see a certain lack of bachelor sockness about the place. There was a faint hint of talcum pow­der.
   "Bit of a boodwah," said Nobby, with the air of a connoisseur.
   "Hang on, hang on a minute," said Vimes. "There was this dragon. It was right over us ..."
   The memory rose up and hit him like a zombie with a grudge.
   "You all right, Captain?"
   The talons, outspread, wide as a man's reach; the boom and thump of the wings, bigger than sails; the stink of chemicals, the gods alone knew what sort. . .
   It had been so close he could see the tiny scales on its legs and the red gleam in its eyes. They were more than just reptile eyes. They were eyes you could drown in.
   And the breath, so hot that it wasn't like fire at all, but something almost solid, not burning things but smashing them apart ...
   On the other hand, he was here and alive. His left side felt as though it had been hit with an iron bar, but he was quite definitely alive.
   "What happened?" he said.
   "It was young Carrot," said Nobby. "He grabbed you and the sergeant and jumped off the roof just be­fore it got us."
   "My side hurts. It must have got me," said Vimes.
   "No, I reckon that was where you hit the privy roof," said Nobby. "And then you rolled off and hit the water butt."
   "What about Colon? Is he hurt?"
   "Not hurt. Not exactly hurt. He landed more sort of softly. Him being so heavy, he went through the roof. Talk about a short sharp shower of…"
   "And then what happened?"
   "Well, we sort of made you comfy, and then every­one went blundering about and shouting for the ser­geant. Until they found out where he was, o'course, then they just stood where they were and shouted. And then this woman come running up yelling," said Nobby.
   "This is Lady Ramkin you're referring to?" said Vimes coldly. His ribs were aching really magnifi­cently now.
   "Yeah. Big fat party," said Nobby, unmoved. "Cor, she can't half boss people about! 'Oh, the poor dear man, you must bring him up to my house this instant.' So we did. Best place, too. Everyone's running around down in the city like chickens with their heads cut off."
   "How much damage did it do?"
   "Well, after you were out of it the wizards hit it with fireballs. It didn't like that at all. Just seemed to make it stronger and angrier. Took out the University's entire Widdershins wing."
   "And…?"
   "That's about it, really. It flamed a few more things, and then it must of flown away in all the smoke."
   "Noone saw where it went?''
   "If they did, they ain't saying." Nobby sat back and leered. "Disgusting, really, her livin' in a room like this. She's got pots of money, sarge says, she's got no call livin' in ordinary rooms. What's the good of not wanting to be poor if the rich are allowed to go round livin' in ordinary rooms? Should be marble." He sniffed. "Anyway, she said I was to fetch her when you woke up. She's feeding her dragons now. Old little buggers, aren't they. It's amazing she's allowed to keep 'em."
   "What do you mean?"
   "You know. Tarred with the same brush, and that."
   When Nobby had shambled out Vimes took another look around the room. It did, indeed, lack the gold leaf and marble that Nobby felt was compulsory for people of a high station in life. All the furniture was old, and the pictures on the wall, though doubtless valuable, looked the sort of pictures that are hung on bedroom walls because people can't think of anywhere else to put them. There were also a few amateurish watercolours of dragons. All in all, it had the look about it of a room that is only ever occupied by one person, and has been absent-mindedly moulded around them over the years, like a suit of clothes with a ceil­ing.
   It was clearly the room of a woman, but one who had cheerfully and without any silly moping been get­ting on with her life while all that soppy romance stuff had been happening to other people somewhere else, and been jolly grateful that she had her health.
   Such clothing as was visible had been chosen for sensible hardwearing qualities, possibly by a previous generation by the look of it, rather than its use as light artillery in the war between the sexes. There were bot­tles and jars neatly arranged on the dressing table, but a certain severity of line suggested that their labels would say things like "Rub on nightly" rather than "Just a dab behind the ears". You could imagine that the occupant of this room had slept in it all her life and had been called "my little girl" by her father until she was forty.
   There was a big sensible blue dressing gown hang­ing behind the door. Vimes knew, without even look­ing, that it would have a rabbit on the pocket.
   In short, it was the room of a woman who never expected that a man would ever see the inside of it.
   The bedside table was piled high with papers. Feel­ing guilty, but doing it anyway, Vimes squinted at them.
   Dragons was the theme. There were letters from the Cavern Club Exhibitions Committee and the Friendly Flamethrowers League. There were pamphlets and ap­peals from the Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons- "Poor little WINNY's fires were nearly Damped after Five years' Cruel Use as a Paint-Stripper, but now…" And there were requests for donations, and talks, and things that added up to a heart big enough for the whole world, or at least that part of it that had wings and breathed fire.
   If you let your mind dwell on rooms like this, you could end up being oddly sad and full of a strange, diffuse compassion which would lead you to believe that it might be a good idea to wipe out the whole human race and start again with amoebas.
   Beside the drift of paperwork was a book. Vimes twisted painfully and looked at the spine. It said: Dis­eases of the Dragon, by Sybil Deidre Olgivanna Ramkin.
   He turned the stiff pages in horrified fascination. They opened into another world, a world of quite stu­pefying problems. Slab Throat. The Black Tups. Dry Lung. Storge. Staggers, Heaves, Weeps, Stones. It was amazing, he decided after reading a few pages, that a swamp dragon ever survived to see a second sunrise. Even walking across a room must be reckoned a bio­logical triumph.
   The painstakingly-drawn illustrations he looked away from hurriedly. You could only take so much innards.
   There was a knock at the door.
   "I say? Are you decent?" Lady Ramkin boomed cheerfully.
   "Er-"
   "I’ve brought you something jolly nourishing."
   Somehow Vimes imagined it would be soup. Instead it was a plate stacked high with bacon, fried potatoes and eggs. He could hear his arteries panic just by look­ing at it.
   "I've made a bread pudding, too," said Lady Ramkin, slightly sheepishly. "I don't normally cook much, just for myself. You know how it is, catering for one."
   Vimes thought about the meals at his lodgings. Somehow the meat was always grey, with mysterious tubes in it.
   "Er," he began, not used to addressing ladies from a recumbent position in their own beds. "Corporal Nobbs tells me…"
   "And what a colourful little man Nobby is!" said Lady Ramkin.
   Vimes wasn't certain he could cope with this.
   "Colourful?" he said weakly.
   "A real character. We've been getting along fa­mously."
   "You have?"
   "Oh, yes. What a great fund of anecdotes he has."
   "Oh, yes. He's got that all right." It always amazed Vimes how Nobby got along with practically every­one. It must, he'd decided, have something to do with the common denominator. In the entire world of math­ematics there could be no denominator as common as Nobby.
   "Er," he said, and then found he couldn't leave this strange new byway, "you don't find his language a bit, er, ripe?"
   "Salty," corrected Lady Ramkin cheerfully. "You should have heard my father when he was annoyed. Anyway, we found we've got a lot in common. It's an amazing coincidence, but my grandfather once had his grandfather whipped for malicious lingering."
   That must make them practically family, Vimes thought. Another stab of pain from his stricken side made him wince.
   "You've got some very bad bruising and probably a cracked rib or two," she said. "If you roll over I'll put some more of this on.'' Lady Ramkin flourished a jar of yellow ointment.
   Panic crossed Vimes's face. Instinctively, he raised the sheets up around his neck.
   "Don't play silly buggers, man," she said. "I shan't see anything I haven't seen before. One backside is pretty much like another. It's just that the ones I see generally have tails on. Now roll over and up with the nightshirt. It belonged to my grandfather, you know.''
   There was no resisting that tone of voice. Vimes thought about demanding that Nobby be brought in as a chaperon, and then decided that would be even worse.
   The cream burned like ice.
   "What is it?"
   "All kinds of stuff. It'll reduce the bruising and promote the growth of healthy scale."
   "What?"
   "Sorry. Probably not scale. Don't look so worried. I'm almost positive about that. Okay, all done." She gave him a slap on the rump.
   "Madam, I am Captain of the Night Watch," said Vimes, knowing it was a bloody daft thing to say even as he said it.
   "Half naked in a lady's bed, too," said Lady Ramkin, unmoved. "Now sit up and eat your tea. We've got to get you good and strong."
   Vimes's eyes filled with panic.
   "Why?" he said.
   Lady Ramkin reached into the pocket of her grubby jacket.
   "I made some notes last night," she said. "About the dragon."
   "Oh, the dragon." Vimes relaxed a bit. Right now the dragon seemed a much safer prospect.
   "And I did a bit of working out, too. I'll tell you this: it's a very odd beast. It shouldn't be able to get airborne."
   "You're right there."
   "If it's built like swamp dragons, it should weigh about twenty tons. Twenty tons! It's impossible. It's all down to weight and wingspan ratios, you see."
   "I saw it drop off the tower like a swallow."
   "I know. It should have torn its wings off and left a bloody great hole in the ground," said Lady Ramkin firmly. "You can't muck about with aerodynamics. You can't just scale up from small to big and leave it at that, you see. It's all a matter of muscle power and lifting surfaces."
   "I knew there was something wrong," said Vimes, brightening up. "And the flame, too. Nothing goes around with that kind of heat inside it. How do swamp dragons manage it?"
   "Oh, that's just chemicals," said Lady Ramkin dismissively. "They just distill something flammable from whatever they’ve eaten and ignite the flame just as it comes out of the ducts. They never actually have fire inside them, unless they get a case of blowback."
   "What happens then?"
   "You're scraping dragon off the scenery," said Lady Ramkin cheerfully. "I'm afraid they're not very well-designed creatures, dragons."
   Vimes listened.

They would never have survived at all except that their home swamps were isolated and short of predators. Not that a dragon made good eating, anyway-once you'd taken away the leathery skin and the enormous flight mus­cles, what was left must have been like biting into a badly-run chemical factory. No wonder dragons were always ill. They relied on permanent stomach trouble for supplies of fuel. Most of their brain power was taken up with con­trolling the complexities of then- digestion, which could distill flame-producing fuels from the most unlikely in­gredients. They could even rearrange their internal plumbing overnight to deal with difficult processes. They lived on a chemical knife-edge the whole time. One mis­placed hiccup and they were geography.
   And when it came to choosing nesting sites, the fe­males had all the common sense and mothering in­stinct of a brick.
   Vimes wondered why people had been so worried about dragons in the olden days. If there was one in a cave near you, all you had to do was wait until it self-ignited, blew itself up, or died of acute in­digestion.
   "You've really studied them, haven't you," he said.
   "Someone ought to."
   "But what about the big ones?"
   "Golly, yes. They're a great mystery, you know," she said, her expression becoming extremely serious.
   "Yes, you said."
   "There are legends, you know. It seems as though one species of dragon started to get bigger and bigger and then . . . just vanished."
   "Died out, you mean?"
   "No . . . they turned up, sometimes. From some­where. Full of vim and vigour. And then, one day, they stopped coming at all." She gave Vimes a tri­umphant look. "I think they found somewhere where they could really be. "
   "Really be what?"
   "Dragons. Where they could really fulfil their po­tential. Some other dimension or something. Where the gravity isn't so strong, or something."
   "I thought when I saw it," said Vimes, "I thought, you can't have something that flies and has scales like that."
   They looked at each other.
   "We've got to find it in its lair," said Lady Ramkin.
   "No bloody flying newt sets fire to my city," said Vimes.
   "Just think of the contribution to dragon lore," said Lady Ramkin.
   "Listen, if anyone ever sets fire to this city, it's go­ing to be me. "
   "It's an amazing opportunity. There's so many questions ..."
   "You're right there." A phrase of Carrot's crossed Vimes's mind. "It can help us with our enquiries," he suggested.
   "But in the morning," said Lady Ramkin firmly.
   Vimes's look of bitter determination faded.
   "I shall sleep downstairs, in the kitchen," said Lady Ramkin cheerfully. "I usually have a camp bed made up down there when it's egg-laying time. Some of the females always need assistance. Don't you worry about me."
   "You're being very helpful," Vimes muttered.
   "I've sent Nobby down to the city to help the others set up your headquarters," said Lady Ramkin.
   Vimes had completely forgotten the Watch House. "It must have been badly damaged," he ventured.
   "Totally destroyed," said Lady Ramkin. "Just a patch of melted rock. So I'm letting you have a place in Pseudopolis Yard."
   "Sorry?"
   "Oh, my father had property all over the city," she said. "Quite useless to me, really. So I told my agent to give Sergeant Colon the keys to the old house in Pseudopolis Yard. It'll do it good to be aired."
   "But that area - I mean, there's real cobbles on the streets - the rent alone, I mean, Lord Vetinari won't-"
   "Don't you worry about it," she said, giving him a friendly pat. "Now, you really ought to get some sleep."
   Vimes lay in bed, his mind racing. Pseudopolis Yard was on the Ankh side of the river, in quite a high-rent district. The sight of Nobby or Sergeant Colon walking down the street in daylight would probably have the same effect on the area as the opening of a plague hospital.
   He dozed, gliding in and out of a sleep where giant dragons pursued him waving jars of ointment . . .
   And awoke to the sound of a mob.
   ...
   Lady Ramkin drawing herself up haughtily was not a sight to forget, although you could try. It was like watching continental drift in reverse as various sub­continents and islands pulled themselves together to form one massive, angry protowoman.
   The broken door of the dragon house swung on its hinges. The inmates, already as highly strung as a harp on amphetamines, were going mad. Little gouts of flame burst against the metal plates as they stampeded back and forth in their pens. "What," she said, "is the meaning of this?" If a Ramkin had ever been given to introspection she'd have admitted that it wasn't a very original line.
   But it was handy. It did the job. The reason that cliches become cliches is that they are the hammers and screwdrivers in the toolbox of communication.
   The mob filled the broken doorway. Some of it was waving various sharp implements with the up-and-down motion proper to rioters.
   "Worl," said the leader, "it's the dragon, innit?"
   There was a chorus of muttered agreement.
   "Hwhat about it?" said Lady Ramkin.
   "Worl. It's been burning the city. They don't fly far. You got dragons here. Could be one of them, couldn't it?"
   "Yeah."
   "S'right."
   "QED. "[15]
   "So what we're going to do is, we're going to put 'em down."
   "S'right."
   "Yeah."
   "Pro bono publico. "
   Lady Ramkin's bosom rose and fell like an empire. She reached out and grabbed the dunging fork from its hook on the wall.
   "One step nearer, I warn you, and you'll be sorry," she said.
   The leader looked beyond her to the frantic dragons.
   "Yeah?" he said, nastily. "And what'll you do, eh?"
   Her mouth opened and shut once or twice. "I shall summon the Watch!" she said at last.
   The threat did not have the effect she had expected. Lady Ramkin had never paid much attention to those bits of the city that didn't have scales on.
   "Well, that's too bad," said the leader. "That's re­ally worrying, you know that? Makes me go all weak at the knees, that does."
   He extracted a lengthy cleaver from his belt. ' 'And now you just stand aside, lady, because-"
   A streak of green fire blasted out of the back of the shed, passed a foot over the heads of the mob, and burned a charred rosette in the woodwork over the door.
   Then came a voice that was a honeyed purr of sheer deadly menace.
   "This is Lord Mountjoy Quickfang Winterforth IV, the hottest dragon in the city. It could burn your head clean off. "
   Captain Vimes limped forward from the shadows.
   A small and extremely frightened golden dragon was clamped firmly under one arm. His other hand held it by the tail.
   The rioters watched it, hypnotised.
   "Now I know what you're thinking," Vimes went on, softly. "You're wondering, after all this excite­ment, has it got enough flame left? And, y'know, I ain't so sure myself ..."
   He leaned forward, sighting between the dragon's ears, and his voice buzzed like a knife blade:
   "What you've got to ask yourself is: Am I feeling lucky?"
   They swayed backwards as he advanced.
   "Well?" he said. "Are you feeling lucky?"
   For a few moments the only sound was Lord Mount-joy Quickfang Winterforth IV's stomach rumbling omi­nously as fuel sloshed into his flame chambers.
   "Now look, er," said the leader, his eyes fixed hypnotically on the dragon's head, "there's no call for anything like that…"
   "In fact he might just decide to flare off all by him­self," said Vimes. "They have to do it to stop the gas building up. It builds up when they get nervous. And, y'know, I reckon you've made them all pretty nervous now."
   The leader made what he hoped was a vaguely conciliatory gesture, but unfortunately did it with the hand that was still holding a knife.
   "Drop it," said Vimes sharply, "or you're his­tory."
   The knife clanged on the flagstones. There was a scuffle at the back of the crowd as a number of people, metaphorically speaking, were a long way away and knew nothing about it.
   "But before the rest of you good citizens disperse quietly and go about your business," said Vimes meaningfully, "I suggest you look hard at these drag­ons. Do any of them look sixty feet long? Would you say they've got an eighty-foot wingspan? How hot do they flame, would you say?"
   "Dunno," said the leader.
   Vimes raised the dragon's head slightly. The leader rolled his eyes.
   "Dunno, sir," he corrected.
   "Do you want to find out?"
   The leader shook his head. But he did manage to find his voice.
   "Who are you, anyway?" he said.
   Vimes drew himself up. "Captain Vimes, City Watch," he said.
   This met with almost complete silence. The excep­tion was the cheerful voice, somewhere in the back of the crowd, which said: "Night shift, is it?"
   Vimes looked down at his nightshirt. In his hurry to get off his sickbed he'd shuffled hastily into a pair of Lady Ramkin's slippers. For the first time he saw they had pink pompoms on them.
   And it was at this moment that Lord Mountjoy Quickfang Winterforth IV chose to belch.
   It wasn't another stab of roaring fire. It was just a near-invisible ball of damp flame which rolled over the mob and singed a few eyebrows. But it definitely made an impression.
   Vimes rallied magnificently. They couldn't have no­ticed his brief moment of sheer horror.
   "That one was just to get your attention," he said, poker-faced. "The next one will be a little lower."
   "Er," said the leader. "Right you are. No problem. We were just going anyhow. No big dragons here, right enough. Sorry you've been troubled."
   "Oh, no," said Lady Ramkin triumphantly. "You don't get away that easily!" She reached up on to a shelf and produced a tin box. It had a slot in the lid. It rattled. On the side was the legend: The Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons.
   The initial whip-round produced four dollars and thirty-one pence. After Captain Vimes gestured point­edly with the dragon, a further twenty-five dollars and sixteen pence were miraculously forthcoming. Then the mob fled.
   "We made a profit on the day, anyway," said Vimes, when they were alone again.
   "That was jolly brave of you!"
   "Let's just hope it doesn't catch on," said Vimes, gingerly putting the exhausted dragon back in its pen. He felt quite lightheaded.
   Once again he was aware of eyes staring fixedly at him. He glanced sideways into the long, pointed face of Goodboy Bindle Featherstone, rearing up in a pose best described as The Last Puppy in the Shop.
   To his astonishment, he found himself reaching over and scratching it behind its ears, or at least behind the two spiky things at the sides of its head which were presumably its ears. It responded with a strange noise that sounded like a complicated blockage in a brewery. He took his hand away hurriedly.
   "It's all right," said Lady Ramkin. "It's his stom­achs rumbling. That means he likes you."
   To his amazement, Vimes found that he was rather pleased about this. As far as he could recall, nothing in his life before had thought him worth a burp.
   "I thought you were, er, going to get rid of him," he said.
   "I suppose I shall have to," she said. "You know how it is, though. They look up at you with those big, soulful eyes…"
   There was a brief, mutual, awkward silence.
   "How would it be if I…"
   "You don't think you might like…"
   They stopped.
   "It'd be the least I could do," said Lady Ramkin.
   ' 'But you're already giving us the new headquarters and everything!"
   "That was simply my duty as a good citizen," said Lady Ramkin. "Please accept Goodboy as… as a friend. "
   Vimes felt that he was being inched out over a very deep chasm on a very thin plank.
   "I don't even know what they eat," he said.
   "They're omnivores, actually," she said. "They eat everything except metal and igneous rocks. You can't be finicky, you see, when you evolve in a swamp."
   "But doesn't he need to be taken for walks? Or flights, or whatever?"
   "He seems to sleep most of the time." She scratched the ugly thing on top of its scaly head. ' 'He's the most relaxed dragon I've ever bred, I must say."
   "What about, er, you know?" He indicated the dunging fork.
   "Well, it's mainly gas. Just keep him somewhere well ventilated. You haven't got any valuable carpets, have you? It's best not to let them lick your face, but they can be trained to control their flame. They're very helpful for lighting fires."
   Goodboy Bindle Featherstone curled up amidst a barrage of plumbing noises.
   They’ve got eight stomachs, Vimes remembered; the drawings in the book had been very detailed. And there's lots of other stuff like fractional-distillation tubes and mad alchemy sets in there.
   No swamp dragon could ever terrorize a kingdom, except by accident. Vimes wondered how many had been killed by enterprising heroes. It was terribly cruel to do something like that to creatures whose only crime was to blow themselves absent-mindedly to pieces in mid-air, which was not something any individual dragon made a habit of. It made him quite angry to think about it. A race of, of whittles, that's what drag­ons were. Born to lose. Live fast, die wide. Omnivores or not, what they must really live on was their nerves, flapping apologetically through the world in mortal fear of their own digestive system. The family would be just getting over father's explosion, and some twerp in a suit of armour would come plodding into the swamp to stick a sword into a bag of guts that was only one step away from self-destruction in any case.
   Huh. It'd be interesting to see how the great dragon slayers of the past stood up to the big dragon. Armour? Best not to wear it. It'd all be the same in any case, and at least your ashes wouldn't come prepackaged in their own foil.
   He stared and stared at the malformed little thing, and the idea that had been knocking for attention for the last few minutes finally gained entrance. Everyone in Ankh-Morpork wanted to find the dragon's lair. At least, wanted to find it empty. Bits of wood on a stick wouldn't do it, he was certain. But, as they said, set a thief... [16]
   He said, "Could one dragon sniff out another? I mean, follow a scent?"
   ...
   Dearest Mother [wrote Carrot] Talk about a Turn Up for the Books. Last night the dragon burned up our Headquarters and Lo and Behold we have been given a better one, it is in a place called Pseudopolis Yard, opposite the Opera House. Sgt Colon said we have gone Up in the World and has told Nobby not to try to sell the furnishings. Going Up in the World is a metaphor, which I am learning about, it is like Lying but more decorative. There are proper carpets to spit on. Twice today groups of people have tried to search the cellars here for the dragon, it is amazing. And digging up people's privies and poking into attics, it is like a Fever. One thing is, people haven't got time for much else, and Sgt Colon says, when you go out on your Rounds and shout Twelve of the Clock and All's Well while a dragon is melting the street you feel a bit of a Burke.
   I have moved out of Mrs Palm's because, there are dozens of bedrooms here. It was sad and they made me a cake but I think it is for the best, although Mrs Palm never charged me rent which was very nice of her considering she is a widow with so many fine daughters to bring up plus dowries ekcetra.
   Also I have made friends with this ape who keeps coming round to see if we have found his book. Nobby says it is a flea-ridden moron because it won 18 off him playing Cripple Mr Onion, which is a game of chance with cards which I do not play, I have told Nobby about the Gambling (Regulation) Acts, and he said Piss off, which I think is in violation of the De­cency Ordinances of 1389 but I have decided to use my Discretion.
   Capt Vimes is ill and is being looked after by a Lady. Nobby says it is well known she is Mental, but Sgt Colon says its just because of living in a big house with a lot of dragons but she is worth a Fortune and well done to the Capt for getting his feet under the table. I do not see what the furniture has to do with it. This morning I went for a walk with Reel and showed her many interesting examples of the ironwork to be found in the city. She said it was very interest­ing. She said I was quite different to anyone she's ever met. Your loving son, Carrot.X
   PS I hope Minty is keeping well.
   He folded the paper carefully and shoved it into the envelope.
   "Sun's going down," said Sergeant Colon.
   Carrot looked up from his sealing wax.
   "That means it will be night soon," Colon went on, accurately.
   "Yes, Sergeant."
   Colon ran a finger round his collar. His skin was impressively pink, the result of a morning's scrubbing, but people were still staying at a respectful distance.
   Some people are born to command. Some people achieve command. And others have command thrust upon them, and the sergeant was now included in this category and wasn't very happy about it.
   Any minute now, he knew, he was going to have to say that it was time they went out on patrol. He didn't want to go out on patrol. He wanted to find a nice sub-basement somewhere. But nobblyess obligay; if he was in charge, he had to do it.
   It wasn't the loneliness of command that was both­ering him. It was the being-fried-alive of command that was giving him problems.
   He was also pretty sure that unless they came up with something about this dragon very soon then the Patrician was going to be unhappy. And when the Pa­trician was unhappy, he became very democratic. He found intricate and painful ways of spreading that un-happiness as far as possible. Responsibility, the ser­geant thought, was a terrible thing. So was being horribly tortured. As far as he could see, the two facts were rapidly heading towards one another.
   And thus he was terribly relieved when a small coach pulled up outside the Yard. It was very old, and bat­tered. There was a faded coat of arms on the door. Painted on the back, and rather newer, was the little message: Whinny If You Love Dragons.
   Out of it, wincing as he got down, stepped Captain Vimes. Following him was the woman known to the sergeant as Mad Sybil Ramkin. And finally, hopping down obediently on the end of its lead, was a small…
   The sergeant was too nervous to take account of actual size.
   "Well, I'll be mogadored! They've only gone and caught it!"
   Nobby looked up from the table in the corner where he was continually failing to learn that it is almost impossible to play a game of skill and bluff against an opponent who smiles all the time. The Librarian took advantage of the diversion to help himself to a couple of cards off the bottom of the pack.
   "Don't be daft. That's just a swamp dragon," said Nobby. "She's all right, is Lady Sybil. A real lady."
   The other two guards turned and stared at him. This was Nobby talking.
   "You two can bloody well stop that," he said. "Why shouldn't I know a lady when I sees one? She give me a cup of tea in a cup thin as paper and a silver spoon in it," he said, speaking as one who had peeped over the plateau of social distinction. "And I give it back to her, so you can stop looking at me like that!"
   "What is it you actually do on your evenings off?" said Colon.
   "No business of yourn."
   "Did you really give the spoon back?" said Carrot.
   "Yes I bloody well did!" said Nobby hotly.
   "Attention, lads," said the sergeant, flooded with relief.
   The other two entered the room. Vimes gave his men his usual look of resigned dismay. "My squad," he mumbled.
   "Fine body of men," said Lady Ramkin. "The good old rank and file, eh?"
   "The rank, anyway," said Vimes.
   Lady Ramkin beamed encouragingly. This led to a strange shuffling among the men. Sergeant Colon, by dint of some effort, managed to make his chest stick out more than his stomach. Carrot straightened up from his habitual stoop. Nobby vibrated with soldierly bearing, hands thrust straight down by his sides, thumbs pointing sharply forward, pigeon chest in­flated so much that his feet were in danger of leaving the ground.
   "I always think we can all sleep safer in my bed know­ing that these brave men are watching over us," said Lady Ramkin, walking sedately along the rank, like a treasure galleon running ahead of a mild breeze. "And who is this?"
   It is difficult for an orangutan to stand to attention. Its body can master the general idea, but its skin can't. The Librarian was doing his best, however, standing in a sort of respectful heap at the end of the line and maintaining the kind of complex salute you can only achieve with a four-foot arm.
   " 'E's plain clothes, ma'am," said Nobby smartly. "Special Ape Services."
   "Very enterprising. Very enterprising indeed," said Lady Ramkin. "How long have you been an ape, my man?"
   "Oook."
   "Well done." She turned to Vimes, who was defi­nitely looking incredulous.
   "A credit to you," she said. "A fine body of men…"
   "Oook."
   "…anthropoids," corrected Lady Ramkin, with barely a break in the flow.
   For a moment the rank felt as though they had just returned from single-handedly conquering a distant province. They felt, in fact, tremendously bucked up, which was how Lady Ramkin would almost certainly have put it and which was definitely several letters of the alphabet away from how they normally felt. Even the Librarian felt favoured, and for once had let the phrase 'my man' pass without comment.
   A trickling noise and a strong chemical smell prompted them to look around.
   Goodboy Bindle Featherstone was squatting with an air of sheepish innocence alongside what was not so much a stain on the carpet as a hole in the floor. A few wisps of smoke were curling up from the edges.
   Lady Ramkin sighed.
   "Don't you worry, ma'am," volunteered Nobby cheerfully. "Soon have that cleaned up."
   "I'm afraid they're often like that when they're ex­cited," she said.
   "Fine specimen you got there, ma'am," Nobby went on, revelling in the new-found experience of so­cial intercourse.
   "It's not mine," she said. "It belongs to the captain now. Or all of you, perhaps. A sort of mascot. His name is Goodboy Bindle Featherstone."
   Goodboy Bindle Featherstone bore up stoically un­der the weight of the name, and sniffed a table leg.
   "He looks more like my brother Errol," said Nobby, playing the cheeky chirpy lovable city sparrow card for all it was worth. "Got the same pointed nose, excuse me for saying so, milady."
   Vimes looked at the creature, which was investigat­ing its new environment, and knew that it was now, irrevocably, an Errol. The little dragon took an exper­imental bite out of the table, chewed it for a few sec­onds, spat it out, curled up and went to sleep.
   "He ain't going to set fire to anything, is he?" said the sergeant anxiously.
   "I don't think so. He doesn't seem to have worked out what his flame ducts are for yet," said Lady Ramkin.
   "You can't teach him anything about relaxing, though," said Vimes. "Anyway, men ..."
   "Oook."
   "I wasn't talking to you, sir. What's this doing here?"
   "Er," said Sergeant Colon hurriedly, "I, er . . . with you being away and all, and us likely to be short-handed . . . Carrot here says it's all according to the law and that ... I swore him in, sir. The ape, sir."
   "Swore him in what, Sergeant?" said Vimes.
   "As Special Constable, sir," said Colon, blushing. "You know, sir. Sort of citizen's Watch."
   Vimes threw up his hands."Special? Bloody ' unique!"
   The Librarian gave Vimes a big smile.
   "Just temporarily, sir. For the duration, like," said Colon pleadingly. "We could do with the help, sir, and . . . well, he's the only one who seems to like us . . ."
   "I think it's a frightfully good idea," said Lady Ramkin. "Well done, that ape."
   Vimes shrugged. The world was mad enough al­ready, what could make it worse?
   "Okay," he said. "Okay! I give in. Fine! Give him a badge, although I'm damned if I know where he'll wear it! Fine! Yes! Why not?"
   "You all right, Captain?" said Colon, all concern.
   "Fine! Fine! Welcome to the new Watch!" snapped Vimes, striding vaguely around the room. "Great! Af­ter all, we pay peanuts, don't we, so we might as well employ mon…"
   The sergeant's hand slapped respectfully across Vimes's mouth.
   "Er, just one thing, Captain," said Colon urgently, to Vimes's astonished eyes. "You don't use the 'M' word. Gets right up his nose, sir. He can't help it, he loses all self-control. Like a red rag to a wossname, sir. 'Ape' is all right, sir, but not the 'M' word. Be­cause, sir, when he gets angry he doesn't just go and sulk, sir, if you get my drift. He's no trouble at all apart from that, sir. All right? Just don't say monkey. Oh shit!"
   The Brethren were nervous.
   He'd heard them talking. Things were moving too fast for them. He thought he'd led them into the con­spiracy a bit at a time, never giving them more truth than their little brains could cope with, but he'd still overestimated them. A firm hand was needed. Firm but fair.
   "Brothers," said the Supreme Grand Master, "are the Cuffs of Veracity duly enhanced?"
   "What?" said Brother Watchtower vaguely. "Oh. The Cuffs. Yeah. Enhanced. Right."
   "And the Martlets of Beckoning, are they fittingly divested?"
   Brother Plasterer gave a guilty start. "Me? What? Oh. Fine, no problem. Divested. Yes."
   The Supreme Grand Master paused.
   "Brothers," he said softly. "We are so near. Just once more. Just a few hours. Once more and the world is ours. Do you understand, Brothers?"
   Brother Plasterer shuffled a foot.
   "Well," he said. "I mean, of course. Yes. No fears about that. Behind you one hundred and ten percent…"
   He's going to say only, thought the Supreme Grand Master.
   "…only…"
   Ah.
   "…we, that is, all of us, we've been . . . odd, re­ally, you feel so different, don't you, after summoning the dragon, sort of…"
   "Cleaned out," said Brother Plasterer helpfully.
   "Yes, like it's sort of…" Brother Watchtower strug­gled with the serpents of self-expression,"..taking some­thing out of you ..."
   "Sucked dry," said Brother Plasterer.
   "Yes, like he said, and we ... well, it's maybe it's a bit risky ..."
   "Like stuff's been dragged from your actual living brain by eldritch creatures from the Beyond," said Brother Plasterer.
   "I'd have said more like a bit of a sick headache, myself," said Brother Watchtower helplessly. "And we was wondering, you know, about all this stuff about cosmic balance and that, because, well, look what happened to poor old Dunnykin. Could be a bit of a judgement. Er."
   "It was just a maddened crocodile hidden in a flower bed," said the Supreme Grand Master. "It could have happened to anyone. I understand your feelings, how­ever."
   "You do?" said Brother Watchtower.
   "Oh, yes. They're only natural. All the greatest wizards feel a little ill-at-ease before undertaking a great work such as this." The Brethren preened them­selves. Great wizards. That's us. Yeah. "But in a few hours it'll be over, and I am sure that the king will reward you handsomely. The future will be glorious."
   This normally did the trick. It didn't appear to be working this time.
   "But the dragon…" Brother Watchtower began.
   "There won't be any dragon! We won't need it. Look," said the Supreme Grand Master, "it's quite simple. The lad will have a marvellous sword. Every­one knows kings have marvellous swords-"
   "This'd be the marvellous sword you've been telling us about, would it?" said Brother Plasterer.
   "And when it touches the dragon," said the Su­preme Grand Master, "it'll be . . . foom!"
   "Yeah, they do that," said Brother Doorkeeper. "My uncle kicked a swamp dragon once. He found it eating his pumpkins. Damn thing nearly took his leg off."
   The Supreme Grand Master sighed. A few more hours, yes, and then no more of this. The only thing he hadn't decided was whether to let them alone - who'd believe them, after all? - or send the Guard to arrest them for being terminally stupid.
   "No," he said patiently, "I mean the dragon will vanish. We'll have sent it back. End of dragon."
   "Won't people be a bit suspicious?" said Brother Plasterer. "Won't they expect lumps of dragon all over the place?"
   "No," said the Supreme Grand Master trium­phantly, "because one touch from the Sword of Truth and Justice will totally destroy the Spawn of Evil!"
   The Brethren stared at him.
   "That's what they'll believe, anyway," he added. "We can provide a bit of mystic smoke at the time."
   "Dead easy, mystic smoke," said Brother Fingers.
   "No bits, then?" said Brother Plasterer, a shade disappointed.
   Brother Watchtower coughed. "Dunno if people will accept that," he said. "Sounds a bit too neat, like."
   "Listen," snapped the Supreme Grand Master, "they'll accept anything! They'll see it happen! Peo­ple will be so keen to see the boy win, they won't think twice about it! Depend upon it! Now ... let us com­mence . . ."
   He concentrated.
   Yes, it was easier. Easier every time. He could feel the scales, feel the rage of the dragon as he reached into the place where the dragons went and took con­trol.
   This was power, and it was his.
 

Sergeant Colon winced. "Ow."
   "Don't be a big softy," said Lady Ramkin cheer­fully, tightening the bandage with a well-practised skill handed down through many generations of Ramkin womenfolk. "He hardly touched you."
   "And he's very sorry," said Carrot sharply. "Show the sergeant how sorry you are. Go on."
   "Oook," said the Librarian, sheepishly.
   "Don't let him kiss me!" squeaked Colon.
   "Do you think picking someone up by their ankles and bouncing their head on the floor comes under the heading of Striking a Superior Officer?" said Carrot.
   "I'm not pressing charges, me," said the sergeant hurriedly.
   "Can we get on?" said Vimes impatiently. "We're going to see if Errol can sniff out the dragon's lair. Lady Ramkin thinks it's got to be worth a try."
   "You mean set a deep hole with spring-loaded sides, tripwires, whirling knife blades driven by water power, broken glass and scorpions, to catch a thief, Cap­tain?" said the sergeant doubtfully. "Ow!"
   "Yes, we don't want to lose the scent," said Lady Ramkin. "Stop being a big baby, Sergeant."
   "Brilliant idea about using Errol, ma'am, if I may make so bold," said Nobby, while the sergeant blushed under his bandage.
   Vimes was not certain how long he would be able to put up with Nobby the social mountaineer.
   Carrot said nothing. He was gradually coming to terms with the fact that he probably wasn't a dwarf, but dwarf blood flowed in his veins in accordance with the famous principle of morphic resonance, and his bor­rowed genes were telling him that nothing was going to be that simple. Finding a hoard even when the dragon wasn't at home was pretty risky. Anyway, he was cer­tain he'd know if there was one around. The presence of large amounts of gold always made a dwarf's palms itch, and his weren't itching.
   "We'll start by that wall in the Shades," said the captain.
   Sergeant Colon glanced sideways at Lady Ramkin, and found it impossible to show cowardice in the face of the supportive. He contented himself with, "Is that wise, Captain?"
   "Of course it isn't. If we were wise, we wouldn't be in the Watch."
   "I say! All this is tremendously exciting," said Lady Ramkin.
   "Oh, I don't think you should come, m'lady…" Vimes began.
   "Sybil, please!"
   "…it's a very disreputable area, you see."
   "But I'm sure I shall be perfectly safe with your men," she said. "I'm sure vagabonds just melt away when they see you."
   That's dragons, thought Vimes. They melt away when they see dragons, and just leave their shadows on the wall. Whenever he felt that he was slowing down, or that he was losing interest, he remembered those shadows, and it was like having dull fire poured down his backbone. Things like that shouldn't be al­lowed to happen. Not in my city.

   In fact the Shades were not a problem. Many of its denizens were out hoard-hunting anyway, and those that remained were far less inclined than hitherto to lurk in dark alleys. Besides, the more sensible of them recognized that Lady Ramkin, if waylaid, would prob­ably tell them to pull up their socks and not be silly, in a voice so used to command that they would prob­ably find themselves doing it.
   The wall hadn't been knocked down yet and still bore its grisly fresco. Errol sniffed around it, trotted up the alley once or twice, and went to sleep.
   "Dint work," said Sergeant Colon.
   "Good idea, though," said Nobby loyally.
   "It could be all the rain and people walking about, I suppose," said Lady Ramkin.
   Vimes scooped up the dragon. It had been a vain hope anyway. It was just better to be doing something than nothing.
   "We'd better get back," he said. "The sun's gone down.''
   They walked back in silence. The dragon's even tamed the Shades, Vimes thought. It's taken over the whole city, even when it isn't here. People 'll start ty­ing virgins to rocks any day now.
   It's a metaphor of human bloody existence, a dragon. And if that wasn't bad enough, it's also a bloody great hot flying thing.
   He pulled out the key to the new headquarters. While he was fumbling in the lock, Errol woke up and started to yammer.
   "Not now," Vimes said. His side twinged. The night had barely started and already he felt too tired.
   A slate slid down the roof and smashed on the cob­bles beside him.
   "Captain," hissed Sergeant Colon.
   "What?"
   "It's on the roof, Captain."
   Something about the sergeant's voice got through to Vimes. It wasn't excited. It wasn't frightened. It just had a tone of dull, leaden terror.
   He looked up. Errol started to bounce up and down under his arm.
   The dragon - the dragon - was peering down inter­estedly over the guttering. Its face alone was taller than a man. Its eyes were the size of very large eyes, coloured a smouldering red and filled with an intelli­gence that had nothing to do with human beings. It was far older, for one thing. It was an intelligence that had already been long basted in guile and marinated in cunning by the time a group of almost-monkeys were wondering whether standing on two legs was a good career move. It wasn't an intelligence that had any truck with, or even understood, the arts of diplo­macy.
   It wouldn't play with you, or ask you riddles. But it understood all about arrogance and power and cruelty and if it could possibly manage it, it would burn your head off. Because it liked to.
   It was even more angry than usual at the moment. It could sense something behind its eyes. A tiny, weak, alien mind, bloated with self-satisfaction. It was in­furiating, like an unscratchable itch. It was making it do things it didn't want to do ... and stopping it from doing things it wanted to do very much.
   Those eyes were, for the moment, focused on Errol, who was going frantic. Vimes realized that all that stood between him and a million degrees of heat was the dragon's vague interest in why Vimes had a smaller dragon under his arm.
   "Don't make any sudden moves," said Lady Ramkin's voice behind him. "And don't show fear. They can always tell when you're afraid."
   "Is there any other advice you can offer at this time?" said Vimes slowly, trying to speak without moving his lips.
   "Well, tickling them behind their ears often works."
   "Oh," said Vimes weakly.
   "And a good sharp 'no!' and taking away their food bowl."
   "Ah?"
   "And hitting them on the nose with a roll of paper is what I do in extreme cases."
   In the slow, brightly-outlined, desperate world Vimes was now inhabiting, which seemed to revolve around the craggy nostrils a few metres away from him, he became aware of a gentle hissing sound.
   The dragon was taking a deep breath.
   The intake of air stopped. Vimes looked into the darkness of the flame ducts and wondered whether he'd see anything, whether there'd be some tiny white glow or something, before fiery oblivion swept over him.
   At that moment a horn rang out.
   The dragon raised its head in a puzzled way and made a noise that sounded vaguely interrogative with­out being in any way a word.
   The horn rang out again. The noise seemed to have a number of echoes that lived a life of their own. It sounded like a challenge. If that wasn't what it was, then the horn blower was soon going to be in trouble, because the dragon gave Vimes a smouldering look, unfolded its enormous wings, leapt heavily into the air and, against all the rules of aeronautics, flew slowly away in the direction of the sound.
   Nothing in the world should have been able to fly like that. The wings thumped up and down with a noise like potted thunder, but the dragon moved as though it was idly sculling through the air. If it stopped flap­ping, the movement suggested, it would simply glide to a halt. It floated, not flew. For something the size of a barn with an armour-plated hide, it was a pretty good trick.
   It passed over their heads like a barge, heading for the Plaza of Broken Moons.
   "Follow it!" shouted Lady Ramkin.
   "That's not right, it flying like that. I'm pretty sure there's something in one of the Witchcraft Laws," said Carrot, taking out his notebook. "And it's damaged the roof. It's really piling up the offences, you know."
   "You all right, Captain?" said Sergeant Colon.
   "I could see right up its nose," said Captain Vimes dreamily. His eyes focused on the worried face of the sergeant. "Where's it gone?" he demanded. Colon pointed along the street.
   Vimes glowered at the shape disappearing over the rooftops.
   "Follow it!" he said.

   The horn sounded again.
   Other people were hurrying towards the plaza. The dragon drifted ahead of them like a shark heading to­wards a wayward airbed, its tail flicking slowly from side to side.
   "Some loony is going to fight it!" said Nobby.
   "I thought someone would have a go," said Colon. "Poor bugger'll be baked in his own armour."
   This seemed to be the opinion of the crowds lining the plaza. The people of Ankh-Morpork had a straightforward, no-nonsense approach to entertain­ment, and while they were looking forward to seeing a dragon slain, they'd be happy to settle instead for seeing someone being baked alive in his own armour. You didn't get the chance every day to see someone baked alive in their own armour. It would be some­thing for the children to remember.
   Vimes was jostled and bounced around by the crowd as more people flooded into the plaza behind them.
   The horn sounded a third challenge.
   "That's a slug-horn, that is," said Colon knowledgeably. "Like a tocsin, only deeper."
   "You sure?" said Nobby.
   "Yep."
   "It must have been a bloody big slug."
   "Peanuts! Figgins! Hot sausages!" whined a voice behind them. "Hallo, lads. Hallo, Captain Vimes! In at the death, eh? Have a sausage. On the house."
   "What's going on, Throat?" said Vimes, clinging to the vendor's tray as more people spilled around them.
   "Some kid's ridden into the city and said he'd kill the dragon," said Cut-me-own-Throat. "Got a magic sword, he says."
   "Has he got a magic skin?"
   "You've got no romance in your soul, Captain," said Throat, removing a very hot toasting fork from the tiny frying pan on his tray and applying it gently to the buttock of a large woman in front of him. "Stand aside, madam, commerce is the lifeblood of the city, thank you very much. O'course," he continued, "by rights there should be a maiden chained to a rock. Only the aunt said no. That's the trouble with some people. No sense of tradition. This lad says he's the rightful air, too."
   Vimes shook his head. The world was definitely go­ing mad around him. "You've lost me there," he said.
   "Air," said Throat patiently. "You know. Air to the throne."
   "What throne?"
   "The throne of Ankh."
   "What throne of Ankh?"
   "You know. Kings and that." Throat looked reflec­tive. "Wish I knew what his bloody name is," he said. "I put an order in to Igneous the Troll's all-night wholesale pottery for three gross of coronation mugs and it's going to be a right pain, painting all the names in afterwards. Shall I put you down for a couple, Cap'n? To you ninety pence, and that's cutting me own throat."
   Vimes gave up, and shoved his way back through the throng using Carrot as a lighthouse. The lance-constable loomed over the crowd, and the rest of the rank had anchored themselves to him.
   "It's all gone mad," he shouted. "What's going on, Carrot?"
   "There's a lad on a horse in the middle of the plaza," said Carrot. "He's got a glittery sword, you know. Doesn't seem to be doing much at the moment, though."
   Vimes fought his way into the lee of Lady Ramkin.
   "Kings," he panted. "Of Ankh. And Thrones. Are there?"
   "What? Oh, yes. There used to be," said Lady Ramkin. "Hundreds of years ago. Why?"
   "Some kid says he's heir to the throne!"
   "That's right," said Throat, who'd followed Vimes in the hope of clinching a sale. ' 'He made a big speech about how he was going to kill the dragon, overthrow the usurpers and right all wrongs. Everyone cheered. Hot sausages, two for a dollar, made of genuine pig, why not buy one for the lady?"
   "Don't you mean pork, sir?" said Carrot warily, eyeing the glistening tubes.
   "Manner of speaking, manner of speaking," said Throat quickly. "Certainly your actual pig products. Genuine pig."
   "Everyone cheers any speech in this city," growled Vimes. "It doesn't mean anything!"
   "Get your pig sausages, five for two dollars!" said Throat, who never let a conversation stand in the way of trade. "Could be good for business, could monar­chy. Pig sausages! Pig sausages! Inna bun! And right­ing all wrongs, too. Sounds like a solid idea to me. With onions!"
   "Can I press you to a hot sausage, ma'am?" said Nobby.
   Lady Ramkin looked at the tray around Throat's neck. Thousands of years of good breeding came to her aid and there was only the faintest suggestion of horror in her voice when she said, "My, they look good. What splendid foodstuffs."
   "Are they made by monks on some mystic moun­tain?" said Carrot.
   Throat gave him an odd look. "No," he said pa­tiently, "by pigs."
   "What wrongs?" said Vimes urgently. "Come on, tell me. What wrongs is he going to right?"
   "We-ell," said Throat, "there's, well, taxes. That's wrong, for a start." He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. Paying taxes was something that, in Throat's world, happened only to other people.
   "That's right," said an old woman next to him. "And the gutter of my house leaks something dreadful and the landlord won't do nothing. That's wrong."
   "And premature baldness," said the man in front of her. "That's wrong, too." Vimes's mouth dropped open.
   "Ah. Kings can cure that, you know," said another protomonarchist knowingly.
   "As a matter of fact," said Throat, rummaging in his pack, "I've got one bottle left of this astonishing ointment what is made…" he glared at Carrot,"…by some ancient monks who live on a mountain…"
   "And they can't answer back, you know," the mon­archist went on. "That's how you can tell they're royal. Completely incapable of it. It's to do with being gra­cious."
   "Fancy," said the leaky-guttering woman.
   "Money, too," said the monarchist, enjoying the attention. "They don't carry it. That's how you can always tell a king."
   "Why? It's not that heavy," said the man whose remaining hair was spread across the dome of his head like the remnant of a defeated army. "I can carry hun­dreds of dollars, no problem."
   "You probably get weak arms, being a king," said the woman wisely. "Probably with the waving."
   "I've always thought," said the monarchist, pulling out a pipe and beginning to fill it with the ponderous air of one who is going to deliver a lecture, "that one of the major problems of being a king is the risk of your daughter getting a prick."
   There was a thoughtful pause.
   "And falling asleep for a hundred years," the mon­archist went on stolidly.
   "Ah," said the others, unaccountably relieved.
   "And then there's wear and tear on peas," he added.
   "Well, there would be," said the woman, uncer­tainly.
   "Having to sleep on them all the time," said the monarchist.
   "Not to mention hundreds of mattresses."
   "Right."
   "Is that so? I think I could get 'em for him whole­sale," said Throat. He turned to Vimes, who had been listening to all this with leaden depression. "See, Captain? And you'd be in the royal guard, I expect. Get some plumes in your helmet."
   "Ah, pageantry," said the monarchist, pointing with his pipe. "Very important. Lots of spectacles."
   "What, free?" said Throat.
   "We-ell, I think maybe you have to pay for the frames," said the monarchist.
   "You're all bloody mad!" shouted Vimes. "You don't know anything about him and he hasn't even won yet!"
   "Bit of a formality, I expect," said the woman.
   "It's a fire-breathing dragon!" screamed Vimes, re­membering those nostrils. "And he's just a guy on a horse, for heaven's sake!"
   Throat prodded him gently in the breastplate. "You got no soul, Cap'n," he said. "When a stranger comes into the city under the thrall of the dragon and chal­lenges it with a glittery sword, weeell, there's only one outcome, ain't there? It's probably destiny."
   "Thrall?" shouted Vimes. "Thrall? You thieving bugger, Throat, you were flogging cuddly dragon dolls yesterday!"
   "That's was just business, Cap'n. No need to get excited about it," said Throat pleasantly.
   Vimes went back to the rank in a gloomy rage. Say what you liked about the people of Ankh-Morpork, they had always been staunchly independent, yielding to no man their right to rob, defraud, embezzle and murder on an equal basis. This seemed absolutely right, to Vimes's way of thinking. There was no dif­ference at all between the richest man and the poorest beggar, apart from the fact that the former had lots of money, food, power, fine clothes, and good health. But at least he wasn't any better. Just richer, fatter, more powerful, better dressed and healthier. It had been like that for hundreds of years.
   "And now they get one sniff of an ermine robe and they go all gooey," he muttered.
   The dragon was circling the plaza slowly and warily. Vimes craned to see over the heads in front of him.
   In the same way that various predators have the sil­houette of their prey almost programmed into their genes, it was possible that the shape of someone on a horse holding a sword clicked a few tumblers in a drag­on's brain. It was showing keen but wary interest.
   Back in the crowd, Vimes shrugged. "I didn't even know we were a kingdom."
   "Well, we haven't been for ages," said Lady Ramkin. "The kings got thrown out, and jolly good job too. They could be quite frightful."
   "But you're, well, from a pos - from a high-born family," he said. "I should have thought you'd be all for kings."
   "Some of them were fearful ilks, you know," she said airily. "Wives all over the place, and chopping people's heads off, fighting pointless wars, eating with their knife, chucking half-eaten chicken legs over their shoulders, that sort of thing. Not our sort of people at all."
   The plaza went quiet. The dragon had flapped slowly to the far end and was almost stationary in the air, apart from the slow beating of its wings.
   Vimes felt something claw gently at his back, and then Errol was on his shoulder, gripping with his hind claws. His stubby wings were beating in time with those of the bigger specimen. He was hissing. His eyes were fixed on the hovering bulk.
   The boy's horse jigged nervously on the plaza's flag­stones as he dismounted, flourished the sword and turned to face the distant enemy.
   He certainly looks confident, Vimes told himself. On the other hand, how does the ability to slay dragons fit you for kingship in this day and age?
   It was certainly a very shiny sword. You had to admit that.

   And now it was two of the clock the following morn­ing. And all was well, apart from the rain. It was drizzling again.
   There are some towns in the multiverse which think they know how to have a good time. Places like New Orleans and Rio reckon they not only know how to push the boat out but set fire to the harbour as well; but compared to Ankh-Morpork with its hair down they're a Welsh village at 2 p.m. on a wet Sunday af­ternoon.
   Fireworks banged and sparkled in the damp air over the turbid mud of the river Ankh. Various domesti­cated animals were being roasted in the streets. Danc­ers conga'd from house to house, often managing to pick up any loose ornaments while doing so. There was a lot of quaffing going on. People who in normal circumstances would never think of doing it were shouting "Hurrah".
   Vimes stalked gloomily through the crowded streets, feeling like the only pickled onion in a fruit salad. He'd given the rank the evening off.
   He wasn't feeling at all royalist. He didn't think he had anything against kings as such, but the sight of Ankh-Morporkians waving flags was mysteriously up­setting. That was something only silly subject people did, in other countries. Besides, the idea of royal plumes in his hat revolted him. He'd always had a thing about plumes. Plumes sort of, well, bought you off, told everyone that you didn't belong to yourself. And he'd feel like a bird. It'd be the last straw.
   His errant feet led him back to the Yard. After all, where else was there? His lodgings were depressing and his landlady had complained about the holes which, despite much shouting, Errol kept making in the carpet. And the smell Errol made. And Vimes couldn't drink in a tavern tonight without seeing things that would upset him even more than the things he normally saw when he was drunk.
   It was nice and quiet, although the distant sounds of revelry could be heard through the window.
   Errol scrambled down from his shoulder and started to eat the coke in the fireplace.
   Vimes sat back and put his feet up.
   What a day! And what a fight! The dodging, the weaving, the shouts of the crowd, the young man standing there looking tiny and unprotected, the dragon taking a deep breath in a way now very familiar to Vimes . . .
   And not flaming. That had surprised Vimes. It had surprised the crowd. It had certainly surprised the dragon, which had tried to squint at its own nose and clawed desperately at its flame ducts. It had remained surprised right up to the moment when the lad ducked in under one claw and thrust the sword home.
   And then a thunderclap.
   You'd have thought there'd have been some bits of dragon left, really.
   Vimes pulled a scrap of paper towards him. He looked at the notes he'd made yesterday:
   Itym: Heavy draggon, but yet it can flye right welle;
   Itym: The fyre be main hot, yet issueth from ane living Thinge;
   Itym: The Swamp dragons be right Poor Thinges, yet this monstrous Form waxeth full mightily;
   Itym: From whence it cometh none knowe, nor wither it goeth, nor where it bideth betweentimes;
   Itym: Why fore did it burneth so neatlie ?
   He pulled the pen and ink towards him and, in a slow round hand, added:
   Itym: Can a draggon be destroyed into utterlye noe-thinge?
   He thought for a while, and continued:
   Itym: Whyfore did it Explode that noone may find It, search they greatly?
   A puzzler, that. Lady Ramkin said that when a swamp dragon exploded there was dragon everywhere. And this one had been a damn great thing. Admittedly its insides must have been an alchemical nightmare, but the citizens of Ankh-Morpork should still have been spending the night shovelling dragon off the streets. No-one seemed to have bothered about this. The purple smoke was quite impressive, though.
   Errol finished off the coke and started on the fire irons. So far this evening he had eaten three cobble­stones, a doorknob, something unidentifiable he'd found in the gutter and, to general astonishment, three of Cut-me-own Throat's sausages made of genuine pork organs. The crunching of the poker going down mingled with the patter of rain on the windows.
   Vimes stared at the paper again and then wrote:
   Itym: How can Kinges come of noethinge?
   He hadn't even seen the lad close to. He looked personable enough, not exactly a great thinker, but definitely the kind of profile you wouldn't mind seeing on your small change. Mind you, after killing the dragon he could have been a cross-eyed goblin for all that it mattered. The mob had borne him in triumph to the Patrician's palace.
   Lord Vetinari had been locked up in his own dun­geons. He hadn't put up much fight, apparently. Just smiled at everyone and went quietly.
   What a happy coincidence for the city that, just when it needed a champion to kill the dragon, a king came forth.
   Vimes turned this thought over for a while. Then he turned it back to front. He picked up the quill and wrote:
   Itym: What a happy chance it be, for a lad that would be Kinge, that there be a Draggon to sloe to prove beyond doubt his honey fiddes.
   It was a lot better than birthmarks and swords, that was for sure. He twiddled the quill for a while, and then doodled:
   Itym: The draggon was not a Mechanical devise, yette surety no wizzard has the power to create a beaste of that mag, magg, maggnyt Size.
   Itym: Whye, in the Pinche, could it not Flame?
   Itym: Where did it come from?
   Itym: Where did it goe?
   The rain pounded harder on the window. The sounds of celebration became distinctly damp, and then faded completely. There was a murmur of thunder.
   Vimes underlined goe several times. After further consideration he added two more question marks: ??
   After staring at the effect for some time he rolled the paper into a ball and threw it into the fireplace, where it was fielded and swallowed by Errol.
   There had been a crime. Senses Vimes didn't know he possessed, ancient policeman's senses, prickled the hairs on his neck and told him there had been a crime. It was probably such an odd crime that it didn't figure anywhere in Carrot's book, but it had been committed all right. A handful of high-temperature murders was only the start of it. He'd find it, and give it a name.
   Then he stood up, took his leather rain cape from its hook behind the door, and stepped out into the naked city.

 This is where the dragons went.
   They lie ...
   Not dead, not asleep. Not waiting, because waiting implies expectation. Possibly the word we're looking for here is ...angry.
   It could remember the feel of real air under its wings, and the sheer pleasure of the flame. There had been empty skies above and an interesting world be­low, full of strange running creatures. Existence had a different texture there. A better texture.
   And just when it was beginning to enjoy it, it had been crippled, stopped from flaming and whipped back, like some hairy canine mammal.
   The world had been taken away from it.
   In the reptilian synapses of the dragon's mind the suggestion was kindled that, just possibly, it could get the world back. It had been summoned, and disdain­fully banished again. But perhaps there was a trail, a scent, a thread which would lead it to the sky . . .
   Perhaps there was a pathway of thought itself . . .
   It recalled a mind. The peevish voice, so full of its own diminutive importance, a mind almost like that of a dragon, but on a tiny, tiny scale.
   Aha.
   It stretched its wings.

   Lady Ramkin made herself a cup of cocoa and listened to the rain gurgling in the pipes outside.
   She slipped off the hated dancing shoes, which even she was prepared to concede were like a pair of pink canoes. But nobblyess obligay, as the funny little ser­geant would say, and as the last representative of one of Ankh-Morpork's oldest families she'd had to go to the victory ball to show willing.
   Lord Vetinari seldom had balls. There was a popular song about it, in fact. But now it was going to be balls all the way.
   She couldn't stand balls. For sheer enjoyment it wasn't a patch on mucking out dragons. You knew where you were, mucking out dragons. You didn't get hot and pink and have to eat silly things on sticks, or wear a dress that made you look like a cloud full of cherubs. Little dragons didn't give a damn what you looked like so long as there was a feeding bowl in your hands.
   Funny, really. She'd always thought it took weeks, months, to organize a ball. Invitations, decorations, sausages on poles, ghastly chickeny mixture to force into those little pastry cases. But it had all been done in a matter of hours, as if someone had been expecting it. One of the miracles of catering, obviously. She'd even danced with the, for want of a better word, new king, who had said some polite words to her although they had been rather muffled.
   And a coronation tomorrow. You'd have thought it'd take months to sort out.
   She was still musing on that as she mixed the drag­ons' late night feed of rock oil and peat, spiked with flowers of sulphur. She didn't bother to change out of the ball gown but slipped the heavy apron over the top, donned the gloves and helmet, pulled the visor down over her face and ran, clutching the feed buckets, through the driving rain to the shed.
   She knew it as soon as she opened the door. Normally the arrival of food would be greeted with hoots and whistles and brief bursts of flame.
   The dragons, each in its pen, were sitting up in at­tentive silence and staring up through the roof.
   It was somehow scary. She clanged the buckets to­gether.
   "No need to be afraid, nasty big dragon all gone!" she said brightly. "Get stuck in to this, you people!"
   One or two of them gave her a brief glance, and then went back to their…
   What? They didn't seem to be frightened. Just very, very attentive. It was like a vigil. They were waiting for something to happen.
   The thunder muttered again.
   A couple of minutes later she was on her way down into the damp city.

   There are some songs which are never sung sober. "Nellie Dean" is one. So is any song beginning "As I was a walking ..." In the area around Ankh-Morpork, the favoured air is "A Wizard's Staff Has A Knob On The End".
   The rank were drunk. At least, two out of three of the rank were drunk. Carrot had been persuaded to try a shandy and hadn't liked it much. He didn't know all the words, either, and many of the ones he did know he didn't understand.
   "Oh, I see," he said eventually. "It's a sort of hu­morous play on words, is it?"
   "You know," said Colon wistfully, peering into the thickening mists rolling in off the Ankh, "s'at times like this I wish old-"
   "You're not to say it," said Nobby, swaying a little. "You agreed, we wouldn't say nothing, it's no good talking about it."
   "It was his favourite song," said Colon sadly. "He was a good light tenor."
   "Now, Sarge-"
   "He was a righteous man, our Gaskin," said Colon.
   "We couldn't of helped it," said Nobby sulkily.
   "We could have," said Colon. "We could have run faster."
   "What happened, then?" said Carrot.
   "He died," said Nobby, "in the hexecution of his duty."
   "I told him," said Colon, taking a swig at the bottle they had brought along to see them through the night, "I told him. Slow down, I said. You'll do yourself a mischief, I said. I don't know what got into him, run­ning ahead like that."
   "I blame the Thieves' Guild," said Nobby. "Al­lowing people like that on the streets…"
   "There was this bloke we saw done a robbery one night," said Colon miserably. "Right in front of us! And Captain Vimes, he said Come On, and we run, only the point is you shouldn't run too fast, see. Else you might catch them. Leads to all sorts of problems, catching people…"
   "They don't like it," said Nobby. There was a mut­ter of thunder, and a flurry of rain.
   "They don't like it," agreed Colon. "But Gaskin went and forgot, he ran on, went around the corner and, well, this bloke had a couple of mates waiting…"
   "It was his heart really," said Nobby.
   "Well. Anyway. And there he was," said Colon. "Captain Vimes was very upset about it. You shouldn't run fast in the Watch, lad," he said solemnly. "You can be a fast guard or you can be an old guard, but you can't be a fast old guard. Poor old Gaskin.''
   "It didn't ought to be like that," said Carrot.
   Colon took a pull at the bottle.
   "Well, it is," he said. Rain bounced on his helmet and trickled down his face.
   "But it didn't ought to be," said Carrot flatly.
   "But it is," said Colon.

   Someone else in the city was also ill at ease. He was the Librarian.
   Sergeant Colon had given him a badge. The Librarian turned it round and round in his big gentle hands, nibbling at it.
   It wasn't that the city suddenly had a king. Orangs are traditionalists, and you couldn't get more traditional than a king. But they also liked things neat, and things weren't neat. Or, rather, they were too neat. Truth and reality were never as neat as this. Sudden heirs to ancient thrones didn't grow on trees, and he should know.
   Besides, no one was looking for his book. That was human priorities for you.
   The book was the key to it. He was sure of that. Well, there was one way to find out what was in the book. It was a perilous way, but the Librarian ambled along per­ilous ways all day.
   In the silence of the sleeping library he opened his desk and removed from its deepest recesses a small lan­tern carefully built to prevent any naked flame being ex­posed. You couldn't be too careful with all this paper around . . .
   He also took a bag of peanuts and, after some thought, a large ball of string. He bit off a short length of the string and used it-to tie the badge around his neck, like a talis­man. Then he tied one end of the ball to the desk and, after a moment's contemplation, knuckled off between the bookshelves, paying out the string behind him.
   Knowledge equals power. . .
   The string was important. After a while the Librarian stopped. He concentrated all his powers of librarianship.
   Power equals energy . . .
   People were stupid, sometimes. They thought the Li­brary was a dangerous place because of all the magical books, which was true enough, but what made it really one of the most dangerous places there could ever be was the simple fact that it was a library.
   Energy equals matter. . . .
   He swung into an avenue of shelving that was appar­ently a few feet long and walked along it briskly for half an hour.
   Matter equals mass.
   And mass distorts space. It distorts it into poly-fractal L-space.
   So, while the Dewey system has its fine points, when you're setting out to look something up in the multidi­mensional folds of L-space what you really need is a ball of string.

   Now the rain was trying hard. It glistened off the flag­stones in the Plaza of Broken Moons, littered here and there with torn bunting, flags, broken bottles and the oc­casional regurgitated supper. There was still plenty of thunder about, and a green, fresh smell in the air. A few shreds of mist from the Ankh hovered over the stones. It would be dawn soon.
   Vimes's footsteps echoed wetly from the surrounding buildings as he picked his way across the plaza. The boy had stood here.
   He peered through the mist shreds at the surrounding buildings, getting his bearings. So the dragon had been hovering-he paced forward-here.
   "And," said Vimes, "this is where it was killed."
   He fumbled in his pockets. There were all sorts of things in there - keys, bits of string, corks. His finger closed on a stub end of chalk.
   He knelt down. Errol jumped off his shoulder and wad­dled away to inspect the detritus of the celebration. He always sniffed everything before he ate it, Vimes noticed. It was a bit of a puzzle why he bothered, because he always ate it anyway.
   Its head had been about, let's see, here.
   He walked backwards, dragging the chalk over the stones, progressing slowly over the damp, empty square like an ancient worshipper treading a maze. Here a wing, curving away towards a tail which stretched out to here, change hands, now head for the other wing . . .
   When he finished he walked to the centre of the outline and ran his hands over the stones. He realized he was half-expecting them to be warm.
   Surely there should be something. Some, oh, he didn't know, some grease or something, some crispy fried dragon lumps. Errol started eating a broken bottle with every sign of enjoyment. "You know what I think?" said Vimes. "I think it went somewhere."
   Thunder rolled again.
   "All right, all right," muttered Vimes. "It was just a thought. It wasn't that dramatic."
   Errol stopped in mid-crunch.
   Very slowly, as though it was mounted on very smooth, well-oiled bearings, the dragon's head turned to face up­wards.
   What it was staring at intently was a patch of empty air. There wasn't much else you could say about it.
   Vimes shivered under his cape. This was daft.
   "Look, don't muck about," he said, "there's nothing there."
   Errol started to tremble.
   "It's just the rain," said Vimes. "Go on, finish your bottle. Nice bottle."
   A thin, worried keening noise broke from the drag­on's mouth.
   "I'll show you," said Vimes. He cast around and spotted one of Throat's sausages, cast aside by a hungry reveller who had decided he was never going to be that hungry. He picked it up.
   "Look," he said, and threw it upwards.
   He felt sure, watching its trajectory, that it ought to have fallen back to the ground. It shouldn't have fallen away, as if he'd dropped it neatly into a tunnel in the sky. And the tunnel shouldn't have been looking back at him.
   Vivid purple lightning lashed from the empty air and struck the houses on the near side of the plaza, skittering across the walls for several yards before sinking out with a suddenness that almost denied that it had ever happened at all.
   Then it erupted again, this time hitting the rim ward wall. The light broke where it hit into a network of search­ing tendrils spreading across the stones.
   The third attempt went upwards, forming an actinic column that eventually rose fifty or sixty feet in the air, appeared to stabilize, and started to spin slowly.
   Vimes felt that a comment was called for. He said: "Arrgh."
   As the light revolved it sent out thin zigzag streamers that jittered away across the rooftops, sometimes dipping, sometimes doubling back. Searching.
   Errol ran up Vimes's back in a flurry of claws and fas­tened himself firmly on his shoulder. The excruciating agony recalled to Vimes that there was something he should be doing. Was it time to scream again? He tried another "Arrgh". No, probably not.
   The air started to smell like burning tin.
   Lady Ramkin's coach rattled into the plaza making a noise like a roulette wheel and pounded straight for Vimes, stopping in a skid that sent it juddering around hi a semi­circle and forced the horses either to face the other way or plait their legs. A furious vision in padded leather, gauntlets, tiara and thirty yards of damp pink tulle leaned down towards him and screamed: "Come on, you bloody idiot!"
   One glove caught him under his unresisting shoulder and hauled him bodily on to the box.
   "And stop screaming!'' the phantom ordered, focusing generations of natural authority into four syllables. An­other shout spurred the horses from a bewildered standing start to a full gallop.
   The coach bounced away over the flagstones. An ex­ploratory tendril of flickering light brushed the reins for a moment and then lost interest.
   "I suppose you haven't got any idea what's happen­ing?" shouted Vimes, against the crackling of the spin­ning fire.
   "Not the foggiest!"
   The crawling lines spread like a web over the city, growing fainter with distance. Vimes imagined them creeping through windows and sneaking under doors.
   "It looks as though it's searching for something!" he shouted.
   "Then getting away before it finds it is a first-class idea, don't you think?"
   A tongue of fire hit the dark Tower of Art, slid blindly down its ivy-grown flanks, and disappeared through the dome of Unseen University's Library.
   The other lines blinked out.
   Lady Ramkin brought the coach to a halt at the far side of the square.
   "What does it want the Library for?" she said, frown­ing.
   "Maybe it wants to look something up?"
   "Don't be silly," she said breezily. "There's just a lot of books hi there. What would a flash of lightning want to read?"
   "Something very short?"
   "I really think you could try to be a bit more help."
   The line of light exploded into an arc between the Li­brary's dome and the centre of the plaza and hung hi the air, a band of brilliance several feet across.
   Then, hi a sudden rush, it became a sphere of fire which grew swiftly to encompass almost all the plaza, vanished suddenly, and left the night full of ringing, violet shad­ows.
   And the plaza full of dragon.

   Who would have thought it? So much power, so close at hand. The dragon could feel the magic flowing into it, renewing it from second to second, in defiance of all bor­ing physical laws. This wasn't the poor feed it had been given before. This was the right stuff. There was no end to what it could do, with power like this.
   But first it had to pay its respects to certain people . . .
   It sniffed the dawn air. It was searching for the stink of minds.
   Noble dragons don't have friends. The nearest they can get to the idea is an enemy who is still alive.

   The air became very still, so still that you could almost hear the slow fall of dust. The Librarian swung on his knuckles between the endless bookshelves. The dome of the Library was still overhead but then, it always was.
   It seemed quite logical to the Librarian that, since there were aisles where the shelves were on the outside then there should be other aisles in the space between the books themselves, created out of quantum ripples by the sheer weight of words. There were certainly some odd sounds coming from the other side of some shelving, and the Librarian knew that if he gently pulled out a book or two he would be peeking into different libraries under different skies.
   Books bend space and time. One reason the owners of those aforesaid little rambling, poky second-hand book­shops always seem slightly unearthly is that many of them really are, having strayed into this world after taking a wrong turn in their own bookshops in worlds where it is considered commendable business practice to wear car­pet slippers all the time and open your shop only when you feel like it. You stray into L-space at your peril.
   Very senior librarians, however, once they have proved themselves worthy by performing some valiant act of librarianship, are accepted into a secret order and are taught the raw arts of survival beyond the Shelves We Know. The Librarian was highly skilled in all of them, but what he was attempting now wouldn't just get him thrown out of the Order but probably out of life itself.
   All libraries everywhere are connected in L-space. All libraries. Everywhere. And the Librarian, navigating by booksign carved on shelves by past explorers, navigating by smell, navigating even by the siren whisperings of nos­talgia, was heading purposely for one very special one.
   There was one consolation. If he got it wrong, he'd never know it.

   Somehow the dragon was worse on the ground. In the air it was an elemental thing, graceful even when it was trying to burn you to your boots. On the ground it was just a damn great animal.
   Its huge head reared against the gray of dawn, turning slowly.
   Lady Ramkin and Vimes peered cautiously from be­hind a water trough. Vimes had his hand clamped over Errol's muzzle. The little dragon was whimpering like a kicked puppy, and fighting to get away.
   "It's a magnificent brute," said Lady Ramkin, in what she probably thought was a whisper.
   "I do wish you wouldn't keep saying that,'' said Vimes.
   There was a scraping noise as the dragon dragged itself over the stones.
   "I knew it wasn't killed,'' growled Vimes. "There were no bits. It was too neat. It was sent somewhere by some sort of magic, I bet. Look at it. It's bloody impossible! It needs magic to keep it alive!"
   "What do you mean?" said Lady Ramkin, not tearing her gaze from its armoured flanks.
   What did he mean? What did he mean? He thought fast.
   "It's just not physically possible, that's what I mean," he said. "Nothing that heavy should be able to fly, or breathe fire like that. I told you. But it looks real enough. I mean, you'd expect a mag­ical creature to be, well, gauzy."
   "Oh, it's real. It's real all right," said Ramkin bitterly. "But supposing it needs magic like we need, like we need . . . sunlight? Or food."
   "It's a thaumivore, you mean?"
   "I just think it eats magic, that's all," said Vimes, who had not had a classical education. "I mean, all these little swamp dragons, always on the point of extinction, sup­pose one day back in prehistoric times some of them found out how to use magic?"
   "There used to be a lot of natural magic around once,'' said Lady Ramkin thoughtfully.
   "There you are, then. After all, creatures use the air and the sea. I mean, if there's a natural resource around, something's going to use it, aren't they? Then it wouldn't matter about bad digestion and weight and wing size and so on, because the magic would take care of it. Wow!"
   But you'd need a lot, he thought. He wasn't certain how much magic you'd need to change the world enough to let tons of armoured carcass flit around the sky like a swal­low, but he'd bet it was lots.
   All those thefts. Someone'd been feeding the dragon.
   He looked at the bulk of the Unseen University Library of magic books, the greatest accumulation of distilled magical power on the Discworld.
   And now the dragon had learned how to feed itself.
   He became terribly aware that Lady Ramkin had moved, and saw to his horror that she was striding towards the dragon, chin stuck out like an anvil.
   "What the hell are you doing?" he whispered loudly.
   "If it's descended from the swamp dragons then I can probably control it," she called back. "You have to look them in the eye and use a no-nonsense tone of voice. They can't resist a stern human voice. They don't have the will­power, you know. They're just big softies."
   To his shame, Vimes realized that his legs were going to have nothing to do with any mad dash to drag her back.
   His pride didn't like that, but his body pointed out that it wasn't his pride that stood a very reasonable chance of being thinly laminated to the nearest building. Through ears burning with embarrassment he heard her say: "Bad boy!"
   The echoes of that stern injunction rang out across the plaza.
   Oh gods, he thought, is that how you train a dragon? Point them at the melted patch on the floor and threaten to rub their nose in it?
   He risked a peep over the horse trough.
   The dragon's head was swinging around slowly, like a crane jib. It had some difficulty focusing on her, right below it. Vimes could see the great red eyes narrow as the creature tried to squint down the length of its own nose. It looked puzzled. He wasn't surprised.
   "Sit!" bellowed Lady Ramkin, in a tone so undisobeyable that even Vimes felt his legs involuntarily sag. "Good boy! I think I may have a lump of coke some­where…" She patted her pockets.
   Eye contact. That was the important thing. She really, Vimes thought, shouldn't have looked down even for a moment.
   The dragon raised one talon in a leisurely fashion and pinned her to the ground.
   As Vimes half-rose in horror Errol escaped from his grip and cleared the trough in one leap. He bounced across the plaza in a series of wing-whirring arcs, mouth gaping, emitting wheezing burps, trying to flame.
   He was answered with a tongue of blue-white fire that melted a streak of bubbling rock several yards long but failed to strike the challenger. It was hard to pick him out of the air because, quite clearly, even Errol didn't know where he was going to be, or what way up he was going to be when he got there. His only hope at this point lay in movement, and he vaulted and spun between the increas­ingly furious bursts of fire like a scared but determined random particle.
   The great dragon reared up with the sound of a dozen anchor chains being thrown into a corner, and tried to bat the tormenter out of the air.
   Vimes's legs gave in at that point and decided that they might allow themselves to be heroic legs for a while. He scurried across the intervening space, sword at the ready for what good it might do, grabbed Lady Ramkin by an arm and a handful of bedraggled ballgown, and swung her on to his shoulder.
   He got several yards before the essential bad judgement of this move dawned on him.
   He went "Gngh". His vertebrae and knees were trying to fuse into one lump. Purple spots flashed on and off in front of his eyes. On top of it all, something unfamiliar but apparently made of whalebone was poking sharply into the back of his neck.
   He managed a few more steps by sheer momentum, knowing that when he stopped he was going to be utterly crushed. The Ramkins hadn't bred for beauty, they'd bred for healthy solidity and big bones, and they'd got very good at it over the centuries.
   A gout of livid dragonfire crackled into the flagstones a few feet away.
   Afterwards he wondered if he'd only imagined leap­ing several inches into the air and covering the rest of the distance to the horse trough at a respectable run. Perhaps, in extremis, everyone learned the kind of in­stant movement that was second nature to Nobby. Any­way, the horse trough was behind him and Lady Ramkin was in his arms, or at least was pinning his arms to the ground. He managed to free them and tried to massage a bit of life back. What did you do next? She didn't seem to be injured. He recalled something about loos­ening a person's clothing, but in Lady Ramkin's case that might be dangerous without special tools.
   She solved the immediate problem by grabbing the edge of the trough and hauling herself upright.
   "Right,'' she said,' 'it's the slipper for you…" Her eyes focused on Vimes for the first time.
   ' 'What the hell's going on…" she began again, and then caught the scene over his shoulder.
   "Oh sod," she said. "Pardon my Klatchian."
   Errol was running out of energy. The stubby wings were indeed incapable of real flight, and he was remaining air­borne solely by flapping madly, like a chicken. The great talons swished through the air. One of them caught one of the plaza's fountains, and demolished it.
   The next one swatted Errol neatly.
   He shot over Vimes's head in a straight rising line, hit a roof behind him, and slid down it.
   "You've got to catch him!" shouted Lady Vimes. "You must! It's vital!"
   Vimes stared at her, and then dived forward as Errol's pear-shaped body slithered over the edge of the roof and dropped. He was surprisingly heavy.
   "Thank goodness," said Lady Ramkin, struggling to her feet.' 'They explode so easily, you know. It could have been very dangerous."
   They remembered the other dragon. It wasn't the ex­ploding sort. It was the killing-people kind. They turned, slowly.
   The creature loomed over them, sniffed and then, as if they were of no importance at all, turned away. It sprang ponderously into the air and, with one slow flap of its wings, began to scull leisurely away down the plaza and up and into the mists that were rolling over the city.
   Vimes was currently more concerned with the smaller dragon in his hands. Its stomach was rumbling alarm­ingly. He wished he'd paid more attention to the book on dragons. Was a stomach noise like this a sign they were about to explode, or was the point you had to watch out for the point when the rumbling stopped?
   "We've got to follow it!" said Lady Ramkin. "What happened to the carriage?"
   Vimes waved a hand vaguely in the direction that, as far as he could tell, the horses had take in their panic.
   Enrol sneezed a cloud of warm gas that smelled worse than something walled up in a cellar, pawed the air weakly, licked Vimes's face with a tongue like a hot cheese-grater, struggled out of his arms and trot­ted away.
   "Where's he off to?" boomed Lady Ramkin, emerging from the mists dragging the horses behind her. They didn't want to come, their hooves were scraping up sparks, but they were fighting a losing battle.
   "He's still trying to challenge it!" said Vines. "You'd think he'd give in, wouldn't you?"
   "They fight like blazes," said Lady Ramkin, as he climbed on to the coach. "It's a matter of making your opponent explode, you see."
   "I thought, in Nature, the defeated animal just rolls on its back hi submission and that's the end of it," said Vimes, as they clattered after the disappearing swamp dragon.
   "Wouldn't work with dragons," said Lady Ramkin. "Some daft creature rolls on its back, you disembowel it. That's how they look at it. Almost human, really."

The clouds were clustered thickly over Ankh-Morpork. Above them, the slow golden sunlight of the Discworld unrolled.
   The dragon sparkled in the dawn as it trod the air joyously, doing impossible turns and rolls for the sheer delight of it. Then it remembered the business of the day.
   They'd had the presumption to summon it ...
   Below it, the rank wandered from side to side up the Street of Small Gods. Despite the thick fog it was beginning to get busy.
   "What d'you call them things, like thin stairs?" said Sergeant Colon.
   "Ladders," said Carrot.
   "Lot of 'em about," said Nobby. He mooched over to the nearest one, and kicked it.
   "Oi!" A figure struggled down, half buried in a string of flags.
   "What's going on?" said Nobby.
   The flag bearer looked him up and down.
   "Who wants to know, tiddler?" he said.
   "Excuse me, we do," said Carrot, looming out of the fog like an iceberg. The man gave a sickly grin.
   "Well, it's the coronation, isn't it," he said. "Got to get the streets ready for the coronation. Got to have the flags up. Got to get the old bunting out, haven't we?"
   Nobby gave the dripping finery a jaundiced look. "Doesn't look that old to me," he said. "It looks new. What're them fat saggy things on that shield?"
   "Those are the royal hippos of Ankh," said the man proudly. "Reminders of our noble heritage."
   "How long have we had a noble heritage, then?" said Nobby.
   "Since yesterday, of course."
   "You can't have a heritage in a day," said Carrot. "It has to last a long time."
   "If we haven't got one," said Sergeant Colon, "I bet we'll soon have had one. My wife left me a note about it. All these years, and she turns out to be a monarchist." He kicked the pavement viciously. "Huh!" he said. "A man knocks his pipes out for thirty years to put a bit of meat on the table, but all she's talking about is some boy who gets to be king for five minutes' work. Know what was for my tea last night? Beef dripping sandwiches!"
   This did not have the expected response from the two bachelors.
   "Cor!" said Nobby.
   "Real beef dripping?" said Carrot. "The kind with the little crunchy bits on top? And shiny blobs of fat?"
   "Can't remember when I last addressed the crust on a bowl of dripping," mused Nobby, in a gastronomic heaven. "With just a bit of salt and pepper, you've got a meal fit for a k…"
   "Don't even say it," warned Colon.
   "The best bit is when you stick the knife in and crack the fat and all the browny gold stuff bubbles up," said Carrot dreamily. "A moment like that is worth a ki…"
   "Shutup! Shutup!" shouted Colon. "You're just- what the hell was that?"
   They felt the sudden downdraught, saw the mist above them roll into coils that broke against the house walls. A blast of colder air swept along the street, and was gone.
   "It was like something gliding past, up there some­where," said the sergeant. He froze. "Here, you don't think…?"
   "We saw it killed, didn't we?" said Nobby urgently.
   "We saw it vanish, " said Carrot.
   They looked at one another, alone and damp in the mist-shrouded street. There could be anything up there. The imagination peopled the dank air with ter­rible apparitions. And what was worse was the knowl­edge that Nature might have done an even better job.
   "Nah," said Colon. "It was probably just some . . . some big wading bird. Or something."
   "Isn't there anything we should do?" said Carrot.
   "Yes," said Nobby. "We should go away quickly. Remember Gaskin."
   "Maybe it's another dragon," said Carrot. "We should warn people and…"
   "No," said Sergeant Colon vehemently, "because, Ae, they wouldn't believe us and, Bee, we've got a king now. 'S his job, dragons."
   "S'right," said Nobby. "He'd probably be really angry. Dragons are probably, you know, royal ani­mals. Like deer. A man could probably have his tridlins plucked just for thinking about killing one, when there's a king around."[17]
   "Makes you glad you're common," said Colon.
   "Commoner," corrected Nobby.
   "That's not a very civic attitude…" Carrot began. He was interrupted by Errol.
   The little dragon came trotting up the middle of the street, stumpy tail high, his eyes fixed on the clouds above him. He went right by the rank without giving them any attention at all.
   "What's up with him?" said Nobby.
   A clatter behind them introduced the Ramkin coach.
   "Men?" said Vimes hesitantly, peering through the fog.
   "Definitely," said Sergeant Colon.
   "Did you see a dragon go past? Apart from Errol?"
   "Well, er," said the sergeant, looking at the other two. "Sort of, sir. Possibly. It might of been."
   "Then don't stand there like a lot of boobies," said Lady Ramkin. "Get in! Plenty of room inside!"
   There was. When it was built, the coach had prob­ably been the marvel of the day, all plush and gilt and tasselled hangings. Time, neglect and the ripping out of the seats to allow its frequent use to transport drag­ons to shows had taken their toll, but it still reeked of privilege, style and, of course, dragons.
   "What do you think you're doing?" said Colon, as it rattled off through the fog.
   "Wavin'," said Nobby, gesturing graciously to the billows around them.
   "Disgusting, this sort of thing, really," mused Ser­geant Colon. "People goin' around in coaches like this when there's people with no roof to their heads."
   "It's Lady Ramkin's coach," said Nobby. "She's all right."
   "Well, yes, but what about her ancestors, eh? You don't get big houses and carriages without grindin' the faces of the poor a bit."
   "You're just annoyed because your missus has been embroidering crowns on her undies," said Nobby.
   "That's got nothing to do with it," said Sergeant Colon indignantly. "I've always been very firm on the rights of man."
   "And dwarf," said Carrot.
   "Yeah, right," said the sergeant uncertainly. "But all this business about kings and lords, it's against ba­sic human dignity. We're all born equal. It makes me sick."
   "Never heard you talk like this before, Frederick," said Nobby.
   "It's Sergeant Colon to you, Nobby.
   "Sorry, Sergeant."
   The fog itself was shaping up to be a real Ankh-Morpork autumn gumbo.* Vimes squinted through it as the droplets buckled down to a good day's work soaking him to the skin.
   "I can just make him out," he said. "Turn left here."
   "Any ideas where we are?" said Lady Ramkin.
   "Business district somewhere," said Vimes shortly. Errol's progress was slowing a bit. He kept looking up and whining.
   "Can't see a damn thing above us in the fog," he said. "I wonder if…"
   The fog, as if in acknowledgement, lit up. Ahead of them it blossomed like a chrysanthemum and made a noise like "whoomph".
   "Oh, no," moaned Vimes. "Not again!"
   Like a pea-souper, only much thicker, fishier, and with things in it you'd probably rather not know about.
 
   "Are the Cups of Integrity well and truly suffused?" intoned Brother Watchtower.
   "Aye, suffused full well."
   "The Waters of the World, are they Abjured?"
   "Yea, abjured full mightily."
   "Have the Demons of Infinity been bound with many chains?"
   "Damn," said Brother Plasterer, "there's always something."
   Brother Watchtower sagged. "Just once it would be nice if we could get the ancient and timeless rituals right, wouldn't it. You'd better get on with it."
   "Wouldn't it be quicker, Brother Watchtower, if I just did it twice next time?" said Brother Plasterer.
   Brother Watchtower gave this some grudging con­sideration. It seemed reasonable.
   "All right," he said. "Now get back down there with the others. And you should call me Acting Su­preme Grand Master, understand?"
   This did not meet with what he considered to be a proper and dignified reception among the brethren.
   "No one said anything to us about you being Acting Supreme Grand Master," muttered Brother Door­keeper.
   "Well, that's all you know because I bloody well am because Supreme Grand Master asked me to open the Lodge on account of him being delayed with all this coronation work," said Brother Watchtower haughtily. "If that doesn't make me Acting Supreme Grand bloody Master I'd like to know what does, all right?"
   "I don't see why," muttered Brother Doorkeeper. "You don't have a grand title like that. You could just be called something like, well . . . Rituals Monitor."
   "Yeah," said Brother Plasterer. "Don't see why you should give yourself airs. You ain't even been taught the ancient and mystic mysteries by monks, or any­thing."
   "We’ve been hanging around for hours, too," said Brother Doorkeeper. "That's not right. I thought we'd get rewarded…"
   Brother Watchtower realized that he was losing con­trol. He tried wheedling diplomacy.
   "I'm sure Supreme Grand Master will be along di­rectly," he said. "Let's not spoil it all now, eh? Lads? Arranging that fight with the dragon and everything, getting it all off right, that was something, wasn't it? We've been through a lot, right? It's worth waiting just a bit longer, okay?'
   The circle of robed and cowled figures shuffled in grudging agreement.
   "Okay."
   "Fair enough."
   "Yeah."
   "Certainly."
   "Okay."
   "If you say so."
   It began to creep over Brother Watchtower that something wasn't right, but he couldn't quite put a name to it.
   "Uh," he said. "Brothers?"
   They, too, shifted uneasily. Something in the room was setting their teeth on edge. There was an atmo­sphere.
   "Brothers," repeated Brother Watchtower, trying to reassert himself, "we are all here, aren't we?"
   There was a worried chorus of agreement.
   "Of course we are."
   "What's the matter?"
   "Yes!"
   "Yes."
   "Yes."
   There it was again, a subtle wrongness about things that you couldn't quite put your finger on because your finger was too scared. But Brother Watchtower's trou­blesome thoughts were interrupted by a scrabbling sound on the roof. A few nubs of plaster dropped into the circle.
   "Brothers?" repeated Brother Watchtower ner­vously.
   Now there was one of those silent sounds, a long, buzzing silence of extreme concentration and just pos­sibly the indrawing of breath into lungs the size of haystacks. The last rats of Brother Watchtower's self-confidence fled the sinking ship of courage.
   "Brother Doorkeeper, if you could just unbolt the dread portal…" he quavered.
   And then there was light.
   There was no pain. There was no time.
   Death strips away many things, especially when it arrives at a temperature hot enough to vaporize iron, and among them are your illusions. The immortal re­mains of Brother Watchtower watched the dragon flap away into the fog, and then looked down at the con­gealing puddle of stone, metal and miscellaneous trace elements that was all that remained of the secret head­quarters. And of its occupants, he realized in the dis­passionate way that is part of being dead. You go through your whole life and end up a smear swirling around like cream in a coffee cup. Whatever the gods' games were, they played them in a damn mysterious way.
   He looked up at the hooded figure beside him.
   "We never intended this," he said weakly. "Hon­estly. No offence. We just wanted what was due to us."
   A skeletal hand patted him on the shoulder, not un­kindly.
   And Death said, congratulations.
 
   Apart from the Supreme Grand Master, the only Elu­cidated Brother to be away at the time of the dragon was Brother Fingers. He'd been sent out for some piz­zas. Brother Fingers was always the one sent out for takeaway food. It was cheaper. He'd never bothered to master the art of paying for things.
   When the guards rolled up just behind Errol, Brother Fingers was standing with a stack of cardboard boxes in his hands and his mouth open.
   Where the dread portal should have been was a warm melted patch of assorted substances.
   "Oh, my goodness," said Lady Ramkin.
   Vimes slid down from the coach and tapped Brother Fingers on the shoulder.
   "Excuse me, sir," he said, "did you by any chance see what…"
   When Brother Fingers turned towards him his face was the face of a man who has hang-glided over the entrance to Hell. He kept opening and shutting his mouth but no words were coming out.
   Vimes tried again. The sheer terror frozen in Brother Fingers's expression was getting to him.
   "If you would be so kind to accompany me to the Yard," said Vimes, "I have reason to believe that you…" He hesitated. He wasn't entirely certain what it was that he had reason to believe. But the man was clearly guilty. You could tell just by looking at him. Not, perhaps, guilty of anything specific. Just guilty in general terms.
   "Mmmmmuh," said Brother Fingers.
   Sergeant Colon gently lifted the lid of the top box.
   "What do you make of it, Sergeant?" said Vimes, stepping back.
   "Er. It looks like a Klatchian Hots with anchovies, sir," said Sergeant Colon knowledgeably.
   "I mean the man," said Vimes wearily.
   "Nnnnn," said Brother Fingers.
   Colon peered under the hood. "Oh, I know him, sir," he said. "Bengy 'Lightfoot' Boggis, sir. He's a capo de monty in the Thieves' Guild. I know him of old, sir. Sly little bugger. Used to work at the Univer­sity."
   "What, as a wizard?" said Vimes.
   "Odd job man, sir. Gardening and carpentry and that."
   "Oh. Did he?"
   "Can't we do something for the poor man?" said Lady Ramkin.
   Nobby saluted smartly. "I could kick him in the bollocks for you if you like, m'lady."
   "Dddrrr," said Brother Fingers, beginning to shake uncontrollably, while Lady Ramkin smiled the iron-hard blank smile of a high-born lady who is deter­mined not to show that she has understood what has just been said to her.
   "Put him in the coach, you two," said Vimes. "If it's all right with you, Lady Ramkin…"
   "Sybil," corrected Lady Ramkin. Vimes blushed, and plunged on,"…it might be a good idea to get him indoors. Charge him with the theft of one book, to wit, The Summoning of Dragons. "
   "Right you are, sir," said Sergeant Colon. "The pizzas're getting cold, too. You know how the cheese goes all manky when it gets cold."
   "And no kicking him, either," Vimes warned. "Not even where it doesn't show. Carrot, you come with me."
   "DDddrrraa," Brother Fingers volunteered.
   "And take Errol," added Vimes. "He's driving himself mad here. Game little devil, I'll give him that."
   "Marvellous, when you come to think about it," said Colon.
   Errol was trotting up and down in front of the rav­aged building, whining.
   "Look at him," said Vimes. "Can't wait to get to grips." His gaze found itself drawn, as though by wires, up to the rolling clouds of fog.
   It's in there somewhere, he thought.
   "What we going to do now, sir?" said Carrot, as the carriage rattled off.
   "Not nervous, are you?" said Vimes.
   "No, sir."
   The way he said it jogged something in Vimes's mind.
   "No," he said, "you're not, are you? I suppose it's being brought up by the dwarfs that did it. You've got no imagination."
   "I'm sure I try to do my best, sir," said Carrot firmly.
   "Still sending all your pay home to your mother?"
   "Yes, sir."
   "You're a good boy."
   "Yessir. So what are we going to do, Captain Vimes?" Carrot repeated.
   Vimes looked around him. He walked a few aim­less, exasperated steps. He spread his arms wide and then flopped them down by his sides.
   "How should I know?" he said. "Warn people, I guess. We'd better get over to the Patrician's palace. And then…"
   There were footsteps in the fog. Vimes stiffened, put his finger to his lips and pulled Carrot into the shelter of a doorway.
   A figure loomed out of the billows.
   Another one of 'em, thought Vimes. Well, there's no law about wearing long black robes and deep cowls. There could be dozens of perfectly innocent reasons why this person is wearing long black robes and a deep cowl and standing in front of a melted-down house at dawn.
   Perhaps I should ask him to name just one.
   He stepped out.
   "Excuse me, sir…" he began.
   The cowl swung around. There was a hiss of in­drawn breath.
   "I just wonder if you would mind…After him, lance-constable!… ''
   The figure had a good start. It scuttled along the street and had reached the corner before Vimes was halfway there. He skidded around it in time to see a shape vanish down an alley.
   Vimes realized he was running alone. He panted to a halt and looked back just in time to see Carrot jog gently around the corner.
   "What's wrong?" he wheezed.
   "Sergeant Colon said I wasn't to run," said Carrot.
   Vimes looked at him vaguely. Then slow compre­hension dawned.
   "Oh," he said. "I, er, see. I don't think he meant in every circumstance, lad." He stared back into the fog. "Not that we had much of a chance in this fog and these streets."
   "Might have been just an innocent bystander, sir," said Carrot.
   "What, in Ankh-Morpork?"
   "Yes, sir."
   "We should have grabbed him, then, just for the rarity value," said Vimes.
   He patted Carrot on the shoulder. "Come on. We'd better get along to the Patrician's palace."
   "The King's palace," corrected Carrot.
   "What?" said Vimes, his train of thought tempo­rarily shunted.
   "It's the King's palace now," said Carrot. Vimes squinted sideways at him.
   He gave a short, mirthless laugh.
   "Yeah, that's right," he conceded. "Our dragon-killing king. Well done that man." He sighed. "They're not going to like this."
 
   They didn't. None of them did.
   The first problem was the palace guard.
   Vimes had never liked them. They'd never liked him. Okay, so maybe the rank were only one step away from petty scofflaws, but in Vimes's professional opin­ion the palace guard these days were only one step away from being the worst criminal scum the city had ever produced. A step further down. They'd have to reform a bit before they could even be considered for inclusion in the Ten Most Unwanted list.
   They were rough. They were tough. They weren't the sweepings of the gutter, they were what you still found sticking to the gutter when the gutter sweepers had given up in exhaustion. They had been extremely well-paid by the Patrician, and presumably were ex­tremely well-paid by someone else now, because when Vimes walked up to the gates a couple of them stopped lounging against the walls and straightened up while still maintaining just the right amount of psychological slouch to cause maximum offense.
   "Captain Vimes," said Vimes, staring straight ahead. "To see the king. It's of the utmost impor­tance."
   "Yeah? Well, it'd have to be," said a guard. "Cap­tain Slimes, was it?"
   "Vimes," said Vimes evenly. "With a Vee."
   One of the guards nodded to his companion.
   "Vimes," he said. "With a Vee."
   "Fancy," said the other guard.
   "It's most urgent," said Vimes, maintaining a wooden expression. He tried to move forward.
   The first guard sidestepped neatly and pushed him sharply in the chest.
   "No-one is going nowhere," he said. "Orders of the king, see? So you can push off back to your pit, Captain Vimes with a Vee."
   It wasn't the words which made up Vimes's mind. It was the way the other man sniggered.
   "Stand aside," he said.
   The guard leaned down. "Who's going to make me," he rapped on Vimes's helmet, "copper?"
   There are times when it is a veritable pleasure to drop the bomb right away.
   "Lance-constable Carrot, I want you to charge these men," said Vimes.
   Carrot saluted. "Very good, sir," he said, and turned and trotted smartly back the way they had come.
   "Hey!" shouted Vimes, as the boy disappeared around a corner.
   "That's what I like to see," said the first guard, leaning on his speak. "That's a young man with ini­tiative, that young man. A bright lad. He doesn't want to stop along here and have his ears twisted off. That's a young man who's going to go a long way, if he's got any sense."
   "Very sensible," said the other guard.
   He leaned the spear against the wall.
   "You Watch men make me want to throw up," he said conversationally. "Pouncing around all the time, never doing a proper job of work. Throwing your weight about as if you counted for something. So me and Clarence are going to show you what real guard­ing is all about, isn't that right?"
   I could just about manage one of them, Vimes thought as he took a few steps backward. If he was facing the other way, at least.
   Clarence propped his spear against the gateway and spat on his hands.
   There was a long, terrifying ululation. Vimes was amazed to realise it wasn't coming from him.
   Carrot appeared around the corner at a dead run. He had a felling axe in either hand.
   His huge leather sandals flapped on the cobblestones as he bounded closer, accelerating all the time. And all the time there was this cry, deedahdeedahdeedah, like something caught in a trap at the bottom of a two-tone echo canyon.
   The two palace guards stood rigid with astonish­ment.
   "I should duck, if I was you," said Vimes from near ground level.
   The two axes left Carrot's hands and whirred through the air making a noise like a brace of par­tridges. One of them hit the palace gate, burying half the head in the woodwork. The other one hit the shaft of the first one, and split it. Then Carrot arrived.
   Vimes went and sat down on a nearby bench for a while, and rolled himself a cigarette.
   Eventually he said, "I think that's about enough, constable. I think they'd like to come quietly now."
   "Yes, sir. What are they accused of, sir?" said Car­rot, holding one limp body in either hand.
   "Assaulting an officer of the Watch in the execution of his duty and ... oh, yes. Resisting arrest."
   "Under Section (vii) of the Public Order Act of 1457?" said Carrot.
   "Yes," said Vimes solemnly. "Yes. Yes, I suppose so."
   "But they didn't resist very much, sir," Carrot pointed out.
   "Well, attempting to resist arrest. I should just leave them over by the wall until we come back. I don't expect they'll want to go anywhere."
   "Right you are, sir."
   "Don't hurt them, mind," said Vimes. "You mustn't hurt prisoners."
   "That's right, sir," said Carrot, conscientiously. "Prisoners once Charged have Rights, sir. It says so in the Dignity of Man (Civic Rights) Act of 1341. I keep telling Corporal Nobbs. They have Rights, I tell him. This means you do not Put the Boot in."
   "Very well put, constable."
   Carrot looked down. "You have the right to remain silent," he said. "You have the right not to injure yourself falling down the steps on the way to the cells. You have the right not to jump out of high win­dows. You do not have to say anything, you see, but any thing you do say, well, I have to take it down and it might be used in evidence." He pulled out his note­book and licked his pencil. He leaned down further.
   "Pardon?" he said. He looked up at Vimes.
   "How do you spell 'groan', sir?" he said.
   "G-R-O-N-E, I think."
   "Very good, sir."
   "Oh, and constable?'
   "Yes, sir?"
   "Why the axes?"
   "They were armed, sir. I got them from the black­smith in Market Street, sir. I said you'd be along later to pay for them."
   "And the cry?" said Vimes weakly.
   "Dwarfish war yodel, sir," said Carrot proudly.
   "It's a good cry," said Vimes, picking his words with care. "But I'd be grateful if you'd warn me first another time, all right?"
   "Certainly, sir."
   "In writing, I think."
 
   The Librarian swung on. It was slow progress, because there were things he wasn't keen on meeting. Creatures evolve to fill every niche in the environment, and some of those in the dusty immensity of L-space were best avoided. They were much more unusual than ordinary unusual creatures.
   Usually he could forewarn himself by keeping a care­ful eye on the kickstool crabs that grazed harmlessly on the dust. When they were spooked, it was time to hide. Several times he had to flatten himself against the shelves as a thesaurus thundered by. He waited patiently as a herd of Critters crawled past, grazing on the con­tents of the choicer books and leaving behind them piles of small slim volumes of literary criticism. And there were other things, things which he hurried away from and tried not to look hard at ...
   And you had to avoid cliches at all costs.
   He finished the last of his peanuts atop a stepladder, which was browsing mindlessly off the high shelves.
   The territory definitely had a familiar feel, or at least he got the feeling that it would eventually be familiar. Time had a different meaning in L-space.
   There were shelves whose outline he felt he knew. The book titles, while still unreadable, held a tanta­lising hint of legibility. Even the musty air had a smell he thought he recognized.
   He shambled quickly along a side passage, turned the corner and, with only the slightest twinge of disorientation, shuffled into that set of dimensions that people, because they don't know any better, think of as normal.
   He just felt extremely hot and his fur stood straight out from his body as temporal energy gradually dis­charged.
   He was in the dark.
   He extended one arm and explored the spines of the books by his side. Ah. Now he knew where he was.
   He was home at last.
   He was home a week ago before now.
   It was essential that he didn't leave footprints. But that wasn't a problem. He shinned up the side of the nearest bookcase and, under the starlight of the dome, hurried onwards.
 
   Lupine Wonse glared up, red-eyed, from the heap of paperwork on his desk. No-one in the city knew any­thing about coronations. He'd had to make it up as he went along. There should be plenty of things to wave, he knew that.
   "Yes?" he said, abruptly.
   "Er, there's a Captain Vimes to see you," said the flunkey.
   "Vimes of the Watch?"
   "Yes, sir. Says it's of the upmost importance."
   Wonse looked down his list of other things that were also of the utmost importance. Crowning the king, for one thing. The high priests of fifty-three religions were all claiming the honour. It was going to be a scrum. And then there were the crown jewels.
   Or rather, there weren't the crown jewels. Some­where in the preceding generations the crown jewels had disappeared. A jeweller in the Street of Cunning Artificers was doing the best he could in the time with gilt and glass.
   Vimes could wait.
   "Tell him to come back another day," said Wonse.
   "Good of you to see us," said Vimes, appearing in the doorway.
   Wonse glared at him.
   "Since you're here . . ." he said. Vimes dropped his helmet on Wonse's desk in what the secretary thought was an offensive manner, and sat down.
   "Take a seat," said Wonse.
   "Have you had breakfast yet?" said Vimes.
   "Now really…" Wonse began.
   "Don't worry," said Vimes cheerfully. "Constable Carrot will go and see what's in the kitchens. This chap will show him the way."
   When they had gone Wonse leaned across the drifts of paperwork.
   "There had better," he said, "be a very good rea­son for-"
   "The dragon is back," said Vimes.
   Wonse stared at him for a while.
   Vimes stared back.
   Wonse's senses came back from whatever corners they'd bounced into.
   "You've been drinking, haven't you," he said.
   "No. The dragon is back. "
   "Now, look…" Wonse began.
   "I saw it," said Vimes flatly.
   "A dragon? You're sure?"
   Vimes leaned across the desk. "No! I could be bloody mistaken!" he shouted. "It may have been something else with sodding great big claws, huge leathery wings and hot, fiery breath! There must be masses of things like that!"
   "But we all saw it killed!" said Wonse.
   "I don't know what we saw!" said Vimes, "But I know what I saw!''
   He leaned back, shaking. He was suddenly feeling extremely tired.
   "Anyway," he said, in a more normal voice, "it's flamed a house in Bitwash Street. Just like the other ones."
   "Any of them get out?"
   Vimes put his head in his hands. He wondered how long it was since he'd last had any sleep, proper sleep, the sort with sheets. Or food, come to that. Was it last night, or the night before? Had he ever, come to think of it, ever slept at all in all his life? It didn't seem like it. The arms of Morpheus had rolled up their sleeves and were giving the back of his brain a right pummel­ling, but bits were fighting back. Any of them get. . . ?
   "Any of who?" he said.
   "The people in the house, of course," said Wonse. "I assume there were people in it. At night, I mean."
   "Oh? Oh. Yes. It wasn't like a normal house. I think it was some sort of secret society thing," Vimes man­aged. Something was clicking in his mind, but he was too tired to examine it.
   "Magic, you mean?"
   "Dunno," said Vimes. "Could be. Guys in robes."
   He's going to tell me I've been overdoing it, he said. He'll be right, too.
   "Look," said Wonse, kindly. "People who mess around with magic and don't know how to control it, well, they can blow themselves up and…"
   "Blow themselves up?"
   "And you've had a busy few days," said Wonse soothingly. "If I'd been knocked down and almost burned alive by a dragon I expect I'd be seeing them all the time."
   Vimes stared at him with his mouth open. He couldn't think of anything to say. Whatever stretched and knotted elastic had been driving him along these last few days had gone entirely limp.
   "You don't think you've been overdoing it, do you?" said Wonse.
   Ah, thought Vimes. Jolly good.
   He slumped forward.

The Librarian leaned cautiously over the top of the bookcase and unfolded an arm into the darkness.
   There it was.
   His thick fingernails grasped the spine of the book, pulled it gently from its shelf and hoisted it up. He raised the lantern carefully.
   No doubt about it. The Summoning of Dragons. Sin­gle copy, first edition, slightly foxed and extremely dragoned.
   He set the lamp down beside him, and began to read the first page.
 
   "Mmm?" said Vimes, waking up.
   "Brung you a nice cup of tea, Cap'n," said Ser­geant Colon. "And a figgin.'
   Vimes looked at him blankly.
   "You've been asleep," said Sergeant Colon helpfully. "You was spark out when Carrot brought you back."
   Vimes looked around at the now-familiar surround­ings of the Yard. "Oh," he said.
   "Me and Nobby have been doing some detectoring," said Colon. "You know that house that got melted? Well, no one lives there. It's just rooms that get hired out. So we found out who hires them. There's a caretaker who goes along every night to put the chairs away and lock up. He wasn't half creating about it being burned down. You know what caretakers are like."
   He stood back, waiting for the applause.
   "Well done," said Vimes dutifully, dunking the figgin into the tea.
   "There's three societies use it," said Colon. He ex­tracted his notebook. "To wit, viz, The Ankh-Morpork Fine Art Appreciation Society, hem hem, the Morpork Folk-Dance and Song Club, and the Eluci­dated Brethren of the Ebon Night."
   "Why hem hem?" said Vimes.
   "Well, you know. Fine Art. It's just men paintin' pictures of young wimmin in the nudd. The alto­gether," explained Colon the connoisseur. "The care­taker told me. Some of them don't even have any paint on their brushes, you know. Shameful."
   There must be a million stories in the naked city, thought Vimes. So why do I always have to listen to ones like these?
   "When do they meet?" he said.
   "Mondays, 7.30, admission ten pence," said Co­lon, promptly. "As for the folk-dance people-well, no problem there. You know you always wondered what Corporal Nobbs does on his evenings off?"
   Colon's face split into a watermelon grin.
   "No!" said Vimes incredulously. "Not Nobby?"
   "Yep!" said Colon, delighted at the result.
   "What, jumping about with bells on and waving his hanky in the air?"
   "He says it is important to preserve old folkways," said Colon.
   "Nobby? Mr Steel-toecaps-in-the-groin, I-was-just-checking-the-doorhandle-and-it-opened-all-by-itself ?''
   "Yeah! Funny old world, ain't it? He was very bash­ful about it."
   "Good grief," said Vimes.
   "It just goes to show, you never can tell," said Co­lon. "Anyway, the caretaker said the Elucidated Brethren always leave the place in a mess. Scuffed chalk marks on the floor, he said. And they never put the chairs back properly or wash out the tea urn. They've been meeting a lot lately, he said. The nuddy wimmin painters had to meet somewhere else last week."
   "What did you do with our suspect?" said Vimes.
   "Him? Oh, he done a runner, Captain," said the sergeant, looking embarrassed.
   "Why? He didn't look in any shape to run any­where."
   "Well, when we got back here, we sat him down by the fire and wrapped him up because he kept on shiv­ering," said Sergeant Colon, as Vimes buckled his armour on.
   "I hope you didn't eat his pizzas."
   "Errol et 'em. It's the cheese, see, it goes all…"
   "Goon."
   "Well," said Colon awkwardly, "he kept on shiv­ering, sort of thing, and groaning on about dragons and that. We felt sorry for him, to tell the truth. And then he jumps up and runs out of the door for no rea­son at all."
   Vimes glanced at the sergeant's big, open, dishonest face.
   "No reason?" he prompted.
   "Well, we decided to have a bite, so I sent Nobby out to the baker's, see, and, well, we thought the pris­oner ought to have something to eat . . ."
   "Yes?" said Vimes encouragingly.
   "Well, when Nobby asked him if he wanted his fig­gin toasted, he just give a scream and ran off."
   "Just that?" said Vimes. "You didn't threaten him in any way?"
   "Straight up, Captain. Bit of a mystery, if you ask me. He kept going on about someone called Supreme Grand Master."
   "Hmm." Vimes glanced out of the window. Grey fog lagged the world with dim light. "What time is it?" he said.
   "Five of the clock, sir."
   "Right. Well, before it gets dark…"
   Colon gave a cough. "In the morning, sir. This is tomorrow, sir."
   "You let me sleep all day?"
   "Didn't have the heart to wake you up, sir. No dragon activity, if that's what you're thinking. Dead quiet all round, in fact."
   Vimes glared at him and threw the window open.
   The fog rolled in, in a slow, yellow-edged waterfall.
   "We reckon it must of flown away," said Colon's voice, behind him.
   Vimes stared up into the heavy, rolling clouds.
   "Hope it clears up for the coronation," Colon went on, in a worried voice. "You all right, sir?"
   It hasn't flown away, Vimes thought. Why should it fly away? We can't hurt it, and it's got everything it wants right here. It's up there somewhere.
   "You all right, sir?" Colon repeated.
   It's got to be up high somewhere, in the fog. There's all kinds of towers and things.
   "What time's the coronation, Sergeant?" he said.
   "Noon, sir. And Mr Wonse has sent a message about how you're to be in your best armour among all the civic leaders, sir."
   "Oh, has he?"
   "And Sergeant Hummock and the day squad will be lining the route, sir."
   "What with?" said Vimes vaguely, watching the skies.
   "Sorry, sir?"
   Vimes squinted upwards to get a better view of the roof. "Hmm?" he said.
   "I said they'll be lining the route, sir," said Ser­geant Colon.
   "It's up there, Sergeant," said Vimes. "I can prac­tically smell it."
   "Yes, sir," said Colon obediently.
   "It's deciding what to do next."
   "Yes, sir?"
   "They're not unintelligent, you know. They just don't think like us."
   "Yes, sir."
   "So be damned to any lining of the route. I want you three up on roofs, understand?"
   "Yes, si - what?"
   "Up on the roofs. Up high. When it makes its move, I want us to be the first to know."
   Colon tried to indicate by his expression that he didn't.
   "Do you think that's a good idea, sir?" he ventured.
   Vimes gave him a blank look. "Yes, Sergeant, I do. It was one of mine," he said coldly. "Now go and see toil."
   When he was left to himself Vimes washed and shaved in cold water, and then rummaged in his cam­paign chest until he unearthed his ceremonial breast­plate and red cloak. Well, the cloak had been red once, and still was, here and there, although most of it re­sembled a small net used very successfully for catch­ing moths. There was also a helmet, defiantly without plumes, from which the molecule-thick gold leaf had long ago peeled.
   He'd started saving up for a new cloak, once. What­ever had happened to the money?
   There was no one in the guardroom. Errol lay in the wreckage of the fourth fruit box Nobby had scrounged for him. The rest had all been eaten, or had dissolved.
   In the warm silence the everlasting rumbling of his stomach sounded especially loud. Occasionally he whimpered.
   "What's up with you, boy?" he said.
   The door creaked open. Carrot came in, saw Vimes hunkered down by the ravaged box, and saluted.
   "We're a bit worried about him, Captain," he vol­unteered. "He hasn't eaten his coal. Just lies there twitching and whining all the time. You don't think something's wrong with him, do you?"
   "Possibly," said Vimes. "But having something wrong with them is quite normal for a dragon. They always get over it. One way or another."
   Errol gave him a mournful look and closed his eyes again. Vimes pulled his scrap of blanket over him.
   There was a squeak. He fished around beside the dragon's shivering body, pulled out a small rubber hippo, stared at it in surprise and then gave it one or two experimental squeezes.
   "I thought it would be something for him to play with," said Carrot, slightly shamefaced.
   "You bought him a little toy?"
   "Yes, sir."
   "What a kind thought."
   Vimes hoped Carrot hadn't noticed the fluffy ball tucked into the back of the box. It had been quite ex­pensive.
   He left the two of them and stepped into the outside world.
   There was even more bunting now. People were be­ginning to line the main streets, even though there were hours to wait. It was still very depressing.
   He felt an appetite for once, one that it'd take more than a drink or two to satisfy. He strolled along for breakfast at Harga's House of Ribs, the habit of years, and got another unpleasant surprise. Normally the only decoration in there was on Sham Harga's vest and the food was good solid stuff for a cold morning, all cal­ories and fat and protein and maybe a vitamin crying softly because it was all alone. Now laboriously-made paper streamers criss-crossed the room and he was confronted with a crayonned menu in which the words "Coronasion" and "Royall" figured somewhere on every crooked line.
   Vimes pointed wearily at the top of the menu.
   "What's this?" he said.
   Harga peered at it. They were alone in the grease-walled cafe.
   "It says 'Bye Royarl Appointmente', Captain," he said proudly.
   "What's it mean?"
   Harga scratched his head with a ladle. "What it means is," he said, "if the king comes in here, he'll like it."
   "Have you got anything that isn't too aristocratic for me to eat, then?" said Vimes sourly, and settled for a slice of plebeian fried bread and a proletarian steak cooked so rare you could still hear it bray. Vimes ate it at the counter.
   A vague scraping noise disturbed his thoughts. "What're you doing?" he said.
   Harga looked up guiltily from his work behind the counter.
   "Nothing, Cap'n," he said. He tried to hide the ev­idence behind him when Vimes glared over the knife-chewed woodwork.
   "Come on, Sham. You can show me."
   Harga's beefy hands came reluctantly into view.
   "I was only scraping the old fat out of the pan," he mumbled.
   "I see. And how long have we known each other, Sham?" said Vimes, with terrible kindness.
   "Years, Cap'n," said Harga. "You bin coming in here nearly every day, reg'lar. One of my best custom­ers."
   Vimes leaned over the counter until his nose was level with the squashy pink thing in the middle of Harga's face.
   "And in all that time, have you ever changed the fat?" he demanded.
   Harga tried to back away. "Well…"
   "It's been like a friend to me, that old fat," said Vimes. "There's little black bits in there I've grown to know and love. It's a meal in itself. And you've cleaned out the coffee jug, haven't you. I can tell. This is love-in-a-canoe coffee if ever I tasted it. The other stuff had flavour. "
   "Well, I thought it was time…"
   "Why?"
   Harga let the pan fall from his pudgy fingers. "Well, I thought, if the king should happen to come in…"
   Vimes's accusing finger buried itself up to the sec­ond joint in Harga 's expansive vest.
   "You don't even know the wretched fellow's name!" he shouted.
   Harga rallied. "I do, Cap'n," he stuttered. "Course I do. Seen it on the decorations and everything. He's called Rex Vivat."
   Very gently, shaking his head in despair, crying in his heart for the essential servility of mankind, Vimes let him go.
 
   In another time and place, the Librarian finished read­ing. He'd reached the end of the text. Not the end of the book - there was plenty more book. It had been scorched beyond the point of legibility, though.
   Not that the last few unburned pages were very easy to read. The author's hand had been shaking, he'd been writing fast, and he'd blotted a lot. But the Librarian had wrestled with many a terrifying text in some of the worst books ever bound, words that tried to read you as you read them, words that writhed on the page. At least these weren't words like that. These were just the words of a man frightened for his life. A man writing a dreadful warning.
   It was a page a little back from the burned section that drew the Librarian's eye. He sat and stared at it for some time.
   Then he stared at the darkness.
   It was his darkness. He was asleep out there some­where. Somewhere out there a thief was heading for this place, to steal this book. And then someone would read this book, read these words, and do it anyway.
   His hands itched.
   All he had to do was hide the book, or drop on to the thief's head and unscrew it by the ears.
   He stared into the darkness again . . .
   But that would be interfering with the course of his­tory. Horrible things could happen. The Librarian knew all about this sort of thing, it was part of what you had to know before you were allowed into L-space. He'd seen pictures in ancient books. Time could bi­furcate, like a pair of trousers. You could end up in the wrong leg, living a life that was actually happening in the other leg, talking to people who weren't in your leg, walking into walls that weren't there any more. Life could be horrible in the wrong trouser of Time.
   Besides, it was against Library rules.[18] The assem­bled Librarians of Time and Space would certainly have something to say about it if he started to tinker with causality.
   He closed the book carefully and tucked it back into the shelf. Then he swung gently from bookcase to bookcase until he reached the doorway. For a moment he stopped and looked down at his own sleeping body. Perhaps he wondered, briefly, whether to wake himself up, have a little chat, tell himself that he had friends and not to worry. If so, he must have decided against it. You could get yourself into a lot of trouble that way.
   Instead he slipped out of the door, and lurked in the shadows, and followed the hooded thief when it came out clutching the book, and waited near the dread por­tal in the rain until the Elucidated Brethren had met and, when the last one left, followed him to his home, and murmured to himself in anthropoid surprise . . .
   And then ran back to his Library and the treacher­ous pathways of L-space.
 
 
   By mid-morning the streets were packed, Vimes had docked Nobby a day's salary for waving a flag, and an air of barbed gloom settled over the Yard, like a big black cloud with occasional flashes of lightning in it.
   "Get up in a high place, " muttered Nobby. "That's all very well to say."
   "I was looking forward to lining the streets," said Colon. "I'd have got a good view."
   "You were going on about privilege and the rights of man the other night," said Nobby accusingly.
   "Yes, well, one of the privileges and rights of this man is getting a good view," said the sergeant. "That's all I'm saying."
   "I've never seen the captain in such a filthy tem­per," said Nobby. "I liked it better when he was on the drink. I reckon he's…"
   "You know, I think Errol is really ill," said Carrot.
   They turned towards the fruit basket.
   "He's very hot. And his skin looks all shiny."
   "What's the right temperature for a dragon?" said Colon.
   "Yeah. How do you take it?" said Nobby.
   "I think we ought to ask Lady Ramkin to have a look at him," said Carrot. "She knows about these things."
   "No, she'll be getting ready for the coronation. We shouldn't go disturbing her," said Colon. He stretched out his hand to Errol's quivering flanks. "I used to have a dog that - arrgh! That's not hot, that's boiling!"
   "I've offered him lots of water and he just won't touch it. What are you doing with that kettle, Nobby?"
   Nobby looked innocent. "Well, I thought we might as well make a cup of tea before we go out. It's a shame to waste…"
   "Take it off him!"
 
   Noon came. The fog didn't lift but it did thin a bit, to allow a pale yellow haze where the sun should have been.
   Although the passage of years had turned the post of Captain of the Watch into something rather shabby, it still meant that Vimes was entitled to a seat at offi­cial occasions. The pecking order had moved it, though, so that now he was in the lowest tier on the rickety bleachers between the Master of the Fellow­ship of Beggars and the head of the Teachers' Guild. He didn't mind that. Anything was better than the top row, among the Assassins, Thieves, Merchants and all the other things that had floated to the top of society. He never knew what to talk about. Anyway, the teacher was restful company since he didn't do much but clench and unclench his hands occasionally, and whimper.
   "Something wrong with your neck, Captain?" said the chief beggar politely, as they waited for the coaches.
   "What?" said Vimes distractedly.
   "You keep on staring upwards," said the beggar.
   "Hmm? Oh. No. Nothing wrong," said Vimes.
   The beggar wrapped his velvet cloak around him.
   "You couldn't by any chance spare…," he paused, calculating a sum in accordance with his station, "…about three hundred dollars for a twelve-course civic banquet, could you?"
   "No."
   "Fair enough. Fair enough," said the chief beggar amiably. He sighed. It wasn't a rewarding job, being chief beggar. It was the differentials that did for you. Low-grade beggars made a reasonable enough living on pennies, but people tended to look the other way when you asked them for a sixteen-bedroom mansion for the night.
   Vimes resumed his study of the sky.
   Up on the dais the High Priest of Blind Io, who last night by dint of elaborate ecumenical argument and eventually by a club with nails in it had won the right to crown the king, fussed over his preparations. By the small portable sacrificial altar a tethered billy goat was peacefully chewing the cud and possibly thinking, in Goat: What a lucky billy goat I am, to be given such a good view of the proceedings. This is going to be something to tell the kids.
   Vimes scanned the diffused outlines of the nearest buildings.
   A distant cheering suggested that the ceremonial procession was on its way.
   There was a scuffle of activity around the dais as Lupine Wonse chivvied a scramble of servants who rolled a purple carpet down the steps.
   Across the square, amongst the ranks of Ankh-Morpork's faded aristocracy, Lady Ramkin's face tilted upwards.
   Around the throne, which had been hastily created out of wood and gold foil, a number of lesser priests, some of them with slight head wounds, shuffled into position.
   Vimes shifted in his seat, aware of the sound of his own heartbeat, and glared at the haze over the river.
   . . . and saw the wings.
 
   Dear Mother and Father [wrote Carrot, in between staring dutifully into the fog] Well, the town is On Fate for the coronation, which is more complicated than at home, and now I am on Day duty as well. This is a shame because, I was going to watch the Coronation with Reel, but it does not do to complain. I must go now because we are expecting a dragon any minute although it does not exist really. Your loving son, Carrot. PS. Have you seen anything of Minty lately?
 
   "You idiot!"
   "Sorry," said Vimes. "Sorry."
   People were climbing back into their seats, many of them giving him furious looks. Wonse was white with fury.
   "How could you have been so stupid? " he raged.
   Vimes stared at his own fingers.
   "I thought I saw…" he began.
   "It was a raven! You know what ravens are? There must be hundreds of them in the city!"
   "In the fog, you see, the size wasn't easy to…" Vimes mumbled.
   "And poor Master Greetling, you ought to have known what loud noises do to him!" The head of the Teachers' Guild had to be led away by some kind peo­ple.
   "Shouting out like that!" Wonse went on.
   "Look, I said I'm sorry! It was an honest mistake!"
   "I've had to hold up the procession and every­thing!"
   Vimes said nothing. He could feel hundreds of amused or unsympathetic eyes on him.
   "Well," he muttered, "I'd better be getting back to the Yard…"
   Wonse's eyes narrowed. "No," he snapped. "But you can go home, if you like. Or anywhere your fan­cies take you. Give me your badge."
   "Huh?"
   Wonse held out his hand.
   "Your badge," he repeated.
   "My badge?"
   "That's what I said. I want to keep you out of trou­ble."
   Vimes looked at him in astonishment. "But it's my badge!"
   "And you're going to give it to me," said Wonse grimly. "By order of the king."
   "What d'you mean? He doesn't even know!" Vimes heard the wailing in his own voice.
   Wonse scowled. "But he will," he said. "And I don't expect he'll even bother to appoint a successor."
   Vimes slowly undipped the verdigrised disc of cop­per, weighed it in his hand, and then tossed it to Wonse without a word.
   For a moment he considered pleading, but some­thing rebelled. He turned, and stalked off through the crowd.
   So that was it.
   As simple as that. After half a lifetime of service. No more City Watch. Huh. Vimes kicked at the pave­ment. It'd be some sort of Royal Guard now.
   With plumes in their damn helmets.
   Well, he'd had enough. It wasn't a proper life any­way, in the Watch. You didn't meet people in the best of circumstances. There must be hundreds of other things he could do, and if he thought for long enough he could probably remember what some of them were.
   Pseudopolis Yard was off the route of the proces­sion, and as he stumbled into the Watch House he could hear the distant cheering beyond the rooftops. Across the city the temple gongs were being sounded.
   Now they are ringing the gongs, thought Vimes, but soon they will-they will-they will not be ringing the gongs. Not much of an aphorism, he thought, but he could work on it. He had the time, now.
   Vimes noticed the mess.
   Errol had started eating again. He'd eaten most of the table, the grate, the coal scuttle, several lamps and the squeaky rubber hippo. Now he lay in his box again, skin twitching, whimpering in his sleep.
   "A right mess you've made," said Vimes enigmat­ically. Still, at least he wouldn't have to tidy it up.
   He opened his desk drawer.
   Someone had eaten into that, too. All that was left was a few shards of glass.
 

Sergeant Colon hauled himself on to the parapet around the Temple of Small Gods. He was too old for this sort of thing. He'd joined for the bell ringing, not sitting around on high places waiting for dragons to find him.
   He got his breath back, and peered through the fog.
   "Anyone human still up here?" he whispered.
   Carrot's voice sounded dead and featureless in the dull air.
   "Here I am, Sergeant," he said.
   "I was just checking if you were still here," said Colon.
   "I'm still here, Sergeant," said Carrot, obediently.
   Colon joined him.
   "Just checking you were not et," he said, trying to grin.
   "I haven't been et," said Carrot.
   "Oh," said Colon. "Good, then." He tapped his fingers on the damp stonework, feeling he ought to make his position absolutely clear.
   "Just checking," he repeated. "Part of my duty, see. Going around, sort of thing. It's not that I'm frightened of being up on the roofs by myself, you understand. Thick up here, isn't it."
   "Yes, Sergeant."
   "Everything all okay?" Nobby's muffled voice si­dled its way through the thick air, quickly followed by its owner.
   "Yes, Corporal," said Carrot.
   "What you doing up here?" Colon demanded.
   "I was just coming up to check Lance-constable Carrot was all right," said Nobby innocently. "What were you doing, Sergeant?"
   "We're all right," said Carrot, beaming. "That's good, isn't it."
   The two NCOs shifted uneasily and avoided looking at one another. It seemed like a long way back to their posts, across the damp, cloudy and, above all, exposed rooftops.
   Colon made an executive decision.
   "Sod this," he said, and found a piece of fallen statuary to sit on. Nobby leaned on the parapet and winkled a damp dog-end from the unspeakable ashtray behind his ear.
   "Heard the procession go by," he observed. Colon filled his pipe, and struck a match on the stone beside him.
   "If that dragon's alive," he said, blowing out a plume of smoke and turning a small patch of fog into smog, "then it'll have got the hell away from here, I'm telling you. Not the right sort of place for dragons, a city," he added, in the tones of someone doing a great job of convincing himself. "It'll have gone off to somewhere where there's high places and plenty to eat, you mark my words."
   "Somewhere like the city, you mean?" said Carrot.
   "Shut up," said the other two in unison.
   "Chuck us the matches, Sergeant," said Nobby.
   Colon tossed the bundle of evil yellow-headed lucifers across the leads. Nobby struck one, which was immediately blown out. Shreds of fog drifted past him.
   "Wind's getting up," he observed.
   "Good. Can't stand this fog," said Colon. "What was I saying?"
   "You were saying the dragon'll be miles away," prompted Nobby.
   "Oh. Right. Well, it stands to reason, doesn't it? I mean, I wouldn't hang around here if I could fly away. If I could fly, I wouldn't be sitting on a roof on some manky old statue. If I could fly, I'd…"
   "What statue?" said Nobby, cigarette halfway to his mouth.
   "This one," said Colon, thumping the stone. "And don't try to give me the willies, Nobby. You know there's hundreds of mouldy old statues up on Small Gods."
   "No I don't," said Nobby. "What I do know is, they were all taken down last month when they re-leaded the roof. There's just the roof and the dome and that's it. You have to take notice of little things like that," he added, "when you're detectoring."
   In the damp silence that followed Sergeant Colon looked down at the stone he was sitting on. It had a taper, and a scaly pattern, and a sort of indefinable tail-like quality. Then he followed its length up and into the rapidly-thinning fog.
   On the dome of Small Gods the dragon raised its head, yawned, and unfolded its wings.
   The unfolding wasn't a simple operation. It seemed to go on for some time, as the complex biological ma­chinery of ribs and pleats slid apart. Then, with wings outstretched, the dragon yawned, took a few steps to the edge of the roof, and launched itself into the air.
   After a while a hand appeared over the edge of the parapet. It flailed around for a moment until it got a decent grip.
   There was a grunt. Carrot hauled himself back on to the roof and pulled the other two up behind him. They lay flat out on the leads, panting. Carrot ob­served the way that the dragon's talons had scored deep grooves in the metal. You couldn't help noticing things like that.
   "Hadn't," he panted, "hadn't we better warn peo­ple?"
   Colon dragged himself forward until he could look across the city.
   "I don't think we need bother," he said. "I think they'll soon find out."


   The High Priest of Blind Io was stumbling over his words. There had never been an official coronation service in Ankh-Morpork, as far as he could find out. The old kings had managed quite well with something on the lines of: "We hath got the crown, i'faith, and we will kill any whoreson who tries to takes it away, by the Lord Harry." Apart from anything else, this was rather short. He'd spent a long time drafting something longer and more in keeping with the spirit of the times, and was having some trouble remember­ing it.
   He was also being put off by the goat, which was watching him with loyal interest.
   "Get on with it!" Wonse hissed, from his position behind the throne.
   "All in good time," the high priest hissed back. "This is a coronation, I'll have you know. You might try to show a little respect."
   "Of course I'm showing respect! Now get on…"
   There was a shout, off to the right. Wonse glared into the crowd.
   "It's that Ramkin woman," he said. "What's she up to?"
   People around her were chattering excitedly now. Fingers pointed all the same way, like a small fallen forest. There were one or two screams, and then the crowd moved like a tide.
   Wonse looked along the wide Street of Small Gods.
   It wasn't a raven out there. Not this time.

   The dragon flew slowly, only a few feet above the ground, wings sculling gracefully through the air.
   The flags that crisscrossed the street were caught up and snapped like so much cobweb, piling up on the creature's spine plates and flapping back along the length of its tail.
   It flew with head and neck fully extended, as if the great body was being towed like a barge. The people on the street yelled and fought one another for the safety of doorways. It paid them no attention.
   It should have come roaring, but the only sounds were the creaking of wings and the snapping of ban­ners.
   It should have come roaring. Not like this, not slowly and deliberately, giving terror time to mature. It should have come threatening. Not promising.
   It should have come roaring, not flying gently to the accompaniment of the zip and zing of merry bunting.

   Vimes pulled open the other drawer of his desk and glared at the paperwork, such as there was of it. There wasn't really much in there that he could call his own. A scrap of sugar bag reminded him that he now owed the Tea Kitty six pence. Odd. He wasn't angry yet. He would be later on, of course. By evening he'd be furious. Drunk and furi­ous. But not yet. Not yet. It hadn't really sunk in, and he knew he was just going through the motions as a preventative against thinking.
   Errol stirred sluggishly in his box, raised his head and whined.
   "What's the matter, boy?" said Vimes, reaching down. "Upset stomach?"
   The little dragon's skin was moving as though heavy industry was being carried on inside. Nothing in Dis­eases of the Dragon said anything about this. From the swollen stomach came sounds like a distant and com­plicated war in an earthquake zone.
   That surely wasn't right. Sybil Ramkin said you had to pay great attention to a dragon's diet, since even a minor stomach upset would decorate the walls and ceiling with pathetic bits of scaly skin. But in the past few days . . . well, there had been cold pizzas, and the ash from Nobby's horrible dog-ends, and all-in-all Errol had eaten more or less what he liked. Which was just about everything, to judge by the room. Not to mention the contents of the bottom drawer.
   "We really haven't looked after you very well, have we?" said Vimes. "Treated you like a dog, really." He wondered what effect squeaky rubber hippos had on the digestion.
   Vimes became slowly aware that the distant cheer­ing had turned to screams.
   He stared vaguely at Errol, and then smiled an in­credibly evil smile and stood up.
   There were sounds of panic and the mob on the run.
   He placed his battered helmet on his head and gave it a jaunty tap. Then, humming a mad little tune, he sauntered out of the building.
   Errol remained quite still for a while and then, with extreme difficulty, half-crawled and half-rolled out of his box. Strange messages were coming from the mas­sive part of his brain that controlled his digestive system. It was demanding certain things that he couldn't put a name to. Fortunately it was able to describe them in minute detail to the complex receptors in his enor­mous nostrils. They flared, subjecting the air of the room to an intimate examination. His head turned, triangulating.
   He pulled himself across the floor and began to eat, with every sign of enjoyment, Carrot's tin of armour polish.

   People streamed past Vimes as he strolled up the Street of Small Gods. Smoke rose into the air from the Plaza of Broken Moons.
   The dragon squatted in the middle of it, on what remained of the coronation dais. It had a self-satisfied expression.
   There was no sign of the throne, or of its occupant, although it was possible that complicated forensic ex­amination of the small pile of charcoal in the wrecked and smouldering woodwork might offer some clue.
   Vimes caught hold of an ornamental fountain to steady himself as the crowds stampeded by. Every street out of the plaza was packed with struggling bod­ies. Not noisy ones, Vimes noticed. People weren't wasting their breath with screaming any more. There was just this solid, deadly determination to be some­where else.
   The dragon spread its wings and flapped them lux­uriously. The people at the rear of the crowd took this as a signal to climb up the backs of the people in front of them and run for safety from head to head.
   Within a few seconds the square was empty of all save the stupid and the terminally bewildered. Even the badly trampled were making a spirited crawl for the nearest exit.
   Vimes looked around him. There seemed to be a lot of fallen flags, some of which were being eaten by an elderly goat which couldn't believe its luck. He could distantly see Cut-me-own-Throat on his hands and knees, trying to restore the contents of his tray.
   By Vimes's side a small child waved a flag hesitantly and shouted "Hurrah".
   Then everything went quiet.
   Vimes bent down.
   "I think you should be going home," he said.
   The child squinted up at him.
   "Are you a Watch man?" it said.
   "No," said Vimes. "And yes."
   "What happened to the king, Watch man?"
   "Er. I think he's gone off for a rest," said Vimes.
   "My auntie said I shouldn't talk to Watch men," said the child.
   "Do you think it might be a good idea to go home and tell her how obedient you've been, then?" said Vimes.
   "My auntie said, if I was naughty, she'd put me on the roof and call the dragon," said the child, conver­sationally. "My auntie said it eats you all up starting with the legs, so's you can see what's happening."
   "Why don't you go home and tell your auntie she's acting in the best traditions of Ankh-Morpork child-rearing?" said Vimes. "Go on. Run along."
   "It crunches up all your bones," said the child hap­pily. "And when it gets to your head, it-"
   "Look, it's up there!" shouted Vimes. "The great big dragon that crunches you up! Now go home!"
   The child looked up at the thing perched on the crip­pled dais.
   "I haven't seen it crunch anyone yet," it com­plained.
   "Push off or you'll feel the back of my hand," said Vimes.
   This seemed to fit the bill. The child nodded understandingly.
   "Right. Can I shout hurrah again?"
   "If you like," said Vimes.
   "Hurrah."
   So much for community policing, Vimes thought. He peered out from behind the fountain again.
   A voice immediately above him rumbled, "Say what you like, I still swear it's a magnificent specimen."
   Vimes's gaze travelled upwards until it crested the edge of the fountain's top bowl.
   "Have you noticed," said Sybil Ramkin, hauling herself upright by a piece of eroded statuary and drop­ping down in front of him, "how every time we meet, a dragon turns up?" She gave him an arch smile. "It's a bit like having your own tune. Or something."
   "It's just sitting there," said Vimes hurriedly. "Just looking around. As if it's waiting for something to happen."
   The dragon blinked with Jurassic patience.
   The roads off the square were packed with people. That's the Ankh-Morpork instinct, Vimes thought. Run away, and then stop and see if anything interesting is going to happen to other people.
   There was a movement in the wreckage near the dragon's front talon, and the High Priest of Blind Io staggered to his feet, dust and splinters cascading from his robes. He was still holding the ersatz crown in one hand.
   Vimes watched the old man look upwards into a couple of glowing red eyes a few feet away.
   "Can dragons read minds?" whispered Vimes.
   "I'm sure mine understand every word I say," hissed Lady Ramkin. "Oh, no! The silly old fool is giving it the crown!"
   "But isn't that a smart move?" said Vimes. "Drag­ons like gold. It's like throwing a stick for a dog, isn't it?"
   "Oh dear," said Sybil Ramkin. "It might not, you know. Dragons have such sensitive mouths."
   The great dragon blinked at the tiny circle of gold.
   Then, with extreme delicacy, it extended one metre-long claw and hooked the thing out of the priest's trembling fingers.
   "What d'you mean, sensitive?" said Vimes, watch­ing the claw travel slowly towards the long, horse-like face.
   "A really incredible sense of taste. They're so, well, chemically orientated."
   "You mean it can probably taste gold?" whispered Vimes, watching the crown being carefully licked.
   "Oh, certainly. And smell it."
   Vimes wondered what the chances were of the crown being made of gold. Not high, he decided. Gold foil over copper, perhaps. Enough to fool human beings. And then he wondered what someone's reaction would be if they were offered sugar which turned out, once you'd put three spoonfuls in your coffee, to be salt.
   The dragon removed the claw from its mouth in one graceful movement and caught the high priest, who was just sneaking away, a blow which knocked him high into the air. When he was screaming at the top of the arc the great mouth came around and…
   "Gosh!" said Lady Ramkin.
   There was a groan from the watchers.
   "The temperature of the thing!" said Vines. "I mean, nothing left! Just a wisp of smoke!"
   There was another movement in the rubble. Another figure pulled itself upright and leaned dazedly against a broken spar.
   It was Lupine Wonse, under a coating of soot.
   Vimes watched him look up into a pair of nostrils the size of drain-covers.
   Wonse broke into a run. Vimes wondered what it felt like, running away from something like that, ex­pecting any minute your backbone to reach, very briefly, a temperature somewhere beyond the vaporisa­tion point of iron. He could guess.
   Wonse made it halfway across the square before the dragon darted forward with surprising agility for such a bulk and snatched him up. The talon swept on up­ward until the struggling figure was being held a few feet from the dragon's face.
   It appeared to examine him for some time, turning him this way and that. Then, moving on its three free legs and flapping its wings occasionally to help with its balance, it trotted away across the plaza and headed towards the what once had been the Patrician's pal­ace. To what once had been the king's palace, too.
   It ignored the frightened spectators silently pressing themselves against the walls. The arched gateway was shouldered aside with depressing ease. The doors themselves, tall and iron-bound and solid, lasted a sur­prising ten seconds before collapsing into a heap of glowing ash.
   The dragon stepped through.
   Lady Ramkin turned in astonishment. Vimes had started to laugh.
   There was a manic edge to it and there were tears in his eyes, but it was still laughter. He laughed and laughed until he slid gently down the edge of the foun­tain, his legs splaying out in front of him.
   "Hooray, hooray, hooray!" he giggled, almost choking.
   "What on earth d'you mean?" Lady Ramkin de­manded.
   "Put out more flags! Blow the cymbals, roast the tocsin! We've crowned it! We've got a king after all! What ho!"
   "Have you been drinking?" she snapped.
   "Not yet!" sniggered Vimes. "Not yet! But I will be!"
   He laughed on, knowing that when he stopped black depression was going to drop on him like a lead souf­fle. But he could see the future stretching out ahead of them . . .
   ... after all, it was definitely noble. And it didn't carry money, and it couldn't answer back. It could certainly do something for the inner cities, too. Like torching them to the bedrock.
   We'll really do it, he thought. That's the Ankh-Morpork way. If you can't beat it or corrupt it, you pretend it was your idea in the first place.
   Vivat Draco.
   He became aware that the small child had wandered up again. It waved its flag gently at him and said, "Can I shout hurrah again now?"
   "Why not?" said Vimes. "Everyone else will."
   From the palace came the muffled sounds of com­plicated destruction . . .

   Errol pulled a broomstick across the floor with his mouth and, whimpering with effort, hauled it upright. After a lot more whimpering and several false starts he managed to winkle the end of it between the wall and the big jar of lamp oil.
   He paused for a moment, breathing like a bellows, and pushed.
   The jar resisted for a moment, rocked back and forth once or twice, and then fell over and smashed on the flagstones. Crude, very badly-refined oil spread out in a black puddle.
   Errol's huge nostrils twitched. Somewhere in the back of his brain unfamiliar synapses clicked like telegraph keys. Great balks of information flooded down the thick nerve cord to his nose, carrying in­explicable information about triple bonds, alkalines and geometric isomerism. However, almost all of it missed the small part of Errol's brain that was used for being Errol.
   All he knew was that he was suddenly very, very thirsty.

   Something major was happening in the palace. There was the occasional crash of a floor or thump of a fall­ing ceiling ...
   In his rat-filled dungeon, behind a door with more locks than a major canal network, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork lay back and grinned in the darkness.

   Outside, bonfires flared in the dusk.
   Ankh-Morpork was celebrating. No one was quite sure why, but they'd worked themselves up for a cel­ebration tonight, barrels had been broached, oxen had been put on spits, one paper hat and celebratory mug had been issued per child, and it seemed a shame to waste all that effort. Anyway, it had been a very inter­esting day, and the people of Ankh-Morpork set great store by entertainment.
   "The way I see it," said one of the revellers, half­way through a huge greasy lump of half-raw meat, "a dragon as king mightn't be a bad idea. When you think it through, is what I mean."
   "It definitely looked very gracious," said the woman to his right, as if testing the idea. "Sort of, well, sleek. Nice and smart. Not scruffy. Takes a bit of a pride in itself.'' She glared at some of the younger revellers further down the table. "The trouble with people today is they don't take pride in themselves."
   "And there's foreign policy, of course," said a third, helping himself to a rib. "When you come to think about it."
   "What d'you mean?"
   "Diplomacy," said the rib-eater, flatly.
   They thought about it. And then you could see them turning the idea around and thinking about it the other way, in a polite effort to see what the hell he was getting at.
   "Dunno," said the monarchical expert slowly. "I mean, your actual dragon, it's got these, basically, two sort of ways of negotiation. Hasn't it? I mean, it's ei­ther roasting you alive, or it isn't. Correct me if I'm wrong," he added.
   "That's my point. I mean, let's say the ambassador from Klatch comes along, you know how arrogant that lot are, suppose he says: we want this, we want that, we want the other thing. Well," he said, beaming at them, "what we say is, shut your face unless you want to go home in a jar."
   They tried out this idea for mental fit. It had that certain something.
   "They've got a big fleet, Klatch," said the monar­chist uncertainly. "Could be a bit risky, roasting dip­lomats. People see a pile of charcoal come back on the boat, they tend to look a bit askance."
   "Ah, then we say, Ho there, Johnny Klatchian, you no like-um, big fella lizard belong-sky bake mud hut belong-you pretty damn chop-chop."
   "We could really say that?"
   "Why not? And then we say, send plenty tribute toot sweet."
   "I never did like them Klatchians," said the woman firmly. "The stuff they eat! It's disgustin'. And gabblin' away all the time in their heathen lingo ..."
   In the shadows, a match flared.
   Vimes cupped his hands around the flame, sucked on the foul tobacco, tossed the match into the gutter and slouched off down the damp, puddle-punctuated alley.
   If there was anything that depressed him more than his own cynicism, it was that quite often it still wasn't as cynical as real life.
   We've got along with the other guys for centuries, he thought. Getting along has practically been all our foreign policy. Now I think I've just heard us declare war on an ancient civilisation that we've always got along with, more or less, even if they do talk funny. And after that, the world. What's worse, we'll proba­bly win.

Similar thoughts, although with a different perspec­tive, were going through the minds of the civic leaders of Ankh-Morpork when, next morning, each received a short note bidding them to be at the palace for a working lunch, by order.
   It didn't say whose order. Or, they noted, whose lunch.
   Now they were assembled in the antechamber.
   And there had been changes. It had never been what you might call a select place. The Patrician had always felt that if you made people comfortable they might want to stay. The furniture had been a few very elderly chairs and, around the walls, portraits of earlier city rulers holding scrolls and things.
   The chairs were still there. The portraits were not. Or, rather, the stained and cracked canvases were piled in a corner, but the gilt frames were gone.
   The councillors tried to avoid one another's faces, and sat tapping their fingers on their knees.
   Finally a couple of very worried-looking servants opened the doors to the main hall. Lupine Wonse lurched through.
   Most of the councillors had been up all night any­way, trying to formulate some kind of policy vis-a-vis dragons, but Wonse looked as though he hadn't been to sleep in years. His face was the colour of a fer­mented dishcloth. Never particularly well-padded, he now looked like something out of a pyramid.
   "Ah," he intoned. "Good. Are you all here? Then perhaps you would step this way, gentlemen."
   "Er," said the head thief, "the note mentioned lunch?"
   "Yes?" said Wonse.
   "With a dragon?"
   "Good grief, you don't think it would eat you, do you?" said Wonse. "What an idea!"
   "Never crossed me mind," said the head thief, re­lief blowing from his ears like steam. ' 'The very idea. Ha-ha."
   "Ha-ha," said the chief merchant.
   "Ho-ho," said the head assassin. "The very idea."
   "No, I expect you're all far too stringy," said Wonse. "Ha-ha."
   "Ha-ha."
   "Aha-ha."
   "Ho-ho." The temperature lowered by several de­grees.
   "So if you would kindly step this way?"
   The great hall had changed. For one thing, it was a great deal greater. Several walls had been knocked into adjoining rooms, and the ceiling and several storeys of upper rooms had been entirely removed. The floor was a mass of rubble except in the middle of the room, which was a heap of gold-Well, goldish. It looked as though someone had scoured the palace for anything that shone or glittered. There were the picture frames, and the gold thread out of tapestries, and silver, and the occasional gem. There were also tureens from the kitchens, candlesticks, warming pans, fragments of mirror. Sparkly stuff.
   The councillors were not in a position to pay much attention to this, however, because of what was hang­ing above their heads.
   It looked like the biggest badly-rolled cigar in the universe, if the biggest badly-rolled cigar in the uni­verse was in the habit of hanging upside down. Two talons could be dimly seen gripping the dark rafters.
   Halfway between the glittering heap and the door­way a small table had been laid. The councillors noted without much surprise that the familiar ancient silver­ware was missing. There were china plates, and cut­lery that looked as though it had very recently been whittled from bits of wood. Wonse took a seat at the head of the table and nodded to the servants.
   "Please be seated, gentlemen," he said. "I am sorry things are a little . . . different, but the king hopes you will bear with it until matters can be more suitably organised."
   "The, er," said the head merchant.
   "The king," repeated Wonse. His voice sounded one dribble away from madness.
   "Oh. The king. Right," said the merchant. From where he was sitting he had a good view of the big hanging thing. There seemed to be some movement there, some trembling in the great folds that wrapped it. "Long life to him, say I," he added quickly.
   The first course was soup with dumplings in it. Wonse didn't have any. The rest of them ate in a ter­rified silence broken only by the dull chiming of wood on china.
   "There are certain matters of decree to which the king feels your assent would be welcome," said Wonse, eventually. "A pure formality, of course, and I am sorry to bother you with such petty detail."
   The big bundle appeared to sway in the breeze.
   "No trouble at all," squeaked the head thief.
   "The king graciously desires it to be known," said Wonse, "that it would be pleased to receive corona­tion gifts from the population at large. Nothing com­plex, of course. Simply any precious metals or gems they might have by them and can easily spare. I should stress, by the way, that this is by no means compul­sory. Such generosity as he is confident of expecting should be an entirely voluntary act."
   The chief assassin looked sadly at the rings on his fingers, and sighed. The head merchant was already resignedly unshipping his gilt chain of office from around his neck.
   "Why, gentlemen!" said Wonse. "This is most un­expected!"
   "Um," said the Archchancellor of Unseen Univer­sity. "You will be…that is, I am sure the king is aware that, traditionally, the University is exempt from all city levies and taxes ..."
   He stifled a yawn. The wizards had spent the night directing their best spells against the dragon. It was like punching fog.
   "My dear sir, this is no levy," protested Wonse. "I hope that nothing I have said would lead you to expect anything like that. Oh, no! No. Any tribute should be, as I said, entirely voluntary. I hope that is absolutely clear."
   "As crystal," said the head assassin, glaring at the old wizard. "And these entirely voluntary tributes we are about to make, they go…?"
   "On the hoard," said Wonse.
   "Ah, right."
   "While I am positive the people of the city will be very generous indeed once they fully understand the situation," said the head merchant, "I am sure the king will understand that there is very little gold in Ankh-Morpork?"
   "Good point," said Wonse. "However, the king in­tends to pursue a vigorous and dynamic foreign policy which should remedy matters."
   "Ah," the councillors chorused, rather more enthu­siastically this time.
   "For example," Wonse went on, "the king feels that our legitimate interests in Quirm, Sto Lat, Pseudopolis and Tsort have been seriously compromised in recent centuries. This will be speedily corrected and, gentlemen, I can assure you that treasure will posi­tively flow into the city from those anxious to enjoy the king's protection."
   The head assassin glanced at the hoard. A very def­inite idea formed in his mind as to where all that trea­sure would end up. You had to admire the way dragons knew how to put the bite on. It was practically human.
   "Oh," he said.
   "Of course, there will probably be other acquisitions in the way of land, property and so forth, and the king wishes it to be fully understood that loyal Privy Councillors will be richly rewarded."
   "And, er," said the head assassin, who was begin­ning to feel that he had got a firm grip on the nature of the king's mental processes, "no doubt the, er…"
   "Privy Councillors," said Wonse.
   "No doubt they will respond with even greater gen­erosity in the matter of, for example, treasure?"
   "I am sure such considerations haven't crossed the king's mind," said Wonse, "but the point is very well made."
   "I thought it would be."
   The next course was fat pork, beans and floury po­tatoes. More, as they couldn't help noticing, fattening food.
   Wonse had a glass of water.
   "Which brings us on to a further matter of some delicacy which I am sure that well-travelled, broad-minded gentlemen such as yourselves will have no dif­ficulty in accepting," he said. The hand holding the glass was beginning to shake.
   "I hope it will also be understood by the population at large, especially since the king will undoubtedly be able to contribute in so many ways to the well-being and defence of the city. For example, I am sure that the people will rest more contentedly in their beds knowing that the dr…the king is tirelessly protecting them from harm. There can, however, be ridiculous ancient . . . prejudices . . . which will only be eradi­cated by ceaseless work ... on the part of all men of good will."
   He paused, and looked at them. The head assassin said later that he had looked into the eyes of many men who, obviously, were very near death, but he had never looked into eyes that were so clearly and unmis­takably looking back at him from the slopes of Hell.
   He hoped he would never, he said, ever have to look into eyes like that again.
   "I am referring," said Wonse, each word coming slowly to the surface like bubbles in some quicksand, "to the matter of ... the king's . . . diet."
   There was a terrible silence. They heard the faint rustle of wings behind them, and the shadows in the corners of the hall grew darker and seemed to close in.
   "Diet," said the head thief, in a hollow voice.
   "Yes," said Wonse. His voice was almost a squeak. Sweat was dripping down his face. The head assassin had once heard the word "rictus" and wondered when you should use it correctly to describe someone's ex­pression, and now he knew. That was what Wonse's face had become; it was the ghastly rictus of someone trying not to hear the words his own mouth was say­ing.
   "We, er, we thought," said the head assassin, very carefully, "that the dr… the king, well, must have been arranging matters for himself, over the weeks."
   "Ah, but poor stuff, you know. Poor stuff. Stray animals and so forth," said Wonse, staring hard at the tabletop. "Obviously, as king, such makeshifts are no longer appropriate."
   The silence grew and took on a texture. The coun­cillors thought hard, especially about the meal they had just eaten. The arrival of a huge trifle with a lot of cream on it only served to concentrate their minds.
   "Er," said the head merchant, "how often is the king hungry?"
   "All the time," said Wonse, "but it eats once a month. It is really a ceremonial occasion."
   "Of course," said the head merchant. "It would be."
   "And, er," said the head assassin, "when did the king last, er, eat?"
   "I'm sorry to say it hasn't eaten properly ever since it came here," said Wonse.
   "Oh."
   "You must understand," said Wonse, fiddling des­perately with his wooden cutlery, "that merely way­laying people like some common assassin…"
   "Excuse me…" the head assassin began.
   "Some common murderer, I mean - there is no ... satisfaction there. The whole essence of the king's feeding is that it should be, well... an act of bonding between king and subjects. It is, it is perhaps a living allegory. Reinforcing the close links between the crown and the community," he added.
   "The precise nature of the meal…" the head thief began, almost choking on the words. "Are we talking about young maidens here?"
   "Sheer prejudice," said Wonse. "The age is im­material. Marital status is, of course, of importance. And social class. Something to do with flavour, I be­lieve." He leaned forward, and now his voice was pain-filled and urgent and, they felt, genuinely his own for the first time. "Please consider it!" he hissed. "After all, just one a month! In exchange for so much! The families of people of use to the king, Privy Coun­cillors such as yourselves, would not, of course, even be considered. And when you think of all the alter­natives ..."
   They didn't think about all the alternatives. It was enough to think about just one of them.
   The silence purred at them as Wonse talked. They avoided one another's faces, for fear of what they might see mirrored there. Each man thought: one of the oth­ers is bound to say something soon, some protest, and then I'll murmur agreement, not actually say any­thing, I'm not as stupid as that, but definitely murmur very firmly, so that the others will be in no doubt that I thoroughly disapprove, because at a time like this it behooves all decent men to nearly stand up and be almost heard ...
   But no one said anything. The cowards, each man thought.
   And no one touched the pudding, or the brick-thick chocolate mints served afterwards. They just listened in flushed, gloomy horror as Wonse's voice droned on, and when they were dismissed they tried to leave as separately as possible, so that they didn't have to talk to one another.
   Except for the head merchant, that is. He found himself leaving the palace with the chief assassin, and they strolled side by side, minds racing. The chief merchant tried to look on the bright side; he was one of those men who organise sing-songs when things go drastically wrong.
   "Well, well," he said. "So we're privy councillors now. Just fancy.''
   "Hmm," said the assassin.
   "I wonder what's the difference between ordinary councillors and privy councillors?" wondered the merchant aloud.
   The assassin scowled at him. "I think," he said, "it is because you're expected to eat shit."
   He turned the glare back on his feet again. What kept going through his mind were Wonse's last words, as he shook the secretary's limp hand. He wondered if anyone else had heard them. Unlikely . . . they'd been a shape rather than a sound. Wonse had simply moved his lips around them while staring fixedly at the assassin's moon-tanned face.
   Help. Me.
   The assassin shivered. Why him? As far as he could see there was only one kind of help he was qualified to give, and very few people ever asked for it for them­selves. In fact, they usually paid large sums for it to be given as a surprise present to other people. He wondered what was happening to Wonse that made any alternative seem better . . .


   Wonse sat alone in the dark, ruined hall. Waiting.
   He could try running. But it'd find him again. It'd always be able to find him. It could smell his mind.
   Or it would flame him. That was worse. Just like the Brethren. Perhaps it was an instantaneous death, it looked an instantaneous death, but Wonse lay awake at night wondering whether those last micro-seconds somehow stretched to a subjective, white-hot eternity, every tiny part of your body a mere smear of plasma and you, there, alive in the middle of it all ...
   Not you. I would not flame you.
   It wasn't telepathy. As far as Wonse had always un­derstood it, telepathy was like hearing a voice in your head.
   This was like hearing a voice in your body. His whole nervous system twanged to it, like a bow.
   Rise.
   Wonse jerked to his feet, overturning the chair and banging his legs on the table. When that voice spoke, he had as much control over his body as water had over gravity.
   Come.
   Wonse lurched across the floor.
   The wings unfolded slowly, with the occasional creak, until they filled the hall from side to side. The tip of one smashed a window, and stuck out into the afternoon air.
   The dragon slowly, sensuously, stretched out its neck and yawned. When it had finished, it brought its head around until it was a few inches in front of Wonse's face.
   What does voluntary mean ?
   "It, er, it means doing something of your own free will," said Wonse.
   But they have no free will! They will increase my hoard, or I will flame them!
   Wonse gulped. "Yes," he said, "but you mustn't…"
   The silent roar of fury spun him around.
   There is nothing I mustn 't!
   "No, no, no!" squeaked Wonse, clutching his head. "I didn't mean that! Believe me! This way is better, that's all! Better and safer!"
   None can defeat me!
   "This is certainly the case…"
   None can control me!
   Wonse flung up his finger-spread hands in a concil­iatory fashion. "Of course, of course," he said. "But there are ways and ways, you know. Ways and ways. All the roaring and flaming, you see, you don't need it . . ."
   Foolish ape! How else can I make them do my bid­ding ?
   Wonse put his hands behind his back.
   "They'll do it of their own free will," he said. "And in time, they'll come to believe it was their own idea. It'll be a tradition. Take it from me. We humans are adaptable creatures."
   The dragon gave him a long, blank stare.
   "In fact," said Wonse, trying to keep the trembling out of his voice, "before too long, if someone comes along and tells them that a dragon king is a bad idea, they'll kill him themselves."
   The dragon blinked.
   For the first time Wonse could remember, it seemed uncertain.
   "I know people, you see," said Wonse, simply.
   The dragon continued to pin him with its gaze.
   If you are lying ... it thought, eventually.
   "You know I can't. Not to you."
   And they really act like this?
   "Oh, yes. All the time. It's a basic human trait."
   Wonse knew the dragon could read at least the upper levels of his mind. They resonated in terrible har­mony. And he could see the mighty thoughts behind the eyes in front of him.
   The dragon was horrified.
   "I'm sorry," said Wonse weakly. "That's just how we are. It's all to do with survival, I think."
   There will be no mighty warriors sent to kill me? it thought, almost plaintively.
   "I don't think so."
   No heroes?
   "Not any more. They cost too much."
   But I will be eating people!
   Wonse whimpered.
   He felt the sensation of the dragon rummaging around in his mind, trying to find a clue to understand­ing. He half-saw, half-sensed the flicker of random images, of dragons, of the mythical age of reptiles and-and here he felt the dragon's genuine astonish­ment - of some of the less commendable areas of hu­man history, which were most of it. And after the astonishment came the baffled anger. There was prac­tically nothing the dragon could do to people that they had not, sooner or later, tried on one another, often with enthusiasm.
   You have the effrontery to be squeamish, it thought at him. But we were dragons. We were supposed to be cruel, cunning, heartless and terrible. But this much I can tell you, you ape-the great face pressed even closer, so that Wonse was staring into the pitiless depths of its eyes-we never burned and tortured and ripped one another apart and called it morality.
   The dragon stretched its wings again, once or twice, and then dropped heavily on to the tawdry assortment of mildly precious things. Its claws scrabbled at the pile. It sneered.
   A three-legged lizard wouldn't hoard this lot, it thought.
   "There will be better things," whispered Wonse, temporarily relieved at the change in direction. There had better be.
   "Can I-" Wonse hesitated-"can I ask you a ques­tion?"
   Ask.
   "You don't need to eat people, surely? I think that's the only problem from people's point of view, you see," he added, his voice speeding up to a gabble. "The treasure and everything, that doesn't have to be a problem, but if it's just a matter of, well, protein, then perhaps it has occurred to a powerful intellect such as your own that something less controversial, like a cow, might…"
   The dragon breathed a horizontal streak of fire that calcined the opposite wall.
   Need? Need? it roared, when the sound had died away. You talk to me of need? Isn 't it the tradition that the finest flower of womanhood should be sent to the dragon to ensure peace and prosperity ?
   "But, you see, we have always been moderately peaceful and reasonably prosperous…"
   DO YOU WANT THIS STATE OF AFFAIRS TO CONTINUE?
   The force of the thought drove Wonse to his knees.
   "Of course," he managed.
   The dragon stretched its claws luxuriantly.
   Then the need is not mine, it is yours, it thought. Now get out of my sight.
   Wonse sagged as it left his mind.
   The dragon slithered over the cut-price hoard, leapt up on to the ledge of one of the hall's big windows, and smashed the stained glass with its head. The mul­ticoloured image of a city father cascaded into the other debris below.
   The long neck stretched out into the early evening air, and turned like a seeking needle. Lights were coming on across the city. The sound of a million peo­ple being alive made a muted, deep thrumming.
   The dragon breathed deeply, joyfully.
   Then it hauled the rest of its body on to the ledge, shouldered the remains of the window's frame aside, and leapt into the sky.

   "What is it?" said Nobby.
   It was vaguely round, of a woodish texture, and when struck made a noise like a ruler plucked over the edge of a desk.
   Sergeant Colon tapped it again.
   "I give in," he said.
   Carrot proudly lifted it out of the battered packag­ing.
   "It's a cake," he said, shoving both hands under the thing and raising it with some difficulty. "From my mother." He managed to put it on the table with­out trapping his fingers.
   "Can you eat it?" said Nobby. "It's taken months to get here. You'd think it would go stale."
   "Oh, it's to a special dwarfish recipe," said Carrot. "Dwarfish cakes don't go stale."
   Sergeant Colon gave it another sharp rap. "I sup­pose not," he conceded.
   "It's incredibly sustaining," said Carrot. "Practi­cally magical. The secret has been handed down from dwarf to dwarf for centuries. One tiny piece of this and you won't want anything to eat all day."
   "Get away?" said Colon.
   "A dwarf can go hundreds of miles with a cake like this in his pack," Carrot went on.
   "I bet he can," said Colon gloomily, "I bet all the time he'd be thinking, 'Bloody hell, I hope I can find something else to eat soon, otherwise it's the bloody cake again.' "
   Carrot, to whom the word irony meant something to do with metal, picked up his pike and after a couple of impressive rebounds managed to cut the cake into approximately four slices.
   "There we are," he said cheerfully. "One for each of us, and one for the captain." He realized what he had said. "Oh. Sorry."
   "Yes," said Colon flatly.
   They sat in silence for a moment.
   "I liked him," said Carrot. "I'm sorry he's gone."
   There was some more silence, very similar to the earlier silence but even deeper and more furrowed with depression.
   "I expect you'll be made captain now," said Car­rot.
   Colon started. "Me? I don't want to be captain! I can't do the thinking. It's not worth all that thinking, just for another nine dollars a month."
   He drummed his fingers on the table.
   "Is that all he got?" said Nobby. "I thought officers were rolling in it."
   "Nine dollars a month," said Colon. "I saw the pay scales once. Nine dollars a month to add and two dollars plumes allowance. Only he never claimed that bit. Funny, really."
   "He wasn't the plumes type," said Nobby.
   "You're right," said Colon. "The thing about the captain, see, I read this book once . . . you know we've all got alcohol in our bodies . . . sort of natural alcohol? Even if you never touch a drop in your life, your body sort of makes it anyway ... but Captain Vimes, see, he's one of those people whose body doesn't do it naturally. Like, he was born two drinks below normal."
   "Gosh," said Carrot.
   "Yes ... so, when he's sober, he's really sober. Knurd, they call it. You know how you feel when you wake up if you've been on the piss all night, Nobby? Well, he feels like that all the time. "
   "Poor bugger," said Nobby. "I never realized. No wonder he's always so gloomy."
   "So he's always trying to catch up, see. It's just that he doesn't always get the dose right. And, of course," Colon glanced at Carrot, 'he was brung low by a woman. Mind you, just about anything brings him low."
   "So what do we do now, Sergeant?" said Nobby.
   "And do you think he'd mind if we eat his cake?" said Carrot wistfully. "It'd be a shame to let it go stale."
   Colon shrugged.
   The older men sat in miserable silence as Carrot macerated his way through the cake like a bucket-wheel rockcrusher in a chalk pit. Even if it had been the lightest of souffles they wouldn't have had any ap­petite.
   They were contemplating life without the captain. It was going to be bleak, even without dragons. Say what you liked about Captain Vimes, he'd had style. It was a cynical, black-nailed style, but he'd had it and they didn't. He could read long words and add up. Even that was style, of a sort. He even got drunk in style.
   They'd been trying to drag the minutes out, trying to stretch out the time. But the night had come.
   There was no hope for them.
   They were going to have to go out on the streets.
   It was six of the clock. And all wasn't well.
   "I miss Errol, too," said Carrot
   "He was the captain's, really," said Nobby. "Any­way, Lady Ramkin'll know how to look after him."
   "It's not as though we could leave anything around, either," said Colon. "I mean, even the lamp oil. He even drank the lamp oil."
   "And mothballs," said Nobby. "A whole box of mothballs. Why would anyone want to eat mothballs? And the kettle. And sugar. He was a devil for sugar."
   "He was nice, though," said Carrot. "Friendly."
   "Oh, I'll grant you," said Colon. "But it's not right, really, a pet where you have to jump behind a table every time it hiccups."
   "I shall miss his little face," said Carrot.
   Nobby blew his nose, loudly.
   It was echoed by a hammering on the door. Colon jerked his head. Carrot got up and opened it.
   A couple of members of the palace guard were wait­ing with arrogant impatience. They stepped back when they saw Carrot, who had to bend a bit to see under the lintel; bad news like Carrot travels fast.
   "We've brung you a proclamation," said one of them. "You've got to…"
   "What's all that fresh paint on your breastplate?" said Carrot politely. Nobby and the sergeant peered around him.
   "It's a dragon," said the younger of the guards.
   "The dragon," corrected his superior.
   " 'Ere, I know you," said Nobby. 'You're Skully Maltoon. Used to live in Mincing Street. Your mum made cough sweets, din't she, and fell in the mixture and died. I never have a cough sweet but I think of your mum."
   "Hallo, Nobby," said the guard, without enthusi­asm.
   "I bet your old mum'd be proud of you, you with a dragon on your vest," said Nobby conversationally. The guard gave him a look made of hatred and em­barrassment.
   "And new plumes on your hat, too," Nobby added sweetly.
   "This here is a proclamation what you are com­manded to read," said the guard loudly. "And post up on street corners also. By order."
   "Whose?" said Nobby.
   Sergeant Colon grabbed the scroll in one ham-like fist.
   "Where As," he read slowly, tracing the lettering with a hesitant finger, "It hathe Pleas-Sed the Der-Rer-Aa-Ger-the dragon, Ker-Ii-king of kings and Aa-Ber-Ess-Uh-Ler-" sweat beaded on the broad pink cliff of his forehead-"absolute, that is, Rer-Uh-Ler-Eh-Rer, ruler of-"
   He lapsed into the tortured silence of academia, his fingertip jerking slowly down the parchment.
   "No," he said at last. "That's not right, is it? It's not going to eat someone?"
   "Consume," said the older guard.
   "It's all part of the social. . . social contract," said his assistant woodenly. "A small price to pay, I'm sure you will agree, for the safety and protection of the city."
   "From what?" said Nobby. "We've never had an enemy we couldn't bribe or corrupt."
   "Until now," said Colon darkly.
   "You catch on fast," said the guard. "So you're going to broadcast it. On pain of pain."
   Carrot peered over Colon's shoulder.
   "What's a virgin?" he said.
   "An unmarried girl," said Colon quickly.
   "What, like my friend Reel?" said Carrot, horri­fied.
   "Well, no," said Colon.
   "She's not married, you know. None of Mrs Palm's girls are married."
   "Well, yes," said Colon.
   "Well, then," said Carrot, with an air of finality. "We're not having any of that kind of thing, I hope."
   "People won't stand for it," said Colon. "You mark my words."
   The guards stepped back, out of range of Carrot's rising wrath.
   "They can please themselves," said the senior guard. "But if you don't proclaim it, you can try ex­plaining things to His Majesty."
   They hurried off.
   Nobby darted out into the street. "Dragon on your vest!" he shouted. "If your old mum knew about this she'd turn in her vat, you goin' around with a dragon on your vest!"
   Colon wandered back to the table and spread out the scroll.
   "Bad business," he mumbled.
   "It's already killed people," said Carrot. "Con­trary to sixteen separate Acts in Council."
   "Well, yes. But that was just like, you know, the hurly-burly of this and that," said Colon. "Not that it wasn't bad, I mean, but people sort of participating, just handing over some slip of a girl and standing round watching as if it's all proper and legal, that's much worse."
   "I reckon it all depends on your point of view," said Nobby thoughtfully.
   "What d'you mean?"
   "Well, from the point of view of someone being burned alive, it probably doesn't matter much," said Nobby philosophically.
   "People won't stand for it, I said," said Colon, ig­noring this. "You'll see. They'll march on the palace, and what will the dragon do then, eh?"
   "Burn 'em all," said Nobby promptly.
   Colon looked puzzled. "It wouldn't do that, would it?" he said.
   "Don't see what's to prevent it, do you?" said Nobby. He glanced out of the doorway. "He was a good lad, that boy. Used to run errands for my gran­dad. Who'd have thought he'd go around with a dragon on his chest ..."
   "What are we going to do, Sergeant?" said Carrot.
   "I don't want to be burned alive," said Sergeant Colon. "My wife'd give me hell. So I suppose we've got to wossname, proclaim it. But don't worry, lad," he said, patting Carrot on one muscular arm and re­peating, as if he hadn't quite believed himself the first time, "it won't come to that. People'll never stand for it."

   Lady Ramkin ran her hands over Errol's body.
   "Damned if I know what's going on in there," she said. The little dragon tried to lick her face. "What's he been eating?"
   "The last thing, I think, was a kettle," said Vimes.
   "A kettle of what?"
   "No. A kettle. A black thing with a handle and spout. He sniffed it for ages, then he ate it."
   Enrol grinned weakly at him, and belched. They both ducked.
   "Oh, and then we found him eating soot out of the chimney," Vimes went on, as their heads rose again over the railings.
   They leaned back over the reinforced bunker that was one of Lady Ramkin's sickbay pens. It had to be reinforced. Usually one of the first things a sick dragon did was lose control of its digestive processes.
   "He doesn't look sick, exactly," she said. "Just fat."
   "He whines a lot. And you can sort of see things moving under his skin. You know what I think? You know you said they can rearrange their digestive sys­tem?"
   "Oh, yes. All the stomachs and pancreatic crackers can be hooked up in various ways, you see. To take advantage…"
   "…of whatever they can find to make flame with," said Vimes. "Yes. I think he's trying to make some sort of very hot flame. He wants to challenge the big dragon. Every time it takes to the air he just sits there whining."
   "And doesn't explode?"
   "Not that we've noticed. I mean, I'm sure if he did, we'd spot it."
   "He just eats indiscriminately?"
   "Hard to be sure. He sniffs everything, and eats most things. Two gallons of lamp oil, for example. Anyway, I can't leave him down there. We can't look after him properly. It's not as if we need to find out where the dragon is now," he added bitterly.
   "I think you're being a bit silly about all this," she said, leading the way back to the house.
   "Silly? I was sacked in front of all those people!"
   "Yes, but it was all a misunderstanding, I'm sure."
   "I didn't misunderstand it!"
   "Well, I think you're just upset because you're im­potent."
   Vimes's eyes bulged. "Whee?" he said.
   "Against the dragon," Lady Ramkin went on, quite unconcerned. "You can't do anything about it."
   "I reckon this damn city and the dragon just about deserve one another," said Vimes.
   "People are frightened. You can't expect much of people when they're so frightened." She touched him gingerly on his arm. It was like watching an industrial robot being expertly manipulated to grasp an egg gently.
   "Not everyone's as brave as you," she added, tim­idly.
   "Me?"
   "The other week. When you stopped them killing my dragons."
   "Oh, that. That's not bravery. Anyway, that was just people. People are easier. I'll tell you one thing for nothing, I'm not looking up that dragon's nose again. I wake up at days thinking about that."
   "Oh." She seemed deflated. "Well, if you're sure . . . I've got a lot of friends, you know. If you need any help, you've only got to say. The Duke of Sto Helit is looking for a guard captain, I'm sure. I'll write you a letter. You'll like them, they're a very nice young cou­ple."
   "I'm not sure what I shall do next," said Vimes, more gruffly than he intended. "I'm considering one or two offers."
   "Well, of course. I'm sure you know best."
   Vimes nodded.
   Lady Ramkin twisted her handkerchief round and round in her hands.
   "Well, then," she said.
   "Well," said Vimes.
   "I, er, expect you'll be wanting to be off, then."
   "Yes, I expect I had better be going."
   There was a pause. Then they both spoke at once.
   "It's been very…"
   "I'd just like to say…"
   "Sorry."
   "Sorry."
   "No, you were speaking."
   "No, sorry, you were saying?"
   "Oh." Vimes hesitated. "I'll be off, then."
   "Oh. Yes." Lady Ramkin gave him a washed-out smile. "Can't keep all these offers waiting, can you," she said.
   She thrust out a hand. Vimes shook it carefully.
   "So I'll just be going, then," he said.
   "Do call again," said Lady Ramkin, more coldly, "if you are ever in this area. And so on. I'm sure Errol would like to see you."
   "Yes. Well. Goodbye, then."
   "Goodbye, Captain Vimes."
   He stumbled out of the door and walked hurriedly down the dark, overgrown path. He could feel her gaze on the back of his neck as he did so or, at least, he told himself that he could. She'd be standing in the doorway, nearly blocking out the light. Just watching me. But I'm not going to look back, he thought. That would be a really silly thing to do. I mean, she's a lovely person, she's got a lot of common sense and an enormous personality, but really . . .
   I'm not going to look back, even if she stands there while I walk all the way down the street. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.
   So when he heard the door shut when he was only halfway down the drive he suddenly felt very, very angry, as if he had just been robbed.
   He stood still and clasped and unclasped his hands in the darkness. He wasn't Captain Vimes any more, he was Citizen Vimes, which meant that he could do things he'd once never dreamt of doing. Perhaps he could go and smash some windows.
   No, that wouldn't be any good. He wanted more than that. To get rid of that bloody dragon, to get his job back, to get his hands on whoever was behind all this, to forget himself just once and hit someone until he was exhausted . . .
   He stared at nothing. Down below the city was a mass of smoke and steam. He wasn't thinking of that, though.
   He was thinking of a running man. And, further back in the fuddled mists of his life, a boy running to keep up.
   And under his breath he said, "Any of them get out?"

Sergeant Colon finished the proclamation and looked around at the hostile crowd.
   "Don't blame me," he said. "I just read the things. I don't write 'em."
   "That's human sacrifice, that is," said someone.
   "There's nothing wrong with human sacrifice," said a priest.
   "Ah, per say, " said the first speaker quickly. "For proper religious reasons. And using condemned crim­inals and so on.[19] But that's different from bunging someone to a dragon just because it's feeling peck­ish."
   "That's the spirit!" said Sergeant Colon.
   "Taxes is one thing, but eating people is another."
   "Well said!"
   "If we all say we won't put up with it, what can the dragon do?"
   Nobby opened his mouth. Colon clamped a hand over it and raised a triumphant fist in the air.
   "It's just what I've always said," he said. "The people united can never be ignited!"
   There was a ragged cheer.
   "Hang on a minute," said a small man, slowly. "As far as we know, the dragon's only good at one thing. It flies around the city setting fire to people. I'm not actually certain what is being proposed that would stop it doing this."
   "Yes, but if we all protest…" said the first speaker, his voice modulated with uncertainty.
   "It can't burn everybody, " said Colon. He decided to play his new ace again and added, proudly, "The people united can never be ignited!" There was rather less of a cheer this time. People were reserving their energy for worrying.
   "I'm not exactly sure I understand why not. Why can't it burn everyone and fly off to another city?"
   "Because ..."
   "The hoard," said Colon. "It needs people to bring it treasure."
   "Yeah."
   "Well, maybe, but how many, exactly?"
   "What?"
   "How many people? Out of the whole city, I mean. Perhaps it won't need to burn the whole city down, just some bits. Do we know what bits?"
   "Look, this is getting silly," said the first speaker. "If we go around looking at the problems the whole time, we'll never do anything."
   "It just pays to think things through first, that's all I'm saying. Such as, what happens even if we beat the dragon?''
   "Oh, come on!" said Sergeant Colon.
   "No, seriously. What's the alternative?"
   "A human being, for a start!"
   "Please yourself," said the little man primly. "But I reckon one person a month is pretty good compared to some rulers we've had. Anyone remember Nersh the Lunatic? Or Giggling Lord Smince and his Laugh-A-Minute Dungeon?"
   There was a certain amount of mumbling of the "he's got a point" variety.
   "But they got overthrown!" said Colon.
   "No they didn't. They were assassinated."
   "Same thing," said Colon. "I mean, no one's go­ing to assassinate the dragon. It'd take more than a dark night and a sharp knife to see it off, I know that.''
   I can see what the captain means, he thought. No wonder he always has a drink after he thinks about things. We always beat ourselves before we even start. Give any Ankh-Morpork man a big stick and he'll end up clubbing himself to death.
   "Look here, you mealy-mouthed little twerp," said the first speaker, picking up the little one by his collar and curling his free hand into a fist, "I happen to have three daughters, and I happen to not want any of them et, thank you very much."
   "Yes, and the people united . . . will . . . never .. .be ..."
   Colon's voice faltered. He realized that the rest of the crowd were all staring upward.
   The bugger, he thought, as rationality began to drain away. It must have flannel feet.
   The dragon shifted its position on the ridge of the nearest house, flapped its wings once or twice, yawned, and then stretched its neck down into the street.
   The man blessed with daughters stood, with his fist upraised, in the centre of a rapidly expanding circle of bare cobbles. The little man wriggled out of his frozen grasp and darted into the shadows.
   It suddenly seemed that no man in the entire world was so lonely and without friends.
   "I see," he said quietly. He scowled up at the in­quisitive reptile. In fact it didn't seem particularly bel­ligerent. It was looking at him with something approaching interest.
   "I don't care!" he shouted, his voice echoing from wall to wall in the silence. "We defy you! If you kill me, you might as well kill all of us!"
   There was some uneasy shuffling of feet amongst those sections of the crowd who didn't feel that this was absolutely axiomatic.
   "We can resist you, you know!" growled the man. "Can't we, everyone. What was that slogan about be­ing united, Sergeant?"
   "Er," said Colon, feeling his spine turn to ice.
   "I warn you, dragon, the human spirit is-"
   They never found out what it was, or at least what he thought it was, although possibly in the dark hours of a sleepless night some of them might have remem­bered the subsequent events and formed a pretty good and gut-churning insight, to whit, that one of the things sometimes forgotten about the human spirit is that while it is, in the right conditions, noble and brave and wonderful, it is also, when you get right down to it, only human.
   The dragon flame caught him full on the chest. For a moment he was visible as a white-hot outline before the neat, black remains spiralled down into a little puddle of melting cobbles.
   The flame vanished.
   The crowd stood like statues, not knowing if it was staying put or running that would attract more atten­tion.
   The dragon stared down, curious to see what they were going to do next.
   Colon felt that, as the only civic official present, it was up to him to take charge of the situation. He coughed.
   "Right, then," he said, trying to keep the squeak out of his voice. "If you would just move along there, ladies and gentlemen. Move along, now. Move along. Let's be having you, please."
   He waved his arms in a vague gesture of authority as the people shuffled nervously away. Out of the cor­ner of his eye he saw red flames behind the rooftops, and sparks spiralling in the sky.
   "Haven't you got any homes to go to?" he croaked.
 
   The Librarian knuckled out into the Library of the here and now. Every hair on his body bristled with rage.
   He pushed open the door and swung out into the stricken city.
   Someone out there was about to find that their worst nightmare was a maddened Librarian.
   With a badge.
 
   The dragon swooped leisurely back and forth over the night-time city, barely flapping its wings. It didn't need to. The thermals were giving it the lift it needed.
   There were fires all over Ankh-Morpork. So many bucket chains had formed between the river and vari­ous burning buildings that buckets were getting misdirected and hijacked. Not that you really needed a bucket to pick up the turbid waters of the river Ankh - a net was good enough.
   Downstream, teams of smoke-stained people worked feverishly to close the huge, corroded gates under the Brass Bridge. They were Ankh-Morpork's last defence against fire, since then the Ankh had no outlet and gradually, oozingly, filled the space between the walls. A man could suffocate under it.
   The workers on the bridge were the ones who couldn't or wouldn't run. Many others were teeming through the gates of the city and heading out across the chilly, mist-wreathed plains.
   But not for long. The dragon, looping and curving gracefully above the devastation, glided out over the walls. After a few seconds the guards saw actinic fire stab down through the mists. The tide of humanity flowed back, with the dragon hovering over it like a sheepdog. The fires of the stricken city glowed redly off the underside of its wings.
   "Got any suggestions about what we do next, Ser­geant?" said Nobby.
   Colon didn't reply. I wish Captain Vimes were here, he thought. He wouldn't have known what to do either, but he's got a much better vocabulary to be baffled in.
   Some of the fires went out as the rising waters and the confused tangle of fire chains did their work. The dragon didn't appear to be inclined to start any more. It had made its point.
   "I wonder who it'll be," said Nobby.
   "What?" said Carrot.
   "The sacrifice, I mean."
   "Sergeant said people wouldn't put up with it," said Carrot stoically.
   "Yeah, well. Look at it this way: if you say to peo­ple, what's it to be, either your house burned down around you or some girl you've probably never met being eaten, well, they might get a bit thoughtful. Hu­man nature, see."
   "I'm sure a hero will turn up in time," said Carrot. "With some new sort of weapon, or something. And strike at its voonerable spot."
   There was the silence of sudden intense listening.
   "What's one of them?" said Nobby.
   "A spot. Where it's voonerable. My grandad used to tell me stories. Hit a dragon in its voonerables, he said, and you've killed it."
   "Like kicking it in the wossnames?" said Nobby, interestedly.
   "Dunno. I suppose so. Although, Nobby, I've told you before it is not right to…"
   "And where's the spot, like?"
   "Oh, a different place on each dragon. You wait till it flies over and then you say, there's the voonerable spot, and then you kill it," said Carrot. "Something like that."
   Sergeant Colon stared blankly into space.
   "Hmm," said Nobby.
   They watched the panorama of panic for a while. Then Sergeant Colon said, "You sure about the voon­erables?"
   "Yes. Oh, yes."
   "I wish you hadn't been, lad."
   They looked at the terrified city again.
   "You know," said Nobby, "you always told me you used to win prizes for archery in the army, Sergeant. You said you had a lucky arrow, you always made sure you got your lucky arrow back, you said you…"
   "All right! All right! But this isn't the same thing, is it? Anyway, I'm not a hero. Why should I do it?"
   "Captain Vimes pays us thirty dollars a month," said Carrot.
   "Yes," said Nobby, grinning, "and you get five dollars extra responsibility allowance."
   "But Captain Vimes has gone," said Colon wretch­edly.
   Carrot looked at him sternly. "I am sure," he said, "that if he were here, he'd be the first to…"
   Colon waved him into silence. "That's all very well," he said. "But what if I miss?"
   "Look on the bright side," said Nobby. "You'll probably never know it.''
   Sergeant Colon's expression mutated into an evil, desperate grin. "We'll never know it, you mean," he said.
   "What?"
   "If you think I 'm standing on some rooftop on my tod, you can think again. I order you to accompany me. Anyway," he added, "you get one dollar respon­sibility allowance, too."
   Nobby's face twisted in panic. "No I don't!" he croaked. "Captain Vimes said he was docking it for five years for being a disgrace to the species!"
   "Well, you might just get it back. Anyway, you know all about voonerables. I've watched you fight."
   Carrot saluted smartly. "Permission to volunteer, sir," he said. "And I only get twenty dollars a month training pay and I don't mind at all, sir."
   Sergeant Colon cleared his throat. Then he straight­ened the hang of his breastplate. It was one of those with astonishingly impressive pectoral muscles em­bossed upon it. His chest and stomach fitted into it in the same way that jelly fits into a mould.
   What would Captain Vimes do now? Well, he'd have a drink. But if he didn't have a drink, what would he do?
   "What we need," he said slowly, "is a Plan."
   That sounded good. That sentence alone sounded worth the pay. If you had a Plan, you were halfway there.
   And already he thought he could hear the cheering of crowds. They were lining the streets, and they were throwing flowers, and he was being carried trium­phantly through the grateful city.
   The drawback was, he suspected, that he was being carried in an urn.
 
   Lupine Wonse padded along the draughty corridors to the Patrician's bedroom. It had never been a sumptu­ous apartment at best, and contained little more than a narrow bed and a few battered cupboards. It looked even worse now, with one wall gone. Sleepwalk at night now and you could step right into the vast cavern that was the Great Hall.
   Even so, he shut the door behind him for a sem­blance of privacy. Then, cautiously and with many nervous glances at the great space beyond, he knelt down in the centre of the floor and pried up a board.
   A long black robe was dragged into view. Then Wonse reached further down into the dusty space be­tween the floors and rummaged around. He rummaged still further. Then he lay down and stuck both arms into the gap and flailed desperately.
   A book sailed across the room and hit him in the back of the head.
   "Looking for this, were you?" said Vimes.
   He stepped out of the shadows.
   Wonse was on his knees, his mouth opening and shutting.
   What's he going to say, Vimes thought. Is it going to be: I know what this looks like, or will it be: How did you get in here, or maybe it'll be: Listen, I can explain everything. I wish I had a loaded dragon in my hands right now.
   Wonse said, "Okay. Clever of you to guess."
   Of course, that was always an outside chance, Vimes added.
   "Under the floorboards," he said aloud. "First place anyone'd look. Rather foolish, that was."
   "I know. I suppose he didn't think anyone would be searching," said Wonse, standing up and brushing the dust off himself.
   "I'm sorry?" said Vimes pleasantly.
   "Vetinari. You know how he was for scheming and things. He was involved in most of the plots against himself, that was how he ran things. He enjoyed it. Obviously he called it up and couldn't control it. Something even more cunning than he was."
   "So what were you doing?" said Vimes.
   "I wondered if it might be possible to reverse the spell. Or maybe call up another dragon. They'd fight then."
   "A sort of balance of terror, you mean?" said Vimes.
   "Could be worth a try," said Wonse earnestly. He took a few steps closer. "Look, about your job, I know we were both a bit overwrought at the time, so of course if you want it back there'll be no prob…"
   "It must have been terrible," said Vimes. "Imag­ine what must have gone through his mind. He called it up, and then found it wasn't just some sort of tool but a real thing with a mind of its own. A mind just like his, but with all the brakes off. You know, I wouldn't mind betting that at the start he really thought that what he was doing was all for the best. He must have been insane. Sooner or later, anyway."
   "Yes," said Wonse hoarsely. "It must have been terrible."
   "Ye gods, but I'd like to get my hands on him! All those years I’ve known the man, and I'd never realized ..."
   Wonse said nothing.
   "Run," said Vimes softly.
   "What?"
   "Run. I want to see you run."
   "I don't underst…."
   "I saw someone run away, the night the dragon flamed that house. I remember thinking at the time that he moved in a funny way, sort of bounding along. And then the other day I saw you running away from the dragon. Could almost have been the same man, I thought. Skipping, almost. Like someone running to keep up. Any of them get out, Wonse?"
   Wonse waved a hand in what he might have thought was a nonchalant way. "That's just ridiculous, that's not proof," he said.
   "I noticed you sleep in here now," said Vimes. "I suppose the king likes to have you handy, does he?"
   "You've got no proof at all," whispered Wonse.
   "Of course I haven't. The way someone runs. The eager tone of voice. That's all. But that doesn't matter, does it? Because it wouldn't matter even if I did have proof," said Vimes. "There's no one to take it to. And you can't give me my job back."
   "I can!" said Wonse. "I can, and you needn't just be captain…"
   "You can't give me my job back," repeated Vimes. "It was never yours to take away. I was never an of­ficer of the city, or an officer of the king, or an officer of the Patrician. I was an officer of the law. It might have been corrupted and bent, but it was law, of a sort. There isn't any law now except: 'you'll get burned alive if you don't watch out'. Where's the place in there for me?"
   Wonse darted forward and grabbed him by the arm.
   "But you can help me!" he said. "There may be a way to destroy the dragon, d'you see, or at least we can help people, channel things to mitigate the worst of it, somehow find a meeting point…"
   Vimes's blow caught Wonse on the cheek and spun him around.
   "The dragon's here, "he snapped. "You can't chan­nel it or persuade it or negotiate with it. There's no truce with dragons. You brought it here and we're stuck with it, you bastard. "
   Wonse lowered his hand from the bright white mark where the punch had connected.
   "What are you going to do?" he said.
   Vimes didn't know. He'd thought of a dozen ways that the thing could go, but the only one that was really suitable was killing Wonse. And, face to face, he couldn't do it.
   "That's the trouble with people like you," said Wonse, getting up. "You're always against anything attempted for the betterment of mankind, but you never have any proper plans of your own. Guards! Guards!"
   He grinned maniacally at Vimes.
   "Didn't expect that, did you?" he said. "We've still got guards here, you know. Not so many, of course. Not many people want to come in."
   There were footsteps in the passage outside and four of the palace guards padded in, swords drawn.
   "I wouldn't put up a fight, if I were you," Wonse went on. "They're desperate and uneasy men. But very highly paid."
   Vimes said nothing. Wonse was a gloater. You al­ways stood a chance with gloaters. The old Patrician had never been a gloater, you could say that for him. If he wanted you dead, you never even heard about it.
   The thing to do with gloaters was play the game according to the rules.
   "You'll never get away with it," he said.
   "You're right. You're absolutely right. But never is a long time," said Wonse. "None of us get away with anything for that long."
   "You shall have some time to reflect on this," he said and nodded to the guards. "Throw him in the special dungeon. And then go about that other little task."
   "Er," said the leader of the guards, and hesitated.
   "What's the matter, man?"
   "You, er, want us to attack him?" said the guard miserably. Thick though the palace guard were, they were as aware as everyone else of the conventions, and when guards are summoned to deal with one man in overheated circumstances it's not a good time for them. The bugger's bound to be heroic, he was thinking. This guard was not looking forward to a future in which he was dead.
   "Of course, you idiot!"
   "But, er, there's only one of him," said the guard captain.
   "And he's smilin'," said a man behind him.
   "Prob'ly goin' to swing on the chandeliers any min­ute," said one of his colleagues. "And kick over the table, and that."
   "He's not even armed!" shrieked Wonse.
   "Worst kind, that," said one of the guards, with deep stoicism. "They leap up, see, and grab one of the ornamental swords behind the shield over the fire­place."
   "Yeah," said another, suspiciously. "And then they chucks a chair at you."
   "There's no fireplace! There's no sword! There's only him! Now take him!" screamed Wonse.
   A couple of guards grabbed Vimes tentatively by the shoulders.
   "You're not going to do anything heroic, are you?" whispered one of them.
   "Wouldn't know where to start," he said.
   "Oh. Right."
   As Vimes was hauled away he heard Wonse break­ing into insane laughter. They always did, your gloaters.
   But he was correct about one thing. Vimes didn't have a plan. He hadn't thought much about what was going to happen next. He'd been a fool, he told him­self, to think that you just had a confrontation and that was the end of it.
   He also wondered what the other task was.
   The palace guards said nothing, but stared straight ahead and marched him down, across the ruined hall, and through the wreckage of another corridor to an ominous door. They opened it, threw him in, and marched away.
   And no one, absolutely no one, noticed the thin, leaf-like thing that floated gently down from the shad­ows of the roof, tumbling over and over in the air like a sycamore seed, before landing in the tangled gew­gaws of the hoard.
   It was a peanut shell.
 
   It was the silence that awoke Lady Ramkin. Her bed­room looked out over the dragon pens, and she was used to sleeping to the susurration of rustling scales, the occasional roar of a dragon flaming in its sleep, and the keening of the gravid females. Absence of any sound at all was like an alarm clock.
   She had cried a bit before going to sleep, but not much, because it was no use being soppy and letting the side down. She lit the lamp, pulled on her rubber boots, grabbed the stick which might be all that stood between her and theoretical loss of virtue, and hurried down through the shadowy house. As she crossed the damp lawn to the kennels she was vaguely aware that something was happening down in the city, but dis­missed it as not currently worth thinking about. Drag­ons were more important.
   She pushed open the door.
   Well, they were still there. The familiar stink of swamp dragons, half pond mud and half chemical ex­plosion, gusted out into the night.
   Each dragon was balancing on its hind legs in the centre of its pen, neck arched, staring with ferocious intensity at the roof.
   "Oh," she said. "Flying around up there again, is it? Showing off. Don't you worry about it, children. Mummy's here."
   She put the lamp on a high shelf and stamped along to Errol's pen.
   "Well now, my lad," she began, and stopped.
   Errol was stretched out on his side. A thin plume of grey smoke was drifting from his mouth, and his stom­ach expanded and contracted like a bellows. And his skin from the neck down was an almost pure white.
   "I think if I ever rewrite Diseases you'll get a whole chapter all to yourself," she said quietly, and unbolted the gate of the pen. "Let's see if that nasty tempera­ture has gone down, shall we?"
   She reached out to stroke his skin and gasped. She pulled the hand back hurriedly and watched the blis­ters form on her fingertips.
   Errol was so cold he burned.
   As she stared at him the small round marks that her warmth had melted filmed over with frozen air.
   Lady Ramkin sat back on her haunches.
   "Just what kind of dragon are you-?" she began.
   There was the distant sound of a knock at the front door of the house. She hesitated for a moment, then blew out the lamp, crept heavily along the length of the kennels and pulled aside the scrap of sacking over the window.
   The first light of dawn showed her the silhouette of a guardsman on her doorstep, the plumes of his helmet blowing in the breeze.
   She bit her lip in panic, scuttled back to the door, fled across the lawn and dived into the house, taking the stairs three at a time.
   "Stupid, stupid," she muttered, realizing the lamp was back downstairs. But no time for that. By the time she went and got it, Vimes might have gone away.
   Working by feel and memory in the gloom she found her best wig and rammed it on her head. Somewhere among the ointments and dragon remedies on her dressing table was something called, as far as she could remember, Dew of the Night or some such unsuitable name, a present long ago from a thoughtless nephew. She tried several bottles before she found something that, by the smell of it, was probably the one. Even to a nose which had long ago shut down most of its sen­sory apparatus in the face of the overpoweringness of dragons, it seemed, well, more potent than she re­membered. But apparently men liked that kind of thing. Or so she had read. Damn nonsense, really. She twitched the top hem of her suddenly far too sensible nightshirt into a position which, she hoped, revealed without actually exposing, and hurried back down the stairs.
   She stopped in front of the door, took a deep breath, twisted the handle and realized even as she pulled the door open that she should have taken the rubber boots off-
   "Why, Captain," she said winsomely, "That is a… who the hell are you?"
   The head of the palace guard took several steps backwards and, because he was of peasant stock, made a few surreptitious signs to ward off evil spirits. They clearly didn't work. When he opened his eyes again the thing was still there, still bristling with rage, still reeking of something sickly and fermented, still crowned with a skewed mass of curls, still looming behind a quivering bosom that made the roof of his mouth go dry.
   He'd heard about these sort of things. Harpies, they were called. What had it done with Lady Ramkin?
   The sight of the rubber boots had him confused, though. Legends about harpies were short on refer­ences to rubber boots.
   "Out with it, fellow," Lady Ramkin boomed, hitching up her nightie to a more respectable neckline. "Don't just stand there opening and shutting your mouth. What d'you want?"
   "Lady Sybil Ramkin?" said the guard, not in the polite way of someone seeking mere confirmation but in the incredulous tones of someone who found it very hard to believe the answer could be 'yes'.
   "Use your eyes, young man. Who d'you think I am?"
   The guard pulled himself together.
   "Only I've got a summons for Lady Sybil Ramkin," he said uncertainly.
   Her voice was withering. "What do you mean, a summons?''
   "To attend upon the palace, you see."
   "I can't imagine why that is necessary at this time in the morning," she said, and made to slam the door. It wouldn't shut, though, because of the sword point jammed into it at the last moment.
   "If you don't come," said the guard, "I have been ordered to take steps."
   The door shot back and her face pressed against his, almost knocking him unconscious with the scent of rotting rose petals.
   "If you think you'll lay a hand on me…" she began.
   The guard's glance darted sideways, just for a mo­ment, to the dragon kennels. Sybil Ramkin's face went pale.
   "You wouldn't!" she hissed.
   He swallowed. Fearsome though she was, she was only human. She could only bite your head off meta­phorically. There were, he told himself, far worse things than Lady Ramkin although, admittedly, they weren't three inches from his nose at this point in time.
   "Take steps," he repeated, in a croak.
   She straightened up, and eyed the row of guards behind him.
   "I see," she said coldly. "That's the way, is it? Six of you to fetch one feeble woman. Very well. You will, of course, allow me to fetch a coat. It is somewhat chilly."
   She slammed the door.
   The palace guards stamped their feet in the cold and tried not to look at one another. This obviously wasn't the way you went around arresting people. They weren't allowed to keep you waiting on the doorstep, this wasn't the way the world was supposed to work. On the other hand, the only alternative was to go in there and drag her out, and it wasn't one anyone could summon any enthusiasm for. Besides, the guard captain wasn't sure he had enough men to drag Lady Ramkin anywhere. You'd need teams of thousands, with log rollers.
   The door creaked open again, revealing only the musty darkness of the hall within.
   "Right, men…" said the captain, uneasily.
   Lady Ramkin appeared. He got a brief, blurred vi­sion of her bounding through the doorway, screaming, and it might well have been the last thing he remem­bered if a guard hadn't had the presence of mind to trip her up as she hurtled down the steps. She plunged forward, cursing, ploughed into the overgrown lawn, hit her head on a crumbling statue of an antique Ramkin, and slid to a halt.
   The double-handed broadsword she had been hold­ing landed beside her, bolt upright, and vibrated to a standstill.
   After a while one of the guards crept forward cau­tiously and tested the blade with his finger.
   "Bloody hell," he said, in a voice of mixed horror and respect. "And the dragon wants to eat her?"
   "Fits the bill," said the captain. "She's got to be the highest-born lady in the city. I don't know about maiden," he added, "and right at this minute I'm not going to speculate. Someone go and fetch a cart."
   He fingered his ear, which had been nicked by the tip of the sword. He was not, by nature, an unkind man, but at this moment he was certain that he would prefer the thickness of a dragon's hide between himself and Sybil Ramkin when she woke up.
   "Weren't we supposed to kill her pet dragons, sir?" said another guard. "I thought Mr Wonse said some­thing about killing all the dragons."
   "That was just a threat we were supposed to make," said the captain.
   The guard's brow furrowed. "You sure, sir? I thought…"
   The captain had had enough of this. Screaming har­pies and broadswords making a noise like tearing silk in the air beside him had severely ruined his capacity for seeing the other fellow's point of view.
   "Oh, you thought, did you?" he growled. "A thinker, are you? Do you think you'd be suitable for another posting, then? City guard, maybe? They're full of thinkers, they are."
   There was an uncomfortable titter from the rest of the guards.
   "If you'd thought, " added the captain sarcastically, "you'd have thought that the king is hardly going to want other dragons dead, is he? They're probably dis­tant relatives or something. I mean, it wouldn't want us to go around killing its own kind, would it?''
   "Well, sir, people do, sir," said the guard sulkily.
   "Ah, well," said the captain. "That's different." He tapped the side of his helmet meaningfully. "That's 'cos we're intelligent."

Vimes landed in damp straw and also in pitch dark­ness, although after a while his eyes became accus­tomed to the gloom and he could make out the walls of the dungeon.
   It hadn't been built for gracious living. It was basi­cally just a space containing all the pillars and arches that supported the palace. At the far end a small grille high on the wall let in a mere suspicion of grubby, second-hand light.
   There was another square hole in the floor. It was also barred. The bars were quite rusty, though. It occurred to Vimes that he could probably work them loose eventually, and then all he would have to do was slim down enough to go through a nine-inch hole.
   What the dungeon did not contain was any rats, scorpions, cockroaches or snakes. It had once con­tained snakes, it was true, because Vimes's sandals crunched on small, long white skeletons.
   He crept cautiously along one damp wall, wonder­ing where the rhythmic scraping sound was coming from. He rounded a squat pillar, and found out.
   The Patrician was shaving, squinting into a scrap of mirror propped against the pillar to catch the light. No, Vimes realized, not propped. Supported, in fact. By a rat. It was a large rat, with red eyes.
   The Patrician nodded to him without apparent sur­prise.
   "Oh," he said. "Vimes, isn't it? I heard you were on the way down. Jolly good. You had better tell the kitchen staff," and here Vimes realized that the man was speaking to the rat,"that there will be two for lunch. Would you like a beer, Vimes?"
   "What?" said Vimes.
   "I imagine you would. Pot luck, though, I am afraid. Skrp's people are bright enough, but they seem to have a bit of a blind spot when it comes to labels on bottles."
   Lord Vetinari patted his face with a towel and dropped it on the floor. A grey shape darted from the shadows and dragged it away down the floor grille.
   Then he said, "Very well, Skrp. You may go." The rat twitched its whiskers at him, leaned the mirror against the wall, and trotted off.
   "You're waited on by rats?" said Vimes.
   "They help out, you know. They're not really very efficient, I'm afraid. It's their paws."
   "But, but, but," said Vimes. "I mean, how?"
   "I suspect Skrp's people have tunnels that extend into the University," Lord Vetinari went on. "Although I think they were probably pretty bright to start with."
   At least Vimes understood that bit. It was well known that thaumic radiations affected animals living around the Unseen University campus, sometimes prodding them towards minute analogues of human civilisation and even mutating some of them into en­tirely new and specialised species, such as the bookworm and the wallfish. And, as the man said, rats were quite bright to start with. "But they're helping you?" said Vimes.
   "Mutual. It's mutual. Payment for services ren­dered, you might say," said the Patrician, sitting down on what Vimes couldn't help noticing was a small vel­vet cushion. On a low shelf, so as to be handy, were a notepad and a neat row of books.
   "How can you help rats, sir?" he said weakly.
   "Advice. I advise them, you know." The Patrician leaned back. "That's the trouble with people like Wonse," he said. "They never know when to stop. Rats, snakes and scorpions. It was sheer bedlam in here when I came. The rats were getting the worst of it, too."
   And Vimes thought he was beginning to get the drift. "You mean you sort of trained them?" he said.
   "Advised. Advised. I suppose it's a knack," said Lord Vetinari modestly.
   Vimes wondered how it was done. Did the rats side with the scorpions against the snakes and then, when the snakes were beaten, invite the scorpions to a cele­bratory slap-up meal and eat them? Or were individual scorpions hired with large amounts of, oh, whatever it-was scorpions ate, to sidle up to selected leading snakes at night and sting them?
   He remembered hearing once about a man who, locked up in a cell for years, trained little birds and created a sort of freedom. And he thought of ancient sailors, shorn of the sea by old age and infirmity, who spent their days making big ships in little bottles.
   Then he thought of the Patrician, robbed of his city, sitting cross-legged on the grey floor in the dim dun­geon and recreating it around him, encouraging in miniature all the little rivalries, power struggles and factions. He thought of him as a sombre, brooding statue amid paving stones alive with slinking shadows and sudden, political death. It had probably been eas­ier than ruling Ankh, which had larger vermin who didn't have to use both hands to carry a knife.
   There was a clink over by the drain. Half a dozen rats appeared, dragging something wrapped in a cloth. They rathandled it past the grille and, with great ef­fort, hauled it to the Patrician's feet. He leaned down and undid the knot.
   "We seem to have cheese, chicken legs, celery, a piece of rather stale bread and a nice bottle, oh, a nice bottle apparently of Merckle and Stingbat's Very Fa­mous Brown Sauce. Beer, I said, Skrp." The leading rat twitched its nose at him. "Sorry about this, Vimes. They can't read, you see. They don't seem to get the hang of the concept. But they're very good at listening. They bring me all the news."
   "I see you're very comfortable here," said Vimes weakly.
   "Never build a dungeon you wouldn't be happy to spend the night in yourself," said the Patrician, laying out the food on the cloth. "The world would be a happier place if more people remembered that."
   "We all thought you had built secret tunnels and suchlike," said Vimes.
   "Can't imagine why," said the Patrician. "One would have to keep on running. So inefficient. Whereas here I am at the hub of things. I hope you understand that, Vimes. Never trust any ruler who puts his faith in tunnels and bunkers and escape routes. The chances are that his heart isn't in the job."
   "Oh."
   He's in a dungeon in his own palace with a raving lunatic in charge upstairs, and a dragon burning the city, and he thinks he's got the world where he wants it. It must be something about high office. The altitude sends people mad.
   "You, er, you don't mind if I have a look around, do you?" he said.
   "Feel free," said the Patrician.
   Vimes paced the length of the dungeon and checked the door. It was heavily barred and bolted, and the lock was massive.
   Then he tapped the walls in what might possibly be hollow places. There was no doubt that it was a well-built dungeon. It was the kind of dungeon you'd feel good about having dangerous criminals put in. Of course, in those circumstances you'd prefer there to be no trapdoors, hidden tunnels or secret ways of escape.
   These weren't those circumstances. It was amazing what several feet of solid stone did to your sense of perspective.
   "Do guards come in here?" he demanded.
   "Hardly ever," said the Patrician, waving a chicken leg. "They don't bother about feeding me, you see. The idea is that one should moulder. In fact," he said, "up 'til recently I used to go to the door and groan a bit every now and then, just to keep them happy."
   "They're bound to come in and check, though?" said Vimes hopefully.
   "Oh, I don't think we should tolerate that," said the Patrician.
   ' 'How are you going to prevent them?''
   Lord Vetinari gave him a pained look.
   "My dear Vimes," he said, "I thought you were an observant man. Did you look at the door?"
   "Of course I did," said Vimes, and added, "sir. It's bloody massive.''
   "Perhaps you should have another look?''
   Vimes gaped at him, and then stamped across the floor and glared at the door. It was one of the popular dread portal variety, all bars and bolts and iron spikes and massive hinges. No matter how long he looked at it, it didn't become any less massive. The lock was one of those dwarfish-made buggers that it'd take years to pick. All in all, if you had to have a symbol for something totally immovable, that door was your man. The Patrician appeared alongside him in heart-stopping silence.
   "You see," he said, "it's always the case, is it not, that should a city be overtaken by violent civil unrest the current ruler is thrown into the dungeons? To a certain type of mind that is so much more satisfying than mere execution…."
   "Well, okay, but I don't see…" Vimes began.
   "…And you look at this door and what you see is a really strong cell door, yes?"
   "Of course. You've only got to look at the bolts and…"
   "You know, I'm really rather pleased," said Lord Vetinari quietly.
   Vimes stared at the door until his eyebrows ached. And then, just as random patterns in cloud suddenly, without changing in any way, become a horse's head or a sailing ship, he saw what he'd been looking at all along.
   A sense of terrifying admiration overcame him. He wondered what it was like in the Patrician's mind. All cold and shiny, he thought, all blued steel and icicles and little wheels clicking along like a huge clock. The kind of mind that would carefully consider its own downfall and turn it to advantage.
   It was a perfectly normal dungeon door, but it all depended on your sense of perspective.
   In this dungeon the Patrician could hold off the world.
   All that was on the outside was the lock.
   All the bolts and bars were on the inside.


   The rank clambered awkwardly across the damp roof­tops as the morning mist was boiled off by the sun. Not that there would be any clear air today-sticky swathes of smoke and stale steam wreathed the city and filled the air with the sad smell of dampened cin­ders.
   "What is this place?" said Carrot, helping the others along a greasy walkway.
   Sergeant Colon looked around at the forest of chim­neys.
   "We're just above Jimkin Bearhugger's whisky dis­tillery," he said. "On a direct line, see, between the palace and the plaza. It's bound to fly over here."
   Nobby looked wistfully over the side of the build­ing.
   "I bin in there once," he said. "Checked the door one dark night and it just came open in my hand."
   "Eventually, I expect," said Colon sourly.
   "Well, I had to go in, din't I, to check there was no miscreanting going on. Amazing place in there. All pipes and stuff. And the smell!"
   " 'Every bottle matured for up to seven minutes'," quoted Colon. " 'Ha' a drop afore ye go', it says on the label. Damn right, too. I had a drop once, and I went all day.''
   He knelt down and unwrapped the long sacking package he had been manhandling, with extreme dif­ficulty, during the climb. This revealed a longbow of ancient design and a quiver of arrows.
   He picked up the bow slowly, reverentially, and ran his pudgy fingers along it.
   "You know," he said quietly, "I was damn good with this, when I were a lad. The captain should of let me have a go the other night."
   "You keep on telling us," said Nobby unsympathetically.
   "Well, I used to win prizes." The sergeant un­wound a new bowstring, looped it around one end of the bow, stood up, pressed down, grunted a bit ...
   "Er, Carrot?" he said, slightly out of breath.
   "Yes, Sarge?"
   "You any good at stringing bows?"
   Carrot grasped the bow, compressed it easily, and slipped the other end of the string into place.
   "That's a good start, Sarge," said Nobby.
   "Don't you be sarcastic with me, Nobby! It ain't strength, it's keenness of eye and steadiness of hand what counts. Now you pass me an arrow. Not that one!"
   Nobby's fingers froze in the act of grasping a shaft.
   "That's my lucky arrow!" spluttered Colon. "None of you is to touch my lucky arrow!"
   "Looks just like any other bloody arrow to me, Sarge," said Nobby mildly.
   "That's the one I shall use for the actual wossname, the coup de grass," said Colon. "Never let me down, my lucky arrow didn't. Hit whatever I shot at. Hardly even had to aim. If that dragon's got any voonerables, that arrow'll find 'em."
   He selected an identical-looking but presumably less lucky arrow and nocked it. Then he looked around the rooftops with a speculative eye.
   "Better get my hand in," he muttered. "Of course, once you learn you never forget, it's like riding a… riding a…riding something you never forget being able to ride."
   He pulled the bowstring back to his ear, and grunted.
   "Right," he wheezed, as his arm trembled with the tension like a branch in a gale. "See the roof of the Assassins' Guild over there?" They peered through the grubby air.
   "Right, then," said Colon. "And do you see the weathervane on it? Do you see it?"
   Carrot glanced at the arrowhead. It was weaving back and forth in a series of figure-eights.
   "It's a long way off, Sarge," said Nobby doubtfully.
   "Never you mind me, you keep your eyes on the weathervane," groaned the sergeant.
   They nodded. The weathervane was in the shape of a creeping man with a big cloak; his outstretched dag­ger was always turned to stab the wind. At this dis­tance, though, it was tiny.
   "Okay," panted Colon. "Now, d'you see the man's eye?"
   "Oh, come on, " said Nobby.
   "Shutup, shutup, shutup!" groaned Colon. "Do you see it, I said!"
   "I think I can see it, Sarge," said Carrot loyally.
   "Right. Right," said the sergeant, swaying back­wards and forwards with effort. "Right. Good lad. Okay. Now keep an eye on it, right?"
   He grunted, and loosed the arrow.
   Several things happened so fast that they will have to be recounted in stop-motion prose. Probably the first was the bowstring slapping into the soft inner part of Colon's wrist, causing him to scream and drop the bow. This had no effect on the path of the arrow, which was already flying straight and true towards a gargoyle on the rooftop just across the road. It hit it on the ear, bounced, ricocheted off a wall six feet away, and headed back towards Colon apparently at a slightly increased speed, going past his ear with a silky hum­ming noise.
   It vanished in the direction of the city walls.
   After a while Nobby coughed and gave Carrot a look of innocent inquiry.
   "About how big," he said, "is a dragon's voonerables, roughly?"
   "Oh, it can be a tiny spot," said Carrot helpfully.
   "I was sort of afraid of that," said Nobby. He wan­dered to the edge of the roof, and pointed downwards. "There's a pond just here," he said. "They use it for cooling water in the stills. I reckon it's pretty deep, so after the sergeant has shot at the dragon we can jump in it. What d'you say?"
   "Oh, but we don't need to do that," said Carrot. "Because the sergeant's lucky arrow would of hit the spot and the dragon'll be dead, so we won't have any­thing to worry about."
   "Granted, granted," said Nobby hurriedly, looking at Colon's scowling face. "But just in case, you know, if by a million-to-one chance he misses - I'm not say­ing he will, mark you, you just have to think of all eventualities - if, by incredible bad luck, he doesn't quite manage to hit the voonerable dead on, then your dragon is going to lose his rag, right, and it's probably a good idea to not be here. It's a long shot, I know. Call me a worry-wart if you like. That's all I'm say­ing."
   Sergeant Colon adjusted his armour haughtily.
   "When you really need them the most," he said, "million-to-one chances always crop up. Well-known fact."
   "The sergeant is right, Nobby," said Carrot virtu­ously. "You know that when there's just one chance which might just work-well, it works. Otherwise there'd be no," he lowered his voice,"I mean, it stands to reason, if last desperate chances didn't work, there'd be no ... well, the gods wouldn't let it be any other way. They wouldn't."
   As one man, the three of them turned and looked through the murky air towards the hub of the Discworld, thousands of miles away. Now the air was grey with old smoke and mist shreds, but on a clear day it was possible to see Cori Celesti, home of the gods. Site of the home of the gods, anyway. They lived in Dunmanifestin, the stuccoed Valhalla, where the gods faced eternity with the kind of minds that were at a loss to know what to do to pass a wet afternoon. They played games with the fates of men, it was said. Ex­actly what game, they thought, they were playing at the moment was anyone's guess.
   But of course there were rules. Everyone knew there were rules. They just had to hope like Hell that the gods knew the rules, too.
   "It's got to work," mumbled Colon. "I'll be using my lucky arrow 'n all. You're right. Last hopeless chances have got to work. Nothing makes any sense otherwise. You might as well not be alive."
   Nobby looked down at the pond again. After a mo­ment's hesitation Colon joined him. They had the speculative faces of men who had seen many things, and knew that while you could of course depend on heroes, and kings, and ultimately on gods, you could really depend on gravity and deep water.
   "Not that we'll need it," said Colon virtuously.
   "Not with your lucky arrow," said Nobby.
   "That's right. But, just out of interest, how far down is it, d'you think?" said Colon.
   "About thirty feet, I'd say. Give or take."
   "Thirty feet," Colon nodded slowly. "That's what I'd reckon. And it's deep, is it?"
   "Very deep, I've heard."
   "I'll take your word for it. It looks pretty mucky. I'd hate to have to jump in it."
   Carrot slapped him cheerfully on the back, nearly pushing him over, and said, "What's up, Sarge? Do you want to live for ever?"
   "Dunno. Ask me again in five hundred years."
   "It's a good job we've got your lucky arrow, then!" said Carrot.
   "Hmm?" said Colon, who seemed to be in a mis­erable daydream world of his own.
   "I mean, it's a good job we've got a last desperate million-to-one chance to rely on, or we'd really be in trouble!"
   "Oh, yes," said Nobby sadly. "Lucky old us."

   The Patrician lay back. A couple of rats dragged a cushion under his head.
   "Things are rather bad outside, I gather," he said.
   "Yes," said Vimes bitterly. "You're right. You're the safest man in the city."
   He wedged another knife in a crack in the stones and tested his weight carefully, while Lord Vetinari looked on with interest. He'd managed to get six feet off the floor and up to a level with the grille.
   Now he started to hack at the mortar around the bars.
   The Patrician watched him for a while, and then took a book off the little shelf beside him. Since the rats couldn't read the library he'd been able to assem­ble was a little baroque, but he was not a man to ig­nore fresh knowledge. He found his bookmark in the pages of Lacemaking Through the Ages, and read a few pages.
   After a while he found it necessary to brush a few crumbs of mortar off the book, and looked up.
   "Are you achieving success?" he inquired po­litely.
   Vimes gritted his teeth and hacked away. Outside the little grille was a grubby courtyard, barely lighter than the cell. There was a midden in one corner, but currently it looked very attractive. More attractive than the dungeon, at any rate. An honest midden was pref­erable to the way Ankh-Morpork was going these days. It was probably allegorical, or something.
   He stabbed, stabbed, stabbed. The knife blade twanged and shook in his hand.

   The Librarian scratched his armpits thoughtfully. He was facing problems of his own.
   He had come here full of rage against book thieves and that rage still burned. But the seditious thought had occurred to him that, although crimes against books were the worst kind of crimes, revenge ought, perhaps, to be postponed.
   It occurred to him that, while of course what hu­mans chose to do to one another was all one to him, there were certain activities that should be curtailed in case the perpetrators got over-confident and started doing things like that to books, too.
   The Librarian stared at his badge again, and gave it a gentle nibble in the optimistic hope that it had be­come edible. No doubt about it, he had a Duty to the captain.
   The captain had always been kind to him. And the captain had a badge, too.
   Yes.
   There were times when an ape had to do what a man had to do ...
   The orangutan threw a complex salute and swung away into the darkness.

   The sun rose higher, rolling through the mists and stale smoke like a lost balloon.
   The rank sat in the shade of a chimney stack, wait­ing and killing time in their various ways. Nobby was thoughtfully probing the contents of a nostril, Carrot was writing a letter home, and Sergeant Colon was worrying.
   After a while he shifted his weight uneasily and said, "I’ve fought of a problem,"
   "Wassat, Sarge?" said Carrot.
   Sergeant Colon looked wretched. "Weeell, what if it's not a million-to-one chance?" he said.
   Nobby stared at him.
   "What d'you mean?" he said.
   "Well, all right, last desperate million-to-one chances always work, right, no problem, but. . . well, it's pretty wossname, specific. I mean, isn't it?"
   "You tell me," said Nobby.
   "What if it's just a thousand-to-one chance?" said Colon agonisedly.
   "What?"
   "Anyone ever heard of a thousand-to-one shot com­ing up?"
   Carrot looked up. "Don't be daft, Sergeant," he said. "No-one ever saw a thousand-to-one chance come up. The odds against it are," his lips moved, "millions to one."
   "Yeah. Millions," agreed Nobby.
   "So it'd only work if it's your actual million-to-one chance," said the sergeant. "I suppose that's right," said Nobby.
   "So 999,943-to-one, for example…" Colon began.
   Carrot shook his head. "Wouldn't have a hope. No one ever said, 'It's a 999,943-to-one chance but it might just work.' "
   They stared out across the city in the silence of fe­rocious mental calculation.
   "We could have a real problem here," said Colon eventually.
   Carrot started to scribble furiously. When ques­tioned, he explained at length about how you found the surface area of a dragon and then tried to estimate the chances of an arrow hitting any one spot. "Aimed, mind," said Sergeant Colon. "I aim." Nobby coughed.
   "In that case it's got to be a lot less than a million-to-one chance," said Carrot. "It could be a hundred-to-one. If the dragon's flying slowly and it's a big spot, it could be practically a certainty." Colon's lips shaped themselves around the phrase,
   It's a certainty but it might just work. He shook his head. "Nah," he said.
   "So what we've got to do, then," said Nobby slowly, "is adjust the odds ..."

   Now there was a shallow hole in the mortar near the middle bar. It wasn't much, Vimes knew, but it was a start.
   "You don't require assistance, by any chance?" said the Patrician.
   "No."
   "As you wish."
   The mortar was half-rotted, but the bars had been driven deep into the rock. Under their crusting of rust there was still plenty of iron. It was a long job, but it was something to do and required a blessed absence of thought. They couldn't take it away from him. It was a good, clean challenge; you knew if you went on chipping away, you'd win through eventually.
   It was the "eventually" that was the problem. Even­tually Great A 'Tuin would reach the end of the uni­verse. Eventually the stars would go out. Eventually Nobby might have a bath, although that would proba­bly involve a radical rethinking of the nature of Time.
   He hacked at the mortar anyway, and then stopped as something small and pale fell down outside, quite slowly.
   "Peanut shell?" he said.
   The Librarian's face, surrounded by the inner-tube jowls of the Librarian's head, appeared upside down in the barred opening, and gave him a grin that wasn't any less terrible for being the wrong way up.
   "Oook?"
   The orangutan flopped down off the wall, grabbed a couple of bars, and pulled. Muscles shunted back and forward across its barrel chest in a complex pavane of effort. The mouthful of yellow teeth gaped in silent concentration.
   There were a couple of dull "thungs" as the bars gave up and broke free. The ape flung them aside and reached into the gaping hole. Then the longest arms of the Law grabbed the astonished Vimes under his shoulders and pulled him through in one movement.

   The rank surveyed their handiwork.
   "Right," said Nobby. "Now, what are the chances of a man standing on one leg with his hat on back­wards and a handkerchief in his mouth hitting a drag­on's voonerables? "
   "Mmph," said Colon.
   "It's pretty long odds," said Carrot. "I reckon the hanky is a bit over the top, though."
   Colon spat it out. "Make up your minds," he said. "Me leg's going to sleep."


   Vimes picked himself up off the greasy cobbles and stared at the Librarian. He was experiencing some­thing which had come as a shock to many people, usually in much more unpleasant circumstances such as a brawl started in the Mended Drum when the ape wanted a bit of peace and quiet to enjoy a reflective pint, which was this: the Librarian might look like a stuffed rubber sack, but what it was stuffed with was muscle.
   "That was amazing," was all he could find to say. He looked down at the twisted bars, and felt his mind darken. He grabbed the bent metal. "You don't hap­pen to know where Wonse is, do you?" he added.
   "Eeek!" The Librarian thrust a tattered piece of parchment under his nose. "Eeek!"
   Vimes read the words.
   It hathe pleased . . . whereas . . . at the stroke of noone ... a maiden pure, yet high born . . . compact between ruler and ruled ...
   "In my city!" he growled. "In my bloody city!"
   He grabbed the Librarian by two handfuls of chest hair and pulled him up to eye height.
   "What time is it?" he shouted.
   "Oook!"
   A long red-haired arm unfolded itself upwards. Vimes's gaze followed the pointing finger. The sun definitely had the look of a heavenly body that was nearly at the crest of its orbit and looking forward to a long, lazy coasting towards the blankets of dusk . . .
   "I'm not bloody well going to have it, understand?" Vimes shouted, shaking the ape back and forth.
   "Oook," the Librarian pointed out, patiently.
   "What? Oh. Sorry." Vimes lowered the ape, who wisely didn't make an issue of it because a man angry enough to lift 300lbs of orangutan without noticing is a man with too much on his mind.
   Now he was staring around the courtyard.
   "Any way out of here?" he said. "Without climb­ing the walls, I mean."
   He didn't wait for an answer but loped around the walls until he reached a narrow, grubby door, and kicked it open. It hadn't been locked anyway, but he kicked it just the same. The Librarian trailed along behind, swinging on his knuckles.
   The kitchen on the other side of the door was almost deserted, the staff having finally lost their nerve and decided that all prudent chefs refrained from working in an establishment where there was a mouth bigger than they were. A couple of palace guards were eating a cold lunch.
   "Now," said Vimes, as they half-rose, "I don't want to have to…"
   They didn't seem to want to listen. One of them reached for a crossbow.
   "Oh, the hell with it." Vimes grabbed a butcher's knife from a block beside it and threw it.
   There is an art in throwing knives and, even then, you need the right kind of knife. Otherwise it does just what this one did, which is miss completely.
   The guard with the bow leaned sideways, righted himself, and found that a purple fingernail was gently blocking the firing mechanism. He looked around. The Librarian hit him right on top of his helmet.
   The other guard shrank back, waving his hands frantically.
   "Nonono!" he said. "It's a misunderstanding! What was it you said you didn't want to have to do? Nice monkey!"
   "Oh, dear," said Vimes. "Wrong!"
   He ignored the terrified screaming and rummaged through the debris of the kitchen until he came up with a cleaver. He'd never felt really at home with swords, but a cleaver was a different matter. A cleaver had weight. It had purpose. A sword might have a certain nobility about it, unless it was the one belonging for example to Nobby, which relied on rust to hold it together, but what a cleaver had was a tremendous ability to cut things up.
   He left the biology lesson-that no monkey was ca­pable of bouncing someone up and down by their an­kles-found a likely door, and hurried through it. This took him outside again, into the big cobbled area that surrounded the palace. Now he could get his bearings, now he could . . .
   There was a boom in the air above him. A gale blew downwards, knocking him over.
   The King of Ankh-Morpork, wings outspread, glided across the sky and settled for a moment on the palace gateway, talons gouging long scars in the stone as it caught its balance. The sun glittered off its arched back as it stretched its neck, roared a lazy billow of flames, and sprang into the air again.
   Vimes made an animal - a mammalian animal - noise in the back of his throat, and ran out into the empty streets.

   Silence filled the ancestral home of the Ramkins. The front door swung back and forth on its hinges, letting in the common, badly-brought up breeze which wan­dered through the deserted rooms, gawping and look­ing for dust on the top of the furniture. It wound up the stairs and banged through the door of Sybil Ramkin's bedroom, rattling the bottles on the dressing table and riffling through the pages of Diseases of the Dragon.
   A really fast reader could have learned the symp­toms of everything from Abated Heels to Zigzag Throat.
   And down below, in the low, warm and foul-smelling shed that housed the swamp dragons, it seemed that Errol had got them all. Now he sat in the centre of his pen, swaying and moaning softly. White smoke rolled slowly from his ears and drifted towards the floor. From some­where inside his swollen stomach came complex explosive hydraulic noises, as though desperate teams of gnomes were trying to drive a culvert through a cliff in a thunderstorm.
   His nostrils flared, turning more or less of their own volition.
   The other dragons craned over the pen walls, watch­ing him cautiously.
   There was another distant gastric roar. Errol shifted painfully.
   The dragons exchanged glances. Then, one by one, they lay down carefully on the floor and put their paws over their eyes.