Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

“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?”