Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

“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 realised 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.