Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

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.