Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

“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 oiks, 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.