Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

“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.

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.