“Afternoon, ma'am,” said Nobby, touching what he thought was his forelock.
“What d'you mean, it's not going to work?” said Vimes. “Look at him go! It hasn't hit him yet!”
“Yes, but his flame has touched it several times. It doesn't seem to have any effect. It's not hot enough, I think. Oh, he's dodging well. But he's got to be lucky every time. It has only got to be lucky once.”
The meaning of this sank in.
“You mean,” said Vimes, “all this is just-just show? He's just doing it to impress?”
“ 'S'not his fault,” said Colon, materialising behind them. “It's like dogs, innit? Doesn't really dawn on the poor little bugger that he's up against a big one. He's just ready for a scrap.”
Both dragons appeared to realise that the fight was the well-known Klatchian standoff. With another smoke ring and a billow of white flame they parted and retreated a few hundred yards.
The king hovered, flapping its wings quickly. Height. That was the thing. When dragon fought dragon, height was always the thing . . .
Errol balanced on his flame. He seemed to be thinking.
Then he nonchalantly kicked his back legs out as though hovering on your own stomach gases was something dragons had mastered over millions of years, somersaulted, and fled. For a moment he was visible as a silver streak, and then he was out over the city walls and gone.
A groan followed him. It came from ten thousand throats.
Vimes threw up his hands.
“Don't you worry, guv,” said Nobby quickly. “He's-he's probably gone to, to have a drink. Or something. Maybe it's the end of round one. Or something.”
“I mean, he ate our kettle and everything,” said Colon uncertainly. “He wouldn't just run away after eating a kettle. Stands to reason. Anyone who could eat a kettle wouldn't run away from anything. ”
“And my armour polish,” said Carrot. “It was nearly a whole dollar for the tin.”
“There you are then,” said Colon. “It's like I said.”
“Look,” said Vimes, as patiently as he could manage. “He's a nice dragon, I liked him as much as you, a very nice little chap, but he's just done the sensible thing, for gods' sake, he's not going to get burned to bits just to save us. Life just doesn't work like that. You might as well face it.”
Overhead the great dragon strutted through the air and flamed a nearby tower. It had won.
“I've never seen that before,” said Lady Ramkin. “Dragons normally fight to the death.”
“At last they've bred one who's sensible,” said Vimes morosely. “Let's be honest: the chances of a dragon the size of Errol beating something that big are a million-to-one”
There was one of those silences you get after one clear bright note has been struck and the world pauses.
The rank looked at one another.
“Million-to-one?” asked Carrot nonchalantly.
“Definitely,” said Vimes. “Million-to-one.”
The rank looked at one another again.
“Million-to-one,” said Colon.
“Million-to-one,” agreed Nobby.
“That's right,” said Carrot. “Million-to-one.”
There was another high-toned silence. The members of the rank were wondering who was going to be the first to say it.
Sergeant Colon took a deep breath.