Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)
“My dragon?” he said.
“It's well known that the great dragons are extinct,” said the Patrician brusquely. “And, besides, their natural habitat was definitely rural. So it seems to me that this one must be mag-”
“With respect, Lord Vetinari,” said the Archchancellor, “it has often been claimed that dragons are extinct, but the current evidence, if I may make so bold, tends to cast a certain doubt on the theory. As to habitat, what we are seeing here is simply a change of behaviour pattern, occasioned by the spread of urban areas into the countryside which has led many hitherto rural creatures to adopt, nay in many cases to positively embrace, a more municipal mode of existence, and many of them thrive on the new opportunities thereby opened to them. For example, foxes are always knocking over my dustbins.”
He beamed. He'd managed to get all the way through it without actually needing to engage his brain.
“Are you saying,” said the assassin slowly, “that what we've got here is the first civic dragon?”
“That's evolution for you,” said the wizard, happily. “It should do well, too,” he added. “Plenty of nesting sites, and a more than adequate food supply.”
Silence greeted this statement, until the merchant said. “What exactly is it that they do eat?”
The thief shrugged. “I seem to recall stories about virgins chained to huge rocks,” he volunteered.
“It'll starve round here, then,” said the assassin. “We 're on loam.”
“They used to go around ravening,” said the thief. “Dunno if that's any help ...”
looked into the grinning, cadaverous face of Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, purveyor of absolutely anything that could be sold hurriedly from an open suitcase in a busy street and was guaranteed to have fallen off the back of an oxcart.
“Morning, Throat,” said Vimes absently. “What're you selling?”
“Genuine article, Captain.” Throat leaned closer. He was the sort of person who could make “Good morning” sound like a once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated offer. His eyes swivelled back and forth in their sockets, like two rodents trying to find a way out. “Can't afford to be without it,” he hissed. “Anti-dragon cream. Personal guarantee: if you're incinerated you get your money back, no quibble.”
“What you're saying,” said Vimes slowly, “if I understand the wording correctly, is that if I am baked alive by the dragon you'll return the money?”
“Upon personal application,” said Cut-me-own-Throat. He unscrewed the lid from a jar of vivid green ointment and thrust it under Vimes's nose. “Made from over fifty different rare spices and herbs to a recipe known only to a bunch of ancient monks what live on some mountain somewhere. One dollar a jar, and I'm cutting my own throat. It's a public service, really,” he added piously.
“You've got to hand it to those ancient monks, brewing it up so quickly,” said Vimes.
“Clever buggers,” agreed Cut-me-own-Throat. “It must be all that meditation and yak yogurt.”
“So what's happening, Throat?” said Vimes. “Who're all the guys with the big swords?”
“Dragon hunters, Cap'n. The Patrician announced a reward of fifty thousand dollars to anyone who brings him the dragon's head. Not attached to the dragon, either; he's no fool, that man.”
“What?”
“That's what he said. It's all written on posters.”
“Fifty thousand dollars!”
“Not chicken feed, eh?”
“More like dragon fodder,” said Vimes. It'd bring trouble, you mark his words. “I'm amazed you're not grabbing a sword and joining in.”
“I'm more in what you might call the service sector, Cap'n.” Throat looked both ways conspiratorially, and then passed Vimes a slip of parchment.
It said:
Anti-dragon mirror shields A$ 500
Portable lair detectors A$250
Dragon-piercing arrows A$100 per each
Shovels A$5 Picks A$5 Sacks A$l