Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

Enrol sneezed a cloud of warm gas that smelled worse than something walled up in a cellar, pawed the air weakly, licked Vimes's face with a tongue like a hot cheese-grater, struggled out of his arms and trotted away.

“ Where's he off to?” boomed Lady Ramkin, emerging from the mists dragging the horses behind her. They didn't want to come, their hooves were scraping up sparks, but they were fighting a losing battle.

“He's still trying to challenge it!” said Vines. “You'd think he'd give in, wouldn't you?”

“They fight like blazes,” said Lady Ramkin, as he climbed on to the coach. “It's a matter of making your opponent explode, you see.”

“I thought, in Nature, the defeated animal just rolls on its back hi submission and that's the end of it,” said Vimes, as they clattered after the disappearing swamp dragon.

“Wouldn't work with dragons,” said Lady Ramkin. “Some daft creature rolls on its back, you disembowel it. That's how they look at it. Almost human, really.”

...

The clouds were clustered thickly over Ankh-Morpork. Above them, the slow golden sunlight of the Disc-world unrolled.

The dragon sparkled in the dawn as it trod the air joyously, doing impossible turns and rolls for the sheer delight of it. Then it remembered the business of the day.

They'd had the presumption to summon it ...

Below it, the rank wandered from side to side up the Street of Small Gods. Despite the thick fog it was beginning to get busy.

“What d'you call them things, like thin stairs?” said Sergeant Colon.

“Ladders,” said Carrot.

“Lot of 'em about,” said Nobby. He mooched over to the nearest one, and kicked it.

“Oi!” A figure struggled down, half buried in a string of flags.

“What's going on?” said Nobby.

The flag bearer looked him up and down.

“Who wants to know, tiddler?” he said.

“Excuse me, we do,” said Carrot, looming out of the fog like an iceberg. The man gave a sickly grin.

“Well, it's the coronation, isn't it,” he said. “Got to get the streets ready for the coronation. Got to have the flags up. Got to get the old bunting out, haven't we?”

Nobby gave the dripping finery a jaundiced look. “Doesn't look that old to me,” he said. “It looks new. What're them fat saggy things on that shield?”

“Those are the royal hippos of Ankh,” said the man proudly. “Reminders of our noble heritage.”

“How long have we had a noble heritage, then?” said Nobby.

“Since yesterday, of course.”

“You can't have a heritage in a day,” said Carrot. “It has to last a long time.”

“If we haven't got one,” said Sergeant Colon, “I bet we'll soon have had one. My wife left me a note about it. All these years, and she turns out to be a monarchist.” He kicked the pavement viciously. “Huh!” he said. “A man knocks his pipes out for thirty years to put a bit of meat on the table, but all she's talking about is some boy who gets to be king for five minutes' work. Know what was for my tea last night? Beef dripping sandwiches!”

This did not have the expected response from the two bachelors.

“Cor!” said Nobby.

“Real beef dripping?” said Carrot. “The kind with the little crunchy bits on top? And shiny blobs of fat?”

“Can't remember when I last addressed the crust on a bowl of dripping,” mused Nobby, in a gastronomic heaven. “With just a bit of salt and pepper, you've got a meal fit for a k-”