Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

“Yeah. How do you take it?” said Nobby.

“I think we ought to ask Lady Ramkin to have a look at him,” said Carrot. “She knows about these things.”

“No, she'll be getting ready for the coronation. We shouldn't go disturbing her,” said Colon. He stretched out his hand to Errol's quivering flanks. “I used to have a dog that-arrgh! That's not hot, that's boiling!”

“I've offered him lots of water and he just won't touch it. What are you doing with that kettle, Nobby?”

Nobby 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.

Up on the dais the High Priest of Blind Io, who last night by dint of elaborate ecumenical argument and eventually by a club with nails in it had won the right to crown the king, fussed over his preparations. By the small portable sacrificial altar a tethered billy goat was peacefully chewing the cud and possibly thinking, in Goat: What a lucky billy goat I am, to be given such a good view of the proceedings. This is going to be something to tell the kids.

Vimes scanned the diffused outlines of the nearest buildings.

A distant cheering suggested that the ceremonial procession was on its way.

There was a scuffle of activity around the dais as Lupine Wonse chivvied a scramble of servants who rolled a purple carpet down the steps.

Across the square, amongst the ranks of Ankh-Morpork's faded aristocracy, Lady Ramkin's face tilted upwards.

Around the throne, which had been hastily created out of wood and gold foil, a number of lesser priests, some of them with slight head wounds, shuffled into position.

Vimes shifted in his seat, aware of the sound of his own heartbeat, and glared at the haze over the river.

. . . and saw the wings.

...

Dear Mother and Father [wrote Carrot, in between staring dutifully into the fog] Well, the town is On Fate for the coronation, which is more complicated than at home, and now I am on Day duty as well. This is a shame because, I was going to watch the Coronation with Reet, but it does not do to complain. I must go now because we are expecting a dragon any minute although it does not exist really. Your loving son, Carrot. PS. Have you seen anything of Minty lately?

...

“You idiot!”