Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

"Only until their third clutch, of course. After that they're dams.

of both sexes were vaguely uninterested in one another, and indeed everything except firewood, except for about once every two months when they became as single-minded as a buzzsaw.

He was helpless to prevent himself being taken out to the kennels at the back, outfitted from neck to ankle in leather armour faced with steel plates, and ushered into the long low building where the whistling had come from.

The temperature was terrible, but not as bad as the cocktail of smells. He staggered aimlessly from one metal-lined pen to another, while pear-shaped, squeaking little horrors with red eyes were introduced as “Moonpenny Duchess Marchpaine, who's gravid at the moment” and “Moonmist Talonthrust II, who was Best of Breed at Pseudopolis last year”. Jets of pale green flame played across his knees.

Many of the stalls had rosettes and certificates pinned over them.

“And this one, I'm afraid, is Goodboy Bindle Featherstone of Quirm,” said Lady Ramkin relentlessly.

Vimes stared groggily over the charred barrier at the small creature curled up in the middle of the floor. It bore about the same resemblance to the rest of them as Nobby did to the average human being. Something in its ancestry had given it a pair of eyebrows that were about the same size as its stubby wings, which could never have supported it in the air. Its head was the wrong shape, like an anteater. It had nostrils like jet intakes. If it ever managed to get airborne the things would have the drag of twin parachutes.

It was also turning on Captain Vimes the most silently intelligent look he'd ever had from any animal, including Corporal Nobbs.

“It happens,” said Lady Ramkin sadly. “It's all down to genes, you know.”

“It is?” said Vimes. Somehow, the creature seemed to be concentrating all the power its siblings wasted in flame and noise into a stare like a thermic lance. He couldn't help remembering how much he'd wanted a puppy when he was a little boy. Mind you, they'd been starving-anything with meat on it would have done.

He heard the dragon lady say, “One tries to breed for a good flame, depth of scale, correct colour and so on. One just has to put up with the occasional total whittle.”

The little dragon turned on Vimes a gaze that would be guaranteed to win it the award for Dragon the Judges would Most Like to Take Home and Use as A Portable Gas Lighter.

Total whittle, Vimes thought. He wasn't sure of the precise meaning of the word, but he could hazard a shrewd guess. It sounded like whatever it was you had left when you had extracted everything of any value whatsoever. Like the Watch, he thought. Total whittles, every one of them. And just like him. It was the saga of his life.

“That's Nature for you,” said her ladyship. "Of course I wouldn't dream of breeding from him, but he wouldn't be able to anyway.''

“Why not?” said Vimes.

“Because dragons have to mate in the air and he'll never be able to fly with those wings, I'm afraid. I'll be sorry to lose the bloodline, naturally. His sire was Brenda Rodley's Treebite Brightscale. Do you know Brenda?”

“Er, no,” said Vimes. Lady Ramkin was one of those people who assumed that everyone else knew everyone one knew.

“Charming gel. Anyway, his brothers and sisters are shaping up very well.”

Poor little bastard, thought Vimes. That's Nature for you in a nutshell. Always dealing off the bottom of the pack.

No wonder they call her a mother . . .

“You said you had something to show me,” Lady Ramkin prompted.

Vimes wordlessly handed her the parcel. She slipped off her heavy mittens and unwrapped it.

“Plaster cast of a footprint,” she said, baldly. “Well?”

“Does it remind you of anything?” said Vimes.

“Could be a wading bird.”

“Oh.” Vimes was crestfallen.

Lady Ramkin laughed. “Or a really big dragon. Got it out of a museum, did you?”

“No. I got it off the street this morning.”

“Ha? Someone's been playing tricks on you, old chap.”

“Er. There was, er, circumstantial evidence.”