Vimes went back to the rank in a gloomy rage. Say what you liked about the people of Ankh-Morpork, they had always been staunchly independent, yielding to no man their right to rob, defraud, embezzle and murder on an equal basis. This seemed absolutely right, to Vimes’s way of thinking. There was no difference at all between the richest man and the poorest beggar, apart from the fact that the former had lots of money, food, power, fine clothes, and good health. But at least he wasn’t any better. Just richer, fatter, more powerful, better dressed and healthier. It had been like that for hundreds of years.
“And now they get one sniff of an ermine robe and they go all gooey,” he muttered.
The dragon was circling the plaza slowly and warily. Vimes craned to see over the heads in front of him.
In the same way that various predators have the silhouette of their prey almost programmed into their genes, it was possible that the shape of someone on a horse holding a sword clicked a few tumblers in a dragon’s brain. It was showing keen but wary interest.
Back in the crowd, Vimes shrugged. “I didn’t even know we were a kingdom.”
“Well, we haven’t been for ages,” said Lady Ramkin. “The kings got thrown out, and jolly good job too. They could be quite frightful.”
“But you’re, well, from a pos-from a high-born family,” he said. “I should have thought you’d be all for kings.”
“Some of them were fearful oiks, you know,” she said airily. “Wives all over the place, and chopping people’s heads off, fighting pointless wars, eating with their knife, chucking half-eaten chicken legs over their shoulders, that sort of thing. Not our sort of people at all.”
The plaza went quiet. The dragon had flapped slowly to the far end and was almost stationary in the air, apart from the slow beating of its wings.
Vimes felt something claw gently at his back, and then Errol was on his shoulder, gripping with his hind claws. His stubby wings were beating in time with those of the bigger specimen. He was hissing. His eyes were fixed on the hovering bulk.
The boy’s horse jigged nervously on the plaza’s flagstones as he dismounted, flourished the sword and turned to face the distant enemy.
He certainly looks confident, Vimes told himself. On the other hand, how does the ability to slay dragons fit you for kingship in this day and age?
It was certainly a very shiny sword. You had to admit that.
…
And now it was two of the clock the following morning. And all was well, apart from the rain. It was drizzling again.
There are some towns in the multiverse which think they know how to have a good time. Places like New Orleans and Rio reckon they not only know how to push the boat out but set fire to the harbour as well; but compared to Ankh-Morpork with its hair down they’re a Welsh village at 2 p.m. on a wet Sunday afternoon.
Fireworks banged and sparkled in the damp air over the turbid mud of the river Ankh. Various domesticated animals were being roasted in the streets. Dancers conga’d from house to house, often managing to pick up any loose ornaments while doing so. There was a lot of quaffing going on. People who in normal circumstances would never think of doing it were shouting “Hurrah”.
Vimes stalked gloomily through the crowded streets, feeling like the only pickled onion in a fruit salad. He’d given the rank the evening off.
He wasn’t feeling at all royalist. He didn’t think he had anything against kings as such, but the sight of Ankh-Morporkians waving flags was mysteriously upsetting. That was something only silly subject people did, in other countries. Besides, the idea of royal plumes in his hat revolted him. He’d always had a thing about plumes. Plumes sort of, well, bought you off,
told everyone that you didn’t belong to yourself. And he’d feel like a bird. It’d be the last straw.
His errant feet led him back to the Yard. After all, where else was there? His lodgings were depressing and his landlady had complained about the holes which, despite much shouting, Errol kept making in the carpet. And the smell Errol made. And Vimes couldn’t drink in a tavern tonight without seeing things that would upset him even more than the things he normally saw when he was drunk.
It was nice and quiet, although the distant sounds of revelry could be heard through the window.
Errol scrambled down from his shoulder and started to eat the coke in the fireplace.
Vimes sat back and put his feet up.
What a day! And what a fight! The dodging, the weaving, the shouts of the crowd, the young man standing there looking tiny and unprotected, the dragon taking a deep breath in a way now very familiar to Vimes . . .
And not flaming. That had surprised Vimes. It had surprised the crowd. It had certainly surprised the dragon, which had tried to squint at its own nose and clawed desperately at its flame ducts. It had remained surprised right up to the moment when the lad ducked in under one claw and thrust the sword home.
And then a thunderclap.
You’d have thought there’d have been some bits of dragon left, really.
Vimes pulled a scrap of paper towards him. He looked at the notes he’d made yesterday:
Itym: Heavy draggon, but yet it can flye right welle;
Itym: The fyre be main hot, yet issueth from ane living Thinge;
Itym: The Swamp dragons be right Poor Thinges, yet this monstrous Form waxeth full mightily;
Itym: From whence it cometh none knowe, nor wither it goeth, nor where it bideth betweentimes; Itym: Why fore did it burneth so neatlie ?
He pulled the pen and ink towards him and, in a slow round hand, added:
Itym: Can a draggon be destroyed into utterlye noe-thinge?
He thought for a while, and continued:
Itym: Whyfore did it Explode that noone may find It, search they greatly?
A puzzler, that. Lady Ramkin said that when a swamp dragon exploded there was dragon everywhere. And this one had been a damn great thing. Admittedly its insides must have been an alchemical nightmare, but the citizens of Ankh-Morpork should still have been spending the night shovelling dragon off the streets. No-one seemed to have bothered about this. The purple smoke was quite impressive, though.
Errol finished off the coke and started on the fire irons. So far this evening he had eaten three cobblestones, a doorknob, something unidentifiable he’d found in the gutter and, to general astonishment, three of Cut-me-own Throat’s sausages made of genuine pork organs. The crunching of the poker going down mingled with the patter of rain on the windows.
Vimes stared at the paper again and then wrote:
Itym: How can Kinges come of noethinge?
He hadn’t even seen the lad close to. He looked personable enough, not exactly a great thinker, but definitely the kind of profile you wouldn’t mind seeing on your small change. Mind you, after killing the dragon he could have been a cross-eyed goblin for all that it mattered. The mob had borne him in triumph to the Patrician’s palace.
Lord Vetinari had been locked up in his own dungeons. He hadn’t put up much fight, apparently. Just smiled at everyone and went quietly.
What a happy coincidence for the city that, just when it needed a champion to kill the dragon, a king came forth.
Vimes turned this thought over for a while. Then he turned it back to front. He picked up the quill and wrote:
Itym: What a happy chance it be, for a lad that would be Kinge, that there be a Draggon to sloe to prove beyond doubt his honey fiddes.
It was a lot better than birthmarks and swords, that was for sure. He twiddled the quill for a while, and then doodled:
Itym: The draggon was not a Mechanical devise, yette surety no wizzard has the power to create a beaste of that mag. magg. maggnyt. Size.
Itym: Whye, in the Pinche, could it not Flame?
Itym: Where did it come from?
Itym: Where did it goe?
The rain pounded harder on the window. The sounds of celebration became distinctly damp, and then faded completely. There was a murmur of thunder.
Vimes underlined goe several times. After further consideration he added two more question marks:??
After staring at the effect for some time he rolled the paper into a ball and threw it into the fireplace, where it was fielded and swallowed by Errol.
There had been a crime. Senses Vimes didn’t know he possessed, ancient policeman’s senses, prickled the hairs on his neck and told him there had been a crime. It was probably such an odd crime that it didn’t figure anywhere in Carrot’s book, but it had been committed all right. A handful of high-temperature murders was only the start of it. He’d find it, and give it a name.