“We’ve got to follow it!” said Lady Ramkin. “What happened to the carriage?”
Vimes waved a hand vaguely in the direction that, as far as he could tell, the horses had take in their panic.
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-”
“Don’t even say it,” warned Colon.
“The best bit is when you stick the knife in and crack the fat and all the browny gold stuff bubbles up,” said Carrot dreamily. “A moment like that is worth a ki-”
“Shutup! Shutup!” shouted Colon. “You’re just- what the hell was that?”
They felt the sudden downdraught, saw the mist above them roll into coils that broke against the house walls. A blast of colder air swept along the street, and was gone.
“It was like something gliding past, up there somewhere,” said the sergeant. He froze. “Here, you don’t think-?”
“We saw it killed, didn’t we?” said Nobby urgently.
“We saw it vanish, ” said Carrot.
They looked at one another, alone and damp in the mist-shrouded street. There could be anything up there. The imagination peopled the dank air with terrible apparitions. And what was worse was the knowledge that Nature might have done an even better job.
“Nah,” said Colon. “It was probably just some . . . some big wading bird. Or something.”
“Isn’t there anything we should do?” said Carrot.
“Yes,” said Nobby. “We should go away quickly. Remember Gaskin.”
“Maybe it’s another dragon,” said Carrot. “We should warn people and-”
“No,” said Sergeant Colon vehemently, “because, Ae, they wouldn’t believe us and, Bee, we’ve got a king now. ‘S his job, dragons.”
“S’right,” said Nobby. “He’d probably be really angry. Dragons are probably, you know, royal animals. Like deer. A man could probably have his tridlins plucked just for thinking about killing one, when there’s a king around.”[17]
“Makes you glad you’re common,” said Colon.
“Commoner,” corrected Nobby.
“That’s not a very civic attitude-” Carrot began. He was interrupted by Errol.
The little dragon came trotting up the middle of the street, stumpy tail high, his eyes fixed on the clouds above him. He went right by the rank without giving them any attention at all.
“What’s up with him?” said Nobby.
A clatter behind them introduced the Ramkin coach.
“Men?” said Vimes hesitantly, peering through the fog.
“Definitely,” said Sergeant Colon.
“Did you see a dragon go past? Apart from Errol?”
“Well, er,” said the sergeant, looking at the other two. “Sort of, sir. Possibly. It might of been.”
“Then don’t stand there like a lot of boobies,” said Lady Ramkin. “Get in! Plenty of room inside!”
There was. When it was built, the coach had probably been the marvel of the day, all plush and gilt and tasselled hangings. Time, neglect and the ripping out of the seats to allow its frequent use to transport dragons to shows had taken their toll, but it still reeked of privilege, style and, of course, dragons.
“What do you think you’re doing?” said Colon, as it rattled off through the fog.
“Wavin’,” said Nobby, gesturing graciously to the billows around them.
“Disgusting, this sort of thing, really,” mused Sergeant Colon. “People goin’ around in coaches like this when there’s people with no roof to their heads.”
“It’s Lady Ramkin’s coach,” said Nobby. “She’s all right.”
“Well, yes, but what about her ancestors, eh? You don’t get big houses and carriages without grindin’ the faces of the poor a bit.”
“You’re just annoyed because your missus has been embroidering crowns on her undies,” said Nobby.
“That’s got nothing to do with it,” said Sergeant Colon indignantly. “I’ve always been very firm on the rights of man.”
“And dwarf,” said Carrot.
“Yeah, right,” said the sergeant uncertainly. “But all this business about kings and lords, it’s against basic human dignity. We’re all born equal. It makes me sick.”
“Never heard you talk like this before, Frederick,” said Nobby.
“It’s Sergeant Colon to you, Nobby.
“Sorry, Sergeant.”
The fog itself was shaping up to be a real Ankh-Morpork autumn gumbo.* Vimes squinted through it as the droplets buckled down to a good day’s work soaking him to the skin.
“I can just make him out,” he said. “Turn left here.”
“Any ideas where we are?” said Lady Ramkin.
“Business district somewhere,” said Vimes shortly. Errol’s progress was slowing a bit. He kept looking up and whining.
“Can’t see a damn thing above us in the fog,” he said. “I wonder if-”
The fog, as if in acknowledgement, lit up. Ahead of them it blossomed like a chrysanthemum and made a noise like “whoomph”.
“Oh, no,” moaned Vimes. “Not again!”
“Like a pea-souper, only much thicker, fishier, and with things in it you’d probably rather not know about.
…
“Are the Cups of Integrity well and truly suffused?” intoned Brother Watchtower.
“Aye, suffused full well.”
“The Waters of the World, are they Abjured?”
“Yea, abjured full mightily.”
“Have the Demons of Infinity been bound with many chains?”
“Damn,” said Brother Plasterer, “there’s always something.”
Brother Watchtower sagged. “Just once it would be nice if we could get the ancient and timeless rituals right, wouldn’t it. You’d better get on with it.”
“Wouldn’t it be quicker, Brother Watchtower, if I just did it twice next time?” said Brother Plasterer.
Brother Watchtower gave this some grudging consideration. It seemed reasonable.
“All right,” he said. “Now get back down there with the others. And you should call me Acting Supreme Grand Master, understand?”
This did not meet with what he considered to be a proper and dignified reception among the brethren.