“All for one what?” said Nobby.
“Something about the voice, I reckon.”
“Yes, but all for one what?”
…
The Patrician sighed and, carefully marking his place, laid aside his book. To judge from the noise there seemed to be an awful lot of excitement going on out there. It was highly unlikely any palace guards would be around, which was just as well. The guards were highly-trained men and it would be a shame to waste them.
He would need them later on.
He padded over to the wall and pushed a small block that looked exactly like all the other small blocks. No other small block, however, would have caused a section of flagstone to grind ponderously aside.
There was a carefully chosen assortment of stuff in there-iron rations, spare clothes, several small chests of precious metals and jewels, tools. And there was a key. Never build a dungeon you couldn’t get out of.
The Patrician took the key and strolled over to the door. As the wards of the lock slid back in their well-oiled grooves he wondered, again, whether he should have told Vimes about the key. But the man seemed to have got so much satisfaction out of breaking out. It would probably have been positively bad for him to have told him about the key. Anyway, it would have spoiled his view of the world. He needed Vimes and his view of the world.
Lord Vetinari swung the door open and, silently, strode out into the ruins of his palace.
They trembled as, for the second time in a couple of minutes, the city rocked.
…
The dragon kennels exploded. The windows blew out. The door left the wall ahead of a great billow of black smoke and sailed into the air, tumbling slowly, to plough into the rhododendrons.
Something very energetic and hot was happening in that building. More smoke poured out, thick and oily and solid. One of the walls folded in on itself, and then another one toppled sluggishly on to the lawn.
Swamp dragons shot determinedly out of the wreckage like champagne corks, wings whirring frantically.
Still the smoke unrolled. But there was something in there, some point of fierce white light that was gently rising.
It disappeared from view as it passed a stricken window, and then, with a piece of roof tile still spinning on the top of his head, Errol climbed above his own smoke and ascended into the skies of Ankh-Morpork.
The sunlight glinted off his silver scales as he hovered about a hundred feet up, turning slowly, balancing nicely on his own flame . . .
Vimes, awaiting death on the plaza, realised that his mouth was hanging open. He shut it again.
There was absolutely no sound in the city now but the noise of Errol’s ascent.
They can rearrange their own plumbing, Vimes told himself bemusedly. To suit circumstances. He’s made it work in reverse. But his thingys, his genes . . . surely he must have been halfway to it anyway. No wonder the little bugger has got such stubby wings. His body must have known he wasn’t going to need them, except to steer.
Good grief. I’m watching the first ever dragon to flame backwards.
He risked a glance immediately above him. The great dragon was frozen, its enormous bloodshot eyes concentrating on the tiny creature.
With a challenging roar of flame and a pummelling of air the King of Ankh-Morpork rose, all thought of mere humans forgotten.
Vimes turned sharply to Lady Ramkin.
“How do they fight?” he said urgently. “How do dragons fight?”
“I-that is, well, they just flap at each other and blow flame,” she said. “Swamp dragons, that is. I mean, who’s ever seen a noble dragon fight?” She patted her nightie. “I must take some notes, I’ve got my memo book somewhere …”
“In your nightshirt?”
“It’s amazing how ideas come to one in bed, I’ve always said.”
Flames roared into the space where Errol had been, but he wasn’t there. The king tried to spin in mid-air. The little dragon circled in an easy series of smoke rings, weaving a cat’s cradle in the sky with the huge adversary gyrating helplessly in the middle. More flames, hotter and longer, stabbed at him and missed.
The crowd watched in breathless silence.
” ‘allo, Captain,” said an ingratiating voice.
Vimes looked down. A small and stagnant pond disguised as Nobby grinned sheepishly up at him.
“I thought you were dead!” he said.
“We’re not,” said Nobby.
“Oh. Good.” There didn’t seem much else to say.
“What do you reckon on the fight, then?”
Vimes looked back up. Smoke trails spiralled across the city.
“I’m afraid it’s not going to work,” said Lady Ramkin. “Oh. Hallo, Nobby.”
“Afternoon, ma’am,” said Nobby, touching what he thought was his forelock.
“What d’you mean, it’s not going to work?” said Vimes. “Look at him go! It hasn’t hit him yet!”
“Yes, but his flame has touched it several times. It doesn’t seem to have any effect. It’s not hot enough, I think. Oh, he’s dodging well. But he’s got to be lucky every time. It has only got to be lucky once.”
The meaning of this sank in.
“You mean,” said Vimes, “all this is just-just show? He’s just doing it to impress?”
” ‘S’not his fault,” said Colon, materialising behind them. “It’s like dogs, innit? Doesn’t really dawn on the poor little bugger that he’s up against a big one. He’s just ready for a scrap.”
Both dragons appeared to realise that the fight was the well-known Klatchian standoff. With another smoke ring and a billow of white flame they parted and retreated a few hundred yards.
The king hovered, flapping its wings quickly. Height. That was the thing. When dragon fought dragon, height was always the thing . . .
Errol balanced on his flame. He seemed to be thinking.
Then he nonchalantly kicked his back legs out as though hovering on your own stomach gases was something dragons had mastered over millions of years, somersaulted, and fled. For a moment he was visible as a silver streak, and then he was out over the city walls and gone.
A groan followed him. It came from ten thousand throats.
Vimes threw up his hands.
“Don’t you worry, guv,” said Nobby quickly. “He’s-he’s probably gone to, to have a drink. Or something. Maybe it’s the end of round one. Or something.”
“I mean, he ate our kettle and everything,” said Colon uncertainly. “He wouldn’t just run away after eating a kettle. Stands to reason. Anyone who could eat a kettle wouldn’t run away from anything. ”
“And my armour polish,” said Carrot. “It was nearly a whole dollar for the tin.”
“There you are then,” said Colon. “It’s like I said.”
“Look,” said Vimes, as patiently as he could manage. “He’s a nice dragon, I liked him as much as you, a very nice little chap, but he’s just done the sensible thing, for gods’ sake, he’s not going to get burned to bits just to save us. Life just doesn’t work like that. You might as well face it.”
Overhead the great dragon strutted through the air and flamed a nearby tower. It had won.
“I’ve never seen that before,” said Lady Ramkin. “Dragons normally fight to the death.”
“At last they’ve bred one who’s sensible,” said Vimes morosely. “Let’s be honest: the chances of a dragon the size of Errol beating something that big are a million-to-one”
There was one of those silences you get after one clear bright note has been struck and the world pauses.
The rank looked at one another.
“Million-to-one?” asked Carrot nonchalantly.
“Definitely,” said Vimes. “Million-to-one.”
The rank looked at one another again.
“Million-to-one,” said Colon.
“Million-to-one,” agreed Nobby.
“That’s right,” said Carrot. “Million-to-one.”
There was another high-toned silence. The members of the rank were wondering who was going to be the first to say it.
Sergeant Colon took a deep breath.
“But it might just work,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” snapped Vimes. “There’s no-”
Nobby nudged him urgently in the ribs and pointed out across the plains.
There was a column of black smoke out there. Vimes squinted. Running ahead of the smoke, speeding over the cabbage fields and closing fast, was a silvery bullet.
The great dragon had seen it too. It flamed defiance and climbed for extra height, mashing the air with its enormous wings.
Now Errol’s flame was visible, so hot as to be almost blue. The landscape rolled away underneath him at an impossible speed, and he was accelerating.
Ahead of him the king extended its claws. It was almost grinning.
Errol’s going to hit it, Vimes thought. Gods help us all, it’ll be a fireball.
Something odd was happening out in the fields. A little way behind Errol the ground appeared to be ploughing itself up, throwing cabbage stalks into the air. A hedgerow erupted in a shower of sawdust . . .