Guards! Guards! - Terry Pratchett [123]
It climbed in a wide spiral, gathering speed as it did so. Errol went with it, orbiting the huge body like a tug around a liner.
“It’s—it’s as though he’s fussing over it,” said Vimes.
“Add up the bastard!” shouted Nobby enthusiastically.
“Total, Nobby,” said Colon. “You mean ‘total.’”
Vimes felt Lady Ramkin’s gaze on the back of his neck. He looked at her expression.
Realization dawned. “Oh,” he said.
Lady Ramkin nodded.
“Really?” said Vimes.
“Yes,” she said. “I really ought to have thought of it before. It was such a hot flame, of course. And they’re always so much more territorial than the males.”
“Why don’t you fight the bastard!” shouted Nobby, at the dwindling dragons.
“Bitch, Nobby,” said Vimes quietly. “Not bastard. Bitch.”
“Why don’t you fi–what?”
“It’s a member of the female gender,” explained Lady Ramkin.
“What?”
“We meant that if you tried your favorite kick, Nobby, it wouldn’t work,” said Vimes.
“It’s a girl,” translated Lady Ramkin.
“But it’s sodding enormous!” said Nobby.
Vimes coughed urgently. Nobby’s rodent eyes slid sideways to Sybil Ramkin, who blushed like a sunset.
“A fine figure of a dragon, I mean,” he said quickly.
“Er. Wide, egg-bearing hips,” said Sergeant Colon anxiously.
“Statueskew,” Nobby added fervently.
“Shut up,” said Vimes. He brushed the dust off the remains of his uniform, adjusted the hang of his breastplate, and set his helmet on squarely. He patted it firmly. This wasn’t where it ended, he knew that. This was where it all got started.
“You men come with me. Come on, hurry! While everyone’s still watching them,” he added.
“But what about the king?” said Carrot. “Or queen? Or whatever it is now?”
Vimes stared at the rapidly shrinking shapes. “I really don’t know,” he said. “That’s up to Errol, I suppose. We’ve got other things to do.”
Colon saluted, still fighting for breath. “Where we going, sir?” he managed.
“To the palace. Any of you still got a sword?”
“You can use mine, Captain,” said Carrot. He handed it over.
“Right,” said Vimes quietly. He glared at them. “Let’s go.”
The rank trailed behind Vimes through the stricken streets.
He started to walk faster. The rank started to trot to keep up.
Vimes began to trot to keep ahead.
The rank broke into a canter.
Then, as if on an unspoken word of command, they broke into a run.
Then into a gallop.
People scurried away as they rattled past. Carrot’s enormous sandals hammered on the cobbles. Sparks flew up from the scads of Nobby’s boots. Colon ran quietly for such a fat man, as fat men often do, face locked in a scowl of concentration.
They pounded along the Street of Cunning Artificers, turned into Hogsback Alley, emerged into the Street of Small Gods and thundered toward the palace. Vimes kept barely in the lead, mind currently empty of everything except the need to run and run.
At least, nearly everything. But his head buzzed and resonated manically with those of all city guards everywhere, all the pavement-pounding meatheads in the multiverse who had ever, just occasionally, tried to do what was Right.
Far ahead of them a handful of palace guards drew their swords, took a second look, thought better of it, darted back inside the wall and started to close the gates. They clanged together as Vimes arrived.
He hesitated, panting for breath, and looked at the massive things. The ones that the dragon had burned had been replaced by gates even more forbidding. From behind them came the sound of bolts sliding back.
This was no time for half measures. He was a captain, godsdammit. An officer. Things like this didn’t present a problem for an officer. Officers had a tried and tested way of solving problems like this. It was called a sergeant.
“Sergeant Colon!” he snapped, his mind still buzzing with universal policemanhood, “shoot the lock off!”
The sergeant hesitated. “What, sir? With a bow and arrow, sir?”
“I mean—” Vimes hesitated. “I mean, open these gates!”
“Sir!” Colon saluted.