Guards! Guards! - Terry Pratchett [51]
It turned in a tight circle, pounded the air a few times to build up speed, and came back.
When it passed over the Watch House it coughed a column of spitting white fire. Tiles under it didn’t just melt, they erupted in red-hot droplets. The chimney stack exploded and rained bricks across the street.
Vast wings hammered at the air as the creature hovered over the burning building, fire spearing down on what rapidly became a glowing heap. Then, when all that was left was a spreading puddle of melted rock with interesting streaks and bubbles in it, the dragon raised itself with a contemptuous flick of its wings and soared away and upward, over the city.
Lady Ramkin lowered her telescope and shook her head slowly.
“That’s not right,” she whispered. “That’s not right at all. Shouldn’t be able to do anything like that.”
She raised the lens again and squinted, trying to see what was on fire. Down below, in their long kennels, the little dragons howled.
Traditionally, upon waking from blissfully uneventful insensibility, you ask: “Where am I?” It’s probably part of the racial consciousness or something.
Vimes said it.
Tradition allows a choice of second lines. A key point in the selection process is an audit to see that the body has all the bits it remembers having yesterday.
Vimes checked.
Then comes the tantalizing bit. Now that the snowball of consciousness is starting to roll, is it going to find that it’s waking up inside a body lying in a gutter with something multiple, the noun doesn’t matter after an adjective like “multiple,” nothing good ever follows “multiple,” or is it going to be a case of crisp sheets, a soothing hand, and a businesslike figure in white pulling open the curtains on a bright new day? Is it all over, with nothing worse to look forward to now than weak tea, nourishing gruel, short, strengthening walks in the garden and possibly a brief platonic love affair with a ministering angel, or was this all just a moment’s blackout and some looming bastard is now about to get down to real business with the thick end of a pickax helve? Are there, the consciousness wants to know, going to be grapes?
At this point some outside stimulus is helpful. “It’s going to be all right” is favorite, whereas “Did anyone get his number?” is definitely a bad sign; either, however, is better than “You two hold his hands behind his back.”
In fact someone said, “You were nearly a goner there, Captain.”
The pain sensations, which had taken advantage of Vimes’s unconscious state to bunk off for a metaphorical quick cigarette, rushed back.
Vimes said, “Arrgh.” Then he opened his eyes.
There was a ceiling. This ruled out one particular range of unpleasant options and was very welcome. His blurred vision also revealed Corporal Nobbs, which was less so. Corporal Nobbs proved nothing; you could be dead and see something like Corporal Nobbs.
Ankh-Morpork did not have many hospitals. All the Guilds maintained their own sanitariums, and there were a few public ones run by the odder religious organizations, like the Balancing Monks, but by and large medical assistance was nonexistent and people had to die inefficiently, without the aid of doctors. It was generally thought that the existence of cures encouraged slackness and was in any case probably against Nature’s way.
“Have I already said ‘Where am I?’” said Vimes faintly.
“Yes.”
“Did I get an answer?”
“Dunno where this place is, Captain. It belongs to some posh bint. She said to bring you up here.”
Even though Vimes’s mind appeared to be full of pink treacle he nevertheless grabbed two clues and wrestled them together. The combination of “rich” and “up here” meant something. So did the strange chemical smell in the room, which even overpowered Nobby’s more everyday odors.
“We’re not talking about Lady Ramkin, are we?” he said cautiously.
“You could be right. Great big biddy. Mad for dragons.” Nobby’s rodent face broke into the most horribly knowing grin Vimes had ever seen. “You’re in her bed,” he