Guards! Guards! - Terry Pratchett [63]
“Don’t make any sudden moves,” said Lady Ramkin’s voice behind him. “And don’t show fear. They can always tell when you’re afraid.”
“Is there any other advice you can offer at this time?” said Vimes slowly, trying to speak without moving his lips.
“Well, tickling them behind their ears often works.”
“Oh,” said Vimes weakly.
“And a good sharp ‘no!’ and taking away their food bowl.”
“Ah?”
“And hitting them on the nose with a roll of paper is what I do in extreme cases.”
In the slow, brightly-outlined, desperate world Vimes was now inhabiting, which seemed to revolve around the craggy nostrils a few meters away from him, he became aware of a gentle hissing sound.
The dragon was taking a deep breath.
The intake of air stopped. Vimes looked into the darkness of the flame ducts and wondered whether he’d see anything, whether there’d be some tiny white glow or something, before fiery oblivion swept over him.
At that moment a horn rang out.
The dragon raised its head in a puzzled way and made a noise that sounded vaguely interrogative without being in any way a word.
The horn rang out again. The noise seemed to have a number of echoes that lived a life of their own. It sounded like a challenge. If that wasn’t what it was, then the horn blower was soon going to be in trouble, because the dragon gave Vimes a smoldering look, unfolded its enormous wings, leapt heavily into the air and, against all the rules of aeronautics, flew slowly away in the direction of the sound.
Nothing in the world should have been able to fly like that. The wings thumped up and down with a noise like potted thunder, but the dragon moved as though it was idly sculling through the air. If it stopped flapping, the movement suggested, it would simply glide to a halt. It floated, not flew. For something the size of a barn with an armor-plated hide, it was a pretty good trick.
It passed over their heads like a barge, heading for the Plaza of Broken Moons.
“Follow it!” shouted Lady Ramkin.
“That’s not right, it flying like that. I’m pretty sure there’s something in one of the Witchcraft Laws,” said Carrot, taking out his notebook. “And it’s damaged the roof. It’s really piling up the offenses, you know.”
“You all right, Captain?” said Sergeant Colon.
“I could see right up its nose,” said Captain Vimes dreamily. His eyes focused on the worried face of the sergeant. “Where’s it gone?” he demanded. Colon pointed along the street.
Vimes glowered at the shape disappearing over the rooftops.
“Follow it!” he said.
The horn sounded again.
Other people were hurrying toward the plaza. The dragon drifted ahead of them like a shark heading toward a wayward airbed, its tail flicking slowly from side to side.
“Some loony is going to fight it!” said Nobby.
“I thought someone would have a go,” said Colon. “Poor bugger’ll be baked in his own armor.”
This seemed to be the opinion of the crowds lining the plaza. The people of Ankh-Morpork had a straightforward, no-nonsense approach to entertainment, and while they were looking forward to seeing a dragon slain, they’d be happy to settle instead for seeing someone being baked alive in his own armor. You didn’t get the chance every day to see someone baked alive in their own armor. It would be something for the children to remember.
Vimes was jostled and bounced around by the crowd as more people flooded into the plaza behind them.
The horn sounded a third challenge.
“That’s a slug-horn, that is,” said Colon knowledgeably. “Like a tocsin, only deeper.”
“You sure?” said Nobby.
“Yep.”
“It must have been a bloody big slug.”
“Peanuts! Figgins! Hot sausages!” whined a voice behind them. “Hallo, lads. Hallo, Captain Vimes! In at the death, eh? Have a sausage. On the house.”
“What’s going on, Throat?” said Vimes, clinging to the vendor’s tray as more people spilled around them.
“Some kid’s ridden into the city and said