Guards! Guards! - Terry Pratchett [87]
“Wind’s getting up,” he observed.
“Good. Can’t stand this fog,” said Colon. “What was I saying?”
“You were saying the dragon’ll be miles away,” prompted Nobby.
“Oh. Right. Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? I mean, I wouldn’t hang around here if I could fly away. If I could fly, I wouldn’t be sitting on a roof on some manky old statue. If I could fly, I’d—”
“What statue?” said Nobby, cigarette halfway to his mouth.
“This one,” said Colon, thumping the stone. “And don’t try to give me the willies, Nobby. You know there’s hundreds of moldy old statues up on Small Gods.”
“No I don’t,” said Nobby. “What I do know is, they were all taken down last month when they releaded the roof. There’s just the roof and the dome and that’s it. You have to take notice of little things like that,” he added, “when you’re detectoring.”
In the damp silence that followed Sergeant Colon looked down at the stone he was sitting on. It had a taper, and a scaly pattern, and a sort of indefinable tail-like quality. Then he followed its length up and into the rapidly-thinning fog.
On the dome of Small Gods the dragon raised its head, yawned, and unfolded its wings.
The unfolding wasn’t a simple operation. It seemed to go on for some time, as the complex biological machinery of ribs and pleats slid apart. Then, with wings outstretched, the dragon yawned, took a few steps to the edge of the roof, and launched itself into the air.
After a while a hand appeared over the edge of the parapet. It flailed around for a moment until it got a decent grip.
There was a grunt. Carrot hauled himself back onto the roof and pulled the other two up behind him. They lay flat out on the leads, panting. Carrot observed the way that the dragon’s talons had scored deep grooves in the metal. You couldn’t help noticing things like that.
“Hadn’t,” he panted, “hadn’t we better warn people?”
Colon dragged himself forward until he could look across the city.
“I don’t think we need bother,” he said. “I think they’ll soon find out.”
The High Priest of Blind Io was stumbling over his words. There had never been an official coronation service in Ankh-Morpork as far as he could find out. The old kings had managed quite well with something on the lines of: “We hath got the crown, i’faith, and we will kill any whore-son who tries to take it away, by the Lord Harry.” Apart from anything else, this was rather short. He’d spent a long time drafting something longer and more in keeping with the spirit of the times, and was having some trouble remembering it.
He was also being put off by the goat, which was watching him with loyal interest.
“Get on with it!” Wonse hissed, from his position behind the throne.
“All in good time,” the high priest hissed back. “This is a coronation, I’ll have you know. You might try to show a little respect.”
“Of course I’m showing respect! Now get on—”
There was a shout, off to the right. Wonse glared into the crowd.
“It’s that Ramkin woman,” he said. “What’s she up to?”
People around her were chattering excitedly now. Fingers pointed all the same way, like a small fallen forest. There were one or two screams, and then the crowd moved like a tide.
Wonse looked along the wide Street of Small Gods.
It wasn’t a raven out there. Not this time.
The dragon flew slowly, only a few feet above the ground, wings sculling gracefully through the air.
The flags that crisscrossed the street were caught up and snapped like so much cobweb, piling up on the creature’s spine plates and flapping back along the length of its tail.
It flew with head and neck fully extended, as if the great body was being towed like a barge. The people on the street yelled and fought one another for the safety of doorways. It paid them no attention.
It should have come roaring, but the only sounds were the creaking of wings and the snapping of banners.
It should have come roaring. Not like this, not slowly and deliberately, giving terror time to mature. It should have come threatening.