Vimes pointed wearily at the top of the menu.
   "What's this?" he said.
   Harga peered at it. They were alone in the grease-walled cafe.
   "It says 'Bye Royarl Appointmente', Captain," he said proudly.
   "What's it mean?"
   Harga scratched his head with a ladle. "What it means is," he said, "if the king comes in here, he'll like it."
   "Have you got anything that isn't too aristocratic for me to eat, then?" said Vimes sourly, and settled for a slice of plebeian fried bread and a proletarian steak cooked so rare you could still hear it bray. Vimes ate it at the counter.
   A vague scraping noise disturbed his thoughts. "What're you doing?" he said.
   Harga looked up guiltily from his work behind the counter.
   "Nothing, Cap'n," he said. He tried to hide the evidence behind him when Vimes glared over the knife-chewed woodwork.
   "Come on, Sham. You can show me."
   Harga's beefy hands came reluctantly into view.
   "I was only scraping the old fat out of the pan," he mumbled.
   "I see. And how long have we known each other, Sham?" said Vimes, with terrible kindness.
   "Years, Cap'n," said Harga. "You bin coming in here nearly every day, reg'lar. One of my best customers."
   Vimes leaned over the counter until his nose was level with the squashy pink thing in the middle of Harga's face.
   "And in all that time, have you ever changed the fat?" he demanded.
   Harga tried to back away. "Well…"
   "It's been like a friend to me, that old fat," said Vimes. "There's little black bits in there I've grown to know and love. It's a meal in itself. And you've cleaned out the coffee jug, haven't you. I can tell. This is love-in-a-canoe coffee if ever I tasted it. The other stuff had flavour. "
   "Well, I thought it was time…"
   "Why?"
   Harga let the pan fall from his pudgy fingers. "Well, I thought, if the king should happen to come in…"
   Vimes's accusing finger buried itself up to the second joint in Harga 's expansive vest.
   "You don't even know the wretched fellow's name!" he shouted.
   Harga rallied. "I do, Cap'n," he stuttered. "Course I do. Seen it on the decorations and everything. He's called Rex Vivat."
   Very gently, shaking his head in despair, crying in his heart for the essential servility of mankind, Vimes let him go.
 
   In another time and place, the Librarian finished reading. He'd reached the end of the text. Not the end of the book — there was plenty more book. It had been scorched beyond the point of legibility, though.
   Not that the last few unburned pages were very easy to read. The author's hand had been shaking, he'd been writing fast, and he'd blotted a lot. But the Librarian had wrestled with many a terrifying text in some of the worst books ever bound, words that tried to read you as you read them, words that writhed on the page. At least these weren't words like that. These were just the words of a man frightened for his life. A man writing a dreadful warning.
   It was a page a little back from the burned section that drew the Librarian's eye. He sat and stared at it for some time.
   Then he stared at the darkness.
   It was his darkness. He was asleep out there somewhere. Somewhere out there a thief was heading for this place, to steal this book. And then someone would read this book, read these words, and do it anyway.
   His hands itched.
   All he had to do was hide the book, or drop on to the thief's head and unscrew it by the ears.
   He stared into the darkness again . . .
   But that would be interfering with the course of history. Horrible things could happen. The Librarian knew all about this sort of thing, it was part of what you had to know before you were allowed into L-space. He'd seen pictures in ancient books. Time could bifurcate, like a pair of trousers. You could end up in the wrong leg, living a life that was actually happening in the other leg, talking to people who weren't in your leg, walking into walls that weren't there any more. Life could be horrible in the wrong trouser of Time.
   Besides, it was against Library rules.[18] The assembled Librarians of Time and Space would certainly have something to say about it if he started to tinker with causality.
   He closed the book carefully and tucked it back into the shelf. Then he swung gently from bookcase to bookcase until he reached the doorway. For a moment he stopped and looked down at his own sleeping body. Perhaps he wondered, briefly, whether to wake himself up, have a little chat, tell himself that he had friends and not to worry. If so, he must have decided against it. You could get yourself into a lot of trouble that way.
   Instead he slipped out of the door, and lurked in the shadows, and followed the hooded thief when it came out clutching the book, and waited near the dread portal in the rain until the Elucidated Brethren had met and, when the last one left, followed him to his home, and murmured to himself in anthropoid surprise . . .
   And then ran back to his Library and the treacherous pathways of L-space.
 
 
   By mid-morning the streets were packed, Vimes had docked Nobby a day's salary for waving a flag, and an air of barbed gloom settled over the Yard, like a big black cloud with occasional flashes of lightning in it.
   "Get up in a high place, " muttered Nobby. "That's all very well to say."
   "I was looking forward to lining the streets," said Colon. "I'd have got a good view."
   "You were going on about privilege and the rights of man the other night," said Nobby accusingly.
   "Yes, well, one of the privileges and rights of this man is getting a good view," said the sergeant. "That's all I'm saying."
   "I've never seen the captain in such a filthy temper," said Nobby. "I liked it better when he was on the drink. I reckon he's…"
   "You know, I think Errol is really ill," said Carrot.
   They turned towards the fruit basket.
   "He's very hot. And his skin looks all shiny."
   "What's the right temperature for a dragon?" said Colon.
   "Yeah. How do you take it?" said Nobby.
   "I think we ought to ask Lady Ramkin to have a look at him," said Carrot. "She knows about these things."
   "No, she'll be getting ready for the coronation. We shouldn't go disturbing her," said Colon. He stretched out his hand to Errol's quivering flanks. "I used to have a dog that — arrgh! That's not hot, that's boiling!"
   "I've offered him lots of water and he just won't touch it. What are you doing with that kettle, Nobby?"
   Nobby looked innocent. "Well, I thought we might as well make a cup of tea before we go out. It's a shame to waste…"
   "Take it off him!"
 
   Noon came. The fog didn't lift but it did thin a bit, to allow a pale yellow haze where the sun should have been.
   Although the passage of years had turned the post of Captain of the Watch into something rather shabby, it still meant that Vimes was entitled to a seat at official occasions. The pecking order had moved it, though, so that now he was in the lowest tier on the rickety bleachers between the Master of the Fellowship of Beggars and the head of the Teachers' Guild. He didn't mind that. Anything was better than the top row, among the Assassins, Thieves, Merchants and all the other things that had floated to the top of society. He never knew what to talk about. Anyway, the teacher was restful company since he didn't do much but clench and unclench his hands occasionally, and whimper.
   "Something wrong with your neck, Captain?" said the chief beggar politely, as they waited for the coaches.
   "What?" said Vimes distractedly.
   "You keep on staring upwards," said the beggar.
   "Hmm? Oh. No. Nothing wrong," said Vimes.
   The beggar wrapped his velvet cloak around him.
   "You couldn't by any chance spare…," he paused, calculating a sum in accordance with his station, "…about three hundred dollars for a twelve-course civic banquet, could you?"
   "No."
   "Fair enough. Fair enough," said the chief beggar amiably. He sighed. It wasn't a rewarding job, being chief beggar. It was the differentials that did for you. Low-grade beggars made a reasonable enough living on pennies, but people tended to look the other way when you asked them for a sixteen-bedroom mansion for the night.
   Vimes resumed his study of the sky.
   Up on the dais the High Priest of Blind Io, who last night by dint of elaborate ecumenical argument and eventually by a club with nails in it had won the right to crown the king, fussed over his preparations. By the small portable sacrificial altar a tethered billy goat was peacefully chewing the cud and possibly thinking, in Goat: What a lucky billy goat I am, to be given such a good view of the proceedings. This is going to be something to tell the kids.
   Vimes scanned the diffused outlines of the nearest buildings.
   A distant cheering suggested that the ceremonial procession was on its way.
   There was a scuffle of activity around the dais as Lupine Wonse chivvied a scramble of servants who rolled a purple carpet down the steps.
   Across the square, amongst the ranks of Ankh-Morpork's faded aristocracy, Lady Ramkin's face tilted upwards.
   Around the throne, which had been hastily created out of wood and gold foil, a number of lesser priests, some of them with slight head wounds, shuffled into position.
   Vimes shifted in his seat, aware of the sound of his own heartbeat, and glared at the haze over the river.
   . . . and saw the wings.
 
   Dear Mother and Father [wrote Carrot, in between staring dutifully into the fog] Well, the town is On Fate for the coronation, which is more complicated than at home, and now I am on Day duty as well. This is a shame because, I was going to watch the Coronation with Reel, but it does not do to complain. I must go now because we are expecting a dragon any minute although it does not exist really. Your loving son, Carrot. PS. Have you seen anything of Minty lately?
 
   "You idiot!"
   "Sorry," said Vimes. "Sorry."
   People were climbing back into their seats, many of them giving him furious looks. Wonse was white with fury.
   "How could you have been so stupid? " he raged.
   Vimes stared at his own fingers.
   "I thought I saw…" he began.
   "It was a raven! You know what ravens are? There must be hundreds of them in the city!"
   "In the fog, you see, the size wasn't easy to…" Vimes mumbled.
   "And poor Master Greetling, you ought to have known what loud noises do to him!" The head of the Teachers' Guild had to be led away by some kind people.
   "Shouting out like that!" Wonse went on.
   "Look, I said I'm sorry! It was an honest mistake!"
   "I've had to hold up the procession and everything!"
   Vimes said nothing. He could feel hundreds of amused or unsympathetic eyes on him.
   "Well," he muttered, "I'd better be getting back to the Yard…"
   Wonse's eyes narrowed. "No," he snapped. "But you can go home, if you like. Or anywhere your fancies take you. Give me your badge."
   "Huh?"
   Wonse held out his hand.
   "Your badge," he repeated.
   "My badge?"
   "That's what I said. I want to keep you out of trouble."
   Vimes looked at him in astonishment. "But it's my badge!"
   "And you're going to give it to me," said Wonse grimly. "By order of the king."
   "What d'you mean? He doesn't even know!" Vimes heard the wailing in his own voice.
   Wonse scowled. "But he will," he said. "And I don't expect he'll even bother to appoint a successor."
   Vimes slowly undipped the verdigrised disc of copper, weighed it in his hand, and then tossed it to Wonse without a word.
   For a moment he considered pleading, but something rebelled. He turned, and stalked off through the crowd.
   So that was it.
   As simple as that. After half a lifetime of service. No more City Watch. Huh. Vimes kicked at the pavement. It'd be some sort of Royal Guard now.
   With plumes in their damn helmets.
   Well, he'd had enough. It wasn't a proper life anyway, in the Watch. You didn't meet people in the best of circumstances. There must be hundreds of other things he could do, and if he thought for long enough he could probably remember what some of them were.
   Pseudopolis Yard was off the route of the procession, and as he stumbled into the Watch House he could hear the distant cheering beyond the rooftops. Across the city the temple gongs were being sounded.
   Now they are ringing the gongs, thought Vimes, but soon they will-they will-they will not be ringing the gongs. Not much of an aphorism, he thought, but he could work on it. He had the time, now.
   Vimes noticed the mess.
   Errol had started eating again. He'd eaten most of the table, the grate, the coal scuttle, several lamps and the squeaky rubber hippo. Now he lay in his box again, skin twitching, whimpering in his sleep.
   "A right mess you've made," said Vimes enigmatically. Still, at least he wouldn't have to tidy it up.
   He opened his desk drawer.
   Someone had eaten into that, too. All that was left was a few shards of glass.
 
   Sergeant Colon hauled himself on to the parapet around the Temple of Small Gods. He was too old for this sort of thing. He'd joined for the bell ringing, not sitting around on high places waiting for dragons to find him.
   He got his breath back, and peered through the fog.
   "Anyone human still up here?" he whispered.
   Carrot's voice sounded dead and featureless in the dull air.
   "Here I am, Sergeant," he said.
   "I was just checking if you were still here," said Colon.
   "I'm still here, Sergeant," said Carrot, obediently.
   Colon joined him.
   "Just checking you were not et," he said, trying to grin.
   "I haven't been et," said Carrot.
   "Oh," said Colon. "Good, then." He tapped his fingers on the damp stonework, feeling he ought to make his position absolutely clear.
   "Just checking," he repeated. "Part of my duty, see. Going around, sort of thing. It's not that I'm frightened of being up on the roofs by myself, you understand. Thick up here, isn't it."
   "Yes, Sergeant."
   "Everything all okay?" Nobby's muffled voice sidled its way through the thick air, quickly followed by its owner.
   "Yes, Corporal," said Carrot.
   "What you doing up here?" Colon demanded.
   "I was just coming up to check Lance-constable Carrot was all right," said Nobby innocently. "What were you doing, Sergeant?"
   "We're all right," said Carrot, beaming. "That's good, isn't it."
   The two NCOs shifted uneasily and avoided looking at one another. It seemed like a long way back to their posts, across the damp, cloudy and, above all, exposed rooftops.
   Colon made an executive decision.
   "Sod this," he said, and found a piece of fallen statuary to sit on. Nobby leaned on the parapet and winkled a damp dog-end from the unspeakable ashtray behind his ear.
   "Heard the procession go by," he observed. Colon filled his pipe, and struck a match on the stone beside him.
   "If that dragon's alive," he said, blowing out a plume of smoke and turning a small patch of fog into smog, "then it'll have got the hell away from here, I'm telling you. Not the right sort of place for dragons, a city," he added, in the tones of someone doing a great job of convincing himself. "It'll have gone off to somewhere where there's high places and plenty to eat, you mark my words."
   "Somewhere like the city, you mean?" said Carrot.
   "Shut up," said the other two in unison.
   "Chuck us the matches, Sergeant," said Nobby.
   Colon tossed the bundle of evil yellow-headed lucifers across the leads. Nobby struck one, which was immediately blown out. Shreds of fog drifted past him.
   "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 mouldy 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 re-leaded 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 on to 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 whoreson who tries to takes 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. Not promising.
   It should have come roaring, not flying gently to the accompaniment of the zip and zing of merry bunting.
 
   Vimes pulled open the other drawer of his desk and glared at the paperwork, such as there was of it. There wasn't really much in there that he could call his own. A scrap of sugar bag reminded him that he now owed the Tea Kitty six pence. Odd. He wasn't angry yet. He would be later on, of course. By evening he'd be furious. Drunk and furious. But not yet. Not yet. It hadn't really sunk in, and he knew he was just going through the motions as a preventative against thinking.
   Errol stirred sluggishly in his box, raised his head and whined.
   "What's the matter, boy?" said Vimes, reaching down. "Upset stomach?"
   The little dragon's skin was moving as though heavy industry was being carried on inside. Nothing in Diseases of the Dragon said anything about this. From the swollen stomach came sounds like a distant and complicated war in an earthquake zone.
   That surely wasn't right. Sybil Ramkin said you had to pay great attention to a dragon's diet, since even a minor stomach upset would decorate the walls and ceiling with pathetic bits of scaly skin. But in the past few days . . . well, there had been cold pizzas, and the ash from Nobby's horrible dog-ends, and all-in-all Errol had eaten more or less what he liked. Which was just about everything, to judge by the room. Not to mention the contents of the bottom drawer.
   "We really haven't looked after you very well, have we?" said Vimes. "Treated you like a dog, really." He wondered what effect squeaky rubber hippos had on the digestion.
   Vimes became slowly aware that the distant cheering had turned to screams.
   He stared vaguely at Errol, and then smiled an incredibly evil smile and stood up.
   There were sounds of panic and the mob on the run.
   He placed his battered helmet on his head and gave it a jaunty tap. Then, humming a mad little tune, he sauntered out of the building.
   Errol remained quite still for a while and then, with extreme difficulty, half-crawled and half-rolled out of his box. Strange messages were coming from the massive part of his brain that controlled his digestive system. It was demanding certain things that he couldn't put a name to. Fortunately it was able to describe them in minute detail to the complex receptors in his enormous nostrils. They flared, subjecting the air of the room to an intimate examination. His head turned, triangulating.
   He pulled himself across the floor and began to eat, with every sign of enjoyment, Carrot's tin of armour polish.
 
   People streamed past Vimes as he strolled up the Street of Small Gods. Smoke rose into the air from the Plaza of Broken Moons.
   The dragon squatted in the middle of it, on what remained of the coronation dais. It had a self-satisfied expression.
   There was no sign of the throne, or of its occupant, although it was possible that complicated forensic examination of the small pile of charcoal in the wrecked and smouldering woodwork might offer some clue.
   Vimes caught hold of an ornamental fountain to steady himself as the crowds stampeded by. Every street out of the plaza was packed with struggling bodies. Not noisy ones, Vimes noticed. People weren't wasting their breath with screaming any more. There was just this solid, deadly determination to be somewhere else.
   The dragon spread its wings and flapped them luxuriously. The people at the rear of the crowd took this as a signal to climb up the backs of the people in front of them and run for safety from head to head.
   Within a few seconds the square was empty of all save the stupid and the terminally bewildered. Even the badly trampled were making a spirited crawl for the nearest exit.
   Vimes looked around him. There seemed to be a lot of fallen flags, some of which were being eaten by an elderly goat which couldn't believe its luck. He could distantly see Cut-me-own-Throat on his hands and knees, trying to restore the contents of his tray.
   By Vimes's side a small child waved a flag hesitantly and shouted "Hurrah".
   Then everything went quiet.
   Vimes bent down.
   "I think you should be going home," he said.
   The child squinted up at him.
   "Are you a Watch man?" it said.
   "No," said Vimes. "And yes."
   "What happened to the king, Watch man?"
   "Er. I think he's gone off for a rest," said Vimes.
   "My auntie said I shouldn't talk to Watch men," said the child.
   "Do you think it might be a good idea to go home and tell her how obedient you've been, then?" said Vimes.
   "My auntie said, if I was naughty, she'd put me on the roof and call the dragon," said the child, conversationally. "My auntie said it eats you all up starting with the legs, so's you can see what's happening."
   "Why don't you go home and tell your auntie she's acting in the best traditions of Ankh-Morpork child-rearing?" said Vimes. "Go on. Run along."
   "It crunches up all your bones," said the child happily. "And when it gets to your head, it-"
   "Look, it's up there!" shouted Vimes. "The great big dragon that crunches you up! Now go home!"
   The child looked up at the thing perched on the crippled dais.
   "I haven't seen it crunch anyone yet," it complained.
   "Push off or you'll feel the back of my hand," said Vimes.
   This seemed to fit the bill. The child nodded understandingly.
   "Right. Can I shout hurrah again?"
   "If you like," said Vimes.
   "Hurrah."
   So much for community policing, Vimes thought. He peered out from behind the fountain again.
   A voice immediately above him rumbled, "Say what you like, I still swear it's a magnificent specimen."
   Vimes's gaze travelled upwards until it crested the edge of the fountain's top bowl.
   "Have you noticed," said Sybil Ramkin, hauling herself upright by a piece of eroded statuary and dropping down in front of him, "how every time we meet, a dragon turns up?" She gave him an arch smile. "It's a bit like having your own tune. Or something."
   "It's just sitting there," said Vimes hurriedly. "Just looking around. As if it's waiting for something to happen."
   The dragon blinked with Jurassic patience.
   The roads off the square were packed with people. That's the Ankh-Morpork instinct, Vimes thought. Run away, and then stop and see if anything interesting is going to happen to other people.
   There was a movement in the wreckage near the dragon's front talon, and the High Priest of Blind Io staggered to his feet, dust and splinters cascading from his robes. He was still holding the ersatz crown in one hand.
   Vimes watched the old man look upwards into a couple of glowing red eyes a few feet away.
   "Can dragons read minds?" whispered Vimes.
   "I'm sure mine understand every word I say," hissed Lady Ramkin. "Oh, no! The silly old fool is giving it the crown!"
   "But isn't that a smart move?" said Vimes. "Dragons like gold. It's like throwing a stick for a dog, isn't it?"
   "Oh dear," said Sybil Ramkin. "It might not, you know. Dragons have such sensitive mouths."
   The great dragon blinked at the tiny circle of gold.
   Then, with extreme delicacy, it extended one metre-long claw and hooked the thing out of the priest's trembling fingers.
   "What d'you mean, sensitive?" said Vimes, watching the claw travel slowly towards the long, horse-like face.
   "A really incredible sense of taste. They're so, well, chemically orientated."
   "You mean it can probably taste gold?" whispered Vimes, watching the crown being carefully licked.
   "Oh, certainly. And smell it."
   Vimes wondered what the chances were of the crown being made of gold. Not high, he decided. Gold foil over copper, perhaps. Enough to fool human beings. And then he wondered what someone's reaction would be if they were offered sugar which turned out, once you'd put three spoonfuls in your coffee, to be salt.
   The dragon removed the claw from its mouth in one graceful movement and caught the high priest, who was just sneaking away, a blow which knocked him high into the air. When he was screaming at the top of the arc the great mouth came around and…