Carrot stepped out of the shadows, grinning all over his face.
   "Knew I could rely on you," he said. "Follow me!"
   "Something odd about that boy," said Colon, as they limped after him. "He always manages to persuade us to follow him, have you noticed?"
   "All for one what?" said Nobby.
   "Something about the voice, I reckon."
   "Yes, but all for one what?"
 
   The Patrician sighed and, carefully marking his place, laid aside his book. To judge from the noise there seemed to be an awful lot of excitement going on out there. It was highly unlikely any palace guards would be around, which was just as well. The guards were highly-trained men and it would be a shame to waste them.
   He would need them later on.
   He padded over to the wall and pushed a small block that looked exactly like all the other small blocks. No other small block, however, would have caused a section of flagstone to grind ponderously aside.
   There was a carefully chosen assortment of stuff in there-iron rations, spare clothes, several small chests of precious metals and jewels, tools. And there was a key. Never build a dungeon you couldn't get out of.
   The Patrician took the key and strolled over to the door. As the wards of the lock slid back in their well-oiled grooves he wondered, again, whether he should have told Vimes about the key. But the man seemed to have got so much satisfaction out of breaking out. It would probably have been positively bad for him to have told him about the key. Anyway, it would have spoiled his view of the world. He needed Vimes and his view of the world.
   Lord Vetinari swung the door open and, silently, strode out into the ruins of his palace.
   They trembled as, for the second time in a couple of minutes, the city rocked.
 
 
   The dragon kennels exploded. The windows blew out. The door left the wall ahead of a great billow of black smoke and sailed into the air, tumbling slowly, to plough into the rhododendrons.
   Something very energetic and hot was happening in that building. More smoke poured out, thick and oily and solid. One of the walls folded in on itself, and then another one toppled sluggishly on to the lawn.
   Swamp dragons shot determinedly out of the wreckage like champagne corks, wings whirring frantically.
   Still the smoke unrolled. But there was something in there, some point of fierce white light that was gently rising.
   It disappeared from view as it passed a stricken window, and then, with a piece of roof tile still spinning on the top of his head, Errol climbed above his own smoke and ascended into the skies of Ankh-Morpork.
   The sunlight glinted off his silver scales as he hovered about a hundred feet up, turning slowly, balancing nicely on his own flame . . .
   Vimes, awaiting death on the plaza, realized that his mouth was hanging open. He shut it again.
   There was absolutely no sound in the city now but the noise of Errol's ascent.
   They can rearrange their own plumbing, Vimes told himself bemusedly. To suit circumstances. He's made it work in reverse. But his thingys, his genes . . . surely he must have been halfway to it anyway. No wonder the little bugger has got such stubby wings. His body must have known he wasn't going to need them, except to steer.
   Good grief. I'm watching the first ever dragon to flame backwards.
   He risked a glance immediately above him. The great dragon was frozen, its enormous bloodshot eyes concentrating on the tiny creature.
   With a challenging roar of flame and a pummelling of air the King of Ankh-Morpork rose, all thought of mere humans forgotten.
   Vimes turned sharply to Lady Ramkin.
   "How do they fight?" he said urgently. "How do dragons fight?"
   "I... that is, well, they just flap at each other and blow flame," she said. "Swamp dragons, that is. I mean, who's ever seen a noble dragon fight?" She patted her nightie. "I must take some notes, I've got my memo book somewhere ..."
   "In your nightshirt?"
   "It's amazing how ideas come to one in bed, I've always said."
   Flames roared into the space where Errol had been, but he wasn't there. The king tried to spin in mid-air. The little dragon circled in an easy series of smoke rings, weaving a cat's cradle in the sky with the huge adversary gyrating helplessly in the middle. More flames, hotter and longer, stabbed at him and missed.
   The crowd watched in breathless silence.
   " 'allo, Captain," said an ingratiating voice.
   Vimes looked down. A small and stagnant pond disguised as Nobby grinned sheepishly up at him.
   "I thought you were dead!" he said.
   "We're not," said Nobby.
   "Oh. Good." There didn't seem much else to say.
   "What do you reckon on the fight, then?"
   Vimes looked back up. Smoke trails spiralled across the city.
   "I'm afraid it's not going to work," said Lady Ramkin. "Oh. Hallo, Nobby."
   "Afternoon, ma'am," said Nobby, touching what he thought was his forelock.
   "What d'you mean, it's not going to work?" said Vimes. "Look at him go! It hasn't hit him yet!"
   "Yes, but his flame has touched it several times. It doesn't seem to have any effect. It's not hot enough, I think. Oh, he's dodging well. But he's got to be lucky every time. It has only got to be lucky once."
   The meaning of this sank in.
   "You mean," said Vimes, "all this is just — just show? He's just doing it to impress?"
   " 'S'not his fault," said Colon, materialising behind them. "It's like dogs, innit? Doesn't really dawn on the poor little bugger that he's up against a big one. He's just ready for a scrap."
   Both dragons appeared to realise that the fight was the well-known Klatchian standoff. With another smoke ring and a billow of white flame they parted and retreated a few hundred yards.
   The king hovered, flapping its wings quickly. Height. That was the thing. When dragon fought dragon, height was always the thing . . .
   Errol balanced on his flame. He seemed to be thinking.
   Then he nonchalantly kicked his back legs out as though hovering on your own stomach gases was something dragons had mastered over millions of years, somersaulted, and fled. For a moment he was visible as a silver streak, and then he was out over the city walls and gone.
   A groan followed him. It came from ten thousand throats.
   Vimes threw up his hands.
   "Don't you worry, guv," said Nobby quickly. "He's — he's probably gone to, to have a drink. Or something. Maybe it's the end of round one. Or something."
   "I mean, he ate our kettle and everything," said Colon uncertainly. "He wouldn't just run away after eating a kettle. Stands to reason. Anyone who could eat a kettle wouldn't run away from anything. "
   "And my armour polish," said Carrot. "It was nearly a whole dollar for the tin."
   "There you are then," said Colon. "It's like I said."
   "Look," said Vimes, as patiently as he could manage. "He's a nice dragon, I liked him as much as you, a very nice little chap, but he's just done the sensible thing, for gods' sake, he's not going to get burned to bits just to save us. Life just doesn't work like that. You might as well face it."
   Overhead the great dragon strutted through the air and flamed a nearby tower. It had won.
   "I've never seen that before," said Lady Ramkin. "Dragons normally fight to the death."
   "At last they've bred one who's sensible," said Vimes morosely. "Let's be honest: the chances of a dragon the size of Errol beating something that big are a million-to-one"
   There was one of those silences you get after one clear bright note has been struck and the world pauses.
   The rank looked at one another.
   "Million-to-one?" asked Carrot nonchalantly.
   "Definitely," said Vimes. "Million-to-one."
   The rank looked at one another again.
   "Million-to-one," said Colon.
   "Million-to-one," agreed Nobby.
   "That's right," said Carrot. "Million-to-one."
   There was another high-toned silence. The members of the rank were wondering who was going to be the first to say it.
   Sergeant Colon took a deep breath.
   "But it might just work," he said.
   "What are you talking about?" snapped Vimes. "There's no…"
   Nobby nudged him urgently in the ribs and pointed out across the plains.
   There was a column of black smoke out there. Vimes squinted. Running ahead of the smoke, speeding over the cabbage fields and closing fast, was a silvery bullet.
   The great dragon had seen it too. It flamed defiance and climbed for extra height, mashing the air with its enormous wings.
   Now Errol's flame was visible, so hot as to be almost blue. The landscape rolled away underneath him at an impossible speed, and he was accelerating.
   Ahead of him the king extended its claws. It was almost grinning.
   Errol's going to hit it, Vimes thought. Gods help us all, it'll be a fireball.
   Something odd was happening out in the fields. A little way behind Errol the ground appeared to be ploughing itself up, throwing cabbage stalks into the air. A hedgerow erupted in a shower of sawdust . . .
   Errol passed silently over the city walls, nose up, wings folded down to tiny flaps, his body honed to a mere cone with a flame at one end. His opponent blew out a tongue of fire; Vimes watched Errol, with a barely noticeable flip of a wing stub, roll easily out of its path. And then he was gone, speeding out towards the sea in the same eerie silence.
   "He miss…" Nobby began.
   The air ruptured. An endless thunderclap of noise dragged across the city, smashing tiles, toppling chimneys. In mid-air, the king was picked up, flattened out and spun like a top in the sonic wash. Vimes, his hands over his own ears, saw the creature flame desperately as it turned and became the centre of a spiral of crazy fire.
   Magic crackled along its wings. It screamed like a distressed foghorn. Then, shaking its head dazedly, it began to glide in a wide circle.
   Vimes groaned. It had survived something that tore masonry apart. What did you have to do to beat it? You can't fight it, he thought. You can't burn it, you can't smash it. There's nothing you can do to it.
   The dragon landed. It wasn't a perfect landing. A perfect landing wouldn't have demolished a row of cottages. It was slow, and it seemed to go on for a long time and rip up a considerable stretch of city.
   Wings flapping aimlessly, neck waving and spraying random flame, it ploughed on through a debris of beams and thatch. Several fires started up along the trail of destruction.
   Finally it came to rest at the end of the furrow, almost invisible under a heap of former architecture.
   The silence that it left was broken only by the shouts of someone trying to organise yet another bucket chain from the river to douse the fires.
   Then people started to move.
   From the air Ankh-Morpork must have looked like a disturbed anthill, with streams of dark figures flowing towards the wreck of the dragon.
   Most of them had some kind of weapon.
   Many of them had spears.
   Some of them had swords.
   All of them had one aim in mind.
   "You know what?" said Vimes aloud. "This is going to be the world's first democratically killed dragon. One man, one stab."
   "Then you've got to stop them. You can't let them kill it!" said Lady Ramkin.
   Vimes blinked at her.
   "Pardon?" he said.
   "It's wounded!"
   "Lady, that was the intention, wasn't it? Anyway, it's only stunned," said Vimes.
   "I mean you can't let them kill it like this," said Lady Ramkin insistently. "Poor thing!"
   "What do you want to do, then?" demanded Vimes, his temper unravelling. "Give it a strengthening dose of tar oil and a nice comfy basket in front of the stove?"
   "It's butchery!"
   "Suits me fine!"
   "But it's a dragon! It's just doing what a dragon does! It never would have come here if people had left it alone!"
   Vimes thought: it was about to eat her, and she can still think like this. He hesitated. Perhaps that did give you the right to an opinion . . .
   Sergeant Colon sidled up as they glared, white-faced, at one another, and hopped desperately from one squelching foot to the other.
   "You better come at once, Captain," he said. "It's going to be bloody murder!''
   Vimes waved a hand at him. "As far as I'm concerned," he mumbled, avoiding Sybil Ramkin's glare, "it's got it coming to it."
   "It's not that," said Colon. "It's Carrot. He's arrested the dragon.''
   Vimes paused.
   "What do you mean, arrested?" he said. "You don't mean what I think you mean, do you?"
   "Could be sir," said Colon uncertainly. "Could be. He was up on the rubble like a shot, sir, grabbed it by a wing and said 'You're nicked, chummy', sir. Couldn't believe it, sir. Sir, the thing is ..."
   "Well?"
   The sergeant hopped from one foot to the other. "You know you said prisoners weren't to be molested, sir . . ."
 
 
   It was quite a large and heavy roof timber and it scythed quite slowly through the air, but when it hit people they rolled backwards and stayed hit.
   "Now look," said Carrot, hauling it in and pushing back his helmet, "I don't want to have to tell anyone again, right?"
   Vimes shouldered his way through the dense crowd, staring at the bulky figure atop the mound of rubble and dragon. Carrot turned slowly, the roof beam held like a staff. His gaze was like a lighthouse beam. Where it fell, the crowd lowered their weapons and looked merely sullen and uncomfortable.
   "I must warn you," Carrot went on, "that interfering with an officer in the execution of his duty is a serious offence. And I shall come down like a ton of bricks on the very next person who throws a stone."
   A stone bounced off the back of his helmet. There was a barrage of jeers.
   "Let us at it!"
   "That's right!"
   "We don't want guards ordering us about!"
   "Quis custodiet custard?"
   "Yeah? Right!"
   Vimes pulled the sergeant towards him. "Go and organise some rope. Lots of rope. As thick as possible. I suppose we can-oh, tie its wings together, maybe, and bind up its mouth so it can't flame."
   Colon peered at him.
   "Are you serious, sir? We're really going to arrest it?"
   "Do it!"
   It's been arrested, he thought, as he pushed his way forward. Personally I would have preferred it to drop in the sea, but it's been arrested and now we've got to deal with it or let it go free.
   He felt his own feelings about the bloody thing evaporate in the face of the mob. What could you do with it? Give it a fair trial, he thought, and then execute it. Not kill it. That's what heroes do out in the wilderness. You can't think like that in cities. Or rather, you can, but if you're going to then you might as well burn the whole place down right now and start again. You ought to do it ... well, by the book.
   That's it. We tried everything else. Now we might as well try and do it by the book.
   Anyway, he added mentally, that's a city guard up there. We've got to stick together. Nobody else will have anything to do with us.
   A burly figure in front of him drew back an arm with a halfbrick in it.
   "Throw that brick and you're a dead man," said Vimes, and then ducked and pushed his way through the press of people while the would-be thrower looked around in amazement.
   Carrot half-raised his club in a threatening gesture as Vimes climbed up the rubble pile.
   "Oh, hallo, Captain Vimes," he said, lowering it, "I have to report I have arrested this-"
   "Yes, I can see," said Vimes. "Did you have any suggestions about what we do next?"
   "Oh, yes, sir. I have to read it its rights, sir," said Carrot.
   "I mean apart from that."
   "Not really, sir."
   Vimes looked at those parts of the dragon still visible under the rubble. How could you kill one of these? You'd have to spend a day at it.
   A lump of rock ricocheted off his breastplate.
   "Who did that?"
   The voice lashed out like a whip.
   The crowd went quiet.
   Sybil Ramkin scrambled up on the wreckage, eyes afire, and glared furiously at the mob.
   "I said," she said, "who did that? If the person who did it does not own up I shall be extremely angry! Shame on you all!"
   She had their full attention. Several people holding stones and things let them drop quietly to the ground.
   The breeze flapped the remnants of her nightshirt as her Ladyship took up a new haranguing position.
   "Here is the gallant Captain Vimes…"
   "Oh gods," said Vimes in a small voice, and pulled his helmet down over his eyes.
   "…and his dauntless men, who have taken the trouble to come here today, to save your…"
   Vimes gripped Carrot's arm and manoeuvred him down the far side of the heap.
   "You all right, Captain?" said the lance-constable. "You've gone all red."
   "Don't you start," snapped Vimes. "It's bad enough getting all those leers from Nobby and the sergeant."
   To his astonishment Carrot patted him companion-ably on the shoulder.
   "I know how it is," he said sympathetically. "I had this girl back home, her name was Minty, and her father…"
   "Look, for the last time, there is absolutely nothing between…" Vimes began.
   There was a rattle beside them. A small avalanche of plaster and thatch rolled down. The rubble heaved, and opened one eye. One big black pupil floating in a bloodshot glow tried to focus on them.
   "We must be mad," said Vimes.
   "Oh, no, sir," said Carrot. "There's plenty of precedents. In 1135 a hen was arrested for crowing on Soul Cake Thursday. And during the regime of Psychoneurotic Lord Snapcase a colony of bats was executed for persistent curfew violations. That was in 1401. August, I think. Great days for the law, they were," said Carrot dreamily. "In 1321, you know, a small cloud was prosecuted for covering the sun during the climax of Frenzied Earl Hargath's investiture ceremony."
   "I hope Colon gets a move on with…" Vimes stopped. He had to know. "How?" he said. "What can you do to a cloud?"
   "The Earl sentenced it to be stoned to death," said Carrot. "Apparently thirty-one people were killed." He pulled out his notebook and glared at the dragon.
   "Can it hear us, do you think?" he said.
   "I suppose so."
   "Well, then.'' Carrot cleared his throat and turned back to the stunned reptile. "It is my duty to warn you that you are to be reported for consideration of prosecution on some or all of the following counts, to whit: One, (One) i, that on or about 18th Grune last, in a place known as Sweetheart Lane, the Shades, you did unlawfully vent flame in a manner likely to cause grievous bodily harm, in contravention of Clause Seven of the Industrial Processes Act, 1508; AND THAT, One, (One) ii, that on or about 18th Grune last, in a place known as Sweetheart Lane, the Shades, you caused or did cause to cause the death of six persons unknown.."
   Vimes wondered how long the rubble would hold the creature down. Several weeks would be necessary, if the length of the charge sheet was anything to go by.
   The crowd went silent. Even Sybil Ramkin was standing in astonishment.
   "What's the matter?'' said Vimes to the upturned faces. "Haven't you ever seen a dragon being arrested before?
   "…Sixteen (Three) ii, on the night of Grune 24th last, you did flame or cause to flame those premises known as the Old Watch House, Ankh-Morpork, valued at two hundred dollars; AND THAT, Sixteen (Three) iii, on the night of Grune 24th last, upon being apprehended by an officer of the Watch in the execution of his duty-"
   "I think we should hurry up," whispered Vimes. "It's getting rather restive. Is all this necessary?"
   "Well, I believe one can summarise," said Carrot. "In exceptional circumstances, according to Bregg's Rules for…"
   "It may come as a surprise, but these are exceptional circumstances, Carrot," said Vimes. "And they're going to be really astonishingly exceptional if Colon doesn't hurry up with that rope."
   More rubble moved as the dragon strained to get up. There was a thump as a heavy beam was shouldered aside. The crowd began to run for it.
   It was at this point that Errol came back over the rooftops in a series of minor explosions, leaving a trail of smoke rings. Dipping low, he buzzed the crowd and sent the front rank stumbling backwards.
   He was also wailing like a foghorn.
   Vimes grabbed Carrot and stumbled down the heap as the king started to scrabble desperately to get free.
   "He's come back for the kill!" he shouted. "It probably took him all this time just to slow down!"
   Now Errol was hovering over the fallen dragon, and hooting shrilly enough to bust bottles.
   The great dragon stuck its head up in a cascade of plaster dust. It opened its mouth but, instead of the lance of white fire that Vimes tensed himself to expect, it merely made a noise like a kitten. Admittedly a kitten shouting into a tin bath at the bottom of a cave, but still a kitten.
   Broken spars fell aside when the huge creature got unsteadily to its feet. The great wings opened, showering the surrounding streets with dust and bits of thatch. Some of it clanged off the helmet of Sergeant Colon, hurrying back with what looked like a small washing line coiled over his arm.
   "You're letting it get up!" Vimes shouted, pushing the sergeant to safety. "You're not supposed to let it get up, Errol! Don't let it get up!"
   Lady Ramkin frowned. "That's not right," she said. "They never usually fight like that. The winner usually kills the loser."
   "Right on!" shouted Nobby.
   "And then half the time he explodes with the excitement in any case."
   "Look, it's me!" Vimes yelled, as Errol hovered unconcernedly over the scene. "I bought you the fluffy ball! The one with the bell in it! You can't do this to us!"
   "No, wait a minute," said Lady Ramkin, laying a hand on his arm. "I'm not sure we haven't got hold of the wrong end of the stick here…"
   The great dragon leapt into the air and brought its wings down with a whump that flattened a few more buildings. The huge head swung around, the bleary eyes caught sight of Vimes.
   There seemed to be some thought going on inside them.
   Errol arced across the sky and hovered protectively in front of the captain, facing the thing down. For a moment it looked as though he might be turned into a small flying charcoal biscuit, and then the dragon lowered its gaze in a slightly embarrassed way and started to rise.
   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 favourite 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 towards 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. He glared at the gates for a moment. "Right!" he barked. "Lance-constable Carrot, one stepa forwarda, take! Lance-constable Carrot, inna youra owna timer! Open these gatesa!"
   "Yes, sir!"
   Carrot stepped forward, saluted, folded an enormous hand into a fist and rapped gently on the woodwork.
   "Open up," he said, "in the name of the Law!"
   There was some whispering on the other side of the gates, and eventually a small hatch halfway up the door slid open a fraction and a voice said, "Why?"
   "Because if you don't it will be Impeding an Officer of the Watch in the Execution of his Duty, which is punishable by a fine of not less than thirty dollars, one month's imprisonment, or being remanded in custody for social inquiry reports and half an hour with a red-hot poker," said Carrot.
   There was some more muffled whispering, the sound of bolts being drawn, and then the gates opened about halfway.
   There was no one visible on the other side.
   Vimes put a finger to his lips. He motioned Carrot towards one gate and dragged Nobby and Colon to the other.
   "Push," he whispered. They pushed, hard. There was a sudden eruption of pained cursing from behind the woodwork.
   "Run!" shouted Colon.
   "No!" shouted Vimes. He walked around the gate. Four semi-crushed palace guards glowered at him.
   "No," he said. "No more running. I want these men arrested."