Everything belongs to Mr. Pratchett. Everything. Especially the turtle. And the elephants. And the rest of the universe. Except for one small thing: I stole the notation formatting from samvimes. It's the only legible 'net notation style I've seen. This is an older story I wrote several years ago that has previously only been available on my lj.
Spoiler Watch: Minor spoilers for Watch books through The Fifth Element.
Spoiler Warning: Major spoilers for The Last Hero.
Where Be Dragons?
"They will be all right, won't they? If any of them are harmed I shall be in serious trouble with the Sunshine Sanctuary in Ankh-Morpork. This is not a prospect I relish, I assure you."
-Lord Vetinari, The Last Hero
In one of those rare moments of time where the universe is functioning exactly right and no one is bashing the down the door trying to report a de-kneeing or asking for a quote on the latest rash of troll-teeth thefts, Sam Vimes and his wife Sybil sat by the fireplace, enjoying a quiet night. With Sybil working determinedly on knitting on large, lopsided baby cap complete with fluffy pompon, Vimes settled into his favorite chair and tried to wade through Constable Visit's latest report. While Visit had a better grasp of conventional spelling and punctuation than many of the officers of the Watch, Vimes found himself mired in references to 'internal damnation', 'divine invention', and parables about jars of mustard. If Vimes hadn't been so involved with deciphering the 'Law of Saw' and its relevance to parking overnight, he'd have noticed that Sybil was unusually quiet. Too quiet.
"Sam?"
"Hmm?" In the manner of husbands everywhere, his ears currently controlled his mouth, leaving his brain free to twist its way around 'condemnation of cessation of motional spirit'.
"I'd like to report an unlicensed theft."
The words triggered an automatic response, his brain not registering disconnect between the dialogue and the setting. "Form 32b. See Sergeant Colon."
Sybil digested her husband's reply just as a dragon digests a piece of coal. A little pilot flame lit behind her eyes. "I visited the Sunshine Sanctuary today," she remarked with casualness.
"That's nice, dear," Vimes murmured. He frowned as a bell in his mind pealed a warning about something to do with 'dragons', 'pregnancy', and 'vulnerability'. Vimes continued to read, but allotted a small percent of scarce brain matter to monitor the rest of the conversation.
"Where are my dragons, dear?" Sybil asked sweetly.
"Out in their pens," Vimes responded, still reading. "Mary, or Sarah, or some girl with an identical name is feeding them everyday for you like you showed her."
"No, not those dragons, I mean the ones I have in the breeding programs at the Sanctuary. Henry Weedlesnout Greatclaw the Fifth and the others."
The bell clanged loudly, causing pounding in his temples. Vimes' head jerked up, eyes wide with panic. "Wha- What were you doing at the Sanctuary?" he choked out, changing momentum in midcourse in hopes of adverting a massive catastrophe. "I though you were avoiding dragons until the baby was born?"
"I just wanted to check on the poor dears, but that's neither here nor there, Sam. There were over two hundred dragons at the Sunshine Sanctuary last month, enjoying the sunny swamps and the noise-damping cushions. Today there were ten! Ten, Sam! Where are the rest of my dragons?"
Samuel Vimes, Commander of the Watch, Duke, Knight, husband, and father-to-be didn't scare easily. He had gazed into bloodthirsty eyes of crazed murders, fought werewolves with his bare hands, and arrested the most powerful man on the Sto Plains. But none of that compared to facing down his wife, not when it had to do with dragons. Sweat trickled down his back. "How would I know? Maybe they went off on a picnic or something," he lied unconvincingly. Gods he needed a drink.
Sybil swelled as she squared her shoulders and set her jaw. A generously proportioned woman in normal circumstances, she had bloomed in the late stages of pregnancy. Vimes eyed her fearfully, hoping she wasn't going to take after her beloved dragons.* "Sam, I know very well that little goes on without the Watch knowing about it and nothing goes on in the Watch without you watching over it."
*Sybil would be much more difficult to scrape off the walls, in more ways than one.
"Actually, Nobby stole a tuppence from the tea kitty last week without…" He trailed off as spied the way Sybil grasped her knitting needles. It was amazing how threatening something wrapped in pink and blue yarn could look. What backbone Vimes had fled as he leaned back in his chair, unconsciously placing as much distance as he could between himself and his wife. "Um, they're with Carrot." It was a bit of an understatement, but it was the truth. Hopefully, it would be enough.
"Carrot?" Sybil asked, clearly confused. She deflated a bit and now only her rounded belly looked ready to explode. "What would Carrot want with two hundred dragons? Not that I don't trust him to take good care of the dears, but he could have asked me, I would have been happy to help." Purling a few stitches, she gazed thoughtfully into the fire. "Unless…"
Vimes fidgeted restlessly, hoping she'd continued her speculation. While he didn't want to talk about it, the copper part of his mind wanted very much to hear her theory. After long moments of silence, the copper somehow managed to vault every blockade between his mind and his mouth. "Unless, what?"
"There are some men who feel compelled to do something…" Sybil said before hesitating. "Well, something special when they propose. While Angua has never shown the greatest interest in dragons, maybe he wanted them for a spectacle. They can flame to music and do some formation gliding. Just something to make her feel important and show how much he cares for her."
The big monster of guilt snuck up and swallowed Vimes whole. "We went to diner and all," he muttered, remembering with a wince his disaster with the cutlery. It hadn't help that he had drunk a few glasses of fortification before hand. At least he had remembered the ring.
"I know, dear. It was very sweet," Sybil said sincerely as she patted him on the knee. "It's just some woman need a little more than that. Maybe Angua needed a show of devotion; they have been circling each other for a while now."
"They're not for Anqua." The words escaped Vimes' mouth before he could even recall forming them. By the raised eyebrows and look of horrified shock on Sybil's face, he knew there was no going back. Wishing that he had put on Sybil's dragon-handling smock, or at least his breastplate and helmet, he allowed the words to tumble out. "Carrot's gone to arrest Cohen the Barbarian for trying to return fire on the gods. Vetinari requested two hundred dragons to power some flying contraption in order to get Carrot to Cori Celesti."
"Excuse me?"
Vimes elaborated, shrinking further and further back into his chair as his wife continued to stare at him with a fixed expression of indulgent politeness. She continued to gaze at him in this way long after he fell silent. Finally, she spoke in a light voice Vimes usually associated with Lady Sybil the Duchess, "So, this was Havelock's idea?"
"Yes." He had the sudden urge to 'ma'am' her.
"Very well. And his ship should be back from the Rim by now?"
Sam ran a few numbers in his head, barely remembering to carry the one. "Yes."
"Well then, we shall have to welcome him back from his journey. Come Sam, I believe we have an appointment with the Patrician." She walked out of the room, her rounded belly leaving the room several moments before the rest of her. Collecting his wits and the rest of his uniform, Vimes wished for a drink. Instead, he satisfied his thirst by reminding himself of the upcoming show.
***
Unsurprisingly, Vimes and his wife found themselves ushered to the Patrician's waiting room immediately upon their arrival. Vimes busied himself by eyeballing the clock. He had a theory that if he eyeballed it hard enough it would break down and expose the secret to its irregular tick. Long ago, he had marveled at the skilled craftsmanship it must have taken to create the unsettling non-rhythm, but as Sybil thrust more and more technomancy into his rejecting hands, he had begun to suspect the clock was merely another one of the Patrician's careful deceptions. Those imps would come out of there one-day, their little bells and hammers held high, and when they did, Vimes planned on arresting the buggers for Disturbing the Peace as well as Assault on an Officer's Mind.
"Odd, Havelock's usually such a perfectionist. It's strange that he'd let the wall deteriorate in this manner," Sybil remarked from by the wall.
"Hmm? What's wrong with the wall?" Vimes eyes narrowed. He wouldn't put it past Vetinari to put in some observing device in his waiting room, but he hadn't expected it to be so conspicuous.* Joining Sybil by the wall, he realized she had found several regular indents in the plaster, one of which formed a fist-sized hole. Slightly discolored patches around it indicated that this was only the latest of many.
*Or at least not to be so un-conspicuous. It would be a while before Vimes forgot about the candles, he had at least twenty more years of looking at headstones before Leggy got around to moving Mrs. Easy's body to the crypt.
"Strange, don't you think?" Sybil queried her husband.
"Very," Vimes replied, managing to keep a straight face. Like any good cooper, he had already formed a theory of what had happened and whom the prime suspected could be. It just happened that the suspect and the copper were the same man.
Just then, a plain young man with a sheaf of papers, one of Vetinari's retinue of clerks no doubt, slipped out from the Oblong Office. "Pardon Your Grace, the Patrician is ready to see you know."
Vimes was still giving the clerk a curt nod as Sybil invaded the Patrician's office with the force of the army she could have easily concealed. "Havelock," she exclaimed in the voice she reserved for the idle chitchat-sans-dragon that so commonly occurred between the upper dregs of society. "I trust you had a pleasant journey?"
A tight grin spread across Vimes' face as he noticed Vetinari's eyes widen a hair's breadth. The good little terrier he was, Vimes could smell fear and his grin grew with the sudden realization that Vetinari exuded the faintest scent of sweat. Vetinari stared blankly in Vime's direction while still managing to look politely at Sybil. To anyone else, the severity of that stare probably promised scorpions, but Vimes was happy with the knowledge that he wouldn't have to worry about the Patrician trying to reward him anytime soon.
"As pleasant as such matters can be expected. And how is the mother to be?" Vetinari politely inquired, gesturing for them both to accept the awaiting chairs.
Vimes remained in his usual stance of attention with his unusual grin still tugging at old scars and new wrinkles but he noted with surprise and a bit of worry that Sybil remained standing as well. Opening his mouth to chastise her for the sake of the baby, he found himself cutoff by Sybil.
"Havelock, you know very well how I am and what I am here for, so let's do dispense with this nonsense."
The Patrician turned his attention to a piece of paper on his desk. If Vimes had to hazard a guess, he'd say that the Patrician was currently falsifying evidence. The grin increased it's tugging on his leathery features. Vetinari replaced the paper and remarked calmly, "I have a sworn statement that all of the Sunshine Sanctuary's swamp dragons will be unharmed during this mission of vital importance."
"Havelock, I don't care if old Cohen has found away to destroy A'Tuin shells, I want my dragons returned," Sybil demanded, her swelling once again displacing the rest of the room. "Unharmed is not safe nor is it home."
Vetinari hesitated, an event so unlikely that Vimes felt sure time had hesitated as well. "Lady Sybil, I am sure your dragons will find their way home safely, unharmed."
Sybil deflated, issuing a sniffling noise.* It took a moment for Vimes to register she was crying. Glancing at Vetinari, he steeled himself before acting. After all, the Patrician had seen him drunker than a fish in the Ankh, and surely, this couldn't be worse. He reached out and enveloped what he could of Sybil in a warm embrace, drawing her close. Over her shoulder, he managed to snap off a glare at Vetinari, whether in defiance or anger he wasn't sure. "They'll be fine. The little buggers probably are melting the roofing tiles as we speak. By the time you have the baby, all of your other darlings will be cuing up for the attention."
*Not to be confused with a Fool's whopping cushion.
"Oh Sam," Sybil cried between sniffs, "I know, I'm just so worried. And I could really use a Klatchian pizza with the works."
Before her husband could decipher the sudden swing in topic, Sybil had already extracted herself from his embrace and accepted a handkerchief from Vetiniari. Vimes dropped his arms, feeling rather stupid, as Vetinari offered Sybil one last reassurance. "I'm sure the city will do everything in its power to repay these creatures for the services they've rendered. I believe the City Watch is ideally suited for located lost dragons."
A slow smile lit Sybil's face. "I'm sure Sam and his men will find them. They're very good at what they do, you know."
Vetinari nodded solemnly. "I know."
Vimes, currently engaged with trying to decide rather to glow with pride or glare with intolerable annoyance, missed the sudden evil twist his wife's features took. "But the Watch would return them anyway. They are simply good men doing their job of returning stolen property. No reward for the dragons, that is."
The dark eyebrows of Vetinari lowered precariously. "And a suitable award for our explosive heroes would be?"
"City funding," she replied with a sugar-laden voice. "Ankh-Morpork recognizes the Sanctuary's importance in preserving the future of the city's fauna and matches all funds."
"The city recognizes the importance of the Sanctuary's involvement in conservation and matches every fifth dollar."
"Every third will be fine, Havelock. Thank you," she replied with a bright smile and a sense of eternal finality in her voice.* She turned and grabbed her crook husband's arm, steering him towards the door. "Sam, I believe you said something about my dears on their way home already? Let's go greet them, shall we?"
*BUT NOT OF THIS SORT
Vimes, still frozen with bits of shock flaking off, opened his mouth to acquiesce when an explosion shook the city.
***
Windows shook in their panes, dogs barked, and a boom like the crack of a gonne echoed through the city. None of this was remarkable. Windows frequently rattled with the passing of trolls and Sergeant Colon, dogs always barked save for one particularly loquacious mutt, and even the crack of a gonne had been heard before. This was Ankh-Morpork after all.
No, what had everyone talking and running around looking for the nearest crowbar or other looting aid was the winged fireball plummeting towards the city. The falling inferno that promised lucrative destruction and chaos veered counter-discward, aligning itself with the Ankh River as it dropped precariously lower.
Vimes ran, his boots clattering against the dimpled cobbles. Under normal circumstances, he liked to run, but today that little part of his brain that had governed his actions for years had reawakened from its alcohol-deprived state. The bit of brain screamed 'Slow Down!' and 'What idiot runs towards trouble and impending doom?' but its thoughts were bested two-to-one by the brains in Vimes feet that simply thought 'Run!'.
The ball of flame contacted the river with a hiss and plume of smoke before skidding to a stop along the semi-solid surface*. Contrails of fire burned green along the surface of the Ankh as toxic gases ignited and then smothered to death in their own toxic fumes. As the smoke cleared, it revealed the blackened body of a wooden fish eagle patched with plates of burnished bronze. Huffing and trying to catch his elusive breath, Vimes arrived at the foot of the disturbance just as its wake finally caught up, washing a knee-high quagmire of fetid water across his boots as it over-oozed its banks.
*After several hundred years of pollution, no one could be sure if the river was animal, vegetable, or mineral. Most people referred to it as water in the very loosest of senses.
The alleged water had already crawled back into its bed as a carriage pulled up behind Vimes. From its velvet-lined darkness flowed the Patrician, pausing only to offer Sybil assistance as she stepped out. The two joined Vimes in studying wooden monstrosity as one of the bronze patches pealed back. A figure dressed in blinding, tacky orange and shiny plates of golden armor poked his head out of the beast and waved.
"Greetings, Mister Vimes. Lord Vetinari. Lady Sybil." The head disappeared back into the ship but his booming, jovial voice could still be clearly heard. "It's okay. The eagle has landed!" The figure re-emerged and hopped down, sinking only toe deep into the river.
Vimes shook his head and patted his pocket, searching for his cigars. "Captain Carrot, that thing's illegally parked, you know. You better have a good excuse and that excuse better be a certain barbarian horde in shackles."
"Yes sir," said Carrot, his earnest features displaying sincere remorse. "Sorry sir, but I was unable to make an arrest." He approached the small welcoming party, his heavy boots squelching in the muck of the Ankh.
Vimes took a step back. Carrot's usual scent of soap had worn off. He supposed it had something to do with living in close quarters with two men and an orangutan for several days.
The Patrician studied the young, eager Captain. "Yet we are still here, so it must stand to reason you were successful in your quest?"
"Yes sir. Mr. Cohen and his party reconsidered their plans in the Spirit of Heroism and were unfortunately Blown to Bits in the resulting explosion," Carrot answered regretfully.
"Well done, Captain Carrot." The Patrician spotted three other figures tottering off the ship. "Ahh, I see the rest of your crew is alive as well. Well done indeed."
A sticklike, disheveled figure clumsily fell to his knees as he reached the bank, a tinge of relief shading his otherwise mournful features as he hugged the ground. A second figure, covered in the orange hair that identified him as Pongo abelii, strode happily away on his knuckles, clutching a string tied to red balloon. The final figure, a tall, scraggly, old man seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Instead of approaching with his fellows, he had found himself intrigued by the elastic properties of the Ankh and all ready lost two sampling devices to the omnivorous substance. It was this man that the Patrician beckoned to join the small welcoming party.
Clutching a sheaf of papers and his hard-won water sample, he approached the group with an absent smile.* Vetinari greeted him warmly, or at least with a degree less chill than normal. "Ah, Leonard. Just the man I was looking for."
*That is, the smile was there, the rest of him was absent. Think of him as a rather more solid version of the Cheshire Cat.
Leonard blinked. "Oh, were you? How strange. Tell me, when you think of the whole world, do you think of the top part or just he bottom bit?"
"I think of a clock," the Patrician replied smoothly. Vimes shot him a glare, but Vetinari ignored it and continued, "Leonard, can you please tell Lady Sybil what happened to her dragons?"
"The dragon? Oh yes, the dragons. Well, they went back to where they came from, of course. Everything returns to its least energy state. When we re-entered, I noticed the unique orange glow surrounding the Kite whilst it bled off energy. I have a theory that it may in fact be a fourth state of matter, similar in composition to the river. However, I may need to invent Things That Are Magically Attracted To Other Opposite Things And Are Repelled By Other Similar Things to study it further."
"Leonard, the dragons," the Patrician reminded him.
"Oh yes, the dragons. While on the moon, we encountered a species of moon dragon, or draconis lunaris. It appears that the natural habit of the dragon was once the vast wilds of outer space. Note how the draconis vulgaris has an adaptable fueling system and small lifting surfaces compared to that of, say, one of those pigeons over there. I believe…"
"Leonard."
"Ah, what I mean to say is, we let the dragons go. They should be quite at home. Although with their less-than ideal flaming direction, there might be problems. Survival of the fittest and all," Leonard ended with a murmur, finally aware of the hard stares directed at him from three different hard faces.
"And your dragons are very fit, Lady Sybil," Captain Carrot added cheerily, the sole happy face in the group. "I've seen them playing dragon games at the reserve."
"There you have it, Lady Sybil," Vetinari added smoothly. "Commander, I expect your men would be happy to assist the city by helping to remove the Kite for further study."
"Oh, I don't know," Vimes spoke, wrapping his words around his cigar. "The city looks like she has no problem removing it herself. The Kite being public property and all." He jerked his thumb to where the Kite was quickly becoming public property, indeed. Deprived of flaming city blocks and total chaos, people had begun putting their emergency crowbars to other use, namely stripping the Kite. Already the bird's wings had disappeared and a rather small, lumpy figure was currently trying to take off with the entire tail section.
"Ah yes, it's good to see a public program like this spur such economic growth. Drumknott," Vetinari motioned for the man seated next to the carriage driver to dismount. "See that they dispose of the evidence properly. Also, please ensure that all iconographs and rocks are transported safely to the Palace. I'd hate to see the City's treasures harmed. Good day, Commander, Captain, Lady Sybil." Picking his way carefully back to the carriage with his cane*, the Patrician left, escorting an unusually talkative Leonard.
*Looters are a unique, if common, breed. When looters are present, placing your cane in the wrong spot can lead to more than loss of cane. Just ask the two men arguing about rightful possession of the port horizontal tiller.
Sybil gazed at the sky, tears welling in her eyes. When her gaze finally fell downward, she was surprised to see a handkerchief in her husband's outstretched hand. She took it and wiped her cheeks. "They're gone, Sam. My babies all grew up and left me."
"I hear that happens sometimes," Vimes remarked as he patted her shoulder and rubbed her back until he nearly impaled his hand on something made from whalebone. He had a strange feeling he should be hugging her or similar, but was reluctant to do so in front of a subordinate. "Carrot, anything else you need to tell me?"
Carrot looked at him, a painfully awkward expression on his face. "Well sir, I do have to take a shower, sir. I should probably tell you that."
"Anything else, Carrot?" Vimes growled.
"Oh, yes. The gods were very pleased when I told that that you said when you look at the sate of mankind you are forced to accept the reality of the gods," Carrot added brightly.
"Great, Carrot. Just great. I'm sure I'll be racking up the points with the gods now," Vimes muttered.
"Yes sir, I rather suspect you are," Carrot added sincerely, still not seeing the fine line between truth and sarcasm.*
*Yet another gods-like quality to add to the list. Other items include; Itym Won: gods-like pecktoreals, Itym Too: gods-like face, Itym Three: gods-like crissma, Itym Four: gods-like scantily closed women worshippers, Itym Five: exsetterah. The only thing that makes Carrot clearly not a god is that everyone likes him.
"Right. Carrot, is that all? Don't you have a shower to take?" Vimes asked desperately as he watched Sybil continue to leak out of the corner of his eye.
"There's one more thing, sir," Carrot said.
"Well, what is it?" demanded an exasperated Vimes.
"It's for Lady Sybil," Carrot replied. From his belt, he detached the helmet Leonard had designed for him to use while on their journey. Vimes thought it looked more like a tin can than a proper helmet, but he wasn't going to argue unless someone tried to make him wear that bucket out in the rain. "As Leonard said, we discovered a small colony of dragons living on the moon. They were like kittens, they got everywhere." From within his helmet, he pulled out a small, white, sleek looking dragon. "I should have released him after I found him, but he reminded me of Errol. I thought you might like him, Lady Sybil."
He reached out and gently placed the small dragon in her hand. It sniffed her hand thoroughly before expelling a tiny jet of flame that allowed him to glide up to her shoulder and land next to Sybil's glowing face. "Oh, Carrot, he's beautiful! His lines, they're so sleek! And he flames backwards! I've been working so hard to breed a bit Errol back into the bloodlines; this little fellow will be perfect when he grows!" She tickled the dragon's beard with her fingertips. "Won't you? Won't you my little darling?"
Carrot glowed with pleasure as Vimes eyed the little dragon suspiciously. He had to admit it was a beautiful creature, but he wasn't Errol.
"Carrot, you're back!" a voice callout. A young blonde woman approached the group but stopped short. "Ugh. What's that smell?"
The red of Carrot's blush contrasted horribly with his hair. "Sorry. There weren't any showers on the moon. Or Cori Celesti, which is odd when you think about it."
"The moon?" the young woman spat. "You went to the moon? Carrot, you can't just go to the moon and then come home to your werewolf! Gods, no wonder you reek. I'm going to go lie down!"
"Wait! I need to talk to you!" Carrot exclaimed.
"Fine, we'll talk after you've had a B-A-T-H." She shuddered.
A large smile spread across the young Captain's face. "Good. And then I can show you the copies of my iconographs."
"Iconographs? You want to show me iconographs of the moon?" Angua asked exasperated. It wasn't good to nibble on a werewolf's temper near the full moon. Especially about things related to the moon.
"It really is the third most beautiful heavenly body I've ever explored," Carrot replied in earnest.
"But Carrot, you've only ever been to the Disc and the moon what….oh." Angua fell silent and then blinked. "Right then. Let's go get you cleaned up."
Vimes watched in astonishment as Angua pulled Carrot along while trying to plug her nose with her other hand. After they disappeared around one of Ankh-Morpork's many corners, he shook is head before turning his attention back to his wife.
"What do you think?" Sybil asked.
"That I have no idea how he manages to do that with a straight face," Vimes said, putting out his cigar on his boot sole.
"What? I mean the dragon," she said as she lifted the little dragon up for Vimes' inspection.
Vimes eyeballed it as he replied truthfully, "It's not Errol." No, this wasn't Errol at all. This dragon had the shine of a precious jewel, the sleek form of a champion racer, the keen, intelligent look of a, well, something intelligent. Errol had been a reject, a defect, a whittle. This little fellow looked like the King of Swamp Dragons. Vimes hated kings.
"No, he's not," she said, still smiling broadly at the moon dragon.
"It's just…" he hesitated, debating how to finish his sentence. After reflecting on the events of the last few moments, he surrendered to the Carrot approach. He told the truth. "He's not a whittle."
Sybil looked up at her husband with the same adoring expression with which she graced the dragon. "He's a bit polished up, but he's still like Errol on the insides, and that's the important part. He's still a whittle. My whittle."
For a reason he could not comprehend, his ears and neck began to burn. "Er, Sybil…" He didn't finish. He couldn't find the words that fit in the blanks.
Sybil didn't appear to mind. She winked at him. "Come on, let's get Errol the Second home," She began walking towards home, one hand holding the newly christened Errol, clasping her husband's hand as she dragged him along behind her.
"Er, dear, are you sure you don't want me to signal for a coach?" he asked as he tried to settle into a proper proceeding pace. "There's Watch House that isn't far."
"Sam, I'm pregnant, not dying," she stated firmly as she slowed down to match his pace. She let go of his hand and found new purchase around the crook of his arm. " There is a Klatchian shop up the road where I'm getting a pizza and then I'm taking my whittle for a walk," she whispered conspiratorially.
"A walk? All the way home?" he said while lighting a new cigar. Sybil seldom walked, preferring to ride in her carriage with its 'Whiny if you love dragons' sticker. Vimes had always suspected that it had to do with the fact that walking just wasn't done by nobs.
"Yes. He likes to walk," she whispered as she sidled up to him a little closer.
"Right then. We'll walk." He freed his arm from her grasp, but before she could protest, slipped it about her waist.
Sam Vimes puffed happily on his cigar as he walked with his wife.
The universe settled once more into one of those rare moments when everything functioned perfectly and no one reported explosions on the Ankh or unlicensed muggings down on Cheap Street. No one even handed in a report littered with kamikaze commas or Ohmian allegories. The elephants stood, the A'Tuin swam, and the moon and the sun followed their paths. Even the gods had been placated for the moment. Everything was perfect.
"Sam?"
"Yes, dear?"
"You know this doesn't excuse you for letting Havelock take my dragons."
"Damn."
Well, nothing is ever perfect, is it?
The end.