The Samuel Vimes Chronicles: Every Time We Meet A Dragon Turns Up, a discworld fanfic

Title: Every Time We Meet A Dragon Turns Up

Rating: K+ / T

Genre: Romance

What exactly went through Sam Vimes mind in between the frightful visage of padded leather and iron gauntlets, and sitting in Lady Ramkin's drawing room eating cake and drinking tea? How did he view the evolving relationship and growing attraction between himself and Lady Ramkin?

"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."

- Guards! Guards! Terry Pratchett

Disclaimer: Sadly they are not mine. Pterry must take all credit. I just take them out for a short stroll every now and again, but I cannot be held responsible for their behaviour!

Note: Guards! Guards! Some italicised quotes from the book. Based loosely on the scene where he visits Lady Ramkin for the first time. This is going to be taking a closer look at all of the meetings between Vimes and Lady Ramkin in G!G! and delving into that murkiest of places...emotions.

This is the final product of my previously chaptered version of "Every time we meet a dragon turns up." I have decided to keep the chaptered version up, as some of the reviews were really very good and it would be a shame for them to be lost.

However, this is the final version of the story, and I hope you enjoy it

The dragon. That bloody dragon! Setting fire to my city!

Captain Sam Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Night Watch fumed inwardly. His steps took him across the river Ankh and towards the more select area of the city, far away from poor people and the foetid, turgid smell of the river. For the millionth time he wondered what in the name of sanity he was doing. Only a little while earlier he had asked Fred Colon if anyone in the city knew anything at all about dragons. He was damned sure that tons of dragon shouldn't be allowed to fly around setting fire to the city with impunity, let alone being a biological impossibility. Fred's reply hadn't been encouraging. Vimes groaned inwardly as he recalled the conversation that led him to now be walking along Scoone Avenue to the residence of one Lady Ramkin.

'Oh, her,' said Vimes gloomily. 'I think I've seen her around. The one with the "Whinny If you Love Dragons" sticker on the back of her carriage?'

'That's her. She's mental.' said Sergeant Colon.

Sighing, Vimes stared at the wooden front door of the rather pleasant old house. Clearly being mental when you were rich was nothing more than a faintly amusing personality quirk, whereas if you were poor and mental you were generally in the tanty. The front gardens were heavily overgrown, statues of Ramkin forebears were fighting a losing battle with climbing ivy and plaster was peeling from the facade of the house itself. Yet, the whole scene gave the impression of the owner being occupied with other things, rather than falling on hard times or a lack of care. After standing futilely for several minutes Vimes gave in to the dignity of his position and made his way around the side of the house towards the sound of a barrage of shrill whistling that most definitely wasn't making him feel any better about the situation. The noise was hovering just below pain threshold, but that was nothing compared to the ferocious heat that blasted outwards as Vimes opened the door to the newer structure behind the old house.

Before Vimes could even register what lived in the many pens along the wall, a towering figure clad in heavy leather protective gear with steel gauntlets and a smoked visor turned to him, eclipsing his vision.

"Ah, good man. Do you know anything about mating?" It boomed.

Vimes felt his mouth drop open in shock and his scattered senses went and hid. The figure moved closer to him. Vimes tried to move backwards but his feet hit the wall.

The words washed over him in a kind of bad surreal horror.

"It really needs two of you..."

"If he can't manage it tonight he's for the choppy-chop..."

Aha! A crime! Something he did know about. Vimes felt slightly more sure of himself.

He was clearly in the presence of some sex-crazed would-be murderess, insofar as any gender could be determined under the strange lumpy garments. If it wasn't female, then references to "it's me who has the tricky part" gave rise to mental images that would haunt him for some time to come. He knew the rich did things differently, but this was going too far.

"Madam," he said coldly, "I am an officer of the Watch and I must warn you that the course of action you are suggesting breaks the laws of the city-" and also of several of the more strait-laced gods, he added silently-"and I must advise you that his Lordship should be released unharmed immediately-"

The figure stared at him in astonishment.

"Why?" it said. "It's my bloody dragon."

Er. Vimes stared back at the figure with just as much astonishment, holding the plaster cast of the footprint from Sweetheart Lane with white knuckled fingers. The monstrous figure stepped backwards and placed its gauntlets on its hips, clearly thinking. Reaching a decision, the figure pulled off its protective gauntlets revealing a pair of lady-like hands. She pulled off the visor and the heavy leather padding revealing a toweringly big Lady. The capital L fell effortlessly into place in Vimes' mind. A pile of glossy chestnut hair adorned an actually rather pretty face, which was at the moment training a pair of appraising brown eyes upon him. Lady Ramkin, now revealed, deposited the protective gear by one of the pens and straightened up. What drew the eye though, was the fact that the Ramkins had clearly bred for healthy solidity and big bones and Lady Ramkin was a sterling example. When she drew a deep breath her magnificent bosom rose and fell like an empire. She could have commanded armies, conquered empires and captained fleets of ships, all before breakfast.

Vimes realised he was staring and hastily looked back down. Senses he didn't know he possessed were kicking up a stink in his hindbrain. Vimes ignored them. They weren't in possession of all the facts.

"Shall we go into the house?" Lady Ramkin gestured to the door behind Vimes.

"Huh?" Vimes stared stupidly at Lady Ramkin, trying to regroup his scattered senses. Striding past Vimes, Lady Ramkin opened the wooden door and gestured for Vimes to follow her back to the house, giving him a curious look as he walked past.

Unbeknownst to Lady Ramkin, Vimes was giving himself a serious pep-talk.

You idiot! What the hell do you think you're doing? Anyone would think you were a hormonal 14 year old and blushing because a girl spoke to him! But, but, did you see...? I don't care! Get a grip, man! I know what I want to get a grip on... Oh, gods...What the hell is happening to me...?

Seemingly without any intervention from his brain, which at the moment felt like it was immersed in pink treacle, Vimes found himself sitting in an antique chair in a pleasant old room that housed lines and lines of old Ramkin portraits complete with accompanying weaponry. As Lady Ramkin bustled around the tea tray, Vimes kept his eyes averted, well away from any trouble he could quite conceivably find himself in, well, his eyeballs anyway. Somehow it seemed astonishing that she was doing something as mundane as making tea.

"Ah!" Lady Ramkin exulted, stirring the teapot. "Tea's ready." She smiled as she bent over to pour the tea into a very valuable looking old tea cup. Vimes' eyes bulged slightly as he inadvertently looked up and found himself confronted with the most magnificent bosom he had ever had the good fortune to see. Even though Lady Ramkin's dress was, by most standards, modest, anything housing her cleavage could only act as a powerful magnet to the eye of any red-blooded male. Despite the inevitable reactions of his body, Vimes knew it wasn't just that. Lady Ramkin had hit him square between the eyes, when he least expected it, and without even knowing what she had done.

Words didn't seem to be forming properly. Vimes was sure his brain was dribbling out of his ears like goo. Never before, in all of his born days, through adolescent crushes, relationships as an idealistic young man, and as a jaded and cynical older man, had any woman had such a severe and immediate impact on him.

His immediate response was denial.

It's just because she's a nob, she's rich and an aristocrat, right? Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, his mind sneered. Why would that bother you? You're not even bothered by Vetinari!

"So," Lady Ramkin settled down in a chair opposite him, arranging the voluminous folds of her skirt. "Captain, wasn't it?"

Vimes made a strangled noise as she gave a hesitant smile. Vast parts of his brain were shutting down and his face was flaming with an emotion he couldn't place. A soft feminine fragrance wafted across the room as Lady Ramkin moved, and it cemented Vimes in place in his chair - registering in a very deep, primal and masculine part of his brain. Just because Vimes did not have a girlfriend or wife did not mean that he wasn't interested in women or that he didn't have very masculine desires and reactions. At the moment, his olfactory senses were in overdrive making any sort of movement virtually impossible if he didn't want decades of crushing embarrassment.

Lady Ramkin followed his desperately trawling gaze.

"My ancestors. You know, not one of them died in their own bed." She smiled mischievously. "Quite a few died in other people's, though. Source of family pride, that."

Vimes' teacup rattled in its saucer as his mind was flooded with images of Lady Ramkin and a bed in close proximity. He suddenly felt very warm indeed and the jowly, elderly dragon that had desposited its head in his lap and was dribbling something corrosive and evil smelling, was doing nothing to ease his discomfort.

Lady Ramkin stood up, a figure of magnificence and total self assurance. "Come and see my dragons, Captain, you must be introduced." Lost in the choppy waters of social intercourse, Vimes stood, drowning in a sea of sensuality and wishing like hell that he hadn't just fallen hook, line and sinker for someone so far out of his reach as to be on another continent.

He was powerless to stop Lady Ramkin from hauling him out towards the back of the house, handing him a set of the bulky leather protective garments and introducing him to squeaking little horrors with names like Talon Gayscale Flamethrust IV, who won best in show at Quirm. Rows of reptilian eyes stared suspiciously at him as he stared back through the visor in a daze.

Watching Lady Ramkin don the heavy, bulky garments caused Vimes' blood pressure to soar, and he was sincerely glad that he had put his on first and that it extended beyond his waist. The lifting of her arms caused her bosom to rise in a fashion that made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth and his eyes bulge.

Still reeling, he lurched from one pen to another, friendly flames licking around his knees. Even bedecked in her protective gear, Lady Ramkin was still a commanding presence. Knowing what lay underneath the protective leather, smoked visor and gauntlets was actually worse than not knowing, Vimes decided. Lady Ramkin was a lot of woman, and Vimes' masculinity was sitting up on its haunches and begging.

What he couldn't seem to shake was the thought of what his mother would say if she could have seen him here at the Ramkin mansion. For a start she'd have clipped him round the ear for thinking of Lady Ramkin in that way, however remote or fanciful. Next she would tell him to mind his manners around a Lady and to make sure he looked presentable. "Manners cost nothing," was a favourite of Mrs. Vimes, along with cleanliness being next to godliness. Vimes had never quite understood how that particular phrase worked. Just because someone was clean didn't make them any holier or more pious. Anyway, if that was true, then what about those hermits who lived in caves or at the top of ropes? Weren't they meant to be as holy as they came? The Vimes family had nothing, less than nothing, but by gods Mrs. Vimes was there scrubbing the doorstep every Saturday morning. They lived on nothing but Mrs. Vimes' pride, which caused plenty of rumbling tummies and probably contributed to his peculiar diet and digestion now.

Lost in his thoughts,Vimes did not realise that Lady Ramkin had stopped abruptly by a pen of hatchlings and was bending over smiling and cooing at the new arrivals. Blissfully unaware, Vimes continued walking until...

"Ooooofffff!" Vimes staggered backwards, rebounding off what he suddenly realised was Lady Ramkin's...derriere...oh shit...

Lady Ramkin straightened up in surprise, eyes widening reflexively. "Oh!"

Even just thinking of what he'd done made his face burn behind his visor.

"I'm so sorry, milady...I wasn't...I didn't...gods, i'm sorry..." Vimes stammered, wishing the ground would swallow him.

"Sybil, please! And it was entirely my fault, old chap. Wasn't looking and all that." Lady Ramkin clapped him on the shoulder.

Beneath his visor, Vimes' face burned as she reiterated the use of her first name. Quite why that affected him, he wasn't sure, but his shoulder still felt...warm...and tingly...from where she had rested her hand, and it felt nice and he wanted her to do it again, and he could still feel where he had bumped into her and he wanted very much to feel her against him again...

Vimes' thoughts tailed off as Lady Ramkin's voice penetrated the perma-fog of his brain.

"And this, i'm afraid, is Goodboy Bindle Featherstone." She sighed. "It sometimes happens, you know."

"Er...what does?" Vimes stared mesmerised at the little dragon, who was bearing up stoically under the weight of his name, and was now sitting obediently in the middle of his pen training the most intelligent eyes Vimes had ever seen on an animal upon himself and Lady Ramkin.

"One tries to breed for length of flame, depth of scale and so on. Occasionally you just have to put up with a total whittle." Lady Ramkin leaned against the pen door as she reached down, scratching the ugly creature behind his stubby ears.

Vimes stared at the dragon. Whittle. He didn't know precisely what she meant by that, but he could hazard a good guess. It was what was left when anything of value was already subtracted. The little dragon stared back at Vimes. Efforts his contemporaries put into flapping their wings or flame were concentrated into a stare that could engrave steel, and a pair of eyebrows that seemed at least 3 sizes too big for its face. The most notable mutation, however, was a pair of nostrils that resembled jet intakes. It was the most bizarre sight Vimes had ever seen and that included Corporal Nobbs.

"He is the most placid dragon I have ever bred, I must say." Lady Ramkin straightened up. "Naturally I wouldn't dream of breeding from him."

"Why not?" Vimes looked back down at the ugly thing. Whittle. He already felt a kinship with the ugly thing. The Watch were a bunch of whittles, every one of them.

"Because dragons mate in the air, and he'd never get airborne with those wings." She shrugged. "It might be harsh, but that's the way it is. I can't keep him."

Something that had been niggling at the back of Vimes' mind suddenly broke through. The silence. It was deafening. Lady Ramkin was staring down the row of pens, her mouth open slightly. Every single dragon was sitting on its haunches, staring intently at the roof. The silence. The sodding dragon was back.

As one, Vimes and Lady Ramkin ran for the door of the outhouse. They didn't need to look very far for confirmation. Scoone Avenue commanded an unrivalled view of the city far below. Currently lighting up said city was it. Vimes' bane. He glared at it. A traitorous part of his brain was marvelling at the beauty of the dragon, as it twisted and turned with almost balletic grace. But he knew it was the same sort of beauty an antelope might see just before a lithe leopard pounced for the kill. It was a beauty that blinded to distract from the killing.

The great beast turned in the air and swooped over the rooftops. The flame darted out again. Below it, yellow flames sprang up. It was done so quietly and stylishly that it took Vimes several seconds to realise that several buildings had in fact been set on fire.

"Golly!" said Lady Ramkin. "Look! It's using the thermals! That's what the fire is for!" She turned to Vimes, her eyes hopelessly aglow. "Do you realise we're very probably seeing something that no one has seen for centuries?"

"Yes it's a bloody flying alligator setting fire to my city!" shouted Vimes, an instinctual possessiveness burning his very core.

She wasn't listening to him. "There must be a breeding colony somewhere," she said. "After all this time! Where do you think it lives?" Vimes didn't know. But he swore to himself that he would find out, and ask it some very serious questions.

"One egg," breathed the breeder. "Just let me get my hands on one egg..."

Vimes stared at her in genuine astonishment. It dawned on him that he was very probably a flawed character.

Vimes looked back at the dragon with narrowed eyes. Another building exploded into flame. He gritted his teeth. Of all the bloody cities...

The streets outside the Patrician's palace were thronged with professional hunters, lurkers, and general busybodies. The crowd surged, ebbed and flowed like a human tide. Sam Vimes pushed his way back through, picking up the odd comment here and there, as the professional hunters and treasure seekers hawked their skills to the highest bidder.

"Fifty thousand," said one of them reflectively, rubbing his chin.

"Cheap job," said the intellectual. "Well below the rate. Should be half the kingdom and his daughter's hand in marriage."

"Yes, but he ain't a king. He's a Patrician."

"Well, half his Patrimony, or whatever. What's his daughter like?"

The assembled hunters didn't know.

"He's not married," volunteered Vimes. "And he hasn't got a daughter."

They turned and looked him up and down. He could see the disdain in their eyes. They probably got through dozens like him every day. "Not got a daughter?" said one of them. "Wants people to kill dragons and he hasn't got a daughter?"

Vimes felt, in an odd way, that he ought to support the lord of the city. "He's got a little dog that he's very fond of," he said helpfully.

This damn city and the dragon deserve each other, he thought. The thing about the Patrician is that he's not a King, he's not married and has no daughter with which to promise a hand in marriage, and according to him, the city is bankrupt, whilst - ha - being very rich. We've nothing with which to barter or bribe.

Mind you, Wonse looked worried when I suggested the dragon had no lair...Why did I suggest that? Because it looked, I don't know, unreal? Magical? Why would that worry Wonse? He's bloody in love with Vetinari anyway. He always was a weird kid. I need a drink...

Vimes trailed into the Watch house, nodding at Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs, Carrot was industriously polishing his armour and greeted Vimes with what he considered to be an unnecessary amount of jollity for the time of day. He threw himself into his battered old chair with the stained cushion behind his desk and tried to think. Nothing was fitting as it should and he could feel a headache creeping across his forehead. Sometimes sobriety was such hard work...

"Brung you a cup of coffee, Cap'n. This'll see you right," Sergeant Colon's face swam blearily into view. The ruddy and perspiring visage was not a welcome sight for hungover eyes.

"Argh." Vimes lifted his head and immediately wished he hadn't. "What time is it?"

"A little after 6." Colon pointedly pushed the coffee across the desk. "Nobby went out for coffee and figgins, Sir."

His eyes slid across the desk towards the treacherously empty bottle of Bearhugger's.

"We thought you'd be busy, like."

Vimes returned Colon's glance with an impassive stare. He picked up the coffee gratefully and studiously ignored the incriminating bottle. He really thought the damned thing emptied itself.

"Right. This evening we're up on the roof." Colon's ruddy face drained of colour as he processed what Vimes had said.

"What?"

"I want to see the bastard coming this time!"

"But..." Colon tried to convey by his tone of voice that he didn't.

"Tell the lads."

Lady Ramkin arranged a small, folding chair, a packet of sandwiches and thermos flask of tea on the roof of her house. Although having the same thought as Vimes with regard to staking out the dragon, her motives were much more benign and intellectual. She had also brought with her a sketch book and some pencils, along with some binoculars. If it appeared this evening, she intended to document the occasion as much as possible. She was thinking ahead to the next edition of 'Diseases...' and with a bit of luck, some sketches of Draco Nobilis would find themselves having pride of place. The intellectual in her couldn't ignore the potential contribution to dragon lore and her fingers itched to start her notes. Pouring a cup of hot tea, she settled down to wait.

Up on the roof of the Watch house, a morose silence had descended. Most of the surrounding rooftops had sprouted an impressive array of weaponry, demonstrated when over eager citizens and hunters alike, had launched a hail of arrows at a passing cloud and an innocent bird whose only crime was to descend suddenly on a discarded sausage, although it may very well regret its foray into CMOT Dibbler's cuisine later.

Colon was sulking because Vimes wouldn't allow him to bring his bow and arrows - not even the lucky arrow! - and Nobby was nervously chewing a dogend by the guttering, thinking of his imminent fiery death. Only Carrot was attentively watching the sky. Vimes was leaning against the chimney watching the Tower of Art by the university. With familiar landmarks everywhere, he was currently trying to remember what it looked like. He nudged Sergeant Colon.

"Look over at the university," he murmured. Colon looked over at the tower.

"Kind of looks a bit like a dragon," he said with a nervous laugh. "But when you squint a bit, you can see it's just a bit of rock. Look, it's two old women with a wheelbarrow now."

Vimes squinted. "Nope. Still looks like a dragon," he said. They watched the tower for a few more minutes.

"Tell me Sergeant," Vimes said eventually, into the heavily loaded silence. "I ask in a spirit of pure enquiry, you understand, what do you think caused the effect of a huge pair of wings unfurling?"

Colon swallowed, suddenly feeling an acute lack of control in his bladder. "I think that's caused by a huge pair of wings unfurling, Sir."

The dragon dropped from the tower with a lazy insolence, dropped downwards and swooped back up, a 32 feet per second per second drop. It swept upwards and glided with deceptive grace across the sky, still not even having beat its wings once. The dragon turned elegantly and focused on the buildings below it. Gliding over the Watch house it looked down. Huge, horse-like features slowly sculled across the sky. Almost as an after thought it sent a jet of flame that engulfed the entire building. Idly flapping its wings with a sound like potted thunder, it made its way back across the city, its progress marked by the faint screams of citizens discovering the fires it left in its wake.

Up on the roof of the Ramkin mansion, Lady Ramkin, looking through her binoculars, had a first class view of the strangely targeted devastation the dragon wrought. She was pursing her lips with a perplexed frown and picked up her sketch pad, flicking past her quick sketches to a fresh page. She quickly made some calculations.

"But it would have torn its wings off," she muttered to herself. "It can't just be scaled up. The wingspan is all wrong." She tapped her pencil against her chin as she thought. It's not right, it can't be right. Is it even real? What creature could fly like that?

She looked back over at the cityscape beneath her. The dragon was twisting and turning in the sky above the university, the brief, octarine flashes of fireballs launched by the desperate wizards bouncing harmlessly off its hide and enraging the dragon further. In fact, as she watched, the dragon appeared to be gaining in strength, its fire burning brighter and stretching further as it absorbed the fireballs. With a disdainful toss of its head it sent a barrel of flame that liquidized the widdershins wing of the university before kicking its legs in the sky and gliding out across the city. Lady Ramkin stared at the disappearing dragon, the image of the fireballs seemingly being absorbed into the creature and strengthening it, replaying in her mind. Her scientific brain quickly came to a disturbing conclusion.

"A thaumivore?" she whispered to herself incredulously.

She picked up her binoculars again and trained them on the burning buildings. She gasped as she located the first burning building, thoughts of a certain dashing Captain from earlier that day foremost in her mind. Panic coursed through her as she hurried out of the door and into her carriage.

In the midst of the heat and smoke a booming voice emerged. Vimes lay unconscious in a crumpled heap, with Carrot groaning next to him. Nobby was hopping from foot to foot and gibbering whilst his sweat slicked, soot blackened face was locked in a rictus of abject terror. Sergeant Colon was standing off to one side squelching, the fact that he had actually landed in the privy itself instead of bouncing off the roof as Vimes had done ensuring that everyone was keeping an extremely wide berth.

"Golly! It's incinerated it!" Lady Ramkin emerged from the swirls of dust and heat like a Valkyrie fresh from Valhalla, staring at the molten remains of the Watch house. Looking around, she spotted the unconscious form of Captain Vimes.

"Oh! The poor dear man! You must bring him up to my house this instant!"

Nobby grinned and saluted smartly, uncharitable, and probably unrepeatable, thoughts sculling through his mind about the Captain and the large woman in front of him with the vowels that could carve glass and the self assurance that comes with knowing who your great, great, great grandfather was and what venereal disease he died of.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said crisply, as he bent to help Lady Ramkin pick up Captain Vimes. Carrot stirred groggily and sat up blinking the soot out of his eyes. Nobby grabbed his arm and pulled the unresisting young man towards Lady Ramkin's battered looking carriage. He grinned again as he watched the large woman fussing over the unconscious form of his Captain, and decided he wouldn't be telling the Captain ever about where she laid his head as she drove the carriage.

Of all the things to see upon waking, Corporal Nobbs was definitely not something that reassured Vimes. You could be dead and see something better. Something about the little man's grin made Vimes panic. Nobby raised a porcelain teacup to his, because they were attached to his face and just below his nose, must therefore be his lips, and drank noisily. He smacked the aforementioned lips and leered.

Vimes glared at the teacup. "Did you nick that?"

"Nope."

Vimes reassessed his surroundings. The bed he was lying in was large and comfortable, the pillows deep and plush. There was a faint scent of talc, and the dressing table was full of very business-like jars arranged neatly by the mirror. There was a large, old, and very valuable looking wardrobe and such clothes as were available looked equally old. But the impression was one of disinterest in clothing as light artillery between the sexes, and more of concentrating on other matters important to the owner of this room. Such as dragons. His wandering eyes had alighted upon the bedside table, piles upon piles of paper, all to do with dragon charities, conservation, and rehabilitation, and a very thick book entitled "Diseases of the Dragon" by one Sybil Deirdre Olgivanna Ramkin. Judging by the thickness of the book there appeared to be plenty.

A distinct suspicion was beginning to form. "Uh, where am I?"

The leer reappeared. Vimes was really getting annoyed with it.

"Dunno Cap'n. Great big biddy turned up and started giving orders, like. You're in her bed." The leer had magnified.

Great big biddy?

"I take it you mean Lady Ramkin," Vimes said coldly. He couldn't explain, even to himself, why having her described in that manner sent all of his protective instincts into overdrive.

Nobby ignored the tone in Vimes' voice.

"That's her. Big fat party. Mad for dragons." He grinned again. "She said to get her when you woke up."

Vimes glared as Nobby left the room.

A few minutes later there was a tentative knock.

"I say, are you decent?" Lady Ramkin boomed cheerfully through the door. "I've brought you something jolly nourishing."

"Uh, yes?"

The door opened and Lady Ramkin entered carrying a plate piled high with bacon and eggs. Vimes stared at the plate hypnotically. Somehow he had imagined that 'jolly nourishing' would equate to soup, or possibly a few potatoes. Never did he imagine that it would be a greasy fry-up. He could hear his arteries panic just by looking at it. His eyes flicked to the faintly hopeful face behind the plate and found that he simply couldn't resist. He smiled awkwardly and tried to sit up. A lance of pain made him wince.

Lady Ramkin set the plate down and picked up a jar next to the bed. Vimes stared worriedly at it.

"It'll reduce bruising and promote the growth of healthy scale. Sorry, maybe not scale." She smiled tentatively.

"Oh?"

"Roll over and up with the nightshirt. It belonged to my grandfather you know."

Vimes pulled the covers up to his neck. He was sure his face was flaming and his hands shook slightly. The thought of her getting so...so...near and intimate...albeit for perfectly harmless reasons, made him panic. He wasn't used to addressing ladies from a recumbent position in their own beds.

"Madam, I am an officer of the Watch!" Vimes curled up and died inside when he realized what he had said. Oh, gods...of all the stupid and ridiculous things...

Lady Ramkin raised an eyebrow. Her lips quirked. She looked far too amused for Vimes' liking.

"Half naked in a ladies bed, too," she deadpanned. There was a definite hint of a smile fighting to be released.

Stepping closer, she nonchalantly gripped one edge of the blanket. She bent over and placed the jar next to the plate of bacon and eggs on the bedside table. As she stood up, she suddenly whisked the blanket off Vimes' body and folded it back at the end of the bed.

"Roll over and up with the nightshirt, man. And stop being so bloody silly." Vimes was already on his front before his conscious brain registered the words. There was just no disobeying that voice. "I shan't see anything I haven't seen before. The only difference is that most of the backsides I see have tails on them. At least I don't have to try to mate you!" She sounded far too amused.

Vimes whimpered and screwed his eyes shut as she rubbed the burning ice of the cream into his legs and back.

"There, all done." She slapped his rump. Vimes gave a whimper into his pillow again as she pulled up the blankets again.

"I made some notes, you know, on the dragon?" Lady Ramkin wiped her hands on a towel before handing him his plate of bacon and eggs and rummaged in a pocket, pulling out her notebook.

"I'll tell you something, it's a very strange beast. It shouldn't be able to get airborne."

Vimes hungrily attacked the bacon. She had made it just as he liked it, crunchy and lots of it. He made an encouraging sound.

She was sitting next to his legs on the bed, he could feel her warmth and solidity through the blankets and it was causing an extremely strong reaction in him. He was fighting the impulse to put his plate down and pull her back down with him on the bed and the knowledge was making him blush.

Lady Ramkin was continuing, oblivious to the internal battle Vimes was conducting within himself.

"It should have ripped its wings off and left a bloody great hole in the ground. You can't muck about with aerodynamics."

"We have to find it," Vimes said forcefully.

"Imagine the contribution to dragon lore!" Lady Ramkin turned to him, eyes shining.

"No flying newt sets fire to my city!"

"Tomorrow." Lady Ramkin stood up and brushed herself down, breaking the warmth and contact. Vimes found himself missing it.

"Huh?"

"You need to sleep and rest first." She smiled kindly, but her eyes maintained contact for just a fraction too long. A long pause stretched between them, neither of them making the first move to break it.

"The, er, the Watch house?" Vimes stammered.

"Completely destroyed," Lady Ramkin picked up Vimes plate. "I've given the Sergeant the keys to Pseudopolis Yard, you may as well use it, I haven't been there in years." She smiled again, a fragile, hopeful smile. "Get some rest."

Vimes nodded, burrowing down under the covers. He found that what he really wanted, as Lady Ramkin closed the door behind her, was a goodnight kiss.

"...with all the inevitability of a tax demand, the dragon hovered over him, great leathery wings barely moving, surfing on the thermals, huge horse-like features focusing intently upon him. A hissing noise chilled him to the bone as the dragon drew its breath. The crowd that had gathered peered interestedly at Vimes from around such shelter as was available as he tried to make his legs work through the sheer bowel-twisting terror. Vimes inched backwards, the crowd began to roar, and the dragon opened its mouth..."

"Wsft?"

Captain Vimes opened his eyes. The sheets stuck to him and his hands still shook from the effect of the nightmare. He shuddered. He could still hear the crowd baying for blood... trouble was he didn't know if it was his or the dragon's. He fidgeted slightly and rearranged the blankets as he tried to close his eyes again. A minute or two passed before his eyes shot back open. That was no damned nightmare - he recognized that sound and it spelled trouble with a capital T. Operating purely on instinct, he swung his legs off the bed, wincing as his side twinged, took a step and pitched forward onto the soft pile carpeting as the blankets wrapped themselves around his legs. Cursing, Vimes kicked his legs free and as he did so his toes kicked what felt like a pair of slippers.

"Good enough," he thought, pushing his feet into them and hurried as quickly as his throbbing side would let him - down an ornate staircase and into a cavernous entrance hall, out of the front door and across the lawn to the dragon pens from where he could hear the sound of a mini riot taking place.

Quietly...not that there was any real need...Vimes opened the rear door and softly shut it behind him. Down at the far end he could see the magnificent silhouette of Lady Ramkin drawing itself up in an unforgettable fashion. Various outlying parts of her were pulling upwards and outwards to form one very big and very angry woman, channeling generations of authority and total command.

"Hwat is the meaning of this?"

Vimes grinned fleetingly to himself. He didn't envy the individual that was aimed at either; whilst not incredibly original, utter confidence and breeding radiated off her in waves.

"Worl. It's the dragon, innit."

Vimes groaned. He recognized that kind of voice. It was usually shouting the loudest at the front of a mob, relying on the people behind to blindly follow. The IQ of a mob could be summarized as the IQ of its most stupid member divided by the number of mobsters, and this one promised to be an excellent example.

"Hwat about it?"

Around Lady Ramkin, Vimes could see the main door to the dragon house swinging on its hinges, more ominously, he saw some of the weapons bristling behind the mob leader. This was definitely not good. The little dragons were stampeding back and forth in their pens, flaming little gouts of flame excitedly and squeaking hysterically. Moving slowly so as not to draw undue attention, Vimes leaned over the nearest pen and clamped the surprised swamp dragon under one arm, the other hand gripping its snout firmly. Beneath his grip the dragon squirmed, Vimes could feel its heart racing as the highly-strung inmate bounced under his arm. He just hoped the little reptile lasted and didn't blow itself up whilst he was holding it...

"Worl. It's been burning the city. They don't fly far. You got dragons here. Could be one of them, couldn't it?"

"Yeah."

"S'right."

"QED."

"So what we're going to do is, we're going to put 'em down."

"S'right."

"Yeah."

"Pro bono publico."

Lady Ramkin reached out and grabbed a dunging fork with what Vimes considered to be far too much practiced ease. This clearly wasn't the first time she had armed herself, he really didn't want to imagine the damage she could do. A wilting flower she most certainly was not. Brandishing the fork at the mob, Lady Ramkin's bosom rose like continental drift in reverse.

"One step nearer, I warn you, and you'll be sorry."

The mob leader leant sideways to peer around her at the frantic dragons.

"Yeah? What'll you do, eh?" He said nastily.

Vimes was grudgingly impressed at the man's immovability. An angry Ramkin of either gender was not something to take lightly.

Lady Ramkin squared her considerable shoulders. Unfortunately for her, she had never taken any notice of anything happening in the city that did not have scales on.

"I shall summon the Watch!"

Vimes cringed. Oh, if only you'd said anything but that...

"Well, that's too bad," said the leader. "That's really worrying, you know that? Makes me go all weak at the knees that does."

Lady Ramkin glared at him, the dunging fork cocked, prongs pointing threateningly. Her lips pursed as she prepared to launch an aswering volley.

The mob leader pulled a particularly nasty looking cleaver from his belt.

Vimes set his mouth in a determined line. He redoubled his grip on the hyperactive dragon under his arm, trying desperately to ignore the sounds of sluicing chemicals in the little dragon's eight stomachs. There was a pause. It hiccupped. Its eyes crossed and it hiccupped again. Vimes looked desperately for somewhere to put it before it had a terminal accident. It sneezed.

"And now you just stand aside, lady, because - "

A green fireball flamed over the heads of the mob and singed an impressive amount of the shed door into a rather pretty chrysanthemum effect.

A menacing disembodied voice floated from the depths of the shed.

"This is Lord Mountjoy Quickfang Winterforth IV, the hottest dragon in the city. It could burn your head clean off."

The would-be rioters stared at the charred door as if hypnotized.

Adrenaline coursing through him, Vimes hobbled forwards. Underneath his arm the dragon's stomachs were gurgling once more and it was making soft whimpering noises of fright.

Don't give them a chance to find their footing, Vimes told himself urgently. Keep talking...

"Now I know what you're thinking," Vimes went on, softy. "You're wondering, after all this excitement has it got enough flame left? And, y'know, I ain't so sure myself..."

He hoisted the dragon slightly higher and sighted between its ears. Next to him, he was aware of Lady Ramkin watching him admiringly. No one had ever looked at him like that before. An urgent need to impress her took hold of him.

"What you've got to ask yourself is: am I feeling lucky?"

He advanced through the doorway towards the mob, which backed away.

"Well?" He said. "Are you feeling lucky?"

For a few minutes, no one moved. The only sound was the gurgling of the little dragon's internal plumbing.

The leader stared at the dragon as if in a trance, his adam's apple bobbed nervously as he swallowed.

"Now look, er," said the leader, his eyes fixed on the dragon's head, "there's no call for anything like that..."

"In fact he might just decide to flare off all by himself," said Vimes. "They have to do it to stop the gas building up. It builds up when they get nervous. And, y'know, I reckon you've made them all pretty nervous now."

"Er..." the leader waved his hand vaguely. Unfortunately he chose the hand that still held the cleaver.

"Drop it," Vimes said sharply. "Or you're history."

He could feel Lady Ramkin's eyes boring into the back of head. The knowledge was making him feel extremely warm and it had nothing to do with holding a flame breathing dragon. He swallowed. In front of him the leader dropped his cleaver onto the flagstones with a clang. A scuffling at the back of the group indicated an urgent desire amongst the mobsters to be anywhere but here.

"Before the rest of you good citizens disperse quietly and go about your business," Vimes said meaningfully, "I suggest you look hard at these dragons. Do any of them look sixty feet long? Would you say they've got an eighty foot wingspan? How hot do they flame, would you say?"

"Dunno," said the leader.

Vimes raised the little dragon's head slightly. It whined softly.

"Dunno, Sir," the leader muttered.

He rallied himself slightly. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Captain Vimes, City Watch."

This was met with silence, until a voice piped up at the back of the crowd.

"Night shift, is it?"

Vimes frowned slightly, and, for the first time, looked down at himself. Dread uncoiled hotly in his gut as he looked down at his nightshirt. In his hurry to leave his sickbed and untangle himself from the blankets he had shuffled into a pair of Lady Ramkins slippers. The moment was not helped by noticing that they had pink pompoms on. He daren't look up as he felt the hot flush burn his cheeks. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Lady Ramkin press her lips together and slightly cover her mouth with the fingers of the hand that wasn't holding the dunging fork. He had a nasty suspicion she was trying not to laugh.

And it was just at this opportune moment that Lord Mountjoy Quickfang Winterforth IV chose to belch. An extremely damp, and almost invisible, fireball floated gently above the assembled crowd and dissipated, doing nothing except singe a few eyebrows on the way past... but it was enough to make a point.

Vimes rallied magnificently, hoping like hell that they hadn't noticed his moment of pure horror.

"That was just to get your attention," he said, deadpan. "The next one will be lower."

Underneath his arm, the little dragon coughed with a sad little wheezing sound, wisps of smoke drifting up from his nostrils.

"Er, right you are," the leader said, backing away.

"Oh no you don't!" Lady Ramkin said with triumphant relish. She reached up onto a shelf above the door and produced a tin. It had a slot on the top and a picture of a dragon beneath the legend 'Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons.' It rattled.

The initial whip-round produced AM$3.75. After Vimes gestured pointedly with the dragon, a further AM$25.60 was miraculously forthcoming, after which the group beat a hasty retreat back down the hill towards the city. Vimes couldn't help but marvel at Lady Ramkin. The baying mob were going to slaughter her dragons, and possibly injure her in the process, yet her cheerfulness and good humour remained undimmed. He found himself wondering what it must be like to be like that.

"That was jolly brave of you," Lady Ramkin said, placing the tin back on the shelf. She leveled a stare at him that Vimes could not place. To avoid answering he shuffled back to Lord Mountjoy Quickfang Winterforth IV's pen and placed the exhausted dragon back down, giving him a quick pat as he did so. Lord Mountjoy hiccupped gently and picked up a stray piece of coal, chewing slowly. The little dragon looked as exhausted as he felt.

"Let's hope it doesn't catch on," Vimes murmured. Lady Ramkin didn't answer. She leaned against the wall and watched him as he stopped by Goodboy Bindle Featherstone, glancing into the ugly little dragon's long, pointed face. For some reason her gaze kept being drawn to his bare legs and she bit her lip as she looked hastily away, hoping he hadn't noticed.

Vimes found himself leaning over the pen door and scratching the dragon behind his stubby ears. Goodboy curled up amidst a sound like a blocked drain and Vimes hastily pulled his hand away.

"It's OK," Lady Ramkin said, crossing over to where Vimes was worriedly standing. "It's just his stomachs rumbling, it means he likes you." She smiled reassuringly as Vimes reached back down to the dragon, a pleased smile pulling at his mouth. She glanced sideways at the man next to her, enjoying the feel of the shared proximity. Vimes looked over at her, accidentally meeting her gaze.

"Er..." Vimes found he couldn't pull his eyes away. He coughed urgently.

"Ah..." Lady Ramkin felt a blush tinting her cheeks and hastily looked back down to Goodboy.

"How would..."

"You don't think you might like..."

Both stopped, wreathed in mutual embarrassment and awkwardness.

"It'd be the least I could do," Lady Ramkin said firmly. Her soft chocolate brown gaze kept pulling him in.

"But you're already giving us the headquarters and everything!"

Lady Ramkin nodded in understanding. "That was simply my duty as a good citizen. Please accept Goodboy as a...as a friend." She smiled tentatively.

Vimes licked his suddenly dry lips. Somehow his throat felt like sandpaper and his lungs didn't seem to want to work. He had the sensation of being inched out over a precipice on a very thin plank, the undercurrents of the conversation pulling him under.

"...er..." he cleared his throat. "I don't even know what they eat," he said weakly.

"They're omnivores actually," she replied. "They eat anything except metal and igneous rocks. You can't be finicky when you evolve in a swamp."

"But doesn't he need to be taken for walks, or flights, or whatever?"

Lady Ramkin reached over and scratched the ugly reptile on top of his scaly head. "He seems to sleep most of the time. He's the most relaxed dragon I've ever bred, I must say." She smiled as the dragon nuzzled her hand.

"What about, er..." he indicated the dunging fork. Images of being knee deep in dung passed through his mind.

"It's mainly gas, really. Just keep him somewhere well ventilated and try not to let him lick your face. They can be trained to control their flame. They're very useful for lighting fires."

Vimes stared at the little dragon, now curling back up amidst an alarming barrage of plumbing noises as Lady Ramkin gently stroked its head. An idea that had been knocking on the door of his subconscious finally broke through.

"Could one dragon sniff out another?"

Lady Ramkin looked slightly surprised. In the slight evening breeze, Vimes' nightshirt flapped around his knees and he involuntarily shivered with the cool evening air. Lady Ramkin looked at him with some concern.

"Come on. Back to bed with you. You're in no condition to be standing around in the cold barely dressed." Despite the sentence being entirely innocent, Vimes blushed as he was gripped firmly by one shoulder and propelled helplessly towards the house.

"Could they?" He persisted. "Can dragons seek each other out?"

Lady Ramkin considered. "Well, they're as single minded as a buzz-saw during mating season, but generally ignore each other during other times. But they all knew when the big dragon was approaching," she waved a hand back towards the pens as they approached the house. "So I suppose they probably can seek each other if they wished. Their sense of smell is quite unique."

Vimes murmured assent. "Is it worth getting Goodboy to have a sniff around?"

"No reason why we can't try," Lady Ramkin said cheerfully. "His nostrils are certainly big enough. Now. Get to bed." She shooed him up the stairs to her bedroom.

"Er. Could you wake me in an hour? I need to get back to the Watch house..." he paused. "To Pseudopolis Yard?"

Lady Ramkin levelled a fine Ramkin stare at him. "You're in no condition to go back." She sighed, smiling slightly as she saw the determination settle on Vimes' face, correctly gauging the stubbornness inherent in his character. "But I will get you in an hour. Try to sleep. It's the best medicine." She smiled again, slightly shyly. Vimes nodded, feeling his cheeks redden as he looked back down the stairs at Lady Ramkin who was watching him from the large entrance hall, eclipsing the front door. She moved down the hall towards one of the drawing rooms, still wearing the shy smile. Vimes blinked rapidly to clear his head and opened the bedroom door, sinking gratefully into the soft bed.

A tentative knock disturbed Vimes' snooze. He surfaced muzzily from the warm, enveloping haze of sleep, one arm clutching the pillow and blankets wrapped around his feet at the bottom of the bed. He suspected he 'sleep-patrolled' as his blankets often ended up in a knot around his legs. Lady Ramkin entered quietly, a soft smile spreading across her face as she saw the man in the bed. She chuckled as he pried open one eye.

"You don't look like you want to get up," she placed his uniform in a neat pile on the bedside table.

"Ungh," Vimes groaned. "I have to get back," he muttered. Lady Ramkin made a noncommittal noise.

"I know," she said briskly. "Here's a cup of tea and some of that bread pudding I made." She looked down at her hands suddenly seeming slightly unsure. Vimes took the tea and the bowel of steaming pudding, not knowing what else to do. He blinked a few times to try to force his eyes into wakefulness.

"Thank you," he murmured. "It's very kind of you." He took a spoonful of the pudding. "It's, er," he gestured to the bowel. "It's very nice." Lady Ramkin beamed. There was no other word for it, Vimes decided. Her face lit up with the simple compliment. He looked back down at his pudding feeling absurdly pleased with her reaction.

"Your uniform is on the table next to you, when you're ready." Lady Ramkin turned to leave.

"Thank you," Vimes said suddenly. "For everything. Um, it's very, um, kind." He faltered under the weight of her stare. She nodded slightly with a small smile and closed the bedroom door behind her. Vimes lay back against the soft pillows and tried to calm his thoughts down. Trouble was, with Lady Ramkin, he found it almost impossible to think clearly. He kicked his legs free and staggered to the washstand wincing as his side exploded in pain. Unfortunately, the face looking back at him was his. He was sporting a scraped cheekbone and some redness but nothing major. Vimes picked up the razor by the bowel and paused. Lady Ramkin was a spinster. She was famous for it, in fact. So where had the razor and shaving brush come from? His eyes slid sideways as he looked at the paraphernalia on her dressing table. Unless she had sent a servant out during his sleep? He turned the razor over in his hand. It was heavy, it was ornate, and the handle looked inlaid with something valuable - possibly mother of pearl or ivory. A Ramkin heirloom, he guessed. It was certainly giving him the best shave he had had in a long time. He splashed his face and patted it dry with the soft towel folded next to the washstand. As he picked it up his hand nudged a glass bottle. Squinting slightly, he picked it up and read aloud from the embossed label. "Duke's Warm Water." He prised off the lid and took a wary sniff of the heavily spice scented liquid. It wasn't actually as bad as he feared, so he rubbed on a small amount, enjoying the novelty of actually wearing aftershave. He figured the last day was strange enough anyway, so why not splash on old Lord Ramkin's aftershave? Pulling on his uniform, Vimes picked up his cup and bowl and made his way downstairs where Lady Ramkin met him in the hall.

"There you are! How are you feeling?" Lady Ramkin watched his slow hobble downstairs with some concern.

"Sore," Vimes admitted, rubbing his side. "But better than before. That cream must have worked."

"Let's just hope you don't grow scale," Lady Ramkin said grinning. "The coach is outside and Goodboy is waiting for us, too. So, if you're all set...?" Vimes nodded and suddenly remembered he was holding the crockery. He held them up feeling slightly foolish.

"Oh, thank you. Just a tick and i'll be right with you." She took the bowl and cup and disappeared down the hall.

Vimes fidgeted by the large front door, feeling the slight discomfiture you feel when left all alone in someone else's hall. Not that Vimes had had much experience of waiting in hallways, in the Shades a '2 up 2 down' was considered luxurious and Vimes rapidly progressed to poky rooms barely big enough for the lumpy mattresses and peeling paintwork they invariably contained. This hallway was wide enough to swallow several houses and the walls were covered in the types of paintings that would be called 'Old Masters' dotted amongst various weapons. Just thinking of Lady Ramkin's lineage made him suddenly acutely nervous. She had more means of disposing of someone than the whole of the Assassin's Guild and most of the weapons at her disposal were ancestral weapons from the time when one's forebears went off to distant lands to kill as many natives as possible.

"Righty-Ho," Lady Ramkin boomed cheerfully from behind Vimes oblivious to the direction his thoughts were taking him. She strode in front of him and opened the large front door, standing back for him to make his way carefully to the waiting carriage. As he passed Lady Ramkin, his eyes flicked up to her face, and they made eye contact. Vimes' step faltered as he was torn between the sudden rising tension between them and the forward momentum of his footsteps. Lady Ramkin saved him from making the choice by glancing back down, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. Vimes continued out to the carriage wreathed in his own faint embarrassment, and discovered that some of the stories surrounding Lady Ramkin were actually true. The carriage had most of its seats ripped out - most probably for transportation to dragon shows, Vimes guessed, and it reeked of dragon. Style, too, but mostly of dragon. Sitting obediently in the middle of the floor directing a stare like a thermal lance, was Goodboy Bindle Featherstone. He was wearing a red collar. It had a bell on it. He wondered what the rest of the men would say.

In the new Watch House, Pseudopolis Yard, Sergeant Colon was getting increasingly worried. He was one of lifes Sergeants, if there was a blueprint for Sergeanthood, he would be it. At the moment, he was the most senior officer in the room, and this was causing him some distress. He had prevaricated as much as possible, and the darkening of the sky outside was quite upsetting. He ran ran a pudgy finger around his collar uneasily. It was already damp with sweat.

"It's getting dark," he said unnecessarily, to the room at large. "That means we need to...er...patrol, soon." His voice croaked towards the end of the sentence. Not only was Colon feeling the weight of his rank, but he was beginning to feel that the dragon-risk quotient was rising exponentially.

"Spot on, Sergeant." Came a blessedly familiar voice. Relief rose off Colon like steam.

"At ease, lads." Then his eyes bulged as he saw not only the woman known as Mad Sybil Ramkin, but, hopping obediently after her on the end of a red lead attached to a red collar with a jingly bell, was..."They've only gone and caught it!"

"Don't be daft, Fred," said Nobby. "That's Lady Ramkin, that is. She's alright, is Lady Ramkin. Gave me a cuppa tea inna cup fin as paper with a silver spoon." Colon and Carrot stared at him, both wearing identical expressions of disbelief.

"Did you give it back?" Carrot asked, in the voice of someone testing out an unfamiliar idea.

"Course I did!" Nobby said hotly. Vimes and Lady Ramkin approached the group.

"My squad," Vimes mumbled. Ordinarily he really didn't care what anyone thought. He held a position in the City Watch, and even though it was a shadow of its former self, he held a certain pride in his position. Battered and fired in a crucible of cynicism, but pride nonetheless. Of a sort. But having Lady Ramkin next to him, made him acutely aware of the shortcomings of his men. And himself, come to that.

"The good old rank and file," Lady Ramkin was booming as she walked sedately past the line. Her presence was having a curious effect, Vimes noted. Colon was somehow managing to make his chest stick out further than his stomach, and whilst the Watch armour was beaten into a shape of rippled muscle, Colon filled his in the manner of jelly filling a mould. Carrot was staring straight ahead, shoulders back and habitual stoop straightened out. Nobby was all but bursting with soldierly bearing, pigeon chest thrust out and hands stiffly by his side. And then Vimes noticed the addition to the line.

"What is that doing here?" He asked incredulously.

Colon quickly interjected. "That's the Librarian from the university, Sir. Don't say the M word, Sir!" Vimes stared blankly at Colon. It had to be the stress of the last two days, it had to be.

"Gets right on his wossnames that does Sir," Colon carried on, worriedly looking for understanding on Vimes face. At the end of the line, the Librarian was standing in a sort of respectful heap, his skin sagging around his frame like a suit 4 sizes too big for its owner. He was currently making the sort of complex salute only a 4 foot arm can devise and curling his lip back to reveal a set of huge and very yellow teeth.

"E's special ape services, Ma'am," Nobby said, ripping off a smart salute. Vimes glared at him. Nobby the social mountaineer was really beginning to get to him. He wondered briefly if he was just jealous, but then he made the logical connections and saw just how sad his life really would be if he was actually jealous of Nobby. No, he decided. He was damned well jealous of anyone that dominated Lady Ramkin's time. Oh shit, he thought glumly. Lady Ramkin was beaming encouraging encouragingly at the Librarian. He gave her a banana. She accepted it graciously.

"Good nutrition is essential and keeps the brain in tip-top condition," she told him. "Very enterprising, very enterprising indeed." Lady Ramkin turned around to a nearly incandescent Vimes at the end of the line. "Well done, that ape." All of them were bursting with pride. Vimes was incoherent.

"Special?" He spluttered. "Bloody unique!"

"He wants to help us, Sir," Nobby ventured cautiously, thoughts of his pilfered stash of petty cash sculling treacherously through his mind. Vimes was sailing way beyond the sanity horizon.

"Give him a badge!" He was screaming. "Though I'm damned if I know where he'll put it!"

"Well, actually, he has this piece of string - " Carrot began, but Vimes ignored him.

"We pay peanuts anyway, so we may as well employ mon- " Colon clapped his hand over Vimes mouth with great presence of mind and hissed urgently at Vimes astonished eyes.

"Don't say it! It makes him mad, Sir, red rag, Sir. Anything but monkey ... ohshitohshitohshit ..."

A trickling noise and a strong chemical smell made them all turn around. Goodboy Bindle Featherstone was sitting looking somewhat shamefaced by a small crater in the floor which was gently smoking.

Lady Ramkin sighed. "I'm afraid it's the over excitement, they can sometimes get like that."

"Don't you worry, Ma'am. Soon get that cleaned up." Nobby said cheerfully.

Vimes rolled his eyes.

"Fine specimen you got there Ma'am," he continued, playing the cheeky loveable city sparrow card for all it was worth. Vimes decided that he really couldn't take much more of Nobby.

"Oh, he's not mine," she said. "Not any more. He belongs to the Captain," her eyes sought him out as she smiled. Vimes felt his cheeks warm. "Or maybe to you all. A sort of mascot. His name is Goodboy Bindle Featherstone."

Goodboy sat almost to attention, bearing up stoically under the weight of his name. He sniffed at the table leg, bit off a mouthful, chewed thoughtfully and then curled up and went to sleep.

"Looks like my brother Errol, if you don't mind me saying so, Ma'am."

Errol Nobbs? Vimes thought through his perpetual irritation of Nobby's ingratiation. Good gods, two of them! Nobby's bad enough... Despite his better judgement, Vimes' mind determinedly wandered into unknown territory, wondering with horrified fascination just what the erstwhile Errol Nobbs could possibly have looked like. Any gene pool that had created the life form of Nobby Nobbs was capable of just about anything.

"Got the same pointed nose, excuse me for saying so, milady." Nobby continued.

Meanwhile, at the other side of the room, Carrot was holding the Librarian at arm's length. "He's very sorry, aren't you?"

The Librarian gave a prehensile grin.

"Ooook." He pursed his lips in a way only an Orang could.

Sergeant Colon panicked. "Don't let him kiss me!"

Lady Ramkin bent over Sergeant Colon, ministering to the wounded, and began to wind a bandage tightly around his head in a business-like fashion.

"Don't be such a softy," Lady Ramkin said tightening the bandage. "He hardly touched you."

"Ow!"

"Really Sergeant, stop being a big baby."

Colon blushed fiercely under his bandage. Leaning against the wall, Vimes grinned at Colon's embarrassment. As she bent to wind the bandage, various...parts...of her anatomy brushed against Colon's neck and shoulder. The man froze and gulped as he realised what was brushing up against him. His blush began to spread down his neck. Always a ruddy man, he was beginning to resemble a large, over-ripe tomato. Colon's eyes swivelled madly towards Vimes, who was most definitely no longer grinning. The Captain's face was as black as thunder and equally as funny.

"There! All done."

Lady Ramkin tidied the rest of the bandage and patted Colon's head. Vimes detached himself from the wall and placed himself between Colon and Lady Ramkin, with studied nonchalance. The glare he levelled at Fred Colon made the other man hurriedly look away.

Carrot leafed through his notebook. "Do you think picking someone up by their ankles and bouncing their head on the floor comes under the heading of Striking a Superior Officer?"

"I'm not pressing charges, me," said Colon hurriedly, squirming backwards as much as any man can whilst seated on a high backed chair.

"Can we get on?" asked Vimes impatiently. Next to him he could feel Lady Ramkin's soft gaze fixed on him and he resisted the urge to pull at his collar as he began to feel warmth spread down his neck. He coughed urgently.

"We're going to see if Errol can sniff out the dragon's lair. Lady Ramkin -"

"Sybil, please!"

"Er, Sybil, thinks it is worth a try."

Sergeant Colon puckered his brow.

"You mean set a deep hole, with spring loaded sides, trip wires, whirling knife blades driven by water power, broken glass and scorpions, to catch a thief, Captain?" He asked doubtfully.

"Yes, we don't want to lose the scent," Lady Ramkin said enthusiastically as her gaze slid back to Vimes.

Colon had a sudden strange feeling as he looked at the Captain and Lady Ramkin. Vimes' gaze was trawling the room, with his usual barely suppressed irritation and Lady Ramkin was the epitome of high breeding, yet there was something that Colon could only describe as being off with both of them. As far as Colon was concerned, good on the Captain for getting his feet under the table but there was something more and he couldn't put his finger on it. As he surreptitiously glanced out of the corner of his eye, it became apparent. Unconsciously, Vimes and Lady Ramkin were mirroring each other's body language - as Colon watched, Lady Ramkin folded her arms, a couple of seconds later Vimes stretched and folded his as well, his body slightly angled towards the woman next to him in an unconscious display of territoriality. Lady Ramkin said something to Vimes and he leaned in slightly as he replied, eyes never leaving her face. Colon flushed as he looked away, somewhat discomfited at having been party to a moment that, against all rationality, was private. He was sure no one else had picked up on it. In fact, he would put money on Vimes himself not realising, he was off women, was the Captain. Brung low, he was.

He's picked a helluva one this time, Colon thought to himself. I just hope i'm not around when he realises...

"We'll start by that wall in the Shades," Vimes was saying. Beside him, Lady Ramkin nodded encouragingly. Sergeant Colon looked at her and found himself unable to show cowardice in the face of the supportive. However, just one kernal of doubt remained.

"Is that wise, Captain?" He asked instead.

Vimes gave a bark of bitter laughter. "Of course not. If we were wise, we wouldn't be in the Watch."

"I say! All this is tremendously exciting!" Lady Ramkin beamed at the assembled me...anthropoids.

"Oh, I don't think you should come m'lady - " Vimes began.

" - Sybil, please! - "

"It's in a very disreputable area, you see." Vimes finished desperately. Lady Ramkin stared at him. There was something slightly calculating about that gaze. He shuffled his feet and then cursed himself for doing so.

"But i'm sure I shall be perfectly safe with your men," she pointed out. "I'm sure vagabonds just melt away when they see you." Vimes glanced up at her and searched her face for any hint of irony or humour. There were none. She gave him an admiring smile.

That's dragons, Vimes thought glumly. Not me, not the Watch... dragons. They leave them laminated to the wall. Plus, anyone encountering Lady Ramkin would probably end up with a good telling off. He snorted to himself. Paradoxically, she would probably be the safest one there.

Errol was placed carefully upon the ground by the wall - still bearing its grisly fresco - in the Shades. Somewhat strangely, Sweetheart Lane was deserted and had an eerie feeling to it, and not just because of the aforementioned wall. The dragon's even tamed the Shades, Vimes thought sourly. For some reason, that upset him. He didn't bear any fondness for the Shades, but at least people had a choice whether or not they wanted to be an unmitigated bastard. Now the choice was clearly delineated - wander around and i'll turn you into a piece of interesting graffitti. He sighed, looking down at Errol. The little dragon sniffed at the wall a few times, paced up and down a couple of times and curled up and went to sleep. Lady Ramkin gave Vimes a half apologetic look. He gave a small smile and a shrug, as he bent down to pick up Errol.

"Dint work," said Sergeant Colon bluntly.

Nobby glared at his superior. "Good idea though," he said loyally, stepping on Colon's foot with malicious enjoyment.

Lady Ramkin put her hands on her considerable hips, blocking the light in the alley, and looked up at the sky reflectively. "It could be all the rain and people moving about, I suppose," she said thoughtfully. "Perhaps we need to think a bit more."

"Let's get back," Vimes said flatly. "No use hanging around here." He picked up Errol and gave him a surreptitious pat. He wasn't about to admit it to anyone, but he was developing something of a soft spot for the little dragon. Errol wheezed a cloud of gas that smelled as if it had drifted up from the bowels of hell and tried to lick his face. Smiling, he tilted his head out of the way and found himself looking back at Lady Ramkin.

Falling into step with him, she murmured, "he's taken to you." Vimes said nothing, but was secretly pleased. Nothing had ever thought he was worth anything before. Lady Ramkin glanced across at him and saw the pleased smile on his face.

"You have a gift, you know," she continued, watching him. "With your men." Vimes continued walking in silence.

"There's no gift," he muttered. "There's just not that many of us anymore." As he dug in his pocket for the key to the new headquarters, she placed a hand on his arm. He stopped, surprised. Colon, Carrot and Nobby were walking on, ahead.

"You forget, Captain Vimes, I know what command is." She smiled at his slightly incredulous expression. "You have it."

Underneath his arm, Errol began to squirm. "Um, I don't, I mean, er..." Vimes was at a loss how to respond. This wasn't the kind of thing that was usually said to him, and certainly not by female members of the aristocracy. Errol wriggled harder, emitting little huffing noises with the exertion. Vimes tightened his grip, his mind rapidly filling with pink fog and Lady Ramkin's soft eyes.

"You sell yourself short." Lady Ramkin smiled, glancing down at Errol. Her features changed into an expression of concern at the same time as a roof tile came crashing down from a neighbouring building.

"Captain..." Sergeant Colon's voice floated back. Vimes frowned, faintly annoyed at the interruption to a conversation well out of his usual experience. However, the timbre of Colon's voice sliced through his dreamlike state with the effectiveness of three pints of strong black coffee. Dreading the answer, Vimes called back.

"What is it?"

"It...it...it's baaaaack..."

Errol was bouncing energetically under Vimes' arm and squeaking excitedly, thrashing about trying to claw his way free. Vimes was rooted to the spot as he looked up into the eyes of the dragon...the dragon...that was peering over the guttering of the building next door to Pseudopolis Yard.

Its huge face was long and vaguely horse-like, although you wouldn't find this visage on any equine that Vimes knew of. Mind you, his acquaintance with the countryside consisted of knowing that the brown bit of the tree went in the ground...after that it got a bit technical. Eyes gleaming red with conjoined rage and intelligence were fixed on Vimes and he knew, just knew, in some primal part of his brain, that no human could outsmart or beat this dragon. That same part of his brain marvelled at the sheer beauty of the reptile in front of him, the elegant neck, the ancient cunning radiated from the smouldering depths of the eyes. He wondered vaguely whether or not dragons could cast glamour.

As he watched, he heard Lady Ramkin breathe behind him, "Oh my, what a brute. What a magnificent brute..."

She sounded like she was really very near...he swore he felt her breath by his ear. Or maybe that was just his flesh crawling as the dragon focused its attentions on the bouncing figure of Errol still clamped beneath Vimes' arm. He realised, as his blood turned to ice and he felt faint, that the only thing preventing him...and Lady Ramkin...being turned to a greasy patch on the street, was the dragon's idle curiosity as to why Vimes was holding a smaller dragon under his arm. He looked down slowly at Errol, whose laser stare was at that moment trained on the much larger dragon.

"Don't make any sudden moves," said Lady Ramkihn's voice behind him. "And don't show fear. They can always tell when you're afraid."

Don't show fear? Vimes' stomach felt like it was about to do triple somersaults. How does she manage to stay so calm? Was it an aristocratic thing? He swallowed.

"Is there any other advice you can offer at this time?" Vimes said slowly, trying to speak without moving his lips.

Up on the guttering the dragon appeared to be narrowing its eyes and moving itself into a more comfortable vantage point. The faint susurration of scales provided a perverse accompaniment to the already surreal situation.

"Well, tickling them behind their ears often works."

"Oh," said Vimes weakly.

He couldn't even see around the width and height of the craggy head a few metres away, to see whether it even had any ears. Scratching behind this dragon's ears would be a short trip to oblivion, by way of being barbequed in your own armour.

"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."

There was a hissing sound, as of an intake of air. The air ducts inside the great dragon's nostrils pinged. Vimes wondered distantly whether he would feel anything in that nanosecond before being thoroughly extinguished, before his spine reached the vaporising point of iron.

He felt gentle pressure behind him, as Lady Ramkin stepped closer and reflexively gripped his arm, her eyes intent on the dragon.

A ringing horn in the distance broke the spell and the great dragon lifted its head making a vaguely inquisitive sound. The horn rang out again, the echoes undulating and challenging the listener. If that wasn't the horn blowers intention, then they were shortly going to be in a lot of fiery trouble because the dragon unfurled wings the size of houses, and with a last smouldering look, kicked off the roof and glided over their heads, against all of the laws of natural science, gracefully.

Lady Ramkin was galvanised into action. Still gripping Vimes' arm, she shouted "follow it!"

Despite the insanity of the situation, only one clear thought was making its way through Vimes' stunned mind.

She's holding my arm, and she's standing close behind me...dragon or no dragon, I like this feeling...she's warm and soft, and even with the dragon-breeder smell, she smells nice and I want more...oh gods what am I doing...it has to be the shock, it has to be...

Vimes was vaguely aware of Carrot discussing the merits of charging the dragon under various ancient witchcraft laws, the clouds in his mind insulating him. Unfortunately, Sergeant Colon chose that moment to eclipse Vimes's daydream. The spherical shape of the Sergeant floating into view was the optical equivalent of a slap in the face.

"You alright, Captain?" Colon's ruddy face was contorted in concern.

Vimes' eyes focused on Fred Colon. "Where's it gone?" he demanded, trying desperately to distance his mind from Lady Ramkin's hand still on his arm. Colon pointed along the street.

"Follow it!" he said more fiercely than necessary. "Follow it!"

The Plaza of Broken Moons was full of people. The people of Ankh-Morpork had a straightforward, no nonsense attitude to street entertainment. Whilst watching a dragon slain was certainly a crowd pleaser, they would also settle for a challenger being baked alive in his own armour. It wasn't every day you saw someone baked alive in his own armour, it was something to bring the children to watch.

The sword was very glittery...

After all, wasn't it a kind of narrative imperative, that when an unknown young swordsman rides into a city, he slays the dragon with a sparkly, glittery sword? And he turns out to be the lost King?

Furious, Vimes pushed through the crowd to Lady Ramkin.

"Kings," he panted. "Of Ankh. And thrones. Are there?"

"What? Oh, yes. There used to be," said Lady Ramkin. "Hundreds of years ago. Why?"

"Some kid says he's heir to the throne!"

"That's right," said Cut-me-own-throat Dibbler, who had followed Vimes in the hope of clinching a sale. "He made a big speech about how he was going to kill the dragon, overthrow the usurpers and right all wrongs. Everyone cheered."

Beside him he could hear Lady Ramkin's sharply drawn breath. He wondered briefly why a nob...OK, aristocrat, such as her, would mind having a King on the throne again.

"Everyone cheers any speech in this city," growled Vimes. "It doesn't mean anything!"

"Gitchor pig sausages, five for two dollars!" said Throat, who never let a conversation stand in the way of trade. "Could be good for business, could monarchy. Pig sausages! Pig sausages! Inna bun! And righting all wrongs, too. Sounds like a solid idea to me. With onions!"

Just when Vimes thought the conversation couldn't have turned any worse, Nobby's ingratiating voice piped up from somewhere in the lee of Lady Ramkin.

"Can I press you to a hot sausage, ma'am?"

Against his will, Vimes felt his eyes bulge at the sheer suggestiveness of the question. It took a concerted effort not to haul the little Corporal away from Lady Ramkin, acutely aware that he had absolutely no right to decide who should or shouldn't be talking to her. Hell, he didn't even know if she even thought that way about him. Of course not, he reflected glumly. His thoughts turned blacker as he watched Nobby fussing around her and watched her gracious declining of the offer of one of Throat's sausages inna bun, with only the tiniest suggestion of horror adorning her aristocratic features. His journey into self awareness was plunging his mood into seldom visited depths. What's worse than not having someone? Wanting someone who doesn't want you. He laughed harshly to himself. Correction...wanting someone who would never reciprocate in a million years. What would she want with a gutter rat?

He turned glowering eyes to the Plaza again.

It was certainly a very shiny sword...

It was now two of the clock the following morning, and to Vimes, all was most definitely not well. The persistent drizzling rain suited his mood perfectly. The crowded streets buffeted him from pillar to post, yet his perpetual gloom ensured that there was always an empty space around him. Despite his rage at seeing Ankh-Morporkians delight in the miraculous victory of the lad over the dragon, he tormented himself by stalking the streets, stoking his fury by watching his kinsfolk waving flags and shouting 'hurrah.'

His wandering feet eventually took him back to the Yard. It wasn't as if he had anywhere else to go. Errol had proven to be extremely unpopular with his landlady - he kept making holes in the carpet, despite much shouting, and she complained about the smell. Funny, Lady Ramkin had given the impression they were fairly easy to train. He must ask her about it. He smiled unconsciously at the thought of a valid reason to seek her out again, before clamping down hard on the thought.

He leaned back in his seat and propped up his feet on his desk. Errol jumped down from his shoulder and started to eat the coke in the fireplace. Over the sound of crunching, Vimes tried to think.

It had certainly been an eventful day, of that there was no doubt. The aerial acrobatics of the great dragon, the 'ooohs' and 'aaahs' of the crowd, the young man looking tiny and unprotected in the middle of the Plaza. The dragon puffing itself up in a way now distressingly familiar to Vimes...he suspected he would remember for the rest of his life. And not flaming. That had surprised Vimes. It had appeared to surprise the dragon as well...it had tried to simultaneously claw at its nostrils and stare up them as its eyes crossed. The crowd had watched...equally as surprised...as the young man had taken advantage of the nonplussed dragon and ducked under one claw, thrusting the glittery sword home.

The ensuing thunderclap had not done anything to increase Vimes' opinion of the spectacle. He'd imagined that a dragon that size would create enough guts and splatter to keep the good citizens of Ankh-Morpork street cleaning for weeks. But there was nothing - apart from purple smoke. Purple smoke? Vimes snorted, curling his lip in sheer disdain. Purple smoke smacked of the kind of trickery that wizards would engage in, and he remembered from only a few nights back how ineffectual they had been against the beast.

Lady Ramkin had said that when swamp dragons exploded there was dragon everywhere. This one should have pebble dashed the whole Plaza. It looked...orchestrated. Vimes couldn't explain why it just all felt so wrong.

He pulled some paper towards him. Not an overly cerebral man, he did at least pride himself on being able to use elementary grammar, unlike Carrot's tortured missives where he seemed to aimlessly throw random punctuation at the page and hope for the best.

Vimes stared at the page and reread the notes he'd made the day before. He intended to show the list to Lady Ramkin whilst she was looking at Errol.

Itym: Heavy dragon, but yet it can flye right welle;

Itym: The fyre be main hot, yet issueth from ane living Thinge;

Itym: The Swamp dragons be right Poor Thinges, yet this monstrous Form waxeth full mightily;

Itym: From whence it cometh none knoew, nor whither it goeth, nor where it bideth betweentimes;

Itym: Whyfore dideth it burneth so neatlie?

Vimes pulled the quill and ink towards him, and, in a slow, round hand, added:

Itym: Can a dragon be destroyed into utterlye noethinge?

If that was possible, surely Lady Ramkin would have mentioned it. But she did say that when the mystical Noble Dragons suddenly disappeared, they disappeared in much the same way; one day they were there, the next they were gone. But this isn't ancient folklore, Vimes told himself, this is real, and someone wants us to believe that that dragon disappeared. Put it this way, he added to himself. Lady Ramkin has not yet said that any of her swamp dragons has ever done the kind of trick we saw this evening. The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. He shivered and looked back down at his paper.

Itym: Whyfore did it Explode that no one may find It, search they greatly?

Another point about that was that only he seemed to be bothered by the fact that the streets of Ankh-Morpork weren't full of dragon gore. Dragons don't disappear, they explode.

Down by the fireplace, Errol had finished off his coke, and had started on the fire irons. So far this evening, he had eaten three cobblestones, a doorknob, something unidentifiable he'd found in the gutter and, to general astonishment, three of Cut-me-own-Throat's sausages, made of genuine pork products. The crunch of the poker going down mingled with the increasing intensity of the rain against the windows.

Vimes returned his attention to the paper and twiddled his quill.

Itym: How can Kynges come of noethinge?

Vimes remembered Lady Ramkin's shocked gasp as they found out the identity of the lad challenging the dragon. Surely she shouldn't mind the restoration of the monarchy? Or maybe being posh wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Itym: What a happy chance it be, for a lad that would be Kynge, that there be a Draggon to slae to prove beyond doubt his bony fiddes.

Vimes' mind wandered down its own treacherous path. Just where had the lad come from? Coincidences like this don't happen - an heir to an ancient throne just happens to be in the vicinity when the city is terrorised by a dragon? Well, fancy that. Vimes didn't fancy that at all. The lad had looked personable enough, but after the dragon he could have been a one eyed troll for all that it mattered. The baying mob had crowd surfed him in triumph to the Patrician's Palace. Lord Vetinari had been locked up in his own dungeons. He hadn't resisted apparently, just went quietly and smiled.

Itym: The dragon was not a Mechanical devise, yette surely no wizard has the power to create a beaste of that mag. Magg. Maggnyt. Size.

Itym: Whye, in the Pinche, could it not Flame?

Itym: Where did it come from?

Itym: Where did it goe?

Vimes underlined 'goe' several times. Then he circled it. After staring at the page for a few more minutes he rolled the paper into a ball and threw it into the fireplace, where it was neatly intercepted and eaten by Errol, before remembering he had planned to discuss his thoughts with Lady Ramkin. Damn. Oh well...he mentally shrugged.

The sounds of celebration across the city was definitely more muted than it had been. The driving rain was getting even harder as Vimes listened. He smiled nastily as the noisy celebrations faded entirely, swallowed up by the thunder now rolling across the sky. He wondered whether Lady Ramkin had been invited to the victory ball. She must have been, he supposed. Her family was the oldest and richest in the city, she must go to things like this all the time. He frowned as he imagined what she might wear to such an occasion and imagined how all of the other greasy, well-to-do men would be fawning over her. His face darkened and he tugged at his collar.

Stop it! He commanded himself. Even if...even if she...you know...she couldn't ever...well, do anything about it. So, stop it.

He rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. He couldn't even remember the last time he had slept properly. He was clearly delusional. Focus on the crime. He didn't even know what the crime was. But he was damned well going to find it and give it a name.

He stood up, took his leather rain cape from its hook behind the door and stepped out into the rain soaked and deserted city.

Lady Ramkin stood in her kitchen, stirring her mug of cocoa and deep in thought. The spoon chinked rhythmically against the side of the mug, but she didn't hear it. She had kicked off her dancing shoes as soon as she had entered her front door, the pink canoes now resting somewhere in the dusty shadows of the entrance hall, possibly never to be retrieved.

She had found herself in quite a quandary when the invite for the ball had arrived. Lord Vetinari didn't have balls. There was a popular song about it. He was well known for it, in fact. But now it looked like being balls all the way. As the last representative of one of the oldest families, she had had to go to show willing. The whole situation was very odd indeed. She had always assumed that these occasions took months to arrange, but this one had been almost immediately arranged. The wonders of modern catering, obviously. She scowled into her mug. She really disliked these sorts of parties, getting all hot and pink, and having to dance with people you didn't like, eating little tid-bits on poles and making even smaller conversation. If you were going to get hot and pink, at least make it fun. The dresses were even worse. She looked down at herself as she finished off her cocoa. Never an overly vainglorious woman, even she was prepared to concede that her dress looked like a pink marshmallow. She had even danced with, for want of a better description, the new King, all very polite and personable, but he seemed to have disappeared into her cleavage. She had done a polite circuit of the ballroom, but what she found herself wishing was that that nice Captain Vimes had been there.

Something about the rawness of him, the feeling that something in him was only barely caged, made her feel like she was 16 and in the first flush of her first crush. She rolled her eyes at her sheer folly. What was even more vexing was that she never, ever had crushes. She might have done as a teenager, back when you think you can take on the world, but she had soon had stern words with herself about them. They weren't a patch on dragons. And now, well, some things can't be denied. She sighed, and started to mix the dragons' late night feed of rock oil and peat, spiked with flowers of sulphur. Glancing back down at her hateful gown, she took a certain perverse pleasure in donning the heavy leather protective garments over it and, grabbing the feed buckets, she slipped her feet into a pair of heavy boots and ran through the driving rain to the dragons' enclosure.

As soon as she opened the door she stopped dead in her tracks. The arrival of food would ordinarily be greeted with hoots and whistles of excitement. The shed was eerily quiet. Lady Ramkin placed the buckets on the ground and walked cautiously over to the nearest pen. The golden dragon inside was sitting in the middle of his pen, gazing fixedly at the ceiling. He rolled a dismissive eye in her direction and then settled back into what she could only describe as a vigil. A quick glance down the rows of pens confirmed that every other dragon was doing exactly the same thing. She shivered involuntarily at the eerie spectacle. They didn't seem to be scared or frightened, just very, very attentive. They were waiting for something. She could think of only one thing that could have the swamp dragons in this state.

Merely minutes later, Lady Ramkin was on her way at breakneck speed back into the city.

Captain Vimes picked his way wetly towards the Plaza of Broken Moons, Errol perched on his shoulder like a scaly Bluebeard's parrot gone wrong, and paused as he entered the square. The rain was lashing down, rivulets pouring between the cobbles on the Plaza and making Vimes shiver beneath his oil skin cape. Stamping his soggy cardboard-soled boots, Vimes picked his way carefully on the treacherous cobbles to the approximate site where the young lad had stood. He looked around for a minute, the bits of bunting, the detritus of the evening's revelers, the vomit, the barely touched genuine pork product sausages from Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler. He realized he was expecting something, anything, to show that the dragon had been there. Residual heat, maybe, or a bit of skin or scale. He fumbled in his pocket, past the miscellaneous small change, keys, bits of string and paper, til his fingers closed over a stub of chalk. Errol jumped down from his shoulder and waddled off, sniffing the broken bottles and litter.

Let's see, Vimes muttered to himself. He wished he had paid slightly more attention to Lady Ramkin's discourse on swamp dragons. He didn't really know anything about dragon anatomy, let alone know how to actually draw a dragon. Just how long was the neck meant to be? And by how much would you need to scale up from a swamp dragon to one the size of a flying barn? Blast...

A rough guess will have to be adequate, he thought. Just a wossname, a guide. So, the head was around about here, now out towards a wing, tail back out here... He changed hands with the chalk, dragging it across the wet cobbles and grimacing as the stub ground down and the cobbles scraped his fingertips. He threw the chalk stub in the gutter and glanced around at Errol. He paused as he watched the little dragon drop the broken bottle he had been crunching. Errol's head tilted upwards, eyes wide and little pear shaped body trembling.

Unnerved, Vimes called out to Errol. "There's nothing there, finish your bottle. Nice bottle." Errol flicked one ear, but continued to ignore him. A thin keening sound broke free as Errol continued to gaze fixedly at the sky. Vimes felt his skin crawl as he watched Errol, the little dragon's behaviour unnerving him more than if Nobby had turned honest.

"Look, there's nothing there," he said, unsure if he was trying to convince Errol or himself. He picked up a discarded sausage lying nearby and tossed it into the air. "Look," he told the dragon, watching the sausage reach the apex of its trajectory - and then fall away. Vimes' voice trailed off as he watched the sausage fall as if it had been thrown into a tunnel. And the tunnel was looking back at him.

Vivid purple lightening flashed in the empty air and raced across the wet cobbles towards the buildings on the near side of the Plaza, flickering across the facades for several seconds and then disappearing with the same suddenness from which it came, leaving dancing spots in Vimes' vision. Temporarily blinded and rapidly losing control of his bowels, Vimes staggered backwards. Next to him, Errol was trembling violently. He was desperately trying not to scream.

The light suddenly flashed once more, hitting the rimward wall and shattering into thousands of spidery tentacles across the stones.

The third flash shot straight up into the air, coalescing into a column with flickering purple tendrils and rising fifty feet into the air, rotating slowly. As the column stabilized, purple tendrils raced at speed across the Plaza, sometimes doubling back, sometimes racing across the rooftops, never pausing. Seeking. Searching. Errol clawed his way desperately up Vimes' back and fastened himself firmly on his shoulder, eyes riveted to the spinning column. He huffed next to Vimes' ear and reflexively tightened his claws. The residual agony of Errol's claws up his back reminded Vimes that maybe he should scream again. He tried an "argh." It didn't make him feel any better.

In her coach now hurtling down Scoone Avenue, Lady Ramkin was desperately trying to convince herself that she must be wrong. We saw it killed! Wait... There's a problem right there, if you think about it. It disappeared, it didn't die. A disappearance doesn't equate death, does it? When swamp dragons explode you're scraping dragon off the scenery. There wasn't a talon, or scale, or tooth left of that dragon. She turned her eyes to the sky, and realized that she was half expecting the sight of enormous wings and that huge, horse-like head hovering on the horizon. She shook herself. But the swamp dragons...that vigil...they know. They're like little barometers. But if it's back, then what? What is it made of? The wizards couldn't touch it, their fireballs made it angry, and also made it stronger. So, if it's a thaumivore, then it must have found something again, some source of energy. Or magic. Oh no... Lady Ramkin made the logical connections. It's learned to feed.

The only thing running through her mind above the panic was to find Vimes. And as quickly as she could.

The air began to smell of burning tin. Vimes smacked his lips a couple of times, trying to get rid of the taste. An almighty commotion made him turn around. Lady Ramkin's coach burst into the Plaza with a sudden cacophony of sound and pounded straight for Vimes, the horses skidding to a halt in a juddering spin that made them either plait their legs or turn 180 degrees.

A furious vision in a damp pink off-the-shoulder ballgown exposing that cleavage that had haunted Vimes' dreams, a diamond tiara, padded leather and steel gauntlets leaned out of the coach and hauled him bodily inside, screaming "Come on, you bloody idiot!" Vimes fell unresistingly on the box, screaming reflexively.

"And stop screaming!" Generations of natural authority were channeled into those four syllables, the tone and diction could have engraved steel. Another shout spurred the horses into a full gallop from a standing start. A winding tendril of purple light flickered briefly against the horses' reins and then flashed away across the cobbles. Against all rationality, the flickering light seemed to have lost interest. Which of course was just not possible, after all a flash of light wasn't a sentient being, was it? At that moment in time, Vimes wasn't about to argue the point. It was scaring the hell out of him, as well as other, more organic, things, and he wanted to be wherever it wasn't.

Vimes clung to the seat next to the monstrously padded Lady Ramkin and tried not to stare at her furiously bouncing form next to him.

"I don't suppose you have any idea what's going on?" he shouted over the sound of the crackling fire and the horses' hooves whipping up sparks.

"Not the foggiest," she shouted back.

The purple tendrils were spreading across the city, like a vast spider's web, the lines growing fainter with distance. Vimes couldn't escape the idea that they were somehow alive. The idea made him shudder.

"Don't you think that it looks like it's somehow alive?" Vimes shouted to Lady Ramkin.

She turned her head briefly, giving him a look of appraisal as she considered the idea. He watched her as she glanced over at the purple matrix now covering the city. She nodded slowly.

"Like it's looking for something," he added.

"Then getting away before it finds it would be a first class idea, don't you think?" she shouted back, looking back over the city and shivering. She hadn't realized just how cold it was going to be in her haste to get back to the Plaza.

Vimes was just about to chivalrously unbuckle his cape for Lady Ramkin, when suddenly, all hell broke loose.

Across the city, a tendril of fire was flickering down the flanks of the dark Tower of Art at Unseen University. It disappeared into the undergrowth and down through the dome of the university's library. As it did so, the other lines blinked out.

Watching curiously, Lady Ramkin slowed the horses and came to a halt at the far side of the Plaza.

"Why on earth would it want the library?" she asked frowning.

"Maybe it wants to look something up?" Vimes answered, in an uncharacteristically light hearted fashion, that surprised even him.

"Don't be silly," she said off handedly. "There's just a load of books in there and it's a flash of lightening. What would a flash of lightening read?"

"Something very short?" He really couldn't help himself. Bickering with her was turning out to be, almost unbelievably, such fun. It would be a cold day in hell before he admitted that to anyone.

The look he received told him that she was not amused.

"I really think you could try to be a bit more help..." she began, when behind them a brilliant arc of light landed in the centre of the Plaza, stretching from the dome of Unseen University's library. Suddenly, it became a sphere of fire that grew to encompass the whole Plaza, and then, just as suddenly as it arrived, it went. And left the Plaza full of dragon.

For the life of him, Vimes could not remember how he and Lady Ramkin had actually managed to get behind the water trough. Perhaps, in extremis, the body shuts down and the brain decides that, what it really wants, is to stay alive and takes control of your cumbersome, stupid body and propels you to survival. What was nudging his consciousness in no small measure was that he was in exceedingly close quarters with Lady Ramkin. Her bedraggled ballgown was clinging to a body with far too many curves for Vimes to be sure his blood pressure wasn't permanently skyrocketing and the rain was creating interesting rivulets down her enormous cleavage.

What Vimes was marveling at was his capacity to surreptitiously ogle Lady Ramkin at a time when the great dragon had materialized in front of them both in the Plaza of Broken Moons. I'm a man, Vimes defended himself silently. I'd have to be bloody blind and dead not to notice her, er, finer points of note. Even in his mind Vimes blushed. He ducked further behind the trough to hide his cringing.

"I don't care what you say, I still think it's a magnificent brute." Lady Ramkin said beside him in a booming whisper - which meant, of course, that somebody standing on the other side of the Plaza would have heard her. Over a hurricane.

Vimes swallowed. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the rise and fall of her chest with each breath and he suddenly felt acutely aware of her proximity, of every single tiny movement and brush against him.

Underneath Vimes' arm, Errol was whimpering and fighting to be released, making little growling noises against his hand as he held Errol's snout shut. Why the little devil wanted to charge the behemoth in front of them Vimes couldn't imagine.

"I do wish you wouldn't keep saying that," Vimes said weakly. 'Magnificent' wasn't exactly the term that he would have used.

Out in the Plaza the dragon swung its great head around, scenting the air, moving with a finesse that belied its appearance. It began to move, talons scraping over the cobbles like steel being tortured under great stress.

"I knew it wasn't dead," growled Vimes. "It was too neat! A dragon this size would have left bits everywhere! Someone wanted us to believe it was dead. Look at it, it needs magic to exist, surely."

Lady Ramkin continued gazing at the dragon thoughtfully. "What do you mean?" She turned her head slightly towards Vimes, but never tearing her eyes away from the reptile for even the slightest moment.

Vimes paused. He didn't actually know what he meant. He just knew that the thing was all wrong, it wasn't alive, but it wasn't dead, and he wasn't at all sure how it existed.

"Um, well, what if it needs magic, like say, we would need food? Only magic could get that thing in the air, surely?"

"It's a thaumivore, you mean?"

"Well, just that it eats magic, say?" Vimes added, not having had a classical education.

"Yes, it could be," she agreed. Her own thoughts had taken her somewhere similar, the ratios of this dragon were mathematically impossible and would contravene most of the natural laws of physics. "There certainly used to be a lot of natural magic around once," she said thoughtfully, remembering the calculations she had made whilst observing the dragon up on the roof of her house.

All those thefts, he thought. A bit here, a bit there, nothing major, just insignificant enough to be left at the bottom of a list of priorities. Not that any sane person would concern themselves with what the Night Watch thought, he added to himself. Whoever it was has been feeding the dragon, now it's ripped the training cutlery away and feeding itself. Looks like they'll be in for a shock, then, whoever they are.

Vimes became horribly aware that Lady Ramkin had moved. In a kind of mental slow motion he saw her striding across the Plaza, shoulders back, back straight and head held high. He was even more horribly aware that his legs were rooted to the spot, and that he had absolutely no intention of being a have-a-go hero.

"What the hell are you doing?" He called across in a loud whisper.

Without breaking her stride, Lady Ramkin called back. "If it's descended from the swamp dragons then I can probably control it. They can't resist a stern human voice, they don't have the willpower. They're just big softies, really."

Big softies? The dragon in front of them wasn't exactly going to be getting awards for being the dragon most wanted as a family pet, or cutest firelighter. This was the killing people kind. The kind that attracts idiots in armour, with more brawn than brain, clad in their posing pouches and the light glints off their teeth just so *ting* bastards.

Vimes watched her progress across the Plaza with a mixture of horror and shame as he realized that he was going to have absolutely nothing to do with heroically pulling her back to safety. Through the fog of his terminal embarrassment, he heard her say: "Bad boy!"

The echoes of her stern, cut-glass vowels echoed around the square. The dragon lifted its head higher and lowered its snout. It seemed to have some difficulty focusing on her right underneath it. It appeared to be radiating some puzzlement. Vimes wasn't surprised.

Vimes cautiously peeped over the horse trough, trying to override his dented pride. There's no point in both of us being fried alive, he tried to convince himself.

"Sit!" bellowed Lady Ramkin in a voice that channeled almost a thousand years of leadership and authority, and was as undisobeyable as gravity. Even Vimes felt his legs sag in sympathy at the irresistable injunction. His forebears would have been used to voices like that, one tiny part of his brain reflected.

"Good boy! I think I may have a lump of coal somewhere..." Lady Ramkin patted her pockets, slightly distracted. The great dragon shook its head slightly as the eye contact was broken.

Oh, you shouldn't have looked down...Vimes half rose in horror as the dragon lifted one claw and pinned her to the ground, swishing its great tail in a leisurely fashion and tossed its head back, eyes half closed. It appeared to be quite relaxed. Vimes stared at it in a horrified fascination, so distracted that he didn't notice Errol wriggle free from underneath his arm. Lady Ramkin was squirming and writhing underneath the claw, trying and failing to gain any kind of purchase on the smooth surface. He really wished he hadn't noticed what an alluring maiden in distress she made.

Suddenly Errol broke the spell. He cleared the trough in one jump and through sheer momentum was bouncing his way across the Plaza, madly flapping his stubby wings with his mouth open trying desperately to flame. The only noises the little dragon could make were wheezing burps as random Brownian motion bounced him across towards the larger dragon.

He was rewarded by a jet of white blue flame carelessly directed in his direction that melted a great streak of cobbles several feet long. Undeterred, Errol continued his bouncing, flapping progress around the dragon, which seemed to be having difficulty following his progress. Even Errol didn't know where he was going to be from one moment to the next. Annoyed, the great dragon reared up with a noise like a terminal landslide and shot another gout of flame, raising one huge talon and attempting to bat the tiny challenger out of the air.

With the great dragon otherwise occupied, Vimes saw his chance to silence his pride. Drawing his sword, for what little defence it might give, he scurried quickly across the intervening space, eyes intent on the somewhat disoriented Lady Ramkin. Quickly sheathing his sword again, he grabbed a handful of bedraggled ballgown and one arm, slinging her unceremoniously across his shoulders. Off to one side he could see the whizzing, whirring shape of Errol buzzing around the larger dragon, drawing away its flame and, most importantly, its attention.

The incredible softness was the first thing Vimes noticed, in those miliseconds after having picked up Lady Ramkin. As he took his first steps back towards the shelter, such as it was, behind the horsetrough, he realized how bad his initial judgment was. Lady Ramkin was a lot of woman, of that there was no doubt. The Ramkins had not bred for beauty, they had bred for healthy solidity and big bones, and Lady Ramkin was a perfect embodiment of this. His legs began to shake with the pressure placed upon them and purple spots were dancing in his vision. Just as he considered putting her down, a stray gout of flame vapourised several feet of cobbles by Vimes' foot. He was sure he hadn't just leapt a foot into the air and actually ran to the horsetrough, but he must have done because he was now lying behind it and Lady Ramkin was a very soft, feminine presence in his arms. Crushing them, but in his arms nonetheless. He didn't seem to know what to say. He couldn't ever remember being in a similar situation. He wasn't well versed in what to say to aristocratic ladies lying in his arms. He began to blush again as Lady Ramkin stirred.

She grabbed the edge of the horsetrough and hauled herself up. "Right! It's the slipper for you..." she began before focusing on Vimes still lying on the ground next to her. "What the...?" Her mouth dropped open slightly and a pink tinge coloured her cheeks. She looked away hurriedly, pulling her dress down and trying not to catch his eye. Vimes noticed her hands were shaking slightly.

"Um," Vimes sat up, trying to massage some life back into his arms. "The dragon..." He really was at a loss of what to say.

Lady Ramkin wasn't listening to him. She was looking over his shoulder at the scene unfolding in the Plaza. "Oh sod, pardon my Klatchian."

Errol was tiring, he was flying much nearer the ground than previously and his reactions were slower. As they watched in horror the great dragon threw its head back and gave a leisurely backhander that sent Errol rocketing over their heads in a straight, rising line where he hit the roof of the building behind them and slithered to the edge where he dropped like a stone.

"Catch him!" Lady Ramkin shouted. "You must! It's vital!"

Vimes stared at her before leaping forward and catching Errol only inches from the cobbles. The little dragon was surprisingly heavy. His stomachs were making a sound more often associated with a blocked drain and he sneezed a cloud of gas that would have been at home in a morgue. He wriggled in Vimes' arms, pawed the air a few times and licked his face with a tongue like a hot cheesegrater and jumped down to the ground, stubby tail held high.

In the Plaza the dragon gave them a disinterested glance, before spreading its great wings and launching into the air. Vimes still couldn't believe the grace of the reptile - it flew as if it was weightless. As Vimes and Lady Ramkin watched, it flew out across the city, head held high. Well, it's not as if people are going to need warning, Vimes said to himself. A bloody great barn flying across the sky should be easy enough to spot. Another job for our erstwhile King, he smiled nastily as he imagined the reaction.

"Where's Errol off to?" Lady Ramkin emerged from the mist beginning to swirl, dragging the errant carriage and horses behind her. Unsurprisingly, they didn't want to come but they were fighting a losing battle, sparks flying from their hooves as they struggled.

"Is he, I mean, is Errol still trying to challenge it?"

"They fight like blazes," Lady Ramkin informed Vimes as he climbed on to the coach next to her. "It's all a matter of making your opponent explode." She peered ahead through the mists, trying to keep Errol in her sight.

"I thought in nature the defeated one rolled on its back and that was an end to it," Vimes said as they clattered along.

Lady Ramkin laughed, a rich, expressive sound that tingled up Vimes' spine, much to his surprise. He hunched his shoulders in his cape, and gripped his knees tightly, trying to control his breathing.

"Wouldn't work with dragons," Lady Ramkin smiled. "Some daft creature rolls on its back, they disembowel it. That's how they look at it." She paused. "Almost human really." She gave him a half smile and an apologetic shrug. "There's no losers with dragons."

"You've really studied them, haven't you?"

"Someone has to," Lady Ramkin said flatly. She glanced at him again. "Someone has to."

The carriage continued towards the business district. Vimes leaned forwards, three indistinct shapes were meandering slowly up the road in front of them. Lady Ramkin turned to Vimes with her eyebrows raised. At his nod, she slowed the horses down to a walk, giving them plenty of time to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"The best bit is when you stick the knife in and crack the fat and all the browny gold stuff bubbles up," said Carrot dreamily. "A moment like that is worth a ki - "

"Shut up! Shut up!" shouted Colon. "You're just... what the hell was that?"

They felt the sudden down draught, saw the mist above them roll in coils that broke against the house walls. A blast of colder air swept along the street, and was gone.

"It was like something gliding past, up there somewhere," said the sergeant. He froze. "Here, you don't think - ?"

"We saw it killed, didn't we?" said Nobby urgently.

"We saw it vanish," said Carrot.

They looked at one another, alone and damp in the mist-shrouded street. There could be anything up there. The imagination peopled the dank air with terrible apparitions. And what was worse was the knowledge that Nature might have done an even better job.

"Nah," said Colon. "It was probably just some... some big wading bird. Or something."

"Isn't there anything we should do?" said Carrot

"Yes," said Nobby. "We should go away quickly. Remember Gaskin."

"Maybe it's another dragon," said Carrot. "We should warn people and..."

"No," said Sergeant Colon vehemently, "because, Ae, they wouldn't believe us, and, Bee, we've got a king now. 'S his job, dragons."

"''S right," said Nobby. "He'd probably be really angry. Dragons are probably, you know, royal animals. Like deer. A man could probably have his tridlins plucked just for thinking about killing one, when there's a king around."

"Makes you glad you're common," said Colon.

"Commoner," corrected Nobby.

"Men?" Vimes leaned forward on his seat, squinting through the fog, which was getting thicker by the second. He could barely make out Lady Ramkin next to him on the seat. Her presence, on the other hand, burned him to his skin. Stop that. Now.

He coughed, to hide his growing discomfiture.

"Did a dragon go past? Er, apart from Errol, that is?"

Colon swallowed. "Might have done. Possibly. Maybe?"

"Then don't stand there like a lot of boobies! Get in! Plenty of room!" Lady Ramkin said heartily. She gave a shout to the horses and they set off at a respectable trot.

Inside the carriage, Colon gestured silently to Nobby, in the direction of Vimes who was up on the seat with Lady Ramkin. Nobby gave what was possibly the most horribly knowing wink back.

"You reckon?" Colon hissed.

'Course," Nobby grinned. "It's obvious."

Nobby settled back in his seat.

"What do you think you're doing?" Colon said a moment later.

"Wavin'," Nobby gestured graciously to the billowing folds of fog.

"Stop it!"

Up on the seat, Vimes was getting exasperated. "It's impossible in this fog!" he exclaimed.

Down below, Errol's progress was slowing. He kept stopping and whining up at the fog above.

"Well, Errol looks like he thinks it's near," Lady Ramkin said at last.

Almost in acknowledgement the fog ahead lit up. It flamed like a chrysanthemum and went 'whoomph.'

Lady Ramkin and Vimes sat motionless. As one, they looked at each other, seeing their own horror mirrored in the other's eyes.

"Not again!" Vimes moaned.

Lady Ramkin and Vimes leapt as one from the carriage and ran down the road towards the now smoking ruin; Colon, Nobby and Carrot hard on their heels. The great dragon was nowhere in sight. Standing by the smouldering ashes was a lone figure in a cowled robe, shaking violently, the pizza boxes in his hand shuddering precariously.

"Who's that?" Lady Ramkin hissed to Vimes, as they approached.

Vimes gave a bewildered shrug, and, deciding that it had some serious questions to answer, approached the figure, tapping it on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, Sir, did you..."

The man turned towards Vimes. Despite himself, Vimes recoiled slightly at the expression the man was wearing. He was wearing the expression of a man who has wandered into hell and heard the door shut behind him. He kept opening and closing his mouth, but no words were coming out. Lady Ramkin murmured "oh my," as she also saw the man's expression.

The man's expression was getting to Vimes. He rallied, and tried again.

"If you would be so good as to accompany us to the Yard, I have reason to believe - " he trailed off. He wasn't actually sure what the man was guilty of, but it was clear he was guilty of something. Wearing a cowled robe, and exhibiting bowel twisting terror at the smoking ruin of a building that an enormous dragon has just reduced to ash, made you damned bloody well guilty in Vimes' book.

"You can help us with our enquiries," he finished firmly.

"Good call," Lady Ramkin murmured in Vimes' ear. He started slightly, before relaxing and giving her a small smile before turning his attention back to the cowled figure.

"What do you make of it, Sergeant?" He asked stepping back, next to Lady Ramkin.

"Mmmmuuuuuuhhhhh," stuttered the man.

Sergeant Colon lifted the lid of the box he had removed from the now-prisoner.

"Klatchian hots, Sir," he said knowledgably. "With extra anchovies, if I'm any judge."

Lady Ramkin muffled a snort. Vimes rolled his eyes. "Not the pizza, man! I mean him!" He waved his hand at the cowled one.

Sergeant Colon bent his head and looked under the cowl.

"Oh I know him, Sir," he said grinning.

"Well?"

"Bengy 'Lightfoot' Boggis, Sir. He's a capo de monty in the Thieves Guild. I know him of old, Sir. Used to work at the University. Sly little bugger."

"Nnnnnuuuuhhhh."

"As a wizard?" Vimes hoped like hell that he wasn't a wizard. They brought nothing but trouble.

"Nah," Colon gently lifted a slice of Klatchian hots and took a greasy mouthful, pretending artfully not to see his superior's stare. "As an odd job man. Carpentry, gardening, that kind of thing. Used to nick stuff, so they got rid of him." Colon took another bite, licking his fingers.

"Oh? Did he?" Vimes narrowed his eyes at Boggis. "Bring him to the Yard." He glared again at the cowled figure.

"Dddrrrrrr," Boggis tried again.

Lady Ramkin was standing next to Vimes looking at the now-prisoner, but unlike Vimes she was filled with compassion for his undeniable personal hell. Whatever the man had done, he had clearly seen something that was petrifying him.

"Can't we do something for the poor man?" she asked Vimes, her eyes filled with such kindness that he had the sudden urge to drown in them. A feeling he had never felt before was beginning to permeate his very being, a feeling of such tenderness that he could almost, almost, forget how undeniably horrible the world was.

Before Vimes could answer, Nobby saluted smartly.

"I could kick him in the bollocks, if you like m'lady."

Vimes had never before seen someone's face immovably shut down, but that was exactly what Lady Ramkin's did. She smiled an iron hard smile, utterly devoid of any discernable emotion, determined not to convey that she had understood what had just been said to her.

"Mmm?" she said, noncommittally.

Vimes wheeled round, malevolently glaring at the Corporal, who hurriedly retreated behind the considerable bulk of Sergeant Colon.

"Dddddrrrrrr," Boggis shook uncontrollably.

"Put him in the coach, you two," Vimes snapped. "If it's alright with you, Lady Ramkin - "

"Sybil," corrected Lady Ramkin with an indulgent smile. She wondered if the Captain realized just how adorable he looked when he blushed. He seemed to do that a lot around her. She couldn't decide if he would blush around any woman, or if it was just her. She hoped it was the latter, because she knew she blushed around him. Damned hormones. She twisted her hands together as she watched him with his men. Despite being unmarried, Lady Ramkin was perceptive, and she knew that at the very least Colon and that funny Corporal had picked up on something between her and the Captain, even if she wasn't entirely sure what to call it herself.

Vimes ploughed on, despite the deepening hue of his cheeks. "It might be a good idea to get him indoors and in the warm, and get that damned silly robe off him. Charge him with the theft of one book, to whit, The Summoning of Dragons."

"Right you are Sir. The pizza's are getting cold too, you know how the cheese goes all manky..."

"No kicking him," Vimes admonished Nobby, who stared back sullenly. "Not even where it doesn't show!" Nobby moved his dogend from one side of his mouth to the other, glaring after Vimes mutinously.

"I still say..."

"Here, get this down you," Colon interrupted, shoving a slice of pizza into Nobby's hand.

"I wish he'd do summat about it," Nobby muttered.

"Keep out of it, that's my advice lad." Colon shuddered.

It was the day of the Coronation. If Vimes could have got out of attending, by any way possible, he would have done. However, in accordance with his position, he was entitled to a seat at official civic events. Time had turned the role of Captain of the Night Watch into something rather shabby, and had moved the seating arrangements so that he was on the lowest tier possible, but nonetheless he was there. Quite frankly, he was perfectly happy with being well away from the Thieves and Assassins, and other city notables. He scowled to himself. If they were the people that rise to high rank, he thought to himself, then give me the Night Watch. At least I haven't sold my bloody soul. He narrowed his eyes as he scanned the sky. It's up there, he thought to himself, allowing the sounds of the Coronation to wash over him. It can smell us, it's there. His eyes roved across the cloudy expanse, reliving in his mind's eye the vision of that huge face, and the sound of it breathing in, just before it incinerated you. Wait...what was that...

In her seat across the square, swathed in an acre of midnight blue velvet and several carats of Ramkin diamonds, Lady Ramkin was also scanning the sky. It's going to return, I know it is, she thought. There's no reason why it shouldn't return. A ready source of energy and completely ineffectual opposition. There's absolutely nothing to prevent it. She shivered slightly. Despite her love of dragons and admiration of the great dragon, she knew the implications only too well of the great dragon being a permanent fixture in the city. Any day now people will start down that damned silly virgin sacrifice route, she thought irritably. She barely registered the slightest interest in the coronation happening several feet away, save for gazing down at Captain Vimes. She was quite amused to see his embarrassment, which he struggled unsuccessfully to hide. He looked even more adorable to her when he flushed slightly like that. She was quite amazed that she seemed to affect him like that. She really didn't have much experience of this sort of thing.

It had taken every ounce of self control for Lady Ramkin not to jump up when Captain Vimes had been unceremonially marched from the square. She had seen the disdainful pride carved upon every line of his face, even though he was being publically humiliated there was part of him that would never be beaten. His eyes had slid sideways as his route across the square passed her line of seats, and just for a moment her eyes had met his. She swore that she actually felt electricity crackle for just a moment as she looked into his eyes. Then he was gone, shuffled roughly away from the crowds.

She sighed and looked back towards the sky. Then she saw it. A shadow that she had idly been keeping an eye on suddenly got much, much larger. It wasn't a raven. Not this time.

Vimes could feel the memory sitting in his mind, like a toothache that you can't help but tentatively prod just to make sure it's still there. His thoughts were very carefully circumnavigating around it, tumbling into his forebrain in an effort to keep him busy. He knew that eventually he would be forced to relive it. But hopefully, courtesy of Jimkin Bearhugger, he would be too drunk to care.

Lady Ramkin was transfixed. Amongst the faded aristocracy of Ankh-Morpork, witness to a charlatan coronation, she sat and watched with fatalistic fascination as the dragon slowly sculled closer and closer, red eyes riveted to the decorated plaza in front. Through the boiling clouds of fog it grew larger and larger, the only sound being the twang of bunting that snapped as it slowly but surely glided down the narrow street.

All around Lady Ramkin, pandemonium raged. Panicked citizens flowed like a tide out of the stands, kicking over chairs and other people in their haste to evacuate. The dragon completely ignored the screaming townsfolk, dropping suddenly in the middle of the plaza.

Lady Ramkin suddenly pulled herself together. Standing staring was not going to be a good move, she decided. This dragon was not one to lock up in a pen and sell as a shoulder sitter. Hastily, she adjusted her dress and hurried after the stream of people pressing against the outer perimeter of the plaza. Due to her admiring the dragon she discovered most of the vantage points had gone, leaving her exposed towards the centre of the plaza. Cursing, she scanned the other sides to no avail. The press of people silently watched her as her trawling gaze alighted upon one of the ornamental fountains and, with grim determination, she climbed into the lowermost bowel.

A sudden 'whoomph' behind her galvanized her into action and she swore afterwards that she leapt vertically into the uppermost bowel. Lifting her head, she saw, with a lurch of her stomach, a fine cloud of ash spiral gently downwards where she was positive the High Priest had been standing. Of the prior occupant of what remained of the throne, there was no sign. The great head swung around, observing the silent crowds crammed into the streets surrounding the Plaza of Broken Moons and the sides of the plaza itself, and, with great deliberation, squatted on the ruins of the throne and coronation dais. The symbolism of this gesture was not lost even on the average Ankh-Morporkian.

In the top bowel of the fountain, Lady Ramkin frowned to herself. The dragon clearly was not here just to feed or to carve out a new evolutionary niche for itself. It had sought out the coronation, it knew what it was looking for. She fidgeted; the bowel was small and the eroded statuary was prodding her somewhere a well brought up girl shouldn't know the name of. Her thoughts returned to the Captain. She hoped he was well away from this, although knowing him he had found a way to return. She smiled to herself, even as she kept one eye on the proceedings in the plaza. As she watched, the dragon unfurled its wings and flapped them once or twice, stretching luxuriously and clearly having absolutely no intention of moving.

The movements of the dragon had the effect of causing a fresh exodus from the plaza and the sudden swell of people coursed past the fountain where Lady Ramkin was huddled. Within minutes, the plaza was almost empty. Lady Ramkin peered over the rim of the bowel and her heart leapt. Of all the places... Making a decision, she hauled herself to her feet.

"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."

Vimes stared. The pink fog into which his brain habitually bounced whenever Lady Ramkin was around, had constricted around his vocal chords and threatened to crush the air out of his chest. Her words seared across his hindbrain, the meaning obvious. Despite the arch quality of the words and her expression, there was something indescribably fragile behind her eyes. Something that spoke of the first shoots of ... something ... something that could be utterly destroyed by the first frost, like the tiniest shoots in spring.

Never a man of words, Vimes resorted to his tried and tested method. Denial.

"It's just sitting there," Vimes said hurriedly. "Just looking around, as if it's waiting for something to happen."

He told himself he had imagined the small flash of hurt in her soft chocolate eyes. Even if she was interested, what would someone like her want with Vimes? At the most he would be a distraction. Something novel, someone different, a different lifestyle to try on for size. Even if she wasn't cruel, there would never be anything long term. How could there be? He would never be accepted in her world; she would never want to live in squalor. For all the romance of the idea of 'giving it all up for love', love won't pay the rent, it won't feed an empty stomach, it won't keep you dry in the rain or stop rain from leaking through the holes in your boots, it won't stop the derision of the city towards the Night Watch and it won't magically make a dollar stretch further. What it would do, without a doubt, would be to make a good woman miserable who deserved so much better, and for Vimes to have yet another reason to hate himself even more.

Somehow denial seemed the safest option by far. Stop it, before it gets out of hand, just in case. Be cruel to be kind.

They both turned to watch the enormous dragon, at the same time as the rubble by the reptile shifted, revealing a dazed and confused Lupine Wonse. Wonse looked upwards, very slowly, his face a rictus of terror. He stepped backwards, off the rubble, and began to run.

With surprising agility for a creature the size of a barn, the dragon darted forwards and snatched up the running Wonse. A talon drew him up slowly to the enormous face, the talon turning Wonse backwards and forwards. The nostrils appeared to be quivering slightly as the great dragon focused intently on the wriggling human.

"It looks like it's sniffing him!" Vimes whispered to Lady Ramkin, in astonishment.

"I know!" she whispered back, "It's marvelous how sensitive their senses actually are. They can sense your mood and everything, you know."

"So it's almost like an identification?"

"Oh yes," she agreed. "We all smell unique, just like to a dog or cat."

Abruptly the dragon slithered forward, balancing on three legs as it carried Wonse, ignoring the terrified spectators in the plaza, heading towards the Patrician's former palace. Sounds of complicated destruction floated back clearly on the breeze to the still silent crowd. Lady Ramkin and Vimes stood equally silently, close but not quite touching, each lost in their own thoughts.

Suddenly, Vimes began to chuckle. Lady Ramkin jumped slightly, turning towards him with a surprised look on her face. Somehow that made him laugh harder. Lady Ramkin's look of surprise was turning into incredulity as Vimes laughed so hard that he could barely breathe.

"Hooray!" he managed. "Hooray! Hooray!" He knew he was sculling on the edge of hysteria, but he also knew that depression would hit him like a lead souffle soon enough.

"What the hell is so funny?" she demanded, unconsciously placing her hands upon her ample hips. The domesticity of the scene would have shocked them both, if either of them could have seen it.

"We've crowned it! We've only gone and crowned it!" Vimes wiped tears of mirth from his cheeks, succumbing to a fresh wave of hysteria. "We wanted a king, now we've got one!"

"Have you been drinking?" Lady Ramkin snapped sharply. Inwardly she cringed at the fishwife tone of her voice, but she couldn't help it. She was concerned about him. About anything at all to do with him, she corrected herself. He was better than this, better than crawling into the nearest bottle and winding up in a gutter somewhere.

Not yet," he sniggered. "But I will be. Coronations must be toasted, mustn't they?" He smiled evilly at the plaza in front of them. The city got what it damned well deserved as far as he was concerned.

His eyes slid sideways to the woman standing next to him, and his smirk faded, like fog before the morning sun. Somehow he couldn't maintain his cynicism in the face of her boundless good nature. Right at that moment, he felt a sadness emanating from her, and he was annoyed at the reaction within him that that knowledge created. He didn't care what anyone thought, right? Right? Except... he cared a lot more than he let on about what Sybil thought. Vimes wasn't a cruel man, despite his cynicism and hard edge, they masked a deeply wounded soul. Someone who has looked failure and bad luck in the face one too many times and has decided that the way to live with the loaded deck that has been dealt to him is to not expect anything. Now, for the first time he could recall, he found himself caring far too much, not just that, but for someone who he could never have. Yes, he definitely needed a drink. He needed a drink to forget her.

He heard a gentle sigh. He suspected he would have heard that small sigh in a hurricane. He swallowed, hard. His fingers itched to clasp her hand and comfort her. Vimes closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Stop it! He commanded himself. But his mind wouldn't stop torturing him.

...he could see in his mind's eye his arm across her shoulders, feeling the softness and warmth of her porcelain skin against his fingers; catching the intoxicating scent that was just her as she moved in his arms, turning her head with the curiously intimate smile that was just for him...

Opening his eyes, he stared unseeingly at the now-quiet plaza, the coldness of reality banishing the clouds of his fantasy from his mind. He felt a curious emptiness inside as the images receded, the gnawing inside growing until he wanted to scream out loud and just lose himself in the uncontrollable emotion.

Lady Ramkin stood close to Vimes, watching the last few spectators trickle away, and leaning against the ornamental fountain. She would never tell him to stop drinking, she had no right to at all, but as an outsider, she could see more clearly than most the effect it was having on him. She covertly watched the man next to her, drinking in the lean lines, the dark eyes, the sense of only barely suppressed anger. Why this man had such an effect on her, she really didn't know. Perhaps it was the realness of him. Lady Ramkin had grown up surrounded by aristocracy, surrounded by people who would tell her what she wanted to hear or what they thought Lord Ramkin wanted to hear. As she grew up she saw how much of society and the world around them was constructed by lies and how words were indeed, just words. Everyone wanted something, and Lady Ramkin suffered from quite a disability for an aristocrat - she was far too clever to be taken in by the world in which she had grown up.

Captain Vimes, on the other hand, had morals and values so solid they could bend steel. Despite his humble beginnings, from what she could gather from delicately questioning Willikins, he was just, his blazing conviction of fairness and justice overcoming even the alcohol into which he habitually sunk. Ground down day in, day out, it wasn't really a surprise he should turn to drink. She just wished she could somehow let him know that he didn't need to do this alone. Someone cared. She bit her lip. Even if she communicated that, would he even want to know? Would he think she was trying to turn him into a charity case, a toy for a bored rich woman? She suspected his pride would make him walk away. She sighed, despondently.

As she watched him, a curious expression passed over his face. The angry lines smoothed out around his mouth, his eyes unfocused slightly and he looked...almost happy. She wondered what he was thinking of, surprising herself with the stab of jealousy that lanced through her as she wondered whether someone else was responsible for that brief happiness.

Just as soon as it arrived, the expression had gone, leaving in its wake an equally curious shuttered look.

Vimes cleared his throat.

"Um, Lady Ramkin - "

"Sybil..."

Vimes blushed, and ploughed on.

"Sybil, would you take a look at Errol?"

Lady Ramkin stared down in bemusement at Errol lying in the middle of one of her sick bays and pursed her lips as she ran her hands over his quivering flanks one more time. Captain Vimes hovered anxiously outside the pen, exhibiting a nervous energy that she could only assume was a craving for alcohol, before instantly scolding herself for the uncharitable thought.

Finally, she sat back on her heels and sighed.

"I'm damned if I know what's going on in there." She turned to Vimes and stared at him for a long moment that made him fidget uncomfortably, cheeks going pink. "What has he been eating?"

"Specifically?"

Lady Ramkin stared at him in surprise. "Has he eaten anything unusual?"

"Er, well, he eats pretty much anything really - Carrot's armour polish, a poker, some of throat Dibbler's sausages, a kettle..."

"A kettle of what?"

"No, just a kettle, with handle and spout?"

"He's eating indiscriminately?" Lady Ramkin asked disbelievingly.

"I don't know, he just seems to eat anything that's there. I don't know why he sniffs them first because he always eats whatever it is."

Vimes looked down at the little dragon. Underneath his pale skin movement could be discerned amid a low rumbling noise.

"You know what you said before, about them being able to reorganize their digestion?"

Lady Ramkin nodded as she tried to make the little dragon comfortable.

"Well," Vimes thought for a moment. "I think that might be what he's doing. I think he's trying to challenge the dragon."

Lady Ramkin looked appraisingly at Errol and back up at Vimes, nodding slowly as she considered the idea, whilst getting to her feet and joining Vimes outside the pen.

"It's certainly feasible," she said. "It would make sense. They fight like blazes and don't like to be challenged."

"Anyway..." Vimes said uncomfortably. "We can't leave him down there, we can't look after him. It's not as if we need to find out where the dragon is anymore, is it?" Vimes said the last bit with increasing bitterness.

Lady Ramkin led the way back to the house, pulling off her steel gauntlets.

"I think you're being really rather silly over this, you know."

Vimes goggled at her.

"Silly? I was sacked in front of all those people!"

"It was all just a misunderstanding, I'm sure." Lady Ramkin's composure never faltered as she looked at him, her chocolate eyes seeing far more than Vimes thought they should. Or should that be 'more than he was comfortable with?'

"I didn't misunderstand it!" This woman infuriated him...infuriated and excited him, in equal measure. He couldn't decide what was worse.

Lady Ramkin's mouth curved slightly. "Well, I think you're just upset because you're impotent."

Vimes' eyes bulged and the only noise that came out of his mouth was a strangled squeak. Impotent?!

"Against the dragon," Lady Ramkin continued unperturbed. "You can't do anything about it." The smile widened. "And it's put you in a position of helplessness...you don't like it."

"I reckon this damn city and the dragon just about deserve one another," said Vimes.

Lady Ramkin swallowed and bit her lower lip for a moment. "People are frightened. You can't expect much of people when they're so frightened." They both looked down as she gingerly touched his forearm. Vimes was acutely aware that this was a pivotal, fragile moment, but through the maelstrom in his brain he didn't have a clue how to respond.

"Not everyone's as brave as you," she continued, in a surprisingly small voice.

"Me?"

"When you stopped them killing my dragons?"

"Oh, that. That's not bravery. That was just people, people are easier." He shuddered. "I'll tell you something for nothing, I'm not looking up that dragon's nose again, I wake up at days thinking about that."

Well, there's your answer, Lady Sybil thought to herself.

"Oh." Lady Ramkin's voice was curiously flat, her arm dropped to her side. "Well, if you're sure...i've got a lot of friends, you know. If you need any help, you've only got to say. The Duke of Sto Helit is looking for a new guard Captain, I'm sure. I'll write you a letter. You'll like them, they're a very nice young couple."

Lady Ramkin forced a reassuring smile, even though Vimes was looking at the floor.

"I'm not sure what I'll do next," the gruffness in his voice knocked the wind out of her. "I'm considering offers."

"Well, of course. I'm sure you know best." Somehow her handkerchief was twisting around and around in her hands, an external, nervous manifestation of her inner turmoil.

Vimes nodded. He knew that somehow this conversation had gone badly and that it was down to him, but he had no idea how to rectify it. He felt adrift on an empty sea with no directions.

"Well then," Lady Ramkin was saying.

"Well," Vimes echoed.

"I, er, expect you'll be wanting to be off then," Lady Ramkin could only summon a washed out smile.

"Yes, I expect I had better be going." Vimes didn't move. His eyes seemed to be glued to the curves of her sensual mouth.

There was a pause that grew in intensity. Suddenly, they both spoke at once.

"It's been very..."

"I'd just like to say..."

"Sorry."

"No, you were speaking."

"No, sorry, you were saying?"

"Oh." Vimes hesitated. "I'll be off then."

"Oh. Yes." Lady Ramkin nodded, the washed out smile appearing briefly, eyes flickering up to glance at him before darting away again. "Can't keep all those offers waiting, can you?"

She thrust out a hand, an impermeable barrier already being put in place, keeping him firmly at arm's length. Vimes shook her hand carefully, unwilling to let go of the soft, pale skin.

"So, I'll just be going then," he said. Inside his head, his brain was screaming. Sam Vimes what have you done? You couldn't have done any worse if you had slapped her!

"Do call again," said Lady Ramkin more coldly. "If you are ever in this area. And so on. I'm sure Errol would like to see you."

"Yes. Well. Goodbye then."

"Goodbye, Captain Vimes." His name was pronounced with cold finality, the verbal equivalent of a door slamming shut.

Vimes felt so discomfited and embarrassed at his conduct, that he stumbled as he squeezed past her out of the door and into the darkness of the front garden. The warm gust of air from the hall, in accordance with the principles of thermodynamics, followed him down the overgrown path and reminded him of the chill now in the evenings.

Don't look back, don't look back he told himself. Don't give her hope. You've got nothing to give her, let her just get over you in her own time. It's kindest this way. For both of us.

When he heard the door close when he was only half way down the path, he felt as if he had been robbed. Did I read more into it...? Has she made a fool out of me, without even trying? Did I allow her to by thinking she cared?

Anger coiled in his gut - he wanted to get rid of that bloody dragon, to get his job back, to find whoever was behind this insanity, to punch someone until he was exhausted and could forget, just for once...

His eyes stared unseeingly into the dark. "Any of them get out?"

Sybil closed the heavy front door quietly, leaving her hand resting against the aged wood and took a deep breath. She closed her eyes, willing the hot, stinging, prickling sensation to disappear. I won't cry, I won't cry she told herself fiercely. She took another gulping breath to try to force away the wave of despair that had settled over her like a cloak, the heat rushing to her face.

Well, that could have gone better...

The stupid, stupid, dear man...

Remembering sitting beside Vimes on the coach as they rode across the Plaza of Broken Moons, walking beside him down Sweetheart Lane, watching him command his men and feeling the natural authority he possessed. Watching his endearing blush as he caught her eye by mistake, the small smile that tugged at his lips whenever he thought she wasn't looking, the dark eyes that penetrated her soul and stole her breath, the feel of the muscles underneath his shirt as she took his arm...

She sighed. Whatever else she was, she was at heart a pragmatist. Lifting her chin with Ramkin pride she pushed the rejection to one side, squared her considerable shoulders and ascended the staircase to bed.

Lady Ramkin's fitful slumber was rudely disturbed after what felt like mere minutes of sleep. Lady Ramkin had, despite her determination to the contrary, lay in bed thinking of Captain Vimes, unable to sleep. She had eventually dropped off and now...now someone was hammering at her front door. She glared with red-rimmed eyes at her bedroom door before her lethargic brain caught up with events. Sam! She hurriedly made her way to her dressing table, fumbling in the dark for her best wig and ramming it on her head. Her questing hand nudged a long forgotten bottle of perfume, a thoughtless present from a nephew a long time ago. She paused. Well, didn't men like that sort of thing? She wasn't sure. Opening the bottle, her nose crinkled. Even to her it smelt of rotting rose petals. But, if it is Sam... She held her breath and dabbed some on, as the door reverberated again. She hastily made her way down the stairs to the door, seeing the Watchman's plumes of his helmet through the glass. Glancing down at herself, she twitched the neckline of her suddenly too sensible nightdress into something slightly more revealing, and opened the door.

"Why Captain," she said winsomely. "This is a who the hell are you!"

To the luckless guard who had had the misfortune to be the one knocking on the door, a monstrous vision stood before him, angrily pulling up her nightdress and surrounded by the stench of rotting roses. He surreptitiously made a sign to ward off the evil eye before getting a grip on himself. The rubber boots perplexed him, though.

"Lady Ramkin?" He asked in a tone of voice not of one asking a question, but one seeking confirmation to an answer you can't believe is true.

"Use your eyes young man. Who do you think I am?" The monstrous Lady boomed.

"I've got a summons for Lady Sybil Ramkin," he said uncertainly.

Lady Ramkin gave him a withering look. "What do you mean, a 'summons'?"

"To attend upon the palace, you see - "

"I can't imagine why that would be necessary at this time in the morning." She made to slam the door, but at the last moment a sword jammed into it.

"Only if you don't, I have been ordered to, uh, take steps."

The door whipped back open. Lady Ramkin pressed her face against the guards, her fury very nearly physical, and her huge bosom quivering with rage.

"If you think you'll lay a hand on me," she began. The guard was forcibly reminded of the heritage of the woman who, at this point, was 3 inches from his nose. If Sybil Ramkin was bad, he was eternally grateful none of her forebears were still alive. His eyes momentarily slid in the direction of the dragon pens.

Lady Ramkin stepped backwards, her face pale. She surveyed the group of guards, all six of them cringed unconsciously as her gaze landed upon them.

"Very well." She said coldly. "Six of you to fetch one feeble woman," she continued, despite all evidence to the contrary. "You will, of course, allow me to fetch a coat. It is somewhat chilly." She turned on her heel and slammed the door.

The guards stood on the doorstep avoiding each other's eyes. The captain of the guard slumped despondently against the wall of the house. This wasn't how it was meant to go. Prisoners weren't allowed to keep you waiting, or shut the door on you, and they certainly weren't meant to go back inside for a coat. He scowled to himself. He had to hand it to the woman though, she had presence. Her furious, bristling rage and quivering bosom replayed in his mind again. He certainly didn't relish the thought of having to go in there and drag her out. 6 of them wouldn't be enough. You'd need industrial machinery and log rollers. He grimaced. He was beginning to feel the dignity - or indignity - of his position. As he pondered, the door swung open, revealing the dark hallway.

Captain Vimes slowed to a walk, wheezing and sobbing, and leant against the nearest wall drawing in great lungfuls of air. His eyes traced the ascent of the sun, very nearly at the apex of its trajectory and forced his leaden legs into something approximating a run.

Sacrifice! That did it, it really did, they've gone too far. The thoughts thundered in his head, the bruises on his upper arms from the Librarian hauling him through the bars of the Patrician's palace throbbed and his lungs felt as if they were on fire.

Too late, too late, too late... It's not like this, he thought desperately. The hero always gets there in the nick of time! Only that was probably 5 minutes ago...i'm out of condition, out of time, and out of luck. And i'm no hero.

Off to one side of the Plaza a huge fireball rose towards the sky in a shower of masonry and debris that wrapped itself around the surprised King of Ankh-Morpork who was approaching the Plaza. The great dragon had flamed a Bearhuggers distillery, which, naturally, exploded. The masonry had the net result of bringing the stunned dragon down in a cloud of bricks and morter inside the Plaza. Vimes elbowed his way through the crowds, the cleaver he had snatched up waving weakly in front of him, as he broke into the vast space occupied by the huge rock upon which was chained...Lady Sybil Ramkin. In a nightdress. With rubber boots. The nightdress was ripped and her face was scratched with a bruise beginning to purple on one cheek. He felt a momentary pang of sympathy for whoever else had been involved in the fight with her.

She gave him a look of pure fury.

"You!"

"You!"

He waved the cleaver vaguely.

"But why you - " he began.

Even chained upon her rock - where they had got the damned thing she didn't know, Ankh-Morpork was built on loam - Lady Ramkin resisted the urge to roll her eyes. A maiden pure, yet high-born, the proclamation had read. That's why. There was still something innocent about Captain Vimes, she mused.

"Captain Vimes," she said sharply. "You will oblige me by not waving that thing about and you will start putting it to its proper use!" Which was a statement that really could be taken a million different ways, she reflected afterwards.

Shaking the chains from her arms and legs, ignoring the ragged cheer that had risen from the crowd, Lady Ramkin stood slightly shakily. She wrapped a chain around one pudgy fist.

"Some of those guards don't know how to treat - " she began.

"No time, no time," Vimes tried to grab an arm. It was like trying to drag a mountain.

There wasn't time for either of them to say anything as the sound of clicking talons carried with distressing ease across the Plaza. Even being flattened by an exploding distillery couldn't hold this dragon down.

Vimes felt her hand engulf his.

"Jolly well done," she said with a small smile. "It nearly worked." She squeezed her hand, feeling the reflexive response of his.

Vimes, convinced his appointment with death had come, stared at the dragon's huge horse-like head as it drew nearer, red eyes fixed on its prey. It flicked its tail with an insolence that seemed to radiate off evey scale, its leisurely progress across the Plaza calculated to ensure maximum terror.

Before Vimes could even think of responding to Lady Ramkin, an ululating noise that had been hovering just on the threshold of hearing began to grow in volume. A tiny dot appeared in the sky, rapidly getting larger, and accompanied by a screeching noise of such force that the aural apparatus shut down. It was Errol. Errol the whittle. Errol the unwanted. Errol, the swamp dragon who flamed backwards and was now tearing up the sky in a display of such sonic superiority the the great dragon down below could do nothing but temporarily sit and stare. Vimes knew how it felt. His own mouth was hanging open, beside him Lady Ramkin was looking equally astounded. To their continued astonishment, Errol continued to draw the great dragon away, darting in, dodging flame, tearing across the skyline and divebombing the increasingly tiring larger dragon. The tide of the battle between the two ebbed and flowed - Errol darted and weaved, the larger dragon strutting with satisfaction every time it made contact with the smaller challenger.

"What's he doing?" Hissed Vimes to Lady Ramkin. "It doesn't look as is if he's fighting it! He's...he's...playing?"

"I'm not sure that we haven't got this the wrong way around, you know," Lady Ramkin frowned thoughtfully at the two dragons in the air. More to herself, she added, "I really should have thought of this before..."

Behind them, the rest of the squad had squelched to a standstill, and assembled in various states of dampness, having had to evacuate the burning distillery by way of jumping out of the nearest window and into a stagnant pond. Nobby was cheering on Errol especially loudly.

Vimes winced as Nobby made a particularly loud cat-call, and felt a burning sensation on the back of his neck. He turned around slowly, and saw the expression on Lady Ramkin's face. Her eyes softened as his mouth opened slightly, and she nodded gently.

"Oh..." Oh my...

"What's he doing? Errol! Wait, come back!"

Nobby's anguished wail made them both turn around.

"Total the bastard!" Nobby shouted at the retreating shapes of both Noble and Swamp dragon.

"Bitch, Nobby. Not bastard, bitch." Vimes said quietly. He looked back up at the sky again, where Errol could be seen flying around the larger shape of the other dragon in what he now knew to be a possessive manner. Despite himself he couldn't help a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth at the territorial display of affection.

Nobby, halfway through another chant, choked and stuttered to a halt. "Wha-? What?"

Vimes fidgeted slightly. Lady Ramkin was standing close to him now, and he could feel her body heat against his arm. It was seriously distracting.

"It's of the female gender, Nobby," Lady Ramkin explained.

Nobby's mouth still hung open in incomprehension; behind him Carrot's broad honest brow wrinkled and Colon merely blinked as he waited for his synapses to fire up.

"We meant that if you tried your favourite kick, it wouldn't work," Vimes said.

Mentally Vimes rolled his eyes.

"It's a girl," Lady Ramkin translated.

Heaven help us all if he ever breeds, Vimes thought to himself as he glared at Nobby. Wait...that was a road I really did not want to ever go down. He shuddered at the uninvited mental images.

"But...but...but it's sodding enormous!" Nobby burst out. Vimes whirled around ready to shake the Corporal by his scrawny neck, but caught sight of Lady Ramkin's blushing face and stopped himself. As it was, Nobby's comment fell into the huge, yawning chasm of conversation killers everywhere, and Vimes coughed urgently in a valiant attempt to stop Lady Ramkin from enduring any further embarrassment.

"Shut up," he snapped, as Colon and Carrot began to chip in, attempting to back peddle and repair the faux-pas Nobby had made. Lady Ramkin continued to blush and Vimes could feel a surge of protectiveness curling hotly in his gut. He glared at the sky as he willed the unfamiliar feeling to go away, missing the glances exchanged by Colon and Nobby, in the latter case accompanied by a thoroughly indecent wink and suggestive hand gesture. Even Carrot had looked sympathetic as he watched his commanding officer struggle with his emotions, and only Captain Vimes was unaware of what it all meant.

Lady Ramkin smiled gently as the drawing room door closed silently behind Willikins. The Patrician had been good enough to stop by that evening and inform her that Captain Vimes and his men were to receive "suitable recognition" for services rendered to the city; he had also cryptically alluded to somewhat confusing events in the Palace, referring to an "acute time of stress" and an understanding that words delivered in the heat of the moment may not always be the most appropriate but as long as the outcome was the same... Same old Havelock, she thought indulgently.

He had also given her remarkably penetrating stares and expressing subtle hopes as to her continuing happiness. She really should know by now that if she sat perfectly still in a darkened room for a year and never left it, his Lordship would be waiting outside to enquire why the light wasn't working. She got up to ready herself for bed. Her black velvet gown was laid out ready for the ceremony tomorrow, as were her jewels. She bit her lip nervously. She wanted to look her very best for Vimes, for SO many reasons.

Willikins had been given instructions to engage a firm of builders to repair the fabric of the house which had been gradually falling into more and more disrepair down the years. Her interest had never really been engaged with the more domestic side of her home, but now... Willikins was also tasked with finding a good firm of decorators to ensure the interior was as good as it could be. She was going all out on this, she knew she was, but if she was right...it would be worth the nerves and anxiety. HE would be worth it.

Settling into her seat off to one side with rest of Ankh-Morpork's aristocracy and dignitaries, Lady Ramkin, resplendent in her family jewels and hair beautifully curled, suppressed a smile as she tuned out Lord Verinari's soliloquy and let her gaze rest on Captain Vimes. She knew he was aware of her presence. She had seen him tune out and allow his gaze to wander - it had settled on her, until she gave in to her inner imp and had winked. He was now an interesting shade of scarlet and was staring straight ahead. Deciding that she had put in enough of an appearance, she slipped away unnoticed. Some things needed to be sorted out and time was of the essence.

Lady Ramkin bit her lip nervously and wiped suddenly damp palms on her midnight blue velvet gown. For the millionth time she checked her reflection in the antique mirror hanging over the fireplace that dominated an entire wall in the dining room. Her diamond necklace and earrings gleamed like tiny suns, their rays dancing and glittering in the candlelight from the ornate candlesticks on the dining table. Her worried brown eyes momentarily rested upon the equally valuable tiara that adorned her chestnut curls and she took a deep breath, willing her nerves to go. She double checked her makeup, feeling the glossiness of her lipstick and watching the minute particles of her blusher and eyeshadow sparkle as they caught the candlelight. Muffled voices in the hall made her swallow reflexively. Lady Ramkin wasn't good with nerves, it being a predominantly alien state for her. It annoyed her intensely, being such a slave to her emotion. She thrust her chin out like an anvil, determined to meet the outcome with forthright good humour and determination. Which lasted as long as it took for the dining room door to open and Vimes to enter.

Captain Vimes was wearing his watch uniform, and a nervous expression. He pointed vaguely behind him.

"The, uh, the dragons..."

Lady Ramkin smiled. "Brenda has been an invaluable help, I believe she has managed to find almost all of them."

"She, er, said you wanted to, er..."

Her smile grew warmer.

"Why don't you sit down, dinner's almost ready."

"If you'd said -"

"It doesn't matter, Sam."

And it didn't. It really didn't.

For Sam Vimes, whose life was a perpetually rainy day, the sun finally came out and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

Thank you for reading. Comments always welcome.