Have You Noticed Every Time We Meet A Dragon Turns Up?

Chapter 2

"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

Rating: K+ / T

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.

Chapter 2 is shorter, but it moves the story along :)

Captain Vimes 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.

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.

Slightly dazed, 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. "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.

"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.

"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. It was deafening. 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.

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.

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...

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