Chapter 10
Buffybot stared at the little swamp dragon, fascinated. She still had her badge - since Commander Vimes had decided that being an alien made of metal did not actually disqualify you from serving in the Night Watch of the City Guard of Ankh Morpork. And she was a member of the new Watch Union! And emancipated! Which was great. She'd never been either of those things before.
Commander Vimes had ordered her to remain on the premises of his mansion with Lady Sybil and Gaspode, while he continued to hunt the dragon. Gaspode, unnaturally clean and with the inside of his ears scrubbed pink, was sulking in the kitchen. But Buffybot was making the most of her opportunities.
"Can I pet him?" she asked eagerly.
"Of course you can," said Lady Sybil, delighted. "They like having their eyebrow ridges scratched. But watch out if they start hiccupping - you can get a nasty scorch mark that way. And if they start getting pop-eyed, or begin trembling, or you hear a nasty rumbling noise, drop down fast behind something structural and make sure your head is covered. Otherwise it's perfectly safe."
Buffybot stared at the knock-kneed little dragon in front of her. Moonmist Talonthrust II stared back. She extended a finger, and scratched. The dragon listed to one side, and his eye closed. There was faint whistling noise from his bottom, and the air became full of the scent of methane.
Lady Sybil gazed at the little dragon indulgently. "They do that when they're relaxed," she said, approval in her voice. "I think he likes you." She gazed across the courtyard where Sam and Carrot stood staring uselessly at the sky through which the larger dragon has passed, and then set off together towards the exit gate, heads bowed together as they discussed their next move. She sighed. Poor Sam was brooding again. Still, nothing she could do about it for now, except to make sure that he ate regular meals and remembered to change his underwear. She looked at the lance constable, who was on her knees making chirping noises to Moonmist as he lay on his side, tail writhing.
She slapped Buffybot heartily on the back, "I can see you're a natural with the little beasts." She picked up her slop pail, and tossed Moonmist a charcoal biscuit. "and that's one down; now to muck out the other twenty six."
Buffybot picked up her coal shovel, face glowing from the praise. Twenty six more - what fun!
Vimes snarled to himself. He was sitting down in the Watch House with Captain Carrot composing a report for Lord Vetinari about the events the last two days. Once it was sent he fully expected an early summons to the palace. An account of metal golems, golden orbs, chimerical dragons and parallel worlds was not the sort of thing he enjoyed seeing in black and white in a police report, and definitely not the sort of thing he wanted to have to expand upon before the disinterested gaze of Lord Vetinari. It was fantastical, and magical, and just exactly what annoyed him most, and made him wish that all practitioners of magic could be dropped into a deep hole, with a large mountain dropped into the hole on top of them. Some people might think that fantastical and magical things added colour to the dull everyday world, but he knew better. They were trouble, and generally extremely unhealthy for any non-fantastical and non-magical entities - as for example members of the Watch, or the general public - which stood in their way. He hunched his shoulders and brooded. Someone somewhere was behind all this upheaval, he knew it - and almost certainly for a criminal reason. And he planned to get them.
Spike stepped out of the Count's carriage, into a dark street somewhere in Ankh Morpork. The fur lining was preventing his silver handcuffs from burning, but they still itched unbearably. He wondered if that was deliberate, or just ignorance. Not that it really mattered - given the chance he'd gladly slaughter the Count, either way. He shouldered his way through a heaving mass of the great unwashed, Count Nosferatu casting a pallid shadow just behind him, his fingers resting lightly on his garnet ring.
From the street arose a great reek of rotting things - powerfully organic, and almost thick enough to cut with a knife. Spike's nose wrinkled. He'd forgotten what a world without hot and cold running water actually smelled like. Then his nostrils caught a whiff of something more appealing than rotting cabbage and emptied chamber pots, and his head lifted. Ah, a sausage seller pushing a cart was coming his way. Spike sniffed again. Frying sausages and something else ... rats? He frowned. Cooking was just a waste of a rat in his opinion.
"Sausage-inna-bun, rat-onna-stick! Buy yer sausage-inna-bun, or rat-onna-stick here!"
The cart came closer and Spike drew in a deep appreciative breath.
"Sausage-inna-bun, sir? Lovely juicy sausage, made with mostly pig product?" CMOT Dibbler held up a sausage on a skewer, and peered forward into the darkness, hoping to make a final sale for the night.
Spike gave him a very unfriendly look. He had now taken a closer sniff, and if there was pork in those sausages, then he was a flying armadillo. He gave a flash of fang and Dibbler recoiled.
The Count took Spike's arm, and he turned, another unfriendly look at the ready. "I really wouldn't, my dear boy," said the Count. "In hot weather such as this, at the very end of a long day spent festering on that tray, Mr Dibbler's products are almost 100 lethal for those not actually brought up in the city. And even those who are already dead can expect a very uncomfortable result." He shuddered fastidiously, "Once we reach my house I can offer you something much fresher - still running about, indeed." He licked his lips a little, unconsciously, as he spoke.
Spike rolled his eyes a little, briefly. Human blood rituals were so ... dismal. It took a vampire to really get a blood sacrifice party going - and he was retired. He walked on with the Count, plotting his next move. He had the notion that once The Brotherhood of The Orb discovered his little difficulty with eating people, his stock was likely to fall.
CMOT Dibbler gazed after their retreating figures and swallowed. He was a live and let live - or not-live - sort of a citizen. As long as he could sell a fellow citizen something he minded very little if that citizen were man, dwarf, troll or zombie. But a vampire without a ribbon, in the company of a bloke who wore black lipstick and an opera hat, was trouble. He pondered for a moment, and then pushed his cart away quickly into the darkness. Information, like everything else, had a value. And he had a notion just who would value this tidbit the most.
Buffybot scritched the eyebrow of the twenty seventh swamp dragon. Lord Mountgay Gayscale Talonthrust III of Ankh closed his eyes in ecstasy, and keeled over on his back with a little thump. She transferred her attentions to his round upturned belly.
"You have a wonderful way with dragons," said Lady Sybil admiringly. "Not a single little accident among them today, from either end. Normally strangers make them nervous, and that upsets the digestion."
"I think they're great!" said Buffybot enthusiastically. "And they're so cute, with their buggy eyes and flappy wings - and those darling little talons!" For as she spoke, LM Gayscale had clenched his talons reflexively into her wrist, and was clamped to her arm like some exotic bangle. Buffybot gently untangled him, and straightened. She'd had a really wonderful couple of hours, and Lady Sybil knew an amazing amount about her little charges. She was looking forward to reading her Ladyship's book, 'Guardians Of the Marsh: Draco Swampensis in Myth and Legend', once she got a free moment from Night Watching, crossbow practice, emancipation, and of course, finding her friends and getting home. Oh.
She gave a little guilty start when she realised how long it was since she'd put any thought into how to get herself rescued. Or giving the dragon its orb back. The orb was now in Commander Vimes' - or strictly, Captain Carrot's - safe in the Watch-House. (Commander Vimes had suggested it would be safer there than in her pack - and since Mrs Wiggins had dented it by throwing that very pack out of her first storey window, Buffybot had agreed with him.)
Now she gave a little firm nod. She would have to ask Commander Vimes for the orb back, and return it to its owner as soon as possible, and then see about finding Spike and going home. How, she wondered, could she get the dragon's attention? She pondered for a moment, chewing her lip, and then she sent a dazzling smile Lady Sybil's way, receiving a jolly but slightly puzzled smile in return. She had a Plan!