Guards! Guards!

that brick and you’re a dead man,” said Vimes, and then ducked and pushed his way through the press of people while the would-be thrower looked around in amazement.
    Carrot half-raised his club in a threatening gesture as Vimes climbed up the rubble pile.
    “Oh, hallo, Captain Vimes,” he said, lowering it, “I have to report I have arrested this—”
    “Yes, I can see,” said Vimes. “Did you have any suggestions about what we do next?”
    “Oh, yes, sir. I have to read it its rights, sir,” said Carrot.
    “I mean apart from that.”
    “Not really, sir.”
    Vimes looked at those parts of the dragon still visible under the rubble. How could you kill one of these? You’d have to spend a day at it.
    A lump of rock ricocheted off his breastplate.
    “Who did that?”
    The voice lashed out like a whip.
    The crowd went quiet.
    Sybil Ramkin scrambled up on the wreckage, eyes afire, and glared furiously at the mob.
    “I said,” she said, “who did that? If the person who did it does not own up I shall be extremely angry! Shame on you all!”
    She had their full attention. Several people holding stones and things let them drop quietly to the ground.
    The breeze flapped the remnants of her nightshirt as her Ladyship took up a new haranguing position.
    “Here is the gallant Captain Vimes—”
    “Oh gods,” said Vimes in a small voice, and pulled his helmet down over his eyes.
    “—and his dauntless men, who have taken the trouble to come here today, to save your—”
    Vimes gripped Carrot’s arm and maneuverd him down the far side of the heap.
    “You all right, Captain?” said the lance-constable. “You’ve gone all red.”
    “Don’t you start,” snapped Vimes. “It’s bad enough getting all those leers from Nobby and the sergeant.”
    To his astonishment Carrot patted him companionably on the shoulder.
    “I know how it is,” he said sympathetically. “I had this girl back home, her name was Minty, and her father—”
    “Look, for the last time, there is absolutely nothing between—” Vimes began.
    There was a rattle beside them. A small avalanche of plaster and thatch rolled down. The rubble heaved, and opened one eye. One big black pupil floating in a bloodshot glow tried to focus on them.
    “We must be mad,” said Vimes.
    “Oh, no, sir,” said Carrot. “There’s plenty of precedents. In 1135 a hen was arrested for crowing on Soul Cake Thursday. And during the regime of Psychoneurotic Lord Snapcase a colony of bats was executed for persistent curfew violations. That was in 1401. August, I think. Great days for the law, they were,” said Carrot dreamily. “In 1321, you know, a small cloud was prosecuted for covering the sun during the climax of Frenzied Earl Hargath’s investiture ceremony.”
    “I hope Colon gets a move on with—” Vimes stopped. He had to know. “How?” he said. “What can you do to a cloud?”
    “The Earl sentenced it to be stoned to death,” said Carrot. “Apparently thirty-one people were killed.” He pulled out his notebook and glared at the dragon.
    “Can it hear us, do you think?” he said.
    “I suppose so.”
    “Well, then.” Carrot cleared his throat and turned back to the stunned reptile. “It is my duty to warn you that you are to be reported for consideration of prosecution on some or all of the following counts, to whit: One, (One) i, that on or about 18th Grune last, in a place known as Sweetheart Lane, the Shades, you did unlawfully vent flame in a manner likely to cause grievous bodily harm, in contravention of Clause Seven of the Industrial Processes Act, 1508; AND THAT, One, (One) ii, that on or about 18th Grune last, in a place known as Sweetheart Lane, the Shades, you caused or did cause to cause the death of six persons unknown—”
    Vimes wondered how long the rubble would hold the creature down. Several weeks would be necessary, if the length of the charge sheet was anything to go by.
    The crowd went silent. Even Sybil Ramkin was standing in astonishment.
    “What’s the matter?” said Vimes to the upturned faces. “Haven’t you ever seen a dragon being arrested before?”
    “—Sixteen (Three) ii, on the night of Grune 24th last, you did flame or cause to flame those premises known as the Old Watch House, Ankh-Morpork valued at two hundred dollars; AND THAT, Sixteen (Three) iii, on the night of Grune 24th last, upon being apprehended by an officer of the Watch in the execution of his duty—”
    “I think we