Guards! Guards!

what way up he was going to be when he got there. His only hope at this point lay in movement, and he vaulted and spun between the increasingly furious bursts of fire like a scared but determined random particle.
    The great dragon reared up with the sound of a dozen anchor chains being thrown into a corner, and tried to bat the tormenter out of the air.
    Vimes’s legs gave in at that point and decided that they might allow themselves to be heroic legs for a while. He scurried across the intervening space, sword at the ready for what good it might do, grabbed Lady Ramkin by an arm and a handful of bedraggled ballgown, and swung her onto his shoulder.
    He got several yards before the essential bad judgment of this move dawned on him.
    He went “Gngh.” His vertebrae and knees were trying to fuse into one lump. Purple spots flashed on and off in front of his eyes. On top of it all, something unfamiliar but apparently made of whalebone was poking sharply into the back of his neck.
    He managed a few more steps by sheer momentum, knowing that when he stopped he was going to be utterly crushed. The Ramkins hadn’t bred for beauty, they’d bred for healthy solidity and big bones, and they’d got very good at it over the centuries.
    A gout of livid dragonfire crackled into the flagstones a few feet away.
    Afterward he wondered if he’d only imagined leaping several inches into the air and covering the rest of the distance to the horsetrough at a respectable run. Perhaps, in extremis, everyone learned the kind of instant movement that was second nature to Nobby. Anyway, the horsetrough was behind him and Lady Ramkin was in his arms, or at least was pinning his arms to the ground. He managed to free them and tried to massage a bit of life back. What did you do next? She didn’t seem to be injured. He recalled something about loosening a person’s clothing, but in Lady Ramkin’s case that might be dangerous without special tools.
    She solved the immediate problem by grabbing the edge of the trough and hauling herself upright.
    “Right,” she said, “it’s the slipper for you—” Her eyes focused on Vimes for the first time.
    “What the hell’s going on—” she began again, and then caught the scene over his shoulder.
    “Oh sod ,” she said. “Pardon my Klatchian.”
    Errol was running out of energy. The stubby wings were indeed incapable of real flight, and he was remaining airborne solely by flapping madly, like a chicken. The great talons swished through the air. One of them caught one of the plaza’s fountains, and demolished it.
    The next one swatted Errol neatly.
    He shot over Vimes’s head in a straight rising line, hit a roof behind him, and slid down it.
    “You’ve got to catch him!” shouted Lady Ramkin. “You must! It’s vital!”
    Vimes stared at her, and then dived forward as Errol’s pear-shaped body slithered over the edge of the roof and dropped. He was surprisingly heavy.
    “Thank goodness,” said Lady Ramkin, struggling to her feet. “They explode so easily, you know. It could have been very dangerous.”
    They remembered the other dragon. It wasn’t the exploding sort. It was the killing-people kind. They turned, slowly.
    The creature loomed over them, sniffed and then, as if they were of no importance at all, turned away. It sprang ponderously into the air and, with one slow flap of its wings, began to scull leisurely away down the plaza and up and into the mists that were rolling over the city.
    Vimes was currently more concerned with the smaller dragon in his hands. Its stomach was rumbling alarmingly. He wished he’d paid more attention to the book on dragons. Was a stomach noise like this a sign they were about to explode, or was the point you had to watch out for the point when the rumbling stopped?
    “We’ve got to follow it!” said Lady Ramkin. “What happened to the carriage?”
    Vimes waved a hand vaguely in the direction that, as far as he could tell, the horses had taken in their panic.
    Errol sneezed a cloud of warm gas that smelled worse than something walled up in a cellar, pawed the air weakly, licked Vimes’s face with a tongue like a hot cheese-grater, struggled out of his arms and trotted away.
    “Where’s he off to?” boomed Lady Ramkin, emerging from the mists dragging the horses behind her. They didn’t want to come, their hooves were scraping up sparks, but they were fighting a losing battle.
    “He’s still trying to challenge it!” said