Guards! Guards!

somewhere.
    “You all right, sir?” Colon repeated.
    It’s got to be up high somewhere, in the fog. There’s all kinds of towers and things.
    “What time’s the coronation, Sergeant?” he said.
    “Noon, sir. And Mr. Wonse has sent a message about how you’re to be in your best armor among all the civic leaders, sir.”
    “Oh, has he?”
    “And Sergeant Hummock and the day squad will be lining the route, sir.”
    “What with?” said Vimes vaguely, watching the skies.
    “Sorry, sir?”
    Vimes squinted upward to get a better view of the roof. “Hmm?” he said.
    “I said they’ll be lining the route, sir,” said Sergeant Colon.
    “It’s up there, Sergeant,” said Vimes. “I can practically smell it.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Colon obediently.
    “It’s deciding what to do next.”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “They’re not unintelligent, you know. They just don’t think like us.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “So be damned to any lining of the route. I want you three up on roofs, understand?”
    “Yes, si—what?”
    “Up on the roofs. Up high. When it makes its move, I want us to be the first to know.”
    Colon tried to indicate by his expression that he didn’t.
    “Do you think that’s a good idea, sir?” he ventured.
    Vimes gave him a blank look. “Yes, Sergeant, I do. It was one of mine,” he said coldly. “Now go and see to it.”
    When he was left to himself Vimes washed and shaved in cold water, and then rummaged in his campaign chest until he unearthed his ceremonial breastplate and red cloak. Well, the cloak had been red once , and still was, here and there, although most of it resembled a small net used very successfully for catching moths. There was also a helmet, defiantly without plumes, from which the molecule-thick gold leaf had long ago peeled.
    He’d started saving up for a new cloak, once. Whatever had happened to the money?
    There was no one in the guardroom. Errol lay in the wreckage of the fourth fruit box Nobby had scrounged for him. The rest had all been eaten, or had dissolved.
    In the warm silence the everlasting rumbling of his stomach sounded especially loud. Occasionally he whimpered.
    Vimes scratched him vaguely behind the ears.
    “What’s up with you, boy?” he said.
    The door creaked open. Carrot came in, saw Vimes hunkered down by the ravaged box, and saluted.
    “We’re a bit worried about him, Captain,” he volunteered. “He hasn’t eaten his coal. Just lies there twitching and whining all the time. You don’t think something’s wrong with him, do you?”
    “Possibly,” said Vimes. “But having something wrong with them is quite normal for a dragon. They always get over it. One way or another.”
    Errol gave him a mournful look and closed his eyes again. Vimes pulled his scrap of blanket over him.
    There was a squeak. He fished around beside the dragon’s shivering body, pulled out a small rubber hippo, stared at it in surprise and then gave it one or two experimental squeezes.
    “I thought it would be something for him to play with,” said Carrot, slightly shamefaced.
    “You bought him a little toy?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “What a kind thought.”
    Vimes hoped Carrot hadn’t noticed the fluffy ball tucked into the back of the box. It had been quite expensive.
    He left the two of them and stepped into the outside world.
    There was even more bunting now. People were beginning to line the main streets, even though there were hours to wait. It was still very depressing.
    He felt an appetite for once, one that it’d take more than a drink or two to satisfy. He strolled along for breakfast at Harga’s House of Ribs, the habit of years, and got another unpleasant surprise. Normally the only decoration in there was on Sham Harga’s vest and the food was good solid stuff for a cold morning, all calories and fat and protein and maybe a vitamin crying softly because it was all alone. Now laboriously-made paper streamers criss-crossed the room and he was confronted with a crayonned menu in which the words “Coronasion” and “Royall” figured somewhere on every crooked line.
    Vimes pointed wearily at the top of the menu.
    “What’s this?” he said.
    Harga peered at it. They were alone in the grease-walled cafe.
    “It says ‘Bye Royarl Appointmente,’ Captain,” he said proudly.
    “What’s it mean?”
    Harga scratched his head with a ladle. “What it means is,” he said, “if the king comes in here, he’ll like it.”
    “Have you got anything