Guards! Guards!

the book, and waited near the dread portal in the rain until the Elucidated Brethren had met and, when the last one left, followed him to his home, and murmured to himself in anthropoid surprise…
    And then ran back to his Library and the treacherous pathways of L-space.

    By mid-morning the streets were packed, Vimes had docked Nobby a day’s salary for waving a flag, and an air of barbed gloom settled over the Yard, like a big black cloud with occasional flashes of lightning in it.
    “‘Get up in a high place.’” muttered Nobby. “That’s all very well to say.”
    “I was looking forward to lining the streets,” said Colon. “I’d have got a good view.”
    “You were going on about privilege and the rights of man the other night,” said Nobby accusingly.
    “Yes, well, one of the privileges and rights of this man is getting a good view,” said the sergeant. “That’s all I’m saying.”
    “I’ve never seen the captain in such a filthy temper,” said Nobby. “I liked it better when he was on the drink. I reckon he’s—”
    “You know, I think Errol is really ill,” said Carrot.
    They turned toward the fruit basket.
    “He’s very hot. And his skin looks all shiny.”
    “What’s the right temperature for a dragon?” said Colon.
    “Yeah. How do you take it?” said Nobby.
    “I think we ought to ask Lady Ramkin to have a look at him,” said Carrot. “She knows about these things.”
    “No, she’ll be getting ready for the coronation. We shouldn’t go disturbing her,” said Colon. He stretched out his hand to Errol’s quivering flanks. “I used to have a dog that—arrgh! That’s not hot, that’s boiling!”
    “I’ve offered him lots of water and he just won’t touch it. What are you doing with that kettle, Nobby?”
    Nobby looked innocent. “Well, I thought we might as well make a cup of tea before we go out. It’s a shame to waste—”
    “Take it off him!”

    Noon came. The fog didn’t lift but it did thin a bit, to allow a pale yellow haze where the sun should have been.
    Although the passage of years had turned the post of Captain of the Watch into something rather shabby, it still meant that Vimes was entitled to a seat at official occasions. The pecking order had moved it, though, so that now he was in the lowest tier on the rickety bleachers between the Master of the Fellowship of Beggars and the head of the Teachers’ Guild. He didn’t mind that. Anything was better than the top row, among the Assassins, Thieves, Merchants and all the other things that had floated to the top of society. He never knew what to talk about. Anyway, the teacher was restful company since he didn’t do much but clench and un-clench his hands occasionally, and whimper.
    “Something wrong with your neck, Captain?” said the chief beggar politely, as they waited for the coaches.
    “What?” said Vimes distractedly.
    “You keep on staring upward,” said the beggar.
    “Hmm? Oh. No. Nothing wrong,” said Vimes.
    The beggar wrapped his velvet cloak around him.
    “You couldn’t by any chance spare—” he paused, calculating a sum in accordance with his station—“about three hundred dollars for a twelve-course civic banquet, could you?”
    “No.”
    “Fair enough. Fair enough,” said the chief beggar amiably. He sighed. It wasn’t a rewarding job, being chief beggar. It was the differentials that did for you. Low-grade beggars made a reasonable enough living on pennies, but people tended to look the other way when you asked them for a sixteen-bedroom mansion for the night.
    Vimes resumed his study of the sky.
    Up on the dais the High Priest of Blind Io, who last night by dint of elaborate ecumenical argument and eventually by a club with nails in it had won the right to crown the king, fussed over his preparations. By the small portable sacrificial altar a tethered billy goat was peacefully chewing the cud and possibly thinking, in Goat: What a lucky billy goat I am, to be given such a good view of the proceedings. This is going to be something to tell the kids.
    Vimes scanned the diffused outlines of the nearest buildings.
    A distant cheering suggested that the ceremonial procession was on its way.
    There was a scuffle of activity around the dais as Lupine Wonse chivvied a scramble of servants who rolled a purple carpet down the steps.
    Across the square, among the ranks of Ankh-Morpork’s faded aristocracy, Lady Ramkin’s face tilted upward.
    Around the throne, which