In fact someone said, "You were nearly a goner there, Captain."

The pain sensations, which had taken advantage of Vimes's unconscious state to bunk off for a metaphor­ical quick cigarette, rushed back.

Vimes said, "Arrgh." Then he opened his eyes.

There was a ceiling. This ruled out one particular range of unpleasant options and was very welcome. His blurred vision also revealed Corporal Nobbs, which was less so. Corporal Nobbs proved nothing; you could be dead and see something like Corporal Nobbs.

Ankh-Morpork did not have many hospitals. All the Guilds maintained their own sanitariums, and there were a few public ones run by the odder religious or­ganisations, like the Balancing Monks, but by and large medical assistance was nonexistent and people had to die inefficiently, without the aid of doctors. It was generally thought that the existence of cures en­couraged sickness and was in any case probably against Nature's way.

"Have I already said 'Where am I?' " said Vimes faintly.

"Yes."

"Did I get an answer?"

"Dunno where this place is, Captain. It belongs to some posh bint. She said to bring you up here."

Even though Vimes's mind appeared to be full of pink treacle he nevertheless grabbed two clues and wrestled them together. The combination of 'rich' and 'up here' meant something. So did the strange chem­ical smell in the room, which even overpowered Nob­by's more everyday odours.

"We're not talking about Lady Ramkin, are we?" he said cautiously.

"You could be right. Great big biddy. Mad for drag­ons." Nobby's rodent face broke into the most horri­bly knowing grin Vimes had ever seen. "You're in her bed," he said.

Vimes peered around him, feeling the first overtures of a vague panic. Because now that he could halfway focus, he could see a certain lack of bachelor sockness about the place. There was a faint hint of talcum pow­der.

"Bit of a boodwah," said Nobby, with the air of a connoisseur.

"Hang on, hang on a minute," said Vimes. "There was this dragon. It was right over us ..."

The memory rose up and hit him like a zombie with a grudge.

"You all right, Captain?"

The talons, outspread, wide as a man's reach; the boom and thump of the wings, bigger than sails; the stink of chemicals, the gods alone knew what sort. . .

It had been so close he could see the tiny scales on its legs and the red gleam in its eyes. They were more than just reptile eyes. They were eyes you could drown in.

And the breath, so hot that it wasn't like fire at all, but something almost solid, not burning things but smashing them apart ...

On the other hand, he was here and alive. His left side felt as though it had been hit with an iron bar, but he was quite definitely alive.

"What happened?" he said.

"It was young Carrot," said Nobby. "He grabbed you and the sergeant and jumped off the roof just be­fore it got us."

"My side hurts. It must have got me," said Vimes.

"No, I reckon that was where you hit the privy roof," said Nobby. "And then you rolled off and hit the water butt."

"What about Colon? Is he hurt?"

"Not hurt. Not exactly hurt. He landed more sort of softly. Him being so heavy, he went through the roof. Talk about a short sharp shower of…"

"And then what happened?"

"Well, we sort of made you comfy, and then every­one went blundering about and shouting for the ser­geant. Until they found out where he was, o'course, then they just stood where they were and shouted. And then this woman come running up yelling," said Nobby.

"This is Lady Ramkin you're referring to?" said Vimes coldly. His ribs were aching really magnifi­cently now.

"Yeah. Big fat party," said Nobby, unmoved. "Cor, she can't half boss people about! 'Oh, the poor dear man, you must bring him up to my house this instant.' So we did. Best place, too. Everyone's running around down in the city like chickens with their heads cut off."

"How much damage did it do?"

"Well, after you were out of it the wizards hit it with fireballs. It didn't like that at all. Just seemed to make it stronger and angrier. Took out the University's entire Widdershins wing."

"And…?"

"That's about it, really. It flamed a few more things, and then it must of flown away in all the smoke."

"Noone saw where it went?''

"If they did, they ain't saying." Nobby sat back and leered. "Disgusting, really, her livin' in a room like this. She's got pots of money, sarge says, she's got no call livin' in ordinary rooms. What's the good of not wanting to be poor if the rich are allowed to go round livin' in ordinary rooms? Should be marble." He sniffed. "Anyway, she said I was to fetch her when you woke up. She's feeding her dragons now. Old little buggers, aren't they. It's amazing she's allowed to keep 'em."

"What do you mean?"

"You know. Tarred with the same brush, and that."

When Nobby had shambled out Vimes took another look around the room. It did, indeed, lack the gold leaf and marble that Nobby felt was compulsory for people of a high station in life. All the furniture was old, and the pictures on the wall, though doubtless valuable, looked the sort of pictures that are hung on bedroom walls because people can't think of anywhere else to put them. There were also a few amateurish watercolours of dragons. All in all, it had the look about it of a room that is only ever occupied by one person, and has been absent-mindedly moulded around them over the years, like a suit of clothes with a ceil­ing.

It was clearly the room of a woman, but one who had cheerfully and without any silly moping been get­ting on with her life while all that soppy romance stuff had been happening to other people somewhere else, and been jolly grateful that she had her health.

Such clothing as was visible had been chosen for sensible hardwearing qualities, possibly by a previous generation by the look of it, rather than its use as light artillery in the war between the sexes. There were bot­tles and jars neatly arranged on the dressing table, but a certain severity of line suggested that their labels would say things like "Rub on nightly" rather than "Just a dab behind the ears". You could imagine that the occupant of this room had slept in it all her life and had been called "my little girl" by her father until she was forty.

There was a big sensible blue dressing gown hang­ing behind the door. Vimes knew, without even look­ing, that it would have a rabbit on the pocket.

In short, it was the room of a woman who never expected that a man would ever see the inside of it.

The bedside table was piled high with papers. Feel­ing guilty, but doing it anyway, Vimes squinted at them.

Dragons was the theme. There were letters from the Cavern Club Exhibitions Committee and the Friendly Flamethrowers League. There were pamphlets and ap­peals from the Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons- "Poor little WINNY's fires were nearly Damped after Five years' Cruel Use as a Paint-Stripper, but now…" And there were requests for donations, and talks, and things that added up to a heart big enough for the whole world, or at least that part of it that had wings and breathed fire.