In the slow, brightly-outlined, desperate world Vimes was now inhabiting, which seemed to revolve around the craggy nostrils a few metres away from him, he became aware of a gentle hissing sound.

The dragon was taking a deep breath.

The intake of air stopped. Vimes looked into the darkness of the flame ducts and wondered whether he'd see anything, whether there'd be some tiny white glow or something, before fiery oblivion swept over him.

At that moment a horn rang out.

The dragon raised its head in a puzzled way and made a noise that sounded vaguely interrogative with­out being in any way a word.

The horn rang out again. The noise seemed to have a number of echoes that lived a life of their own. It sounded like a challenge. If that wasn't what it was, then the horn blower was soon going to be in trouble, because the dragon gave Vimes a smouldering look, unfolded its enormous wings, leapt heavily into the air and, against all the rules of aeronautics, flew slowly away in the direction of the sound.

Nothing in the world should have been able to fly like that. The wings thumped up and down with a noise like potted thunder, but the dragon moved as though it was idly sculling through the air. If it stopped flap­ping, the movement suggested, it would simply glide to a halt. It floated, not flew. For something the size of a barn with an armour-plated hide, it was a pretty good trick.

It passed over their heads like a barge, heading for the Plaza of Broken Moons.

"Follow it!" shouted Lady Ramkin.

"That's not right, it flying like that. I'm pretty sure there's something in one of the Witchcraft Laws," said Carrot, taking out his notebook. "And it's damaged the roof. It's really piling up the offences, you know."

"You all right, Captain?" said Sergeant Colon.

"I could see right up its nose," said Captain Vimes dreamily. His eyes focused on the worried face of the sergeant. "Where's it gone?" he demanded. Colon pointed along the street.

Vimes glowered at the shape disappearing over the rooftops.

"Follow it!" he said.

The horn sounded again.

Other people were hurrying towards the plaza. The dragon drifted ahead of them like a shark heading to­wards a wayward airbed, its tail flicking slowly from side to side.

"Some loony is going to fight it!" said Nobby.

"I thought someone would have a go," said Colon. "Poor bugger'll be baked in his own armour."

This seemed to be the opinion of the crowds lining the plaza. The people of Ankh-Morpork had a straightforward, no-nonsense approach to entertain­ment, and while they were looking forward to seeing a dragon slain, they'd be happy to settle instead for seeing someone being baked alive in his own armour. You didn't get the chance every day to see someone baked alive in their own armour. It would be some­thing for the children to remember.

Vimes was jostled and bounced around by the crowd as more people flooded into the plaza behind them.

The horn sounded a third challenge.

"That's a slug-horn, that is," said Colon knowledgeably. "Like a tocsin, only deeper."

"You sure?" said Nobby.

"Yep."

"It must have been a bloody big slug."

"Peanuts! Figgins! Hot sausages!" whined a voice behind them. "Hallo, lads. Hallo, Captain Vimes! In at the death, eh? Have a sausage. On the house."

"What's going on, Throat?" said Vimes, clinging to the vendor's tray as more people spilled around them.

"Some kid's ridden into the city and said he'd kill the dragon," said Cut-me-own-Throat. "Got a magic sword, he says."

"Has he got a magic skin?"

"You've got no romance in your soul, Captain," said Throat, removing a very hot toasting fork from the tiny frying pan on his tray and applying it gently to the buttock of a large woman in front of him. "Stand aside, madam, commerce is the lifeblood of the city, thank you very much. O'course," he continued, "by rights there should be a maiden chained to a rock. Only the aunt said no. That's the trouble with some people. No sense of tradition. This lad says he's the rightful air, too."

Vimes shook his head. The world was definitely go­ing mad around him. "You've lost me there," he said.

"Air," said Throat patiently. "You know. Air to the throne."

"What throne?"

"The throne of Ankh."

"What throne of Ankh?"

"You know. Kings and that." Throat looked reflec­tive. "Wish I knew what his bloody name is," he said. "I put an order in to Igneous the Troll's all-night wholesale pottery for three gross of coronation mugs and it's going to be a right pain, painting all the names in afterwards. Shall I put you down for a couple, Cap'n? To you ninety pence, and that's cutting me own throat."

Vimes gave up, and shoved his way back through the throng using Carrot as a lighthouse. The lance-constable loomed over the crowd, and the rest of the rank had anchored themselves to him.

"It's all gone mad," he shouted. "What's going on, Carrot?"

"There's a lad on a horse in the middle of the plaza," said Carrot. "He's got a glittery sword, you know. Doesn't seem to be doing much at the moment, though."

Vimes fought his way into the lee of Lady Ramkin.

"Kings," he panted. "Of Ankh. And Thrones. Are there?"

"What? Oh, yes. There used to be," said Lady Ramkin. "Hundreds of years ago. Why?"

"Some kid says he's heir to the throne!"

"That's right," said Throat, who'd followed Vimes in the hope of clinching a sale. ' 'He made a big speech about how he was going to kill the dragon, overthrow the usurpers and right all wrongs. Everyone cheered. Hot sausages, two for a dollar, made of genuine pig, why not buy one for the lady?"

"Don't you mean pork, sir?" said Carrot warily, eyeing the glistening tubes.

"Manner of speaking, manner of speaking," said Throat quickly. "Certainly your actual pig products. Genuine pig."

"Everyone cheers any speech in this city," growled Vimes. "It doesn't mean anything!"

"Get your pig sausages, five for two dollars!" said Throat, who never let a conversation stand in the way of trade. "Could be good for business, could monar­chy. Pig sausages! Pig sausages! Inna bun! And right­ing all wrongs, too. Sounds like a solid idea to me. With onions!"

"Can I press you to a hot sausage, ma'am?" said Nobby.

Lady Ramkin looked at the tray around Throat's neck. Thousands of years of good breeding came to her aid and there was only the faintest suggestion of horror in her voice when she said, "My, they look good. What splendid foodstuffs."