"Well," said Colon awkwardly, "he kept on shiv­ering, sort of thing, and groaning on about dragons and that. We felt sorry for him, to tell the truth. And then he jumps up and runs out of the door for no rea­son at all."

Vimes glanced at the sergeant's big, open, dishonest face.

"No reason?" he prompted.

"Well, we decided to have a bite, so I sent Nobby out to the baker's, see, and, well, we thought the pris­oner ought to have something to eat . . ."

"Yes?" said Vimes encouragingly.

"Well, when Nobby asked him if he wanted his fig­gin toasted, he just give a scream and ran off."

"Just that?" said Vimes. "You didn't threaten him in any way?"

"Straight up, Captain. Bit of a mystery, if you ask me. He kept going on about someone called Supreme Grand Master."

"Hmm." Vimes glanced out of the window. Grey fog lagged the world with dim light. "What time is it?" he said.

"Five of the clock, sir."

"Right. Well, before it gets dark…"

Colon gave a cough. "In the morning, sir. This is tomorrow, sir."

"You let me sleep all day?"

"Didn't have the heart to wake you up, sir. No dragon activity, if that's what you're thinking. Dead quiet all round, in fact."

Vimes glared at him and threw the window open.

The fog rolled in, in a slow, yellow-edged waterfall.

"We reckon it must of flown away," said Colon's voice, behind him.

Vimes stared up into the heavy, rolling clouds.

"Hope it clears up for the coronation," Colon went on, in a worried voice. "You all right, sir?"

It hasn't flown away, Vimes thought. Why should it fly away? We can't hurt it, and it's got everything it wants right here. It's up there 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 armour 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 upwards 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 toil."

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.

"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.