tp.guards!guards!-第28部分

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　on　the　hovering　bulk。
　The　boy's　horse　jigged　nervously　on　the　plaza's　flagstones　as　he　dismounted；　flourished　the　sword　and　turned　to　face　the　distant　enemy。
　He　certainly　looks　confident；　Vimes　told　himself。　On　the　other　hand；　how　does　the　ability　to　slay　dragons　fit　you　for　kingship　in　this　day　and　age？
　It　was　certainly　a　very　shiny　sword。　You　had　to　admit　that。
　　
　。。。
　　
　And　now　it　was　two　of　the　clock　the　following　morning。　And　all　was　well；　apart　from　the　rain。　It　was　drizzling　again。
　There　are　some　towns　in　the　multiverse　which　think　they　know　how　to　have　a　good　time。　Places　like　New　Orleans　and　Rio　reckon　they　not　only　know　how　to　push　the　boat　out　but　set　fire　to　the　harbour　as　well；　but　pared　to　Ankh…Morpork　with　its　hair　down　they're　a　Welsh　village　at　2　p。m。　on　a　wet　Sunday　afternoon。
　Fireworks　banged　and　sparkled　in　the　damp　air　over　the　turbid　mud　of　the　river　Ankh。　Various　domesticated　animals　were　being　roasted　in　the　streets。　Dancers　conga'd　from　house　to　house；　often　managing　to　pick　up　any　loose　ornaments　while　doing　so。　There　was　a　lot　of　quaffing　going　on。　People　who　in　normal　circumstances　would　never　think　of　doing　it　were　shouting　〃Hurrah〃。
　Vimes　stalked　gloomily　through　the　crowded　streets；　feeling　like　the　only　pickled　onion　in　a　fruit　salad。　He'd　given　the　rank　the　evening　off。
　He　wasn't　feeling　at　all　royalist。　He　didn't　think　he　had　anything　against　kings　as　such；　but　the　sight　of　Ankh…Morporkians　waving　flags　was　mysteriously　upsetting。　That　was　something　only　silly　subject　people　did；　in　other　countries。　Besides；　the　idea　of　royal　plumes　in　his　hat　revolted　him。　He'd　always　had　a　thing　about　plumes。　Plumes　sort　of；　well；　bought　you　off；　told　everyone　that　you　didn't　belong　to　yourself。　And　he'd　feel　like　a　bird。　It'd　be　the　last　straw。
　His　errant　feet　led　him　back　to　the　Yard。　After　all；　where　else　was　there？　His　lodgings　were　depressing　and　his　landlady　had　plained　about　the　holes　which；　despite　much　shouting；　Errol　kept　making　in　the　carpet。　And　the　smell　Errol　made。　And　Vimes　couldn't　drink　in　a　tavern　tonight　without　seeing　things　that　would　upset　him　even　more　than　the　things　he　normally　saw　when　he　was　drunk。
　It　was　nice　and　quiet；　although　the　distant　sounds　of　revelry　could　be　heard　through　the　window。
　Errol　scrambled　down　from　his　shoulder　and　started　to　eat　the　coke　in　the　fireplace。
　Vimes　sat　back　and　put　his　feet　up。
　What　a　day！　And　what　a　fight！　The　dodging；　the　weaving；　the　shouts　of　the　crowd；　the　young　man　standing　there　looking　tiny　and　unprotected；　the　dragon　taking　a　deep　breath　in　a　way　now　very　familiar　to　Vimes　。　。　。
　And　not　flaming。　That　had　surprised　Vimes。　It　had　surprised　the　crowd。　It　had　certainly　surprised　the　dragon；　which　had　tried　to　squint　at　its　own　nose　and　clawed　desperately　at　its　flame　ducts。　It　had　remained　surprised　right　up　to　the　moment　when　the　lad　ducked　in　under　one　claw　and　thrust　the　sword　home。
　And　then　a　thunderclap。
　You'd　have　thought　there'd　have　been　some　bits　of　dragon　left；　really。
　Vimes　pulled　a　scrap　of　paper　towards　him。　He　looked　at　the　notes　he'd　made　yesterday：
　Itym：　Heavy　draggon；　but　yet　it　can　flye　right　welle；
　Itym：　The　fyre　be　main　hot；　yet　issueth　from　ane　living　Thinge；
　Itym：　The　Swamp　dragons　be　right　Poor　Thinges；　yet　this　monstrous　Form　waxeth　full　mightily；
　Itym：　From　whence　it　eth　none　knowe；　nor　wither　it　goeth；　nor　where　it　bideth　betweentimes；　
　Itym：　Why　fore　did　it　burneth　so　neatlie　？
　　
　He　pulled　the　pen　and　ink　towards　him　and；　in　a　slow　round　hand；　added：
　　
　Itym：　Can　a　draggon　be　destroyed　into　utterlye　noe…thinge？
　　
　He　thought　for　a　while；　and　continued：
　　
　Itym：　Whyfore　did　it　Explode　that　noone　may　find　It；　search　they　greatly？
　A　puzzler；　that。　Lady　Ramkin　said　that　when　a　swamp　dragon　exploded　there　was　dragon　everywhere。　And　this　one　had　been　a　damn　great　thing。　Admittedly　its　insides　must　have　been　an　alchemical　nightmare；　but　the　citizens　of　Ankh…Morpork　should　still　have　been　spending　the　night　shovelling　dragon　off　the　streets。　No…one　seemed　to　have　bothered　about　this。　The　purple　smoke　was　quite　impressive；　though。
　Errol　finished　off　the　coke　and　started　on　the　fire　irons。　So　far　this　evening　he　had　eaten　three　cobblestones；　a　doorknob；　something　unidentifiable　he'd　found　in　the　gutter　and；　to　general　astonishment；　three　of　Cut…me…own　Throat's　sausages　made　of　genuine　pork　organs。　The　crunching　of　the　poker　going　down　mingled　with　the　patter　of　rain　on　the　windows。
　Vimes　stared　at　the　paper　again　and　then　wrote：
　　
　Itym：　How　can　Kinges　e　of　noethinge？
　　
　He　hadn't　even　seen　the　lad　close　to。　He　looked　personable　enough；　not　exactly　a　great　thinker；　but　definitely　the　kind　of　profile　you　wouldn't　mind　seeing　on　your　small　change。　Mind　you；　after　killing　the　dragon　he　could　have　been　a　cross…eyed　goblin　for　all　that　it　mattered。　The　mob　had　borne　him　in　triumph　to　the　Patrician's　palace。
　Lord　Vetinari　had　been　locked　up　in　his　own　dungeons。　He　hadn't　put　up　much　fight；　apparently。　Just　smiled　at　everyone　and　went　quietly。
　What　a　happy　coincidence　for　the　city　that；　just　when　it　needed　a　champion　to　kill　the　dragon；　a　king　came　forth。
　Vimes　turned　this　thought　over　for　a　while。　Then　he　turned　it　back　to　front。　He　picked　up　the　quill　and　wrote：
　　
　Itym：　What　a　happy　chance　it　be；　for　a　lad　that　would　be　Kinge；　that　there　be　a　Draggon　to　sloe　to　prove　beyond　doubt　his　honey　fiddes。
　　
　It　was　a　lot　better　than　birthmarks　and　swords；　that　was　for　sure。　He　twiddled　the　quill　for　a　while；　and　then　doodled：
　　
　Itym：　The　draggon　was　not　a　Mechanical　devise；　yette　surety　no　wizzard　has　the　power　to　create　a　beaste　of　that　mag；　magg；　maggnyt　Size。
　Itym：　Whye；　in　the　Pinche；　could　it　not　Flame？
　Itym：　Where　did　it　e　from？
　Itym：　Where　did　it　goe？
　　
　The　rain　pounded　harder　on　the　window。　The　sounds　of　celebration　became　distinctly　damp；　and　then　faded　pletely。　There　was　a　murmur　of　thunder。
　Vimes　underlined　goe　several　times。　After　further　consideration　he　added　two　more　question　marks：　？？
　After　staring　at　the　effect　for　some　time　he　rolled　the　paper　into　a　ball　and　threw　it　into　the　fireplace；　where　it　was　fielded　and　swallowed　by　Errol。
　There　had　been　a　crime。　Senses　Vimes　didn't　know　he　possessed；　ancient　policeman's　senses；　prickled　the　hairs　on　his　neck　and　told　him　there　had　been　a　crime。　It　was　probably　such　an　odd　crime　that　it　didn't　figure　anywhere　in　Carrot's　book；　but　it　had　been　mitted　all　right。　A　handful　of　high…temperature　murders　was　only　the　start　of　it。　He'd　find　it；　and　give　it　a　name。
　Then　he　stood　up；　took　his　leather　rain　cape　from　its　hook　behind　the　door；　and　stepped　out　into　the　naked　city。
　　
　。。。
　　
　This　is　where　the　dragons　went。
　They　lie　。。。
　Not　dead；　not　asleep。　Not　waiting；　because　waiting　implies　expectation。　Possibly　the　word　we're　looking　for　here　is　。。。angry。
　It　could　remember　the　feel　of　real　air　under　its　wings；　and　the　sheer　pleasure　of　the　flame。　There　had　been　empty　skies　above　and　an　interesting　world　below；　full　of　strange　running　creatures。　Existence　had　a　different　texture　there。　A　better　texture。
　And　just　when　it　was　beginning　to　enjoy　it；　it　had　been　crippled；　stopped　from　flaming　and　whipped　back；　like　some　hairy　canine　mammal。
　The　world　had　been　taken　away　from　it。
　In　the　reptilian　synapses　of　the　dragon's　mind　the　suggestion　was　kindled　that；　just　possibly；　it　could　get　the　world　back。　It　had　been　summoned；　and　disdainfully　banished　again。　But　perhaps　there　was　a　trail；　a　scent；　a　thread　which　would　lead　it　to　the　sky　。　。　。
　Perhaps　there　was　a　pathway　of　thought　itself　。　。　。
　It　recalled　a　mind。　The　peevish　voice；　so　full　of　its　own　diminutive　importance；　a　mind　almost　like　that　of　a　dragon；　but　on　a　tiny；　tiny　scale。
　Aha。
　It　stretched　its　wings。
　　。。。
　　
　Lady　Ramkin　made　herself　a　cup　of　cocoa　and　listened　to　the　rain　gurgling　in　the　pipes　outside。
　She　slipped　off　the　hated　dancing　shoes；　which　even　she　was　prepared　to　concede　were　like　a　pair　of　pink　canoes。　But　nobblyess　obligay；　as　the　funny　little　sergeant　would　say；　and　as　the　last　representative　of　one　of　Ankh…Morpork's　oldest　families　she'd　had　to　go　to　the　victory　ball　to　show　willing。
　Lord　Vetinari　seldom　had　balls。　There　was　a　popular　song　about　it；　in　fact。　But　now　it　was　going　to　be　balls　all　the　way。
　She　couldn't　stand　balls。　For　sheer　enjoyment　it　wasn't　a　patch　on　mucking　out　dragons。　You　knew　where　you　were；　mucking　out　dragons。　You　didn't　get　hot　and　pink　and　have　to　eat　silly　things　on　sticks；　or　wear　a　dress　that　made　you　look　like　a　cloud　full　of　cherubs。　Little　dragons　didn't　give　a　damn　what　you　looked　like　so　long　as　there　was　a　feeding　bowl　in　your　hands。
　Funny；　really。　She'd　always　thought　it　took　weeks；　months；　to　organize　a　ball。　Invitations；　decorations；　sausages　on　poles；　ghastly　chickeny　mixture　to　force　into　those　little　pastry　cases。　But　it　had　all　been　done　in　a　matter　of　hours；　as　if　someone　had　been　expecting　it。　One　of　the　miracles　of　catering；　obviously。　She'd　even　danced　with　the；　for　want　of　a　better　word；　new　king；　who　had　said　some　polite　words　to　her　although　they　had　been　rather　muffled。
　And　a　coronation　tomorrow。　You'd　have　thought　it'd　take　months　to　sort　out。
　She　was　still　musing　on　that　as　she　mixed　the　dragons'　late　night　feed　of　rock　oil　and　peat；　spiked　with　flowers　of　sulphur。　She　didn't　bother　to　change　out　of　the　ball　gown　but　slipped　the　heavy　apron　over　the　top；　donned　the　gloves　and　helmet；　pulled　the　visor　down　over　her　face　and　ran；　clutching　the　feed　buckets；　through　the　driving　rain　to　the　shed。
　She　knew　it　as　soon　as　she　opened　the　door。　Normally　the　arrival　of　food　would　be　greeted　with　hoots　and　whistles　and　brief　bursts　of　flame。
　The　dragons；　each　in　its　pen；　were　sitting　up　in　attentive　silence　and　staring　up　through　the　roof。
　It　was　somehow　scary。　She　clanged　the　buckets　together。
　〃No　need　to　be　afraid；　nasty　big　dragon　all　gone！〃　she　said　brightly。　〃Get　stuck　in　to　this；　you　people！〃
　One　or　two　of　them　gave　her　a　brief　glance；　and　then　went　back　to　their。。。
　What？　They　didn't　seem　to　be　frightened。　Just　very；　very　attentive。　It　was　lik