'I don't want to be burned alive,' said Sergeant Colon. 'My wife'd give me hell. So I suppose we've got to wossname, proclaim it. But don't worry, lad,' he said, patting Carrot on one muscular arm and repeating, as if he hadn't quite believed himself the first time, 'it won't come to that. People'll never stand for it.'
Lady Ramkin ran her hands over Errol's body.
'Damned if I know what's going on in there,' she said. The little dragon tried to lick her face. 'What's he been eating?'
'The last thing, I think, was a kettle,' said Vimes.
'A kettle of what?'
'No. A kettle. A black thing with a handle and spout. He sniffed it for ages, then he ate it.'
Enrol grinned weakly at him, and belched. They both ducked.
'Oh, and then we found him eating soot out of the chimney,' Vimes went on, as their heads rose again over the railings.
They leaned back over the reinforced bunker that was one of Lady Ramkin's sickbay pens. It had to be reinforced. Usually one of the first things a sick dragon did was lose control of its digestive processes.
'He doesn't look sick, exactly,' she said. 'Just fat.'
