Vimes half-ran, half-staggered over the damp cobbles, out of breath and out of time.
It can't be like this, he thought wildly. The hero always cuts it fine, but he always get there just in the nick of time. Only the nick of time was probably five minutes ago.
And I'm not a hero. I'm out of condition, and I need a drink, and I get a handful of dollars a month without plumes allowance. That's not hero's pay. Heroes get kingdoms and princesses, and they take regular exercise, and when they smile the light glints off their teeth, ting. The bastards.
Sweat stung his eyes. The rush of adrenaline that had carried him out of the palace had spent itself, and was now exacting its inevitable toll.
He stumbled to a halt, and grabbed a wall to keep him upright while he gasped for air. And thus he saw the figures on the rooftop.
Oh, no! he thought. They're not heroes either! What do they think they're playing at?
It was a million-to-one chance. And who was to say that, somewhere in the millions of other possible universes, it might not have worked?
That was the sort of thing the gods really liked. But Chance, who sometimes can overrule even the gods, has 999,999 casting votes.
In this universe, for example, the arrow bounced off a scale and clattered away into oblivion.
Colon stared as the dragon's pointed tail passed overhead.
'It . . . missed . . .'he mouthed.
'But it couldn't of missed!' He stared red-eyed at the other two. 'It was a sodding last desperate million-to-one chance!'
Вы читаете Guards! Guards!
