Vimes looked back up. Smoke trails spiralled across the city.
'I'm afraid it's not going to work,' said Lady Ramkin. 'Oh. Hallo, Nobby.'
'Afternoon, ma'am,' said Nobby, touching what he thought was his forelock.
'What d'you mean, it's not going to work?' said Vimes. 'Look at him go! It hasn't hit him yet!'
'Yes, but his flame has touched it several times. It doesn't seem to have any effect. It's not hot enough, I think. Oh, he's dodging well. But he's got to be lucky every time. It has only got to be lucky once.'
The meaning of this sank in.
'You mean,' said Vimes, 'all this is just — just show? He's just doing it to impress?'
' 'S'not his fault,' said Colon, materialising behind them. 'It's like dogs, innit? Doesn't really dawn on the poor little bugger that he's up against a big one. He's just ready for a scrap.'
Both dragons appeared to realise that the fight was the well-known Klatchian standoff. With another smoke ring and a billow of white flame they parted and retreated a few hundred yards.
The king hovered, flapping its wings quickly. Height. That was the thing. When dragon fought dragon, height was always the thing . . .
Errol balanced on his flame. He seemed to be thinking.
Then he nonchalantly kicked his back legs out as though hovering on your own stomach gases was something dragons had mastered over millions of years, somersaulted, and fled. For a moment he was visible as a silver streak, and then he was out over the city walls and gone.
A groan followed him. It came from ten thousand throats.
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