“Hright,” said Sergeant Colon, “this, men, is your truncheon, also nomenclatured your night stick or baton of office.” He paused while he tried to remember his army days, and brightened up.

“Hand you will look after hit,” he shouted. “You will eat with hit, you will sleep with hit, you—”

“'Scuse me.”

“Who said that?”

“Down here. It's me, Lance-Constable Cuddy.”

“Yes, pilgrim?”

“How do we eat with it, sergeant?”

Sergeant Colon's wound-up machismo wound down. He was suspicious of Lance-Constable Cuddy. He strongly suspected Lance-Constable Cuddy was a trouble-maker.

“What?”

“Well, do we use it as a knife or a fork or cut in half for chopsticks or what?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Excuse me, sergeant?”

“What is it, Lance-Constable Angua?”

“How exactly do we sleep with it, sir?”

“Well, I… I meant… Corporal Nobbs, stop that sniggering right now!” Colon adjusted his breastplate and decided to strike out in a new direction.

“Now, hwat we have 'ere is a puppet, mommet or heffigy”—indicating a vaguely humanoid shape made of leather and stuffed with straw, mounted on a stake—“called by the hnickname of Harthur, weapons training, for the use hof. Forward, Lance-Constable Angua. Tell me, Lance-Constable, do you think you could kill a man?”

“How long will I have?”

There was a pause while they picked up Corporal Nobbs and patted him on the back until he settled down.

“Very well,” said Sergeant Colon, “what you must do now is take your truncheon like so, and on the command one, proceed smartly to Harthur and on the command two, tap him smartly upon the bonce. Hwun… two…”

The truncheon bounced off Arthur's helmet.

“Very good, only one thing wrong. Anyone tell me what it was?”

They shook their heads.

“From behind,” said Sergeant Colon. “You hit 'em from behind. No sense in risking trouble, is there? Now you have a go, Lance-Constable Cuddy.”

“But sarge—”

“Do it.”

They watched.

“Perhaps we could fetch him a chair?” said Angua, after an embarrassing fifteen seconds.

Detritus sniggered.

“Him too little to be a guard,” he said.

Lance-Constable Cuddy stopped jumping up and down.

“Sorry, sergeant,” he said, “this isn't how dwarfs do it, see?”

“It's how guards do it,” said Sergeant Colon. “All right, Lance-Constable Detritus—don't salute–you give it a try.”

Detritus held the truncheon between what must technically be called thumb and forefinger, and smashed it over Arthur's helmet. He stared reflectively at the truncheon's stump. Then he bunched up his, for want of a better word, fist, and hammered Arthur over what was briefly its head until the stake was driven three feet into the ground.

“Now the dwarf, he can have a go,” he said.

There was another embarrassed five seconds. Sergeant Colon cleared his throat.

“Well, yes, I think we can consider him thoroughly apprehended,” he said. “Make a note, Corporal Nobbs. Lance-Constable Detritus—don't salute!—deducted one dollar for loss of truncheon. And you're supposed to be able to ask 'em questions afterwards.”

He looked at the remains of Arthur.

“I think around about now is a good time to demonstrate the fine points of harchery,” he said.

Lady Sybil Ramkin looked at the sad strip of leather that was all that remained of the late Chubby.

“Who'd do something like this to a poor little dragon?” she said.

“We're trying to find out,” said Vimes. “We… we think maybe he was tied up next to a wall and exploded.”

Carrot leaned over the wall of a pen.

“Coochee-coochee-coo?” he said. A friendly flame took his eyebrows off.

“I mean, he was as tame as anything,” said Lady Ramkin. “Wouldn't hurt a fly, poor little thing.”

“How could someone make a dragon blow up?” said Vimes. “Could you do it by giving it a kick?”

“Oh, yes,” said Sybil. “You'd lose your leg, mind you.”

“Then it wasn't that. Any other way? So you wouldn't get hurt?”

“Not really. It'd be easier to make it blow itself up. Really, Sam, I don't like talking about—”

“I have to know.”

“Well… at this time of year the males fight. Make themselves look big, you know? That's why I always keep them apart.”

Vimes shook his head. “There was only one dragon,” he said.

Behind them, Carrot leaned over the next pen, where a pear-shaped male dragon opened one eye and glared at him.

“Whosagoodboyden?” murmured Carrot. “I'm sure I've got a bit of coal somewhere—”

The dragon opened the other eye, blinked, and then was fully awake and rearing up. Its ears flattened. Its nostrils flared. Its wings unfurled. It breathed in. From its stomach came the gurgle of rushing acids as sluices and valves were opened. Its feet left the floor. Its chest expanded—

Vimes hit Carrot at waist height, bearing him to the ground.

In its pen the dragon blinked. The enemy had mysteriously gone. Scared off!

It subsided, blowing off a huge flame.

Vimes unclasped his hands from his head and rolled over.

“What'd you do that for, captain?” said Carrot. “I wasn't—”

“It was attacking a dragon!” shouted Vimes. “One that wouldn't back down!”

He pulled himself to his knees and tapped Carrot's breast-plate.

“You polish that up real bright!” he said. “You can see yourself in it. So can anything else!”

“Oh, yes, of course there's that,” said Lady Sybil. “Everyone knows you should keep dragons away from mirrors—”

“Mirrors,” said Carrot. “Hey, there were bits of—”

“Yes. He showed Chubby a mirror,” said Vimes.

“The poor little thing must have been trying to make himself bigger than himself,” said Carrot.

“We're dealing here,” said Vimes, “with a twisted mind.”

“Oh, no! You think so?”

“Yes.”

“But… no… you can't be right. Because Nobby was with us all the time.”

“Not Nobby,” said Vimes testily. “Whatever he might do to a dragon, I doubt if he'd make it explode. There's stranger people in this world than Corporal Nobbs, my lad.”

Carrot's expression slid into a rictus of intrigued horror.

“Gosh,” he said.

Sergeant Colon surveyed the butts. Then he removed his helmet and wiped his forehead.

“I think perhaps Lance-Constable Angua shouldn't have another go with the longbow until we've worked out how to stop her… her getting in the way.”

“Sorry, sergeant.”

They turned to Detritus, who was standing sheepishly behind a heap of broken longbows. Crossbows were out of the question. They sat in his massive hands like a hairpin. In theory the longbow would be a deadly weapon in his hands, just as soon as he mastered the art of when to let go.

Detritus shrugged.

“Sorry, mister,” he said. “Bows aren't troll weapon.”

“Ha!” said Colon. “As for you, Lance-Constable Cuddy—”

“Just can't get the hang of aiming, sergeant.”

“I thought dwarfs were famous for their skills in battle!”

“Yeah, but… not these skills,” said Cuddy.

“Ambush,” murmured Detritus.

Since he was a troll, the murmur bounced off distant buildings. Cuddy's beard bristled.

“You devious troll, I get my—”

“Well now,” said Sergeant Colon quickly, “I think we'll stop training. You'll have to… sort of pick it up as you go along, all right?”

He sighed. He was not a cruel man, but he'd been either a soldier or a guard all his life, and he was feeling put-upon. Otherwise he wouldn't have said what he said next.

“I don't know, I really don't. Fighting among yourselves, smashing your own weapons… I mean, who do we think we're fooling? Now, it's nearly noon, you take a few hours off, we'll see you again tonight. If you think it's worth turning up.”

There was a spang! noise. Cuddy's crossbow had gone off in his hand. The bolt whiffled past Corporal Nobbs' ear and landed in the river, where it stuck.