“Come on.”
He limped along.
“That was a good bone,” he said. “Hardly even started going green. Hah! I bet you wouldn’t say no to a box of chocolates from Mr. Hunk, though.”
He cringed as she rounded on him.
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing! Nothing!”
He trailed after her, whining.
Angua wasn’t happy, either. It was always a problem, growing hair and fangs every full moon. Just when she thought she’d been lucky before, she’d found that few men are happy in a relationship where their partner grows hair and howls. She’d sworn: no more entanglements like that.
As for Gaspode, he was resigning himself to a life without love, or at least any more than the practical affection experienced so far, which had consisted of an unsuspecting chihuahua and a brief liaison with a postman’s leg.
The No. 1 powder slid down the folded paper into the metal tube. Blast Vimes! Who’d have thought he’d actually head for the opera house? He’d lost a set of tubes up there. But there were still three left, packed neatly in the hollow stock. A bag of No. 1 powder and a rudimentary knowledge of lead casting was all a man needed to rule the city…
The gonne lay on the table. There was a bluish sheen to the metal. Or, perhaps, not so much a sheen as a glisten. And, of course, that was only the oil. You had to believe it was only the oil. It was clearly a thing of metal. It couldn’t possibly be alive.
And yet…
And yet…
“They say it was only a beggar girl in the Guild.”
Well? What of it? She was a target of opportunity. That was not my fault. That was your fault. I am merely the gonne. Gonnes don’t kill people. People kill people
.
“You killed Hammerhock! The boy said you fired yourself! And he’d repaired you!”
You expect gratitude? He would have made another gonne
.
“Was that a reason to kill him?”
Certainly. You have no understanding
.
Was the voice in his head or in the gonne? He couldn’t be certain. Edward had said there was a voice…it said that everything you wanted, it could give you…
Getting into the Guild was easy for Angua, even through the angry crowds. Some of the Assassins, the ones from noble homes that had big floppy dogs around the place in the same way that lesser folk have rugs, had brought a few with them. Besides, Angua was pure pedigree. She drew admiring glances as she trotted through the buildings.
Finding the right corridor was easy, too. She’d remembered the view from the Guild next door, and counted the number of floors. In any case, she didn’t have to look hard. The reek of fireworks hung in the air all along the corridor.
There was a crowd of Assassins in the corridor, too. The door of the room had been forced open. As Angua peered around the corner she saw Dr. Cruces emerge, his face suffused with rage.
“Mr. Downey?”
A white-haired Assassin drew himself to attention.
“Sir?”
“I want him found!”
“Yes, doctor—”
“In fact I want him inhumed! With Extreme Impoliteness! And I’m setting the fee at ten thousand dollars—I shall pay it personally, you understand? Without Guild tax, either.”
Several Assassins nonchalantly strolled away from the crowd. Ten thousand untaxed dollars was good money.
Downey looked uncomfortable. “Doctor, I think—”
“Think? You’re not paid to think! Heaven knows where the idiot has got to. I ordered the Guild searched! Why didn’t anyone force the door?”
“Sorry, doctor, Edward left us weeks ago and I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t
think
? What are you paid for?”
“Never seen
him
in such a temper,” said Gaspode.
There was a cough behind the chief Assassin. Dr. Whiteface had emerged from the room.
“Ah, doctor,” said Dr. Cruces. “I think perhaps we’d better go and discuss this further in my study, yes?”
“I really am most terribly sorry, my lord—”
“Don’t mention it. The little…devil has made us both look like fools. Oh…nothing personal, of course. Mr. Downey, the Fools and the Assassins will be guarding this hole until we can get some masons in tomorrow.
No one
is to go through, you understand?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Very well.”
“That’s Mr. Downey,” said Gaspode, as Dr. Cruces and the chief clown disappeared down the corridor. “Number two in the Assassins.” He scratched his ear. “He’d knock off old Cruces for tuppence if it wasn’t against the rules.”
Angua trotted forward. Downey, who was wiping his forehead with a black handkerchief, looked down.
“Hello, you’re new,” he said. He glanced at Gaspode. “And the mutt’s back, I see.”
“Woof, woof,” said Gaspode, his stump of a tail thumping the floor. “Incident’ly,” he added for Angua’s benefit, “he’s often good for a peppermint if you catch him in the right mood. He’s poisoned fifteen people this year. He’s almost as good with poisons as old Cruces.”
“Do I need to know that?” said Angua. Downey patted her on the head.
“Oh, Assassins shouldn’t kill unless they’re being paid. It’s these little tips that make all the difference.”
Now Angua was in a position to see the door. There was a name written on a piece of card stuck in a metal bracket.
Edward d’Eath.
“Edward d’Eath,” she said.
“There’s a name that tolls a bell,” said Gaspode. “Family used to live up Kingsway. Used to be as rich as Creosote.”
“Who was Creosote?”
“Some foreign bugger who was rich.”
“Oh.”
“But great-granddad had a terrible thirst, and granddad chased anything in a dress, his dress, you understand, and old d’Eath, well, he was sober and clean but lost the rest of the family money on account of having a blind spot when it came to telling the difference between a one and an eleven.”
“I can’t see how that loses you money.”
“It does if you think you can play Cripple Mr. Onion with the big boys.”
The werewolf and the dog padded back down the corridor.
“Do you know anything about Master Edward?” said Angua.
“Nope. The house was flogged off recently. Family debts. Haven’t seen him around.”
“You’re certainly a mine of information,” she said.
“I gets around. No one notices dogs.” Gaspode wrinkled his nose. It looked like a withered truffle. “Blimey. Stinks of gonne, doesn’t it.”
“Yes. Something odd about that,” said Angua.
“What?”
“Something not right.”
There were other smells. Unwashed socks, other dogs, Dr. Whiteface’s greasepaint, yesterday’s dinner—the scents filled the air. But the firework smell of what Angua was now automatically thinking of as the gonne wound around everything else, acrid as acid.
“What’s not right?”
“Don’t know…maybe it’s the gonne smell…”
“Nah. That started off here. The gonne was kept here for years.”
“Right. OK. Well, we’ve got a name. It might mean something to Carrot—”
Angua trotted down the stairs.
“’Scuse me…” said Gaspode.
“Yes?”
“How can you turn back into a woman again?”
“I just get out of the moonlight and…concentrate. That’s how it works.”
“Cor. That’s all?”
“If it’s technically full moon I can Change even during the day if I want to. I only
have
to Change when I’m in the moonlight.”
“Get away? What about wolfbane?”
“Wolfbane? It’s a plant. A type of aconite, I think. What about it?”
“Don’t it kill you?”
“Look, you don’t have to believe everything you hear about werewolves. We’re human, just like everyone else. Most of the time,” she added.
By now they were outside the Guild and heading for the alley, which indeed they reached, but it lacked certain important features that it had included when they were last there. Most notable of these was Angua’s uniform, but there was also a world shortage of Foul Ole Ron.
“Damn.”
They looked at the empty patch of mud.
“Got any other clothes?” said Gaspode.
“Yes, but only back in Elm Street. This is my only uniform.”
“You have to put some clothes on when you’re human?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I would have thought a nude woman would be at home in any company, no offense meant.”
“I prefer clothes.”
Gaspode sniffed at the dirt.
“Come on, then,” he sighed. “We’d better catch up Foul Ole Ron before your chainmail becomes a bottle of Bearhugger’s, yes?”
Angua looked around. The scent of Foul Ole Ron was practically tangible.
“All right. But let’s be quick about it.”
Wolfbane? You didn’t need daft old herbs to make your life a problem, if you spent one week every month with two extra legs and four extra nipples.
There were crowds around the Patrician’s Palace, and outside the Assassins’ Guild. A lot of beggars were in evidence. They looked ugly. Looking ugly is a beggar’s stock in trade in any case. These looked uglier than necessary.
The militia peered around a corner.
“There’s hundreds of people,” said Colon. “And loads of trolls outside the Day Watch.”
“Where’s the crowd thickest?” said Carrot.
“Anywhere the trolls are,” said Colon. He remembered himself. “Only joking,” he added.
“Very well,” said Carrot. “Everyone follow me.”
The babble stopped as the militia marched, lumbered, trotted and knuckled toward the Day Watch House.
A couple of very large trolls blocked the way. The crowd watched in expectant silence.
Any minute now, Colon thought, someone’s going to throw something. And then we’re all going to die.
He glanced up. Slowly and jerkily, gargoyle heads were appearing along the gutters. No one wanted to miss a good fight.
Carrot nodded at the two trolls.
They’d got lichen all over them, Colon noticed.
“It’s Bluejohn and Bauxite, isn’t it?” said Carrot.
Bluejohn, despite himself, nodded. Bauxite was tougher, and merely glared.
“You’re just the sort I was looking for,” Carrot went on.
Colon gripped his helmet like a size #10 limpet trying to crawl up into a size #1 shell. Bauxite was an avalanche with feet.
“You’re conscripted,” said Carrot.
Colon peeked out from under the brim.
“Report to Corporal Nobbs for your weapons. Lance-Constable Detritus will administer the oath.” He stood back. “Welcome to the Citizens’ Watch. Remember, every lance-constable has a field-marshal’s baton in his knapsack.”
The trolls hadn’t moved.
“Ain’t gonna be inna Watch,” said Bauxite.
“Officer material if ever I saw it,” said Carrot.
“Hey, you can’t put them in the Watch!” shouted a dwarf from the crowd.
“Why, hello, Mr. Stronginthearm,” said Carrot. “Good to see community leaders here. Why can’t they be in the militia?”
All the trolls listened intently. Stronginthearm realized that he was suddenly the center of attention, and hesitated.
“Well…you’ve only got the one dwarf, for one thing…” he began.
“
I’m
a dwarf,” said Carrot, “technically.”
Stronginthearm looked a little nervous. The whole issue of Carrot’s keenly embraced dwarfishness was a difficult one for the more politically minded dwarfs.
“You’re a bit big,” he said lamely.
“Big? What’s size got to do with being a dwarf?” Carrot demanded.
“Um…a lot?” whispered Cuddy.
“Good point,” said Carrot. “That’s a good point.” He scanned the faces. “Right. We need some honest, law-abiding dwarfs…you there…”
“Me?” said an unwary dwarf.
“Have you got any previous convictions?”
“Well, I dunno…I suppose I used to believe very firmly that a penny saved is a penny earned—”
“Good. And I’ll take…you two…and you. Four more dwarfs, yes? Can’t complain about that, eh?”
“Ain’t gonna be inna Watch,” said Bauxite again, but uncertainty modulated his tone.
“You trolls can’t leave now,” said Detritus. “Otherwise, too many dwarfs. That’s
numbers
, that is.”
“I’m not joining any Watch!” said a dwarf.
“Not man enough, eh?” said Cuddy.
“What? I’m as good as any bloody troll any day!”
“Right, that’s sorted out then,” said Carrot, rubbing his hands together. “Acting-Constable Cuddy?”
“Sir?”
“Hey,” said Detritus, “how come he suddenly full constable?”
“Since he was in charge of the dwarf recruits,” said Carrot. “And you’re in charge of the troll recruits, Acting-Constable Detritus.”
“I full acting-constable in charge of the troll recruits?”
“Of course. Now, if you would step out of the way, Lance-Constable Bauxite—”
Behind Carrot, Detritus drew a big proud breath.
“Ain’t gonna—”
“Lance-Constable Bauxite! You horrible big troll! You standing up straight! You saluting right now! You stepping out of the way of Corporal Carrot! You two troll, you come here! Wurn…two-er…tree…four-er! You in the Watch now! Aaargh, I cannot believe it what my eye it seeing! Where you from, Bauxite?”
“Slice Mountain, but—”
“Slice Mountain!
Slice Mountain
? Only…” Detritus looked at his fingers for a moment, and rammed them behind his back. “Only two-er things come from Slice Mountain! Rocks…an’…an’…” he struck out wildly, “other sortsa rocks! What kind
you
, Bauxite?”
“What the hell’s going on here?”
The Watch House door had opened. Captain Quirke emerged, sword in hand.
“
You two horrible troll! You raise your hand right now, you repeat troll oath
—”
“Ah, captain,” said Carrot. “Can we have a word?”
“You’re in real trouble,
Corporal
Carrot,” snarled Quirke. “Who do you think you are?”
“
I will do what I told
—”
“Don’t
wanna
be inna—”
Wham!
“
I will do what I told
—”
“Just the man on the spot, captain,” said Carrot cheerfully.
“Well, man on the spot, I’m the senior officer here, and you can damn well—”
“Interesting point,” said Carrot. He produced his black book. “I’m relieving you of your command.”
“—
otherwise I get my goohuloog head kicked in
.”
“—
otherwise I get my goohuloog head kicked in
.”
“Wha—? Are you mad?”
“No, sir, but I’m choosing to believe that you are. There are regulations laid down for this eventuality.”
“Where is your authority?” Quirke stared at the crowd. “Hah! I suppose you’ll say this armed mob is your authority, eh?”
Carrot looked shocked.
“No. The Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork, sir. It’s all down here. Can you tell me what evidence you have against the prisoner Coalface?”
“That damn troll? It’s a troll!”
“Yes?”
Quirke looked around.
“Look, I don’t have to tell you with everyone here—”
“As a matter of fact, according to the rules, you do. That’s why it’s called evidence. It means ‘that which is seen’.”
“Listen!” hissed Quirke, leaning toward Carrot. “He’s a
troll
. He’s as guilty as hell of
something
. They all are!”
Carrot smiled brightly.
Colon had come to know that smile. Carrot’s face seemed to go waxy and glisten when he smiled like that.
“And so you locked him up?”
“Right!”
“Oh. I see. I understand now.”
Carrot turned away.
“I don’t know what you think you’re—” Quirke began.
People hardly saw Carrot move. There was just a blur, a sound like a steak being thumped on a slab, and the captain was flat on the cobbles.
A couple of members of the Day Watch appeared cautiously in the doorway.
Everyone became aware of a rattling noise. Nobby was spinning the morningstar round and round on the end of its chain, except that because the spiky ball was a very heavy spiky ball, and because the difference between Nobby and a dwarf was species rather than height, it was more a case of both of them orbiting around each other. If he let go, it was an even chance that the target would be hit by a spiky ball or an unexploded Corporal Nobbs. Neither prospect pleased.
“Put it down, Nobby,” hissed Colon, “I don’t think they’re going to make trouble…”
“I can’t let go, Fred!”
Carrot sucked his knuckles.
“Do you think that comes under the heading of ‘minimum necessary force’, sergeant?” he asked. He appeared to be genuinely worried.
“Fred! Fred! What’ll I do?”
Nobby was a terrified blur. When you are swinging a spiky ball on a chain, the only realistic option is to keep moving. Standing still is an interesting but brief demonstration of a spiral in action.
“Is he still breathing?” said Colon.
“Oh, yes. I pulled the punch.”
“Sounds minimum enough to me, sir,” said Colon loyally.
“
Fredddd
!”
Carrot reached out absent-mindedly as the morningstar rocketed past and caught it by the chain. Then he threw it against the wall, where it stuck.
“You men in there in the Watch House,” he said, “come out now.”
Five men emerged, edging cautiously around the prone captain.
“Good. Now go and get Coalface.”
“Er…he’s in a bit of a bad temper, Corporal Carrot.”
“On account of being chained to the floor,” volunteered another guard.
“Well, now,” said Carrot. “The thing is, he’s going to be unchained right now.” The men shuffled their feet nervously, possibly remembering an old proverb that fitted the occasion very well.
*
Carrot nodded. “I won’t ask
you
to do it, but I might suggest you take some time off,” he said.
“Quirm is very nice at this time of year,” said Sergeant Colon helpfully. “They’ve got a floral clock.”
“Er…since you mention it…I’ve got some sick leave coming up,” one of them said.
“I should think that’s very probable, if you hang around,” said Carrot.
They sidled off as fast as decency allowed. The crowd hardly paid them any attention. There was still a lot more mileage in watching Carrot.
“Right,” said Carrot. “Detritus, you take some men and go and bring out the prisoner.”
“I don’t see why—” a dwarf began.
“You shut up, you horrible man,” said Detritus, drunk with power.
You could have heard a guillotine drop.
In the crowd, a number of different-sized knobbly hands gripped a variety of concealed weapons.
Everyone looked at Carrot.
That was the strange thing, Colon remembered later. Everyone looked at Carrot.
Gaspode sniffed a lamppost.
“I see Three-legged Shep has been ill again,” he said. “And old Willy the Pup is back in town.”
To a dog, a well-placed hitching post or lamp is a social calendar.
“Where are we?” said Angua. Foul Ole Ron’s trail was hard to follow. There were so many other smells.
“Somewhere in the Shades,” said Gaspode. “Sweetheart Lane, smells like.” He snuffled across the ground. “Ah, here he is again, the little…”
“’
ullo, Gaspode
…”
It was a deep, hoarse voice, a kind of whisper with sand in it. It came from somewhere in an alley.
“’
o’s yer fwiend, Gaspode
?”
There was a snigger.
“Ah,” said Gaspode. “Uh. Hi, guys.”
Two dogs emerged from the alley. They were huge. Their species was indeterminate. One of them was jet black and looked like a pit bull terrier crossed with a mincing machine. The other…the other looked like a dog whose name was almost certainly “Butch”. Both top and bottom set of fangs had grown so large that he appeared to be looking at the world through bars. He was also bow-legged, although it would probably be a bad if not terminal move for anyone to comment on this.
Gaspode’s tail vibrated nervously.
“These are my friends Black Roger and—”
“Butch?” suggested Angua.
“How did you know that?”
“A lucky guess,” said Angua.
The two big dogs had moved around so that they were on either side of them.
“Well, well, well,” said Black Roger. “Who’s this, then?”
“Angua,” said Gaspode. “She’s a—”
“—wolfhound,” said Angua.
The two dogs paced around them hungrily.
“Big Fido know about her?” said Black Roger.
“I was just—” Gaspode began.
“Well, now,” said Black Roger, “I reckon you’d be wanting to come with us. Guild night tonight.”
“Sure, sure,” said Gaspode. “No problem there.”
I could certainly manage either of them, Angua thought. But not both at once.
Being a werewolf meant having the dexterity and jaw power to instantly rip out a man’s jugular. It was a trick of her father’s that had always annoyed her mother, especially when he did it just before meals. But Angua had never been able to bring herself to do it. She’d preferred the vegetarian option.
“’ullo,” said Butch, in her ear.
“Don’t you worry about anything,” moaned Gaspode. “Me an’ Big Fido…we’re like that.”
“What’re you trying to do? Cross your claws? I didn’t know dogs could do that.”
“We can’t,” said Gaspode miserably.
Other dogs slunk out of the shadows as the two of them were half led, half driven along byways that weren’t even alleys any more, just gaps between walls. They opened out eventually into a bare area, nothing more than a large light well for the buildings around it. There was a very large barrel on its side in one corner, with a ragged bit of blanket in it. A variety of dogs were waiting around in front of it, looking expectant; some of them had only one eye, some of them had only one ear, all of them had scars, and all of them had teeth.
“You,” said Black Roger, “wait here.”
“Do not twy to wun away,” said Butch, “’cos having your intestines chewed often offends.”
Angua lowered her head to Gaspode level. The little dog was shaking.
“What have you got me into?” she growled. “This is the dog Guild, right? A pack of strays?”
“Shsssh! Don’t say that! These aren’t
strays
. Oh, blimey.” Gaspode glanced around. “You don’t just get
any
hound in the Guild. Oh, dear me, no. These are dogs that have been…” he lowered his voice, “…er…bad dogs.”
“Bad dogs?”
“Bad dogs. You naughty boy. Give him a smack. You bad dog,” muttered Gaspode, like some horrible litany. “Every dog you see here, right, every dog…run away. Run away from his or her actual owner.”
“Is that all?”
“All?
All
? Well. Of course. You ain’t exactly a dog. You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t know what it was like. But Big Fido…he told ’em. Throw off your choke chains, he said. Bite the hand that feeds you. Rise up and howl. He gave ’em pride,” said Gaspode, his voice a mixture of fear and fascination. “He told ’em. Any dog he finds not bein’ a free spirit—that dog is a dead dog. He killed a Dobermann last week, just for wagging his tail when a human went past.”
Angua looked at some of the other dogs. They were all unkempt. They were also, in a strange way, un-doglike. There was a small and rather dainty white poodle that still just about had the overgrown remains of its poodle cut, and a lapdog with the tattered remains of a tartan jacket still hanging from its shoulder. But they weren’t milling around, or squabbling. They had a uniform intent look that she’d seen before, although never on dogs.
Gaspode was clearly trembling now. Angua slunk over to the poodle. It still had a diamante collar visible under the crusty fur.
“This Big Fido,” she said, “is he some kind of wolf, or what?”
“Spiritually, all dogs are wolves,” said the poodle, “but cynically and cruelly severed from their true destiny by the manipulations of so-called humanity.”
It sounded like a quote. “Big Fido said that?” Angua hazarded.
The poodle turned its head. For the first time she saw its eyes. They were red, and as mad as hell. Anything with eyes like that could kill anything it wanted because madness, true madness, can drive a fist through a plank.
“Yes,” said Big Fido.
He had been a normal dog. He’d begged, and rolled over, and heeled, and fetched. Every night he’d been taken for a walk.
There was no flash of light when It happened. He’d just been lying in his basket one night and he’d thought about his name, which was Fido, and the name on the basket, which was Fido. And he thought about his blanket with Fido on it, and his bowl with Fido on it, and above all he brooded on the collar with Fido on it, and something somewhere deep in his brain had gone “click” and he’d eaten his blanket, savaged his owner and dived out through the kitchen window. In the street outside a labrador four times the size of Fido had sniggered at the collar, and thirty seconds later had fled, whimpering.
That had just been the start.
The dog hierarchy was a simple matter. Fido had simply asked around, generally in a muffled voice because he had someone’s leg in his jaws, until he located the leader of the largest gang of feral dogs in the city. People—that is, dogs—still talked about the fight between Fido and Barking Mad Arthur, a rottweiler with one eye and a very bad temper. But most animals don’t fight to the death, only to the defeat, and Fido was impossible to defeat; he was simply a very small fast killing streak with a collar. He’d hung on to bits of Barking Mad Arthur until Barking Mad Arthur had given in, and then to his amazement Fido had killed him. There was something inexplicably determined about the dog—you could have sandblasted him for five minutes and what was left still wouldn’t have given up and
you’d better not turn your back on it
.
Because Big Fido had a dream.
“Is there a problem?” said Carrot.
“That
troll
insulted that
dwarf
,” said Stronginthearm the dwarf.
“I heard Acting-Constable Detritus give an order to Lance-Constable…Hrolf Pyjama,” said Carrot. “What about it?”
“He’s a
troll
!”
“Well?”
“He insulted a dwarf!”
“Actually, it’s a technical milit’ry term—” said Sergeant Colon.
“That damn troll just happened to save my life today,” shouted Cuddy.
“What for?”
“What for?
What for
? ’Cos it was my life, that’s what for! I happen to be very attached to it!”