Men at Arms tds-15

by Terry Pratchett

  “That's right. I expect Dr Whiteface told you,” said Boffo.

  “I've spoken to Dr Whiteface,” said Carrot.

  Angua felt she was beginning to understand the way Carrot asked questions. He asked them by not asking them. He simply told people what he thought or suspected, and they found themselves filling in the details in an attempt to keep up. And he never, actually, told lies.

  Boffo pushed open a door and fussed around lighting a candle.

  “Here we are then,” he said. “I'm in charge of this, when I'm not on the bloody gate.”

  “Ye gods,” said Angua, under her breath. “It's horrible.”

  “It's very interesting,” said Carrot.

  “It's historical,” said Boffo the clown.

  “All those little heads…”

  They stretched away in the candlelight, shelf on shelf of them, tiny little clown faces—as if a tribe of head-hunters had suddenly developed a sophisticated sense of humour and a desire to make the world a better place.

  “Eggs,” said Carrot. “Ordinary hens' eggs. What you do is, you get a hen's egg, and you make a hole in either end and you blow the egg stuff out, and then a clown paints his make-up on the egg and that's his official make-up and no other clown can use it. That's very important. Some faces have been in the same family for generations, you know. Very valuable thing, a clown's face. Isn't that so, Boffo?”

  The clown was staring at him.

  “How do you know all that?”

  “I read it in a book.”

  Angua picked up an ancient egg. There was a label attached to it, and on the label were a dozen names, all crossed out except the last one. The ink on the earlier ones had faded almost to nothing. She put it down and unconsciously wiped her hand on her tunic.

  “What happens if a clown wants to use another clown's face?” she said.

  “Oh, we compare all the new eggs with the ones on the shelves,” said Boffo. “It's not allowed.”

  They walked between aisles of faces. Angua fancied she could hear the squelch of a million custard-filled trousers and the echoes of a thousand honking noses and a million grins of faces that weren't smiling. About halfway along was a sort of alcove containing a desk and chair, a shelf piled with old ledgers, and a workbench covered with crusted pots of paint, scraps of coloured horsehair, sequins and other odds and ends of the egg-painter's specialized art. Carrot picked up a wisp of coloured horsehair and twiddled it thoughtfully.

  “But supposing,” he said, “that a clown, I mean a clown with his own face… supposing he used another clown's face?”

  “Pardon?” said Boffo.

  “Supposing you used another clown's make-up?” said Angua.

  “Oh, that happens all the time,” said Boffo. “People're always borrowing slap off each other—”

  “Slap?” said Angua.

  “Make-up,” Carrot translated. “No, I think what the lance-constable is asking, Boffo, is: could a clown make himself up to look like another clown?”

  Boffo's brow wrinkled, like someone trying hard to understand an impossible question.

  “Pardon?”

  “Where's Beano's egg, Boffo?”

  “That's here on the desk,” said Boffo. “You can have a look if you like.”

  An egg was handed up. It had a blobby red nose and a red wig. Angua saw Carrot hold it up to the light and produce a couple of red strands from his pocket.

  “But,” she said, trying one more time to get Boffo to understand, “couldn't you wake up one morning and put on make-up so that you looked like a different clown?”

  He looked at her. It was hard to tell his expression under the permanently downcast mouth, but as far as she could tell she might as well have suggested that he performed a specific sex act with a small chicken.

  “How could I do that?” he said. “Then I wouldn't be me.”

  “Someone else might do it, though?”

  Boffo's buttonhole squirted.

  “I don't have to listen to this sort of dirty talk, miss.”

  “What you're saying, then,” said Carrot, “is that no clown would ever make up his face in another clown's, um, design?”

  “You're doing it again!”

  “Yes, but perhaps sometimes by accident a young clown might perhaps—”

  “Look, we're decent people, all right?”

  “Sorry,” said Carrot. “I think I understand. Now… when we found poor Mr Beano, he didn't have his clown wig on, but something like that could easily have got knocked off in the river. But his nose, now… you told Sergeant Colon that someone had taken his nose. His real nose. Could you,” said Carrot, in the pleasant tones of someone talking to a simpleton, “point to your real nose, Boffo?”

  Boffo tapped the big red nose on his face.

  “But that's—” Angua began.

  “—your real nose,” said Carrot. “Thank you.”

  The clown wound down a little.

  “I think you'd better go,” he said. “I don't like this sort of thing. It upsets me.”

  “Sorry,” said Carrot again. “It's just that… I think I'm having an idea. I wondered about it before… and I'm pretty certain now. I think I know about the person who did it. But I had to see the eggs to be sure.”

  “You saying another clown killed him?” said Boffo belligerently. “'Cos if you are, I'm going straight to—”

  “Not exactly,” said Carrot. “But I can show you the killer's face.”

  He reached down and took something from the debris on the table. Then he turned to Boffo and opened his hand. He had his back to Angua, and she could not quite see what he was holding. But Boffo gave a strangled cry and ran away down the avenue of faces, his big shoes flip-flopping hugely on the stone flags.

  “Thank you,” said Carrot, at his retreating back. “You've been very helpful.”

  He folded his hand again.

  “Come on,” he said. “We'd better begoing. I don't think we're going to be popular here in a minute or two.”

  “What was that you showed him?” Angua asked, as they proceeded with dignity yet speed towards the gate.

  “It was something you came here to find, wasn't it? All that stuff about wanting to see the museum—”

  “I did want to see it. A good copper should always be open to new experiences,” said Carrot.

  They made it to the gate. No vengeful pies floated out of the darkness.

  Angua leaned against the wall outside. The air smelled sweeter here, which was an unusual thing to say about Ankh-Morpork air. But at least out here people could laugh without getting paid for it.

  “You didn't show me what frightened him,” she said.

  “I showed him a murderer,” said Carrot. “I'm sorry. I didn't think he'd take it like that. I suppose they're all a bit wound up right now. And it's like dwarfs and tools. Everyone thinks in their own ways.”

  “You found the murderer's face in there?”

  “Yes.”

  Carrot opened his hand.

  It contained a bare egg.

  “He looks like this,” he said.

  “He didn't have a face?”

  “No, you're thinking like a clown. I am very simple,” said Carrot, “but I think what happened was this. Someone in the Assassins wanted a way of getting in and out without being seen. He realized there's only a thin wall between the two Guilds. He had a room. All he had to do was find out who lived on the other side. Later he killed Beano, and he took his wig and his nose. His real nose. That's how clowns think. Make-up wouldn't have been hard. You can get that anywhere. He walked into the Guild made up to look like Beano. He cut through the wall. Then he strolled down to the quad outside the museum, only this time he was dressed as an Assassin. He got the… the gonne and came back here. He went through the wall again, dressed up as Beano, and strolled away. And then someone killed him.”

  “Boffo said Beano looked worried,” said Angua.

  “And I thought: that's odd, because you'd have to
see a clown right up close to know what his real expression was. But you might notice if the make-up wasn't on quite right. Like, maybe, if it was put on by someone who wasn't too used to it. But the important thing is that if another clown sees Beano's face go out of the door, he's seen the person leave. They can't think about someone else wearing that face. It's not how they think. A clown and his make-up are the same thing. Without his makeup a clown doesn't exist. A clown wouldn't wear another clown's face in the same way a dwarf wouldn't use another dwarf's tools.”

  “Sounds risky, though,” said Angua.

  “It was. It was very risky.”

  “Carrot? What are you going to do now?”

  “I think it might be a good idea to find out whose room was on the other side of the hole, don't you? I think it might belong to Beano's little friend.”

  “In the Assassins' Guild? Just us?”

  “Um. You've got a point.”

  Carrot looked so crestfallen that Angua gave in.

  “What time is it?” she said.

  Carrot very carefully took Captain Vimes' presentation watch out of its cloth case.

  “It's—”

  –abing, abing, abong, bong… bing… bing…

  They waited patiently until it had finished.

  “A quarter to seven,” said Carrot. “Absolutely accurate, too. I put it right by the big sundial in the University.”

  Angua glanced at the sky.

  “OK,” she said. “I can find out, I think. Leave it to me.”

  “How?”

  “Er… I… well, I could get out of uniform, couldn't I, and, oh, talk my way in as a kitchen maid's sister or something…”

  Carrot looked doubtful.

  “You think that'll work?”

  “Can you think of anything better?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Well, then. I'll… er… look… you go back to the rest of the men and… I'll find somewhere to change into something more suitable.”

  She didn't have to look around to recognize where the snigger came from. Gaspode had a way of turning up silently like a small puff of methane in a crowded room, and with the latter's distressing ability to fill up all available space.

  “Where can you get a change of clothes around here?” said Carrot.

  “A good Watchman is always ready to improvise,” said Angua.

  “That little dog is awfully wheezy,” said Carrot. “Why does he always follow us around?”

  “I really couldn't say.”

  “He's got a present for you.”

  Angua risked a glance. Gaspode was holding, but only just, a very large bone in his mouth. It was wider than he was long, and might have belonged to something that died in a tar pit. It was green and furry in places.

  “How nice,” she said, coldly. “Look, you go on. Let me see what I can do…”

  “If you're sure…” Carrot began, in a reluctant tone of voice.

  “Yes.”

  When he'd gone Angua headed for the nearest alley. There were only a few minutes to moonrise.

  Sergeant Colon saluted when Carrot came back, frowning in thought.

  “We can go home now, sir?” he suggested.

  “What? Why?”

  “Now it's all sorted out?”

  “I just said that to waylay suspicion,” said Carrot.

  “Ah. Very clever,” said the sergeant quickly. “That's what I thought. He's saying that to waylay suspicion, I thought.”

  “There's still a murderer out there somewhere. Or something worse.”

  Carrot ran his gaze over the ill-assorted soldiery.

  “But right now I think we're going to have to sort out this business with the Day Watch,” he said.

  “Er. People say it's practically a riot up there,” said Colon.

  “That's why we've got to sort it out.”

  Colon bit his lip. He was not, as such, a coward. Last year the city had been invaded by a dragon and he'd actually stood on a rooftop and fired arrows at it while it was bearing down on him with its mouth open, although admittedly he'd had to change his underwear afterwards. But that had been simple. A great big fire-breathing dragon was straightforward. There it was, right in front of you, about to broil you alive. That was all you had to worry about. Admittedly, it was a lot to worry about, but it was… simple. It wasn't any kind of mystery.

  “We're going to have to sort it out?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Good. I like sorting things out.”

  Foul Ole Ron was a Beggars' Guild member in good standing. He was a Mutterer, and a good one. He would walk behind people muttering in his own private language until they gave him money not to. People thought he was mad, but this was not, technically, the case. It was just that he was in touch with reality on the cosmic level, and had a bit of trouble focusing on things smaller, like other people, walls and soap (although on very small things, such as coins, his eyesight was Grade A).

  Therefore he was not surprised when a handsome young woman streaked past him and removed all her clothes. This sort of thing happened all the time, although up until now only on the inner side of his head.

  Then he saw what happened next.

  He watched as the sleek golden shape streaked away.

  “I told 'em! I told 'em! I told 'em!” he said. “I'll give 'em the wrong end of a ragman's trumpet, so I shall. Bug'r'em. Millennium hand and shrimp! I told 'em!”

  Gaspode wagged what was technically a tail when Angua re-emerged.

  “‘Change into fomefing more fuitable’,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the bone. “Good one. I brung you thif little token—”

  He dropped it on the cobbles. It didn't look any better to Angua's lupine eyes.

  “What for?” she said.

  “Stuffed with nourishin' marrowbone jelly, that bone,” he said accusingly.

  “Forget it,” said Angua. “Now, how do you normally get into the Assassins' Guild?”

  “And maybe afterwards we could kind of hang out in the middens along Phedre Road?” said Gaspode, his stump of a tail still thumping the ground. “There's rats along there that'll make your hair stand on—No, all right, forget I mentioned it,” he finished quickly, when fire flashed for a moment in Angua's eyes.

  He sighed.

  “There's a drain by the kitchens,” he said.

  “Big enough for a human?”

  “Not even for a dwarf. But it won't be worth it. It's spaghetti tonight. You don't get many bones in spaghetti—”

  “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 rubes 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…
r />   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—”