“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-grandad had a terrible thirst, and grandad 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 offence 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 towards 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 fieldmarshal'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 centre 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 Garret,” 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 towards 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 morning-star 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.28 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 lamp-post.
“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. “Sweethear 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.”
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