Terry Pratchett - Men at Arms

“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.