'Right. Fine. I'll, er, I'll tell him to go away, then.'
Colon shut the door. The hinge leered.
'They call you sir,' said Angua. 'Do you notice that?'
'I know. It's not right. People ought to think for themselves, Captain Vimes says. The problem is, people only think for themselves if you tell them to. How do you spell “eventuality”?'
'I don't.'
'OK.' Carrot still didn't look around. 'We'll hold the city together through the rest of the night, I think. Everyone's seen sense.'
No they haven't, said Angua in the privacy of her own head. They've seen you. It's like hypnotism.
People live your vision. You-dream, just like Big Fido, only he dreamed a nightmare and you dream for everyone. You really think everyone is basically nice. Just for a moment, while they are near you, everyone else believes it too.
From somewhere outside came the sound of marching knuckles. Detritus' troop was making another circuit.
Oh, well. He's got to know sooner or later . . .
'Carrot?'
'Hmm?'
'You know . . . when Cuddy and the troll and me pined the Watch – well, you know why it was us three, don't you?'
'Of course. Minority group representation. One troll, one dwarf, one woman.'
'Ah.' Angua hesitated. It was still moonlight outside. She could tell him, run downstairs, Change and be well outside the city by dawn. She'd have to do it. She was an expert at running away from cities.
'It wasn't exactly like that,' she said. 'You see, there's a lot of undead in the city and the Patrician insisted that—'
'Give her a kiss,' said Gaspode, from under the bed.
Angua froze. Carrot's face took on the usual vaguely puzzled look of someone whose ears have just heard what their brain is programmed to believe doesn't exist. He began to blush.
'Gaspode!' snapped Angua, dropping into Canine.
'I know what I'm doin'. A Man, a Woman. It is Fate,' said Gaspode.
Angua stood up. Carrot shot up too, so fast that his chair fell over.
'I must be going,' she said.
'Um. Don't go—'
'Now you just reach out,' said Gaspode.
It'd never work, Angua told herself. It never does. Werewolves have to hang around with other werewolves, they're the only ones who understand . . .
But . . .
On the other hand . . . since she 'd have to run anyway . . .
She held up a finger.
'Just one moment,' she said brightly and, in one movement, reached under the bed and pulled out Gaspode by the scruff of his neck.
'You need me!' the dog whimpered, as he was carried to the door. 'I mean, what does he know? His idea of a good time is showing you the Colossus of Morpork! Put me—'
The door slammed. Angua leaned on it.
It'll end up just like it did in Pseudopolis and Quirm and—
Angua?' said Carrot.
She turned.
'Don't say anything,' she said. And it might be all right.'
After a while the bedsprings went glink.
And shortly after that, for Corporal Carrot, the Disc-world moved. And didn't even bother to stop to cancel the bread and newspapers.
Corporal Carrot awoke around four a.m., that secret hour known only to the night people, such as criminals, policemen and other misfits. He lay on his half of the narrow bed and stared at the wall.
It had definitely been an interesting night.
Although he was indeed simple, he wasn't stupid, and he'd always been aware of what might be called the mechanics. He'd been acquainted with several young ladies, and had taken them on many invigorating walks to see fascinating ironwork and interesting civic buildings until they'd unaccountably lost interest. He'd patrolled the Whore Pits often enough, although Mrs Palm and the Guild of Seamstresses were trying to persuade the Patrician to rename the area The Street of Negotiable Affection. But he'd never seen them in relation to himself, had never been quite sure, as it were, where he fitted in.
This was probably not something he was going to write to his parents about. They almost certainly knew.
He slid out of bed. The room was stifling hot with the curtains drawn.
Behind him, he heard Angua roll over into the hollow left by his body.
Then, with both hands, and considerable vigour, he threw open the curtains and let in the round, white light of the full moon.
Behind him, he thought he heard Angua sigh in her sleep.
There were thunderstorms out on the plain. Carrot could see lightning flashes stitching the horizon, and he could smell rain. But the air of the city was still and baking, all the hotter for the distant prospect of storms.
The University's Tower of Art loomed in front of him. He saw it every day. It dominated half the city.
Behind him, the bed went glink.
'I think there's going to be—' he began, and turned.
As he turned away, he missed the glint of moonlight on metal from the top of the tower.
Sergeant Colon sat on the bench outside the baking air of the Watch House.
There was a hammering noise from somewhere inside. Cuddy had come in ten minutes before with a bag of tools, a couple of helmets and a determined expression. Colon was damned if he knew what the little devil was working on.
He counted again, very slowly, ticking off names on his clipboard.
No doubt about it. The Night Watch had almost twenty members now. Maybe more. Detritus had gone critical, and had sworn in a further two men, another troll and a wooden dummy from outside Corksock's Natty Clothing Co.[27] If this went on they'd be able to open up the old Watch Houses near the main gates, just like the old days.
He couldn't remember when the Watch last had twenty men.
It had all seemed a good idea at the time. It was certainly keeping the lid on things. But in the morning the Patrician was going to get to hear about it, and demand to see the superior officer.
Now, Sergeant Colon was not entirely clear in his own mind who was the superior officer at the moment. He felt that it should be either Captain Vimes or, in some way he couldn't quite define, Corporal Carrot. But the captain wasn't around and Corporal Carrot was only a corporal, and Fred Colon had a dreadful apprehension that when Lord Vetinari summoned someone in order to be ironical at them and say things like 'Who's going to pay their wages, pray?' it would be him, Fred Colon, well and truly up the Ankh without a paddle.
They were also running out of ranks. There were only four ranks below the rank of sergeant. Nobby was getting stroppy about anyone else being promoted to corporal, so there was a certain amount of career congestion taking place. Besides, some of the Watch had got it into their heads that the way you got promoted was to conscript half a dozen other guards. At Detritus' current rate of progress, he was going to be High Supreme Major General by the end of the month.
And what made it all strange was that Carrot was still only a—
Colon looked up when he heard the tinkle of broken glass. Something golden and indistinct crashed through an upper window, landed in the shadows and fled before he could make out what it was.
The Watch House door slammed open and Carrot emerged, sword in hand.
'Where'd it go? Where'd it go?'
'Dunno. What the hell was it?'
Carrot stopped.
'Uh. Not sure,' he said.
'Carrot?'
'Sarge?'
'I should put some clothes on if I was you, lad.'
Carrot stayed looking into the pre-dawn gloom.
'I mean, I turned around and there it was, and—'
He looked down at the sword in his hand as if he hadn't realized that he was carrying it.
'Oh, damn!' he said.
He ran back to his room and grabbed his britches. As he struggled into them, he was suddenly aware of a thought in his head, clear as ice.
You are a pillock, what are you? Picked up the sword automatically, didn't you? Did it all wrong! Now she's run off and you'll never see her again!
He turned. A small grey dog was watching him intently from the doorway.
Shock like that, she might never Change back again said his thoughts. Who cares if she's a werewolf? That didn't bother you until you knew! Incident'ly, any biscuits about your person could be usefully thrown to the small dog in the doorway, although come to think of it the chances of having a biscuit on you right now are very small, so forget you ever thought it. Blimey, you really messed that up, right?
. . thought Carrot.
'Woof woof,' said the dog.
Carrot's forehead wrinkled.
'It's you, isn't it?' he said, pointing his sword.
'Me? Dogs don't talk,' said Gaspode, hurriedly. 'Listen, I should know. I am one.'
'You tell me where she's gone. Right now! Or . . .'
'Yeah? Look,' said Gaspode gloomily, 'the first thing I remember in my life, right, the first thing, was being thrown into the river in a sack. With a brick. Me. I mean, I had wobbly legs and a humorously inside-out ear, I mean, I was fluffy. OK, right, so it was the Ankh. OK, so I could walk ashore. But that was the start, and it ain't never got much better, J mean, J walked ashore inside the sack, dragging the brick. It took me three days to chew my way out. Go on. Threaten me.'
'Please?' said Carrot.
Gaspode scratched his ear.
'Maybe I could track her down,' said Gaspode. 'Given the right, you know, encouragement.'
He waggled his eyebrows encouragingly.
'If you find her, I'll give you anything you want,' said Carrot.
'Oh, well. If. Right. Oh, yes. That's all very well, is if. What about something up front? Look at these paws, hey? Wear and tear. And this nose doesn't smell by itself. It is a finely tuned instrument.'
'If you don't start looking right away,' said Carrot, 'I will personally—' He hesitated. He'd never been cruel to an animal in his life.
Til turn the matter over to Corporal Nobbs,' he said.
'That's what I like,' said Gaspode bitterly. 'Incentive.'
He presssed his blotchy nose to the ground. It was all show, anyway. Angua's scent hung in the air like a rainbow.
'You can really talk?' said Carrot.
Gaspode rolled his eyes.
' 'Course not,' he said.
The figure had reached the top of the tower.
Lamps and candles were alight all over the city. It was spread out below him. Ten thousand little earthbound stars . . . and he could turn off any one he wanted, just like that. It was like being a god.
It was amazing how sounds were so audible up here. It was like being a god. He could hear the howl of dogs, the sound of voices. Occasionally one would be louder than the rest, rising up into the night sky.
This was power. The power he had below, the power to say: do this, do that . . . that was just something human, but this . . . this was like being a god.
He pulled the gonne into position, clicked a rack of six bullets into position, and sighted at random on a light. And then on another one. And another one.
He really shouldn't have let it shoot that beggar girl. That wasn't the plan. Guild leaders, that was poor little Edward's plan. Guild leaders, to start with. Leave the city leaderless and in turmoil, and then confront his silly candidate and say: Go forth and rule, it is your destiny That was an old disease, that kind of thinking. You caught it from crowns, and silly stories. You believed . . . hah . . . you believed that some trick like, like pulling a s ,'ord from a stone was somehow a qualification for kingly office. A sword from a stone? The gonne was more magical than that. He lay down, stroked the gonne, and waited.
Day broke.
'I never touched nuffin,' said Coalface, and turned over on his slab.
Detritus hit him over the head with his club.
'Up you get, soldiers! Hand off rock and on with sock! It another beautiful day inna Watch! Lance-Constable Coalface, on your feet, you horrible little man!'
Twenty minutes later a bleary-eyed Sergeant Colon surveyed the troops. They were slumped on the benches, except for Acting-Constable Detritus, who was sitting bolt upright with an air of official helpfulness.
'Right, men,' Colon began, 'now, as you—'
'You men, you listen up good right now!' Detritus boomed.
'Thank you, Acting-Constable Detritus,' said Colon wearily. 'Captain Vimes is getting married today. We're Koing to provide a guard of honour. That's what we always used to do in the old days when a Watchman got wed. So I want helmets and breastplates bright and shiny. And cohorts gleaming. Not a speck of muck . . . where's Corporal Nobbs?'
There was a dink as Acting-Constable Detritus' hand bounced off his new helmet.
' Hasn't been seen for hours, sir!' he reported.
Colon rolled his eyes.
'And some of you will . . . Where's Lance-Constable Angua?' will personally—' He hesitated. He'd never been cruel to an animal in his life.
'I'll turn the matter over to Corporal Nobbs,' he said.
'That's what I like,' said Gaspode bitterly. 'Incentive.'
He presssed his blotchy nose to the ground. It was all show, anyway. Angua's scent hung in the air like a rainbow.
'You can really talk?' said Carrot.
Gaspode rolled his eyes.
' 'Course not,' he said.
The figure had reached the top of the tower.
Lamps and candles were alight all over the city. It was spread out below him. Ten thousand little earthbound stars . . . and he could turn off any one he wanted, just like that. It was like being a god.
It was amazing how sounds were so audible up here. It was like being a god. He could hear the howl of dogs, the sound of voices. Occasionally one would be louder than the rest, rising up into the night sky.
This was power. The power he had below, the power to say: do this, do that . . . that was just something human, but this . . . this was like being a god.
He pulled the gonne into position, clicked a rack of six bullets into position, and sighted at random on a light. And then on another one. And another one.
He really shouldn't have let it shoot that beggar girl. That wasn't the plan. Guild leaders, that was poor little Edward's plan. Guild leaders, to start with. Leave the city leaderless and in turmoil, and then confront his silly candidate and say: Go forth and rule, it is your destiny.
That was an old disease, that kind of thinking. You caught it from crowns, and silly stories. You believed . . . hah . . . you believed that some trick like, like pulling a sword from a stone was somehow a qualification for kingly office. A sword from a stone? The gonne was more magical than that. He lay down, stroked the gonne, and waited.
Day broke.
'I never touched nuffin,' said Coalface, and turned over on his slab.
Detritus hit him over the head with his club.
'Up you get, soldiers! Hand off rock and on with sock! It another beautiful day inna Watch! Lance-Constable Coalface, on your feet, you horrible little man!'
Twenty minutes later a bleary-eyed Sergeant Colon surveyed the troops. They were slumped on the benches, except for Acting-Constable Detritus, who was sitting bolt upright with an air of official helpfulness.
'Right, men,' Colon began, 'now, as you—'
'You men, you listen up good right now!' Detritus boomed.
'Thank you, Acting-Constable Detritus,' said Colon wearily. 'Captain Vimes is getting married today. We're going to provide a guard of honour. That's what we always used to do in the old days when a Watchman got wed. So I want helmets and breastplates bright and shiny. And cohorts gleaming. Not a speck of muck . . . where's Corporal Nobbs?'
There was a dink as Acting-Constable Detritus' hand bounced off his new helmet.
'Hasn't been seen for hours, sir!' he reported.
Colon rolled his eyes.
'And some of you will . . . Where's Lance-Constable Angua?'
Dink. 'No-one's seen her since last night, sir.'
'All right. We got through the night, we're going to get through the day. Corporal Carrot says we're to look sharp.'
Dink. 'Yes, sir!'
'Acting-Constable Detritus?'
'Sir?'
'What's that you've got on your head?'
Dink. 'Acting-Constable Cuddy made it for me, sir. Special clockwork thinking helmet.'
Cuddy coughed. 'These big bits are cooling fins, see? Painted black. I glommed a clockwork engine off my cousin, and this fan here blows air over—' He stopped when he saw Colon's expression.
'That's what you've been working on all night, is it?'
'Yes, because I reckon troll brains get too—'
The sergeant waved him into silence.
'So we've got a clockwork soldier, have we?' said Colon. 'We're a real model army, we are.'
Gaspode was geographically embarrassed. He knew where he was, more or less. He was somewhere beyond the Shades, in the network of dock basins and cattle-yards. Even though he thought of the whole city as belonging to him, this wasn't his territory. There were rats here almost as big as he was, and he was basically a sort of terrier shape, and Ankh-Morpork rats were intelligent enough to recognize it. He'd also been kicked by two horses and almost run over by a cart. And he'd lost the scent. She'd doubled back and forth and used rooftops and crossed the river a few times. Werewolves were instinctively good at avoiding pursuit; after all, the surviving ones were descendants of those who could outrun an angry mob. Those who couldn't outwit a mob never had descendants, or even graves.
Several times the scent petered out at a wall or a low-roofed hut, and Gaspode would limp around in circles until he found it again.
Random thoughts wavered in his schizophrenic doggy mind.
'Clever Dog Saves The Day,' he muttered. 'Everyone Says, Good Doggy. No they don't, I'm only doing it 'cos I was threatened. The Marvellous Nose. I didn't want to do this. You Shall Have A Bone. I'm just flotsam on the sea of life, me. Who's a Good Boy? Shut up.'
The sun toiled up the sky. Down below, Gaspode toiled on.
Willikins opened the curtains. Sunlight poured in. Vimes groaned and sat up slowly in what remained of his bed.
'Good grief, man,' he mumbled. 'What sort of time d'you call this?'
'Almost nine in the morning, sir,' said the butler.
'Nine in the morning? What sort of time is that to get up? I don't normally get up until the afternoon's got the shine worn off!'
'But sir is not at work any more, sir.'
Vimes looked down at the tangle of sheets and blankets. They were wrapped around Ms legs and knotted together. Then he remembered the dream.
He'd been walking around the city.
Well, maybe not so much a dream as a memory. After all, he walked the city every night. Some part of him wasn't giving up; some part of Vimes was learning to be a civilian, but an old part was marching, no, proceeding to a different beat. He'd thought the place seemed deserted and harder to walk through than usual.
'Does sir wish me to shave him or will sir do it himself?'
'I get nervous if people hold blades near my face,' said Vimes. 'But if you harness the horse and cart I'll try and get to the other end of the bathroom.'
'Very amusing, sir.'
Vimes had another bath, just for the novelty of it. He was aware from a general background noise that the mansion was busily humming towards W-hour. Lady Sybil was devoting to her wedding all the directness of thought she'd normally apply to breeding out a tendency towards floppy ears in swamp dragons. Half a dozen cooks had been busy in the kitchens for three days. They were roasting a whole ox and doing amazing stuff with rare fruit. Hitherto Sam Vimes' idea of a good meal was liver without tubes. Haute cuisine had been bits of cheese on sticks stuck into half a grapefruit.