Men at Arms

Vimes glared at him. But it was true. The laws of the city, such as they were, stopped outside the Guild Houses. The Guilds had their own laws. The Guild owned the…

He stopped.

Behind him, Lance-Constable Angua reached down and picked up a fragment of glass.

Then she stirred the debris with her foot.

And then her gaze met that of a small, non-descript mongrel dog watching her very intently from under a cart. In fact non-descript was not what it was. It was very easy to descript. It looked like halitosis with a wet nose.

“Woof, woof,” said the dog, in a bored way. “Woof, woof, woof, and growl, growl.”

The dog trotted into the mouth of an alleyway. Angua glanced around, and followed it. The rest of the squad were gathered around Vimes, who'd gone very quiet.

“Fetch me the Master of Assassins,” he said. “Now!”

The young Assassin tried to sneer.

“Hah! Your uniform doesn't scare me,” he said.

Vimes looked down at his battered breastplate and worn mail.

“You're right,” he said. “This is not a scary uniform. I'm sorry. Forward, Corporal Carrot and Lance-Constable Detritus.”

The Assassin was suddenly aware of the sunlight being blocked out.

“Now these, I think you'll agree,” said Vimes, from somewhere behind the eclipse, “are scary uniforms.”

The Assassin nodded slowly. He hadn't asked for this. Usually there were never any guards outside the Guild. What would be the point? He had, tucked away in his exquisitely tailored black clothes, at least eighteen devices for killing people, but he was becoming aware that Lance-Constable Detritus had one on the end of each of his arms. Closer, as it were, to hand.

“I'll, er, I'll go and get the Master, then, shall I?” he said.

Carrot leaned down.

“Thank you for your co-operation,” he said gravely.

Angua watched the dog. The dog watched her.

She squatted on her haunches as it sat down and scratched an ear furiously.

Looking around carefully to make sure that no-one could see them, she barked an inquiry.

“Don't bower,” said the dog.

“You can talk?”

“Huh. That don't take much intelligence,” said the dog. “And it don't take much intelligence to spot what you are, neither.”

Angua looked panicky.

“Where does it show?”

“It's the smell, girl. Din't you learn nuffin? Smelled you a mile orf. I thought, oh-ho, what's one of them doing in the Watch, eh?”

Angua waved a finger wildly.

“If you tell anyone—!”

The dog looked more pained than normal.

“No-one'd listen,” it said.

“Why not?”

“'Cos everyone knows dogs can't talk. They hear me, see, but unless things are really tough they just think they're thinking to 'emselves.” The little dog sighed. “Trust me. I know what I'm talking about. I've read books. Well… chewed books.”

It scratched an ear again. “Seems to me,” it said, “we could help each other…”

“In what way?”

“Well, you could put me in the way of a pound of steak. That does wonders for my memory, steak. Makes it go clean away.”

Angua frowned.

“People don't like the word ‘blackmail’,” she said.

“It ain't the only word they don't like,” said the dog. “Take my case, now. I've got chronic intelligence. Is that any use to a dog? Did I ask for it? Not me. I just finds a cushy spot to spend my nights along at the High Energy Magic building at the University, no-one told me about all this bloody magic leaking out the whole time, next thing I know I open me eyes, head starts fizzing like a dose of salts, oh-oh, thinks I, here we go again, hello abstract conceptualizing, intellectual development here we come… What bloody use is that to me? Larst time it happened, I ended up savin' the world from horrible wossnames from the Dungeon Dimensions, and did anyone say fanks? Wot a Good Dog, Give Him A Bone? Har har.” It held up a threadbare paw. “My name's Gaspode. Something like this happens to me just about every week. Apart from that, I'm just a dog.”

Angua gave up. She grasped the moth-eaten limb and shook it.

“My name's Angua. You know what I am.”

“Forgotten it already,” said Gaspode.

Captain Vimes looked at the debris scattered across the courtyard from a hole in one of the ground-floor rooms. All the surrounding windows had broken, and there was a lot of glass underfoot. Mirror glass. Of course, assassins were notoriously vain, but mirrors would be in rooms, wouldn't they? You wouldn't expect a lot of glass outside. Glass got blown in, not out.

He saw Lance-Constable Cuddy bend down and pick up a couple of pulleys attached to a piece of rope, which was burned at one end.

There was a rectangle of card in the debris.

The hairs on the back of Vimes' hand prickled.

He sniffed rankness in the air.