Men at Arms

Someone like Vimes could upset things. Not because he was clever. A clever Watchman was a contradiction in terms. But sheer randomness might cause trouble. The gonne lay on the table. “What shall I do about Vimes?”

Kill him.

Angua woke up. It was almost noon, she was in her own bed at Mrs Cake's, and someone was knocking at the door.

“Mmm?” she said.

“Oi don't know. Shall I ask him to go away?” said a voice from around keyhole level.

Angua thought quickly. The other residents had warned her about this. She waited for her cue.

“Oh, thanks, love. Oi was forgetting,” said the voice.

You had to pick your time, with Mrs Cake. It was difficult, living in a house run by someone whose mind was only nominally attached to the present. Mrs Cake was a psychic.

“You've got your precognition switched on again, Mrs Cake,” said Angua, swinging her legs out of bed and rummaging quickly through the pile of clothes on the chair.

“Where'd we got to?” said Mrs Cake, still on the other side of the door.

“You just said, ‘I don't know, shall I ask him to go away?’ Mrs Cake,” said Angua. Clothes! That was always the trouble! At least a male werewolf only had to worry about a pair of shorts and pretend he'd been on a brisk run.

“Right.” Mrs Cake coughed. “‘There's a young man downstairs asking for you’,” she said.

“‘Who is it?’,” said Angua.

There was a moment's silence.

“Yes, oi think that's all sorted out,” said Mrs Cake. “Sorry, dear. Oi get terrible headaches if'n people don't fill in the right bits. Are you human, dear?”13

“You can come in, Mrs Cake.”

It wasn't much of a room. It was mainly brown. Brown oilcloth flooring, brown walls, a picture over the brown bed of a brown stag being attacked by brown dogs on a brown moorland against a sky which, contrary to established meteorological knowledge, was brown. There was a brown wardrobe. Possibly, if you fought your way through the mysterious old coats14 hanging in it, you'd break through into a magical fairyland full of talking animals and goblins, but it'd probably not be worth it.

Mrs Cake entered. She was a small fat woman, but made up for her lack of height by wearing a huge black hat; not the pointy witch variety, but one covered with stuffed birds, wax fruit and other assorted decorative items, all painted black. Angua quite liked her. The rooms were clean,15 the rates were cheap, and Mrs Cake had a very understanding approach to people who lived slightly unusual lives and had, for example, an aversion to garlic. Her daughter was a werewolf and she knew all about the need for ground floor windows and doors with long handles that a paw could operate.

“He's got chainmail on,” said Mrs Cake. She was holding a bucket of gravel in either hand. “He's got soap in his ears, too.”

“Oh. Er. Right.”

“Oi can tell 'im to bugger off if you like,” said Mrs Cake. “That's what I allus does if the wrong sort comes round. Especially if they've got a stake. I can't be having with that sort of thing, people messing up the hallways, waving torches and stuff.”

“I think I know who it is,” said Angua. “I'll see to it.”

She tucked in her shirt.

“Pull the door to if you go out,” Mrs Cake called after her as she went out into the hall. “Oi'm just off to change the dirt in Mr Winkins' coffin, on account of his back giving him trouble.”

“It looks like gravel to me, Mrs Cake.”

“Orthopaedic, see?”

Carrot was standing respectfully on the doorstep with his helmet under his arm and a very embarrassed expression on his face.

“Well?” said Angua, not unkindly.

“Er. Good morning. I thought, you know, perhaps, you not knowing very much about the city, really. I could, if you like, if you don't mind, not having to go on duty for a while… show you some of it…?”

For a moment Angua thought she'd contracted prescience from Mrs Cake. Various futures flitted across her imagination.

“I haven't had breakfast,” she said.

“They make a very good breakfast in Gimlet's dwarf delicatessen in Cable Street.”

“It's lunchtime.”

“It's breakfast time for the Night Watch.”

“I'm practically vegetarian.”

“He does a soya rat.”

She gave in. “I'll fetch my coat.”

“Har, har,” said a voice, full of withering cynicism.

She looked down. Gaspode was sitting behind Carrot, trying to glare while scratching himself furiously.

“Last night we chased a cat up a tree,” said Gaspode. “You and me, eh? We could make it. Fate has thrown us together, style of fing.”

“Go away.”

“Sorry?” said Carrot.

“Not you. That dog.”

Carrot turned.

“Him? Is he bothering you now? He's a nice little chap.”

“Woof, woof, biscuit.”

Carrot automatically patted his pocket.

“See?” said Gaspode. “This boy is Mister Simple, am I right?”

“Do they let dogs in dwarf shops?” said Angua.

“No,” said Carrot.

“On a hook,” said Gaspode.

“Really? Sounds good to me,” said Angua. “Let's go.”

“Vegetarian?” mumbled Gaspode, limping after them. “Oh, my.”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry?” said Carrot.

“I was just thinking aloud.”