Men at Arms

Angua wondered if there was ever a time when anyone in the Watch was ever, really, off duty. She couldn't imagine Sergeant Colon in civilian clothes. When you were a Watchman, you were a Watchman all the time, which was a bit of a bargain for the city since it only paid you to be a Watchman for ten hours of every day.

“All right,” she said. “I can use a sheet off the bed. You shut your eyes.”

“Why?” said Gaspode.

“For decency's sake!”

Gaspode looked blank. Then he said, “Oh, I get it. Yes, I can see your point, def'nitely. Dear me, you can't have me looking at a naked woman, oh no. Oggling. Gettin' ideas. Deary deary me.”

“You know what I mean!”

“Can't say I do. Can't say I do. Clothing has never been what you might call a thingy of dog wossname.” Gaspode scratched his ear. “Two metasyntactic variables there. Sorry.”

“It's different with you. You know what I am. Anyway, dogs are naturally naked.”

“So're humans—”

Angua changed.

Gaspode's ear flattened against his head. Despite himself, he whimpered.

Angua stretched.

“You know the worst bit?” she said. “It's my hair. You can hardly get the tangles out. And my feet are covered in mud.”

She tugged a sheet off the bed and draped it around herself as a makeshift toga.

“There,” she said, “you see worse on the street every day. Gaspode?”

“What?”

“You can open your eyes now.”

Gaspode blinked. Angua in both shapes was OK to look at, but the second or two in between, as the morphic signal hunted between stations, was not a sight you wished to see on a full stomach.

“I thought you rolled around on the floor grunting and growing hair and stretching,” he whimpered.

Angua peered at her hair in the mirror while her night vision lasted.

“Whatever for?”

“Does… all that stuff… hurt?”

“It's a bit like a whole-body sneeze. You'd think he'd have a comb, wouldn't you? I mean, a comb? Everyone's got a comb…”

“A really… big… sneeze?”

“Even a clothes brush would be something.”

They froze as the door creaked open.

Carrot walked in. He didn't notice them in the gloom, but trudged to the table. There was a flare and a reek of sulphur as he lit first a match and then a candle.

He removed his helmet, and then sagged as if he'd finally allowed a weight to drop on his shoulders.

They heard him say: “It can't be right!”

“What can't?” said Angua.

Carrot spun around.

“What're you doing here?”

“Your uniform got stolen while you were spying in the Assassins' Guild,” Gaspode prompted.

“My uniform got stolen,” said Angua, “while I was in the Assassins' Guild. Spying.” Carrot was still staring at her. “There was some old bloke who kept muttering all the time,” she went on desperately.

“Buggrit? Millennium hand and shrimp?”

“Yes, that's right—”

“Foul Ole Ron.” Carrot sighed. “Probably sold it for a drink. I know where he lives, though. Remind me to go and have a word with him when I've got time.”

“You don't want to ask her what she was wearing when she was in the Guild,” said Gaspode, who had crept under the bed.

“Shut up!” said Angua.

“What?” said Carrot.

“I found out about the room,” said Angua quickly. “Someone called—”

“Edward d'Eath?” said Carrot, sitting down on the bed. The ancient springs went groing-groing-grink.

“How did you know that?”

“I think d'Eath stole the gonne. I think he killed Beano. But… Assassins killing without being paid? It's worse than dwarfs and tools. It's worse than clowns and faces. I hear Cruces is really upset. He's got Assassins looking for the boy all over the city.”

“Oh. Well. I'd hate to be in Edward's shoes when they find him.”

“I'd hate to be in his shoes now. And I know where they are, you see. They're on his poor feet. And they're dead.”

“The Assassins have found him, then?”

“No. Someone else did. And then Cuddy and Detritus did. If I'm any judge, he's been dead for several days. You see? That can't be right! But I rubbed the Beano make-up off and took off the red nose, and it was definitely him. And the wig's the right kind of red hair. He must have gone straight to Hammerhock.”

“But… someone shot at Detritus. And

killed the beggar girl.”

“Yes.”

Angua sat down beside him.

“And it couldn't have been Edward…”

“Hah!” Carrot undid his breastplate and pulled off his mail shirt.

“So we're looking for someone else. A third man.”

“But there's no clues! There's just some man with a gonne! Somewhere in the city! Anywhere! And I'm tired!”

The springs went glink again as Carrot stood up and staggered over to the chair and table. He sat down, pulled a piece of paper towards him, inspected a pencil, sharpened it on his sword and, after a moment's thought, began to write.

Angua watched him in silence. Carrot had a short-sleeved leather vest under his mail. There was a birthmark at the top of his left arm. It was crown-shaped.

“Are you writing it all down, like Captain Vimes did?” she said, after a while.

“No.”

“What are you doing, then?”

“I'm writing to my mum and dad.”

“Really?”