Men at Arms (Discworld #15)(30)

'Right?'

'It was the weight of all them rhinestones.'

'I expect it was.'

'They let me do pretty much as I like,' said Gaspode.

'I can see that.'

'Sometimes I don't go home for, oh, days at a time.'

'Right?'

'Weeks, sometimes.'

'Sure.'

'But they're always so glad to see me when I do,' said Gaspode.

'I thought you said you slept up at the University,' said Angua, as they dodged a cart in Rime Street.

For a moment Gaspode smelled uncertain, but he recovered magnificently.

'Yeah, right,' he said. 'We-ell, you know how it is, families . . . All them kids picking you up, giving you biscuits and similar, people pattin' you the whole time. Gets on yer nerves. So I sleeps up there quite often.'

'Right.'

'More often than not, point of fact.'

'Really?'

Gaspode whimpered a little.

'You want to be careful, you know. A young bitch like you can meet real trouble in this dog's city.'

They had reached the wooden jetty behind Hammer-hock's workshop.

'How d'you—' Angua paused.

There was a mixture of smells here, but the overpowering one was as sharp as a saw.

'Fireworks?'

'And fear,' said Gaspode. 'Lots of fear.'

He sniffed the planks. 'Human fear, not dwarf. You can tell if it's dwarfs. It's the rat diet, see? Phew! Must have been real bad to stay this strong.'

'I smell one male human, one dwarf,' said Angua.

'Yeah. One dead dwarf.'

Gaspode stuck his battered nose along the line of the door, and snuffled noisily.

'There's other stuff,' he said, 'but it's a bugger what with the river so close and everything. There's oil and . . . grease . . . and all sorts – hey, where're you going?'

Gaspode trotted after her as Angua headed back to Rime Street, nose close to the ground.


'Following the trail.'

'What for? He won't thank you, you know.'

'Who won't?'

'Your young man.'

Angua stopped so suddenly that Gaspode ran into her.

'You mean Corporal Carrot? He's not my young man!'

'Yeah? I'm a dog, right? It's all in the nose, right? Smell can't lie. Pheremonies. It's the ole sexual alchemy stuff.'

'I've only known him a couple of nights!'

'Aha!'

'What do you mean, aha?'

'Nothing, nothing. Nothing wrong with it, anyway—'

'There isn't any it to be wrong!'

'Right, right. Not that it would be,' said Gaspode, adding hurriedly, 'even if there was. Everyone likes Corporal Carrot.'

'They do, don't they,' said Angua, her hackles settling down. 'He's very . . . likeable.'

'Even Big Fido only bit his hand when Carrot tried to pat him.'

'Who's Big Fido?'

'Chief Barker of the Dog Guild.'

'Dogs have got a Guild? Dogs? Pull one of the other ones, it's got bells on—'

'No, straight up. Scavenging rights, sunbathing spots, night-time barking duty, breeding rights, howling rotas . . . the whole bone of rubber.'

'Dog Guild,' snarled Angua sarcastically. 'Oh, yeah.'

'Chase a rat up a pipe in the wrong street and call me a liar. 'S'good job for you I'm around, else you could get into big trouble. There's big trouble for a dog in this town who ain't a Guild member. It's lucky for you,' said Gaspode, 'that you met me.'

'I suppose you're a big ma—dog in the Guild, yes?'

'Ain't a member,' said Gaspode smugly.

'How come you survive, then?'

'I can think on my paws, me. Anyway, Big Fido leaves me alone. I got the Power.'

'What power?'

'Never you mind. Big Fido . . . he's a friend o' mine.'

'Biting a man's arm for patting you doesn't sound very friendly.'

'Yeah? Last man who tried to pat Big Fido, they only ever found his belt buckle.'

'Yes?'

'And that was in a tree.'

'Where are we?'

'Not even a tree near here. What?'

Gaspode sniffed the air. His nose could read the city in a way reminiscent of Captain Vimes' educated soles.

'Junction of Scoone Avenue and Prouts,' he said.

'Trail's dying out. It's mixed up with too much other stuff.'

Angua sniffed around for a while. Someone had come up here, but too many people had crossed the trail. The sharp smell was still there, but only as a suggestion in the welter of conflicting scents.

She was aware of an overwhelming smell of approaching soap. She'd noticed it before, but only as a woman and only as a faint whiff. As a quadruped, it seemed to fill the world.

Corporal Carrot was walking up the road, looking thoughtful. He wasn't looking where he was going, however, but he didn't need to. People stood aside for Corporal Carrot.

It was the first time she'd seen him through these eyes. Good grief. How did people not notice it? He walked through the city like a tiger through tall grass, or a hubland bear across the snow, wearing the landscape like a skin—