Men at Arms (Discworld #15)(41)

'Yes, all right—'

'Makes it easier to get the rings off, mind you—'

'The point is, Nobby, that you can tell how old a corpse is. That clown, for e.g. You saw him, same as me. How long, would you say?'

'About 5' 9", I'd say. His boots didn't fit, I know that. Too floppy.'

'I meant how long he'd been dead.'

'Couple of days. You can tell because there's this—'

'So how come Boffo saw him yesterday morning?'

They strolled onwards.

'Bit of a poser, that is,' said Nobby.

'You're right. I expect the captain'll be very interested.'

'Maybe he was a zombie?'

'Shouldn't think so.'

'Never could stand zombies,' Nobby mused.

'Really?'

'It was always so hard to nick their boots.'

Sergeant Colon nodded at a passing beggar.

'You still doing the folk dancing on your nights off, Nobby?'

'Yes, Fred. We're practising “Gathering Sweet Lilacs” this week. There is a very complicated double crossover-step.'

'You're definitely a man of many parts, Nobby.'

'Only if I couldn't cut the rings off, Fred.'

'What I mean is, you presents an intriguing dichotomy.'

Nobby took a kick at a small scruffy dog.

'You been reading books again, Fred?'

'Got to improve my mind, Nobby. It's these new recruits. Carrot's got his nose in a book half the time, Angua knows words I has to look up, even the shortarse is brighter'n me. They keep on extracting the urine. I'm definitely a bit under-endowed in the head department.'

'You're brighter than Detritus,' said Nobby.

'That's what I tell myself. I say, “Fred, whatever happens, you're brighter than Detritus.” But then I say, “Fred – so's yeast.'”

He turned away from the window.

So. The damn Watch!

That damn Vimes! Exactly the wrong man in the wrong place. Why didn't people learn from history? Treachery was in his very genes! How could a city run properly with someone like that, poking around? That wasn't what a Watch was for. Watchmen were supposed to do what they were told, and see to it that other people did too.

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?'[12]

'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 coats[13] 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,[14] 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.