‘Possibly, a bonus,’ he said. ‘Uberwald has much to teach us. Fetch me the papers on the werewolf clans, will you? Oh, and although I swore I would never ever do this, please prepare a message for Sergeant Colon, too. Promotion, alas, beckons.’
A grubby cloth cap lay on the pavement. On the pavement beside the cap someone had written in damp chalk: Plese HeIP This LiTTle doGGie.
Beside it sat a small dog.
It was not cut out by nature to be a friendly little waggy-tailed dog, but it was making the effort. Whenever someone walked by it sat up on its hind legs and whined pitifully.
Something landed in the cap. It was a washer.
The charitable pedestrian had gone only a few steps further along the road when he heard: ‘And I hope your legs fall off, mister.’
The man turned. The dog was watching-him intently.
‘Woof?’ it said.
He looked puzzled, shrugged, and then turned and walked on.
‘Yeah, bloody woof woof,’ said the strange voice, as he was about to turn the corner.
A hand reached down and picked up the dog by the scruff of its neck. ‘Hello, Gaspode. I believe I’ve solved a little mystery.’
‘Oh, no …’ the dog moaned.
‘That’s not being a good dog, Gaspode,’ said Carrot, lifting the dog so they could meet eye to eye.
‘All right, all right, put me down, will you? This hurts, you know.’
‘I need your help, Gaspode.’
‘Not me. I don’t help the Watch. Nothing personal, but it doesn’t do anything for my street cred.’
‘I’m not talking about helping the Watch, Gaspode. This is personal. I need your nose.’ Carrot lowered the dog to the pavement and rubbed his hand on his shirt. ‘Unfortunately, this means I need the rest of you as well, although of course I am aware that under that itchy exterior beats a heart of gold.’
‘Really,’ said Gaspode. ‘Nothing good starts with “I need your help.”’
‘It’s Angua.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘I want you to track her.’
‘Huh, not many dogs could track a werewolf, mister. They’re cunning.’
‘Go to the best, I always say,’ said Carrot.
‘Finest nose known to man or beast,’ said Gaspode, wrinkling it. ‘Where’s she gone, then?’
‘To Uberwald, I think.’
Carrot moved fast. Gaspode’s flight was hindered by the hand gripping his tail.
‘That’s hundreds of miles away! And dog miles is seven times longer! Not a chance!’
‘Oh? All right, then. Silly of me to suggest it,’ said Carrot, letting go. ‘You’re right. It’s ridiculous.’
Gaspode turned, suddenly full of suspicion. ‘No, I didn’t say it was ridiculous,’ he said. ‘I just said it was hundreds of miles away…’
‘Yes, but you said you had no chance.’
‘No, I said that you had no chance of getting me to do it.’
‘Yes, but winter’s coming on and, as you say, a werewolf is very hard to track and on top of that Angua’s a copper. She’ll work out that I’d use you, so she’ll be covering her trail.’
Gaspode whined. ‘Look, mister, respect is hard to earn in this dog’s town. If I’m not smelled around the lamp-posts for a couple of weeks my stock is definitely in the gutter, right?’
‘Yes, yes, I understand. I’ll make some other arrangements. Nervous Nigel’s still around, isn’t he?’
‘What? That spaniel? He couldn’t smell his own bottom if you put it in front of him!’
‘They say he’s pretty good, nasally.’
‘And he widdles every time anyone looks at him!’ snapped Gaspode.
‘I heard he can smell a dead rat two miles away.’
‘Yeah? Well, I can smell what colour it is!’
Carrot sighed. ‘Well, I’ve got no choice, I’m afraid. You can’t do it, so I’ll-‘
‘I didn’t say-‘ Gaspode stopped, and then went on, ‘I’m going to do it, aren’t I? I’m bloody well going to do it. You’re going to trick me or blackmail me or whatever it takes, aren’t you…?’
‘Yes. How do you manage to write, Gaspode?’
‘I holds the chalk in me mouth. Easy.’
‘You’re a smart dog. I’ve always said so. The world’s only talking dog, too.’
‘Lower your voice, lower your voice!’ said Gaspode, looking around. ‘Here, Uberwald’s wolf country, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I could’ve bin a wolf, you know. With diff’rent parents, of course.’ Gaspode sniffed and looked furtively up and down the street again.
‘Steak?’
‘Every night.’
‘Right.’
Sergeant Colon was a picture of misery drawn on a lumpy pavement in bad crayon on a wet day. He sat on a chair and occasionally glanced at the message that had just been delivered, as if hoping that the words would somehow fade away.
‘Bloody hell, Nobby,’ he moaned.
‘There, there, Fred,’ said Nobby, currently a vision in organdie.
‘I can’t be promoted! I’m not an officer! I am base, common and popular!’
‘I’ve always said that about you, Fred. You got common off to a treat.’
‘But it’s writ down, Nobby! Look, his lordship’s signed it!’
‘We-ell, the way I see it, you’ve got three choices,’ said Nobby.
‘Yeah?’
‘You can go and tell him you’re not doing it…’
The panic in Colon’s face was replaced by glazed grey terror.
‘Thank you very much, Nobby,’ he said bitterly. ‘Let me know if you’ve got any more suggestions like that, ‘cos I’ll need to go and change my underwear.’
‘Or you could accept it and make such a cockup of it that he takes it away from you …’
‘You’re doing this on purpose, Nobby!’
‘Might be worth a try, Fred.’
‘Yeah, but the thing about cockups, Nobby, is that it’s hard for you to be, you know, precise. You might think you’re making a little cock-up and then it blows up in your face and it turns out to be in fact a big cock-up, and in those circumstances, Nobby, I’m sort of worried that what his lordship might take away from me wouldn’t just be the job. I hope I don’t have to draw you a picture.’
‘Good point, Fred.’
‘What I’m saying is, cockups is like … well,
cockups is … well, the thing about cockups is you never know what size they’re going to be.’
‘Well, Fred, the third choice is you putting up with it.’
‘That’s not helpful, Nobby.’
‘It’ll only be for a couple of weeks, then Mister Vimes’ll be back.’
‘Yeah, but supposing he isn’t? Nasty place, Uberwald. I heard where it’s a misery wrapped in a enema. That doesn’t sound too good. You can fall down things. Then I’m stuck, right? I don’t know how to do officering.’
‘No one knows how to do officering, Fred. That’s why they’re officers. If they knew anything, they’d be sergeants.’
Now Colon’s face screwed up again in desperate thought. As a lifelong uniformed man, a three-striped peg that had found a three-striped hole very early in its career, he subscribed automatically and unthinkingly to the belief that officers as a class could not put their own trousers on without a map. He conscientiously excluded Vimes and Carrot from the list, elevating them to the rank of honorary sergeant.
Nobby was watching him with an expression of combined concern, friendliness and predatory intent.
‘What shall I do, Nobby?’
‘Well, “captain”,’ said Nobby, and then he gave a little cough, ‘what officers mainly have to do, as you know, is sign things-‘
The door was knocked on and opened at the same time by a flustered constable.
‘Sarge, Constable Shoe says he really does need an officer down at Sonky’s factory.’
‘What, the rubber wally man?’ said Colon. ‘Right. An officer. Right. We’ll be along.’
‘And that’s Captain Colon,’ said Nobby quickly.
‘Er … er … yes, and that’s Captain Colon, thank you very much,’ said Colon, adding as his resolve stiffened, ‘and I’ll thank you not to forget it!’
The constable stared at them, and then stopped trying to understand.
‘And there’s a troll downstairs who insists on speaking to whoever’s in charge-‘
‘Can’t Stronginthearm deal with it?’
‘Er … is Sergeant Stronginthearm still a sergeant?’ said the constable.
‘Yes!’
‘Even unconscious?’
‘What?’
‘He’s flat on the floor right now, sar-captain.’
‘What’s the troll want?’
‘Right now he wants to kill someone, but mainly I think he wants someone to take the clamp off’f his foot.’
Gaspode ran up and down, nose barely an inch from the ground. Carrot waited, holding his horse. It was a good one. Carrot hadn’t spent a lot of his wages, up until now.
Finally the dog sat down and looked depressed.
‘So tell me about this wonderful nose the, Patrician has got, then,’ he said.
‘Not a trace?’
‘You’d better get Vetinari down here, if he’s so
good,’ said Gaspode. ‘What’s the point of starting here? Worst place in the whole city! It’s the gate to the cattle market, am I right? Trying not to smell stuff is the trick here, is the point I’m makin’. There’s ground-in stink. If you wanted to get on the trail of somebody, this is the last place I’d start.’