That was the point. That was where it all broke down. There were no proper words afterwards for what she heard and smelled. If you could see an eighth distinct colour just for a while, and then describe it back in the seven-coloured world, it’d have to be . . . ‘something like a sort of greenish-purple’. Experience did not cross over well between species.
Sometimes, although not very often, Angua thought she was very lucky to get to see both worlds. And there was always twenty minutes after a Change when all the senses were heightened, so that the world glowed in every sensory spectrum like a rainbow. It was nearly worth it just for that.
There were varieties of werewolf. Some people merely had to shave every hour and wear a hat to cover the ears. They could pass for nearly normal.
But she could recognize them, nevertheless. Werewolves could spot another werewolf across a crowded street. There was something about the eyes. And, of course, if you had time, there were all sorts of other clues. Werewolves tended to live alone and take jobs that didn’t bring them into contact with animals. They wore scent or aftershave a lot and tended to be very fastidious about their food. And kept diaries with the phases of the moon carefully marked in red ink.
It was no life, being a werewolf in the country. A stupid chicken went missing and you were a number one suspect. Everyone said it was better in the city.
It was certainly overpowering.
Angua could see several hours of Elm Street all in one go. The mugger’s fear was a fading orange line. Carrot’s trail was an expanding pale green cloud, with an edge that suggested- he was slightly worried; there were additional tones of old leather and armour polish. Other trails, faint or powerful, crisscrossed the street.
There was one that smelled like an old privy carpet.
‘Yo, bitch,’ said a voice behind her.
She turned her head. Gaspode looked no better through canine vision, except that he was at the centre of a cloud of mixed odours.
‘Oh. It’s you.’
‘ ‘S’right,’ said Gaspode, feverishly scratching himself. He gave her a hopeful look. ‘Just askin’, you understand, just gettin’ it over with right now, for the look of the thing, for wossname’s sake as it might be, but I s’pose there’s no chance of me sniffing—’
‘None.’
‘Just askin’. No offence meant.’
Angua wrinkled her muzzle.
‘How come you smell so bad? I mean, you smelled bad enough when I was human, but now—’
Gaspode looked proud.
‘Good, innit,’ he said. ‘It didn’t just happen. I had to work at it. If you was a true dog, this’d be like really great aftershave. By the way, you want to get a collar, miss. No-one bothers you if you’ve got a collar.’
‘Thanks.’
Gaspode seemed to have something on his mind.
‘Er . . . you don’t rip hearts out, do you?’
‘Not unless I want to,’ said Angua.
‘Right, right, right,’ said Gaspode hurriedly. ‘Where’re you going?’
He broke into a waddling, bow-legged trot to keep up with her.
‘To have a sniff around Hammerhock’s place. I didn’t ask you to come.’
‘Got nothing else to do,’ said Gaspode. ‘The House of Ribs don’t put its rubbish out till midnight.’
‘Haven’t you got a home to go to ?’ said Angua, as they trotted under a fish-and-chip stall.
‘Home? Me? Home? Yeah. Of course. No problemo. Laughing kids, big kitchen, three meals a day, humorous cat next door to chase, own blanket and spot by the fire, he’s an old softy but we love him, ekcetra. No problem there. I just like to get out a bit,’ said Gaspode.
‘Only, I see you haven’t got a collar.’
‘It fell off.’
‘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—
Gaspode glanced sideways. Angua was sitting on her haunches, staring.
‘Yer tongue’s hanging out,’ he said.
‘What? . . . So? So what? That’s natural. I’m panting.’
‘Har, har.’
Carrot noticed them, and stopped.
‘Why, it’s the little mongrel dog,’ he said.
‘Woof, woof,’ said Gaspode, his traitor tail wagging.