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I’m sending a . . . a guide for you to follow,’ said the hidden informant. ‘Name of. . . name of . . . Trixiebell. Just you follow him and everything will be okay. Ready?’
‘Yes.’
Deep Bone is watching me, William thought. He must be really close.
Trixiebell trotted out of the shadows.
It was a poodle. More or less.
The staff at Le Foil du Chien, the doggie beauty salon, had done their very best, and a craftsman will give of his or her all if it means getting Foul Ole Ron out of the shop any faster. They’d cut, blown, permed, crimped, primped, coloured, woven, shampooed, and the manicurist had locked herself in the lavatory and refused to come out.
The result was . . . pink. The pinkness was only one aspect of the thing, but it was so . . . pink that it dominated everything else, even the topiary-effect tail with the fluffy knob on the end. The front of the dog looked as though it had been fired through a large pink ball and had only got halfway. Then there was also the matter of the large glittery collar. It glittered altogether too much; sometimes glass glitters more than diamonds because it has more to prove.
All in all, the effect was not of a poodle but of malformed poodleosity. That is to say, everything about it suggested ‘poodle’ except for the whole thing itself, which suggested walking away.
‘Yip,’ it said, and there was something wrong with this, too. William was aware that dogs like this yipped, but this one, he was sure, had said ‘yip’.
There’s a good . . .’ he began, and finished ‘. . . dog?’
‘Yip yipyip sheesh yip,’ said the dog, and walked off.
William wondered about the ‘sheesh’, but decided the dog must have sneezed.
It trotted away through the slush and disappeared down an alley.
A moment later its muzzle appeared around the corner.
‘Yip? Whine?’
‘Oh, yes. Sorry,’ said William.
Trixiebell led the way down greasy steps to the old path that ran
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along the riverside. It was littered with rubbish, and anything that stays thrown away in Ankh-Morpork is real rubbish. The sun seldom got down here, even on a fine day. The shadows contrived to be freezing and running with water at the same time.
Nevertheless, there was a fire among the dark timbers under the bridge. William realized, as his nostrils shut down, that he was visiting the Canting Crew.
The old towpath had been deserted to start with, but Foul Ole Ron and the rest of them were the reason that it stayed that way. They had nothing to steal. They had precious little even to keep. Occasionally the Beggars’ Guild considered running them out of town, but without much enthusiasm. Even beggars need someone to look down on, and the crew were so far down that in a certain light they sometimes appeared to be on top. Besides, the Guild recognized craftsmanship when they saw it; no one could spit and ooze like Coffin Henry, no one could be as legless as Arnold Sideways and nothing in the world could smell like Foul Ole Ron. He could have used oil of scallatine as a deodorant.
And, as that thought tripped through William’s brain, he knew where Wuffles was. I
Trixiebell’s ridiculous pink tail disappeared into the mass of old packing cases and cardboard known variously to the crew as ‘What?’, ‘Bugrit!’, Ttooi!’ and Home.
William’s eyes were already watering. There wasn’t much breeze down here. He made his way to the pool of firelight.
‘Oh . . . good evening, gentlemen,’ he managed, nodding to the figures around the green-edged flames.
‘Let’s see the colour of your bit of paper,’ commanded the voice of Deep Bone, from out of the shadows.
‘It’s, er, off-white,’ said William, unfolding the cheque. It was taken by the Duck Man, who scanned it carefully and added noticeably to its off-whiteness.
‘It seems to be in order. Fifty dollars, signed,’ he said. ‘I have explained the concept to my associates, Mr de Worde. It was not easy, I have to tell you.’
‘Yeah, and if you don’t put up we’ll come to your house!’ said Coffin Henry.
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‘Er . . . and do what?’ said William.
‘Stand outside for ever and ever and ever!’ said Arnold Sideways.
‘Lookin’ at people in a funny way,’ said the Duck Man.
‘Gobbin’ on their boots!’ said Coffin Henry.
William tried not to think about Mrs Arcanum. He said: ‘Now can I see the dog?’
‘Show him, Ron,’ commanded the voice of Deep Bone.
Ron’s heavy coat fell open, revealing Wuffles blinking in the firelight.
‘You had him?’ said William. That was all there was to it?’
‘Bugrit!’
‘Who’s going to search Foul Ole Ron?’ said Deep Bone.
‘Good point,’ said William. ‘Very good point. Or smell him out.’
‘Now, you got to remember he’s old,’ said Deep Bone. ‘An’ he wasn’t exactly Mr Brain to start with. I mean, we’re talkin’ dogs here – not talking dogs,’ said the voice hurriedly, ‘but talking about dogs, I mean – so don’t expect a philosophical treatise, is what I’m sayin’.’
Wuffles begged geriatrically when he saw William looking at him.
‘How did he come to be with you?’ said William as Wuffles sniffed his hand.
‘He came running out of the palace straight under Ron’s coat,’ said Deep Bone.
‘Which is, as you point out, the last place anyone would look,’ said William.
‘You’d better believe it,’
‘And not even a werewolf would find him there.’ William took out his notebook, turned to a fresh page, and wrote: ‘Wuffles,’ He said, ‘How old is he?’
Wuffles barked.
‘Sixteen,’ said Deep Bone. ‘Is that important?’
‘It’s a newspaper thing,’ said William. He wrote: ‘Wuffles (16), formerly of The Palace, Ankh-Morpork,’
I’m interviewing a dog, he thought. Man Interviews Dog. That’s nearly news.
‘So . . . er, Wuffles, what happened before you ran out of the palace?’ he said.
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Deep Bone, from his hiding place, whined and growled. Wuffles cocked an ear and then growled back.
‘He woke up and experienced a moment of horrible philosophical uncertainty,’ said Deep Bone.
‘I thought you said–‘
‘I’m translating right? And this was on account of there being two Gods in the room. That’s two Lord Vetinaris, Wuffles being an old-fashioned kind of dog. But he knew one was wrong because he smelled wrong. And there were two other men. And then–‘
William scribbled furiously.
Twenty seconds later Wuffles bit him hard on the ankle.
The clerk in Mr Slant’s front office looked down from his high desk at the two visitors, sniffed and carried on with his laborious copperplate. He did not have a lot of time for the notion of customer service. The Law could not be hurried–
A moment later his head was rammed into the desktop and held down by some enormous weight.
Mr Pin’s face appeared in his limited vision.
‘I said,’ said Mr Pin, ‘that Mr Slant wants to see us . . .’
‘Sngh,’ said the clerk. Mr Pin nodded and the pressure was relieved slightly.
‘Sorry? You were saying?’ said Mr Pin, watching the man’s hand creep along the edge of the desk.
‘He’s . . . not . . . seeing . . . anyone . . .’ The words ended in a muffled yelp.
Mr Pin leaned down. ‘Sorry about the fingers,’ he said, ‘but we can’t have them naughty little things creeping to that little lever there, can we? No telling what might happen if you pulled that lever. Now . . . which one’s Mr Slant’s office?’
‘Second . . . door . . . on . . . left. . .’ the man groaned.
‘See? It’s so much nicer when we’re polite. And in a week, two at the outside, you’ll be able to pick up a pen again.’ Mr Pin nodded to Mr Tulip, who let the man go. He slithered to the floor.
‘You want I should –ing scrag him?’
‘Leave him,’ said Mr Pin. ‘I think I’m going to be nice to people today.’
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He had to hand it to Mr Slant. When the New Firm stepped into his office the lawyer looked up and his expression barely flickered.
‘Gentlemen?’ he said.
‘Don’t press a –ing thing,’ said Mr Tulip.
‘There’s something you should know,’ said Mr Pin, pulling a box out of his jacket.
‘And what is that?’ said Mr Slant.
Mr Pin flicked a catch on the side of the box.
‘Let’s hear about yesterday,’ he said.
The imp blinked.
‘. . . nyip . . . nyapnyip . . . nyapdit . . . nyip . . .’ it said.
‘It’s just working its way backwards,’ said Mr Pin.
‘What is this?’ said the lawyer.
‘. . . nyapnyip . . . sipnyap . . . nip . . . is valuable, Mr Pin. So I will not spin this out. What did you do with the dog? Mr Pin’s finger touched another lever. ‘. . . wheedlewheedle whee . . . My . . . clients have long memories and deep pockets. Other killers can be hired. Do you understand me?