Jingo

‘ook’?” said Angua.
    “‘Mr. Horrible Hat,’” said Carrot.
    “Still, he hasn’t worked out who you are, eh?” said Angua.
    The fifth floor was a corridor of airless rooms, smelling sadly of old, unwanted books. They were stacked not on shelves but on wide racks, bundled up with string. A lot of them were battered and missing their covers. Judging by what remained, though, they were old textbooks that not even the most ardent bibliophile could treasure.
    Carrot picked up a torn copy of Woddeley’s Occult Primer . Several loose pages fell out. Angua picked one up.
    “‘Chapter Fifteen, Elementary Necromancy,’” she read aloud. “‘Lesson One: Correct Use of Shovel…’”
    She put it down again and sniffed the air. The presence of the Librarian filled the nasal room like an elephant in a matchbox, but—
    “Someone else has been in here,” she said. “In the last couple of days. Could you leave us, sir? When it comes to odors, you’re a bit…forthright…”
    “Ook?”
    The Librarian nodded at Carrot, shrugged at Angua and ambled out.
    “Don’t move,” said Angua. “Stay right where you are, Carrot. Don’t disturb the air…”
    She inched forward carefully.
    Her ears told her the Librarian was down the corridor, because she could hear the floorboards creaking. But her nose told her that he was still here. He was a little fuzzy, but—
    “I’m going to have to change,” she said. “I can’t get a proper picture this way. It’s too strange.”
    Carrot obediently shut his eyes. She’d forbidden him to watch her en route from a human to a wolf, because of the unpleasant nature of the shapes in between. Back in Überwald people went from one shape to the other as naturally as ordinary humans would put on a different coat, but even there it was considered polite to do it behind a bush.
    When he reopened them Angua was slinking forward, her whole being concentrated in her nose.
    The olfactory presence of the Librarian was a complex shape, a mere purple blur where he had been moving but almost a solid figure where he’d been standing still. Hands, face, lips…they’d be just the center of an expanding cloud in a few hours’ time, but now she could still smell them out .
    There must be only the tiniest air currents in here. There weren’t even any flies buzzing in the dead air to cause a ripple of disturbance .
    She edged nearer to the window. Vision was a mere shadowy presence, providing a charcoal sketch of a room over which the scents painted their glorious colors .
    By the window…by the window …
    Yes! A man had stood there, and by the scent of it he hadn’t moved for some time. The smell wavered in the air, on the edge of her nasal skill. The curling, billowing traces said that the window had been opened and closed again, and was there just the merest, tiniest suggestion that he’d held an arm out in front of him ?
    Her nose raced, trying to form original shapes from the patterns hanging in the room like dead smoke …
    When she’d finished, Angua went back to her pile of clothes and coughed politely while she was pulling on her boots.
    “There was a man standing by the window,” she said. “Long hair, a bit dry, stinks of expensive shampoo. He was the man who nailed the boards back after Ossie got into the Barbican.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Is this nose ever wrong?”
    “Sorry. Go on.”
    “I’d say he was heavyset, a bit bulky for his height. He doesn’t wash a lot, but when he does he uses Windpike’s Soap, the cheap brand. But expensive shampoo, which is odd. Quite new boots. And a green coat.”
    “You can smell the color?”
    “No. The dye. It comes from Sto Lat, I think. And…I think he shot a bow. An expensive bow. There’s a hint of silk in the air, and that’s what the strongest bowstrings are made of, isn’t it? And you wouldn’t put one of those on a cheap bow.”
    Carrot stood by the window. “He got a good view,” he said, and looked down at the floor. And then at the sill. And on the shelves nearby.
    “How long was he here?”
    “Two or three hours, I’d say.”
    “He didn’t move around much.”
    “No.”
    “Or smoke, or spit. He just stood and waited. A professional. Mr. Vimes was right .”
    “A lot more professional than Ossie,” said Angua.
    “Green coat,” said Carrot, as if thinking aloud. “Green coat, green coat…”
    “Oh…and bad dandruff,” said Angua, standing up.
    “ Snowy Slopes ?!” shouted