Men at Arms

can do…”
    “If you’re sure…” Carrot began, in a reluctant tone of voice.
    “Yes.”
    When he’d gone Angua headed for the nearest alley. There were only a few minutes to moonrise.

    Sergeant Colon saluted when Carrot came back, frowning in thought.
    “We can go home now, sir?” he suggested.
    “What? Why?”
    “Now it’s all sorted out?”
    “I just said that to waylay suspicion,” said Carrot.
    “Ah. Very clever,” said the sergeant quickly. “That’s what I thought. He’s saying that to waylay suspicion, I thought.”
    “There’s still a murderer out there somewhere. Or something worse.”
    Carrot ran his gaze over the ill-assorted soldiery.
    “But right now I think we’re going to have to sort out this business with the Day Watch,” he said.
    “Er. People say it’s practically a riot up there,” said Colon.
    “That’s why we’ve got to sort it out.”
    Colon bit his lip. He was not, as such, a coward. Last year the city had been invaded by a dragon and he’d actually stood on a rooftop and fired arrows at it while it was bearing down on him with its mouth open, although admittedly he’d had to change his underwear afterwards. But that had been simple . A great big fire-breathing dragon was straightforward. There it was, right in front of you, about to broil you alive. That was all you had to worry about. Admittedly, it was a lot to worry about, but it was…simple. It wasn’t any kind of mystery.
    “We’re going to have to sort it out?” he said.
    “Yes.”
    “Oh. Good. I like sorting things out.”

    Foul Ole Ron was a Beggars’ Guild member in good standing. He was a Mutterer, and a good one. He would walk behind people muttering in his own private language until they gave him money not to. People thought he was mad, but this was not, technically, the case. It was just that he was in touch with reality on the cosmic level, and had a bit of trouble focusing on things smaller, like other people, walls and soap (although on very small things, such as coins, his eyesight was Grade A).
    Therefore he was not surprised when a handsome young woman streaked past him and removed all her clothes. This sort of thing happened all the time, although up until now only on the inner side of his head.
    Then he saw what happened next.
    He watched as the sleek golden shape streaked away.
    “I told ’em! I told ’em! I told ’em!” he said. “I’ll give ’em the wrong end of a ragman’s trumpet, so I shall. Bug’r’em. Millennium hand and shrimp! I told ’em!”

    Gaspode wagged what was technically a tail when Angua reemerged.
    “‘Change into fomefing more fuitable’,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the bone. “Good one. I brung you thif little token—”
    He dropped it on the cobbles. It didn’t look any better to Angua’s lupine eyes.
    “What for?” she said.
    “Stuffed with nourishin’ marrowbone jelly, that bone,” he said accusingly.
    “Forget it,” said Angua. “Now, how do you normally get into the Assassins’ Guild?”
    “And maybe afterwards we could kind of hang out in the middens along Phedre Road?” said Gaspode, his stump of a tail still thumping the ground. “There’s rats along there that’ll make your hair stand on—No, all right, forget I mentioned it,” he finished quickly, when fire flashed for a moment in Angua’s eyes.
    He sighed.
    “There’s a drain by the kitchens,” he said.
    “Big enough for a human?”
    “Not even for a dwarf. But it won’t be worth it. It’s spaghetti tonight. You don’t get many bones in spaghetti—”
    “Come on.”
    He limped along.
    “That was a good bone,” he said. “Hardly even started going green. Hah! I bet you wouldn’t say no to a box of chocolates from Mr. Hunk, though.”
    He cringed as she rounded on him.
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Nothing! Nothing!”
    He trailed after her, whining.
    Angua wasn’t happy, either. It was always a problem, growing hair and fangs every full moon. Just when she thought she’d been lucky before, she’d found that few men are happy in a relationship where their partner grows hair and howls. She’d sworn: no more entanglements like that.
    As for Gaspode, he was resigning himself to a life without love, or at least any more than the practical affection experienced so far, which had consisted of an unsuspecting chihuahua and a brief liaison with a postman’s leg.

    The No. 1 powder slid down the folded paper into the metal tube.