Men at Arms

Blast Vimes! Who’d have thought he’d actually head for the opera house? He’d lost a set of tubes up there. But there were still three left, packed neatly in the hollow stock. A bag of No. 1 powder and a rudimentary knowledge of lead casting was all a man needed to rule the city…
    The gonne lay on the table. There was a bluish sheen to the metal. Or, perhaps, not so much a sheen as a glisten. And, of course, that was only the oil. You had to believe it was only the oil. It was clearly a thing of metal. It couldn’t possibly be alive.
    And yet…
    And yet…
    “They say it was only a beggar girl in the Guild.”
    Well? What of it? She was a target of opportunity. That was not my fault. That was your fault. I am merely the gonne. Gonnes don’t kill people. People kill people .
    “You killed Hammerhock! The boy said you fired yourself! And he’d repaired you!”
    You expect gratitude? He would have made another gonne .
    “Was that a reason to kill him?”
    Certainly. You have no understanding .
    Was the voice in his head or in the gonne? He couldn’t be certain. Edward had said there was a voice…it said that everything you wanted, it could give you…

    Getting into the Guild was easy for Angua, even through the angry crowds. Some of the Assassins, the ones from noble homes that had big floppy dogs around the place in the same way that lesser folk have rugs, had brought a few with them. Besides, Angua was pure pedigree. She drew admiring glances as she trotted through the buildings.
    Finding the right corridor was easy, too. She’d remembered the view from the Guild next door, and counted the number of floors. In any case, she didn’t have to look hard. The reek of fireworks hung in the air all along the corridor.
    There was a crowd of Assassins in the corridor, too. The door of the room had been forced open. As Angua peered around the corner she saw Dr. Cruces emerge, his face suffused with rage.
    “Mr. Downey?”
    A white-haired Assassin drew himself to attention.
    “Sir?”
    “I want him found!”
    “Yes, doctor—”
    “In fact I want him inhumed! With Extreme Impoliteness! And I’m setting the fee at ten thousand dollars—I shall pay it personally, you understand? Without Guild tax, either.”
    Several Assassins nonchalantly strolled away from the crowd. Ten thousand untaxed dollars was good money.
    Downey looked uncomfortable. “Doctor, I think—”
    “Think? You’re not paid to think! Heaven knows where the idiot has got to. I ordered the Guild searched! Why didn’t anyone force the door?”
    “Sorry, doctor, Edward left us weeks ago and I didn’t think—”
    “You didn’t think ? What are you paid for?”
    “Never seen him in such a temper,” said Gaspode.
    There was a cough behind the chief Assassin. Dr. Whiteface had emerged from the room.
    “Ah, doctor,” said Dr. Cruces. “I think perhaps we’d better go and discuss this further in my study, yes?”
    “I really am most terribly sorry, my lord—”
    “Don’t mention it. The little…devil has made us both look like fools. Oh…nothing personal, of course. Mr. Downey, the Fools and the Assassins will be guarding this hole until we can get some masons in tomorrow. No one is to go through, you understand?”
    “Yes, doctor.”
    “Very well.”
    “That’s Mr. Downey,” said Gaspode, as Dr. Cruces and the chief clown disappeared down the corridor. “Number two in the Assassins.” He scratched his ear. “He’d knock off old Cruces for tuppence if it wasn’t against the rules.”
    Angua trotted forward. Downey, who was wiping his forehead with a black handkerchief, looked down.
    “Hello, you’re new,” he said. He glanced at Gaspode. “And the mutt’s back, I see.”
    “Woof, woof,” said Gaspode, his stump of a tail thumping the floor. “Incident’ly,” he added for Angua’s benefit, “he’s often good for a peppermint if you catch him in the right mood. He’s poisoned fifteen people this year. He’s almost as good with poisons as old Cruces.”
    “Do I need to know that?” said Angua. Downey patted her on the head.
    “Oh, Assassins shouldn’t kill unless they’re being paid. It’s these little tips that make all the difference.”
    Now Angua was in a position to see the door. There was a name written on a piece of card stuck in a metal bracket.
    Edward d’Eath.
    “Edward d’Eath,” she said.
    “There’s a name that tolls a bell,” said Gaspode. “Family used to live up Kingsway.