Men at Arms

Used to be as rich as Creosote.”
    “Who was Creosote?”
    “Some foreign bugger who was rich.”
    “Oh.”
    “But great-granddad had a terrible thirst, and granddad chased anything in a dress, his dress, you understand, and old d’Eath, well, he was sober and clean but lost the rest of the family money on account of having a blind spot when it came to telling the difference between a one and an eleven.”
    “I can’t see how that loses you money.”
    “It does if you think you can play Cripple Mr. Onion with the big boys.”
    The werewolf and the dog padded back down the corridor.
    “Do you know anything about Master Edward?” said Angua.
    “Nope. The house was flogged off recently. Family debts. Haven’t seen him around.”
    “You’re certainly a mine of information,” she said.
    “I gets around. No one notices dogs.” Gaspode wrinkled his nose. It looked like a withered truffle. “Blimey. Stinks of gonne, doesn’t it.”
    “Yes. Something odd about that,” said Angua.
    “What?”
    “Something not right.”
    There were other smells. Unwashed socks, other dogs, Dr. Whiteface’s greasepaint, yesterday’s dinner—the scents filled the air. But the firework smell of what Angua was now automatically thinking of as the gonne wound around everything else, acrid as acid.
    “What’s not right?”
    “Don’t know…maybe it’s the gonne smell…”
    “Nah. That started off here. The gonne was kept here for years.”
    “Right. OK. Well, we’ve got a name. It might mean something to Carrot—”
    Angua trotted down the stairs.
    “’Scuse me…” said Gaspode.
    “Yes?”
    “How can you turn back into a woman again?”
    “I just get out of the moonlight and…concentrate. That’s how it works.”
    “Cor. That’s all?”
    “If it’s technically full moon I can Change even during the day if I want to. I only have to Change when I’m in the moonlight.”
    “Get away? What about wolfbane?”
    “Wolfbane? It’s a plant. A type of aconite, I think. What about it?”
    “Don’t it kill you?”
    “Look, you don’t have to believe everything you hear about werewolves. We’re human, just like everyone else. Most of the time,” she added.
    By now they were outside the Guild and heading for the alley, which indeed they reached, but it lacked certain important features that it had included when they were last there. Most notable of these was Angua’s uniform, but there was also a world shortage of Foul Ole Ron.
    “Damn.”
    They looked at the empty patch of mud.
    “Got any other clothes?” said Gaspode.
    “Yes, but only back in Elm Street. This is my only uniform.”
    “You have to put some clothes on when you’re human?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why? I would have thought a nude woman would be at home in any company, no offense meant.”
    “I prefer clothes.”
    Gaspode sniffed at the dirt.
    “Come on, then,” he sighed. “We’d better catch up Foul Ole Ron before your chainmail becomes a bottle of Bearhugger’s, yes?”
    Angua looked around. The scent of Foul Ole Ron was practically tangible.
    “All right. But let’s be quick about it.”
    Wolfbane? You didn’t need daft old herbs to make your life a problem, if you spent one week every month with two extra legs and four extra nipples.

    There were crowds around the Patrician’s Palace, and outside the Assassins’ Guild. A lot of beggars were in evidence. They looked ugly. Looking ugly is a beggar’s stock in trade in any case. These looked uglier than necessary.
    The militia peered around a corner.
    “There’s hundreds of people,” said Colon. “And loads of trolls outside the Day Watch.”
    “Where’s the crowd thickest?” said Carrot.
    “Anywhere the trolls are,” said Colon. He remembered himself. “Only joking,” he added.
    “Very well,” said Carrot. “Everyone follow me.”
    The babble stopped as the militia marched, lumbered, trotted and knuckled toward the Day Watch House.
    A couple of very large trolls blocked the way. The crowd watched in expectant silence.
    Any minute now, Colon thought, someone’s going to throw something. And then we’re all going to die.
    He glanced up. Slowly and jerkily, gargoyle heads were appearing along the gutters. No one wanted to miss a good fight.
    Carrot nodded at the two trolls.
    They’d got lichen all over them, Colon noticed.
    “It’s Bluejohn and Bauxite, isn’t it?” said Carrot.
    Bluejohn, despite himself, nodded. Bauxite was tougher, and merely