Men at Arms

they know who the rest of the pack are. It’s all…an image. Smell and feel and shape. Wolves don’t even have a word for wolves! It’s not like that. Names are human things.”
    “Dogs have got names. I’ve got a name. Gaspode. ’S’my name,” said Gaspode, a shade sullenly.
    “Well…I can’t explain why,” said Angua. “But wolves don’t have names.”

    The moon was high now, in a sky as black as a cup of coffee that wasn’t very black at all.
    Its light turned the city into a network of silver lines and shadows.
    Once upon a time the Tower of Art had been the center of the city, but cities tend to migrate gently with time and Ankh-Morpork’s center was now several hundred yards away. The tower still dominated the city, though; its black shape reared against the evening sky, contriving to look blacker than mere shadows would suggest.
    Hardly anyone ever looked at the Tower of Art, because it was always there. It was just a thing. People hardly ever look at familiar things.
    There was a very faint clink of metal on stone. For a moment, anyone close to the tower and looking in exactly the right place might have fancied that a patch of even blacker darkness was slowly but inexorably moving toward the top.
    For a moment, the moonlight caught a slim metal tube, slung across the figure’s back. Then it swung into shadow again as it climbed onward.

    The window was resolutely shut.
    “But she always leaves it open,” Angua whined.
    “Must have shut it tonight,” said Gaspode. “There’s a lot of strange people about.”
    “But she knows about strange people,” said Angua “Most of them live in her house!”
    “You’ll just have to change back to human and smash the window.”
    “I can’t do that! I’d be naked!”
    “Well, you’re naked now, ain’t you?”
    “But I’m a wolf! That’s different!”
    “I’ve never worn anything in my whole life. It’s never bothered me .”
    “The Watch House,” muttered Angua. “There’ll be something at the Watch House. Spare chainmail, at least. A sheet or something. And the door doesn’t shut properly. Come on.”
    She trotted off along the street, with Gaspode whimpering along behind her.
    Someone was singing.
    “Blimey,” said Gaspode, “look at that.”
    Four Watchmen slogged past. Two dwarfs, two trolls. Angua recognized Detritus.
    “Hut, hut, hut! You without doubt the horriblest recruits I ever see! Pick up them feet!”
    “I never done nuffin!”
    “Now you doin somefin for the first time in your horrible life, Lance-Constable Coalface! It a man life in the Watch!”
    The squad rounded the corner.
    “What’s been going on?” said Angua.
    “Search me. I might know more if one of ’em stops for a widdle.”
    There was a small crowd around the Watch House in Pseudopolis Yard. They seemed to be Watchmen, too. Sergeant Colon was standing under a flickering lamp, scribbling on his clipboard and talking to a small man with a large moustache.
    “And your name, mister?”
    “SILAS! CUMBERBATCH!”
    “Didn’t you used to be town crier?”
    “THAT’S RIGHT!”
    “Right. Give him his shilling. Acting-Constable Cuddy? One for your squad.”
    “WHO’S ACTING-CONSTABLE CUDDY?” said Cumberbatch.
    “Down here, mister.”
    The man looked down.
    “BUT YOU’RE! A DWARF! I NEVER—”
    “Stand to attention when you’re talking to a superierierior officer!” Cuddy bellowed.
    “Ain’t no dwarfs or trolls or humans in the Watch, see,” said Colon. “Just Watchmen, see? That’s what Corporal Carrot says. Of course, if you’d like to be in Acting-Constable Detritus’ squad—”
    “I LIKE DWARFS,” said Cumberbatch, hurriedly. “ALWAYS HAVE. NOT THAT THERE ARE ANY IN THE WATCH, MIND,” he added, after barely a second’s thought.
    “You learn quick. You’ll go a long way in this man’s army,” said Cuddy. “You could have a field-marshal’s bottom in your napkin any day now. AAAAaabbbb-wut tn! Hut, hut, hut—”
    “Fifth volunteer so far,” said Colon to Corporal Nobbs, as Cuddy and his new recruit pounded off into the darkness. “Even the Dean at the University tried to join. Amazing.”
    Angua looked at Gaspode, who shrugged.
    “Detritus is certainly clubbing ’em into line,” said Colon. “After ten minutes they’re putty in his hands. Mind you,” he added, “after ten minutes anything’s putty in them hands. Reminds me of the drill sergeant we had when I was first in the army.”
    “Tough, was