Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

'Not really. Mr Shoe even tried to help me upstairs with my stuff. Mind you, I had to help him upstairs with his arms afterwards. Bits fall off him all the time, poor soul.'

'But they're not really . . . our kind of people,' said Carrot wretchedly. 'Don't get me wrong. I mean . . . dwarfs? Some of my best friends are dwarfs. My parents are dwarfs. Trolls? No problem at all with trolls. Salt of the earth. Literally. Wonderful chaps under all that crust. But . . . undead . . . I just wish they'd go back to where they came from, that's all.'

'Most of them came from round here.'

'I just don't like 'em. Sorry.'

'I've got to go,' said Angua, coldly. She paused at the dark entrance of an alley.

'Right. Right,' said Carrot. 'Um. When shall I see you again?'

'Tomorrow. We're in the same job, yes?'

'But maybe when we're off duty we could take a—'

'Got to go!'

Angua turned and ran. The moon's halo was already visible over the rooftops of Unseen University.

'OK. Well. Right. Tomorrow, then,' Carrot called after her.

Angua could feel the world spinning as she stumbled through the shadows. She shouldn't have left it so long!

She stumbled out into a cross-street with a few people in it and managed to make it to an alley mouth, pawing at her clothes . . .

She was seen by Bundo Prung, recently expelled from the Thieves' Guild for unnecessary enthusiasm and conduct unbecoming in a mugger, and a desperate man. An isolated woman in a dark alley was just about what he felt he could manage.

He glanced around, and followed her in.

Silence followed, for about five seconds. Then Bundo emerged, very fast, and didn't stop running until he reached the docks, where a boat was leaving on the tide. He ran up the gangplank just before it was pulled up, and became a seaman, and died three years later when an armadillo fell on his head in a far-off country, and in all that time never said what he'd seen. But he did scream a bit whenever he saw a dog.

Angua emerged a few seconds later, and trotted away.

Lady Sybil Ramkin opened the door and sniffed the night air.

'Samuel Vimes! You're drunk!'

'Not yet! But I hope to be!' said Vimes, in cheerful tones.

'And you haven't changed out of your uniform!'

Vimes looked down, and then up again.

'That's right!' he said brightly.

'The guests will be here any minute. Go on up to your room. There's a tub drawn and Willikins has laid out a suit for you. Get along with you . . .'

'Jolly good!'

Vimes bathed in lukewarm water and a rosy alcoholic glow. Then he dried himself off as best he could and looked at the suit on the bed.

It had been made for him by the finest tailor in the city. Sybil Ramkin had a generous heart. She was a woman out for all she could give.

The suit was blue and deep purple, with lace on the wrists and at the throat. It was the height of fashion, he had been told. Sybil Ramkin wanted him to go up in the world. She'd never actually said it, but he knew she felt he was far too good to be a copper.

He stared at it in muzzy incomprehension. He'd never really worn a suit before. When he was a kid there'd been whatever rags could be tied on, and later on there'd been the leather knee britches and chainmail of the Watch – comfortable, practical clothes.

There was a hat with the suit. It had pearls on it.