Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

'How d'you—' Angua paused.

There was a mixture of smells here, but the overpowering one was as sharp as a saw.

'Fireworks?'

'And fear,' said Gaspode. 'Lots of fear.'

He sniffed the planks. 'Human fear, not dwarf. You can tell if it's dwarfs. It's the rat diet, see? Phew! Must have been real bad to stay this strong.'

'I smell one male human, one dwarf,' said Angua.

'Yeah. One dead dwarf.'

Gaspode stuck his battered nose along the line of the door, and snuffled noisily.

'There's other stuff,' he said, 'but it's a bugger what with the river so close and everything. There's oil and . . . grease . . . and all sorts – hey, where're you going?'

Gaspode trotted after her as Angua headed back to Rime Street, nose close to the ground.

'Following the trail.'

'What for? He won't thank you, you know.'

'Who won't?'

'Your young man.'

Angua stopped so suddenly that Gaspode ran into her.

'You mean Corporal Carrot? He's not my young man!'

'Yeah? I'm a dog, right? It's all in the nose, right? Smell can't lie. Pheremonies. It's the ole sexual alchemy stuff.'

'I've only known him a couple of nights!'

'Aha!'

'What do you mean, aha?'

'Nothing, nothing. Nothing wrong with it, anyway—'

'There isn't any it to be wrong!'

'Right, right. Not that it would be,' said Gaspode, adding hurriedly, 'even if there was. Everyone likes Corporal Carrot.'

'They do, don't they,' said Angua, her hackles settling down. 'He's very . . . likeable.'

'Even Big Fido only bit his hand when Carrot tried to pat him.'

'Who's Big Fido?'

'Chief Barker of the Dog Guild.'

'Dogs have got a Guild? Dogs? Pull one of the other ones, it's got bells on—'

'No, straight up. Scavenging rights, sunbathing spots, night-time barking duty, breeding rights, howling rotas . . . the whole bone of rubber.'

'Dog Guild,' snarled Angua sarcastically. 'Oh, yeah.'