'Chase a rat up a pipe in the wrong street and call me a liar. 'S'good job for you I'm around, else you could get into big trouble. There's big trouble for a dog in this town who ain't a Guild member. It's lucky for you,' said Gaspode, 'that you met me.'
'I suppose you're a big ma—dog in the Guild, yes?'
'Ain't a member,' said Gaspode smugly.
'How come you survive, then?'
'I can think on my paws, me. Anyway, Big Fido leaves me alone. I got the Power.'
'What power?'
'Never you mind. Big Fido . . . he's a friend o' mine.'
'Biting a man's arm for patting you doesn't sound very friendly.'
'Yeah? Last man who tried to pat Big Fido, they only ever found his belt buckle.'
'Yes?'
'And that was in a tree.'
'Where are we?'
'Not even a tree near here. What?'
Gaspode sniffed the air. His nose could read the city in a way reminiscent of Captain Vimes' educated soles.
'Junction of Scoone Avenue and Prouts,' he said.
'Trail's dying out. It's mixed up with too much other stuff.'
Angua sniffed around for a while. Someone had come up here, but too many people had crossed the trail. The sharp smell was still there, but only as a suggestion in the welter of conflicting scents.
She was aware of an overwhelming smell of approaching soap. She'd noticed it before, but only as a woman and only as a faint whiff. As a quadruped, it seemed to fill the world.
Corporal Carrot was walking up the road, looking thoughtful. He wasn't looking where he was going, however, but he didn't need to. People stood aside for Corporal Carrot.
It was the first time she'd seen him through these eyes. Good grief. How did people not notice it? He walked through the city like a tiger through tall grass, or a hubland bear across the snow, wearing the landscape like a skin—
Gaspode glanced sideways. Angua was sitting on her haunches, staring.
'Yer tongue's hanging out,' he said.
'What? . . . So? So what? That's natural. I'm panting.'
'Har, har.'
Carrot noticed them, and stopped.
'Why, it's the little mongrel dog,' he said.
'Woof, woof,' said Gaspode, his traitor tail wagging.
'I see you've got a lady friend, anyway,' said Carrot, patting him on the head and then absent-mindedly wiping his hand on his tunic.
'And, my word, what a splendid bitch,' he said. 'A Ramtop wolfhound, if I'm any judge.' He stroked Angua in a vague friendly way. 'Oh, well,' he said. 'This isn't getting any work done, is it?'
'Woof, whine, give the doggy a biscuit,' said Gaspode.