Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

They stared at each other, tangled in the punchline.

'That's what I asked you,' said the clown reproachfully. He had a depressed, hopeless voice.

Sergeant Colon struck out towards sanity.

'Sergeant Colon, Night Watch,' he said, 'and this here is Corporal Nobbs. We've come to talk to someone about the man who . . . was found in the river, OK?'

'Oh. Yes. Poor Brother Beano. I suppose you'd better come in, then,' said the clown.

Nobby was about to push at the door when Colon stopped him, and pointed wordlessly upwards.

'There seems to be a bucket of whitewash over the door,' he said.

'Is there?' said the clown. He was very small, with huge boots that made him look like a capital L. His face was plastered with flesh-coloured make-up on which a big frown had been painted. His hair had been made from a couple of old mops, painted red. He wasn't fat, but a sort of hoop in his trousers was supposed to make him look amusingly overweight. A pair of rubber braces, so that his trousers bounced up and down when he walked, were a further component in the overall picture of a complete and utter twerp.

'Yes,' said Colon. 'There is.'

'Sure?'

'Positive.'

'Sorry about that,' said the clown. 'It's stupid, I know, but kind of traditional. Wait a moment.'

There were sounds of a stepladder being lugged into position, and various clankings and swearwords.

'All right, come on in.'

The clown led the way through the gatehouse. There was no sound but the flop-flop of his boots on the cobbles. Then an idea seemed to occur to him.

'It's a long shot, I know, but I suppose neither of you gentlemen'd like a sniff of my buttonhole?'

'No.'

'No.'

'No, I suppose not.' The clown sighed. 'It's not easy, you know. Clowning, I mean. I'm on gate duty 'cos I'm on probation.'

'You are?'

'I keep on forgetting: is it crying on the outside and laughing on the inside? I always get it mixed up.'

'About this Beano—'Colon began.

'We're just holding his funeral,' said the little clown. 'That's why my trousers are at half-mast.'

They stepped out into the sunlight again.

The inner courtyard was lined with clowns and fools. Bells tinkled in the breeze. Sunlight glinted off red noses and the occasional nervous jet of water from a fake buttonhole.

The clown ushered the guards into a line of fools.

'I'm sure Dr Whiteface will talk to you as soon as we've finished,' he said. 'My name's Boffo, by the way.' He held out his hand hopefully.

'Don't shake it,' Colon warned.

Boffo looked crestfallen.

A band struck up, and a procession of Guild members emerged from the chapel. A clown walked a little way ahead, carrying a small urn.