Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

'It wasn't exactly like that,' she said. 'You see, there's a lot of undead in the city and the Patrician insisted that—'

'Give her a kiss,' said Gaspode, from under the bed.

Angua froze. Carrot's face took on the usual vaguely puzzled look of someone whose ears have just heard what their brain is programmed to believe doesn't exist. He began to blush.

'Gaspode!' snapped Angua, dropping into Canine.

'I know what I'm doin'. A Man, a Woman. It is Fate,' said Gaspode.

Angua stood up. Carrot shot up too, so fast that his chair fell over.

'I must be going,' she said.

'Um. Don't go—'

'Now you just reach out,' said Gaspode.

It'd never work, Angua told herself. It never does. Werewolves have to hang around with other werewolves, they're the only ones who understand . . .

But . . .

On the other hand . . . since she 'd have to run anyway . . .

She held up a finger.

'Just one moment,' she said brightly and, in one movement, reached under the bed and pulled out Gaspode by the scruff of his neck.

'You need me!' the dog whimpered, as he was carried to the door. 'I mean, what does he know? His idea of a good time is showing you the Colossus of Morpork! Put me—'

The door slammed. Angua leaned on it.

It'll end up just like it did in Pseudopolis and Quirm and—

Angua?' said Carrot.

She turned.

'Don't say anything,' she said. And it might be all right.'

After a while the bedsprings went glink.

And shortly after that, for Corporal Carrot, the Disc-world moved. And didn't even bother to stop to cancel the bread and newspapers.

Corporal Carrot awoke around four a.m., that secret hour known only to the night people, such as criminals, policemen and other misfits. He lay on his half of the narrow bed and stared at the wall.

It had definitely been an interesting night.

Although he was indeed simple, he wasn't stupid, and he'd always been aware of what might be called the mechanics. He'd been acquainted with several young ladies, and had taken them on many invigorating walks to see fascinating ironwork and interesting civic buildings until they'd unaccountably lost interest. He'd patrolled the Whore Pits often enough, although Mrs Palm and the Guild of Seamstresses were trying to persuade the Patrician to rename the area The Street of Negotiable Affection. But he'd never seen them in relation to himself, had never been quite sure, as it were, where he fitted in.

This was probably not something he was going to write to his parents about. They almost certainly knew.

He slid out of bed. The room was stifling hot with the curtains drawn.

Behind him, he heard Angua roll over into the hollow left by his body.

Then, with both hands, and considerable vigour, he threw open the curtains and let in the round, white light of the full moon.

Behind him, he thought he heard Angua sigh in her sleep.