Shock like that, she might never Change back again said his thoughts. Who cares if she's a werewolf? That didn't bother you until you knew! Incident'ly, any biscuits about your person could be usefully thrown to the small dog in the doorway, although come to think of it the chances of having a biscuit on you right now are very small, so forget you ever thought it. Blimey, you really messed that up, right?
. . thought Carrot.
'Woof woof,' said the dog.
Carrot's forehead wrinkled.
'It's you, isn't it?' he said, pointing his sword.
'Me? Dogs don't talk,' said Gaspode, hurriedly. 'Listen, I should know. I am one.'
'You tell me where she's gone. Right now! Or . . .'
'Yeah? Look,' said Gaspode gloomily, 'the first thing I remember in my life, right, the first thing, was being thrown into the river in a sack. With a brick. Me. I mean, I had wobbly legs and a humorously inside-out ear, I mean, I was fluffy. OK, right, so it was the Ankh. OK, so I could walk ashore. But that was the start, and it ain't never got much better, J mean, J walked ashore inside the sack, dragging the brick. It took me three days to chew my way out. Go on. Threaten me.'
. . . someone shot at Detritus. And killed the beggar girl.'
'Yes.'
Angua sat down beside him.
And it couldn't have been Edward . . .'
'Hah!' Carrot undid his breastplate and pulled off his mail shirt.
'So we're looking for someone else. A third man.'
'But there's no clues! There's just some man with a gonne! Somewhere in the city! Anywhere! And I'm bred!'
The springs went glink again as Carrot stood up and staggered over to the chair and table. He sat down, pulled a piece of paper towards him, inspected a pencil, sharpened it on his sword and, after a moment's thought, began to write.
Angua watched him in silence. Carrot had a short-sleeved leather vest under his mail. There was a birthmark at the top of his left arm. It was crown-shaped.
'Are you writing it all down, like Captain Vimes did?' she said, after a while.
'No.'
'What are you doing, then?'
'I'm writing to my mum and dad.'
'Really?'
'I always write to my mum and dad. I promised them. Anyway, it helps me think. I always write letters home when I'm thinking. My dad sends me lots of good advice, too.'
There was a wooden box in front of Carrot. Letters were stacked in it. Carrot's father had been in the habit of replying to Carrot on the back of Carrot's own letters, because paper was hard to come by at the bottom of a dwarf mine.
'What kind of good advice?'
'About mining, usually. Moving rocks. You know. Propping and shoring. You can't get things wrong in a mine. You have to do things right.'
His pencil scritched on the paper.
The door was still ajar, but there was a tentative tap on it which said, in a kind of metaphorical morse code, that the tapper could see very well that Carrot was in his room with a scantily clad woman and was trying to knock without actually being heard.
Sergeant Colon coughed. The cough had a leer in it.
'Yes, sergeant?' said Carrot, without looking around.