Dink. 'Yes, sir!'
'Acting-Constable Detritus?'
'Sir?'
'What's that you've got on your head?'
Dink. 'Acting-Constable Cuddy made it for me, sir. Special clockwork thinking helmet.'
Cuddy coughed. 'These big bits are cooling fins, see? Painted black. I glommed a clockwork engine off my cousin, and this fan here blows air over—' He stopped when he saw Colon's expression.
'That's what you've been working on all night, is it?'
'Yes, because I reckon troll brains get too—'
The sergeant waved him into silence.
'So we've got a clockwork soldier, have we?' said Colon. 'We're a real model army, we are.'
Gaspode was geographically embarrassed. He knew where he was, more or less. He was somewhere beyond the Shades, in the network of dock basins and cattle-yards. Even though he thought of the whole city as belonging to him, this wasn't his territory. There were rats here almost as big as he was, and he was basically a sort of terrier shape, and Ankh-Morpork rats were intelligent enough to recognize it. He'd also been kicked by two horses and almost run over by a cart. And he'd lost the scent. She'd doubled back and forth and used rooftops and crossed the river a few times. Werewolves were instinctively good at avoiding pursuit; after all, the surviving ones were descendants of those who could outrun an angry mob. Those who couldn't outwit a mob never had descendants, or even graves.
Several times the scent petered out at a wall or a low-roofed hut, and Gaspode would limp around in circles until he found it again.
Random thoughts wavered in his schizophrenic doggy mind.
'Clever Dog Saves The Day,' he muttered. 'Everyone Says, Good Doggy. No they don't, I'm only doing it 'cos I was threatened. The Marvellous Nose. I didn't want to do this. You Shall Have A Bone. I'm just flotsam on the sea of life, me. Who's a Good Boy? Shut up.'
The sun toiled up the sky. Down below, Gaspode toiled on.
Willikins opened the curtains. Sunlight poured in. Vimes groaned and sat up slowly in what remained of his bed.
'Good grief, man,' he mumbled. 'What sort of time d'you call this?'
'Almost nine in the morning, sir,' said the butler.
'Nine in the morning? What sort of time is that to get up? I don't normally get up until the afternoon's got the shine worn off!'
'But sir is not at work any more, sir.'
Vimes looked down at the tangle of sheets and blankets. They were wrapped around Ms legs and knotted together. Then he remembered the dream.
He'd been walking around the city.
Well, maybe not so much a dream as a memory. After all, he walked the city every night. Some part of him wasn't giving up; some part of Vimes was learning to be a civilian, but an old part was marching, no, proceeding to a different beat. He'd thought the place seemed deserted and harder to walk through than usual.
'Does sir wish me to shave him or will sir do it himself?'
'I get nervous if people hold blades near my face,' said Vimes. 'But if you harness the horse and cart I'll try and get to the other end of the bathroom.'
'Very amusing, sir.'
Vimes had another bath, just for the novelty of it. He was aware from a general background noise that the mansion was busily humming towards W-hour. Lady Sybil was devoting to her wedding all the directness of thought she'd normally apply to breeding out a tendency towards floppy ears in swamp dragons. Half a dozen cooks had been busy in the kitchens for three days. They were roasting a whole ox and doing amazing stuff with rare fruit. Hitherto Sam Vimes' idea of a good meal was liver without tubes. Haute cuisine had been bits of cheese on sticks stuck into half a grapefruit.
He was vaguely aware that prospective grooms were not supposed to see putative brides on the morning of the wedding, possibly in case they took to their heels. That was unfortunate. He'd have liked to have talked to someone. If he could talk to someone, it might all make sense.
He picked up the razor, and looked in the mirror at the face of Captain Samuel Vimes.
Colon saluted, and then peered at Carrot.