Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

Twenty minutes later a bleary-eyed Sergeant Colon surveyed the troops. They were slumped on the benches, except for Acting-Constable Detritus, who was sitting bolt upright with an air of official helpfulness.

'Right, men,' Colon began, 'now, as you—'

'You men, you listen up good right now!' Detritus boomed.

'Thank you, Acting-Constable Detritus,' said Colon wearily. 'Captain Vimes is getting married today. We're going to provide a guard of honour. That's what we always used to do in the old days when a Watchman got wed. So I want helmets and breastplates bright and shiny. And cohorts gleaming. Not a speck of muck . . . where's Corporal Nobbs?'

There was a dink as Acting-Constable Detritus' hand bounced off his new helmet.

'Hasn't been seen for hours, sir!' he reported.

Colon rolled his eyes.

'And some of you will . . . Where's Lance-Constable Angua?'

Dink. 'No-one's seen her since last night, sir.'

'All right. We got through the night, we're going to get through the day. Corporal Carrot says we're to look sharp.'

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.'