Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

'Not even for a dwarf. But it won't be worth it. It's spaghetti tonight. You don't get many bones in spaghetti—'

'Come on.'

He limped along.

'That was a good bone,' he said. 'Hardly even started going green. Hah! I bet you wouldn't say no to a box of chocolates from Mr Hunk, though.'

He cringed as she rounded on him.

'What are you talking about?'

'Nothing! Nothing!'

He trailed after her, whining.

Angua wasn't happy, either. It was always a problem, growing hair and fangs every full moon. Just when she thought she'd been lucky before, she'd found that few men are happy in a relationship where their partner grows hair and howls. She'd sworn: no more entanglements like that.

As for Gaspode, he was resigning himself to a life without love, or at least any more than the practical affection experienced so far, which had consisted of an unsuspecting chihuahua and a brief liaison with a postman's leg.

The No.1 powder slid down the folded paper into the metal tube. Blast Vimes! Who'd have thought he'd actually head for the opera house? He'd lost a set of rubes up there. But there were still three left, packed neatly in the hollow stock. A bag of No. 1 powder and a rudimentary knowledge of lead casting was all a man needed to rule the city . . .

The gonne lay on the table. There was a bluish sheen to the metal. Or, perhaps, not so much a sheen as a glisten. And, of course, that was only the oil. You had to believe it was only the oil. It was clearly a thing of metal. It couldn't possibly be alive.

And yet . . .

And yet . . .

'They say it was only a beggar girl in the Guild.'

Well ? What of it ? She was a target of opportunity. That was not my fault. That was your fault. I am merely the gonne. Gonnes don't kill people. People kill people.

'You killed Hammerhock! The boy said you fired yourself! And he'd repaired you!'

You expect gratitude? He would have made another gonne.

'Was that a reason to kill him?'

Certainly. You have no understanding.

Was the voice in his head or in the gonne? He couldn't be certain. Edward had said there was a voice . . . it said that everything you wanted, it could give you . . .

Getting into the Guild was easy for Angua, even through the angry crowds. Some of the Assassins, the ones from noble homes that had big floppy dogs around the place in the same way that lesser folk have rugs, had brought a few with them. Besides, Angua was pure pedigree. She drew admiring glances as she trotted through the buildings.

Finding the right corridor was easy, too. She'd remembered the view from the Guild next door, and counted the number of floors. In any case, she didn't have to look hard. The reek of fireworks hung in the air all along the corridor.

There was a crowd of Assassins in the corridor, too. The door of the room had been forced open. As Angua peered around the corner she saw Dr Cruces emerge, his face suffused with rage.

'Mr Downey?'

A white-haired Assassin drew himself to attention.

'Sir?'

'I want him found!'

'Yes, doctor—'

'In fact I want him inhumed! With Extreme Impoliteness! And I'm setting the fee at ten thousand dollars – I shall pay it personally, you understand? Without Guild tax, either.'