Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

h; wolfhound,' said Angua.

The two dogs paced around them hungrily.

'Big Fido know about her?' said Black Roger.

'I was just —' Gaspode began.

'Well, now,' said Black Roger, 'I reckon you'd be wanting to come with us. Guild night tonight.'

'Sure, sure,' said Gaspode. 'No problem there.'

I could certainly manage either of them, Angua thought. But not both at once.

Being a werewolf meant having the dexterity and jaw power to instantly rip out a man's jugular. It was a trick of her father's that had always annoyed her mother, especially when he did it just before meals. But Angua had never been able to bring herself to do it. She'd preferred the vegetarian option.

' 'ullo,' said Butch, in her ear.

'Don't you worry about anything,' moaned Gaspode. 'Me an' Big Fido . . . we're like that.'

'What're you trying to do? Cross your claws? I didn't know dogs could do that.'

'We can't,' said Gaspode miserably.

Other dogs slunk out of the shadows as the two of them were half led, half driven along byways that weren't even alleys any more, just gaps between walls. They opened out eventually into a bare area, nothing more than a large light well for the buildings around it. There was a very large barrel on its side in one corner, with a ragged bit of blanket in it. A variety of dogs were waiting around in front of it, looking expectant; some of them had only one eye, some of them had only one ear, all of them had scars, and all of them had teeth.

'You,' said Black Roger, 'wait here.'

'Do not twy to wun away,' said Butch, ' 'cos having your intestines chewed often offends.'

Angua lowered her head to Gaspode level. The little dog was shaking.

'What have you got me into?' she growled. 'This is the dog Guild, right? A pack of strays?'

'Shsssh! Don't say that! These aren't strays. Oh, blimey.' Gaspode glanced around. 'You don't just get any hound in the Guild. Oh, dear me, no. These are dogs that have been . . .' he lowered his voice, '. . . er . . . bad dogs.'

'Bad dogs?'

'Bad dogs. You naughty boy. Give him a smack. You bad dog,' muttered Gaspode, like some horrible litany. 'Every dog you see here, right, every dog . . . run away Run away from his or her actual owner.'

'Is that all?'

'All? All ? Well. Of course. You ain't exactly a dog. You wouldn't understand. You wouldn't know what it was like. But Big Fido . . . he told 'em. Throw off your choke chains, he said. Bite the hand that feeds you. Rise up and howl. He gave 'em pride,' said Gaspode, his voice a mixture of fear and fascination, 'He told 'em. Any dog he finds not bein' a free spirit – that dog is a dead dog. He killed a Dobermann last week, just for wagging his tail when a human went past.'

Angua looked at some of the other dogs. They were all unkempt. They were also, in a strange way, un-doglike. There was a small and rather dainty white poodle that still just about had the overgrown remains of its poodle cut, and a lapdog with the tattered remains of a tartan jacket still hanging from its shoulder. But they weren't milling around, or squabbling. They had a uniform intent look that she'd seen before, although never on dogs.

Gaspode was clearly trembling now. Angua slunk over to the poodle. It still had a diamante collar visible under the crusty fur.

'This Big Fido,' she said, 'is he some kind of wolf, or what?'

'Spiritually, all dogs are wolves,' said the poodle, 'but cynically and cruelly severed from their true destiny by the manipulations of so-called humanity.'

It sounded like a quote. 'Big Fido said that?' Angua hazarded.

The poodle turned its head. For the first time she saw its eyes. They were red, and as mad as hell. Anything with eyes like that could kill anything it wanted because madness, true madness, can drive a fist through a plank.

'Yes,' said Big Fido.

He had been a normal dog. He'd begged, and rolled over, and heeled, and fetched. Every night he'd been taken for a walk.