Feet of Clay (Discworld 19)

She was a werewolf. That's all there was to it. You either spent your time trying to make sure people didn't find out or you let them find out and spent your time watching them keep their distance and whisper behind your back, although of course you'd have to turn round to watch that.

Carrot didn't mind. But he minded that other people minded. He minded that even quite friendly colleagues tended to carry a bit of silver somewhere on their person. She could see it upsetting him. She could see the tensions building up, and he didn't know how to deal with them.

It was just as her father had said. Get involved with humans other than at mealtimes and you might as well jump down a silver mine.

'Apparently there's going to be a huge firework display after the celebrations next year,' said Carrot. 'I like fireworks.'

'It beats me why Ankh-Morpork wants to celebrate the fact it had a civil war three hundred years ago/ said Angua, coming back to the here-and-now.

'Why not? We won,' said Carrot.

'Yes, but you lost, too.'

'Always look on the positive side, that's what I say. Ah, here we are.'

Angua looked up at the sign. She'd learned to read dwarf runes now.

' Dwarf Bread Museum ,' she said. 'Gosh. I can't wait.'

Carrot nodded happily and pushed open the door. There was a smell of ancient crusts.

'Coo-ee, Mr Hopkinson?' he called. There was no reply. 'He does go out sometimes,' he said.

'Probably when the excitement gets too much for him,' said Angua. 'Hopkinson? That's not a dwarf name, is it?'

'Oh, he's a human,' said Carrot, stepping inside. 'But an amazing authority. Bread's his life. He wrote the definitive work on offensive baking. Well ... since he's not here I'll just take two tickets and leave tuppence on the desk.'

It didn't look as though Mr Hopkinson got many visitors. There was dust on the floor, and dust on die display cases, and a lot of dust on the exhibits. Most of them were the classic cowpat-like shape, an echo of their taste, but there were also buns, close-combat crumpets, deadly throwing toast and a huge dusty array of other shapes devised by a race that went in for food-fighting in a big and above all terminal way.

'What are we looking for?' Angua said. She sniffed. There was a nastily familiar tang in the air.

'It's... are you ready for this?... it's... the Battle Bread of B'hrian Bloodaxe!' said Carrot, rummaging in a desk by the entrance.

'A loaf of bread? You brought me here to see a loaf of bread?'

She sniffed again. Yes. Blood. Fresh blood.

'That's right,' said Carrot. 'It's only going to be here a couple of weeks on loan. It's the actual bread he personally wielded at the Battle of Koom Valley, killing fifty-seven trolls although' - and here Carrot's tone changed down from enthusiasm to civic respectability - 'that was a long time ago and we shouldn't let ancient history blind us to the realities of a multi-ethnic society in the Century of theFruitbat.'

There was a creak of a door.

Then: 'This battle bread,' said Angua, indistinctly. 'Black, isn't it? Quite a lot bigger than normal bread?'

'Yes, that's right,' said Carrot.

'And Mr Hopkinson ... A short man? Little white pointy beard?'

That's him.'

'And his head all smashed in?' 'What?'

'I think you'd better come and look,' said Angua, backing away.

Dragon King of Arms sat alone among his candles.

So that was Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, he mused. Stupid man. Clearly can't see beyond the chip on his shoulder. And people like that rise to high office these days. Still, such people have their uses, which presumably is why Vetinari has elevated him. Stupid men are often capable of things the clever would not dare to contemplate...

He sighed, and pulled another tome towards him. It was not much bigger than many others which lined his study, a fact which might have surprised anyone who knew its contents.