Men at Arms - Terry Pratchett [36]
“Haven’t you got a home to go to?” said Angua, as they trotted under a fish-and-chip stall.
“Home? Me? Home? Yeah. Of course. No problemo. Laughing kids, big kitchen, three meals a day, humorous cat next door to chase, own blanket and spot by the fire, he’s an old softy but we love him, ekcetra. No problem there. I just like to get out a bit,” said Gaspode.
“Only, I see you haven’t got a collar.”
“It fell off.”
“Right?”
“It was the weight of all them rhinestones.”
“I expect it was.”
“They let me do pretty much as I like,” said Gaspode.
“I can see that.”
“Sometimes I don’t go home for, oh, days at a time.”
“Right?”
“Weeks, sometimes.”
“Sure.”
“But they’re always so glad to see me when I do,” said Gaspode.
“I thought you said you slept up at the University,” said Angua, as they dodged a cart in Rime Street.
For a moment Gaspode smelled uncertain, but he recovered magnificently.
“Yeah, right,” he said. “We-ell, you know how it is, families…All them kids picking you up, giving you biscuits and similar, people pattin’ you the whole time. Gets on yer nerves. So I sleeps up there quite often.”
“Right.”
“More often than not, point of fact.”
“Really?”
Gaspode whimpered a little.
“You want to be careful, you know. A young bitch like you can meet real trouble in this dog’s city.”
They had reached the wooden jetty behind Hammerhock’s workshop.
“How d’you—” Angua paused.
There was a mixture of smells here, but the overpowering one was as sharp as a saw.
“Fireworks?”
“And fear,” said Gaspode. “Lots of fear.”
He sniffed the planks. “Human fear, not dwarf. You can tell if it’s dwarfs. It’s the rat diet, see? Phew! Must have been real bad to stay this strong.”
“I smell one male human, one dwarf,” said Angua.
“Yeah. One dead dwarf.”
Gaspode stuck his battered nose along the line of the door, and snuffled noisily.
“There’s other stuff,” he said, “but it’s a bugger what with the river so close and everything. There’s oil and…grease…and all sorts—hey, where’re you going?”
Gaspode trotted after her as Angua headed back to Rime Street, nose close to the ground.
“Following the trail.”
“What for? He won’t thank you, you know.”
“Who won’t?”
“Your young man.”
Angua stopped so suddenly that Gaspode ran into her.
“You mean Corporal Carrot? He’s not my young man!”
“Yeah? I’m a dog, right? It’s all in the nose, right? Smell can’t lie. Pheremonies. It’s the ole sexual alchemy stuff.”
“I’ve only known him a couple of nights!”
“Aha!”
“What do you mean, aha?”
“Nothing, nothing. Nothing wrong with it, anyway—”
“There isn’t any it to be wrong!”
“Right, right. Not that it would be,” said Gaspode, adding hurriedly, “even if there was. Everyone likes Corporal Carrot.”
“They do, don’t they,” said Angua, her hackles settling down. “He’s very…likeable.”
“Even Big Fido only bit his hand when Carrot tried to pat him.”
“Who’s Big Fido?”
“Chief Barker of the Dog Guild.”
“Dogs have got a Guild? Dogs? Pull one of the other ones, it’s got bells on—”
“No, straight up. Scavenging rights, sunbathing spots, night-time barking duty, breeding rights, howling rotas…the whole bone of rubber.”
“Dog Guild,” snarled Angua sarcastically. “Oh, yeah.”
“Chase a rat up a pipe in the wrong street and call me a liar. ’S’good job for you I’m around, else you could get into big trouble. There’s big trouble for a dog in this town who ain’t a Guild member. It’s lucky for you,” said Gaspode, “that you met me.”
“I suppose you’re a big ma—dog in the Guild, yes?”
“Ain’t a member,” said Gaspode smugly.
“How come you survive, then?”
“I can think on my paws, me. Anyway, Big Fido leaves me alone. I got the Power.”
“What power?”
“Never you mind. Big Fido…he’s a friend o’ mine.”
“Biting a man’s arm for patting you doesn’t sound very friendly.”
“Yeah? Last man who tried to pat Big Fido, they only ever found his belt buckle.”
“Yes?”
“And that was in a tree.”
“Where are we?”
“Not even a tree near here. What?”
Gaspode sniffed the air. His nose could read the city in a way