Men at Arms - Terry Pratchett [50]
Mrs. Cake entered. She was a small fat woman, but made up for her lack of height by wearing a huge black hat; not the pointy witch variety, but one covered with stuffed birds, wax fruit and other assorted decorative items, all painted black. Angua quite liked her. The rooms were clean,* the rates were cheap, and Mrs. Cake had a very understanding approach to people who lived slightly unusual lives and had, for example, an aversion to garlic. Her daughter was a werewolf and she knew all about the need for ground floor windows and doors with long handles that a paw could operate.
“He’s got chainmail on,” said Mrs. Cake. She was holding a bucket of gravel in either hand. “He’s got soap in his ears, too.”
“Oh. Er. Right.”
“Oi can tell ’im to bugger off if you like,” said Mrs. Cake. “That’s what I allus does if the wrong sort comes round. Especially if they’ve got a stake. I can’t be having with that sort of thing, people messing up the hallways, waving torches and stuff.”
“I think I know who it is,” said Angua. “I’ll see to it.”
She tucked in her shirt.
“Pull the door to if you go out,” Mrs. Cake called after her as she went out into the hall. “Oi’m just off to change the dirt in Mr. Winkins’ coffin, on account of his back giving him trouble.”
“It looks like gravel to me, Mrs. Cake.”
“Orthopaedic, see?”
Carrot was standing respectfully on the doorstep with his helmet under his arm and a very embarrassed expression on his face.
“Well?” said Angua, not unkindly.
“Er. Good morning. I thought, you know, perhaps, you not knowing very much about the city, really. I could, if you like, if you don’t mind, not having to go on duty for a while…show you some of it…?”
For a moment Angua thought she’d contracted prescience from Mrs. Cake. Various futures flitted across her imagination.
“I haven’t had breakfast,” she said.
“They make a very good breakfast in Gimlet’s dwarf delicatessen in Cable Street.”
“It’s lunchtime.”
“It’s breakfast time for the Night Watch.”
“I’m practically vegetarian.”
“He does a soya rat.”
She gave in. “I’ll fetch my coat.”
“Har, har,” said a voice, full of withering cynicism.
She looked down. Gaspode was sitting behind Carrot, trying to glare while scratching himself furiously.
“Last night we chased a cat up a tree,” said Gaspode. “You and me, eh? We could make it. Fate has thrown us together, style of fing.”
“Go away.”
“Sorry?” said Carrot.
“Not you. That dog.”
Carrot turned.
“Him? Is he bothering you now? He’s a nice little chap.”
“Woof, woof, biscuit.”
Carrot automatically patted his pocket.
“See?” said Gaspode. “This boy is Mister Simple, am I right?”
“Do they let dogs in dwarf shops?” said Angua.
“No,” said Carrot.
“On a hook,” said Gaspode.
“Really? Sounds good to me,” said Angua. “Let’s go.”
“Vegetarian?” mumbled Gaspode, limping after them. “Oh, my.”
“Shut up.”
“Sorry?” said Carrot.
“I was just thinking aloud.”
Vimes’ pillow was cold and hard. He felt it gingerly. It was cold and hard because it was not a pillow but a table. His cheek appeared to be stuck to it, and he was not interested in speculating what with.
He hadn’t even managed to take his armor off.
But he did manage to unstick one eye.
He’d been writing in his notebook. Trying to make sense of it all. And then he’d gone to sleep.
What time was it? No time to look back.
He traced out:
Stolen from Assassins’ Guild: gonne->Hammerhock killed. Smell of fireworks. Lump of lead. Alchymical Symbols. 2nd body in river. A clown. Where was his red nose? Gonne.
He stared at the scrawled notes.
I’m on the path, he thought, I don’t have to know where it leads. I just have to follow. There’s always a crime, if you look hard enough. And the Assassins are in this somewhere.
Follow every lead. Check every detail. Chip, chip away.
I’m hungry.
He staggered to his feet and looked at his face