few minutes, until the morphic field fully reasserted itself, all her senses were still keen; smells were still incredibly strong, and her ears could hear sounds way outside the stunted human range. And she could
think
more about the things she experienced. A wolf could sniff a lamp-post and know that old Bonzo had been past yesterday, and was feeling a bit under the weather, and was still being fed tripe by his owner, but a human mind could actually think about the whys and wherefores.
‘There
is
something else,’ she said, and breathed in gently. ‘Faint. Not a living thing. But … can’t you smell it? Something like dirt, but not quite. It’s kind of … yellow-orange …’
‘Um …’ said Carrot, tactfully. ‘Some of us don’t have your nose.’
‘I’ve smelled it before, somewhere in this town. Can’t remember where … It’s strong. Stronger than the other smells. It’s a muddy smell.’
‘Hah, well, on
these
streets …’
‘No, it’s not …
exactly
mud. Sharper. More treble.’
‘You know, sometimes I envy you. It must be nice to be a wolf. Just for a while.’
‘It has its drawbacks.’
Like fleas
, she thought, as they locked up the museum.
And the food. And the constant nagging feeling that you should be wearing three bras at once
.
She kept telling herself she had it under control and she did, in a way. She prowled the city on moonlit nights and, okay, there was the occasional chicken, but she always remembered where she’d been and went round next day to shove some money under the door.
It was hard to be a vegetarian who had to pick bits of meat out of her teeth in the morning. She was definitely on top of it, though.
Definitely
, she reassured herself.
It was Angua’s mind that prowled the night, not a werewolf mind. She was almost entirely sure of that. A werewolf wouldn’t stop at chickens, not by a long way.
She shuddered.
Who was she kidding? It was easy to be a vegetarian by day. It was preventing yourself from becoming a humanitarian at night that took the real effort.
The first clocks were striking eleven as Vimes’s sedan chair wobbled to a halt outside the Patrician’s palace. Commander Vimes’s legs were beginning to give out, but he ran up five flights of stairs as fast as possible and collapsed on a chair in the waiting salon.
Minutes went past.
You didn’t knock on the Patrician’s door. He summoned you in the certain knowledge that you would be there.
Vimes sat back, enjoying a moment’s peace.
Something inside his coat went: ‘Bing bing bingley bing!’
He sighed, pulled out a leather-bound package about the size of a small book, and opened it.
A friendly yet slightly worried face peered up at him from its cage.
‘Yes?’ said Vimes.
‘11 am. Appointment with the Patrician.’
‘Yes? Well? It’s five past now.’
‘Er. So you’ve had it, have you?’ said the imp.
‘No.’
‘Shall I go on remembering it or what?’
‘No. Anyway, you didn’t remind me about the College of Arms at ten.’
The imp looked panic-stricken.
‘That’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Could’ve sworn it was Tuesday.’
‘It was an hour ago.’
‘Oh.’ The imp was downcast. ‘Er. All right. Sorry. Um. Hey, I could tell you what time it is in Klatch, if you like. Or Genua. Or Hunghung. Any of those places. You name it.’
‘I don’t need to know the time in Klatch.’
‘You might,’ said the imp desperately. ‘Think how people will be impressed if, during a dull moment of the conversation, you could say “Incidentally, in Klatch it’s an hour ago”. Or Bes Pelargic. Or Ephebe. Ask me. Go on. I don’t mind. Any of those places.’
Vimes sighed inwardly. He had a notebook. He took notes in it. It was always useful. And then Sybil, gods bless her, had brought him this fifteen-function imp which did so many other things, although as far as he could see at least ten of its functions consisted of apologizing for its inefficiency in the other
think
more about the things she experienced. A wolf could sniff a lamp-post and know that old Bonzo had been past yesterday, and was feeling a bit under the weather, and was still being fed tripe by his owner, but a human mind could actually think about the whys and wherefores.
‘There
is
something else,’ she said, and breathed in gently. ‘Faint. Not a living thing. But … can’t you smell it? Something like dirt, but not quite. It’s kind of … yellow-orange …’
‘Um …’ said Carrot, tactfully. ‘Some of us don’t have your nose.’
‘I’ve smelled it before, somewhere in this town. Can’t remember where … It’s strong. Stronger than the other smells. It’s a muddy smell.’
‘Hah, well, on
these
streets …’
‘No, it’s not …
exactly
mud. Sharper. More treble.’
‘You know, sometimes I envy you. It must be nice to be a wolf. Just for a while.’
‘It has its drawbacks.’
Like fleas
, she thought, as they locked up the museum.
And the food. And the constant nagging feeling that you should be wearing three bras at once
.
She kept telling herself she had it under control and she did, in a way. She prowled the city on moonlit nights and, okay, there was the occasional chicken, but she always remembered where she’d been and went round next day to shove some money under the door.
It was hard to be a vegetarian who had to pick bits of meat out of her teeth in the morning. She was definitely on top of it, though.
Definitely
, she reassured herself.
It was Angua’s mind that prowled the night, not a werewolf mind. She was almost entirely sure of that. A werewolf wouldn’t stop at chickens, not by a long way.
She shuddered.
Who was she kidding? It was easy to be a vegetarian by day. It was preventing yourself from becoming a humanitarian at night that took the real effort.
The first clocks were striking eleven as Vimes’s sedan chair wobbled to a halt outside the Patrician’s palace. Commander Vimes’s legs were beginning to give out, but he ran up five flights of stairs as fast as possible and collapsed on a chair in the waiting salon.
Minutes went past.
You didn’t knock on the Patrician’s door. He summoned you in the certain knowledge that you would be there.
Vimes sat back, enjoying a moment’s peace.
Something inside his coat went: ‘Bing bing bingley bing!’
He sighed, pulled out a leather-bound package about the size of a small book, and opened it.
A friendly yet slightly worried face peered up at him from its cage.
‘Yes?’ said Vimes.
‘11 am. Appointment with the Patrician.’
‘Yes? Well? It’s five past now.’
‘Er. So you’ve had it, have you?’ said the imp.
‘No.’
‘Shall I go on remembering it or what?’
‘No. Anyway, you didn’t remind me about the College of Arms at ten.’
The imp looked panic-stricken.
‘That’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Could’ve sworn it was Tuesday.’
‘It was an hour ago.’
‘Oh.’ The imp was downcast. ‘Er. All right. Sorry. Um. Hey, I could tell you what time it is in Klatch, if you like. Or Genua. Or Hunghung. Any of those places. You name it.’
‘I don’t need to know the time in Klatch.’
‘You might,’ said the imp desperately. ‘Think how people will be impressed if, during a dull moment of the conversation, you could say “Incidentally, in Klatch it’s an hour ago”. Or Bes Pelargic. Or Ephebe. Ask me. Go on. I don’t mind. Any of those places.’
Vimes sighed inwardly. He had a notebook. He took notes in it. It was always useful. And then Sybil, gods bless her, had brought him this fifteen-function imp which did so many other things, although as far as he could see at least ten of its functions consisted of apologizing for its inefficiency in the other
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