The Truth

'I'm amazed. Amazed! She's your... your--'

'Friend,' said Angua, taking another deep sniff of the steam. 'But Carrot's right, Mister Vimes. I don't want this going any further. It was my fault for underestimating him. I walked right into it. I'll be fine in an hour or two.'

'I saw what you were like when you came in,' said Vimes. 'You were a mess.'

'It was a shock. The nose just shuts down. It was like walking around a corner and running into Foul Ole Ron.'

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'Ye gods! That bad?'

'Maybe not quite as bad as that. Let it lie, sir. Please.'

'He's a quick learner, our Mr de Worde,' said Vimes, sitting down at his desk. 'He's got a pen and a printing press and everyone acts like he's suddenly a major player. Well, he's going to have to learn a bit more. He doesn't want us watching? Well, we won't, any more. He can reap what he sows for a while. We've got more than enough other things to do, heavens know.'

'But he is technically--'

'See this sign on my desk, captain? See it, sergeant? It says "Commander Vimes". That means the buck starts here. It was a command you just got. Now, what else is new?'

Carrot nodded. 'Nothing good, sir. No one's found the dog. The Guilds are all battening down. Mr Scrope has been getting a lot of visitors. Oh, and High Priest Ridcully is telling everyone that he thinks Lord Vetinari went mad because the day before he'd been telling him about a plan to make lobsters fly through the air.'

'Lobsters flying through the air,' said Vimes flatly.

'And something about sending ships by semaphore, sir.'

'Oh, dear. And what is Mr Scrope saying?'

'Apparently he says he's looking forward to a new era in our history and will put Ankh-Morpork back on the path of responsible citizenship, sir.'

'Is that the same as the lobsters?'

'It's political, sir. Apparently he wants a return to the values and traditions that made the city great, sir.'

'Does he know what those values and traditions were?' said Vimes, aghast.

'I assume so, sir,' said Carrot, keeping a straight face.

'Oh my gods. I'd rather take a chance on the lobsters.'

It was sleeting again, out of a darkening sky. The Misbegot Bridge was more or less empty; William lurked in the shadows, his hat pulled down over his eyes.

Eventually a voice out of nowhere said, 'So... you got your bit of paper?'

'Deep Bone?' said William, startled out of the reverie.

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I'm sending a... a guide for you to follow,' said the hidden informant. 'Name of... name of... Trixiebell. Just you follow him and everything will be okay. Ready?'

'Yes.'

Deep Bone is watching me, William thought. He must be really close.

Trixiebell trotted out of the shadows.

It was a poodle. More or less.

The staff at Le Foil du Chien, the doggie beauty salon, had done their very best, and a craftsman will give of his or her all if it means getting Foul Ole Ron out of the shop any faster. They'd cut, blown, permed, crimped, primped, coloured, woven, shampooed, and the manicurist had locked herself in the lavatory and refused to come out.

The result was... pink. The pinkness was only one aspect of the thing, but it was so... pink that it dominated everything else, even the topiary-effect tail with the fluffy knob on the end. The front of the dog looked as though it had been fired through a large pink ball and had only got halfway. Then there was also the matter of the large glittery collar. It glittered altogether too much; sometimes glass glitters more than diamonds because it has more to prove.

All in all, the effect was not of a poodle but of malformed poodleosity. That is to say, everything about it suggested 'poodle' except for the whole thing itself, which suggested walking away.

'Yip,' it said, and there was something wrong with this, too. William was aware that dogs like this yipped, but this one, he was sure, had said 'yip'.

There's a good...' he began, and finished '... dog?'

'Yip yipyip sheesh yip,' said the dog, and walked off.

William wondered about the 'sheesh', but decided the dog must have sneezed.

It trotted away through the slush and disappeared down an alley.

A moment later its muzzle appeared around the corner.

'Yip? Whine?'

'Oh, yes. Sorry,' said William.

Trixiebell led the way down greasy steps to the old path that ran

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along the riverside. It was littered with rubbish, and anything that stays thrown away in Ankh-Morpork is real rubbish. The sun seldom got down here, even on a fine day. The shadows contrived to be freezing and running with water at the same time.

Nevertheless, there was a fire among the dark timbers under the bridge. William realized, as his nostrils shut down, that he was visiting the Canting Crew.