“You men in there in the Watch House,” he said, “come out now.”

Five men emerged, edging cautiously around the prone captain.

“Good. Now go and get Coalface.”

“Er… he's in a bit of a bad temper, Corporal Carrot.”

“On account of being chained to the floor,” volunteered another guard.

“Well, now,” said Carrot. “The thing is, he's going to be unchained right now.” The men shuffled their feet nervously, possibly remembering an old proverb that fitted the occasion very well.28 Carrot nodded. “I won't ask you to do it, but I might suggest you take some time off,” he said.

“Quirm is very nice at this time of year,” said Sergeant Colon helpfully. “They've got a floral clock.”

“Er… since you mention it… I've got some sick leave coming up,” one of them said.

“I should think that's very probable, if you hang around,” said Carrot.

They sidled off as fast as decency allowed. The crowd hardly paid them any attention. There was still a lot more mileage in watching Carrot.

“Right,” said Carrot. “Detritus, you take some men and go and bring out the prisoner.”

“I don't see why—” a dwarf began.

“You shut up, you horrible man,” said Detritus, drunk with power.

You could have heard a guillotine drop.

In the crowd, a number of different-sized knobbly hands gripped a variety of concealed weapons.

Everyone looked at Carrot.

That was the strange thing, Colon remembered later. Everyone looked at Carrot.

Gaspode sniffed a lamp-post.

“I see Three-legged Shep has been ill again,” he said “And old Willy the Pup is back in town.”

To a dog, a well-placed hitching post or lamp is a social calendar.

“Where are we?” said Angua. Foul Ole Ron's trail was hard to follow. There were so many other smells.

“Somewhere in the Shades,” said Gaspode. “Sweethear Lane, smells like.” He snuffled across the ground. “Ah here he is again, the little…”

“'ullo, Gaspode…”

It was a deep, hoarse voice, a kind of whisper with sand in it. It came from somewhere in an alley.

“'o's yer fwiend, Gaspode?”

There was a snigger.

“Ah,” said Gaspode. “Uh. Hi, guys.”

Two dogs emerged from the alley. They were huge. Their species was indeterminate. One of them was jet black and looked like a pit bull terrier crossed with a mincing machine. The other… the other looked like a dog whose name was almost certainly “Butch”. Both top and bottom set of fangs had grown so large that he appeared to be looking at the world through bars. He was also bow-legged, although it would probably be a bad if not terminal move for anyone to comment on this.

Gaspode's tail vibrated nervously.

“These are my friends Black Roger and—”

“Butch?” suggested Angua.

“How did you know that?”

“A lucky guess,” said Angua.

The two big dogs had moved around so that they were on either side of them.

“Well, well, well,” said Black Roger. “Who's this, then?”

“Angua,” said Gaspode. “She's a—”

“—wolfhound,” said Angua.

The two dogs paced around them hungrily.

“Big Fido know about her?” said Black Roger.

“I was just—” Gaspode began.

“Well, now,” said Black Roger, “I reckon you'd be wanting to come with us. Guild night tonight.”

“Sure, sure,” said Gaspode. “No problem there.”

I could certainly manage either of them, Angua thought. But not both at once.

Being a werewolf meant having the dexterity and jaw power to instantly rip out a man's jugular. It was a trick of her father's that had always annoyed her mother, especially when he did it just before meals. But Angua had never been able to bring herself to do it. She'd preferred the vegetarian option.

“'ullo,” said Butch, in her ear.

“Don't you worry about anything,” moaned Gaspode. “Me an' Big Fido… we're like that.”

“What're you trying to do? Cross your claws? I didn't know dogs could do that.”

“We can't,” said Gaspode miserably.

Other dogs slunk out of the shadows as the two of them were half led, half driven along byways that weren't even alleys any more, just gaps between walls. They opened out eventually into a bare area, nothing more than a large light well for the buildings around it. There was a very large barrel on its side in one corner, with a ragged bit of blanket in it. A variety of dogs were waiting around in front of it, looking expectant; some of them had only one eye, some of them had only one ear, all of them had scars, and all of them had teeth.

“You,” said Black Roger, “wait here.”

“Do not twy to wun away,” said Butch, “'cos having your intestines chewed often offends.”

Angua lowered her head to Gaspode level. The little dog was shaking.

“What have you got me into?” she growled. “This is the dog Guild, right? A pack of strays?”

“Shsssh! Don't say that! These aren't strays. Oh, blimey.” Gaspode glanced around. “You don't just get any hound in the Guild. Oh, dear me, no. These are dogs that have been…” he lowered his voice, “…er… bad dogs.”

“Bad dogs?”

“Bad dogs. You naughty boy. Give him a smack. You bad dog,” muttered Gaspode, like some horrible litany. “Every dog you see here, right, every dog… run away Run away from his or her actual owner.”

“Is that all?”

“All? All? Well. Of course. You ain't exactly a dog. You wouldn't understand. You wouldn't know what it was like. But Big Fido… he told 'em. Throw off your choke chains, he said. Bite the hand that feeds you. Rise up and howl. He gave 'em pride,” said Gaspode, his voice a mixture of fear and fascination, “He told 'em. Any dog he finds not bein' a free spirit—that dog is a dead dog. He killed a Dobermann last week, just for wagging his tail when a human went past.”

Angua looked at some of the other dogs. They were all unkempt. They were also, in a strange way, un-doglike. There was a small and rather dainty white poodle that still just about had the overgrown remains of its poodle cut, and a lapdog with the tattered remains of a tartan jacket still hanging from its shoulder. But they weren't milling around, or squabbling. They had a uniform intent look that she'd seen before, although never on dogs.

Gaspode was clearly trembling now. Angua slunk over to the poodle. It still had a diamante collar visible under the crusty fur.

“This Big Fido,” she said, “is he some kind of wolf, or what?”

“Spiritually, all dogs are wolves,” said the poodle, “but cynically and cruelly severed from their true destiny by the manipulations of so-called humanity.”

It sounded like a quote. “Big Fido said that?” Angua hazarded.

The poodle turned its head. For the first time she saw its eyes. They were red, and as mad as hell. Anything with eyes like that could kill anything it wanted because madness, true madness, can drive a fist through a plank.

“Yes,” said Big Fido.