Carrot spun around.
'What're you doing here?'
'Your uniform got stolen while you were spying in the Assassins' Guild,' Gaspode prompted.
'My uniform got stolen,' said Angua, 'while I was in the Assassins' Guild. Spying.' Carrot was still staring at her. 'There was some old bloke who kept muttering all the time,' she went on desperately.
'Buggrit? Millennium hand and shrimp?'
'Yes, that's right—'
'Foul Ole Ron.' Carrot sighed. 'Probably sold it for a drink. I know where he lives, though. Remind me to go and have a word with him when I've got time.'
'You don't want to ask her what she was wearing when she was in the Guild,' said Gaspode, who had crept under the bed.
'Shut up!' said Angua.
'What?' said Carrot.
'I found out about the room,' said Angua quickly. 'Someone called—'
'Edward d'Eath?' said Carrot, sitting down on the bed. The ancient springs went groing-groing-grink.
'How did you know that?'
'I think d'Eath stole the gonne. I think he killed Beano. But . . . Assassins killing without being paid ? It's worse than dwarfs and tools. It's worse than clowns and faces. I hear Cruces is really upset. He's got Assassins looking for the boy all over the city.'
'Oh. Well. I'd hate to be in Edward's shoes when they find him.'
'I'd hate to be in his shoes now. And I know where they are, you see. They're on his poor feet. And they're dead.'
'The Assassins have found him, then?'
'No. Someone else did. And then Cuddy and Detritus did. If I'm any judge, he's been dead for several days. You see? That can't be right! But I rubbed the Beano make-up off and took off the red nose, and it was definitely him. And the wig's the right kind of red hair. He must have gone straight to Hammerhock.'
grief,' said Angua, when they had put several streets between them and the crowd of dogs. 'He's mad, isn't he?'
'No, mad's when you froth at the mouf,' said Gaspode. 'He's insane. That's when you froth at the brain.'
All that stuff about wolves—'
'I suppose a dog's got a right to dream,' said Gaspode.
'But wolves aren't like that! They don't even have names!'
'Everyone's got a name.'
'Wolves haven't. Why should they? They know who they are, and they know who the rest of the pack are. It's all . . . an image. Smell and feel and shape. Wolves don't even have a word for wolves! It's not like that. Names are human things.'
'Dogs have got names. I've got a name. Gaspode. 'S'my name,' said Gaspode, a shade sullenly.
'Well . . . I can't explain why,' said Angua. 'But wolves don't have names.'
The moon was high now, in a sky as black as a cup of coffee that wasn't very black at all.
Its light turned the city into a network of silver lines and shadows.
Once upon a time the Tower of Art had been the centre of the city, but cities tend to migrate gently with time and Ankh-Morpork's centre was now several hundred yards away. The tower still dominated the city, though; its black shape reared against the evening sky, contriving to look blacker than mere shadows would suggest.