'What? That spaniel? He couldn't smell his own bottom if you put it in front of him!'

'They say he's pretty good, nasally.'

'And he widdles every time anyone looks at him!' snapped Gaspode.

'I heard he can smell a dead rat two miles away.'

'Yeah? Well, I can smell what colour it is!'

Carrot sighed. 'Well, I've got no choice, I'm afraid. You can't do it, so I'll—'

'I didn't say—' Gaspode stopped, and then went on, 'I'm going to do it, aren't I? I'm bloody well going to do it. You're going to trick me or blackmail me or whatever it takes, aren't you...?'

'Yes. How do you manage to write, Gaspode?'

'I holds the chalk in me mouth. Easy.'

'You're a smart dog. I've always said so. The world's only talking dog, too.'

'Lower your voice, lower your voice!' said Gaspode, looking around. 'Here, Uberwald's wolf country, isn't it?'

'Oh, yes.'

'I could've bin a wolf, you know. With diff'rent parents, of course.' Gaspode sniffed and looked furtively up and down the street again.

'Steak?'

'Every night.'

'Right.'

Sergeant Colon was a picture of misery drawn on a lumpy pavement in bad crayon on a wet day. He sat on a chair and occasionally glanced at the message that had just been delivered, as if hoping that the words would somehow fade away.

'Bloody hell, Nobby,' he moaned.

'There, there, Fred,' said Nobby, currently a vision in organdie.

'I can't be promoted! I'm not an officer! I am base, common and popular!'

'I've always said that about you, Fred. You got common off to a treat.'

'But it's writ down, Nobby! Look, his lordship's signed it!'

'We-ell, the way I see it, you've got three choices,' said Nobby.

'Yeah?'

'You can go and tell him you're not doing it...'

The panic in Colon's face was replaced by glazed grey terror.

'Thank you very much, Nobby,' he said bitterly. 'Let me know if you've got any more suggestions like that, 'cos I'll need to go and change my underwear.'

'Or you could accept it and make such a cockup of it that he takes it away from you...'

'You're doing this on purpose, Nobby!'

'Might be worth a try, Fred.'

'Yeah, but the thing about cock-ups, Nobby, is that it's hard for you to be, you know, precise. You might think you're making a little cock-up and then it blows up in your face and it turns out to be in fact a big cock-up, and in those circumstances, Nobby, I'm sort of worried that what his lordship might take away from me wouldn't just be the job. I hope I don't have to draw you a picture.'

'Good point, Fred.'

'What I'm saying is, cock-ups is like... well, cock-ups is... well, the thing about cock-ups is you never know what size they're going to be.'

'Well, Fred, the third choice is you putting up with it.'

'That's not helpful, Nobby.'

'It'll only be for a couple of weeks, then Mister Vimes'll be back.'

'Yeah, but supposing he isn't? Nasty place, Uberwald. I heard where it's a misery wrapped in a enema. That doesn't sound too good. You can fall down things. Then I'm stuck, right? I don't know how to do officering.'

'No one knows how to do officering, Fred. That's why they're officers. If they knew anything, they'd be sergeants.'

Now Colon's face screwed up again in desperate thought. As a lifelong uniformed man, a three-striped peg that had found a three-striped hole very early in its career, he subscribed automatically and unthinkingly to the belief that officers as a class could not put their own trousers on without a map. He conscientiously excluded Vimes and Carrot from the list, elevating them to the rank of honorary sergeant.

Nobby was watching him with an expression of combined concern, friendliness and predatory intent.

'What shall I do, Nobby?'

'Well, "captain",' said Nobby, and then he gave a little cough, 'what officers mainly have to do, as you know, is sign things—'

The door was knocked on and opened at the same time by a flustered constable.

'Sarge, Constable Shoe says he really does need an officer down at Sonky's factory.'

'What, the rubber wally man?' said Colon. 'Right. An officer. Right. We'll be along.'

'And that's Captain Colon,' said Nobby quickly.

'Er... er... yes, and that's Captain Colon, thank you very much,' said Colon, adding as his resolve stiffened, 'and I'll thank you not to forget it!'

The constable stared at them, and then stopped trying to understand.

'And there's a troll downstairs who insists on speaking to whoever's in charge—'

'Can't Stronginthearm deal with it?'

'Er... is Sergeant Stronginthearm still a sergeant?' said the constable.

'Yes!'

'Even unconscious?'

'What?'

'He's flat on the floor right now, Sar— Captain.'

'What's the troll want?'

'Right now he wants to kill someone, but mainly I think he wants someone to take the clamp off'f his foot.'

Gaspode ran up and down, nose barely an inch from the ground. Carrot waited, holding his horse. It was a good one. Carrot hadn't spent a lot of his wages, up until now.

Finally the dog sat down and looked depressed.

'So tell me about this wonderful nose the, Patrician has got, then,' he said.

'Not a trace?'

'You'd better get Vetinari down here, if he's so

good,' said Gaspode. 'What's the point of starting here? Worst place in the whole city! It's the gate to the cattle market, am I right? Trying not to smell stuff is the trick here, is the point I'm makin'. There's ground-in stink. If you wanted to get on the trail of somebody, this is the last place I'd start.'

'Very good point,' said Carrot carefully. 'So, what's the strongest smell heading Hubwards?'

'Dung carts, o'course. Yesterday. Always a big clear-out of the pens first thing Friday morning.'

'You can follow the smell?'

Gaspode rolled his eyes. 'With my head in a bucket.'

'Good. Let's go.'

'So,' said Gaspode, as they began to leave the gate's bustle behind, 'we're chasing this girl, right?'

'Yes.'

'Just you?'

'Yes.'

'Not like with dogs, then, where there might be twenty or thirty?'

'No.'

'So we're not looking at a bucket of cold water here?'

'No.'

Constable Shoe saluted, but a little testily. He'd been waiting rather a long time. 'Afternoon, Sergeant—'

'That's Captain,' said Captain Colon. 'See the pip on my shoulder, Reg?'

Reg looked closely. 'I thought it was bird doings, Barge.'

'That's Captain,' said Colon automatically. 'It's only chalk now because I ain't got time to get it done properly,' he said. 'So don't be cheeky.'

'What's up with Nobby?' said Reg. Corporal Nobbs was holding a damp cloth over one eye.

'Bit of a contry tomps with an illegally parked troll,' said Captain Colon.

'Shows what kind of troll he was, striking a lady,' muttered Nobby.

'But you ain't a lady, Nobby. You're just wearing your traffic-calming disguise.'

'He wasn't to know.'

'You'd got your helmet on. Anyway, you shouldn't have clamped him.'

'He was parked, Fred.'

'He'd been knocked down by a cart,' said Captain Colon. 'And that's captain.'

'Well, they always have excuses,' said Nobby sullenly.

'You'd better show us the corpus, Reg,' said Colon.

The body in the cellar was duly inspected.

'... and I remember Cheery saying there was a smell of cat's pee and sulphur at the Dwarf Bread Museum,' said Reg.

'Certainly hangs about,' said Colon. 'You wouldn't have blocked sinuses if you worked here for a day.'

'And I thought, "I wonder if someone'd tried to make a mould of the replica Scone", sir,' said Reg.