He ushered them down the stairs and into the courtyard, bubbling with small talk now. The rest of the Watch clanked to attention.
‘Actually …’ said Carrot, just as he was being ushered out of the gate, ‘there is one thing you could do.’
‘Of course, of course.’
‘Um, I know it’s a bit cheeky,’ said Carrot, ‘but I’ve always been very interested in Guild customs … so … do you think someone could show me your museum?’
‘Sorry? What museum?’
‘The clown museum?’
‘Oh, you mean the Hall of Faces. That’s not a museum. Of course. Nothing secret about it. Boffo, make a note. We’d be happy to show you around any time, corporal.’
‘Thank you very much, Dr Whiteface.’
‘Any time.’
‘I’m just going off duty,’ said Carrot. ‘Right now would be nice. Since I happen to be here.’
‘You can’t go off duty when— ow!’ said Colon.
‘Sorry, sergeant?’
‘You kicked me!’
‘I accidentally trod on your sandal, sergeant. I’m sorry.’
Colon tried to see a message in Carrot’s face. He’d got used to simple Carrot. Complicated Carrot was as unnerving as being savaged by a duck.
‘We’ll, er, we’ll just be going, then, shall we?’ he said.
‘No point in staying here now it’s all settled,’ said Carrot, mugging furiously. ‘May as well take the night off, really.’
He glanced at the rooftops.
‘Oh, well, now it’s all settled we’ll be off, right,’ said Colon. ‘Right, Nobby?’
‘Oh, yeah, we’ll be off all right, because it’s all settled,’ said Nobby. ‘You hear that, Cuddy?’
‘What, that it’s all settled?’ said Cuddy. ‘Oh, yeah. We might as well be off. Okay, Detritus?’
Detritus was staring moodily at nothing with his knuckles resting on the ground. This was a normal stance for a troll while waiting for the next thought to arrive.
The syllables of his name kicked a neuron into fitful activity.
‘What?’ he said.
‘It’s all settled.’
‘What is?’
‘You know — Mr Hammerhock’s death and everything.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes!’
‘Oh.’
Detritus considered this for a while, nodded, and settled back into whatever state of mind he normally occupied.
Another neuron gave a fizzle.
‘Right,’ he said.
Cuddy watched him for a moment.
‘That’s about it,’ he said, sadly. ‘That’s all we’re getting.’
‘I’ll be back shortly,’ said Carrot. ‘Shall we be off … Joey, wasn’t it? Dr Whiteface?’{70}
‘I suppose there’s no harm,’ said Dr Whiteface. ‘Very well. Show Corporal Carrot anything he likes, Boffo.’
‘Right, sir,’ said the little clown.
‘It must be a jolly job, being a clown,’ said Carrot.
‘Must it?’
‘Lots of japes and jokes, I mean.’
Boffo gave Carrot a lopsided look.
‘Well …’ he said. ‘It has its moments …’
‘I bet it does. I bet it does.’
‘Are you often on gate duty, Boffo?’ said Carrot pleasantly, as they strolled through the Fools’ Guild.
‘Huh! Just about all the time,’ said Boffo.
‘So when did that friend of his, you know, the Assassin … visit him?’
‘Oh, you know about him, then,’ said Boffo.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Carrot.
‘About ten days ago,’ said Boffo. ‘It’s through here, past the pie range.’
‘He’d forgotten Beano’s name, but he did know the room. He didn’t know the number but he went straight to it,’ Carrot went on.
‘That’s right. I expect Dr Whiteface told you,’ said Boffo.
‘I’ve spoken to Dr Whiteface,’ said Carrot.
Angua felt she was beginning to understand the way Carrot asked questions. He asked them by not asking them. He simply told people what he thought or suspected, and they found themselves filling in the details in an attempt to keep up. And he never, actually, told lies.
Boffo pushed open a door and fussed around lighting a candle.
‘Here we are then,’ he said. ‘I’m in charge of this, when I’m not on the bloody gate.’
‘Ye gods,’ said Angua, under her breath. ‘It’s horrible.’
‘It’s very interesting,’ said Carrot.
‘It’s historical,’ said Boffo the clown.
‘All those little heads …’{71}
They stretched away in the candlelight, shelf on shelf of them, tiny little clown faces — as if a tribe of headhunters had suddenly developed a sophisticated sense of humour and a desire to make the world a better place.
‘Eggs,’ said Carrot. ‘Ordinary hens’ eggs. What you do is, you get a hen’s egg, and you make a hole in either end and you blow the egg stuff out, and then a clown paints his make-up on the egg and that’s his official make-up and no other clown can use it. That’s very important. Some faces have been in the same family for generations, you know. Very valuable thing, a clown’s face. Isn’t that so, Boffo?’
The clown was staring at him.
‘How do you know all that?’
‘I read it in a book.’
Angua picked up an ancient egg. There was a label attached to it, and on the label were a dozen names, all crossed out except the last one. The ink on the earlier ones had faded almost to nothing. She put it down and unconsciously wiped her hand on her tunic.
‘What happens if a clown wants to use another clown’s face?’ she said.
‘Oh, we compare all the new eggs with the ones on the shelves,’ said Boffo. ‘It’s not allowed.’
They walked between aisles of faces. Angua fancied she could hear the squelch of a million custard-filled trousers and the echoes of a thousand honking noses and a million grins of faces that weren’t smiling. About halfway along was a sort of alcove containing a desk and chair, a shelf piled with old ledgers, and a workbench covered with crusted pots of paint, scraps of coloured horsehair, sequins and other odds and ends of the egg painter’s specialized art. Carrot picked up a wisp of coloured horsehair and twiddled it thoughtfully.
‘But supposing,’ he said, ‘that a clown, I mean a clown with his own face … supposing he used another clown’s face?’
‘Pardon?’ said Boffo.
‘Supposing you used another clown’s make-up?’ said Angua.
‘Oh, that happens all the time,’ said Boffo. ‘People’re always borrowing slap off each other—’
‘Slap?’ said Angua.
‘Make-up,’ Carrot translated. ‘No, I think what the lance-constable is asking, Boffo, is: could a clown make himself up to look like another clown?’
Boffo’s brow wrinkled, like someone trying hard to understand an impossible question.
‘Pardon?’
‘Where’s Beano’s egg, Boffo?’
‘That’s here on the desk,’ said Boffo. ‘You can have a look if you like.’
An egg was handed up. It had a blobby red nose and a red wig. Angua saw Carrot hold it up to the light and produce a couple of red strands from his pocket.
‘But,’ she said, trying one more time to get Boffo to understand, ‘couldn’t you wake up one morning and put on make-up so that you looked like a different clown?’
He looked at her. It was hard to tell his expression under the permanently downcast mouth, but as far as she could tell she might as well have suggested that he performed a specific sex act with a small chicken.
‘How could I do that?’ he said. ‘Then I wouldn’t be me.’
‘Someone else might do it, though?’