And, as that thought tripped through William’s brain, he knew where Wuffles was.
Trixiebell’s ridiculous pink tail disappeared into the mass of old packing cases and cardboard known variously to the crew as ‘What?’, ‘Bugrit!’, ‘Ptooi!’ and Home.
William’s eyes were already watering. There wasn’t much breeze down here. He made his way to the pool of firelight.
‘Oh … good evening, gentlemen,’ he managed, nodding to the figures around the green-edged flames.
‘Let’s see the colour of your bit of paper,’ commanded the voice of Deep Bone, from out of the shadows.
‘It’s, er, off-white,’ said William, unfolding the cheque. It was taken by the Duck Man, who scanned it carefully and added noticeably to its off-whiteness.
‘It seems to be in order. Fifty dollars, signed,’ he said. ‘I have explained the concept to my associates, Mr de Worde. It was not easy, I have to tell you.’
‘Yeah, and if you don’t put up we’ll come to your house!’ said Coffin Henry.
‘Er … and do what?’ said William.
‘Stand outside for ever and ever and ever!’ said Arnold Sideways.
‘Lookin’ at people in a funny way,’ said the Duck Man.
‘Gobbin’ on their boots!’ said Coffin Henry.
William tried not to think about Mrs Arcanum. He said: ‘Now can I see the dog?’
‘Show him, Ron,’ commanded the voice of Deep Bone.
Ron’s heavy coat fell open, revealing Wuffles blinking in the firelight.
‘You had him?’ said William. ‘That was all there was to it?’
‘Bugrit!’
‘Who’s going to search Foul Ole Ron?’ said Deep Bone.
‘Good point,’ said William. ‘Very good point. Or smell him out.’
‘Now, you got to remember he’s old,’ said Deep Bone. ‘An’ he wasn’t exactly Mr Brain to start with. I mean, we’re talkin’ dogs here — not talking dogs,’ said the voice hurriedly, ‘but talking about dogs, I mean — so don’t expect a philosophical treatise, is what I’m sayin’.’
Wuffles begged geriatrically when he saw William looking at him.
‘How did he come to be with you?’ said William as Wuffles sniffed his hand.
‘He came running out of the palace straight under Ron’s coat,’ said Deep Bone.
‘Which is, as you point out, the last place anyone would look,’ said William.
‘You’d better believe it.’
‘And not even a werewolf would find him there.’ William took out his notebook, turned to a fresh page, and wrote: ‘Wuffles.’ He said, ‘How old is he?’
Wuffles barked.
‘Sixteen,’ said Deep Bone. ‘Is that important?’
‘It’s a newspaper thing,’ said William. He wrote: ‘Wuffles (16), formerly of The Palace, Ankh-Morpork.’
I’m interviewing a dog, he thought. Man Interviews Dog. That’s nearly news.
‘So … er, Wuffles, what happened before you ran out of the palace?’ he said.
Deep Bone, from his hiding place, whined and growled. Wuffles cocked an ear and then growled back.
‘He woke up and experienced a moment of horrible philosophical uncertainty,’ said Deep Bone.
‘I thought you said—’
‘I’m translatin’, right? And this was on account of there being two Gods in the room. That’s two Lord Vetinaris, Wuffles being an old-fashioned kind of dog. But he knew one was wrong because he smelled wrong. And there were two other men. And then—’
William scribbled furiously.
Twenty seconds later Wuffles bit him hard on the ankle.
The clerk in Mr Slant’s front office looked down from his high desk at the two visitors, sniffed and carried on with his laborious copperplate. He did not have a lot of time for the notion of customer service. The Law could not be hurried—
A moment later his head was rammed into the desktop and held down by some enormous weight.
Mr Pin’s face appeared in his limited vision.
‘I said,’ said Mr Pin, ‘that Mr Slant wants to see us …’
‘Sngh,’ said the clerk. Mr Pin nodded and the pressure was relieved slightly.
‘Sorry? You were saying?’ said Mr Pin, watching the man’s hand creep along the edge of the desk.
‘He’s … not … seeing … anyone …’ The words ended in a muffled yelp.
Mr Pin leaned down. ‘Sorry about the fingers,’ he said, ‘but we can’t have them naughty little things creeping to that little lever there, can we? No telling what might happen if you pulled that lever. Now … which one’s Mr Slant’s office?’
‘Second … door … on … left …’ the man groaned.
‘See? It’s so much nicer when we’re polite. And in a week, two at the outside, you’ll be able to pick up a pen again.’ Mr Pin nodded to Mr Tulip, who let the man go. He slithered to the floor.
‘You want I should — ing scrag him?’
‘Leave him,’ said Mr Pin. ‘I think I’m going to be nice to people today.’
He had to hand it to Mr Slant. When the New Firm stepped into his office the lawyer looked up and his expression barely flickered.
‘Gentlemen?’ he said.
‘Don’t press a — ing thing,’ said Mr Tulip.
‘There’s something you should know,’ said Mr Pin, pulling a box out of his jacket.
‘And what is that?’ said Mr Slant.
Mr Pin flicked a catch on the side of the box.
‘Let’s hear about yesterday,’ he said.
The imp blinked.
‘… nyip … nyapnyip … nyapdit … nyip …’ it said.
‘It’s just working its way backwards,’ said Mr Pin.
‘What is this?’ said the lawyer.
‘… nyapnyip … sipnyap … nip … is valuable, Mr Pin. So I will not spin this out. What did you do with the dog?’ Mr Pin’s finger touched another lever. ‘… wheedlewheedle whee … My … clients have long memories and deep pockets. Other killers can be hired. Do you understand me?’
There was a tiny ‘Ouch’ as the Off lever hit the imp on the head.
Mr Slant got up and walked across to an ancient cabinet.
‘Would you like a drink, Mr Pin? I am afraid I have only embalming fluid …’
‘Not yet, Mr Slant.’
‘… and I think I probably have a banana somewhere …’
Mr Slant turned, smiling beatifically, at the sound of the smack of Mr Pin catching Mr Tulip’s arm.
‘I told you I’m gonna — ing kill him—’
‘Too late, alas,’ said the lawyer, sitting down again. ‘Very well, Mr Pin. This is about money, is it?’
‘All we’re owed, plus another fifty thousand.’
‘But you haven’t found the dog.’
‘Nor have the Watch. And they’ve got a werewolf. Everyone’s looking for the dog. The dog’s gone. But that doesn’t matter. This little box matters.’
‘That is very little in the way of evidence …’
‘Really? You asking us about the dog? Talking about killers? I reckon that Vimes character will niggle away at something like that. He doesn’t sound like the sort to let things go.’ Mr Pin smiled humourlessly. ‘You’ve got stuff on us but, well, between you and me,’ he leaned closer, ‘some of the things we’ve done might be considered, well, tantamount to crimes—’