Angua found herself back in the reception room of the Guild less than an hour later. The letter had specified this early hour and Angua was too tired to disobey. And anyway, she had to do this if she was to avoid being exposed as a fraud. All she had to do was fail miserably in her exam, and she could walk away from all this, never to look back again.
She had washed herself quickly back at her lodgings and had put on cleaner clothes, but that didn't help much. She knew that she was considered by many to be an undead1, but this was the first time she had actually had an idea what, say, zombies might feel like.
She told the lizard woman at the reception disk about the fact that Bethi wouldn't be taking her test today, due to overexertion in the line of duty. The lizard gave her a look of absolute scorn that Angua suspected that she must have been practising since their last encounter, but didn't say anything.
There were no other girls present, so Angua did what all people do in empty waiting rooms while waiting to be admitted to an exam: she sat down as far away from the receptionist as possible, fidgeted nervously for a while and then picked up a magazine at random.
She started to flick through its pages without much interest until she realised what the magazine was about, and then put it down very quickly. She leafed through the pile on the coffee table next to her in order to see if there was anything else, but it was all the same stuff.
Of course, in this particular place it was probably required reading, Angua thought. There was a distinct lack of knitting patterns in these publications, she noted, but there was a fair bit of instructive schemes on practical anatomy2.
Finally, the lizard woman came out of her little booth and stood in the doorway. Even though there was no one else around, she still consulted her notepad very carefully before calling out:
"'Fifi Fangue'?"
She looked around the room and seemed very surprised to find Angua in it. Then, with an impatient gesture she indicated that Angua should follow her, and together they trooped off down a corridor.
They finally came to a halt in front of an impressive pair of double doors. In spite herself, Angua felt her stomach fill with the butterflies of doom that are an unavoidable feature ahead of every exam everywhere.
The doors were opened, and Angua was shown into a homey parlour, where the President of the Seamstresses' Guild awaited her at a table set with breakfast for two.
"Why, good morning, Sergeant. I've been expecting you."
-----
"I trust that your partner is recovering well?" Mrs. Palm said pleasantly as soon as the door had closed behind Angua.
In a long night of unpleasant surprises, this took the price. Angua was lost for words. She knew! The thought repeated itself over and over in her mind, but she couldn't come to terms with it.
Mrs. Palm made a small gesture towards the chair and waited. Angua realised that she was panting with pent-up rage, and fought it down, before finally trusting herself to sit down.
"You knew we were there all the time?" Angua couldn't help herself. "But how?"
"Oh, come now, Sergeant," Mrs. Palm said pleasantly as she sipped her tea, "Even without – Bethi – we would have spotted you sooner or later, but I'll freely admit that you made things easier for us, certainly."
"I mean to say, "Bethi"? Not even the men of Ankh-Morpork are that perverted, Sergeant," Mrs. Palm continued.
"Not many, at least," she added as an afterthought.
"But we, that is to say I, could have sneaked away at any moment," Angua retorted with a conviction she didn't really feel, "After all, the Agony Aunts only came around twice per night!"
The look Angua received this time was priceless.
"Really? You think we wouldn't keep you under surveillance?"
"What?!" Angua was shaken. Even with her current sinus problems, she should have been able to spot a shadow easily.
"Why, yes, dear," Mrs. Palm, "Surely you must have realised that not all those, ah, potential clients were real?"
Angua sagged with relief, despite herself.
"You mean the accountant types were spies? I knew it coul—"
Mrs. Palm just smiled.
A contemplative silence descended over the breakfast table, only to be broken by the clink of minute silverware against fine aurient3.
"OK, I can see that you're not going to change your mind on this, but I assure you that the Watch could have taken him," Angua said gruffly.
Mrs. Palm gave Angua a look of pity.
"Really? We spotted you straight away, you and that little gnome-like man, and I am sure the same is true for our so-called Donkey."
Angua didn't know what to say. It was probably true, she thought. The attack a couple of hours ago might be proof of that.
Again, they sat in silence for a while, and then Mrs. Palm spoke again.
"You know," she said, "If I hadn't become a seamstress, I would have liked to work as a psycholologist."
"A what?"
"A psycholologist. I reckon it's pretty much the same thing anyway, only a couch is less comfortable, of course."
"What's your point?" asked Angua. She couldn't help but respect the woman, but she was damned if she was going to show her that.
"We-ell," said Mrs. Palm, "Everyone knows that the Aunts are keen amateur retro-phrenologists4, right? And that's all well and good in their line of work" – she looked over to Angua, who shuddered – "as rehabilitators, but I just can't help but wonder if there isn't more to it than that."
"Can't see the idea of a Guild of Psycholologists taking off, though," Mrs. Palm sighed.
"I'm sorry," Angua said in a voice that made it clear that she wasn't, "but I still don't see what you're talking about."
"All right," said Mrs. Palm, "let me give you an example: You know your man used to stay with me and my girls when he first arrived here in town?"
"Carrot is not my man," Angua replied, out of habit. The subject was not one that she cared to discuss.
Mrs. Palm just smiled at her.
"Whatever you say, dear," she said, "but my point is, that young Ironfundersson could have got any one of my girls if he wanted to. They were all falling head over heels for him, breaking the first rule of our profession, and yet he didn't take advantage of the situation. Makes you think, doesn't it?"
"This man, however," she continued, "this so-called Donkey is your typical rabid dog, and there is only one thing to do for them. It's sad, perhaps, but what can you do? It's a dog eat dog world after all. But maybe one day we could change all that – with the help of psycholology. Who knows?"
Angua listened, but didn't really hear. There was something else that had been prying on her mind for quite some time now, and she wanted her suspicions confirmed.
"You could've told us that the Donkey was wearing women's clothes all along!" she growled accusingly, "You must've known about it from the start, and yet you said nothing!"
Mrs. Palm sighed.
"No, we couldn't tell you that, Sergeant. Can you imagine what it would have done for our trade if it had been known that this Donkey person was someone who looked exactly like a seamstress?"
Angua didn't say anything, but just sat there and stared at the guild president.
"We have had our eyes on this fellow for quite a while," Mrs. Palm said when she had served Angua a cup and given her a chance to add a sip of milk. "All we needed was for him to make one false move and we could get him. When he attacked Corporal Nobbs - one of our members - without paying, Dottie and Sadie made their move."
"What? You've got him? You got the Donkey??"
"Oh, surely you don't think we would let him get away with something like that, do you?"
"But, but . . . Where is he now? And why didn't you do anything before if you knew . . .?"
"We do have rules, you know," Mrs. Palm added when she saw the look of utter disbelief on Angua's face.
"So where is he now? And who is he?"
Mrs. Palm didn't seem to hear her.
-----
Angua walked along the wall of the Seamstresses' Guildhouse, lost in thoughts. It had been an extremely interesting conversation with Mrs. Palm, even though the most urgent questions remained unaccounted for. Where was the Donkey now? And who was he?
The guild president had simply refused to say anything on the subject. Instead she had said that it had been an interesting experience for all involved, and had wished Angua every success in her future endeavours in a very motherly way5.
Suddenly her nostrils flared as if they had a life of their own. She became aware of a familiar odour in the morning air. It was a scent that even her battered nose would have been able to recognise anywhere. Blood.
She quickly located the source of the smell. It was the kitchen entrance round the back of the Guild, where a dozen or more of the city's many street dogs were making a feast of what looked like a large number of discarded sausages. There were a lot of dogs there already, and more and more were arriving at the scene. Those already there were wolfing it down as quickly as possible. Soon, nothing would be left.
But something was wrong, Angua knew. She couldn't put her finger on what it was, because there was something wrong with the smell itself somehow. When she stood there, trying to get her tired brain to tell her what it was, the wind changed and another, equally intrusive smell emanated from a dark corner a couple of meters away. It was the smell of a wet, old carpet that had had one too many run-ins with an incontinent grandmother. It was a foul stench, and Angua knew it well.
"Gaspode?"
"Yesh?" The voice was indistinct, but Angua recognised it.
"Gaspode, is that you?" Stupid question, she thought. How many talking dogs are there in Ankh-Morpork?
"It'sh me awlright," Gaspode conceded. "Grab a bite, bitch."
Angua growled, making Gaspode whine pathetically. Now she could see why his voice was muddled. In the small dog's jaws was an enormous sausage that he was working his way through even as he spoke.
"Awlright, awlright," he whined, before gobbling down the outsized chunk of sausage he had ripped off, "No need to get upset now! I just happened to be in the neighbourhood, is all."
"You never just happened to be anywhere, Gaspode," Angua said in a harder tone of voice than she had intended.
"Okay, you got me," Gaspode admitted unabashedly, "The Seamstresses' cook dumps whatever leftovers she has on Iosdays, and as you can see," he added, flicking an ear in the general direction of the pack, "it's well worth showing up for."
Angua looked over to the writhing mass of scrawny dogs and back to Gaspode and his sausage again. She still couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Then it hit her.
"So how come you're eating something altogether different from them, Gaspode?" she asked.
""What? You mean you can't tell?" Gaspode's face expressed disbelief in the way only a dog can.
"What?" Angua said, irritated.
"Too close to home? Or to the doghouse, perhaps," Gaspode grinned, but it was a sickly grin. "Let's just say that ain't the usual fare they're having over there. Too dim to realise it, of course, but catch this dog having some of that? Nope, I don't think so!"
Angua looked again at the rapidly disappearing meat, remembering something that Mrs. Palm had said, her words echoing in her head, almost drowning out the words of Gaspode, as he droned on the background.
". . . this man . . . this so-called Donkey . . . is a rabid dog . . ."
". . . you know, I always figured that we would cast off our leashes one day and return to the wild, but that sure ain't the way I imagined it would happen . . ."
". . . only one thing you can do . . ."
". . . I think it's sick. I'm not sayin' that I haven't heard of dogs up at Small Gods' from time to time, when there's nothing else to be 'ad, say, in the middle o' winter, like . . ."
". . . it's a dog eat dog world . . ."
". . .but at least you could have the, like, decency to bury them proper, like, and not let us do the dirty, style o' fing," Gaspode finished, only now noticing that he didn't have his audience' full attention.
". . . dog eat dog . . ."
Angua's stomach turned and then she did the same and fled from the scene. She didn't register Gaspode howling after her in surprise, didn't stop to listen to the excited street dogs fighting one another for the last scraps. She couldn't bear looking at it, couldn't stand the smell, and most of all couldn't stomach the knowledge that she had wished this fate upon the man, no matter how much he might have deserved it.
She fled towards the Yard and to Carrot's loving arms. She didn't pause to think, but if she had formulated the need that had suddenly possessed her, it might have sounded thus:
In a world as rotten as this there has to be something pure, something good, and right now, for her, that meant her love for Carrot, and his for her.
She didn't stop running until she was there.
-----
The sun rose once more over Ankh-Morpork, greatest of cities on the Disc.
In the fields around the city the birds and the bees are already busy, ensuring that the circle of life turns once more. Elsewhere, in the city, in an upstairs room in the Watch house, something very similar is happening, but we won't go into that.
Maybe the seamstresses are right in saying that all such dealings are of a commercial nature, after all, since all the participants have something to gain from it, but if so, then such are the economics of Life.
In a back alley in the Shades, behind the Seamstresses' Guildhouse, all that remained was a little greasy patch on the ground. It wasn't anything revolutionary in itself, but who knows, maybe that smidgen of grease will ensure that the wheel of life turns just a little bit easier this year?
*****
1 The latest research showed that lycantrophy was most likely caused by a virus, to which people said "Invisible creatures in the bloodstream? Bollocks to that!"
2 Pornography has always been the driving force of any new medium of communication, and the Discworld's newfangled printed media was no exception. Birgitta Goodmountain was facing stiff competition. Literally.
3 One of the main exports from the Counterweight Continent these days were cups and saucers and plates made of a fine, bone-like material that was remarkably like our world's china.
4 The idea that the shape of a person's head determined the owner's personality had been taken to its logical conclusion by the citizens of Ankh-Morpork, who figured that it was just a matter of finding out where to hit in order to achieve the right bumps. The Aunts were enthusiastic researchers.
5 While at the same time hinting at the fact that she thought Angua could have done a lot better (also in a very motherly way).