Chapter 7 - Clues
Giles prowled around the chalk outline of the pentagram, stepping neatly over the chalice that lay on its side, contents spilled on the carpet.
"Aha!" he cried. A fascinated audience rushed to his shoulder. He pointed, dramatically. The pentagram lay marked out on the chalk dust sprinkled carpet in front of them, lines rough but unbroken - except for the point where a large bootprint bisected the line, directly facing the chalice.
"It wasn't me!" protested Xander, backing away. "I didn't step on the pentagram. Stop looking at me like that."
Giles closed his eyes. "We know it wasn't you, Xander."
"You don't wear hobnailed boots for one thing," said Willow.
Tara nodded, "and besides ..."
"...the footprint is facing outwards from the pentagram," added Dawn, triumphantly. "It came from inside."
Lord Commander Vimes was in a conference. The conference consisted of Captain Ironfoundersson, now back from his two day budget training course in Lord Vetinari's private office and looking a bit sandbagged as a result; Lady Sybil Vimes, who had been called in as an expert adviser in dragons (she had dropped by to make sure her husband would be ready for the Annual Ankh Morpork Charity Ball, but had been mercifully distracted); and Sergeant Angua, in-house expert in tracking.
He leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his aching temples. So far, they hadn't got very far. An unreliable witness statement, and a suspicious report of a flock of sheep dead by spontaneous combustion just outside the city walls were their only clues. Sybil reported no agitation among her swamp dragon charges, and Angua had found no trace of dragon spoor in the air. So where was the creature? It was hard to believe something 100 feet long and all the colours of the rainbow was somehow blending in undercover. He leaned back in his chair and pondered his next move - and then his nose twitched. What was that smell?
"Oh dear," said Lady Sybil. "Are the drains are playing up again?"
Angua's head swivelled. "Someone's coming up the stairs. Skipping up actually."
Vimes groaned. There was only one skipper in the Watch.
The door opened and Buffybot bounced in. "Hi everyone!" she said, beaming around the room. "I've got a Clue!" And she reached under her cloak and drew out a filthy mangy little dog, which she placed proudly on the desk. The vile stench doubled in intensity.
"Gaspode!" cried Carrot, jolted out of his reverie. And he rushed forward and tickled Gaspode around the ears. "I thought you were a goner, little fellow. I'm so pleased to see you back."
"Gerroff," mumbled Gaspode indistinctly, and Carrot turned away and clapped Buffybot on the shoulder. "Well done, Watchman ... Bott, you must be Bott. Sergeant Angua told me we had a new member."
Buffybot beamed. "I am," she agreed. "Private Buffy Bott. And you must be Captain Ironfoundersson. They told me to look out for a very tall dwarf with red hair." She drew herself up and saluted. Carrot drew himself up and saluted her gravely in return, and then he went back to patting Gaspode.
"Oh my," said Lady Sybil, "this is all so touching." She smiled at Carrot. "Is the little doggie yours?"
Gaspode hawked and spat, and then coughed a deep hacking cough that made his ribs heave. Lady Sybil immediately looked concerned. "Oh dear, catarrh. What the little doggie needs is a good chest rub, a dose of my special cough syrup, and a nice woolly jacket to keep his chest warm. That should soon get him well."
"What the little doggie needs," said Angua acidly, "is a bath. In bleach." Gaspode gave her a Look from under his eyebrows.
Vimes cleared his throat. "After we've all quite finished admiring what may be the whiffiest dog I've ever met, perhaps we could get back to what Private Bott thinks he's a clue to, apart from the composition of every midden pile in Ankh Morpork."
Buffybot giggled, merrily, and Vimes closed his eyes, pained. Skipping and giggling. It was almost more than a man could stand. "Sorry, Lord Commander Vimes, Sir!" she said, patting Gaspode absently. Her hand collided with Carrot's, as they both patted what was, after all, a very small dog, and she zinged him a bright smile. He smiled right back at her.
"I forgot to say," said Buffybot, "He's a clue because he says the dragon tried to eat him, down by the sluice gates leading out under the City wall." She looked around her bright eyed, confident everyone would be as thrilled as she was.
"My word, the poor dragon must be starving." It was Angua again. Vimes spared her a glance. The sergeant seemed to be upset about something.
Then he turned back to his new Watchman. She was even pottier than he'd feared, and even more unreliable. In fact, he was beginning to think that maybe there was no dragon, even though its presence confirmed his worst fears -and he was used to his worst fears being realised at some time or another. It was gift, or a curse if you chose to look at it that way.
"Are you telling us that you believe this mutt spoke to you?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Erm," Lady Sybil looked embarassed. "It's not really usual, is it young lady, for dogs to talk?"
"No!" said Buffybot, "in fact I only knew one other dog that could talk, and he was really a human person in doggy shape. But you know what I think?" She leaned forward conspiratorially, and Lady Sybil and Carrot leaned towards her, entranced. "I think it's magic!" said Buffybot with a flourish. She pointed out of the window at the Unseen University. Everyone followed her pointing finger, and then turned to look at Gaspode. He coughed again, and sat down to scratch his privates with a lazy back leg.
"That is the least likely magical creature I have ever seen in my life," said Vimes.
"Can you talk, little dog?" asked Lady Sybil. She walked over to him, her eyes watering only slightly.
"Of course I can't," said Gaspode. "I've never heard such a silly bloody idea."
"Of course he can't, I've never heard such a silly bloody idea," said Vimes. He blinked.
Lady Sybil blinked in return. "Language, Samuel ..." She stopped. "Is there an echo in here?" Vimes and Lady Sybil stared at one another, and then at Gaspode, their mouths opening in little 'oh's of surprise.
"Gaspode can talk!" cried Carrot. "Golly, how amazing."
"Oops," said Gaspode, and he leapt off the table and headed for the open door - which shut with a clang, a large axe embedded in it. He turned at bay, and showed a yellow snaggled tooth.
"Not so fast, little doggie," said Vimes. He walked over to the door and retrieved his axe, and turned to face Gaspode. "Now then," he said, menace oozing from his voice. "Why don't we have a talk, eh? Man to dog."
Gaspode eyed him without favour "You nearly 'ad my nose there. There's hospitality for you, I don't think." He shifted uneasily backwards as Vimes continued to advance, and then changed tack. "And as for the talkin', it's no big secret. Her with the big nose over there knew all along." He pointed his own, rather short nose at Angua. Eight interested eyes settled on her features.
Angua raised her chin. "I can explain."
Spike groaned, and sat up. His head hurt. But when did his bloody head not hurt? Every time he even thought about filling in Harris's ugly mush, or staking the Slayer (which would totally serve her right, the annoying little smartass), there was the headache. It was no way to live. Or not-live. Or whatever. He shook his head to dislodge the half-baked philosophy stuff - and groaned again. Aargh, that was not a chip headache. That was a smashed-over-the-head-with-a-heavy-blunt-instrument headache. He knew the feeling well, particularly now he hung around with the Scoobies.
He dragged himself slowly to his knees, and felt his head. There was a knotted lump at the back of his skull - and a sharp pain in his ankle. He hoisted up his trouser leg and looked down, vampire eyes sharp in the darkness. Teeth marks, red and oozing - and big. His mind flashed back to the scene in the bedroom. Three figures in the bed, one with a beard - in ... could it have been curlers? Little Pollyanna bot in the middle, and the third one - ah. A werewolf. He'd been bitten by a werewolf - and then the short beardy type had tried to arrest him, and he'd jumped out of a window, and the drainpipe had given way ... and he'd taken a knock. And no doubt all those harpies had come along and carried him off somewhere.
He looked around. He was in some sort of cellar. Water dripped from the ceiling and plinked into little puddles on the packed earth floor. Mould bloomed on the brickwork, and dry rot ran in white tendrils across the wooden ceiling above him.
All in all, it seemed likeliest he was now in prison. Well, it wasn't for the first time.
He got up and cast around, to see what weapons were handy for breaking out. There was a scurrying movement in the darkness, and his hand shot out. A large sewer rat sank its teeth into his finger, and then expired, its back broken. He cursed and sucked on the wound. He'd only been in this revolting place a few hours and already two of the inhabitants had bitten him. He was not used to being on the receiving end, and frankly, it sucked. He drained the rat and tossed it moodily aside, then stopped dead and stared into the darkness. Two little points of red light stared back at him.
"Well now," said Spike, raising a sardonic eyebrow, "who the hell are you?"