Chapter 4 - Making Trouble
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Notes/Disclaimer: The Discworld and all its characters are the sole property of Terry Pratchett. If I could worship him as a God, I would, but I'm not quite sure how he'd take that. At any rate, no money is being made off of this.
Warning: Little bit of Greebo/Vimes, little bit of Greebo/Vetinari.
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"So what do we do first?" said Granny Weatherwax.
"Let's go sightseeing!" Nanny insisted. "Our Michael told me about all the loveliest tourist spots that sound just wonderful-(1)"
"We don't have time for that," Granny snapped. "I meant, where do you think we should start looking first?"
Nanny sighed. "Are you sure we couldn't at least stop for the littlest drink first? Just a little sip to send us on our way?"
"First of all, Gytha, you have a flask on you, don't think I don't see it. And second, do you really think we should leave this thing running around the city one more moment than is necessary?"
Nanny sighed again, absently patting her hip flask. "I suppose not." She stopped a moment to think. "I guess we ought to start with the place that's got the most trouble, eh?" She cackled gleefully.
"And how are we supposed to find that."
Nanny grinned. "How does anyone find trouble?"
Greebo padded around Ankh-Morkpork on silent paws. Michael had shooed him out with a broom the second that Nanny had left, but he would have gotten out on his own in any case. The city was far too exciting to be left alone. Greebo sniffed enthusiastically at every new corner and suspicious stain. This was definitely the life for a cat.
His day so far had been rather eventful, in a catly sort of way. One of the neighborhood alley toms had made the mistake of trying to defend his territory from Greebo. Since then, none of the other cats had approached him. Word, apparently, traveled fast.
A small noise to his left caught Greebo's attention, coming from underneath a cardboard box that was partially leaned against a brick wall. Greebo darted inside, knocking the box over, and pinned the small struggling animal beneath.
"Cor! Lemme go!" yelled the creature.
Greebo paused. It was not often that his cat-prey spoke to him. His human-prey made lots of human noises, but things this small didn't usually talk, in his experience. He poked it experimentally with his claw.
"Ouch! Gerroff you bugger! Sodding cats."
Greebo sniffed it. It didn't smell human. It smelled… doggy. Definitely dog-shaped. But talking. Very strange.
The thing growled and tried to bite him, but Greebo nonchalantly slapped its muzzle with a clawed hand and it stopped. It continued to wriggle, however, which was becoming annoying. Perhaps he should just kill the thing and be done with it. It was pretty scraggly for a dog, anyway. Probably wouldn't be much of a fight. Maybe he'd try eating it after it was dead.
The dog seemed to sense Greebo's thought process and wriggled harder. "Oy! Stop it! Help! Help! Bark bark! Cute little doggy in trouble! Bark!"
Suddenly, something much bigger was behind them. In a flash, Greebo darted forward and spun around, fur bristling and claws out, prepared to face this new enemy. It was no being, however, but a roiling black cloud, and quickly approaching too; tendrils of black mist crept forward like fingers, reaching for them. Greebo hissed and arched his back.
The little dog got woozily to his feet, took one look at the cloud, and took off in the other direction with a yelp, but Greebo stood his ground. The challenge had been issued; he couldn't very well back down now. But some deeper cat instinct warned him that there was something bigger about this that he wasn't understanding, that maybe a cat mind would not quite be enough.
With a catly feeling of decisiveness, Greebo felt his brain begin to grow and expand.
(1) In an effort to get his mother out of the house, Michael had divulged the location of some choice bars around Ankh-Morpork. He silently prayed that the barkeep at the Mended Drum would never find out what he'd done. Presuming the bar was still there the next morning.
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