Men at Arms by Terry Pratchett

had taken on a w—
    And the world exploded.
    The window blew in, peppering the wall behind Vimes’ desk with fragments and cutting one of his ears.
    He threw himself to the floor and rolled under the desk.
    Right, that did it! The alchemists had blown up their Guild House for the last time, if Vimes had anything to do with it…
    But when he peered over the window sill he saw, across the river, the column of dust rising over the Assassins’ Guild…

    The rest of the Watch came trotting along Filigree Street as Vimes reached the Guild entrance. A couple of black-clad Assassins barred his way, in a polite manner which nevertheless indicated that impoliteness was a future option. There were sounds of hurrying feet behind the gates.
    “You see this badge? You see it?” Vimes demanded.
    “Nevertheless, this is Guild property,” said an Assassin.
    “Let us in, in the name of the law!” bellowed Vimes.
    The Assassin smiled nervously at him. “The law is that Guild law prevails inside Guild walls,” he said.
    Vimes glared at him. But it was true. The laws of the city, such as they were, stopped outside the Guild Houses. The Guilds had their own laws. The Guild owned the…
    He stopped.
    Behind him, Lance-Constable Angua reached down and picked up a fragment of glass.
    Then she stirred the debris with her foot.
    And then her gaze met that of a small, non-descript mongrel dog watching her very intently from under a cart. In fact non-descript was not what it was. It was very easy to descript. It looked like halitosis with a wet nose.
    “Woof, woof,” said the dog, in a bored way. “Woof, woof, woof, and growl, growl.”
    The dog trotted into the mouth of an alleyway. Angua glanced around, and followed it. The rest of the squad were gathered around Vimes, who’d gone very quiet.
    “Fetch me the Master of Assassins,” he said. “Now!”
    The young Assassin tried to sneer.
    “Hah! Your uniform doesn’t scare me ,” he said.
    Vimes looked down at his battered breastplate and worn mail.
    “You’re right,” he said. “This is not a scary uniform. I’m sorry. Forward, Corporal Carrot and Lance-Constable Detritus.”
    The Assassin was suddenly aware of the sunlight being blocked out.
    “Now these , I think you’ll agree,” said Vimes, from somewhere behind the eclipse, “are scary uniforms.”
    The Assassin nodded slowly. He hadn’t asked for this. Usually there were never any guards outside the Guild. What would be the point? He had, tucked away in his exquisitely tailored black clothes, at least eighteen devices for killing people, but he was becoming aware that Lance-Constable Detritus had one on the end of each of his arms. Closer, as it were, to hand.
    “I’ll, er, I’ll go and get the Master, then, shall I?” he said.
    Carrot leaned down.
    “Thank you for your co-operation,” he said gravely.

    Angua watched the dog. The dog watched her.
    She squatted on her haunches as it sat down and scratched an ear furiously.
    Looking around carefully to make sure that no one could see them, she barked an inquiry.
    “Don’t bovver,” said the dog.
    “You can talk? ”
    “Huh. That don’t take much intelligence,” said the dog. “And it don’t take much intelligence to spot what you are, neither.”
    Angua looked panicky.
    “Where does it show?”
    “It’s the smell , girl. Din’t you learn nuffin? Smelled you a mile orf. I thought, oh-ho, what’s one of them doing in the Watch, eh?”
    Angua waved a finger wildly.
    “If you tell anyone—!”
    The dog looked more pained than normal.
    “No one’d listen,” it said.
    “Why not?”
    “’Cos everyone knows dogs can’t talk. They hear me, see, but unless things are really tough they just think they’re thinking to ’emselves.” The little dog sighed. “Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve read books. Well…chewed books.”
    It scratched an ear again. “Seems to me,” it said, “we could help each other…”
    “In what