“I haven’t printed that you have a werewolf employed in the Watch,” said William. He regretted it instantly, but Vimes was getting on his nerves.
“Where did you hear that?” said a quiet voice behind him. He turned in his hair. A fair-haired young woman in Watch uniform was leaning against the wall. She must have been there all the time.
“This is Sergeant Angua,” said Vimes. “You can speak freely in front of her.”
“I’ve… heard rumors,” said William. He’d seen the sergeant in the streets. She had a habit of staring a bit too sharply at people, he’d considered.
“Look, I can see this is worrying you,” said William. “Please let me assure you that Corporal Nobbs’s secret is safe with me.”
No one spoke. William congratulated himself. It had been a shot in the dark, but he could tell by Sergeant Angua’s face that he’d won this one. It seemed to have shut down, locking away all expression.
“We don’t often talk about Corporal Nobbs’s species,” said Vimes after a while. “I would deem it a small favor if you take the same approach.”
– on dramatic irony |
Terry Pratchett, The Truth