Feet of Clay

by Terry Pratchett

  “—happen to know that trolls don’t have any tradition of a Tooth Fairy,” Colon was saying. “Especially not one called”—he looked down—“Clinkerbell. So how about it we just call it breaking and entering without a Thieves’ Guild license?”

  “It’s racial prejudice, not letting trolls have a Tooth Fairy,” Clinkerbell muttered.

  One of the troll guards upended a sack on the desk. Various items of silverware cascaded over the paperwork.

  “And this is what you found under their pillows, was it?” said Colon.

  “Bless dere little hearts,” said Clinkerbell.

  At the next desk a tired dwarf was arguing with a vampire. “Look,” he said, “it’s not murder. You’re dead already, right?”

  “He stuck them right in me!”

  “Well, I’ve been down to interview the manager and he said it was an accident. He said he’s got nothing against vampires at all. He says he was merely carrying three boxes of HB Eraser Tips and tripped over the edge of your cloak.”

  “I don’t see why I can’t work where I like!”

  “Yes, but…in a pencil factory?”

  Detritus looked down at Littlebottom and grinned. “Welcome to life in der big city, Littlebottom, he said. “Dat’s an int’restin’ name.”

  “Is it?”

  “Most dwarfs have names like Rockheaver or Stronginthearm.”

  “Do they?”

  Detritus was not one for the fine detail of relationships, but the edge in Littlebottom’s voice got through to him. “’S a good name, though,” he said.

  “What’s Slab?” said Cheery.

  “It are chloric ammonium an’ radium mixed up. It give your head a tingle but melts troll brains. Big problem in der mountains and some buggers are makin’ it here in der city and we tryin’ to find how it get up dere. Mister Vimes is lettin’ me run a”—Detritus concentrated—“pub-lic a-ware-ness campaign tellin’ people what happens to buggers who sells it to kids…” He waved a hand at a large and rather crudely done poster on the wall. It said:

  “SLAB: JUS’ SAY

  ‘AARRGHAARRGHPLEEASSENNONONOUGH’.”

  He pushed open a door.

  “Dis is der ole privy wot we don’t use no more, you can use it for mixin’ up stuff, it the only place we got now, you have to clean it up first ’cos it smells like a toilet in here.”

  He opened another door. “And this der locker room,” he said. “You got your own peg and dat, and dere’s dese panels for getting changed behind ’cos we knows you dwarfs is modest. It a good life if you don’t weaken. Mr. Vimes is OK but he a bit weird about some stuff, he keepin’ on sayin’ stuff like dis city is a meltin’ pot an’ all der scum floats to der top, and stuff like dat. I’ll give you your helmet an’ badge in a minute but first”—he opened a rather larger locker on the other side of the room, which had “DTRiTUS” painted on it—“I got to go and hide dis hammer.”

  Two figures hurried out of Ironcrust’s Dwarf Bakery (“T’Bread Wi’ T’Edge”), threw themselves on to the cart and shouted at the driver to leave urgently.

  He turned a pale face towards them and pointed to the road ahead.

  There was a wolf there.

  Not a usual kind of wolf. It had a blond coat, which around its ears was almost long enough to be a mane. And wolves did not normally sit calmly on their haunches in the middle of a street.

  This one was growling. A long, low growl. It was the audible equivalent of a shortening fuse.

  The horse was transfixed, too frightened to stay where it was but far too terrified to move.

  One of the men carefully reached for a crossbow. The growl rose slightly. He even more carefully took his hand away. The growl subsided again.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a wolf!”

  “In a city? What does it find to eat?”

  “Oh, why did you have to ask that?”

  “Good morning, gentlemen!” said Carrot, as he stopped leaning against the wall. “Looks like the fog’s rising again. Thieves’ Guild licenses, please?”

  They turned. Carrot gave them a happy smile and nodded encouragingly.

  One of the men patted his coat in a theatrical display of absent-mindedness.

  “Ah. Well. Er. Left the house in a bit of a hurry this morning, must’ve forgotten—”

  “Section Two, Rule One of the Thieves’ Guild Charter says that members must carry their cards on all professional occasions,” said Carrot.

  “He’s not even drawn his sword!” hissed the most stupid of the three-strong gang.

  “He doesn’t need to, he’s got a loaded wolf.”

  Someone was writing in the gloom, the scritching of their pen the only sound.

  Until a door creaked open.

  The writer turned as quick as a bird. “You? I told you never to come back here!”

  “I know, I know, but it’s that damn thing! The production line stopped and it got out and it’s killed that priest!”

  “Did anyone see it?”

  “In the fog we had last night? I shouldn’t think so. But—”

  “Then it is not, ah-ha, a matter of significance.”

  “No? They’re not supposed to kill people. Well…that is,” the speaker conceded, “not by smashing them on the head, anyway.”

  “They will if so instructed.”

  “I never told it to! Anyway, what if it turns on me?”

  “On its master? It can’t disobey the words in its head, man.”

  The visitor sat down, shaking his head. “Yeah, but which words? I don’t know, I don’t know, this is getting too much, that damn’ thing around all the time—”

  “Making you a fat profit—”

  “All right, all right, but this other stuff, the poison, I never—”

  “Shut up! I’ll see you again tonight. You can tell the others that I certainly do have a candidate. And if you dare come here again…”

  The Ankh-Morpork Royal College of Heralds turned out to be a green gate in a wall in Mollymog Street. Vimes tugged on the bell-pull. Something clanged on the other side of the wall and immediately the place erupted in a cacophony of hoots, growls, whistles and trumpetings.

  A voice shouted. “Down, boy! Couchant! I said couchant! No! Not rampant! And thee shall have a sugar lump like a good boy. William! Stop that at once! Put him down! Mildred, let go of Graham!”

  The animal noises subsided a bit and footsteps approached. A wicket gate in the main door opened a fraction.

  Vimes saw an inch-wide segment of a very short man.

  “Yes? Are you the meat man?”

  “Commander Vimes,” said Vimes. “I have an appointment.”

  The animal noises started up again.

  “Eh?”

  “Commander Vimes!” Vimes shouted.

  “Oh. I suppose thee’d better come in.”

  The door swung open. Vimes stepped through.

  Silence fell. Several dozen pairs of eyes regarded Vimes with acute suspicion. Some of the eyes were small and red. Several were big and poked just above the surface of the scummy pond that occupied a lot of space in the yard. Some were on perches.

  The yard was full of animals, but even they were crowded out by the smell of a yard full of animals. And most of them were clearly very old, which didn’t do anything for the smell.

  A toothless lion yawned at Vimes. A lion running, or at least lounging around loose was amazing in itself, but not so amazing as the fact that it was being used as a cushion by an elderly gryphon, which was asleep with all four claws in the air.

  There were hedgehogs, and a graying leopard, and molting pelicans. Green water surged in the pond and a couple of hippos surfaced and yawned. Nothing was in a cage, and nothing was trying to eat anything else.

  “Ah, it takes people like that, first time,” said the old man. He had a wooden leg. “We’re quite a happy little family.”

  Vimes turned and found himself looking at a small owl. “My gods,” he said. �
��That’s a morpork, isn’t it?”

  The old man’s face broke into a happy smile. “Ah, I can see thee knows thy heraldry,” he cackled. “Daphne’s ancestors came all the way from some islands on the other side of the Hub, so they did.”

  Vimes took out his badge and stared at the coat of arms embossed thereon.

  The old man looked over his shoulder. “That’s not her, o’ course,” he said, indicating the owl perched on the Ankh. “That was her great-grandma, Olive. A morpork on an ankh, see? That is a pun or play on words. Laugh? I nearly started. That’s about as funny as you gets round here. We could do with a mate for her, tell you the truth. And a female hippo. I mean, his lordship says we’ve got two hippos, which is right enough, I’m just saying it’s not natural for Roderick and Keith, I ain’t passing judgment, it’s just not right, that’s all I’m saying. What was thy name again?”

  “Vimes. Sir Samuel Vimes. My wife made the appointment.”

  The old man cackled again. “Ah, ’tis usually so.”

  Moving quite fast despite his wooden leg, the old man led the way through the steaming mounds of multi-species dung to the building on the other side of the yard.

  “I expect this is good for the garden, anyway,” said Vimes, trying to make conversation.

  “I tried it on my rhubarb,” said the old man, pushing open the door. “But it grew to twenty feet tall, sir, and then spontaneously caught fire. Mind where the wyvern’s been, sir, he’s been ill—oh, what a shame. Never mind, it’ll scrape off beautiful when it dries. In thee goes, sir.”

  The hall inside was as quiet and dark as the yard had been full of light and noise. There was the dry, tombstone smell of old books and church towers. Above him, when his eyes got used to the darkness, Vimes could make out hanging flags and banners. There were a few windows, but cobwebs and dead flies meant that the light they allowed in was merely gray.

  The old man had shut the door and left him alone. Vimes watched through the window as he limped back to continue what he had been doing before Vimes’s appearance.

  What he had been doing was setting up a living coat of arms.

  There was a large shield. Cabbages, actual cabbages, had been nailed to it. The old man said something that Vimes couldn’t hear. The little owl fluttered from its perch and landed on a large ankh that had been glued to the top of the shield. The two hippos flopped out of their pool and took up station on either side.

  The old man unfolded an easel in front of the scene, placed a canvas on it, picked up a palette and brush, and shouted, “Hup-la!”

  The hippos reared, rather arthritically. The owl spread its wings.

  “Good gods,” murmured Vimes. “I always thought they just made it up!”

  “Made it up, sir? Made it up?” said voice behind him. “We’d soon be in trouble if we made things up, oh dear me, yes.”

  Vimes turned. Another little old man had appeared behind him, blinking happily through thick glasses. He had several scrolls under one arm.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you at the gate but we’re very busy at the moment,” he said, holding out his spare hand. “Croissant Rouge Pursuivant.”

  “Er…you’re a small red breakfast roll?” said Vimes, nonplussed.

  “No, no. No. It means Red Crescent. It’s my title, you see. Very ancient title. I’m a herald. You’d be Sir Samuel Vimes, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Red Crescent consulted a scroll. “Good. Good. How do you feel about weasels?” he said.

  “Weasels?”

  “We have got some weasels, you see. I know they’re not strictly a heraldic animal, but we seem to have some on the strength and frankly I think I’m going to have to let them go unless we can persuade someone to adopt them, and that’d upset Pardessus Chatain Pursuivant. He always locks himself in his shed when he’s upset…”

  “Pardessus…you mean the old man out there?” said Vimes. “I mean…why’s he…I thought you…I mean, a coat of arms is just a design. You don’t have to paint it from life!”

  Red Crescent looked shocked. “Well, I suppose if you want to make a complete mockery of the whole thing, yes, you could just make it up. You could do that,” he said. “Anyway…not weasels, then?”

  “Personally I’d just as soon not bother,” said Vimes. “And certainly not with a weasel. My wife said that dragons would—”

  “Happily, the occasion will not arise,” said a voice in the shadows.

  It wasn’t the right sort of voice to hear in any kind of light. It was dust-dry. It sounded as if it came from a mouth that had never known the pleasures of spittle. It sounded dead.

  It was.

  The bakery thieves considered their options.

  “I’ve got my hand on my crossbow,” said the most enterprising of the three.

  The most realistic said, “Have you? Well, I’ve got my heart in my mouth.”

  “Ooo,” said the third. “I’ve got a weak heart, me…”

  “Yeah, but what I mean is…he’s not even wearing a sword. If I take the wolf, the two of you should be able to deal with him with no trouble, right?”

  The one clear thinker looked at Captain Carrot. His armor shone. So did the muscles on his bare arms. Even his knees gleamed.

  “It seems to me that we have a bit of an impasse, or stand-off,” said Captain Carrot.

  “How about if we throw down the money?” said the clear thinker.

  “That would certainly help matters.”

  “And you’d let us go?”

  “No. But it would definitely count in your favor and I would certainly speak up on your behalf.”

  The bold one with the crossbow licked his lips and glanced from Carrot to the wolf. “If you set it on us, I warn you, someone’s going to get killed!” he warned.

  “Yes, it could happen,” said Carrot, sadly. “I’d prefer to avoid that, if at all possible.”

  He raised his hands. There was something flat and round and about six inches across in each one. “This,” he said, “is dwarf bread. Some of Mr. Ironcrust’s best. It’s not classic battlebread, of course, but it’s probably good enough for slicing…”

  Carrot’s arm blurred. There was a brief flurry of sawdust, and the flat loaf spun to a stop half-way through the thick timbers of the cart and about half an inch away from the man with the weak heart and, as it turned out, a fragile bladder, too.

  The man with the crossbow tore his attention away from the bread only when he felt a slight, damp pressure on his wrist.

  There was no way that an animal could have moved that fast, but there it was, and the wolf’s expression contrived to indicate very calmly that if the animal so desired the pressure could be increased more or less indefinitely.

  “Call it off!” he said, flinging the bow away with his free hand. “Tell it to let go!”

  “Oh, I never tell her anything,” said Carrot. “She makes up her own mind.”

  There was a clatter of iron-shod boots and half a dozen axe-bearing dwarfs raced out of the bakery gates, kicking up sparks as they skidded to a halt beside Carrot.

  “Get them!” shouted Mr. Ironcrust. Carrot dropped a hand on top of the dwarf’s helmet and turned him around.

  “It’s me, Mr. Ironcrust,” he said. “I believe these are the men?”

  “Right you are, Captain Carrot!” said the dwarf baker. “C’mon, lads! Let’s hang ’em up by the bura’zak-ka!”*

  “Ooo,” murmured the weak of heart, damply.

  “Now, now, Mr. Ironcrust,” said Carrot patiently. “We don’t practice that punishment in Ankh-Morpork.”**

  “They bashed Bjorn Tightbritches senseless! And they kicked Olaf Stronginthearm in the bad’dhakz!† We’ll cut their—”

  “Mr. Ironcrust!”

  The dwarf baker hesitated and then, to the amazement and relief of the thieves, took a step backwards. “Yeah…all right, Captain Carrot. If you say so.”

  “I have business elsewhere, but I would be grateful if you would ta
ke them and turn them over to the Thieves’ Guild,” said Carrot.

  The quick thinker went pale. “Oh, no! They get really intense about unlicensed thieving! Anything but the Thieves’ Guild!”

  Carrot turned. The light caught his face in a certain way. “Anything?” he said.

  The unlicensed thieves looked at one another, and then all spoke at once.

  “The Thieves’ Guild. Fine. No problem.”

  “We like the Thieves’ Guild.”

  “Can’t wait. Thieves’ Guild, here I come.”

  “Fine body of men.”

  “Firm but fair.”

  “Good,” said Carrot. “Then everyone’s happy. Oh, yes.” He dug into his money pouch. “Here’s five pence for the loaf, Mr. Ironcrust. I’ve handled the other one, but you should be able to sand it off with no trouble.”

  The dwarf blinked at the coins. “You want to pay me for saving my money?” he said.

  “As a tax payer you are entitled to the protection of the Watch,” said Carrot.

  There was a delicate pause. Mr. Ironcrust stared at his feet. One or two of the other dwarfs started to snigger.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Carrot, in a kindly voice, “I’ll come around when I get a moment and help you fill in the forms, how about that?”

  A thief broke the embarrassed silence.

  “Er…could your…little dog…let go of my arm, please?”

  The wolf released its grip, jumped down and padded over to Carrot, who raised his hand to his helmet respectfully.

  “Good day to you all,” he said, and strode away.

  Thieves and victims watched him go.

  “Is he real?” said the quick thinker.

  There was a growl from the baker, then “You bastards!” he shouted. “You bastards!”

  “Wha…what? You’ve got the money back, haven’t you?”

  Two of his employees had to hold Mr. Ironcrust back.

  “Three years!” he said. “Three years and no one bothered! Three bloody years and not so much as a knock at the door! And he’ll ask me! Oh, yes! He’ll be nice about it! He’ll probably even go and get the extra forms so I won’t be put to the trouble! Why couldn’t you buggers have just run away?”