“Not me!”
Angua grabbed a small dish from the bench and sniffed at it. “This is it! I smelled this at the museum! What is it?”
“It’s just clay. It was on the floor in the room where the old priest was killed,” said Cheery. “Probably it came off someone’s boot.”
Angua crumbled some of it between her fingers.
“I think it’s just potters’ clay,” said Cheery. “We used to use it at the Guild. For making pots,” she added, just in case Angua hadn’t grasped things. “You know? Crucibles and things. This looks like someone tried baking it but didn’t get the heat right. See how it crumbles?”
“Pottery,” said Angua. “I know a potter…”
She glanced down at the dwarf’s iconograph again.
Please, no, she thought. Not one of them?
The front gate of the College of Arms—both front gates—were swung open. The two Heralds bobbed excitedly around Corporal Nobbs as he tottered out.
“Has your lordship got everything he requires?”
“Nfff,” said Nobby.
“If we can be of any help whatsoever—”
“Nnnf.”
“Any help at all—?”
“Nnnf.”
“Sorry about your boots, m’lord, but the wyvern’s been ill. It’ll brush off no trouble when it dries.”
Nobby tottered off along the lane.
“He even walks nobly, wouldn’t you say?”
“More…nobbly than nobly, I think.”
“It’s disgusting that he’s a mere corporal, a man of his breeding.”
Igneous the troll backed away until he was up against his potter’s wheel.
“I never done it,” he said.
“Done what?” said Angua.
Igneous hesitated.
Igneous was huge and…well, rocky. He moved around the streets of Ankh-Morpork like a small iceberg and, like an iceberg, there was more to him that immediately met the eye. He was known as a supplier of things. More or less any kind of things. And he was also a wall, which was the same as a fence only a lot harder and tougher to beat. Igneous never asked unnecessary questions, because he couldn’t think of any.
“Nuffin,” he said, finally. Igneous had always found the general denial was more reliable than the specific refutation.
“Glad to hear it,” said Angua. “Now…where do you get your clay from?”
Igneous’s face crinkled as he tried to work out where this line of questioning could possibly go. “I got re-seats,” he said. “Every bit prop’ly paid for.”
Angua nodded. It was probably true. Igneous, despite giving the appearance of not being able to count beyond ten without ripping off someone else’s arm, and having an intimate involvement in the city’s complex hierarchy of crime, was known to pay his bills. If you were going to be successful in the world of crime, you needed a reputation for honesty.
“Have you seen any like this before?” she said, holding out the sample.
“It clay,” said Igneous, relaxing a little. “I see clay all der time. It don’t have no serial number. Clay’s clay. Got lumps of it out der back. You make bricks an pots and stuff outa it. Dere’s loads of potters in dis town and we all got der stuff. Why you wanna know about clay?”
“Can’t you tell where it came from?”
Igneous took the tiny piece, sniffed it, and rolled it between his fingers.
“Dis is crank,” he said, looking a lot happier now that the conversation was veering away from more personal concerns. “Dat’s like…crappy clay, jus’ good enough for dem lady potters wi’ dangly earrings wot make coffee mugs wot you can’t lift wid both hands.” He rolled it again. “Also, it got a lotta grog in it. Dat’s bitsa old pots, all smashed up real small. Makes it stronger. Any potter got loadsa stuff like dis.” He rubbed it again. “Dis has been sorta heated up but it ain’t prop’ly baked.”
“But you can’t say where it came from?”
“Outta der ground is der best I can do, lady,” said Igneous. He relaxed a little now it appeared that inquiries were not to do with such matters as a recent batch of hollow statues and subjects of a similar nature. As sometimes happened in these circumstances, he tried to be helpful. “Come an’ have a look at dis.”
He loped away. The Watchmen followed him through the warehouse, observed by a couple of dozen cautious trolls. No one liked to see policemen up close, especially if the reason you were working at Igneous’s place was that it was nice and quiet and you wanted somewhere to lie low for a few weeks. Besides, while it was true that a lot of people came to Ankh-Morpork because it was a city of opportunity, sometimes it was the opportunity not to be hung, skewered or dismantled for whatever crimes you’d left behind in the mountains.
“Just don’t look,” said Angua.
“Why?” said Cheery.
“Because there’s just us and there’s at least two dozen of them,” said Angua. “And all our clothes were made for people with full sets of arms and legs.”
Igneous went through a doorway and out into the yard behind the factory. Pots were stacked high on pallets. Bricks were curing in long rows. And under a crude roof were several large mounds of clay.
“Dere,” said Igneous generously. “Clay.”
“Is there a special name for it when it’s piled up like that?” said Cheery timorously. She prodded the stuff.
“Yeah,” said Igneous. “Dat’s technic’ly wot we calls a heap.”
Angua shook her head sadly. So much for Clues. Clay was clay. She’d hoped there were all different sorts, and it turned out to be as common as dirt.
And then Igneous Helped the Police with Their Enquiries. “D’you mind if youse goes out the back way?” he mumbled. “Youse makes the help nervous an’ I get pots I can’t sell.”
He indicated a pair of wide doors in the rear wall, big enough for a cart to get through. Then he fumbled in his apron and produced a large keyring.
The padlock on the gate was big and shiny and new.
“You are afraid of theft?” said Angua.
“Now, lady, dat’s unfair,’ said Igneous. “Someone broke der ole lock when dey pinched some stuff tree, four munfs ago.”
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” said Angua. “Makes you wonder why you pay your taxes, I expect.”
In some ways Igneous was a lot brighter than, say, Mr. Ironcrust. He ignored the remark. “It was just stuff,” he said, ushering them towards the open gate as speedily as he dared.
“Was it clay they stole?” said Cheery.
“It don’t cost much but it’s the principle of the t’ing,” he said. “It beat me why dey bothered. It come to somet’ng when half a ton of clay can jus’ walk out the door.”
Angua looked at the lock again. “Yes, indeed,” she said distantly.
The gate rattled shut behind them. They were outside, in an alley.
“Fancy anyone stealing a load of clay,” said Cheery. “Did he tell the Watch?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Angua. “Wasps don’t complain too loudly when they’re stung. Anyway, Detritus thinks Igneous is mixed up with smuggling Slab to the mountains, and so he’s itching for an excuse to have a poke around in there…Look, this is still technically my day off.” She stepped back and peered up at the high spiked wall around the yard. Could you bake clay in a baker’s oven?’ she said.
“Oh, no.”
“Doesn’t get hot enough?”
“No, it’s the wrong shape. Some of your pots’d be baked hard while others’d still be green. Why do you ask?”
Why did I ask, Angua thought. Oh, what the hell…“Fancy a drink?”
“Not ale,” said Cheery quickly. “And nowhere where you have to sing while you drink. Or slap your knees.”
Angua nodded understandingly. “Somewhere, in fact, without dwarfs?”
“Er…yes…”
“Where we’re going,” said Angua, “that won’t be a problem.”
The fog was rising fast. All morning
it had hung around in alleys and cellars. Now it was moving back in for the night. It came out of the ground and up from the river and down from the sky, a clinging yellowish stinging blanket, the river Ankh in droplet form. It found its way through cracks and, against all common sense, managed to survive in lighted rooms, filling the air with an eye-watering haze and making the candles crackle. Outdoors, every figure loomed, every shape was a menace…
In a drab alley off a drab street Angua stopped, squared her shoulders, and pushed open a door.
The atmosphere in the long, low, dark room altered as she stepped inside. A moment of time rang like a glass bowl, and then there was a sense of relaxation. People turned back in their seats.
Well, they were seated. It was quite likely they were people.
Cheery moved closer to Angua. “What’s this place called?” she whispered.
“It hasn’t really got a name,” said Angua, “but sometimes we call it Biers.”
“It didn’t look like an inn outside. How did you find it?”
“You don’t. You…gravitate to it.”
Cheery looked around nervously. She wasn’t sure where they were, apart from somewhere in the cattle-market district, somewhere up a maze of alleys.
Angua walked to the bar.
A deeper shadow appeared out of the gloom. “Hello, Angua,” it said, in a deep, rolling voice. “Fruit juice, is it?”
“Yes. Chilled.”
“And what about the dwarf?”
“She’ll have him raw,” said a voice somewhere in the gloom. There was a ripple of laughter in the dark. Some of it sounded altogether too strange to Cheery. She couldn’t imagine it issuing from normal lips. “I’ll have a fruit juice, too,” she quavered.
Angua glanced at the dwarf. She felt oddly grateful that the remark from the darkness seemed to have gone entirely over the small bullet head. She unhooked her badge and with care and deliberation laid it down on the counter. It went perlink. Then Angua leaned forward and showed the iconograph to the barman.
If it was a man. Cheery wasn’t sure yet. A sign over the bar said “Don’t you ever change.”
“You know everything that’s going on, Igor,” Angua said. “Two old men got killed yesterday. And a load of clay got stolen from Igneous the troll recently. Did you ever hear about that?”
“What’s that to you?”
“Killing old men is against the law,” said Angua. “Of course, a lot of things are against the law, so we’re very busy in the Watch. We like to be busy about important things. Otherwise we have to be busy about unimportant things. Are you hearing me?”
The shadow considered this. “Go and take a seat,” it said. “I’ll bring your drinks.”
Angua led the way to a table in an alcove. The clientele lost interest in them. A buzz of conversation resumed.
“What is this place?” Cheery whispered.
“It’s…a place where people can be themselves,” said Angua slowly. “People who…have to be a little careful at other times. You know?”
“No…”
Angua sighed. “Vampires, zombies, bogeymen, ghouls, oh my. The und—” She corrected herself. “The differently alive,” she said. “People who have to spend most of their time being very careful, not frightening people, fitting in. That’s how it works here. Fit in, get a job, don’t worry people, and you probably won’t find a crowd outside with pitchforks and flaming torches. But sometimes it’s good to go where everybody knows your shape.”
Now that Cheery’s eyes had grown accustomed to the low light she could make out the variety of shapes on the benches. Some of them were a lot bigger than human. Some had pointy ears and long muzzles.
“Who’s that girl?” she said. “She looks…normal.”
“That’s Violet. She’s a tooth fairy. And next to her is Schleppel the bogeyman.”
In the far corner something sat huddled in a huge overcoat under a high, broad-brimmed pointed hat.
“And him?”
“That’s Old Man Trouble,” said Angua. “If you know what’s good for you, you don’t mind him.”
“Er…any werewolves here?”
“One or two,” said Angua.
“I hate werewolves.”
“Oh?”
The oddest customer was sitting by herself, at a small round table. She appeared to be a very old lady, in a shawl and a straw hat with flowers in it. She was staring in front of her with an expression of good-natured aimlessness, and in context looked more frightening than any of the shadowy figures.
“What is she?” Cheery hissed.
“Her? Oh, that’s Mrs. Gammage.”
“And what does she do?”
“Do? Well, she comes in here most days for a drink and some company. Sometimes we…they have a singsong. Old songs, that she remembers. She’s practically blind. If you mean, is she an undead…no, she’s isn’t. Not a vampire, a werewolf, a zombie, or a bogeyman. Just an old lady.”
A huge shambling hairy thing paused at Mrs. Gammage’s table and put a glass in front of her.
“Port and lemon. There you goes, Mrs. Gammage,” it rumbled.
“Cheers, Charlie!” the old lady cackled. “How’s the plumbing business?”
“Doing fine, love,” said the bogeyman, and vanished into the gloom.
“That was a plumber?” said Cheery.
“Of course not. I don’t know who Charlie was. He probably died years ago. But she thinks the bogeyman is him, and who’s going to tell her different?”
“You mean she doesn’t know this place is—”
“Look, she’s been coming here ever since the old days when it was the Crown and Axe,” said Angua. “No one wants to spoil things. Everyone likes Mrs. Gammage. They…watch out for her. Help her out in little ways.”
“How?”
“Well, I heard that last month someone broke into her hovel and stole some of her stuff…”
“That doesn’t sound helpful.”
“…And it was all returned next day and a couple of thieves were found in the Shades with not a drop of blood left in their bodies.” Angua smiled, and her voice took on a mocking edge. “You know, you get told a lot of bad things about the undead, but you never hear about the marvelous work they do in the community.”
Igor the barman appeared. He looked more or less human, apart from the hair on the back of his hands and the single unbifurcated eyebrow across his forehead. He tossed a couple of mats on the table and put their drinks down.
“You’re probably wishing this was a dwarf bar,” said Angua. She lifted her beer mat carefully and glanced at the underside.
Cheery looked around again. By now, if it had been a dwarf bar, the floor would be sticky with beer, the air would be full of flying quaff, and people would be singing. They’d probably be singing the latest dwarf tune, Gold, Gold, Gold, or one of the old favorites, like Gold, Gold, Gold, or the all-time biggie, Gold, Gold, Gold. In a few minutes, the first axe would have been thrown.
“No,” she said, “it could never be that bad.”
“Drink up,” said Angua. “We’ve got to go and see…something.”
A large hairy hand grabbed Angua’s wrist. She looked up into a terrifying face, all eyes and mouth and hair.
“Hello, Shlitzen,” she said calmly.
“Hah, I’m hearing where there’s a baron who’s really unhappy about you,” said Shlitzen, alcohol crystallizing on his breath.
“That’s my business, Shlitzen,” said Angua. “Why don’t you just go back behind your door like the good bogeyman that you are?”
“Hah, he’s sayin’ where you’re disgracin’ the Old Country—”
“Let go, please,” said Angua. Her skin was white where Shlitzen was gripping her.
Cheery looked from the wrist to the bogeyman’s shoulder. Rangy though the creature was, muscles were strung along the arm like beads on a wire.
“Hah, you wearin’ a badge,” it sneered. “What’s a good we—?”
An
gua moved so fast she was a blur. Her free hand pulled something from her belt and flipped it up and on to Shlitzen’s head. He stopped, and stood swaying back and forth gently, making faint moaning sounds. On his head, flopping down around his ears like the knotted hanky of a style-impaired seaside sunbather, was a small square of heavy material.
Angua pushed back her chair and grabbed the beermat. The shadowy figures around the walls were muttering.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “Igor, give us half a minute and then you can take the blanket off him. Come on.”
They hurried out. The fog had already turned the sun into a mere suggestion, but it was vivid daylight compared to the gloom in Biers.
“What happened to him?” said Cheery, running to keep up with Angua’s stride.
“Existential uncertainty,” Angua said. “He doesn’t know whether he exists or not. It’s cruel, I know, but it’s the only thing we’ve found that works against bogeymen. Blue fluffy blanket, for preference.” She noted Cheery’s blank expression. “Look, bogeymen go away if you put your head under the blankets. Everyone knows that, don’t they? So if you put their head under a blanket…”
“Oh, I see. Ooo, that’s nasty.”
“He’ll feel all right in ten minutes.” Angua skimmed the beermat across the alley.
“What was he saying about a baron?”
“I wasn’t really listening,” said Angua carefully.
Cheery shivered in the fog, but not just from the cold. “He sounded like he came from Uberwald, like us. There was a baron who lived near us and he hated people to leave.”
“Yes…”
“The whole family were werewolves. One of them ate my second cousin.”
Angua’s memory spun in a hurry. Old meals came back to haunt her from the time before she’d said, no, this is not the way to live. A dwarf, a dwarf…No, she was pretty sure she’d never…The family had always made fun of her eating habits…
“That’s why I can’t stand them,” said Cheery. “Oh, people say they can be tamed but I say, once a wolf, always a wolf. You can’t trust them. They’re basically evil, aren’t they? They could go back to the wild at any moment, I say.”
“Yes. You may be right.”
Feet of Clay Page 9