Feet of Clay d-19

by Terry David John Pratchett

  It was something alchemists learned to do early in their career. As her tutors had said, there were two signs of a good alchemist: the Athletic and the Intellectual. A good alchemist of the first sort was someone who could leap over the bench and be on the far side of a safely thick wall in three seconds, and a good alchemist of the second sort was someone who knew exactly when to do this.

  The equipment didn't help. She scrounged what she could from the guild, but a real alchemical laboratory should be full of the kind of glassware that looked as if it were produced during the Guild of Glassblowers All-Comers Hiccuping Contest. A proper alchemist did not have to run tests using as her beaker a mug with a picture of a teddy-bear on it, which Corporal Nobbs was probably going to be very upset about when he found it missing.

  When she judged that the fumes had cleared she ventured back into her tiny room.

  That was another thing. Her books on alchemy were marvellous objects, every page a work of the engraver's art, but they nowhere contained instructions like 'Be sure to open a window'. They did have instructions like 'Adde Aqua Quirmis to the Zinc untile Rising Gas Yse Vigorously Evolved', but never added 'Don't Doe Thys Atte Home' or even 'And Say Fare-thee-Welle to Thy Eyebrows'.

  Anyway …

  The glassware remained innocent of the brown-black sheen that, according to The Compound of Alchemic, would indicate arsenic in the sample. She'd tried every type of food and drink she could find in the palace pantries, and pressed into service every bottle and jar she could discover in the Watch House.

  She tried one more time with what said on the packet it was Sample #2. Looked like a smear of cheese. Cheese? The various fumes thronging around her head were making her slow. She must have taken some cheese samples. She was pretty sure Sample #17 had been some Lancre Blue Vein, which had reacted vigorously with the acid, blown a small hole in the ceiling and covered half the work-bench with a dark green substance that was setting like tar.

  She tested this one anyway.

  A few minutes later she was scrabbling furiously through her notebook. The first sample she'd taken from the pantry (one portion of duck pâté) was down here as Sample #3. What about #1 and #2? No, #1 had been the white clay from Misbegot Bridge, so what had been #2?

  She found it.

  But that couldn't be right!

  She looked up at the glass tube. Metallic arsenic grinned back at her.

  She'd retained a bit of the sample. She could test again, but … perhaps it would be better to tell someone …

  She hurried along to the main office, where a troll was on duty. 'Where's Commander Vimes?'

  The troll grinned. 'In der Gleam … Little-bottom. '

  'Thank you.'

  The troll turned back to address a worried-looking monk in a brown cassock. 'And?' he said.

  'Best if he tells it himself,' said the monk. 'I only work on the next bench.' He put a small jar of dust on the desk. It had a bow tie around it.

  'I want to complain most emphatically,' said the dust, in a shrill little voice. 'I was working there only five minutes and then splash. It's going to take days to get back into shape!'

  'Working where?' said the troll.

  'Nonesuch Ecclesiastical Supplies,' said the worried monk, helpfully.

  'Holy water section,' said the vampire.

  'You've found arsenic?' said Vimes.

  'Yes, sir. Lots. The sample's full of it. But …"

  'Well?'

  Cheery looked at her feet. 'I tried my process again with a test sample, sir, and I'm sure I'm doing it right …'

  'Good. What was it in?'

  'That's just it, sir. It wasn't in anything from the palace. Because I'd got a bit confused and tested the stuff found under Father Tubelcek's fingernails, sir.'

  'What?'

  'There was grease under his nails, sir, and I thought maybe it could've come from whoever attacked him. Off an apron or something … I've still got some left if you want a second opinion, sir. I wouldn't blame you.'

  'Why would the old man be handling poison?' said Carrot.

  'I thought he might have scratched the murderer,' said Cheery. 'You know … put up a fight …'

  'With the Arsenic Monster?' said Angua.

  'Oh, gods,' said Vimes. 'What time is it?'

  'Bingely bingely beep bong!'

  'Oh, damn.'

  'It's nine of the clock,' said the organizer, poking its head out of Vimes's pocket. '"I was unhappy because I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet." '

  The Watchmen exchanged glances.

  'What?' said Vimes, very carefully.

  'People like it if I occasionally come up with a little aphorism or inspiring Thought For The Day,' said the imp.

  'So how did you meet this man with no feet?' said Vimes.

  'I didn't actually meet him,' said the imp. 'It was a general metaphorical statement.'

  'Well, that's it, then,' said Vimes. 'If you'd met him you could have asked him if he had any boots he didn't have any use for.'

  There was a squeak as he pushed the imp back into its box.

  'There's more, sir,' said Cheery.

  'Go on,' said Vimes wearily.

  'And I had a careful look at the clay we found at the murder scene,' said Cheery. 'Igneous said it had a lot of grog in it — old powdered pottery. Well… I chipped a bit off Dorfl to compare and I can't be sure but I got the iconograph demon to paint really small details and … I think there's some clay just like his in there. He's got a lot of iron oxide in his clay.'

  Vimes sighed. All around them people were drinking alcohol. One drink would make it all so clear.

  'Any of you know what any of this means?' he said.

  Carrot and Angua shook their heads.

  'Is it supposed to make sense if we know how all the pieces fit together?' Vimes demanded, raising his voice.

  'Like pieces of a jigsaw, sir?' Cheery ventured.

  'Yes!' said Vimes, so loudly that the room went quiet. 'Now all we need is the corner bit with the piece of sky and the leaves and it'll all be one big picture?'

  'It's been a long day for all of us, sir,' said Carrot.

  Vimes sagged. 'Okay,' he said. Tomorrow… I want you, Carrot, to check on the golems in the city. If they're up to something I want to know what it is. And you, Littlebottom … you look everywhere in the old man's house for more arsenic. I wish I could believe that you'll find any.'

  Angua had volunteered to walk Littlebottom back to her lodgings. The dwarf was surprised that the men let her do this. After all, it'd mean that Angua would then have to walk on home by herself.

  'Aren't you afraid?' Cheery said as they ambled through the damp clouds of fog.

  'Nope.'

  'But I imagine muggers and cut-throats would be out in a fog like this. And you said you lived in the Shades.'

  'Oh, yes. But I haven't been bothered lately.'

  'Ah, perhaps they're frightened of the uniform?'

  'Possibly,' said Angua.

  'Probably they've learned respect.'

  'You may be right.'

  'Er … excuse me … but are you and Captain Carrot …?'

  Angua waited politely.

  '… Er …'

  'Oh, yes,' said Angua, taking pity. 'We're er. But I stay at Mrs Cake's boarding house because you need your own space in a city like this.' And an understanding landlady sympathetic to those with special needs, she added to herself. Like doorhandles that a paw could operate, and a window left open on moonlit nights. 'You've got to have somewhere where you can be yourself. Anyway, the Watch House smells of socks.'

  'I'm staying with my Uncle Armstrangler,' said Cheery. 'It's not very nice there. People talk about mining most of the time.'

  'Don't you?'

  'There's not a lot you can say about mining. "I mine in my mine and what's mine is mine,"' said Cheery in a singsong voice. 'And then they go on about gold which, frankly, is a lot duller than people think.'

  'I thought dwarfs loved gold,' s
aid Angua.

  They just say that to get it into bed.'

  'Are you sure you're a dwarf? Sorry. That was a joke.'

  'There must be more interesting things. Hair. Clothes. People.'

  'Good grief. You mean girl talk?

  'I don't know, I've never talked girl talk before,' said Cheery. 'Dwarfs just talk.'

  'It's like that in the Watch, too,' said Angua. 'You can be any sex you like provided you act male. There's no men and women in the Watch, just a bunch of lads. You'll soon learn the language. Basically it's how much beer you supped last night, how strong the curry was you had afterwards, and where you were sick. Just think egotesticle. You'll soon get the hang of it. And you'll have to be prepared for sexually explicit jokes in the Watch House.'

  Cheery blushed.

  'Mind you, that seems to have ended now,' said Angua.

  'Why? Did you complain?'

  'No, after I joined in it all seemed to stop,' said Angua, 'And, you know, they didn't laugh? Not even when I did the hand gestures too? I thought that was unfair. Mind you, some of them were quite small gestures.'

  'There's no help for it, I'll have to move out,' sighed Cheery. 'I feel all… wrong.'

  Angua looked down at the little figure trudging along beside her. She recognized the symptoms. Everyone needed their own space, just like Angua did, and sometimes that space was inside their heads. And she liked Cheery, oddly enough. Possibly it was because of her earnestness. Or the fact that she was the only person apart from Carrot who didn't look slightly frightened when they talked to her. And that was because she didn't know. Angua wanted to preserve that ignorance as a small precious thing, but she could tell when someone needed a little change in their lives.

  'We're going quite close to Elm Street,' she said, carefully. 'Just, er, drop in for a while. I've got some stuff you could borrow …'

  I won't be needing it, she told herself. When I go, I won't be able to carry much.

  Constable Downspout watched the fog. Watching was, after staying in one place, the thing he did best. But he was also good at keeping quite still. Not making any noise whatsoever was another of his best features. When it came to doing absolutely nothing at all he was among the finest. But it was keeping completely motionless in one place that was his forte. If there were a roll-call for the world's champion non-movers, he wouldn't even turn up.

  Now, chin on his hands, he watched the fog.

  The clouds had settled somewhat so that up here, six storeys above the streets, it was possible to believe you were on a beach at the edge of a cold, moonlit sea. The occasional tall tower or steeple rose out of the clouds, but all sounds were muffled and pulled in on themselves. Midnight came and went.

  Constable Downspout watched, and thought about pigeons.

  Constable Downspout had very few desires in life, and almost all of them involved pigeons.

  A group of figures lurched, staggered or in one case rolled through the fog like the Four Horsemen of a small Apocalypse. One had a duck on his head, and because he was almost entirely sane except for this one strange particular he was known as the Duck Man. One coughed and expectorated repeatedly, and hence was called Coffin Henry. One, a legless man on a small wheeled trolley, was for no apparent reason called Arnold Sideways. And the fourth, for some very good reasons indeed, was Foul Ole Ron.

  Ron had a small greyish-brown, torn-eared terrier on the end of a string, although in truth it would be hard for an observer to know exactly who was leading whom and who, when push came to shove, would be the one to fold at the knees if the other one shouted 'Sit!' Because, although trained canines as aids for those bereft of sight, and even of hearing, have frequently been used throughout the universe, Foul Ole Ron was the first person ever to own a Thinking-Brain Dog.

  The beggars, led by the dog, were heading for the dark arch of Misbegot Bridge, which they called Home. At least, one of them called it 'Home'; the others respectively called it 'Haaawrk haaawrk HRRaawrk ptui!', 'Heheheh! Whoops!' and 'Buggrit, millennium hand and shrimp!'

  As they stumbled along the riverside they passed a can from hand to hand, drinking appreciatively and occasionally belching.

  The dog stopped. The beggars shunted to a halt behind it.

  A figure came towards them along the riverside.

  'Ye gods!'

  'Ptui!'

  'Whoops!'

  'Buggrit?'

  The beggars flung themselves against the wall as the pale figure lurched past. It was clutching at its head as if trying to lift itself off the ground by its ears, and then occasionally banging its head against nearby buildings.

  While they watched, it pulled a metal mooring post out of the cobbles and started to hit itself over the head. Eventually the cast iron shattered.

  The figure dropped the stub, flung back its head, opened a mouth from which red light spilled, and roared like a bull in distress. Then it staggered on into the darkness.

  'There's that golem again,' said the Duck Man. 'The white one.'

  'Heheh, I gets heads like that myself, some mornings,' said Arnold Sideways.

  'I knows about golems,' said Coffin Henry, spitting expertly and hitting a beetle climbing the wall twenty feet away. 'They ain't s'posed to have a voice.'

  'Buggrit,' said Foul Ole Ron. 'Dang the twigger f r'a bang at the fusel, and shrimp, 'cos the worm's on the other boot! See if he don't.'

  'He meant it's the same one we saw the other day,' said the dog. 'After that ole priest got topped.'

  'Do you think we should tell someone?' said the Duck Man.

  The dog shook its head. 'Nah,' it said. 'We got a cushy number down here, no sense in spoiling it.'

  The five of them staggered on into the damp shadows.

  'I hate bloody golems, takin' our jobs …'

  'We ain't got jobs.'

  'See what I mean?'

  'What's for supper?'

  'Mud and ole boots. HRRaawrk ptui!'

  'Millennium hand and shrimp, I sez.'

  '’m glad I've got a voice. I can speak up for meself.'

  'It's time you fed your duck.'

  'What duck?'

  The fog glowed and sizzled around Five and Seven Yard. Flames roared up and all but set the thick clouds alight. Spitting liquid iron cooled in its moulds. Hammers rang out around the workshops. The ironmasters didn't work by the clock, but by the more demanding physics of molten metal. Even though it was nearly midnight, Stronginthearm's Iron Founders, Beaters and General Forging was still bustling.

  There were many Stronginthearms in Ankh-Morpork. It was a very common dwarf name. That had been a major consideration for Thomas Smith when he'd adopted it by official deed poll. The scowling dwarf holding a hammer which adorned his sign was a mere figment of the signpainter's imagination. People thought 'dwarfmade' was better, and Thomas Smith had decided not to argue.

  The Committee for Equal Heights had objected but things had mired somewhat because, firstly, most of the actual Committee was human, since dwarfs were generally too busy to worry about that sort of thing,[13] and in any case their position hinged on pointing out that Mr Stronginthearm nй Smith was too tall, which was clearly a sizeist discrimination and technically illegal under the Committee's own rules.

  In the meantime Thomas had let his beard grow, wore an iron helmet if he thought anyone official was around, and put up his prices by twenty pence on the dollar.

  The drop hammers thumped, all in a row, powered by the big ox treadmill. There were swords to beat out and panels to be shaped. Sparks erupted.

  Stronginthearm took off his helmet (the Committee had been around again) ancl wiped the inside.

  'Dibbuk? Where the hell are you?'

  A sensation of filled space made him turn. The foundry's golem was standing a few inches behind him, the forge light glowing on his dark red clay.

  'I told you not to do that, didn't I?' Stronginthearm shouted above the din.

  The golem held up its slate.

  YES.

>   'You've gone and done all your holy day stuff? You were away too long!'

  SORROW.

  'Well, now you're back with us, go and take over on Number Three hammer and send Mr Vincent up to my office, right?'

  YES.

  Stronginthearm climbed the stairs to his office. He turned at the top to look back across the red-lit foundry floor. He saw Dibbuk walk over to the hammer and hold up a slate for the foreman. He saw Vincent the foreman walk away. He saw Dibbuk take the sword-blank that was being shaped and hold it in place for a few blows, then hurl it aside.

  Stronginthearm hurried back down the steps.

  When he was half-way down Dibbuk had laid his head on the anvil.

  When Stronginthearm reached the bottom the hammer struck for the first time.

  When he was half-way across the ash-crusted floor, other workers scurrying after him, the hammer struck for the second time.

  As he reached Dibbuk the hammer struck for the third time.

  The glow faded in the golem's eyes. A crack appeared across the impassive face.

  The hammer went back up for the fourth time—

  'Duck!' screamed Stronginthearm—

  — and then there was nothing but pottery.

  When the thunder had died away, the foundry master got to his feet and brushed himself off. Dust and wreckage were strewn across the floor. The hammer had jumped its bearings and was lying by the anvil in a heap of golem shards.

  Stronginthearm gingerly picked up a piece of a foot, tossed it aside, and then reached down again and pulled a slate out of the wreckage.

  He read:

  THE OLD MEN HELPED US!

  THOU SHALT NOT KILL!

  CLAY OF MY CLAY!

  SHAME.

  SORROW.

  His foreman looked over Stronginthearm's shoulder. 'What did it go and do that for?'

  'How should I know?' snapped Stronginthearm.

  'I mean, it brought the tea round this afternoon as normal as anything. Then it went off for a coupla hours, and now this …'

  Stronginthearm shrugged. A golem was a golem and that was all there was to it, but the recollection of that bland face positioning itself under the giant hammer had shaken him.