Feet of Clay d-19

by Terry David John Pratchett

  'Was that old Mrs Easy who used to do dressmaking?' said Vimes, taking her gently aside.

  'That's right.'

  'And the … smaller coffin?'

  ‘That was our William—‘

  The girl looked as if she were about to cry again.

  'Can we have a talk?' said Vimes. 'There are some things I hope you can tell me.'

  He hated the way his mind worked. A proper human being would have shown respect and quietly walked away. But, as he'd stood among the chilly stones, a horrible apprehension had stolen over him that almost all the answers were in place now, if only he could work out the questions.

  She looked around at the other mourners. They had reached the gate and were staring back curiously at the two of them.

  'Er … I know this isn't the right time,' said Vimes. 'But, when the kids play hopscotch in the street, what's the rhyme they sing? "Salt, mustard, vinegar, pepper?", isn't it?'

  She stared at his worried grin. 'That's a skipping rhyme,' she said coldly. 'When they play hopscotch they sing "Billy Skunkins is a brass stud". Who are you?'

  'I'm Commander Vimes of the Watch,' said Vimes. So … Willy Scuggins would live on in the street, in disguise and in a fashion … And old Stoneface was just some guy on a bonfire …

  Then her tears came.

  'It's all right, it's all right,' said Vimes, as soothingly as he could. 'I was brought up in Cockbill Street, that's why I … I mean I'm … I'm not here on … I'm not out to … look, I know you took food home from the palace. That's all right by me. I'm not here to … oh, damn, would you like my handkerchief? I think your one's full.'

  'Everyone does it!'

  'Yes, I know.'

  'Anyway, cook never says nothing …" She began to sob again.

  'Yes, yes.'

  'Everyone takes a few things,' said Mildred Easy. 'It's not like stealing.'

  It is, thought Vimes treacherously. But I don't give a damn.

  And now … he'd got a grip on the long copper rod and was climbing into a high place while the thunder muttered around him. The, er, the last food you sto— were given,' he said. 'What was it?'

  'Just some blancmange and some, you know, that sort of jam made out of meat…'

  'Pate?'

  'Yes. I thought it would be a little treat…'

  Vimes nodded. Rich, mushy food. The sort you'd give to a baby who was peaky and to a granny who hadn't got any teeth.

  Well, he was on the roof now, the clouds were black and threatening, and he might as well wave the lightning conductor. Time to ask …

  The wrong question, as it proved.

  'Tell me,' he said, 'what did Mrs Easy die of?'

  'Let me put it like this,' said Cheery. 'If these rats had been poisoned with lead instead of arsenic, you'd have been able to sharpen their noses and use them as a pencil.'

  She lowered the beaker.

  'Are you sure?' said Carrot.

  'Yes.'

  'Wee Mad Arthur wouldn't poison rats, would he? Especially not rats that were going to be eaten.'

  'I've heard he doesn't like dwarfs much,' said Angua.

  'Yes, but business is business. No one who does a lot of business with dwarfs likes them much, and he must supply every dwarf café and delicatessen in the city.'

  'Maybe they ate arsenic before he caught them?' said Angua. 'People use it as a rat poison, after all …'

  'Yes,' said Carrot, in a very deliberate way. 'They do.'

  'You're not suggesting that Vetinari tucks into a nice rat every day?' said Angua.

  'I've heard he uses rats as spies, so I don't think he uses them as elevenses,' said Carrot. 'But it'd be nice to know where Wee Mad Arthur gets his from, don't you think?'

  'Commander Vimes said he was looking after the Vetinari case,' said Angua.

  'But we're just finding out why Gimlet's rats are full of arsenic,' said Carrot, innocently. 'Anyway, I was going to ask Sergeant Colon to look into it.'

  'But … Wee Mad Arthur?' said Angua. 'He's mad.'

  'Fred can take Nobby with him. I'll go and tell him. Um. Cheery?'

  'Yes, Captain?'

  'You've been, er, you've been trying to hide your face from me … oh. Did someone hit you?'

  'No, sir!'

  'Only your eyes look a bit bruised and your lips-'

  'I'm fine, sir!' said Cheery desperately.

  'Oh, well, if you say so. I'll… er, I'll… look for Sergeant Colon, then …'

  He backed out, embarrassed.

  That left the two of them. All girls together, thought Angua. One normal girl between the two of us, at any rate.

  'I don't think the mascara works,' Angua said. 'The lipstick's fine but the mascara… I don't think so.'

  'I think I need practice.'

  'You sure you want to keep the beard?'

  'You don't mean … shave? Cheery backed away.

  'All right, all right. What about the iron helmet?'

  'It belonged to my grandmother! It's dwarfish!'

  'Fine. Fine. Okay. You've made a good start, anyway.'

  'Er … what do you think of … this?' said Cheery, handing her a bit of paper.

  Angua read it. It was a list of names, although most of them were crossed out:

  Cheery Littlebottom

  Cherry

  Sherry

  Sherri

  Lucinda Littlebottom

  Sharry

  Sharri

  Cheri

  'Er … what do you think?' said Cheery nervously.

  ' "Lucinda"?' said Angua, raising her eyebrows.

  'I've always liked the sound of the name.'

  ' "Cheri" is nice,' said Angua. 'And it is rather like the one you've got already. The way people spell in this town, no one will actually notice unless you point it out to them.'

  Cheery's shoulders sagged with released tension. When you've made up your mind to shout out who you are to the world, it's a relief to know that you can do it in a whisper.

  'Cheri', thought Angua. Now, what does that name conjure up? Does the mental picture include iron boots, iron helmet, a small worried face and a long beard?

  Well, it does now.

  Somewhere underneath Ankh-Morpork a rat went about its business, ambling unconcernedly through the ruins of a damp cellar. It turned a corner towards the grain store it knew was up ahead, and almost walked into another rat.

  This one was standing on its hind-legs, though, and wearing a tiny black robe and carrying a scythe. Such of its snout that could be seen was bone-white.

  SQUEAK? it said.

  Then the vision faded and revealed a slightly smaller figure. There was nothing in the least rat-like about it, apart from its size. It was human, or at least humanoid. It was dressed in ratskin trousers but was bare above the waist, apart from two bandoliers that criss-crossed its chest. And it was smoking a tiny cigar.

  It raised a very small crossbow and fired.

  The soul of the rat — for anything so similar in so many ways to human beings certainly has a soul — watched gloomily as the figure took its recent habitation by the tail and towed it away. Then it looked up at the Death of Rats.

  'Squeak?' it said.

  The Grim Squeaker nodded.

  SQUEAK.

  A minute later Wee Mad Arthur emerged into the daylight, dragging the rat behind him. There were fifty-seven neatly lined up along the wall, but despite his name Wee Mad Arthur made a point of not killing the young and the pregnant females. It's always a good idea to make sure you've got a job tomorrow.

  His sign was still tacked up over the hole. Wee Mad Arthur, as the only insect and vermin exterminator able to meet the enemy on its own terms, found that it paid to advertise.

  'WEE MAD' ARTHUR

  For those little things that get you down

  Rats *FREE*

  Mise: 1p per ten tails

  Moles: 1/2p each

  Warsps: 50p per nest. Hornets 20p extra

  Cockroaches and similar by aranjeme
nt.

  Small Fees — BIG JOBS

  Arthur took out the world's smallest notebook and a piece of pencil lead. See here, now … fifty-eight skins at two a penny, City bounty for the tails at a penny per ten, and the carcases to Gimlet at tuppence per three, the hard-driving dwarf bastard that he was …

  There was a moment's shadow, and then someone stamped on him.

  'Right,' said the owner of the boot. 'Still catching rats without a Guild card, are you? Easiest ten dollars we ever earned, Sid. Let's go and—'

  The man was lifted several inches off the ground, whirled around, and hurled against the wall. His companion stared as a streak of dust raced across his boot, but reacted too late.

  'He's gone up me trouser! He's gone up me — arrgh!'

  There was a crack.

  'Me knee! Me knee! He's broken me knee!'

  The man who had been flung aside tried to get up, but something scurried across his chest and landed astride his nose.

  'Hey, pal?' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'Can yer mother sew, pal? Yeah? Then get her to stitch this one!'

  He grabbed an eyelid in each hand and thrust his head forward with pin-point precision. There was another crack as the skulls met.

  The man with the broken knee tried to drag himself away but Wee Mad Arthur leapt from his stunned comrade and proceeded to kick him. The kicks of a man not much more than six inches high should not hurt, but Wee Mad Arthur seemed to have a lot more mass than his size would allow. Being nutted by Arthur was like being hit by a steel ball from a slingshot. A kick seemed to have all the power of one from a large man, but very painfully concentrated into a smaller area.

  'Yez can tell them buggers at the Rat-Catchers' Guild that I works for whoze I want and charges what I like,' he said, between kicks. 'And them shites can stop tryin' to persecute the small businessman …'

  The other guild enforcer made it to the end of the alley. Arthur gave Sid a final kick and left him in the gutter.

  Wee Mad Arthur walked back to his task, shaking his head. He worked for nothing and sold his rats for half the official rate, a heinous crime. Yet Wee Mad Arthur was growing rich because the guild hadn't got its joint heads around the idea of fiscal relativity.

  Arthur charged a lot more for his services. A lot more, that is, from the specialized and above all low point of view of Wee Mad Arthur. What Ankh-Morpork had yet to understand was that the smaller you are the more your money is worth.

  A dollar for a human bought a loaf of bread that was eaten in a few bites. The same dollar for Wee Mad Arthur bought the same-sized loaf, but it was food for a week and could then be further hollowed out and used as a bedroom.

  The size-differential problem was also responsible for his frequent drunkenness. Few publicans were prepared to sell beer by the thimbleful or had gnome-sized mugs. Wee Mad Arthur had to go drinking in a swimming costume.

  But he liked his work. No one could clear out rats like Wee Mad Arthur. Old and cunning rats that knew all about traps, deadfalls and poison were helpless in the face of his attack, which was where, in fact, he often attacked. The last thing they felt was a hand gripping each of their ears, and the last thing they saw was his forehead, approaching at speed.

  Muttering under his breath, Wee Mad Arthur got back to his calculations. But not for long.

  He spun around, forehead cocked.

  'It's only us, Wee Mad Arthur,' said Sergeant Colon, stepping back hurriedly.

  'That's Mr Wee Mad Arthur to youse, copper,' said Wee Mad Arthur, but he relaxed a little.

  'We're Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs,' said Colon.

  'Yeah, you remember us, don't you?' said Nobby, in a wheedling voice. 'We was the ones who helped you when you was fighting them three dwarfs last week.'

  'Yez pulled me off 'f them, if that's what you mean,' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'Just when I'd got 'em all down.'

  'We want to talk to you about some rats,' said Colon.

  'Can't take on any more customers,' said Wee Mad Arthur firmly.

  'Some rats you sold to Gimlet's Hole Food Delicatessen a few days ago.'

  'What's that to yez?'

  'He reckons they was poisoned,' said Nobby, who had taken the precaution of moving behind Colon.

  'I never uses poison!'

  Colon realized he was backing away from a man six inches high. 'Yeah, well… see … fing is … you being in fights and that… you don't get on with dwarfs … some people might say … fing is … it could look like you might have a grudge.' He took another step back and almost tripped over Nobby.

  'Grudge? Why should I have a grudge, pal? It ain't me that gets the kicking!' said Wee Mad Arthur, advancing.

  'Good point. Good point,' said Colon. 'Only it'd help, right, if you could tell us … where you got those rats from …'

  'Like the Patrician's palace, maybe,' said Nobby.

  'The palace? No one catches rats at the palace. That's not allowed. No, I remember those rats. They wuz good fat ones, I wanted a penny each, but he held out for four for threepence, th' ole skinflint that he is.'

  'Where did you get them, then?'

  Wee Mad Arthur shrugged. 'Down the cattle market. I do the cattle market Tuesdays. Couldn't tell yez where they came from. Them tunnels guz everywhere, see?'

  'Could they've eaten poison before you caught them?' said Colon.

  Wee Mad Arthur bristled. 'No one puts down poison round there. I won't have it, see? I got all the contracts along the Shambles, and I won't deal with any gobshite who uses poison. I doesn't charge for extermination, see? Guild hates that. But I chooses me customers.' Wee Mad Arthur grinned wickedly. 'I only guz where's there's the finest eating for the rats and I clean up flogging 'em to the lawn ornaments. I find anyone using poison on my patch, they can pay guild rates for guild work, hah, and see how they like it.'

  'I can see you're going to be a big man in industrial catering,' said Colon.

  Wee Mad Arthur put his head on one side. 'D'youse know what happened to the last man that made a crack like that?' he said.

  'Er … no …?' said Colon.

  'Neither does anyone else,' said Wee Mad Arthur, ''cos he was never found. Have yez finished? Only I got a wasps' nest to clean out before I go home.'

  'So you were catching them under the Shambles?' Colon persisted.

  'All the way along. 'S a good beat. There's tanners, tallow men, butchers, sausage-makers … That's good grazing, if you're a rat.'

  'Yeah, right,' said Colon. 'Fair enough. Well, I reckon we've taken up enough of your time—'

  'How d'you catch wasps?' said Nobby, intrigued. 'Smoke 'em out?'

  '’Tis unsporting not to hit them on the wing,' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'But if it's a busy day I make up squibs out of that No.1 black powder the alchemists sell.' He indicated the laden bandoliers over his shoulders.

  'You blow them up?' said Nobby. 'That don't sound too sporting.'

  'Yeah? Just ever tried settin' and lightin' half a dozen fuses and then fightin' your way back out of the entrance before the first one goes off?'

  'It's a wild-goose chase, Sarge,' said Nobby, as they strolled away. 'Some rats et some poison somewhere and he got them. What're we supposed to do about it? Poisonin' rats ain't illegal.'

  Colon scratched his chin. 'I think we could be in a bit of trouble, Nobby,' he said. 'I mean, everyone's been bustling around detectoring and we could end up looking a right couple of noddies. I mean, do you want to go back to the Yard and say we talked to Wee Mad Arthur and he said it wasn't him, end of story? We're humans, right? Well, I am and I know you probably are — and we're definitely bringing up the rear around here. I'm telling you, this ain't my Watch any more, Nobby. Trolls, dwarfs, gargoyles … I've nothing against them, you know me, but I'm looking forward to my little farm with chickens round the door. And I wouldn't mind goin' out with something to be proud of.'

  'Well, what do you want us to do? Knock on every door round the cattle market and ask 'em if they've got any arsenic in the place?'
>
  'Yep,' said Colon. 'Walk and talk. That's what Vimes always says.'

  'There's hundreds of 'em! Anyway, they'd say no.'

  'Right, but we got to arsk. T'aint like it used to be, Nobby. This is modern policing. Detectoring. These days, we got to get results. I mean, the Watch is getting bigger. I don't mind ole Detritus bein' a sergeant, he's not bad when you get to know him, but one of these days it could be a dwarf giving out orders, Nobby. It's all right for me 'cos I'll be out on my farm—'

  'Nailin' chickens round the door,' said Nobby.

  '—but you've got your future to think about. An', the way things are going, maybe the Watch'll be looking for another captain. It'd be a right bugger if he turned out to have a name like Stronginthearm, eh, or Shale. So you'd better look smart.'

  'You never wanted to be a captain, Fred?'

  'Me? A hofficer? I have my pride, Nobby. I've nothing against hofficering for them as is called to it, but it's not for the likes of me. My place is with the common man.'

  'I wish mine was,' said Nobby gloomily. 'Look what was in my pigeonhole this morning.'

  He handed the sergeant a square of card, with gold edging. '"Lady Selachii will be At Home this pm from five onwards, and requests the pleasure of the company of Lord de Nobbes,"' he read.

  'Oh.'

  'I've heard about these rich ole women,' said Nobby, dejectedly. 'I reckon she wants me to be a giggle-low, is that right?'

  'Nah, nah,' said the sergeant, looking at passion's most unlikely plaything. 'I know this stuff from my uncle. "At Home" is like a bit of a drinks do. It's where all you nobs hob-nob, Nobby. You just drink and scoff and talk about literachoor and the arts.'

  'I haven't got any posh clothes,' said Nobby.

  'Ah, that's where you score, Nobby,' said Colon. 'Uniforms is okay. Adds a bit of tone, in fact. Especially if you look dashing,' he said, ignoring the evidence that Nobby was, in fact, merely runny.

  'Is that a fact?' said Nobby, brightening up a bit. 'I've got a lot more of 'em invites, too,' he said. 'Posh cards what look like they've been nibbled along the edges with gold teeth. Dinners, balls, all kinds of stuff.'

  Colon looked down at his friend. A strange and yet persuasive thought crept into his mind. 'We-ell,' he said, 'it's the end of the social Season, see? Time's running out.'