Feet of Clay d-19

by Terry David John Pratchett

  'What for?'

  'We-ell… could be all them posh women want to marry you off to their daughters who're in Season …'

  'What?'

  'Nothing beats an earl except a duke, and we haven't got one of them. And we ain't got a king, neither. The Earl of Ankh would be what they calls a social catch.' Yes, it was easier if he said it to himself like that. If you substituted 'Nobby Nobbs' for 'Earl of Ankh' it didn't work. But it did work when you just said 'Earl of Ankh'. There'd be many women who'd be happy to be the mother-in-law of the Earl of Ankh even if it meant having Nobby Nobbs into the bargain.

  Well, a few, anyway.

  Nobby's eyes gleamed. 'Never thought of that,' he said. 'And some of these girls have a bit of cash, too?'

  'More'n you, Nobby.'

  'And of course I owes it to my posterity to see that the line of Nobbses doesn't die out,' Nobby added, thoughtfully.

  Colon beamed at him with the rather worried expression of a mad doctor who has bolted on the head, applied the crackling lightning to the electrodes, and is now watching his creation lurch down to the village.

  'Cor,' said Nobby, his eyes now unfocusing slightly.

  'Right, but before that,' said Colon, ‘I’ll do all the places along the Shambles and you do Chittling Street and then we can push off back to the Yard, job done and dusted. Okay?'

  'Afternoon, Commander Vimes,' said Carrot, shutting the door behind him. 'Captain Carrot reporting.'

  Vimes was slumped in his chair, staring at the window. The fog was creeping up again. Already the Opera House opposite was a little hazy.

  'We, er, had a look at as many golems as we could, sir,' said Carrot, trying diplomatically to see if there was a bottle anywhere on the desk. There's hardly any, sir. We found eleven had smashed themselves up or sawn their heads off and by lunchtime people were smashing 'em or taking out their words themselves, sir. It's not nice, sir. There's bits of pottery all over the city. It's as if people were … just waiting for the opportunity. It's odd, sir. All they do is work and keep themselves to themselves and don't offer any harm to anyone. And some of the ones that smashed themselves left … well, notes, sir. Sort of saying they were sorry and ashamed, sir. They kept on going on about their clay …'

  Vimes did not respond.

  Carrot leaned sideways and down, in case there was a bottle on the floor. 'And Gimlet's Hole Food Delicatessen has been selling poisoned rat. Arsenic, sir. I've asked Sergeant Colon and Nobby to follow that one. It might just be some kind of mix-up, but you never know.'

  Vimes turned. Carrot could hear his breathing. Short, sharp bursts, like a man trying to keep himself under control. 'What have we missed, Captain?' he said, in a faraway voice.

  'Sir?'

  'In his lordship's bedroom. There's the bed. The desk. Things on the desk. The table by the bed. The chair. The rug. Everything. We replaced everything. He eats food. We've checked the food, yes?'

  'The whole larder, sir.'

  'Is that a fact? We might be wrong there. I don't understand how, but we might be wrong. There's some evidence lying in the cemetery that suggests we are.' Vimes was nearly growling. 'What else is there? Littlebottom says there's no marks on him. What else is there? Let's find out the how and with any luck that'll give us the who.'

  'He breathes the air more than anyone else, si—'

  'But we moved him into another bedroom! Even if someone was, I don't know, pumping poison in … they couldn't change rooms with us all watching. It's got to be the food!'

  'I've watched them taste it, sir.'

  'Then it's something we're not seeing, damn it! People are dead, Captain! Mrs Easy's dead!'

  'Who, sir?'

  'You've never heard of her?'

  'Can't say that I have, sir. What did she use to do?'

  'Do? Nothing, I suppose. She just brought up nine kids in a couple of rooms you couldn't stretch out in and she sewed shirts for tuppence an hour, every hour the bloody gods sent, and all she did was work and keep herself to herself and she is dead, Captain. And so's her grandson. Aged fourteen months. Because her granddaughter took them some grub from the palace! A bit of a treat for them! And d'you know what? Mildred thought I was going to arrest her for theft! At the damn funeral, for gods' sake!' Vimes's fists opened and closed, his knuckles showing white. 'It's murder now. Not assassination, not politics, it's murder. Because we're not asking the right damn questions!'

  The door opened.

  'Oh, good afternoon, squire,' said Sergeant Colon brightly, touching his helmet. 'Sorry to bother you. I expect it's your busy time, but I've got to ask, just to eliminate you from our enquiries, so to speak. Do you use any arsenic around the place?'

  'Er … don't leave the officer standing there, Fanley,' said a nervous voice, and the workman stepped aside. 'Good afternoon, officer. How may we help you?'

  'Checking up on arsenic, sir. Seems some's been getting where it shouldn't.'

  'Er … good heavens. Really. I'm sure we don't use any, but do come inside while I check with the foremen. I'm certain there's a pot of tea hot, too.'

  Colon looked behind him. The mist was rising. The sky was going grey. 'Wouldn't say no, sir!' he said.

  The door closed behind him.

  A moment later, there was the faint scrape of the bolts.

  'Right,' said Vimes. 'Let's start again.' He picked up an imaginary ladle.

  'I'm the cook. I've made this nourishing gruel that tastes like dog's water. I'm filling up three bowls. Everyone's watching me. All the bowls have been well washed, right? Okay. The tasters take two, one to taste, and these days the other's for Littlebottom to check, and then a servant — that's you, Carrot — takes the third one and …'

  'Puts it in the dumbwaiter, sir. There's one up to every room.'

  'I thought they carried them up?'

  'Six floors? It'd get stone-cold, sir.'

  'All right … hold on. We've gone too far. You've got the bowl. D'you put it on a tray?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Put it on a tray, then.'

  Carrot obediently put the invisible bowl on an invisible tray.

  'Anything else?' said Vimes.

  'Piece of bread, sir. And we check the loaf.'

  'Soup spoon?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Well, don't just stand there. Put them on …'

  Carrot detached one hand from the invisible tray to take an invisible piece of bread and an intangible spoon.

  'Anything else?' said Vimes. 'Salt and pepper?'

  'I think I remember salt and pepper pots, sir.'

  'On they go, then.'

  Vimes stared hawk-like at the space between Carrot's hands.

  'No,' he said. 'We wouldn't have missed that, would we? I mean … we wouldn't, would we?'

  He reached out and picked up an invisible tube.

  'Tell me we checked the salt,' he said.

  'That's the pepper, sir,' said Carrot helpfully.

  'Salt! Mustard! Vinegar! Pepper!' said Vimes. 'We didn't check all the food and then let his lordship tip poison on to suit his taste, did we? Arsenic's a metal. Can't you get … metal salts? Tell me we asked ourselves that. We aren't that stupid, are we?'

  'I'll check directly,' said Carrot. He looked around desperately. ‘I’ll just put the tray down—'

  'Not yet,' said Vimes. ‘I’ve been here before. We don't rush off shouting "Give me a towel!" just because we've had one idea. Let's keep looking, shall we? The spoon. What's it made of?'

  'Good point. I'll check the cutlery, sir.'

  'Now we're cooking with charcoal! What's he been drinking?'

  'Boiled water, sir. We've tested the water. And I checked the glasses.'

  'Good. So… we've got the tray and you put the tray in the dumbwaiter and then what?'

  'The men in the kitchen haul on the ropes and it goes up to the sixth floor.'

  'No stops?'

  Carrot looked blank.

  'It goes up six floors,' said Vimes. 'It's just
a shaft with a big box in it that can be pulled up and down, isn't it? I'll bet there's a door into it on every floor.'

  'Some of the floors are hardly used these days, sir—'

  'Even better for our poisoner, hmm? He just stands there, bold as you like, and waits for the tray to come by, right? We don't know that the meal which arrives is the one that left, do we?'

  'Brilliant, sir!'

  'It happens at night, I'll swear,' said Vimes. 'He's chipper in the evenings and out like a light next morning. What time is his supper sent up?'

  'While he's poorly, around six o'clock, sir,' said Carrot. 'It's got dark by then. Then he gets on with his writing.'

  'Right. We've got a lot to do. Come on.'

  The Patrician was sitting up in bed reading when Vimes entered. 'Ah, Vimes,' he said.

  'Your supper will be up shortly, my lord,' said Vimes. 'And can I once again say that our job would be a lot easier if you let us move you out of the palace?'

  'I'm sure it would be,' said Lord Vetinari.

  There was a rattle from the dumbwaiter. Vimes walked across and opened the doors.

  There was a dwarf in the box. He had a knife between his teeth and an axe in each hand, and was glowering with ferocious concentration.

  'Good heavens,' said Vetinari weakly. 'I hope at least they've included some mustard.'

  'Any problems, Constable?' said Vimes.

  'Nofe, fir,' said the dwarf, unfolding himself and removing the knife. 'Very dull all the way up, sir. There was other doors and they all looked pretty unused, but I nailed 'em up anyway like Captain Carrot said, sir.'

  'Well done. Down you go.'

  Vimes shut the doors. There was more rattling as the dwarf began his descent.

  'Every detail covered, eh, Vimes?'

  'I hope so, sir.'

  The box came back up again, with a tray in it. Vimes took it out.

  'What's this?'

  'A Klatchian Hots without anchovies,' said Vimes, lifting the cover. 'We got it from Ron's Pizza Hovel round the corner. The way I see it, no one can poison all the food in the city. And the cutlery's from my place.'

  'You have the mind of a true policeman, Vimes.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Really? Was it a compliment?' The Patrician prodded at the plate with the air of an explorer in a strange country.

  'Has someone already eaten this, Vimes?'

  'No, sir. That's just how they chop up the food.'

  'Oh, I see. I thought perhaps the food-tasters were getting over-enthusiastic,' said the Patrician. 'My word. What a treat I have to look forward to.'

  'I can see you're feeling better, sir,' said Vimes stiffly.

  'Thank you, Vimes.'

  When Vimes had gone Lord Vetinari ate the pizza, or at least those parts of it he thought he could recognize. Then he put the tray aside and blew out the candle by his bed. He sat in the dark for a while, then felt under his pillow until his finger located a small sharp knife and a box of matches.

  Thank goodness for Vimes. There was something endearing about his desperate, burning and above all misplaced competence. If the poor man took any longer he'd have to start giving him hints.

  In the main office Carrot sat alone, watching Dorfl.

  The golem stood where it had been left. Someone had hung a dishcloth on one arm. The top of its head was still open.

  Carrot spent a while with his chin on one hand, just staring. Then he opened a desk drawer and took out Dorfl's chem. He examined it. He got up. He walked over to the golem. He placed the words in the head.

  An orange glow rose in Dorfl's eyes. What was baked pottery took on that faintest of auras that marked the change between the living and the dead.

  Carrot found the golem's slate and pencil and pushed them into Dorfl's hand, then stood back.

  The burning gaze followed him as he removed his sword belt, undid his breastplate, took off his jerkin and pulled his woollen vest over his head.

  The glow was reflected from his muscles. They glistened in the candlelight.

  'No weapons,' said Carrot. 'No armour. You see? Now listen to me…'

  Dorfl lurched forward and swung a fist.

  Carrot did not move.

  The fist stopped a hair's-breadth from Carrot's unblinking eyes.

  'I didn't think you could,' he said, as the golem swung again and the fist jerked to a stop a fraction of an inch from Carrot's stomach. 'But sooner or later you'll have to talk to me. Write, anyway. '

  Dorfl paused. Then it picked up the slate pencil.

  TAKE MY WORDS!

  'Tell me about the golem who killed people. '

  The pencil did not move.

  'The others have killed themselves,' said Carrot.

  I KNOW.

  'How do you know?'

  The golem watched him. Then it wrote:

  CLAY OF MY CLAY.

  'You feel what other golems feel?' said Carrot.

  Dorfl nodded.

  'And people are killing golems,' said Carrot. 'I don't know if I can stop that. But I can try. I think I know what's happening, Dorfl. Some of it. I think I know who you were following. Clay of your clay. Shaming you all. Something went wrong. You tried to put it right. I think … you all had such hopes. But the words in your head'll defeat you every time … '

  The golem stayed motionless.

  'You sold him, didn't you,' said Carrot quietly. 'Why?'

  The words were scribbled quickly.

  GOLEM MUST HAVE A MASTER.

  'Why? Because the words say so?'

  GOLEM MUST HAVE A MASTER.

  Carrot sighed. Men had to breathe, fish had to swim, golems had to have a master. 'I don't know if I can sort this out, but no one else is going to try, believe me,' he said.

  Dorfl did not move.

  Carrot went back to where he had been standing. 'I'm wondering if the old priest and Mr Hopkinson did something … or helped to do something,' he said, watching the golem's face. ‘I’m wondering if … afterwards … something turned against them, found the world a bit too much …'

  Dorfl remained impassive.

  Carrot nodded. 'Anyway, you're free to go. What happens now is up to you. I'll help you if I can. If a golem is a thing then it can't commit murder, and I'll still try to find out why all this is happening. If a golem can commit murder, then you are people, and what is being done to you is terrible and must be stopped. Either way, you win, Dorfl.' He turned his back and fiddled with some papers on his desk. 'The big trouble,' he added, 'is that everyone wants someone else to read their minds for them and then make the world work properly. Even golems, perhaps.'

  He turned back to face the golem. 'I know you've all got a secret. But, the way things are going, there won't be any of you left to keep it.'

  He looked hopefully at Dorfl.

  NO. CLAY OF MY CLAY. I WILL NOT BETRAY.

  Carrot sighed. 'Well, I won't force you.' He grinned. 'Although, you know, I could. I could write a few extra words on your chem. Tell you to be talkative.'

  The fires rose in Dorfl’s eyes.

  'But I won't. Because that would be inhumane. You haven't murdered anyone. I can't deprive you of your freedom because you haven't got any. Go on. You can go. It's not as if I don't know where you live.'

  TO WORK IS TO LIVE.

  'What is it golems want, Dorfl? I've seen you golems walking around the streets and working all the time, but what is it you actually hope to achieve?'

  The slate pencil scribbled.

  RESPITE.

  Then Dorfl turned around and walked out of the building,

  'D*mn!' said Carrot, a difficult linguistic feat. He drummed his fingers on the desk, then got up abruptly, put his clothing back on and stalked down the corridor to find Angua.

  She was leaning against the wall in Corporal Littlebottom's office, talking to the dwarf.

  'I've sent Dorfl home,' said Carrot.

  'Has he got one?' said Angua.

  'Well, back to the slaughterhou
se, anyway. But it's probably not a good time for a golem to be out alone so I'm just going to stroll along after him and keep … Are you all right, Corporal Little-bottom?'

  'Yes, sir,' said Cheri.

  'You're wearing a…a…a…' Carrot's mind rebelled at the thought of what the dwarf was wearing and settled for: 'A kilt?'

  'Yes, sir. A skirt, sir. A leather one, sir.'

  Carrot tried to find a suitable response and had to resort to: 'Oh.'

  'I'll come with you,' said Angua. 'Cheri can keep an eye on the desk.'

  'A … kilt,' said Carrot. 'Oh. Well, er … just keep an eye on things. We won't be long. And … er … just keep behind the desk, all right?'

  'Come on,' said Angua.

  When they were out in the fog Carrot said, 'Do you think there's something a bit … odd about Littlebottom?'

  'Seems like a perfectly ordinary female to me,' said Angua.

  'Female? He told you he was female?'

  'She,' Angua corrected. 'This is Ankh-Morpork, you know. We've got extra pronouns here.'

  She could smell his bewilderment. Of course, everyone knew that, somewhere down under all those layers of leather and chain mail, dwarfs came in enough different types to ensure the future production of more dwarfs, but it was not a subject that dwarfs discussed other than at those essential points in a courtship when embarrassment might otherwise arise.

  'Well, I would have thought she'd have the decency to keep it to herself,' Carrot said finally. 'I mean, I've nothing against females. I'm pretty certain my stepmother is one. But I don't think it's very clever, you know, to go around drawing attention to the fact.'

  'Carrot, I think you've got something wrong with your head,' said Angua.

  'What?'

  'I think you may have got it stuck up your bum. I mean, good grief. A bit of make-up and a dress and you're acting as though she'd become Miss Va Va Voom and started dancing on tables down at the Skunk Club!'

  There were a few seconds of shocked silence while they both considered the image of a dwarfish strip-tease dancer. Both minds rebelled.

  'Anyway,' said Angua, 'if people can't be themselves in Ankh-Morpork, where can they?'