Feet of Clay d-19

by Terry David John Pratchett

  Sock looked from Carrot to the golem and then back again. 'Buy? For money?'

  'Yes.'

  The butcher shrugged. When people were offering you money it was no time to debate their sanity. 'Well, that's different,' he conceded. 'It was worth $530 when I bought it, but of course it's got additional skills now—'

  Angua growled. It had been a trying evening and the smell of fresh meat was making her senses twang. 'You were prepared to give it away a moment ago!'

  'Well, give, yes, but business is busi—'

  'I'll pay you a dollar,' said Carrot.

  'A dollar? That's daylight robb—'

  Angua's hand shot out and grabbed his neck. She could feel the veins, smell his blood and fear … She tried to think of cabbages.

  'It's night-time,' she growled.

  Like the man in the alley, Sock listened to the call of the wild. 'A dollar,' he croaked. 'Right. A fair price. One dollar.'

  Carrot produced one. And waved his notebook.

  'A receipt is very important,' he said. 'A proper legal transfer of ownership.'

  'Right. Right. Right. Happy to oblige.'

  Sock glanced desperately at Angua. Somehow, her smile didn't look right. He scribbled a few hasty lines.

  Carrot looked over his shoulder.

  I Gerhardt Sock give the barer full and totarl ownership of the golem Dorfl in xchange for One Dolar and anythinge it doz now is his responisbility and nuthing to doe with me.

  Singed, Gerhardt Sock.

  'Interesting wording, but it does look legal, doesn't it?' said Carrot, taking the paper. Thank you very much, Mr Sock. A happy solution all round, I feel.'

  'Is that it? Can I go now?'

  'Certainly, and—'

  The door slammed shut.

  'Oh, well done,' said Angua. 'So now you own a golem. You do know that anything it does is your responsibility?'

  'If that's the truth, why are people smashing them?

  'What are you going to use it? … or?'

  Carrot looked thoughtfully at Dorfl, who was staring at the ground.

  'Dorfl?'

  The golem looked up.

  'Here's your receipt. You don't have to have a master.'

  The golem took the little scrap of paper between two thick fingers.

  'That means you belong to you,' said Carrot encouragingly. 'You own yourself.'

  Dorfl shrugged.

  'What did you expect?' said Angua. 'Did you think it was going to wave a flag?'

  'I don't think he understands,' said Carrot. 'It's quite hard to get some ideas into people's heads …' He stopped abruptly.

  Carrot took the paper out of Dorfl's unresisting fingers. 'I suppose it might work,' he said. 'It seems a bit-invasive. But what they understand, after all, is the words …'

  He reached up, opened Dorfl's lid, and dropped the paper inside.

  The golem blinked. That is to say, its eyes went dark and then brightened again. It raised one hand very slowly and patted the top of its head. Then it held up the other hand and turned it this way and that, as if it had never seen a hand before. It looked down at its feet and around at the fog-shrouded buildings. It looked at Carrot. It looked up at the clouds above the street. It looked at Carrot again.

  Then, very slowly, without bending in any way, it fell backwards and hit the cobbles with a thud. The light faded in its eyes.

  'There,' said Angua. 'Now it's broken. Can we go?'

  'There's still a bit of a glow,' said Carrot. 'It must have all been too much for him. We can't leave him here. Maybe if I took the receipt out …'

  He knelt down by the golem and reached for the trapdoor on its head.

  Dorfl's hand moved so quickly it didn't even appear to move. It was just there, gripping Carrot's wrist.

  'Ah,' said Carrot, gently pulling his arm back. 'He's obviously … feeling better.'

  'Thsssss,' said Dorfl. The voice of the golem shivered in the fog.

  Golems had a mouth. They were part of the design. But this one was open, revealing a thin line of red light.

  'Oh, ye gods,' said Angua, backing away. 'They can't speak!'

  'Thssss!' It was less a syllable than the sound of escaping steam.

  'I'll find your bit of slate—' Carrot began, looking around hurriedly.

  'Thssss!'

  Dorfl clambered to its feet, gently pushed him out of the way and strode off.

  'Are you happy now?' said Angua. ‘I’m not following the wretched thing! Maybe it's going to throw itself in the river!'

  Carrot ran a few steps after the figure, and then stopped and came back.

  'Why do you hate them so much?' he said.

  'You wouldn't understand. I really think you wouldn't understand,' said Angua. 'It's an … undead thing. They … sort of throw in your face the fact you're not human.'

  'But you are human!'

  'Three weeks out of four. Can't you understand that, when you have to be careful all the time, it's dreadful to see things like that being accepted? They're not even alive. But they can walk around and they never get people passing remarks about silver or garlic … up until now, anyway. They're just machines for doing work!'

  'That's how they're treated, certainly,' said Carrot.

  'You're being reasonable again!' snapped Angua. 'You're deliberately seeing everyone's point of view! Can't you try to be unfair even once?'

  Nobby had been left alone for a moment while the party buzzed around him, so he'd elbowed some waiters away from the buffet and was currently scraping out a bowl with his knife.

  'Ah, Lord de Nobbes,' said a voice behind him.

  He turned. 'Wotcha,' he said, licking the knife and wiping it on the tablecloth.

  'Are you busy, my lord?'

  'Just making meself this meat-paste sandwich,' said Nobby.

  'That's pâté de foie gras, my lord.'

  "S that what it's called? It doesn't have the kick of Clammer's Beefymite Spread, I know that. Want a quail's egg? They're a bit small.'

  'No, thank you—'

  'There's loads of them,' said Nobby generously. They're free. You don't have to pay.'

  'Even so—'

  'I can get six in my mouth at once. Watch—'

  'Amazing, my lord. I was wondering, however, whether you would care to join a few of us in the smoking-room?'

  'Fghmf? Mfgmf fgmf mgghjf?'

  'Indeed.' A friendly arm was put around Nobby's shoulders and he was adroitly piloted away from the buffet, but not before he had grabbed a plate of chicken legs. 'So many people want to talk to you …'

  'Mgffmph?'

  Sergeant Colon tried to clean himself up, but trying to clean yourself up with water from the Ankh was a difficult manoeuvre. The best you could hope for was an all-over grey.

  Fred Colon hadn't reached Vimes's level of sophisticated despair. Vimes took the view that life was so full of things happening erratically in all directions that the chances of any of them making some kind of relevant sense were remote in the extreme. Colon, being by nature more optimistic and by intellect a good deal slower, was still at the Clues are Important stage.

  Why had he been tied up with string? There were still loops of it around his arms and legs.

  'You sure you don't know where I was?' he said.

  'Yez walked into the place,' said Wee Mad Arthur, trotting along beside him. 'How come yez don't know?'

  "Cos it was dark and foggy and I wasn't paying attention, that's why. I was just going through the motions.'

  'Aha, good one!'

  'Don't mess about. Where was I?'

  'Don't ask me,' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'I just hunts under the whole cattle-market area. I don't bother about what's up top. Like I said, them runs go everywhere.'

  'Anyone along there make string?'

  'It's all animal stuff, I tell yez. Sausages and soap and stuff like that. Is this the bit where yez gives me the money?'

  Colon patted his pockets. They squelched.

  'You'll have to co
me to the Watch House, Wee Mad Arthur.'

  'I got a business to run here!'

  'I'm swearin' you in as a Special Watchman for the night,' said Colon.

  'What's the pay?'

  'Dollar a night.'

  Wee Mad Arthur's tiny eyes gleamed. They gleamed red.

  'Ye gods, you look awful,' said Colon. 'What're you looking at my ear for?'

  Wee Mad Arthur said nothing.

  Colon turned.

  A golem was standing behind him. It was taller than any he'd seen before, and much better proportioned — a human statue rather than the gross shape of the usual golems, and handsome, too, in the cold way of a statue. And its eyes shone like red searchlights.

  It raised a fist above its head and opened its mouth. More red light streamed out.

  It screamed like a bull.

  Wee Mad Arthur kicked Colon on the ankle.

  'Are we running or what?' he said.

  Colon backed away, still staring at the thing.

  'It's… it's all right, they can't move fast …' he muttered. And then his sensible body gave up on his stupid brain and fired up his legs, spinning him around and shoving him in the opposite direction.

  He risked looking over his shoulder. The golem was running after him in long, easy strides.

  Wee Mad Arthur caught him up.

  Colon was used to proceeding gently. He wasn't built for high speeds, and said so. 'And you certainly can't run faster than that thing!' he wheezed.

  'Just so long as I can run faster'n yez,' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'This way!'

  There was a flight of old wooden stairs against the side of a warehouse. The gnome went up them like the rats he hunted. Colon, panting like a steam engine, followed him.

  He stopped half-way up and looked around.

  The golem had reached the bottom step. It tested it carefully. The wood creaked and the whole stairway, grey with age, trembled.

  'It won't take the weight!' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'The bugger's gonna smash it up! Yeah!'

  The golem took another step. The wood groaned.

  Colon got a grip on himself and hurried on up the stairs.

  Behind him, the golem seemed to have satisfied itself that the wood could indeed take its weight, and started to leap from step to step. The rails shook under Colon's hands and the whole structure swayed.

  'Come on, will yez?' said Wee Mad Arthur, who had already reached the top. 'It's gaining on yez!'

  The golem lunged. The stairs gave way. Colon flung out his hands and grabbed the edge of the roof. Then his body thudded into the side of the building.

  There was the distant sound of woodwork hitting cobbles.

  'Come on then,' said Wee Mad Arthur. 'Pull yourself up, yer silly bugger!'

  'Can't,' said Colon.

  'Why not?'

  'It's holding on to my foot …'

  'A cigar, your lordship?'

  'Brandy, my lord?'

  Lord de Nobbes sat back in the comfort of his chair. His feet only just reached the ground. Brandy and cigars, eh? This was the life all right. He took a deep puff at the cigar.

  'We were just talking, my lord, about the future governance of the city now that poor Lord Vetinari's health is so bad …'

  Nobby nodded. This was the kind of thing you talked about when you were a nob. This was what he'd been born for.

  The brandy was giving him a pleasant warm feeling.

  'It would obviously upset the current equilibrium if we looked for a new Patrician at this point,' said another armchair. 'What is your view, Lord de Nobbes?'

  'Oh, yeah. Right. The guilds'd fight like cats in a sack,' said Nobby. 'Everyone knows that.'

  'A masterly summary, if I may say so.'

  There was a general murmur of agreement from the other chairs.

  Nobby grinned. Oh, yes. This was the bee's pyjamas and no mistake. Hobnobbing with his fellow nobs, talking big talk about important matters instead of having to think up reasons why the tea-money tin was empty … oh, yes.

  A chair said, 'Besides, are any of the guild leaders up to the task? Oh, they can organize a bunch of tradesmen, but ruling an entire city … I think not. Gentlemen, perhaps it is time for a new direction. Perhaps it is time for blood to reveal itself.'

  Odd way of putting it, Nobby thought, but clearly this was how you were supposed to speak.

  'At a time like this,' said a chair, 'the city will surely look at those representatives of its most venerable families. It would be in all our interests if such a one would take up the burden.'

  'He'd need his head examined, if you want my opinion,' said Nobby. He took another swig of the brandy and waved the cigar expansively.

  'Still, not to worry,' he said. 'Everyone knows we've got a king hanging around. No problem there. Send for Captain Carrot, that's my advice.'

  Another evening folded over the city in layers of fog.

  When Carrot arrived back at the Watch House Corporal Littlebottom made a face at him and indicated, with a flicker of her eyes, the three people sitting grimly on the bench against one wall.

  'They want to see an officer!' she hissed. 'But S'arnt Colon isn't back and I knocked on Mr Vimes's door and I don't think he's in.'

  Carrot composed his features into a welcoming smile.

  'Mrs Palm," he said. 'And Mr Boggis … and Dr Downey. I am so sorry. We're rather stretched at present, what with the poisoning and this business with the golems—'

  The head of the Assassins' Guild smiled, but only with his mouth. 'It's about the poisoning we wish to speak,' he said. 'Is there somewhere a little less public?'

  'Well, there's the canteen,' said Carrot. 'It'll be empty at this time of night. If you'd just step this way …'

  'You do well for yourselves here, I must say,' said Mrs Palm. 'A canteen—'

  She stopped as she stepped through the door.

  'People eat in here?' she said.

  'Well, grumble about the coffee, mostly,' said Carrot. 'And write their reports. Commander Vimes is keen on reports.'

  'Captain Carrot,' said Dr Downey, firmly, 'we have to talk to you on a grave matter concerning— What have I sat in?'

  Carrot brushed a chair hurriedly. 'Sorry, sir, we don't seem to have much time to clean up—'

  'Leave it for now, leave it for now.'

  The head of the Assassins' Guild leaned forward with his hands pressed together.

  'Captain Carrot, we are here to discuss this terrible matter of the poisoning of Lord Vetinari.'

  'You really ought to talk to Commander Vimes—'

  'I believe that on a number of occasions Commander Vimes has made derogatory comments to you about Lord Vetinari,' said Dr Downey.

  'You mean like "He ought to be hung except they can't find a twisty enough rope"?' said Carrot. 'Oh, yes. But everyone does that.'

  'Do you?'

  'Well, no,' Carrot admitted.

  'And I believe he personally took over the investigation of the poisoning?'

  'Well, yes. But—'

  'Didn't you think that was odd?'

  'No, sir. Not when I thought about it. I think he's got a sort of soft spot for the Patrician, in his way. He once said that if anyone was going to kill Vetinari he'd like it to be him.'

  'Indeed?'

  'But he was smiling when he said it. Sort of smiling, anyway.'

  'He, er, visits his lordship most days, I believe?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And I understand that his efforts to discover the poisoner have not reached any conclusions?'

  'Not as such, sir,' said Carrot. 'We've found a lot of ways he's not being poisoned.'

  Downey nodded at the others. 'We would like to inspect the Commander's office,' he said.

  'I don't know if that's—' Carrot began.

  'Please think very carefully,' said Dr Downey. 'We three represent most of the guilds of this city. We feel we have a good reason for inspecting the Commander's office. You will of course accompany us to see that we do nothing illegal.'<
br />
  Carrot looked awkward. 'I suppose … if I'm with you …' he said.

  'That's right,' said Downey. 'That makes it official.'

  Carrot led the way. 'I don't even know if he's back,' he said, opening the door. 'As I said, we've been … oh.'

  Downey peered around him and at the figure slumped over the desk.

  'It would appear that Sir Samuel is in,' he said. 'But quite out of it.'

  'I can smell the drink from here,' said Mrs Palm. 'It's terrible what drink will do to a man.'

  'A whole bottle of Bearhugger's finest,' said Mr Boggis. 'All right for some, eh?'

  'But he hasn't touched a drop all year!' said Carrot, giving the recumbent Vimes a shake. 'He goes to meetings about it and everything!'

  'Now let us see …' said Downey.

  He pulled open one of the desk drawers.

  'Captain Carrot?' he said. 'Can you witness that there appears to be a bag of greyish powder in here? I will now—'

  Vimes's hand shot out and slammed the drawer on the man's fingers. His elbow rammed back into the assassin's stomach and, as Downey's chin jerked down, Vimes's forearm swung upwards and caught him full on the nose.

  Then Vimes opened his eyes.

  'Wassat? Wassat?' he said, raising his head. 'Dr Downey? Mr Boggis? Carrot? Hmm?'

  'Hwat? Hwat?' screamed Downey. 'You hnsfruck me!'

  'Oh, I'm so sorry,' said Vimes, concern radiating from every feature as he pushed the chair back into Downey's groin and stood up. ‘I’m afraid I must have dropped off and, of course, when I woke up and found someone stealing from …'

  'You're raving drunk, man!' said Mr Boggis.

  Vimes's features froze.

  'Indeed? Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,' he snarled, prodding the man in the chest. 'A peck of bloody pickled peppers Peter Piper damn well picked. Do you want me to continue?' he said, poking the man until his back was against the wall. 'It doesn't get much better!'

  'Hwhat about thif packet?' shouted Downey, clutching his streaming nose with one hand and waving at the desk with the other.

  Vimes still wore a wild-eyed mirthless grin. 'Ah, well, yes,' he said. 'You've got me there. A highly dangerous substance.'

  'Ah, you admit it!'