Feet of Clay (17 page)

The barman leaned over to Sergeant Colon. ‘What’s up with the corporal? He’s a half-pint man. That’s eight pints he’s had.’

Fred Colon leaned closer and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Keep it to yourself, Ron, but it’s because he’s a peer.’

‘Is that a fact? I’ll go and put down some fresh sawdust.’

In the Watch House, Sam Vimes prodded the matches. He didn’t ask Angua if she were sure. Angua could smell if it was Wednesday.

‘So who were the others?’ he said. ‘Other golems?’

‘It’s hard to tell from the tracks,’ said Angua. ‘But I think so. I’d have followed them, but I thought I ought to come right back here.’

‘What makes you think they were golems?’

‘The footprints. And golems have no smell,’ she said. ‘They pick up the smells associated with whatever they’re doing. That’s all they smell of …’ She thought of the wall of words. ‘And they had a long debate,’ she said. ‘A golem argument. In writing. It got pretty heated, I think.’

She thought about the wall again. ‘Some of them got quite emphatic,’ she added, remembering the size of some of the lettering. ‘If they were human, they’d have been shouting …’

Vimes stared gloomily at the matches laid out before him. Eleven bits of wood, and a twelfth broken in two. You didn’t need to be any kind of genius to see what had been going on. ‘They drew lots,’ he said. ‘And Dorfl lost.’

He sighed. ‘This is getting worse,’ he said. ‘Does
anyone
know how many golems there are in the city?’

‘No,’ said Carrot. ‘Hard to find out. No one’s made any for centuries, but they don’t wear out.’

‘No one makes them?’

‘It’s banned, sir. The priests are pretty hot on that, sir. They say it’s making life, and that’s something only gods are supposed to do. But they put up with the ones that are still around because, well, they’re so useful. Some are walled up or in treadmills or at the bottom of shafts. Doing messy tasks, you know, in places where it’s dangerous to go. They do all the really mucky jobs. I suppose there could be hundreds …’

‘Hundreds?’ said Vimes. ‘And now they meet secretly and make plots? Good grief! Right. We ought to destroy the lot of them.’

‘Why?’

‘You like the idea of them having
secrets
? I mean, good grief, trolls and dwarfs, fine, even the undead are alive in a way, even if it is a bloody awful way’ – Vimes caught Angua’s eye and went on – ‘for the most part. But these things? They’re just things that do work. It’s like having a bunch of shovels meeting for a chat!’

‘Er … there was something else, sir,’ said Angua slowly.

‘In the cellar?’

‘Yes. Er … but it’s hard to explain. It was a … feeling.’

Vimes shrugged non-committally. He’d learned not to scoff at Angua’s feelings. She always knew
where
Carrot was, for one thing. If she were in the Watch House you could tell if he were coming up the street by the way she turned to look at the door.

‘Yes?’

‘Like … deep grief, sir. Terrible, terrible sadness. Er.’

Vimes nodded, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It seemed to have been a long day and it was far from over yet.

He really, really needed a drink. The world was distorted enough as it was. When you saw it through the bottom of a glass, it all came back into focus.

‘Have you had anything to eat today, sir?’ said Angua.

‘I had a bit of breakfast,’ muttered Vimes.

‘You know that word Sergeant Colon uses?’

‘What? “Manky”?’

‘That’s how you look. If you’re staying here at least let’s have some coffee and send out for figgins.’

Vimes hesitated at that. He’d always imagined that
manky
was how your mouth felt after three days on a regurgitated diet. It was horrible to think that you could
look
like that.

Angua reached for the old coffee tin that represented the Watch’s tea kitty. It was surprisingly easy to lift.

‘Hey? There should be at least twenty-five dollars in here,’ she said. ‘Nobby collected it only yesterday …’

She turned the tin upside-down. A very small dog-end dropped out.

‘Not even an IOU?’ said Carrot despondently.

‘An IOU? This is
Nobby
we’re talking about.’

‘Oh. Of course.’

It had gone very quiet in the Mended Drum. Happy Hour had been passed with no more than a minor fight. Now everyone was watching Unhappy Hour.

There was a forest of mugs in front of Nobby.

‘I mean, I mean, what’s it worth whenallsaidan-done?’ he said.

‘You could flog it,’ said Ron.

‘Good point,’ said Sergeant Colon. ‘There’s plenty o’ rich folks who’d give a sack of cash for a title. I mean folks that’s already got the big house and that. They’d give anything to be as nobby as you, Nobby.’

The ninth pint stopped half-way to Nobby’s lips.

‘Could be worth thousands of dollars,’ said Ron encouragingly.

‘At the very least,’ said Colon. ‘They’d fight over it.’

‘You play your cards right and you could retire on something like that,’ said Ron.

The mug remained stationary. Various expressions fought their way around the lumps and excrescences of Nobby’s face, suggesting the terrible battle within.

‘Oh, they would, would they?’ he said at last.

Sergeant Colon tilted unsteadily away. There was an edge in Nobby’s voice he hadn’t heard before.

‘Then you could be rich and common just like you said,’ said Ron, who did not have quite the same eye for mental weather changes. ‘Posh folks’d be falling over themselves for it.’

‘Sell m’ birthright for a spot of massage, is that it?’ said Nobby.

‘It’s “a pot of message”,’ said Sergeant Colon.

‘It’s “a mess of pottage”,’ said a bystander, anxious not to break the flow.

‘Hah! Well, I’ll tell
you
,’ said Nobby, swaying, ‘there’s some things that
can’t be sole
. Hah! Hah! Who streals my prurse streals trasph, right?’

‘Yeah, it’s the trashiest looking purse I ever saw,’ said a voice.

‘—
what is a mess of pottage, anyway?
’

‘’Cos … what good’d a lot of moneneney do me, hey?’

The clientele looked puzzled. This seemed to be a question on the lines of ‘Alcohol, is it nice?’, or ‘Hard work, do you want to do it?’.

‘—
what’s messy about it, then?
’

‘We – ell,’ said a brave soul, uncertainly, ‘you could use it to buy a big house, lots of grub and … drink and … women and that.’

‘That’s wha’ it takes to make a man happppeyey, is it?’ said Nobby, glassy-eyed.

His fellow-drinkers just stared. This was a metaphysical maze.

‘Well, I’ll tell
you
,’ said Nobby, the swaying now so regular that he looked like an inverted pendulum, ‘all that stuff’s nothing,
nothing
! I tell you, compared to pride inna man’s linneneage … eage.’

‘Linneneageeage?’ said Sergeant Colon.

‘Ancescestors and that,’ said Nobby. ‘’T means I’ve got ancescestors and that, which’s more’n you lot’ve got!’

Sergeant Colon choked on his pint.

‘Everyone’s got ancestors,’ said the barman calmly. ‘Otherwise they wouldn’t be here.’

Nobby gave him a glassy stare and tried unsuccessfully to focus. ‘Right!’ he said, eventually. ‘Right! Only … only I’ve got
more
of ’em, d’y’see? The blood of bloody kings is in these veins, am I right?’

‘Temporarily,’ said a voice. There was laughter, but it had an anticipatory ring to it that Colon had learned to respect and fear. It reminded him of two things: (1) he had got only six weeks to retirement, and (2) it had been quite a long time since he’d been to the lavatory.

Nobby delved into his pocket and pulled out a battered scroll. ‘Y’see this?’ he said, unrolling it with difficulty on the bar. ‘Y’see it? I’ve got a right to arm bears, me. See here? It says “Earl”, right? That’s me. You could, you could, you could have my head up over the door.’

‘Could be,’ said the barman, eyeing the crowd.

‘I mean, y’could change t’name o’ this place, call it the Earl of Ankh, and I’d come in and drink here reg’lar, whaddya say?’ said Nobby. ‘News gets around an earl drinks here, business will go
right
up. And I wouldn’t’n’t’n’t chargeyouapenny, how-aboutit? People’d say, dat’s a high-class pub, is that, Lord de Nobbes drinks there, that’s a place with a bit of tone.’

Someone grabbed Nobby by the throat. Colon didn’t recognize the grabber. He was just one of the scarred, ill shaven regulars whose function it was, around about this time of an evening, to start opening bottles with his teeth or, if the evening was going
really
well, with somebody else’s teeth.

‘So we ain’t good enough for you, is that what you’re saying?’ the man demanded.

Nobby waved his scroll. His mouth opened to frame words like – Sergeant Colon just
knew
– ‘Unhand me, you low-born oaf.’

With tremendous presence of mind and absence of any kind of common sense, Sergeant Colon said: ‘His lordship wants everyone to have a drink with him!’

Compared to the Mended Drum, the Bucket in Gleam Street was an oasis of frigid calm. The Watch had adopted it as their own, as a silent temple to the art of getting drunk. It wasn’t that it sold particularly good beer, because it didn’t. But it did serve it quickly, and quietly, and gave credit. It was one place where Watchmen didn’t have to see things or be disturbed. No one could sink alcohol in silence like a Watchman who’d just come off duty after eight hours on the street. It was as much protection as his helmet and breastplate. The world didn’t hurt so much.

And Mr Cheese the owner was a good listener. He listened to things like ‘Make that a double’ and ‘Keep them coming’. He also said the right things,
like
‘Credit? Certainly, officer’. Watchmen paid their tab or got a lecture from Captain Carrot.

Vimes sat gloomily behind a glass of lemonade. He wanted one drink, and understood precisely why he wasn’t going to have one. One drink ended up arriving in a dozen glasses. But knowing this didn’t make it any better.

Most of the day shift were in here now, plus one or two men who were on their day off.

Scummy as the place was, he liked it here. With the buzz of other people around him, he didn’t seem to get in the way of his own thoughts.

One reason that Mr Cheese had allowed his pub to become practically the city’s fifth Watch House was the protection this offered. Watchmen were quiet drinkers, on the whole. They just went from vertical to horizontal with the minimum amount of fuss, without starting any major fights, and without damaging the fixtures overmuch. And no one ever tried to rob him. Watchmen got really
intense
about having their drinking disturbed.

And he was therefore surprised when the door was flung open and three men rushed in, flourishing crossbows.

‘Don’t nobody move! Anyone moves and they’re dead!’

The robbers stopped at the bar. To their own surprise their arrival didn’t seem to have caused much of a stir.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, will someone shut that door?’ growled Vimes.

A Watchman near the door did so.

‘And bolt it,’ Vimes added.

The three thieves looked around. As their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, they received a general impression of armourality, with strong overtones of helmetness. But none of it was moving. It was all watching them.

‘You boys new in town?’ said Mr Cheese, buffing a glass.

The boldest of the three waved his bow under the barman’s nose. ‘All the money right now!’ he screamed. ‘Otherwise,’ he said, to the room in general, ‘you’ve got a dead barman.’

‘Plenty of other bars in town, boyo,’ said a voice.

Mr Cheese didn’t look up from the glass he was polishing. ‘I know that was you, Constable Thighbiter,’ he said calmly. ‘There’s two dollars and thirty pence on your slate, thank you very much.’

The thieves drew closer together. Bars shouldn’t act like this. And they fancied they could hear the faint sliding noises of assorted weapons being drawn from various sheaths.

‘Haven’t I seen you before?’ said Carrot.

‘Oh gods, it’s
him
,’ moaned one of the men. ‘The bread-thrower!’

‘I thought Mr Ironcrust was taking you to the Thieves’ Guild,’ Carrot went on.

‘There was a bit of an argument about taxes …’

‘Don’t tell him!’

Carrot tapped his head. ‘The tax forms!’ he said. ‘I expect Mr Ironcrust is worried I’ve forgotten about them!’

The thieves were now so close together they looked like a fat six-armed man with a very large bill for hats.

‘Er … Watchmen aren’t allowed to kill people, right?’ said one of them.

‘Not while we’re on duty,’ said Vimes.

The boldest of the three moved suddenly, grabbed Angua and pulled her upright. ‘We walk out of here unharmed or the girl gets it, all right?’ he snarled.

Someone sniggered.

‘I hope you’re not going to kill anyone,’ said Carrot.

‘That’s up to us!’

‘Sorry, was I talking to you?’ said Carrot.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ said Angua. She looked around to make sure Cheery wasn’t there, and then sighed. ‘Come on, gentlemen, let’s get it over with.’

‘Don’t play with your food!’ said a voice from the crowd.

There were one or two giggles until Carrot turned in his seat, whereupon everyone was suddenly intensely interested in their drinks.

‘It’s okay,’ said Angua quietly.

Aware that something was out of kilter, but not quite sure what it was, the thieves edged back to the door. No one moved as they unbolted it and, still holding Angua, stepped out into the fog, shutting the door behind them.

‘Hadn’t we better help?’ said a constable who was new to the Watch.

‘They don’t deserve help,’ said Vimes.

There was a clank of armour and then a long, deep growl, right outside in the street.

And a scream. And then another scream. And a third scream, modulated with ‘NONONOnono-no
nononoNO!
… aarghaargh
aargh!
’ Something heavy hit the door.

Vimes turned back to Carrot. ‘You and Constable Angua,’ he said. ‘You … er … get along all right?’