Feet of Clay

‘I seldom get visitors,’ said Dragon. ‘Generally people are seen by the Heralds, but I thought you should get a proper explanation. Ah-ha. We’re so busy now. Once we dealt with real heraldry. But this, they tell me, is the Century of the Fruitbat. Now it seems that, as soon as a man opens his second meat-pie shop, he feels impelled to consider himself a gentleman.’ He waved a thin white hand at three coats of arms pinned in a row on a board. ‘The butcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker,’^{20} he sneered, but genteelly. ‘Well, the candlemaker, in point of fact. Nothing will do but that we burrow through the records and prove them acceptably armigerous …’

Vimes glanced at the three shields. ‘Haven’t I seen that one before?’ he said.

‘Ah. Mr Arthur Carry the candlemaker,’ said Dragon. ‘Suddenly business is booming and he feels he must be a gentleman. A shield bisected by a bend sinister d’une mèche en metal gris — that is to say, a steel grey shield indicating his personal determination and zeal (how zealous, ah-ha, these businessmen are!) bisected by a wick. Upper half, a chandelle in a fenêtre avec rideaux houlant (a candle lighting a window with a warm glow, ah-ha), lower half two chandeliers illuminé (indicating the wretched man sells candles to rich and poor alike). Fortunately his father was a harbourmaster, which fact allowed us to stretch ourselves a little with a crest of a lampe au poisson (fish-shaped lamp), indicating both his and his son’s current profession. The motto I left in the common modern tongue and is “Art Brought Forth the Candle”. I’m sorry, ah-ha, it was naughty but I couldn’t resist it.’

‘My sides ache,’ said Vimes. Something kicked his brain, trying to get attention.

‘This one is for Mr Gerhardt Sock, president of the Butchers’ Guild,’ said Dragon. ‘His wife’s told him a coat of arms is the thing to have, and who are we to argue with the daughter of a tripe merchant, so we’ve made him a shield of red, for blood, and blue and white stripes, for a butcher’s apron, bisected by a string of sausages, centralis a cleaver held in a gloved hand, a boxing glove, which is, ah-ha, the best we could do for “sock”. Motto is Futurus Meus est in Visceris, which translates as “My Future is in (the) Entrails”, both relating to his profession and, ah-ha, alluding to the old practice of telling—’

‘—the future from entrails,’ said Vimes. ‘Amazing.’ Whatever was trying to get into his attention was really jumping up and down now.

‘While this one, ah-ha, is for Rudolph Potts of the Bakers’ Guild,’ said Dragon, pointing to the third shield with a twig-thin finger. ‘Can you read it, Commander?’

Vimes gave it a gloomy stare. ‘Well, it’s divided into three, and there’s a rose, a flame and a pot,’ he said. ‘Er … bakers use fire and the pot’s for water, I suppose …’

‘And a pun on the name,’ said Dragon.

‘But, unless he’s called Rosie, I …’ Then Vimes blinked. ‘A rose is a flower. Oh, good grief. Flower, flour. Flour, fire and water? The pot looks like a guzunder to me, though. A chamber pot?’

‘The old word for baker was pistor,’ said Dragon. ‘Why, Commander, we shall make a Herald of you yet! And the motto?’

‘Quod Subigo Farinam,’ said Vimes, and wrinkled his forehead. ‘“Because” … “farinaceous” means to do with corn, or flour, doesn’t it? … oh, no … “Because I Knead the Dough”?’

Dragon clapped his hands. ‘Well done, sir!’

‘This place must simply rock on those long winter evenings,’ said Vimes. ‘And that’s heraldry, is it? Crossword clues and plays on words?’

‘Of course there is a great deal more,’ said the Dragon. ‘These are simple. We more or less have to make them up. Whereas the escutcheon of an old family, such as the Nobbses …’

‘Nobbs!’ said Vimes, as the penny dropped. ‘That’s it! You said “Nobbs”! Before — when you were talking about old families!’

‘Ah-ha. What? Oh, indeed. Yes. Oh, yes. A fine old family. Although now, sadly, in decay.’

‘You don’t mean Nobbs as in … Corporal Nobbs?’ said Vimes, horror edging his words.

A book thumped open. In the orange light Vimes had a vague upside-down glimpse of shields, and a rambling, unpruned family tree.

‘My word. Would that be a C. W. St J. Nobbs?’

‘Er … yes. Yes!’

‘Son of Sconner Nobbs and a lady referred to here as Maisie of Elm Street?’

‘Probably.’

‘Grandson of Slope Nobbs?’

‘That sounds about right.’

‘Who was the illegitimate son of Edward St John de Nobbes, Earl of Ankh, and a, ah-ha, a parlour-maid of unknown lineage?’

‘Good gods!’

‘The earl died without issue, except that which, ah-ha, resulted in Slope. We had not been able to trace the scion — hitherto, at any rate.’

‘Good gods!’

‘You know the gentleman?’

Vimes regarded with amazement a serious and positive sentence about Corporal Nobbs that included the word ‘gentleman’. ‘Er … yes,’ he said.

‘Is he a man of property?’

‘Only other people’s.’

‘Well, ah-ha, do tell him. There is no land or money now, of course, but the title is still extant.’