Feet of Clay

The small part of Angua that always walked on two legs saw that the footprints coming out were on top of the footprints going in. She snuffled around. Up to twelve creatures, each with their own very distinctive smell — the smell of merchandise rather than living creatures — had all very recently gone down the stairwell. And all twelve had come back up.

She went down the steps and was met by an impenetrable barrier.

A door.

Paws were no good at doorknobs.

She peered over the top of the steps. There was no one around. Only the fog hung between the buildings.

She concentrated and changed, leaned against the wall for a moment until the world stopped spinning, and tried the door.

There was a large cellar beyond. Even with a werewolf’s eyesight there wasn’t much to see.

She had to stay human. She thought better when she was human. Unfortunately, here and now, as a human, the thought occupying her mind in no small measure was that she was naked. Anyone finding a naked woman in their cellar would be bound to ask questions. They might not even bother with questions, even ones like ‘Please?’ Angua could certainly deal with that situation, but she preferred not to have to. It was so difficult explaining away the shape of the wounds.

No time to waste, then.

The walls were covered in writing. Big letters, small letters, but all in that neat script which the golems used. There were phrases in chalk and paint and charcoal, and in some cases simply cut into the stone itself. They reached from floor to ceiling, crisscrossing one another over and over again so often that it was almost impossible to make out what any of them were meant to say. Here and there a word or two stood out in the jumble of letters:

… SHALT NOT … WHAT HE DOES IS NOT … RAGE AT THE CREATOR … WOE UNTO THE MASTERLESS … WORDS IN THE … CLAY OF OUR … LET MY … BRING US TO FRE …

The dust in the middle of the floor was scuffed, as if a number of people had been milling around. She crouched down and rubbed the dirt, occasionally sniffing her finger. Smells. They were industrial smells. She hardly needed special senses to detect them. A golem didn’t smell of anything except clay and whatever it was it was working with at the time …

And … something rolled under her fingers. It was a length of wood, only a couple of inches long. A matchstick, without a head.

A few minutes’ investigation found another ten, lying here and there as if they’d been idly dropped.

There was also half a stick, tossed away some distance from the others.

Her night vision was fading. But sense of smell lasted much longer. Smells were strong on the sticks — the same cocktail of odours that had trailed into this damp room. But the slaughterhouse smell she’d come to associate with Dorfl was on only the broken piece.

She sat back on her haunches and looked at the little heap of wood. Twelve people (twelve people in messy jobs) had come here. They hadn’t stayed long. They’d had a … a discussion: the writing on the wall. They’d done something involving eleven matches (just the wooden part — they hadn’t been dipped to get the head. Maybe the pine-smelling golem worked in a match factory?) plus one broken match.

Then they’d all left and gone their separate ways.

Dorfl’s way had taken him straight to the main Watch House to give himself up.

Why?

She sniffed at the piece of broken match again. There was no doubt about that cocktail of blood and meat smells.

Dorfl had given himself up for murder …

She stared at the writing on the wall, and shivered.

‘Cheers, Fred,’ said Nobby, raising his pint.

‘We can put the money back in the Tea Club tomorrow. No one’ll miss it,’ said Sergeant Colon. ‘Anyway, this comes under the heading of an emergency.’

Corporal Nobbs looked despondently into his glass. People often did this in the Mended Drum, when the immediate thirst had been slaked and for the first time they could take a good look at what they were drinking.

‘What am I going to do?’ he moaned. ‘If you’re a nob you got to wear coronets and long robes and that. Got to cost a mint, that kind of stuff. And there’s stuff you’ve got to do.’ He took another long swig. ‘’S called knobless obleeje.’

‘Nobblyesse obligay,’^{51} corrected Colon. ‘Yeah. Means you got to keep your end up in society. Giving money to charities. Being kind to the poor. Passing your ole clothes to your gardener when there’s still some good wear left in ’em. I know about that. My uncle was butler to ole Lady Selachii.’

‘Ain’t got a gardener,’ said Nobby gloomily. ‘Ain’t got a garden. Ain’t got ’ny ole clothes except what I’m wearin’.’ He took another swig. ‘She gave her ole clothes to the gardener, did she?’