Feet of Clay

‘But we’re just finding out why Gimlet’s rats are full of arsenic,’ said Carrot, innocently. ‘Anyway, I was going to ask Sergeant Colon to look into it.’

‘But … Wee Mad Arthur?’ said Angua. ‘He’s mad.’

‘Fred can take Nobby with him. I’ll go and tell him. Um. Cheery?’

‘Yes, Captain?’

‘You’ve been, er, you’ve been trying to hide your face from me … oh. Did someone hit you?’

‘No, sir!’

‘Only your eyes look a bit bruised and your lips—’

‘I’m fine, sir!’ said Cheery desperately.

‘Oh, well, if you say so. I’ll … er, I’ll … look for Sergeant Colon, then …’

He backed out, embarrassed.

That left the two of them. All girls together, thought Angua. One normal girl between the two of us, at any rate.

‘I don’t think the mascara works,’ Angua said. ‘The lipstick’s fine but the mascara … I don’t think so.’

‘I think I need practice.’

‘You sure you want to keep the beard?’

‘You don’t mean … shave?’ Cheery backed away.

‘All right, all right. What about the iron helmet?’

‘It belonged to my grandmother! It’s dwarfish!’

‘Fine. Fine. Okay. You’ve made a good start, anyway.’

‘Er … what do you think of … this?’ said Cheery, handing her a bit of paper.

Angua read it. It was a list of names, although most of them were crossed out:

Cheery Littlebottom

Cherry

Sherry

Sherri

Lucinda Littlebottom

Sharry

Sharri

Cheri

‘Er … what do you think?’ said Cheery nervously.

‘“Lucinda”?’ said Angua, raising her eyebrows.

‘I’ve always liked the sound of the name.’

‘“Cheri” is nice,’ said Angua. ‘And it is rather like the one you’ve got already. The way people spell in this town, no one will actually notice unless you point it out to them.’

Cheery’s shoulders sagged with released tension. When you’ve made up your mind to shout out who you are to the world, it’s a relief to know that you can do it in a whisper.

‘Cheri’, thought Angua. Now, what does that name conjure up? Does the mental picture include iron boots, iron helmet, a small worried face and a long beard?

Well, it does now.

Somewhere underneath Ankh-Morpork a rat went about its business, ambling unconcernedly through the ruins of a damp cellar. It turned a corner towards the grain store it knew was up ahead, and almost walked into another rat.

This one was standing on its hind-legs, though, and wearing a tiny black robe and carrying a scythe. Such of its snout that could be seen was bone-white.

SQUEAK? it said.

Then the vision faded and revealed a slightly smaller figure. There was nothing in the least ratlike about it, apart from its size. It was human, or at least humanoid. It was dressed in ratskin trousers but was bare above the waist, apart from two bandoliers that criss-crossed its chest. And it was smoking a tiny cigar.

It raised a very small crossbow and fired.

The soul of the rat — for anything so similar in so many ways to human beings certainly has a soul — watched gloomily as the figure took its recent habitation by the tail and towed it away. Then it looked up at the Death of Rats.

‘Squeak?’ it said.

The Grim Squeaker nodded.

SQUEAK.

A minute later Wee Mad Arthur emerged into the daylight, dragging the rat behind him. There were fifty-seven neatly lined up along the wall, but despite his name Wee Mad Arthur made a point of not killing the young and the pregnant females. It’s always a good idea to make sure you’ve got a job tomorrow.

His sign was still tacked up over the hole. Wee Mad Arthur, as the only insect and vermin exterminator able to meet the enemy on its own terms, found that it paid to advertise.

‘WEE MAD’ ARTHUR

For those little things that get you down

Rats *FREE*

Mise: 1p per ten tails

Moles: ½p each

Warsps: 50p per nest. Hornets 20p extra

Cockroaches and similar by aranjement.

Small Fees BIG JOBS

Arthur took out the world’s smallest notebook and a piece of pencil lead. See here, now … fifty-eight skins at two a penny, City bounty for the tails at a penny per ten, and the carcases to Gimlet at tuppence per three, the hard-driving dwarf bastard that he was …

There was a moment’s shadow, and then someone stamped on him.

‘Right,’ said the owner of the boot. ‘Still catching rats without a Guild card, are you? Easiest ten dollars we ever earned, Sid. Let’s go and—’

The man was lifted several inches off the ground, whirled around, and hurled against the wall. His companion stared as a streak of dust raced across his boot, but reacted too late.

‘He’s gone up me trouser! He’s gone up me — arrgh!’

There was a crack.

‘Me knee! Me knee! He’s broken me knee!’