Feet of Clay

When Vimes had gone Lord Vetinari ate the pizza, or at least those parts of it he thought he could recognize. Then he put the tray aside and blew out the candle by his bed. He sat in the dark for a while, then felt under his pillow until his finger located a small sharp knife and a box of matches.

Thank goodness for Vimes. There was something endearing about his desperate, burning and above all misplaced competence. If the poor man took any longer he’d have to start giving him hints.

In the main office Carrot sat alone, watching Dorfl. The golem stood where it had been left. Someone had hung a dishcloth on one arm. The top of its head was still open.

Carrot spent a while with his chin on one hand, just staring. Then he opened a desk drawer and took out Dorfl’s chem. He examined it. He got up. He walked over to the golem. He placed the words in the head. An orange glow rose in Dorfl’s eyes. What was baked pottery took on that faintest of auras that marked the change between the living and the dead. Carrot found the golem’s slate and pencil and pushed them into Dorfl’s hand, then stood back.

The burning gaze followed him as he removed his sword belt, undid his breastplate, took off his jerkin and pulled his woollen vest over his head.

The glow was reflected from his muscles. They glistened in the candlelight.

‘No weapons,’ said Carrot. ‘No armour. You see? Now listen to me …’

Dorfl lurched forward and swung a fist.

Carrot did not move.

The fist stopped a hair’s-breadth from Carrot’s unblinking eyes.

‘I didn’t think you could,’ he said, as the golem swung again and the fist jerked to a stop a fraction of an inch from Carrot’s stomach. ‘But sooner or later you’ll have to talk to me. Write, anyway.’

Dorfl paused. Then it picked up the slate pencil.

TAKE MY WORDS!

‘Tell me about the golem who killed people.’

The pencil did not move.

‘The others have killed themselves,’ said Carrot.

I KNOW.

‘How do you know?’

The golem watched him. Then it wrote:

CLAY OF MY CLAY.

‘You feel what other golems feel?’ said Carrot.

Dorfl nodded.

‘And people are killing golems,’ said Carrot. ‘I don’t know if I can stop that. But I can try. I think I know what’s happening, Dorfl. Some of it. I think I know who you were following. Clay of your clay. Shaming you all. Something went wrong. You tried to put it right. I think… you all had such hopes. But the words in your head’ll defeat you every time …’

The golem stayed motionless.

‘You sold him, didn’t you,’ said Carrot quietly. ‘Why?’

The words were scribbled quickly.

GOLEM MUST HAVE A MASTER.

‘Why? Because the words say so?’

GOLEM MUST HAVE A MASTER!

Carrot sighed. Men had to breathe, fish had to swim, golems had to have a master. ‘I don’t know if I can sort this out, but no one else is going to try, believe me,’ he said.

Dorfl did not move.

Carrot went back to where he had been standing. ‘I’m wondering if the old priest and Mr Hopkinson did something … or helped to do something,’ he said, watching the golem’s face. ‘I’m wondering if … afterwards … something turned against them, found the world a bit too much …’

Dorfl remained impassive.

Carrot nodded. ‘Anyway, you’re free to go. What happens now is up to you. I’ll help you if I can. If a golem is a thing then it can’t commit murder, and I’ll still try to find out why all this is happening. If a golem can commit murder, then you are people, and what is being done to you is terrible and must be stopped. Either way, you win, Dorfl.’ He turned his back and fiddled with some papers on his desk. ‘The big trouble,’ he added, ‘is that everyone wants someone else to read their minds for them and then make the world work properly. Even golems, perhaps.’

He turned back to face the golem. ‘I know you’ve all got a secret. But, the way things are going, there won’t be any of you left to keep it.’

He looked hopefully at Dorfl.

NO. CLAY OF MY CLAY. I WILL NOT BETRAY.

Carrot sighed. ‘Well, I won’t force you.’ He grinned. ‘Although, you know, I could. I could write a few extra words on your chem. Tell you to be talkative.’

The fires rose in Dorfl’s eyes.

‘But I won’t. Because that would be inhumane. You haven’t murdered anyone. I can’t deprive you of your freedom because you haven’t got any. Go on. You can go. It’s not as if I don’t know where you live.’

TO WORK IS TO LIVE.

‘What is it golems want, Dorfl? I’ve seen you golems walking around the streets and working all the time, but what is it you actually hope to achieve?’

The slate pencil scribbled.

RESPITE.

Then Dorfl turned around and walked out of the building.

‘D*mn!’ said Carrot, a difficult linguistic feat. He drummed his fingers on the desk, then got up abruptly, put his clothing back on and stalked down the corridor to find Angua.

She was leaning against the wall in Corporal Littlebottom’s office, talking to the dwarf.

‘I’ve sent Dorfl home,’ said Carrot.