Feet of Clay

‘Has he got one?’ said Angua.

‘Well, back to the slaughterhouse, anyway. But it’s probably not a good time for a golem to be out alone so I’m just going to stroll along after him and keep … Are you all right, Corporal Littlebottom?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Cheri.

‘You’re wearing a … a … a …’ Carrot’s mind rebelled at the thought of what the dwarf was wearing and settled for: ‘A kilt?’

‘Yes, sir. A skirt, sir. A leather one, sir.’

Carrot tried to find a suitable response and had to resort to: ‘Oh.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Angua. ‘Cheri can keep an eye on the desk.’

‘A … kilt,’ said Carrot. ‘Oh. Well, er … just keep an eye on things. We won’t be long. And … er … just keep behind the desk, all right?’

‘Come on,’ said Angua.

When they were out in the fog Carrot said, ‘Do you think there’s something a bit … odd about Littlebottom?’

‘Seems like a perfectly ordinary female to me,’ said Angua.

‘Female? He told you he was female?’

‘She,’ Angua corrected. ‘This is Ankh-Morpork, you know. We’ve got extra pronouns here.’

She could smell his bewilderment. Of course, everyone knew that, somewhere down under all those layers of leather and chain mail, dwarfs came in enough different types to ensure the future production of more dwarfs, but it was not a subject that dwarfs discussed other than at those essential points in a courtship when embarrassment might otherwise arise.

‘Well, I would have thought she’d have the decency to keep it to herself,’ Carrot said finally. ‘I mean, I’ve nothing against females. I’m pretty certain my stepmother is one. But I don’t think it’s very clever, you know, to go around drawing attention to the fact.’

‘Carrot, I think you’ve got something wrong with your head,’ said Angua.

‘What?’

‘I think you may have got it stuck up your bum. I mean, good grief. A bit of make-up and a dress and you’re acting as though she’d become Miss Va Va Voom and started dancing on tables down at the Skunk Club!’

There were a few seconds of shocked silence while they both considered the image of a dwarfish strip-tease dancer. Both minds rebelled.

‘Anyway,’ said Angua, ‘if people can’t be themselves in Ankh-Morpork, where can they?’

‘There’ll be trouble when the other dwarfs notice,’ said Carrot. ‘I could almost see his knees. Her knees.’

‘Everyone’s got knees.’

‘Perhaps, but it’s asking for trouble to flaunt them. I mean, I’m used to knees. I can look at knees and think, “Oh, yes, knees, they’re just hinges in your legs”, but some of the lads—’

Angua sniffed. ‘He turned left here. Some of the lads what?’

‘Well … I don’t know how they’ll react, that’s all. You shouldn’t have encouraged her. I mean, of course there’s female dwarfs but … I mean, they have the decency not to show it.’

He heard Angua gasp. Her voice sounded rather far away when she said, ‘Carrot, you know I’ve always respected your attitude to the citizens of Ankh-Morpork.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve been impressed by the way you really seem to be blind to things like shape and colour.’

‘Yes?’

‘And you always seem to care for people.’

‘Yes?’

‘And you know that I feel considerable affection for you.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s just that, sometimes …’

‘Yes?’

‘I really, really, really wonder why.’

Carriages were thickly parked outside Lady Selachii’s mansion when Corporal Nobbs strolled up the drive. He knocked on the door.

A footman opened it. ‘Servants’ entrance,’ said the footman, and made to shut the door again.

But Nobby’s outstretched foot had been ready for this. ‘Read these,’ he said, thrusting two bits of paper at him.

The first one read:

I, after hearing evidence from a number of experts, including Mrs Slipdry the midwife, certify that the balance of probability is that the bearer of this document, C. W. St John Nobbs, is a human being.

Signed, Lord Vetinari.

The other was the letter from Dragon King of Arms.

The footman’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, I am terribly sorry, your lordship,’ he said. He stared again at Corporal Nobbs. Nobby was clean-shaven — at least, the last time he’d shaved he’d been clean-shaven — but his face had so many minor topological features it looked like a very bad example of slash-and-burn agriculture.

‘Oh, dear,’ added the footman. He pulled himself together. ‘The other visitors normally just have cards.’

Nobby produced a battered deck. ‘I’m probably busy hobnobbing right now,’ he said. ‘But I’m game for a few rounds of Cripple Mr Onion afterwards, if you like.’

The footman looked him up and down. He didn’t get out much. He’d heard rumours — who hadn’t? — that working in the Watch was the rightful king of Ankh-Morpork. He’d have to admit that, if you wanted to hide a secret heir to the throne, you couldn’t possibly hide him more carefully than under the face of C. W. St J. Nobbs.