Feet of Clay

Vimes looked up at the entrance of the candle-factory. He could dimly see two cressets burning on either side of a shield. ‘Look at that, will you?’ he said. ‘Paint not dry and he flaunts the thing for all the world to see!’

‘What’s dat, sir?’ said Detritus.

‘His damn coat of arms!’

Detritus looked up. ‘Why’s it got a lighted fish on it?’ he said.

‘In heraldry that’s a poisson,’ said Vimes bitterly. ‘And it’s supposed to be a lamp.’

‘A lamp made out of a poisson,’ said Detritus. ‘Well, dere’s a fing.’

‘At least it’s got the motto in proper language,’ said Sergeant Colon. ‘Instead of all the old-fashioned stuff no one understands. “Art Brought Forth the Candle.” That, Sergeant Detritus, is a pune, or play on words. ’cos his name is Arthur, see.’

Vimes stood between the two sergeants and felt a hole open up in his head.

‘Damn!’ he said. ‘Damn, damn, damn! He showed it to me! “Dumb plodder Vimes! He won’t notice!” Oh, yes! And he was right!’

‘’S not that good,’ said Colon. ‘I mean, you’ve got to know that Mr Carry’s first name is Arthur—’

‘Shut up, Fred!’ snapped Vimes.

‘Shutting up right now, sir.’

‘The arrogance of the … Who’s that?’

A figure darted out of the building, glanced around hurriedly, and scurried along the street.

‘That’s Carry!’ said Vimes. He didn’t even shout ‘After him!’ but went from a standing start to a full run. The fleeing figure dodged between the occasional straying sheep or pig and didn’t have a bad turn of speed, but Vimes was powered by sheer anger and was only yards away when Carry ducked into an alleyway.

Vimes skidded to a halt and grabbed at the wall. He’d seen the shape of a crossbow and one of the things you learned in the Watch — that is, one of the things which hopefully you’d have a chance to learn — was that it was a very stupid thing indeed to follow someone with a crossbow into a dark alley where you’d be outlined against any light there was.

‘I know it’s you, Carry,’ he shouted.

‘I’ve got a crossbow!’

‘You can only fire it once!’

‘I want to turn King’s Evidence!’

‘Guess again!’

Carry lowered his voice. ‘They just said I could get the damn golem to do it. I didn’t think anyone was going to get hurt.’

‘Right, right,’ said Vimes. ‘You made poisoned candles because they gave a better light, I expect.’

‘You know what I mean! They told me it would all be all right and—’

‘Which they would “they” be?’

‘They said no one would ever find out!’

‘Really?’

‘Look, look, they said they could …’ The voice paused, and took on that wheedling tone the blunt-witted use when they’re trying to sound sharp.

‘If I tell you everything, you’ll let me go, right?’

The two sergeants had caught up. Vimes pulled Detritus towards him, although in fact he ended up pulling himself towards Detritus.

‘Go round the corner and see he doesn’t come out of the alley the other way,’ he whispered. The troll nodded.

‘What’s it you want to tell me, Mr Carry?’ said Vimes to the darkness in the alley.

‘Have we got a bargain?’

‘What?’

‘A bargain.’

‘No, we damn well haven’t got a bargain, Mr Carry! I’m not a tradesman! But I’ll tell you something, Mr Carry. They betrayed you!’

There was silence from the darkness, and then a sound like a sigh.

Behind Vimes, Sergeant Colon stamped his feet on the cobbles to keep warm.

‘You can’t stay in there all night, Mr Carry,’ said Vimes.

There was another sound, a leathery sound. Vimes glanced up into the coils of fog. ‘Something’s not right,’ he said. ‘Come on!’

He ran into the alley. Sergeant Colon followed, on the basis that it was fine to run into an alley containing an armed man provided you were behind someone else.

A shape loomed at them.

‘Detritus?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Where did he go? There are no doors in the alley!’

Then his eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom. He saw a huddled outline at the foot of a wall, and his foot nudged a crossbow. ‘Mr Carry?’

He knelt down and lit a match.

‘Oh, nasty,’ said Sergeant Colon. ‘Something’s broken his neck …’

‘Dead, is he?’ said Detritus. ‘You want I should draw a chalk outline round him?’

‘I don’t think we need bother, Sergeant.’

‘It no bother, I’ve got der chalk right here.’

Vimes looked up. Fog filled the alley, but there were no ladders, no handy low roofs.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said.

Angua faced the king.

She resisted a terrible urge to Change. Even a werewolf’s jaws probably wouldn’t have any effect on the thing. It didn’t have a jugular.

She daren’t look away. The king moved uncertainly, with little jerks and twitches that in a human would suggest madness. Its arms moved fast but erratically, as if signals that were being sent were not arriving properly. And Dorfl’s attack had left it damaged. Every time it moved, red light shone from dozens of new cracks.

‘You’re cracking up!’ she shouted. ‘The oven wasn’t right for pottery!’

The king lunged at her. She dodged and heard its hand slice through a rack of candles.

‘You’re cranky! You’re baked like a loaf! You’re half-baked!’