Feet of Clay

He wasn't going to have another day of bafflement interspersed with desperately bright ideas, was he? It was bad enough looking at Corporal Littlebottom's expression, which seemed to be getting a little more colourful every time he saw it.

He'd said, 'Ah, arsenic's a metal, right, so maybe the cutlery has been made of it?' He wouldn't forget the look on the dwarfs face as Cheery tried to explain that, yes, it might be possible to do that, provided you were sure that no one would notice the way it dissolved in the soup almost instantly.

This time he was going to think first.

'The Earl of Ankh, Corporal the Rt. Hon. Lord C. W. StJ. Nobbs!'

The buzz of conversation stopped. Heads turned. Somewhere in the crowd someone started to laugh and was hurriedly shushed into silence by their neighbours.

Lady Selachii came forward. She was a tall, angular woman, with the sharp features and aquiline nose that were the hallmarks of the family. The impression was that an axe was being thrown at you.

Then she curtsied.

There were gasps of surprise around her, but she glared at the assembled guests and there was a smattering of bows and curtsies. Somewhere at the back of the room someone started to say, 'But the man's an absolute oik—' and was cut off.

'Has someone dropped something?' said Nobby nervously. ‘I'll help you look, if you like.'

The footman appeared at his elbow, bearing a tray. 'A drink, m'lord?' he said.

'Yeah, okay, a pint of Winkles,' said Nobby.

Jaws fell. But Lady Selachii's rose to the occasion. 'Winkles?' she said.

'A type of beer, your ladyship,' said the footman.

Her ladyship hesitated only a moment. 'I believe the butler drinks beer,' she said. 'See to it, man. And I'll have a pint of Winkles, too. What a novel idea.'

This caused a certain effect among those guests who knew on which side of the biscuit their pate was spread.

'Indeed! Capital suggestion! A pint of Winkles here, too!'

'Hawhaw! Gweat! Winkles for me!'

'Winkles all round!'

'But the man's an absolute ti—'

'Shut up!'

Vimes crossed the Brass Bridge with care, counting the hippos. There was a ninth shape, but it was leaning against the parapet and muttering to itself in a familiar and, to Vimes at least, an unmenacing way. Faint air movements wafted towards him a smell that out-smelled even the river. It proclaimed that ahead of Vimes was a ding-a-ling so big he'd been upgraded to a clang-a-lang.

'... Buggrit buggrit I told 'em, stand it up and pull the end orf! Millennium hand and shrimp! I told 'em, sez I, and would they poke...'

'Evening, Ron,' said Vimes, without even bothering to look at the figure.

Foul Ole Ron fell into step behind him. 'Buggrit they done me out of it so they did...'

'Yes, Ron,' said Vimes.

'... And shrimp... buggrit, say I, bread it on the butter side... Queen Molly says to watch your back, mister.'

'What was that?'

'... Sowter fry it!' said Foul Ole Ron innocently. Trouser the lot of'em, they did me out of it, them and their big weasel!'

The beggar lurched around and, filthy coat dragging its hems along the ground, limped away into the fog. His little dog trotted along in front of him.

There was pandemonium in the servants' hall.

'Winkles' Old Peculiar?' said the butler.

'Another one hundred and four pints!' said the footman.

The butler shrugged. 'Harry, Sid, Rob and Jeffrey... two trays apiece and double down to the King's Head again right now! What else is he doing?'

'Well, they're supposed to be having a poetry reading but he's telling 'em jokes...'

'Anecdotes?'

'Not exactly.'

It was amazing how it could drizzle and fog at the same time. Wind was blowing both through the open window, and Vimes was forced to shut it. He lit the candles by his desk and opened his notebook. Probably he should use the demonic organizer, but he liked to see things written down fair and square. He could think better when he wrote things down.

He wrote 'Arsenic', and drew a big circle round it. Around the circle he wrote: 'Fr. Tubelcek's fingernails' and 'Rats and 'Vetinari' and 'Mrs Easy'. Lower down the page he wrote: 'Golems', and drew a second circle. Around that one he wrote: 'Fr. Tubelcek?' and 'Mr Hopkinson?'. After some thought he wrote down: 'Stolen clay' and 'Grog'.

And then: 'Why would a golem admit to something it didn't do?'

He stared at the candlelight for a while and then wrote: 'Rats eat stuff.' More time passed.

'What has the priest got that anyone wants?' From downstairs came the sound of armour as a patrol came in. A corporal shouted.

'Words,' wrote Vimes. 'What had Mr Hopkinson got? Dwarf bread? —»• Not stolen. What else had he got?'

Vimes looked at this, too, and then he wrote 'Bakery', stared at the word for a while, and rubbed it out and replaced it with 'Oven?'. He drew a ring around 'Oven?' and a ring around 'Stolen clay', and linked the two.

There'd been arsenic under the old priest's fingernails. Perhaps he'd put down rat poison? There were plenty of uses for arsenic. It wasn't as if you couldn't buy it by the pound from any alchemist.