Feet of Clay

because they didn't get any. You couldn't frighten them. Fishbine had said that a weaver over Nap Hill way had ordered his golem to smash itself to bits with a hammer — and it had.

YES. I HEAR.

In a way, it didn't matter who they were. In fact, their anonymity was part of the whole business. They thought themselves part of the march of history, the tide of progress and the wave of the future. They were men who felt that The Time Had Come. Regimes can survive barbarian hordes, crazed terrorists and hooded secret societies, but they're in real trouble when prosperous and anonymous men sit around a big table and think thoughts like that. One said, 'At least it's clean this way. No blood.'

'And it would be for the good of the city, of course.'

They nodded gravely. No one needed to say that what was good for them was good for Ankh-Morpork.

'And he won't die?'

'Apparently he can be kept merely … unwell. The dosage can be varied, I'm told.'

'Good. I'd rather have him unwell than dead. I wouldn't trust Vetinari to stay in a grave.'

'I've heard that he once said he'd prefer to be cremated, as a matter of fact.'

'Then I just hope they scatter the ashes really widely, that's all.'

'What about the Watch?'

'What about it?'

'Ah.'

Lord Vetinari opened his eyes. Against all rationality, his hair ached.

He concentrated, and a blur by the bed focused into the shape of Samuel Vimes.

'Ah, Vimes,' he said weakly.

'How are you feeling, sir?'

'Truly dreadful. Who was that little man with the incredibly bandy legs?'

'That was Doughnut Jimmy, sir. He used to be a jockey on a very fat horse.'

'A racehorse?'

'Apparently, sir '

'A fat racehorse? Surely that could never win a race?'

'I don't believe it ever did, sir. But Jimmy made a lot of money by not winning races.'

'Ah. He gave me milk and some sort of sticky potion.' Vetinari concentrated. 'I was heartily sick.'

'So I understand, sir.'

'Funny phrase, that. Heartily sick. I wonder why it's a cliche? Sounds … jolly. Rather cheerful, really.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Feel like I've got a bad dose of flu, Vimes. Head not working properly.'

'Really, sir?'

The Patrician thought for a while. There was obviously something else on his mind. 'Why did he still smell of horses, Vimes?' he said at last.

'He's a horse doctor, sir. A damn good one. I heard last month he treated Dire Fortune and it didn't fall over until the last furlong.'

'Doesn't sound helpful, Vimes.'

'Oh, I don't know, sir. The horse had dropped dead coming up to the starting line.'

'Ah. I see. Well, well, well. What a nasty suspicious mind you have, Vimes.'

'Thank you, sir.'

The Patrician raised himself on his elbows. 'Should toenails throb, Vimes?'

'Couldn't say, sir.'

'Now, I think I should like to read for a while. Life goes on, eh?'

Vimes went to the window. There was a nightmarish figure crouched on the edge of the balcony outside, staring into the thickening fog.

'Everything all right, Constable Downspout?'

'Eff, fir,' said the apparition.

‘I’ll shut the window now. The fog is coming in.'

'Fight oo are, fir.'

Vimes closed the window, trapping a few tendrils which gradually faded away. 'What was that?' said Lord Vetinari. 'Constable Downspout's a gargoyle, sir. He's no good on parade and bloody useless on the street, but when it conies to staying in one place, sir, you can't beat him. He's world champion at not moving. If you want the winner of the 100 Metres Standing Still, that's him. He spent three days on a roof in the rain when we caught the Park Lane Knobbler. Nothing'll get past him. And there's Corporal Gimletsson patrolling the corridor and Constable Glodsnephew on the floor below and Constables Flint and Moraine in the rooms on either side of you, and Sergeant Detritus will be around constantly so that if anyone nods off he'll kick arse, sir, and you'll know when he does that 'cos the poor bugger'll come right through the wall.'

'Well done, Vimes. Am I right in thinking that all my guards are non-human? They all seem to be dwarfs and trolls.'

'Safest way, sir.'

'You've thought of everything, Vimes.'

'Hope so, sir.'

'Thank you, Vimes.' Vetinari sat up and took a mass of papers off the bedside table. 'And now, don't let me detain you.' Vimes's mouth dropped open. Vetinari looked up. 'Was there anything else, Commander?'

'Well … I suppose not, sir. I suppose I'd just better run along, eh?'

'If you wouldn't mind. And I'm sure a lot of paperwork has accumulated in my office, so if you'd send someone to fetch it, I would be obliged.'

Vimes shut the door behind him, a little harder than necessary. Gods, it made him livid, the way Vetinari turned him on and off like a switch — and had as much natural gratitude as an alligator. The Patrician relied on Vimes doing his job, knew he'd do his job, and that was the extent of his thought on the matter. Well, one day, Vimes would … would …

… would bloody well do his job, of course, because he didn't know how to do anything else. But realizing that made it all the worse.

Outside the palace the fog was thick and yellow. Vimes nodded to the guards on the door, and looked out at the clinging, swirling clouds.

It was almost a straight line to the Watch House in Pseudopolis Yard. And the fog had brought early night to the city. Not many people were on the streets; they stayed indoors, barring the windows against the damp shreds that seemed to leak in everywhere.

Yes … empty streets, a chilly night, dampness in the air …

Only one thing was needed to make it perfect. He sent the sedan men on home and walked back to one of the guards. 'You're Constable Lucker, aren't you?'

'Yessir, Sir Samuel.'

'What size boots do you take?'

Lucker looked panicky. 'What, sir?'

'It's a simple question, man!'

'Seven and a halfs, sir.'

'From old Plugger in New Cobblers? The cheap ones?'

'Yessir!'

'Can't have a man guarding the palace in cardboard boots!' said Vimes, with mock cheerfulness. 'Off with them, Constable. You can have mine. They've still got wyvern — well, whatever it is wyverns do — on them, but they'll fit you. Don't stand there with your mouth open. Give me your boots, man. You can keep mine.' Vimes added: