Feet of Clay

'Wouldn't be so bad if there was a pot of cash,' Nobby said, picking up the other mug. 'I thought you couldn't be a nob without bein' a rich bugger. I thought they gave you a big wad with one hand and banged the crown on your head with the other. Don't make sense, bein' nobby and poor. S'worst of both wurble.' He drained the mug and banged it down. 'Common 'n' rich, yeah, that I could hurble.'

The barman leaned over to Sergeant Colon. 'What's up with the corporal? He's a half-pint man. That's eight pints he's had.'

Fred Colon leaned closer and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. 'Keep it to yourself, Ron, but it's because he's a peer.'

'Is that a fact? I'll go and put down some fresh sawdust.'

In the Watch House, Sam Vimes prodded the matches. He didn't ask Angua if she were sure. Angua could smell if it was Wednesday.

'So who were the others?' he said. 'Other golems?'

'It's hard to tell from the tracks,' said Angua, 'But I think so. I'd have followed them, but I thought I ought to come right back here.'

'What makes you think they were golems?'

'The footprints. And golems have no smell,' she said. 'They pick up the smells associated with whatever they're doing. That's all they smell of…' She thought of the wall of words. 'And they had a long debate,' she said. 'A golem argument. In writing. It got pretty heated, I think.'

She thought about the wall again. 'Some of them got quite emphatic,' she added, remembering the size of some of the lettering. 'If they were human, they'd have been shouting …'

Vimes stared gloomily at the matches laid out before him. Eleven bits of wood, and a twelfth broken in two. You didn't need to be any kind of genius to see what had been going on. 'They drew lots,' he said. 'And Dorfl lost.'

He sighed. 'This is getting worse,' he said. 'Does anyone know how many golems there are in the city?'

'No,' said Carrot. 'Hard to find out. No one's made any for centuries, but they don't wear out.'

'No one makes them?'

'It's banned, sir. The priests are pretty hot on that, sir. They say it's making life, and that's something only gods are supposed to do. But they put up with the ones that are still around because, well, they're so useful. Some are walled up or in treadmills or at the bottom of shafts. Doing messy tasks, you know, in places where it's dangerous to go. They do all the really mucky jobs. I suppose there could be hundreds …'

'Hundreds?' said Vimes. 'And now they meet secretly and make plots? Good grief! Right. We ought to destroy the lot of them.'

'Why?'

'You like the idea of them having secrets? I mean, good grief, trolls and dwarfs, fine, even the undead are alive in a way, even if it is a bloody awful way' — Vimes caught Angua's eye and went on — 'for the most part. But these things? They're just things that do work. It's like having a bunch of shovels meeting for a chat!'

'Er … there was something else, sir,' said Angua slowly.

'In the cellar?'

'Yes. Er … but it's hard to explain. It was a … feeling.'

Vimes shrugged non-committally. He'd learned not to scoff at Angua's feelings. She always knew where Carrot was, for one thing. If she were in the Watch House you could tell if he were coming up the street by the way she turned to look at the door.

'Yes?'

'Like … deep grief, sir. Terrible, terrible sadness. Er.'

Vimes nodded, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It seemed to have been a long day and it was far from over yet.

He really, really needed a drink. The world was distorted enough as it was. When you saw it through the bottom of a glass, it all came back into focus.

'Have you had anything to eat today, sir?' said Angua.

'I had a bit of breakfast,' muttered Vimes.

'You know that word Sergeant Colon uses?'

'What? 'Manky'?'

'That's how you look. If you're staying here at least let's have some coffee and send out for figgins.'

Vimes hesitated at that. He'd always imagined that manky was how your mouth felt after three days on a regurgitated diet. It was horrible to think that you could look like that.

Angua reached for the old coffee tin that represented the Watch's tea kitty. It was surprisingly easy to lift.

'Hey? There should be at least twenty-five dollars in here,' she said. 'Nobby collected it only yesterday …'

She turned the tin upside-down. A very small dog-end dropped out.

'Not even an IOU?' said Carrot despondently.

'An IOU? This is Nobby we're talking about.'

'Oh. Of course.'

It had gone very quiet in the Mended Drum. Happy Hour had been passed with no more than a minor fight. Now everyone was watching Unhappy Hour.

There was a forest of mugs in front of Nobby.

'I mean, I mean, what's it worth whenallsaidan-done?' he said.

'You could flog it,' said Ron.

'Good point,' said Sergeant Colon. 'There's plenty o' rich folks who'd give a sack of cash for a title. I mean folks that's already got the big house and that. They'd give anything to be as nobby as you, Nobby.'

The ninth pint stopped half-way to Nobby's lips.

'Could be worth thousands of dollars,' said Ron encouragingly.

'At the very least,' said Colon. They'd fight over it.'

'You play your cards right and you could retire on something like that,' said Ron.

The mug remained stationary. Various expressions fought their way around the lumps and excrescences of Nobby's face, suggesting the terrible battle within,

'Oh, they would, would they?' he said at last.

Sergeant Colon tilted unsteadily away. There was an edge in Nobby's voice he hadn't heard before.

'Then you could be rich and common just like you said,' said Ron, who did not have quite the same eye for mental weather changes. 'Posh folks'd be falling over themselves for it.'

'Sell m' birthright for a spot of massage, is that it?' said Nobby.

'It's 'a pot of message',' said Sergeant Colon.

'It's 'a mess of pottage',' said a bystander, anxious not to break the flow.

'Hah! Well, I'll tell you,' said Nobby, swaying, 'there's some things that can't be sole. Hah! Hah! Who streak my prurse streals trasph, right?'

'Yeah, it's the trashiest looking purse I ever saw,' said a voice.

'—what is a mess of pottage, anyway?'

'Cos … what good'd a lot of moneneney do me, hey?'

The clientele looked puzzled. This seemed to be a question on the lines of 'Alcohol, is it nice?', or 'Hard work, do you want to do it?'.

'—what's messy about it, then?'

'We — ell,' said a brave soul, uncertainly, 'you could use it to buy a big house, lots of grub and… drink and …