Feet of Clay

'Not so much Happy Hour,' said Colon miserably. 'More sort of Ecstatic One-Hundred-and-Fifty Minutes. I didn't even know you could buy gin in pints.'

Nobby tried to focus on the fog. 'No one can drink gin by the pint, Sarge.'

'That's what I kept sayin', and would you listen?'

Nobby sniffed. 'We're close to the river,' he said. 'Let's try to get …’

Something roared, very close by. It was long and low, like a foghorn in serious distress. It was the sound you might hear from a cattleyard on a nervous night, and it went on and on, and then stopped so abruptly it caught the silence unawares.

'… far away from that as we can,' said Nobby. The sound had done the work of an ice-cold shower and about two pints of black coffee.

Colon spun around. He desperately needed something that would do the work of a laundry. 'Where did it come from?' he said.

'It was … over there, wasn't it?'

'I thought it was that way!'

In the fog, all directions were the same.

'I think …' said Colon, slowly, 'that we ort to go and make a report about this as soon as possible.'

'Right,' said Nobby. 'Which way?'

'Let's just run, eh?'

Constable Downspout's huge pointy ears quivered as the noise boomed over the city. He turned his head carefully, triangulating for height, direction and distance. And then he remembered it.

The cry was heard in the Watch House, but muffled by the fog.

It entered the open head of the golem Dorfl and bounced around inside, echoing down, down among the small cracks in the clay until, at the very edge of perception, little grains danced together.

The sightless sockets stared at the wall. No one heard the cry that came back from the dead skull, because there was no mouth to utter it and not even a mind to guide it, but it screamed out into the night:

CLAY OF MY CLAY, THOU SHALT NOT KILL! THOU SHALT NOT DIE!

Samuel Vimes dreamed about Clues.

He had a jaundiced view of Clues. He instinctively distrusted them. They got in the way.

And he distrusted the kind of person who'd take one look at another man and say in a lordly voice to his companion, 'Ah, my dear sir, I can tell you nothing except that he is a left-handed stonemason who has spent some years in the merchant navy and has recently fallen on hard times,' and then unroll a lot of supercilious commentary about calluses and stance and the state of a man's boots, when exactly the same comments could apply to a man who was wearing his old clothes because he'd been doing a spot of home bricklaying for a new barbecue pit, and had been tattooed once when he was drunk and seventeen[14] and in fact got seasick on a wet pavement. What arrogance! What an insult to the rich and chaotic variety of the human experience!

It was the same with more static evidence. The footprints in the flowerbed were probably in the real world left by the window-cleaner. The scream in the night was quite likely a man getting out of bed and stepping sharply on an upturned hairbrush.

The real world was far too real to leave neat little hints. It was full of too many things. It wasn't by eliminating the impossible that you got at the truth, however improbable; it was by the much harder process of eliminating the possibilities. You worked away, patiently asking questions and looking hard at things. You walked and talked, and in your heart you just hoped like hell that some bugger's nerve'd crack and he'd give himself up.

The events of the day clanged together in Vimes's head. Golems tramped like sad shadows. Father Tubelcek waved at him and then his head exploded, showering Vimes in words. Mr Hopkinson lay dead in his own oven, a slice of dwarf bread in his mouth. And the golems marched on, silently. There was Dorfl, dragging its foot, its head open for the words to fly in and out of, like a swarm of bees. And in the middle of it all Arsenic danced, a spiky little green man, crackling and gibbering.

At one point he thought one of the golems screamed.

After that, the dream faded, a bit at a time.

Golems. Oven. Words. Priest. Dorfl. Golems marching, the thudding of their feet making the whole dream pulsate …

Vimes opened his eyes.

Beside him, Lady Sybil said. 'Wsfgl,' and turned over.

Someone was hammering at the front door. Still muzzy, head swimming, Vimes pulled himself up on his elbows and said, to the night-time world in general, 'What sort of a time do you call this?'

'Bingeley bingeley beep!' said a cheerful voice from the direction of Vimes's dressing-table.

'Oh, please.'

'Twenty-nine minutes and thirty-one seconds past five ay-emm. A Penny Saved is a Penny Earned. Would you like me to present your schedule for today? While I am doing this, why not take some time to fill out your registration card?'

'What? What? What're you talking about?'

The knocking continued.

Vimes fell out of bed and groped in the dark for the matches. He finally got a candle alight and half-ran, half- staggered down the long stairs and into the hall.

The knocker turned out to be Constable Visit.

'It's Lord Vetinari, sir! It's worse this time!'

'Has anyone sent for Doughnut Jimmy?'

'Yessir!'

At this time of day the fog was fighting a rearguard action against the dawn, and made the whole world look as though it were inside a ping-pong ball.

'I poked my head in as soon as I came on shift and he was out like a light, sir!'

'How did you know he wasn't asleep?'

'On the floor, sir, with all his clothes on?'

A couple of Watchmen had put the Patrician on his bed by the time Vimes arrived, slightly out of breath and with his knees aching. Gods, he thought as he struggled up the stairs, it's not like the old truncheon-and-bell days. You wouldn't think twice about running half-way across the city, coppers and criminals locked in hot pursuit.

With a mixture of pride and shame he added: And none of the buggers ever caught me, either.

The Patrician was still breathing, but his face was waxy and he looked as though death might be an improvement.

Vimes's gaze roamed the room. There was a familiar haze in the air.

'Who opened the window?' he demanded.

'I did, sir,' said Visit. 'Just before I went to get you. He looked as though he needed some fresh air.'

'It'd be fresher if you left the window shut,' said Vimes. 'Okay, I want everyone, I mean everyone, who was in this place overnight rounded up and down in the hall in two minutes. And someone fetch Corporal Littlebottom. And tell Captain Carrot.'

I'm worried and confused, he thought. So the first rule in the book is to spread it around.

He prowled about the room. It didn't take much intelligence to see that Vetinari had got up and moved over to his writing-desk, where by the look of it he had worked for some time. The candle had burned right down. An