Feet of Clay

'I think I remember salt and pepper pots, sir.'

'On they go, then.'

Vimes stared hawk-like at the space between Carrot's hands.

'No,' he said. 'We wouldn't have missed that, would we? I mean … we wouldn't, would we?'

He reached out and picked up an invisible tube.

'Tell me we checked the salt,' he said.

'That's the pepper, sir,' said Carrot helpfully.

'Salt! Mustard! Vinegar! Pepper!' said Vimes. 'We didn't check all the food and then let his lordship tip poison on to suit his taste, did we? Arsenic's a metal. Can't you get … metal salts? Tell me we asked ourselves that. We aren't that stupid, are we?'

'I'll check directly,' said Carrot. He looked around desperately. ‘I’ll just put the tray down—'

'Not yet,' said Vimes. ‘I’ve been here before. We don't rush off shouting 'Give me a towel!' just because we've had one idea. Let's keep looking, shall we? The spoon. What's it made of?'

'Good point. I'll check the cutlery, sir.'

'Now we're cooking with charcoal! What's he been drinking?'

'Boiled water, sir. We've tested the water. And I checked the glasses.'

'Good. So… we've got the tray and you put the tray in the dumbwaiter and then what?'

'The men in the kitchen haul on the ropes and it goes up to the sixth floor.'

'No stops?'

Carrot looked blank.

'It goes up six floors,' said Vimes. 'It's just a shaft with a big box in it that can be pulled up and down, isn't it? I'll bet there's a door into it on every floor.'

'Some of the floors are hardly used these days, sir—'

'Even better for our poisoner, hmm? He just stands there, bold as you like, and waits for the tray to come by, right? We don't know that the meal which arrives is the one that left, do we?'

'Brilliant, sir!'

'It happens at night, I'll swear,' said Vimes. 'He's chipper in the evenings and out like a light next morning. What time is his supper sent up?'

'While he's poorly, around six o'clock, sir,' said Carrot. 'It's got dark by then. Then he gets on with his writing.'

'Right. We've got a lot to do. Come on.'

The Patrician was sitting up in bed reading when Vimes entered. 'Ah, Vimes,' he said.

'Your supper will be up shortly, my lord,' said Vimes. 'And can I once again say that our job would be a lot easier if you let us move you out of the palace?'

'I'm sure it would be,' said Lord Vetinari.

There was a rattle from the dumbwaiter. Vimes walked across and opened the doors.

There was a dwarf in the box. He had a knife between his teeth and an axe in each hand, and was glowering with ferocious concentration.

'Good heavens,' said Vetinari weakly. 'I hope at least they've included some mustard.'

'Any problems, Constable?' said Vimes.

'Nofe, fir,' said the dwarf, unfolding himself and removing the knife. 'Very dull all the way up, sir. There was other doors and they all looked pretty unused, but I nailed 'em up anyway like Captain Carrot said, sir.'

'Well done. Down you go.'

Vimes shut the doors. There was more rattling as the dwarf began his descent.

'Every detail covered, eh, Vimes?'

'I hope so, sir.'

The box came back up again, with a tray in it. Vimes took it out.

'What's this?'

'A Klatchian Hots without anchovies,' said Vimes, lifting the cover. 'We got it from Ron's Pizza Hovel round the corner. The way I see it, no one can poison all the food in the city. And the cutlery's from my place.'

'You have the mind of a true policeman, Vimes.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Really? Was it a compliment?' The Patrician prodded at the plate with the air of an explorer in a strange country.

'Has someone already eaten this, Vimes?'

'No, sir. That's just how they chop up the food.'

'Oh, I see. I thought perhaps the food-tasters were getting over-enthusiastic,' said the Patrician. 'My word. What a treat I have to look forward to.'

'I can see you're feeling better, sir,' said Vimes stiffly.

'Thank you, Vimes.'

When Vimes had gone Lord Vetinari ate the pizza, or at least those parts of it he thought he could recognize. Then he put the tray aside and blew out the candle by his bed. He sat in the dark for a while, then felt under his pillow until his finger located a small sharp knife and a box of matches.

Thank goodness for Vimes. There was something endearing about his desperate, burning and above all misplaced competence. If the poor man took any longer he'd have to start giving him hints.

In the main office Carrot sat alone, watching Dorfl.

The golem stood where it had been left. Someone had hung a dishcloth on one arm. The top of its head was still open.

Carrot spent a while with his chin on one hand, just staring. Then he opened a desk drawer and took out Dorfl's chem. He examined it. He got up. He walked over to the golem. He placed the words in the head.

An orange glow rose in Dorfl's eyes. What was baked pottery took on that faintest of auras that marked the change between the living and the dead.

Carrot found the golem's slate and pencil and pushed them into Dorfl's hand, then stood back.

The burning gaze followed him as he removed his sword belt, undid his breastplate, took off his jerkin and pulled his woollen vest over his head.

The glow was reflected from his muscles. They glistened in the candlelight.

'No weapons,' said Carrot. 'No armour. You see? Now listen to me…'

Dorfl lurched forward and swung a fist.

Carrot did not move.

The fist stopped a hair's-breadth from Carrot's unblinking eyes.

'I didn't think you could,' he said, as the golem swung again and the fist jerked to a stop a fraction of an inch from Carrot's stomach. 'But sooner or later you'll have to talk to me. Write, anyway. '

Dorfl paused. Then it picked up the slate pencil.

TAKE MY WORDS!

'Tell me about the golem who killed people. '

The pencil did not move.

'The others have killed themselves,' said Carrot.

I KNOW.

'How do you know?'

The golem watched him. Then it wrote:

CLAY OF MY CLAY.

'You feel what other golems feel?' said Carrot.

Dorfl nodded.

'And people are killing golems,' said Carrot. 'I don't know if I can stop that. But I can try. I think I know