Feet of Clay

He stared at it. He'd reached down into the drawer for the whisky bottle and there it was.

But it shouldn't have been. He knew Carrot and Fred Colon kept an eye on him, but he'd never bought a bottle since he'd got married, because he'd promised Sybil, hadn't he …?

But this wasn't any old rotgut. This was The MacAbre …

He'd tried it once. He couldn't quite remember why now, since in those days the only spirits he generally drank had the subtlety of a mallet to the inner ear. He must have found the money somehow. Just a sniff of it had been like Hogswatchnight. Just a sniff…

'And she said, 'That's funny — it didn't do that last night'!' said Corporal Nobbs.

He beamed at the company.

There was silence. Then someone in the crowd started to laugh, one of those little uncertain laughs a man laughs who is unsure that he's not going to be silenced by those around him. Another man laughed. Two more picked it up. Then laughter exploded in the group as a whole.

Nobby basked.

'Then there's the one about the Klatchian who walked into a pub with a tiny piano—' he began.

'I think,' said Lady Selachii firmly, 'that the buffet is ready.'

'Got any pig knuckles?' said Nobby cheerfully. 'Goes down a treat with Winkles, a plate of pig knuckles.'

'I don't normally eat extremities,' said Lady Selachii.

'A pig-knuckle sandwich … Never tried a pig knuckle? You just can't beat it,' said Nobby.

'It is … perhaps… not the most delicate food?' said Lady Selachii.

'Oh, you can cut the crusts off,' said Nobby. 'Even the toenails. If you're feeling posh.'

Sergeant Colon opened his eyes, and groaned. His head ached. They'd hit him with something. It might have been a wall.

They'd tied him up, too. He was trussed hand and foot.

He appeared to be lying in darkness on a wooden floor. There was a greasy smell in the air, which seemed familiar yet annoyingly unrecognizable.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark he could make out very faint lines of light, such as might surround a door. He could also hear voices.

He tried to get up to his knees, and groaned as more pain crackled in his head.

When people tied you up it was bad news. Of course, it was much better news than when they killed you, but it could mean they were just putting you on one side for killing later.

This never used to happen, he told himself. In the old days, if you caught someone thieving, you practically held the door open for him to escape. That way, you got home in one piece.

By using the angle between a wall and a heavy crate he managed to get upright. This was not much of an improvement on his former position, but after the thunder in his head had died away he hopped awkwardly towards the door.

There were still voices on the other side of it.

Someone apart from Sergeant Colon was in trouble.

'—down! You got me here for this'? There's a werewolf in the Watch! Ah-ha. Not one of your freaks. She's a proper bimorphic! If you tossed a coin, she could smell what side it came down!'

'How about if we kill him and drag his body away?'

'You think she couldn't smell the difference between a corpse and a living body?'

Sergeant Colon moaned softly.

'Er, how about we could march him out in the fog-?'

'And they can smell fear, idiot. Ah-ha. Why couldn't you have let him look around? What could he have seen? I know that copper. A fat old coward with all the brains of, ah-ha, a pig. He stinks of fear all the time.'

Sergeant Colon hoped he wasn't about to stink of anything else.

'Send Meshugah after him, ah-ha.'

'Are you sure? It's getting odd. It wanders off and screams in the night, and they're not supposed to do that. And it's cracking up. Trust dumb golems not to do something prop—'

'Everyone knows you can't trust golems. Ah-ha. See to it!'

‘I heard that Vimes is—'

'I've seen to Vimes!'

Colon eased himself away from the door as quietly as possible. He hadn't the faintest idea what this thing called Meshugah the golems had made was, except that it sounded like a fine idea to be wherever it wasn't.

Now, if he were a resourceful type, like Sam Vimes or Captain Carrot, he'd … find a nail or something to snap these ropes, wouldn't he? They were really tight, and cut into his wrists because the cord was so thin, little more than string wound and knotted many times. If he could find something to rub it on …

But, unfortunately, and against all common sense, sometimes people inconsiderately throw their bound enemies into rooms entirely bereft of nails, handy bits of sharp stone, sharp-edged shards of glass or even, in extreme cases, enough pieces of old junk and tools to make a fully functional armoured car.

He managed to get on to his knees again and shuffled across the planks. Even a splinter would do. A lump of metal. A wide-open doorway marked FREEDOM. He'd settle for anything.

What he got was a tiny circle of light on the floor. A knothole in the wood had long ago fallen out, and light — dim orange light — was shining through.

Colon got down and applied his eye to the hole. Unfortunately this also brought his nose into a similar proximity.

The stench was appalling.

There was a suggestion of wateriness, or at least of liquidity. He must be over one of the numerous streams that flowed through the city, although they had of course been built over centuries before and were now used — if their existence was even remembered — for those purposes to which humanity had always put clean fresh water; i.e. making it as turbid and undrinkable as possible. And this one was flowing under the cattle markets. The smell of ammonia bored into Colon's sinuses like a drill.

And yet there was light down there.

He held his breath and took another look.

A couple of feet below him was a very small raft. Half a dozen rats were laid neatly on it, and a minute scrap of candle was burning.

A tiny rowing boat entered his vision. A rat was in the bottom of it and, sitting amidships and rowing, was—

'Wee Mad Arthur?'

The gnome looked up. 'Who's that there, then?'

'It's me, your good old mate Fred Colon! Can you give me a hand?'

'Wha're yez doing up there?'

'I'm all tied up and they're going to kill me! Why does it smell so bad?'

'S the old Cockbill stream. All the cattle pens drain into it.' Wee Mad Arthur grinned. 'Yez can feel it doing yer tubes a power of good, eh? Just call me King of the Golden River, eh?'

'They're going to kill me, Arthur! Don't piss about!'

'Aha, good one!'

Desperate cells flared in Colon's mind. ‘I’ve been on the trail of those blokes who're poisoning your rats,' he said.

'The Rat-catchers' Guild!' snarled Arthur, almost dropping an oar. 'I knew it was them, right? This is where I got them rats! There's more of 'em down here, dead as doornails!'

'Right! And I've got to give the names to Commander Vimes! In person! With all my arms and legs on! He's