Feet of Clay

'Guzzle good brandy disgustingly.'

'Reign.'

'Sounds like a good job to me,' said Nobby. 'All right for some, eh?'

'Of course, a king would have to be someone who could recognize a hint if it was dropped on his head from a great height,' said a speaker sharply, but the other chairs shushed him into silence.

Nobby managed to find his mouth after several goes and took another long pull at his cigar. 'Seems to me,' he said, 'seems to me, what you want to do is find some nob with time on his hands and say, 'Yo, it's your lucky day. Let's see you wave that hand.''

'Ah! That's a good idea! Does any name cross your mind, my lord? Have a drop more brandy.'

'Why, thanks, you're a toff. O' course, so 'm I, eh? That's right, flunkey, all the way to the top. No, can't think of anyone that fits the bill.'

'In fact, my lord, we were indeed thinking of offering the crown to you—'

Nobby's eyes bulged. And then his cheek bulged.

It is not a good idea to spray finest brandy across the room, especially when your lighted cigar is in the way. The flame hit the far wall, where it left a perfect chrysanthemum of scorched woodwork, while in accordance with a fundamental rule of physics Nobby's chair screamed back on its castors and thudded into the door.

'King?' Nobby coughed, and then they had to slap him on the back until he got his breath again. 'King?' he wheezed. 'And have Mr Vimes cut me head off?'

'All the brandy you can drink, my lord,' said a wheedling voice.

'S no good if you ain't got a throat for it to go down!'

'What're you talking about?'

'Mr Vimes'd go spare! He'd go spared.

'Good heavens, man—'

'My lord,' someone corrected.

'My lord, I mean — when you're king you can tell that wretched Sir Samuel what to do. You'll be, as you would call it, 'the boss'. You could—'

'Tell ole Stoneface what to do?' said Nobby.

'That's right!'

'I'd be a king and tell ole Stoneface what to do?' said Nobby.

'Yes!'

Nobby stared into the smoky gloom.

'He'd go spared.'

'Listen, you silly little man—'

'My lord—'

'You silly little lord, you'd be able to have him executed if you wished!'

'I couldn't do that!'

'Why not?'

'He'd go spare!'

'The man calls himself an officer of the law, and whose law does he listen to, eh? Where does his law come from?'

'I don't know!' groaned Nobby. 'He says it comes up through his boots!' He looked around. The shadows in the smoke seemed to be closing in.

'I can't be king! Ole Vimes'd go spare!'

'Will you stop saying that!'

Nobby pulled at his collar.

'S a bit hot and smoky in here,' he mumbled. 'Which way's the window?'

'Over there—'

The chair rocked. Nobby hit the glass helmet-first, landed on top of a waiting carriage, bounced off and ran into the night, trying to escape destiny in general and axes in particular.

Cheri Littlebottom strode into the palace kitchens and fired her crossbow into the ceiling.

'Don't nobody move!' she yelled.

The Patrician's domestic staff looked up from their dinner.

'When you say don't nobody move,' said Drumknott carefully, fastidiously taking a piece of plaster off his plate, 'do you in fact mean—'

'All right, Corporal, I'll take over now,' said Vimes, patting Cheri on the shoulder. 'Is Mildred Easy here?'

All heads turned.

Mildred's spoon dropped into her soup.

'It's all right,' said Vimes. 'I just need to ask you a few more questions—'

'I'm … s-s-sorry, sir—'

'You haven't done anything wrong,' said Vimes, walking around the table. 'But you didn't just take food home for your family, did you?'

'S-sir?'

'What else did you take?'

Mildred looked at the suddenly blank expressions on the faces of the other servants. 'There was the old sheets but Mrs Dipplock did s-say I could have—'

'No, not that,' said Vimes.

Mildred licked her dry lips. 'Er, there was … there was some boot polish …'

'Look,' said Vimes, as kindly as possible, 'everyone takes small things from the place where they work. Small stuff that no one notices. No one thinks of it as stealing. It's like … it's like rights. Odds and ends. Ends, Miss Easy? I'm thinking about the word 'ends'.'

'Er … you mean … the candle ends, sir?'

Vimes took a deep breath. It was such a relief to be right, even though you knew you'd only got there by trying every possible way to be wrong. 'Ah,' he said.

'B-but that's not stealing, sir. I've never stolen nothing, s-sir!'

'But you take home the candle stubs? Still half an hour of light in 'em, I expect, if you burn them in a saucer?' said Vimes gently.

'But that's not stealing, sir! That's perks, sir.'

Sam Vimes smacked his forehead. 'Perks! Of course! That was the word I was looking for. Perks! Everyone's got to have perks, aren't I right? Well, that's fine, then,' he said. 'I expect you get the ones from the bedrooms, yes?'

Even through her nervousness, Mildred Easy was able to grin the grin of someone with an Entitlement that lesser beings hadn't got. 'Yessir. I'm allowed, sir. They're much better than the ole coarse ones we use in the main halls, sir.'

'And you put in fresh candles when necessary, do you?'

'Yessir.'

Probably slightly more often than necessary, Vimes thought. No point in letting them burn down too much …

'Perhaps you can show me where they're kept, miss?'

The maid looked along the table to the housekeeper, who glanced at Commander Vimes and then nodded. She was bright enough to know when something that sounded like a question really wasn't one.

'We keep them in the candle pantry next door, sir,' said Mildred.

'Lead the way, please.'

It wasn't a big room, but its shelves were stacked floor-to-ceiling with candles. There were the yard-high ones used in the public halls and the small everyday ones used everywhere else, sorted according to quality.

'These are what we uses in his lordship's rooms, sir.' She handed him twelve inches of white candle.

'Oh, yes … very good quality. Number Fives. Nice white tallow,' said Vimes, tossing