Feet of Clay

Vimes took a few steps after the bull, and then turned.

'Carrot? Angua? You two get down to Carry's tallow works. Just keep an eye on it until we get there, understand? Spy out the place but don't go in, understand? Right? Do not in any circumstances move in. Do I make myself clear? Just remain in the area. Right?'

'Yes, sir,' said Carrot.

'Detritus, let's get Fred off that thing.'

The crowds were melting away ahead of the bull. A ton of pedigree bull does not experience traffic congestion, at least not for any length of time.

'Can't you jump off, Fred?' Vimes yelled, as he ran along behind.

'I do not wish to give that a try, sir!'

'Well, can you steer it?'

'How, sir?'

'Take the bull by the horns, man!'

Colon tentatively reached out and took a horn in each hand. Rogers the bulls turned their head and nearly pulled him off.

'He's a bit stronger than me, sir! Quite a lot stronger actually, sir!'

'I could shoot it through der head wid my bow, Mr Vimes,' said Detritus, flourishing his converted siege weapon.

'This is a crowded street, Sergeant. It might hit an innocent person, even in Ankh-Morpork.'

'Sorry, sir.' Detritus brightened. 'But if it did we could always say they'd bin guilty of somethin', sir?'

'No, that … What's that chicken doing?'

A small black bantam cock raced up the street, ran between the bull's legs and skidded to a halt just in front of Rogers. A smaller figure jumped off its back, leapt up, caught hold of the ring through the bull's nose, swung up further until it was in the mass of curls on the bull's forehead, and then took firm hold of a lock of hair in each tiny hand.

'It looks like Wee Mad Arthur der ger-nome, sir,' said Detritus. 'He … tryin' to nut der bull …'

There was a noise like a slow woodpecker working on a particularly difficult tree, and it punctuated a litany of complaints from somewhere between the animal's eyes.

'Take that, yer big lump that yez are …'

The bulls stopped. They tried to turn their head so that one or other of the Rogerses could see what the hell it was that was hammering at their foreheads, and might as well have tried looking down their own ears.

They staggered backwards.

'Fred,' Vimes whispered. 'You slip off its back while it's busy.'

With a panicky look, Sergeant Colon swung a leg over the bull's huge back and slid down to the ground. Vimes grabbed him and hustled him into a doorway. Then he hustled him out again. A doorway was far too confined a space in which to be anywhere near Fred Colon.

'Why are you all covered in crap, Fred?'

'Well, sir, you know that creek that you're up without a paddle? It started there and it's got worse, sir.'

'Good grief. Worse than that?'

'Permission to go and have a bath, sir?'

'No, but you could stand back a few more feet. What happened to your helmet?'

'Last time I saw it, it was on a sheep, sir. Sir, I was tied up and shoved in a cellar and heroically broke free, sir! And I was chased by one of them golems, sir!'

'Where was this?'

Colon had hoped he wouldn't be asked that. 'It was a place in the Shambles,' he said. 'It was foggy, so I —'

Vimes grabbed Colon's wrists. 'What's this?'

'They tied me up with string, sir! But at great pers'nal risk of life and limb I—'

This doesn't look like string to me,' said Vimes.

'No, sir?'

'No, this looks like … candlewick.'

Colon looked blank.

'That a Clue, sir?' he said, hopefully.

There was a splatting noise as Vimes slapped him on the back. 'Well done, Fred,' he said, wiping his hand on his trousers. 'It's certainly a corroboration.'

'That's what I thought!' said Colon quickly. This is a corrobolaration and I've got to get it to Commander Vimes as soon as possible regardless of—'

'Why's that gnome nutting that bull, Fred?'

'That's Wee Mad Arthur, sir. We owe him a dollar. He was … of some help, sir.'

Rogers the bulls were on their knees, dazed and bewildered. It wasn't that Wee Mad Arthur was capable of delivering a killing blow, but he just didn't stop. After a while the noise and the thumping got on people's nerves.

'Should we help him?' said Vimes.

'Looks like he's doing all right by himself, sir,' said Colon.

Wee Mad Arthur looked up and grinned. 'One dollar, right?' he shouted. 'No welching or I'll come after yez! One of these buggers trod on me grandpa once!'

'Was he hurt?'

'He got one of his horns twisted right orf!'

Vimes took Sergeant Colon firmly by the arm. 'Come on, Fred, it's all hitting the street now!'

'Right, sir! And most of it's splashing!'

'I say! You there! You're a watchman, aren't you? Come over here!'

Vimes turned. A man had pushed his way through the crowds.

On the whole, Colon reflected, it was just possible that the worst moment of his life hadn't happened yet. Vimes tended to react in a ballistic way to words like 'I say! You there!' when uttered in a certain kind of neighing voice.

The speaker had an aristocratic look about him, and the angry air of a man not accustomed to the rigours of life who has just found one happening to him.

Vimes saluted smartly. 'Yessir! I'm a watchman, sir!'

'Well, just you come along with me and arrest this thing. It's disturbing the workers.'

'What thing, sir?'

'A golem, man! Walked into the factory as bold as you like and started painting on the damn walls!'

'What factory, sir?'

'You come with me, my man. I happen to be a very good friend of your commander and I can't say I like your attitude.'

'Sorry about that, sir,' said Vimes, with a cheerfulness that Sergeant Colon had come to dread.

There was a nondescript factory on the other side of the street. The man strode in.

'Er … he said 'golem', sir,' murmured Colon.

Vimes had known Fred Colon a long time. 'Yes, Fred, so it's vitally important for you to stay on guard out here,' he said.

The relief rose off Colon like steam. 'That's right, sir!' he said.

The factory was full of sewing-machines. People were sitting meekly in front of them. It was the sort of thing the guilds hated, but since the Guild of Seamstresses didn't take all that much interest in sewing there was no one to object. Endless belts led up from each machine to pulleys on a long spindle near the roof, which in turn were driven by … Vimes's eyes followed it down the length of the workshop … a treadmill, now stationary and somewhat broken. A couple of golems were standing forlornly alongside it, looking lost.

There was a hole in the wall quite close to it and, above it, someone had written in red paint:

WORKERS! NO MASTERS BUT YOURSELVES!

Vimes grinned.

'It smashed its way in, broke the treadmill, pulled my golems out, painted that stupid message on the wall