“Is there any other way out?” he said.
“Plenty for me, none for a silly bigger like yez,” said Wee Mad Arthur. “Yer’ll have to swim for it.”
“You want me to drop into that?”
“Don’t yez worry, yez can’t drown in it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. But yez may suffocate. Yer know that creek they talk about? The one yez can be up without no paddle?”
“That’s not this one, is it?” said Colon.
“It’s coz of the cattle pens,” said Wee Mad Arthur. “Cattle penned up is always a bit nervous.”
“I know how they feel.”
There was a creak outside the door. Colon managed to get to his feet.
The door opened.
A figure filled the doorway. It was in silhouette because of the light behind it, but Colon looked up into two triangular glowing eyes.
Colon’s body, which in many respects was considerably more intelligent than the mind it had to carry around, took over. It made use of the adrenalinfed start the brain had given it and leapt several feet in the air, pointing its toes as it came down so that the iron tips of Colon’s boots hit the trapdoor together.
The filth of years and the rust of iron gave way.
Colon went through. Fortunately his body had the foresight to hold its own nose as he hit the much-maligned stream, which went:
Gloop.
Many people, when they’re precipitated into water, struggle to breathe. Sergeant Colon struggled not to. The alternative was too horrible to think about.
He rose again, buoyed up in part by various gases released from the ooze. A few feet away, the candle on Wee Mad Arthur’s rocking raft started to burn with a blue flame.
Someone landed on his helmet and kicked it like a man spurs on a horse.
“Right turn! Forward!”
Half-walking, half-swimming, Colon struggled down the fetid drain. Terror lent him strength. It would demand repayment with interest later but, for now, he left a wake. Which took several seconds to close up after him.
“He didn’t stop until a sudden lack of pressure overhead told him that he was in the open air. He grabbed in the darkness, found the greasy pilings of a jetty, and clung to them, wheezing.
“What was that thing?” said Wee Mad Arthur.
“Golem,” Colon panted.
He managed to get a hand on to the planks of the jetty, tried to pull himself up, and sagged back into the water.
“Hey, did I just hear something?” said Wee Mad Arthur.
Sergeant Colon rose like an undersea-launched missile and landed on the jetty, where he folded up.
“Nah, just a bird or something,” said Wee Mad Arthur.
“What do your friends call you, Wee Mad Arthur?” muttered Colon.
“Dunno. Ain’t got none.”
“Gosh, that’s surprising.”
Lord de Nobbes had a lot of friends now. “Up the hatch! Here’s looking at your bottom!” he said.
There were shrieks of laughter.
Nobby grinned happily in the middle of the crowd. He couldn’t remember when he had enjoyed himself so much with all his clothes on.
In the far corner of Lady Selachii’s drawing-room a door closed discreetly and, in the comfortable smoking-room beyond, anonymous people sat down in leather armchairs and looked at one another expectantly.
Finally one said, “It’s astonishing. Frankly astonishing. The man has actually got charisn’tma.”
“Your meaning?”
“I mean he’s so dreadful he fascinates people. Like those stories he was telling…did you notice how people kept encouraging him because they couldn’t actually believe anyone would tell jokes like that in mixed company?”
“Actually, I rather liked the one about the very small man playing the piano—”
“And his table manners! Did you notice them?”
“No.”
“Ex-actly!”
“And the smell, don’t forget the smell.”
“Not so much bad as…odd.”
“Actually, I found that after a few minutes the nose shuts down and then it’s—”
“My point is that, in some strange way, he attracts people.”
“Like a public hanging.”
There was a period of reflective silence.
“Good humored little tit, though, in his way.”
“Not too bright, though.”
“Give him his pint of beer and a plate of whatever those things with toenails were and he seems as happy as a pig in muck.”
“I think that’s somewhat insulting.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve known some splendid pigs.”
“Indeed.”
“But I can certainly see him drinking his beer and eating feet while he signs the royal proclamations.”
“Yes, indeed. Er. Do you think he can read?”
“Does it matter?”
There was some more silence, filled with the busy racing of minds.
Then someone said, “Another thing…we won’t have to worry about establishing a royal succession that might be inconvenient.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Can you see any princess marrying him?”
“We-ell…they have been known to kiss frogs…”
“Frogs, I grant you.”
“…And, of course, power and royalty are powerful aphrodisiacs…”
“How powerful, would you say?”
More silence. Then: “Probably not that powerful.”
“He should do nicely.”
“Splendid.”
“Dragon did well. I suppose the little tit isn’t really an earl, by any chance?”
“Don’t be silly.”
Cheri Littlebottom sat awkwardly on the high stool behind the desk. All she had to do, she’d been told, was check the patrols off- and on-duty when the shift changed.
A few of the men gave her an odd look but they said nothing, and she was beginning to relax when the four dwarfs on the King’s Way beat came in.
They stared at her. And her ears.
Their eyes traveled downwards. There was no such concept as a modesty panel in Ankh-Morpork. All that was usually visible under the desk was the bottom half of Sergeant Colon. Of the large number of good reasons for shielding the bottom half of Sergeant Colon from view, its potential for engendering lust was not among the top ten.
“That’s…female clothes, isn’t it?” said one of the dwarfs.
Cheri swallowed. Why now? She’d sort of assumed Angua would be around. People always calmed down when she smiled at them—it was really amazing.
“Well?” she quavered. “So what? I can if I want to.”
“And…on your ear…”
“Well?”
“That’s…my mother never even…urgh…that’s disgusting! In public, too! What happens if kids come in?”
“I can see your ankles!” said another dwarf.
“I’m going to speak to Captain Carrot about this!” said the third. “I never thought I’d live to see the day!”
Two of the dwarfs stormed off towards the locker-room. Another one hurried after them, but hesitated as he drew level with the desk. He gave Cheri a frantic look.
“Er…er…nice ankles, though,” he said, and then ran.
The fourth dwarf waited until the others had gone and then sidled up.
Cheri was shaking with nervousness. “Don’t you say a thing about my legs!” she said, waving a finger.
“Er…” The dwarf looked around hurriedly, and leaned forward. “Er…is that…lipstick?”
“Yes! What about it?”
“Er…” The dwarf leaned forward even more, looked around again, this time conspiratorially, and lowered her voice. “Er…could I try it?”
Angua and Carrot walked silently through the fog, except for Angua’s occasional crisp and brief directions.
Then she stopped. Up until then Dorfl’s scent, or at least
the fresh scent of old meat and cow dung, had headed quite directly back to the slaughterhouse district.
“It’s gone up this alley,” she said. “That’s nearly doubling back. And…it was moving faster…and…there’s a lot of humans and…sausages?”
Carrot started to run. A lot of people and the smell of sausages meant a performance of the street theater that was life in Ankh-Morpork.
There was a crowd further up the alley. It had obviously been there for some time, because at the rear was a familiar figure with a tray, craning to see over the tops of the heads.
“What’s going on, Mr. Dibbler?” said Carrot.
“Oh, hello, cap’n. They’ve got a golem.”
“Who have?”
“Oh, some blokes. They’ve just fetched the hammers.”
There was a press of bodies in front of Carrot. He put both hands together and rammed them between a couple of people, and then moved them apart. Grunting and struggling, the crowd opened up like a watercourse in front of the better class of prophet.
Dorfl was standing at bay at the end of the alley. Three men with hammers were approaching the golem cautiously, in the way of mobs, each unwilling to strike the first blow in case the second blow came right back at him.
The golem was crouching back, shielding itself with its slate on which was written:
I AM WORTH 530 DOLLARS
“Money?” said one of the men. “That’s all you things think about!”
The slate shattered under a blow.
Then he tried to raise his hammer again. When it didn’t budge he very nearly somersaulted backwards.
“Money is all you can think about when all you have is a price,” said Carrot calmly, twisting the hammer out of his grip. “What do you think you’re doing, my friend?”
“You can’t stop us!” mumbled the man. “Everyone knows they’re not alive!”
“But I can arrest you for willful damage to property,” said Carrot.
“One of these killed that old priest!”
“Sorry?” said Carrot. “If it’s just a thing, how can it commit murder? A sword is a thing”—he drew his own sword; it made an almost silken sound—“and of course you couldn’t possibly blame a sword if someone thrust it at you, sir.”
The man went cross-eyed as he tried to focus on the sword.
And, again, Angua felt that touch of bewilderment. Carrot wasn’t threatening the man. He wasn’t threatening the man. He was merely using the sword to demonstrate a…well, a point. And that was all. He’d be quite amazed to hear that not everyone would think of it like that.
Part of her said: Someone has to be very complex indeed to be as simple as Carrot.
The man swallowed.
“Good point,” he said.
“Yeah, but…you can’t trust ’em,” said one of the other hammer-bearers. “They sneak around and they never say anything. What are they up to, eh?”
He gave Dorfl a kick. The golem rocked slightly.
“Well, now,” said Carrot. “That is what I am finding out. In the meantime, I must ask you to go about your business…”
The third demolition man had only recently arrived in the city and had gone along with the idea because there are some people who do.
He raised his hammer defiantly and opened his mouth to say, “Oh, yeah?” but stopped, because just by his ear he heard a growl. It was quite low and soft, but it had a complex little waveform which went straight down into a little knobbly bit in his spinal column where it pressed an ancient button marked Primal Terror.
He turned. An attractive watchwoman behind him gave him a friendly smile. That was to say, her mouth turned up at the corners and all her teeth were visible.
He dropped the hammer on his foot.
“Well done,” said Carrot. “I’ve always said you can do more with a kind word and a smile.”
The crowd looked at him with the kind of expression people always wore when they looked at Carrot. It was the face-cracking realization that he really did believe what he was saying. The sheer enormity tended to leave people breathless.
They backed away and scurried out of the alley.
Carrot turned back to the golem, which had dropped to its knees and was trying to piece its slate together.
“Come on, Mr. Dorfl,” he said. “We’ll walk with you the rest of the way.
“Are you mad?” said Sock, trying to shut the door. “You think I want that back?”
“He’s your property,” said Carrot. “People were trying to smash him.”
“You should’ve let them,” said the butcher. “Haven’t you heard the stories? I’m not having one of those under my roof!”
He tried to slam the door again, but Carrot’s foot was in it.
“Then I’m afraid you’re committing an offense,” said Carrot. “To wit, littering.”
“Oh, be serious!”
“I always am,” said Carrot.
“He always is,” said Angua.
Sock waved his hands frantically. “It can just go away. Shoo! I don’t want a killer working in my slaughterhouse! You have it, if you’re so keen!”
Carrot grabbed the door and forced it wide open. Sock took a step backwards.
“Are you trying to bribe an officer of the law, Mr. Sock?”
“Are you insane?”
“I am always sane,” said Carrot.
“He always is,” sighed Angua.
“Watchmen are not allowed to accept gifts,” said Carrot. He looked around at Dorfl, which was standing forlornly in the street. “But I will buy him from you. For a fair price.”
Sock looked from Carrot to the golem and then back again. “Buy? For money?”
“Yes.”
The butcher shrugged. When people were offering you money it was no time to debate their sanity. “Well, that’s different,” he conceded. “It was worth $530 when I bought it, but of course it’s got additional skills now—”
Angua growled. It had been a trying evening and the smell of fresh meat was making her senses twang. “You were prepared to give it away a moment ago!”
“Well, give, yes, but business is busi—”
“I’ll pay you a dollar,” said Carrot.
“A dollar? That’s daylight robb—”
Angua’s hand shot out and grabbed his neck. She could feel the veins, smell his blood and fear…She tried to think of cabbages.
“It’s night-time,” she growled.
Like the man in the alley, Sock listened to the call of the wild. “A dollar,” he croaked. “Right. A fair price. One dollar.”
Carrot produced one. And waved his notebook.
“A receipt is very important,” he said. “A proper legal transfer of ownership.”
“Right. Right. Right. Happy to oblige.”
Sock glanced desperately at Angua. Somehow, her smile didn’t look right. He scribbled a few hasty lines.
Carrot looked over his shoulder.
I Gerhardt Sock give the barer full and totarl ownorship of the golem Dorfl in xchange for One Dolar and anythinge it doz now is his responsibility and nuthing to doe with me
Singed, Gerhardt Sock
“Interesting wording, but it does look legal, doesn’t it?” said Carrot, taking the paper. “Thank you very much, Mr. Sock. A happy solution all round, I feel.”
“Is that it? Can I go now?”
“Certainly, and—”
The door slammed shut.
“Oh, well done,” said Angua. “So now you own a golem. You do know that anything it does is your responsibility?”
“If that’s the truth, why are people smashing them?”
“What are you going to use it for?”
Carrot looked thoughtfully at Dorfl, who was staring at the ground.
“Dorfl?”
The golem looked up.
“Here’s your receipt. You don’t have to have a master.”
The golem took the little scrap of paper between two thick fingers.
“That means you belong to you,” said Carrot encouragingly. “You own yourself.”
Dorfl shrugged.
“What did you expect?” said Angua. “Did you think he was going to wave a flag?”
“I don’t think he understands,” said Carrot. “It’s quite hard to get some ideas into people’s heads…” He stopped abruptly.
Carrot took the paper out of Dorfl’s unresisting fingers. “I suppose it might work,” he said. “It seems a bit invasive. But what they understand, after all, is the words in their heads…”
He reached up, opened Dorfl’s lid, and dropped the paper inside.
The golem blinked. That is to say, its eyes went dark and then brightened again. It raised one hand very slowly and patted the top of its head. Then it held up the other hand and turned it this way and that, as if it had never seen a hand before. It looked down at its feet and around at the fog-shrouded buildings. It looked at Carrot. It looked up at the clouds above the street. It looked at Carrot again.
Then, very slowly, without bending in any way, it fell backwards and hit the cobbles with a thud. The light faded in its eyes.
“There,” said Angua. “Now it’s broken. Can we go?”
“There’s still a bit of a glow,” said Carrot. “It must have all been too much for him. We can’t leave him here. Maybe if I took the receipt out…”
He knelt down by the golem and reached for the trapdoor on its head.
Dorfl’s hand moved so quickly it didn’t even appear to move. It was just there, gripping Carrot’s wrist.
“Ah,” said Carrot, gently pulling his arm back. “He’s obviously…feeling better.”
“Thsssss,” said Dorfl. The voice of the golem shivered in the fog.
Golems had a mouth. They were part of the design. But this one was open, revealing a thin line of red light.
“Oh, ye gods,” said Angua, backing away. “They can’t speak!”
“Thssss!” It was less a syllable than the sound of escaping steam.
“I’ll find your bit of slate—” Carrot began, looking around hurriedly.
“Thssss!”
Dorfl clambered to its feet, gently pushed him out of the way and strode off.
“Are you happy now?” said Angua. “I’m not following the wretched thing! Maybe it’s going to throw itself in the river!”