Feet of Clay

  Hooves trod on his hands. Very large dribbly noses sneezed at him.

  Sergeant Colon had not hitherto had a great deal of experience of animals, except in portion sizes. When he’d been little he’d had a pink stuffed pig call Mr. Dreadful, and he’d got up to Chapter Six in Animal Husbandry. It had woodcuts in it. There was no mention of hot smelly breath and great clomping feet like soup plates on a stick. Cows, in Sergeant Colon’s book, should go “moo.” Every child knew that. They shouldn’t go “mur-r-r-r-r-m!” like some kind of undersea monster and spray you with spit.

  He tried to get up, skidded on some cow’s moment of crisis, and sat down on a sheep. It went “blaaaart!” What kind of noise was that for a sheep to make?

  He got up again and tried to make his way to the curb. “Shoo! Get out of the damn’ way, you sheep! Garn!”

  A goose hissed at him and stuck out altogether too much neck.

  Colon backed off, and stopped when something nudged him in the back. It was a pig.

  It was no Mr. Dreadful. This wasn’t the little piggy that went to market, or the little piggy that stayed at home. It would be quite hard to imagine what kind of foot would have a piggy like this, but it would probably be the kind that had hair and scales and toenails like cashew nuts.

  This piggy was the size of a pony. This piggy had tusks. And it wasn’t pink. It was a blue-black color and covered with sharp hair but it did have—let’s be fair, thought Colon—little red piggy eyes.

  This little piggy looked like the little piggy that killed the boarhounds, disemboweled the horse, and ate the huntsman.

  Colon turned around, and came face-to-face with a bull like a beef cube on legs. It turned its huge head from side to side so that each rolling eye could get a sight of the sergeant, but it was clear that neither of them liked him very much.

  It lowered its head. There wasn’t room for it to charge, but it could certainly push.

  As the animals crowded around him, Colon took the only way of escape possible.

  There were men slumped all over the alley.

  “Hello, hello, hello, what’s all this, then?” said Carrot.

  A man who was holding his arm and groaning looked up at him. “We were viciously attacked!”

  “We don’t have time for this,” said Vimes.

  “We may have,” said Angua. She tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the wall opposite, on which was written in a familiar script:

  NO MASTER…

  Carrot hunched down and spoke to the casualty. “You were attacked by a golem, were you?” he said.

  “Right! Vicious bugger! Just walked out of the fog and went for us, you know what they’re like!”

  Carrot gave the man a cheerful smile. Then his gaze traveled along the man’s body to the big hammer lying in the gutter, and moved from that to the other tools strewn around the scene of the fight. Several had their handles broken. There was a long crowbar, bent nearly into a circle.

  “It’s lucky you were all so well armed,” he said.

  “It turned on us,” said the man. He tried to snap his fingers. “Just like that—aargh!”

  “You seem to have hurt your fingers…”

  “You’re right!”

  “It’s just that I don’t understand how it could have turned on you and just walked out of the fog,” said Carrot.

  “Everyone knows they’re not allowed to fight back!”

  “‘Fight back,’” Carrot repeated.

  “It’s not right, them walking around the streets like that,” the man muttered, looking away.

  There was the sound of running feet behind them and a couple of men in blood-stained aprons caught up with them. “It went that way!” one yelled. “You’ll be able to catch up with it if you hurry!”

  “Come on, don’t hang around! What do we pay our taxes for?” said the other.

  “It went all round the cattle yards and let everything out. Everything! You can’t move on Pigsty Hill!”

  “A golem let all the cattle out?” said Vimes. “What for?”

  “How should I know? It took the yudasgoat out of Sock’s slaughterhouse so half the damn’ things are following it around! And then it went and put old Fosdyke in his sausage machine—”

  “What?”

  “Oh, it didn’t turn the handle. It just shoved a handful of parsley in his mouth, dropped an onion down his trousers, covered him in oatmeal and dropped him in the hopper!”

  Angua’s shoulders started to shake. Even Vimes grinned.

  “And then it went into the poultry merchant’s, grabbed Mr. Terwillie, and”—the man stopped, aware there was a lady present, even if she was making snorting noises while trying not to laugh, and continued in a mumble—“made use of some sage and onion. If you know what I mean…”

  “You mean he—?” Vimes began.

  “Yes!”

  His companion nodded. “Poor old Terwillie won’t be able to look sage and onion in the face again, I reckon.”

  “By the sound of it, that’s the last thing he’ll do,” said Vimes.

  Angua had to turn her back.

  “Tell him about what happened in your pork butcher’s,” said the man’s companion.

  “I don’t think you’ll need to,” said Vimes. “I’m seeing a pattern here.”

  “Right! And poor young Sid’s only an apprentice and didn’t deserve what it done to him!”

  “Oh, dear,” said Carrot. “Er…I think I’ve got an ointment that might be—”

  “Will it help with the apple?” the man demanded.

  “It shoved an apple in his mouth?”

  “Wrong!”

  Vimes winced. “Ouch…”

  “What’s going to be done, eh?” said the butcher, his face a few inches from Vimes’s.

  “Well, if you can get a grip on the stem—”

  “I’m serious! What are you going to do? I’m a taxpayer and I know my rights!”

  He prodded Vimes in the breastplate. Vimes’s expression went wooden. He looked down at the finger, and then back up at the man’s large red nose.

  “In that case,” said Vimes, “I suggest you take another apple and—”

  “Er, excuse me,” said Carrot loudly. “You’re Mr. Maxilotte, aren’t you? Got a shop in the Shambles?”

  “Yes, that’s right. What of it?”

  “It’s just that I don’t recall seeing your name on the register of taxpayers, which is very odd because you said you were a taxpayer, but of course you wouldn’t lie about a thing like that and anyway when you paid your taxes they would have given you a receipt because that’s the law and I’m sure you’d be able to find it if you looked—”

  The butcher lowered his finger. “Er, yes…”

  “I could come and help you if you’d like,” said Carrot.

  The butcher gave Vimes a despairing look.

  “He really does read that stuff,” said Vimes. “For pleasure. Carrot, why don’t you—? My gods, what the hell is that?”

  There was a bellow further up the street.

  Something big and muddy was approaching at a sort of menacing amble. In the gloom it looked vaguely like a very fat centaur, half-man, half…in fact it was, he realized as it bounced nearer, half-Colon, half-bull.

  Sergeant Colon had lost his helmet and had a certain look about him that suggested he had been close to the soil.

  As the massive bull cantered past, the sergeant rolled his eyes wildly and said, “I daren’t get off! I daren’t get off!”

  “How did you get on?” shouted Vimes.

  “It wasn’t easy, sir! I just grabbed the ’orns, sir, next minute I was on its back!”

  “Well, hang on!”

  “Yes, sir! Hanging on sir!”

  Rogers the bulls were angry and bewildered, which counts as the basic state of mind for a full-grown bulls.*

  But they had a particular reason. Beef cattle have a religion. They are deeply spiritual animals. They believe that good and obedient cattle go to
a better place when they die, through a magic door. They don’t know what happens next, but they’ve heard that it involves really good eating and, for some reason, horseradish.

  Rogers had been quite looking forward to it. They were getting a bit creaky these days, and cows seemed to run faster than they had done when they were lads. They could just taste that heavenly horseradish…

  And instead they’d been herded into a crowded pen for a day and then the gate had been opened and there’d been animals everywhere and this did not look like the Promised Lard.

  And someone was on their back. They’d tried to buck him off a few times. In Rogers’ heyday the impudent man would by now be a few stringy red stains on the ground, but finally the arthritic bulls had given up until such time as they could find a handy tree on which to scrape him off.

  They just wished the wretched man would stop yelling.

  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 bull turned his 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 bull stopped. He tried to turn his head so that one or other of the Rogerses could see what the hell it was that was hammering at its forehead, and might as well have tried looking down its own ears.

  It 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 bull was on his 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 rigors 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 MASTER BUT YOURSELVES!

  Vimes grinned.

  “It smashed its way in, broke the treadmill, pulled my golems out, painted that stupid message on the wall, and stamped out again!” said the man behind him.

  “Hmm, yes, I see. A lot of people use oxen in their treadmills,” said Vimes mildly.

  “What’s that got to do with it? Anyway, cattle can’t keep going twenty-four hours a day.”

  Vimes’s gaze worked its way along the rows of workers. Their faces had that worried, Cockbill Street look that you got when you were cursed with pride as well as poverty.

  “No, indeed,” he said. “Most of the clothing workshops are up at Nap Hill, but the wages are cheaper down here, aren’t they?”

  “People are jolly glad to get the work!”

  “Yes,” said Vimes, looking at the faces again. “Glad.” At the far end of the factory, he noted, the golems were trying to rebuild their treadmill.

  “Now you listen to me, what I want you to do is—” the factory-owner began.

  Vimes’s hand gripped his collar and dragged him forward until his face was a few inches from Vimes’s own.

  “No, you listen to me,” hissed Vimes. “I mix with crooks and thieves and thugs all day and that doesn’t worry me at all but after two minutes with you I need a bath. And if I find that damn’ golem I’ll shake its damn’ hand, you hear me?”

  To the surprise of that part of Vimes that wasn’t raging, the man found enough courage to say “How dare you! You’re supposed to be the law!”

  Vimes’s furious finger almost went up the man’s nose.

  “Where shall I start?” he yelled. He glared at the two golems. “And why are you clowns repairing the treadmill?” he shouted. “Good grief, haven’t got the sense you were bor—Haven’t you got any sense?”

  He stormed out of the building. Sergeant Colon stopped trying to scrape himself clean and ran to catch up with him.

  “I heard some people say they saw a golem come out of the other door, sir,” he said. “It was a red one. You know, red clay. But the one that was after me was white, sir. Are you angry, Sam?”

  “Who’s that man who owns that place?”