Feet of Clay (34 page)

‘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?’

‘That’s Mr Catterail, sir. You know, he’s always writing you letters about there being too many what he calls “lesser races” in the Watch. You know … trolls and dwarfs …’

The sergeant had to trot to keep up with him.

‘Get some zombies,’ said Vimes.

‘You’ve always been dead against zombies, excuse my pune,’ said Sergeant Colon.

‘Any want to join, are there?’

‘Oh, yessir. Couple of good lads, sir, and but for the grey skin hangin’ off ’em you’d swear they hadn’t been buried five minutes.’

‘Swear them in tomorrow.’

‘Right, sir. Good idea. And of course it’s a great saving not having to include them in the pension plan.’

‘They can patrol up on Kings Down. After all, they’re only human.’

‘Right, sir.’ When Sam is in these moods, Colon thought, you agree with
everything
. ‘You’re really getting the hang of this affirmative action stuff, eh sir?’

‘Right now I’d swear in a gorgon!’

‘There’s always Mr Bleakley, sir, he’s getting fed up with working in the kosher butcher’s and—’

‘But no vampires.
Never
any vampires. Now let’s get a move on, Fred.’

Nobby Nobbs ought to have known. That’s what he told himself as he scuttled through the streets. All that stuff about kings and stuff – they’d wanted him to …

It was a terrible thought …

Volunteer
.

Nobby had spent a lifetime in one uniform or
another
. And one of the most basic lessons he’d learned was that men with red faces and plummy voices never
ever
gave cushy numbers to the likes of Nobby. They’d ask for volunteers to do something ‘big and clean’ and you’d end up scrubbing some damn great drawbridge; they’d say, ‘Anyone here like good food?’ and you’d be peeling potatoes for a week. You never
ever
volunteered. Not even if a sergeant stood there and said, ‘We need someone to drink alcohol, bottles of, and make love, passionate, to women, for the use of.’ There was
always
a snag. If a choir of angels asked for volunteers for Paradise to step forward, Nobby knew enough to take one smart pace to the rear.

When the call came for Corporal Nobbs, it would not find him wanting. It would not find him at all.

Nobby avoided a herd of pigs in the middle of the street.

Even Mr Vimes never expected him to
volunteer
. He respected Nobby’s pride.

Nobby’s head ached. It must’ve been the quail’s eggs, he was sure. They couldn’t be healthy birds to lay titchy eggs like that.

He sidled past a cow that had got its head stuck in someone’s window.

Nobby as king? Oh,
yes
. No one ever gave a Nobbs anything except maybe a skin disease or sixty lashes. It was a dog-eat-Nobbs world, right enough. If there were to be a world competition for losers, a Nobbs would come firs— last.

He stopped running and went to earth in a doorway. In its welcome shadows he extracted a
very
short cigarette end from behind his ear and lit it.

Now that he felt safe enough to think about more than flight he wondered about all the animals that seemed to be on the streets. Unlike the family tree that had borne Fred Colon as its fruit, the creeping vine of the Nobbses had flourished only within city walls. Nobby was vaguely aware of animals as being food in a primary stage and left it at that. But he was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to be wandering around untidily like this.

Gangs of men were trying to round them up. Since they were tired and working at cross-purposes, and the animals were hungry and bewildered, all that was happening was that the streets were getting a lot muddier.

Nobby became aware that he was not alone in the doorway.

He looked down.

Also lurking in the shadows was a goat. It was unkempt and smelly, but it turned its head and gave Nobby the most knowing look he’d ever seen on the face of an animal. Unexpectedly, and most uncharacteristically, Nobby was struck by a surge of fellow-feeling.

He pinched out the end of his cigarette and passed it down to the goat, which ate it.

‘You and me both,’ said Nobby.

Miscellaneous livestock scattered madly as Carrot, Angua and Cheri made their way down the
Shambles
. They especially tried to keep away from Angua. It seemed to Cheri that an invisible barrier was advancing in front of them. Some animals tried to climb walls or scattered madly into side alleys.

‘Why are they so scared?’ said Cheri.

‘Can’t imagine,’ said Angua.

A few maddened sheep ran away from them as they walked around the candle-factory. Light from its high windows indicated that candlemaking continued all night.

‘They make nearly half a million candles every twenty-four hours,’ said Carrot. ‘I heard they’ve got very advanced machinery. It sounds very interesting. I’d love to see it.’

At the rear of the premises light blazed out into the fog. Crates of candles were being manhandled on to a succession of carts.

‘Looks normal enough,’ said Carrot, as they eased themselves into a conveniently shadowy doorway. ‘Busy, though.’

‘I don’t see what good this is going to do,’ said Angua. ‘As soon as they see us they can destroy any evidence. And, even if we find arsenic, so what? There’s no crime in owning arsenic, is there?’

‘Er … is there a crime in owning
that
?’ whispered Cheri.

A golem was walking slowly up the alley. It was quite unlike any other golem they had seen. The others were ancient and had repaired themselves so many times they were as shapeless as a gingerbread man, but this one looked like a human, or at least
like
humans wished they could look. It resembled a statue made of white clay. Around its head, part of the very design, was a crown.

‘I was
right
,’ murmured Carrot. ‘They
did
make themselves a golem. The poor devils. They thought a king would make them free.’

‘Look at its legs,’ said Angua.

As the golem walked, lines of red light appeared and disappeared all over its legs, and across its body and arms.

‘It’s cracking,’ she said.

‘
I knew
you couldn’t bake pottery in an old bread oven!’ said Cheri. ‘It’s not the right
shape
!’

The golem pushed open a door and disappeared into the factory.

‘Let’s go,’ said Carrot.

‘Commander Vimes told us to wait for him,’ said Angua.

‘Yes, but we don’t know
what
might be going on in there,’ said Carrot. ‘Besides, he likes us to use our initiative. We can’t just hang around now.’

He darted across the alley and opened the door.

There were crates piled inside, with a narrow passageway between them. From all around them, but slightly muffled by the crates, came the clicking and rattling of the factory. The air smelled of hot wax.

Cheri was aware of a whispered conversation going on several feet above her little round helmet.

‘
I wish Mr Vimes hadn’t wanted us to bring her. Supposing something happens to her?
’

‘
What are you talking about?
’

‘
Well … you know … she’s a girl
.’

‘
So what? There’s at least three female dwarfs in the Watch already and you don’t worry about them
.’

‘
Oh, come on … name one
.’

‘
Lars Skulldrinker, for a start
.’

‘
No! Really?
’

‘
Are you calling this nose a liar?
’

‘
But he broke up a fight in the Miner’s Arms single-handedly last week!
’

‘
Well? Why do you assume females are weaker? You wouldn’t worry about
me
taking on a vicious bar crowd by myself
.’

‘
I’d give aid where necessary
.’

‘
To me or to them?
’

‘
That’s unfair!
’

‘
Is it?
’

‘
I wouldn’t help them unless you got really rough
.’

‘
Ah, so? And they say chivalry is dead
…’

‘
Anyway, Cheri is … a bit different. I’m sure he … she’s good at alchemy, but we’d better watch her back in a fight. Hold on
…’

They’d stepped out into the factory.

Candles whirled overhead – hundreds of them,
thousands
of them – dangling by their wicks from an endless belt of complex wooden links that switch-backed its way up and down the long hall.

‘I heard about this,’ said Carrot. ‘It’s called a producing line. It’s a way of making thousands of things that are all the same. But look at the speed! I’m amazed the treadmill can—’

Angua pointed. There was a treadmill creaking around beside her, but there was nothing inside it.

‘
Something’s
got to be powering all this,’ said Angua.

Carrot pointed. Further up the hall the switchbacks of the line converged in a complicated knot. There was a figure somewhere in the middle, arms moving in a blur.

Just beside Carrot the line ended at a big wooden hopper. Candles cascaded into it. No one had been emptying it, and they were tumbling over the pile and rolling on to the floor.

‘Cheri,’ said Carrot. ‘Do you know how to use any kind of weapon?’

‘Er … no, Captain Carrot.’

‘Right. You just wait in the alley, then. I don’t want any harm coming to you.’

She scuttled off, looking relieved.

Angua sniffed the air. ‘There’s been a vampire here,’ she said.

‘I think we’d—’ Carrot began.

‘I knew you’d find out! I wish I’d never bought the damned thing! I’ve got a bow! I warn you, I’ve got a crossbow!’

They turned. ‘Ah, Mr Carry,’ said Carrot cheerfully. He produced his badge. ‘Captain Carrot, Ankh-Morpork City Watch—’

‘I know who you are! I know who you are! And
what
you are, too! I knew you’d come! I’ve got a bow and I’m not afraid to use it!’ The crossbow’s point moved uncertainly, proving him a liar.

‘Really?’ said Angua. ‘
What
we are?’

‘I didn’t even want to get involved!’ said Carry. ‘It killed those old men, didn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Carrot.

‘Why? I didn’t tell it to!’

‘Because they helped make it, I think,’ said Carrot. ‘It knew who to blame.’

‘The golems sold it to me!’ said Carry. ‘I thought it’d help build up the business but the damned thing won’t stop—’

He glanced up at the line of candles whirring overhead, but jerked his head back before Angua could move.

‘Works hard, does it?’

‘Hah!’ But Carry didn’t look like a man enjoying a joke. He looked like a man in private torment. ‘I’ve laid off everyone except the girls in the packing department, and
they’re
on three shifts and over-time! I’ve got four men out looking for tallow, two negotiating for wicks and three trying to buy more storage space!’

‘Then get it to stop making candles,’ said Carrot.

‘It goes off into the streets when we run out of tallow! You want it walking around looking for something to do? Hey, you two stay together!’ Carry added urgently, waving the crossbow.

‘Look, all you have to do is change the words in its head,’ said Carrot.

‘It won’t let me! Don’t you think I’ve tried?’

‘It can’t
not let you
,’ said Carrot. ‘Golems have to let—’

‘I said it won’t let me!’

‘What about the poisoned candles?’ said Carrot.

‘That wasn’t my idea!’

‘Whose idea was it?’

Carry’s crossbow swung back and forth. He licked his lips. ‘This has all gone far too far,’ he said. ‘I’m getting out.’

‘Whose idea, Mr Carry?’

‘I’m not going to end up in some alley somewhere with as much blood as a banana!’

‘Now then, we wouldn’t do anything like that,’ said Carrot.

Mr Carry was exporting terror. Angua could smell it streaming off him. He might pull the trigger out of sheer panic.

There was another smell, too. ‘Who’s the vampire?’ she said.

For a moment she thought the man
would
fire the crossbow. ‘I never said anything about him!’

‘You’ve got garlic in your pocket,’ said Angua. ‘And the place reeks of vampire.’

‘He said we could get the golem to do anything,’ Carry mumbled.

‘Like making poisoned candles?’ said Carrot.

‘Yes, but he said it’d just keep Vetinari out of the way,’ said Carry. He seemed to be getting a tenuous grip on himself. ‘And he’s not dead, ’cos I’d have heard,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t think making him ill is a crime, so you can’t—’