Feet of Clay

The imp squinted out through the lens. ‘Just the eye?’ it squeaked.

‘Yes. As big as you can.’^{25}

‘You’re sick, mister.’

‘And shut up,’ said Cheery.

He propped the box on the table and sat back. From inside the box there came the swish-swish of brush strokes. At last there was the sound of a handle being turned, and a slightly damp picture rustled out of a slot.

Cheery peered at it. Then he knocked on the box. The hatch opened.

‘Yes?’

‘Bigger. So big it fills the whole paper. In fact’ — Cheery squinted at the picture in his hands — ‘just paint the pupil. The bit in the middle.’

‘So it fills the whole paper? You’re weird.’

Cheery propped the box nearer. There was a clicking of gears as the imp wound the lenses out, and then a few more seconds of busy brush work.

Another damp picture unwound. It showed a big black disc.

Well … mainly black.

Cheery looked closer. There was a hint, just a hint …

He rapped on the box again.

‘Yes, Mr Dwarf Weird Person?’ said the imp.

‘The bit in the middle. Big as you can, thank you.’

The lenses wound out yet further.

Cheery waited anxiously. In the next room, he could hear Detritus patiently moving around.

The paper wound out for the third time, and the hatch opened. ‘That’s it,’ said the imp. ‘I’ve run out of black.’

And the paper was black … except for the tiny little area that wasn’t.

The door to the stairs burst open and Constable Visit came in, borne along by the pressure of a small crowd. Cheery guiltily thrust the paper into his pocket.

‘This is intolerable!’ said a small man with a long black beard. ‘We demand you let us in! Who’re you, young man?’

‘I’m Ch — I’m Corporal Littlebottom,’ said Cheery. ‘Look, I’ve got a badge …’

‘Well, Corporal,’ said the man, ‘I am Wengel Raddley and I am a man of some standing in this community and I demand that you let us have poor Father Tubelcek this minute!’

‘We’re, er, we’re trying to find out who killed him,’ Cheery began.

There was a movement behind Cheery, and the faces in front of him suddenly looked very worried indeed. He turned to see Detritus in the doorway to the next room.

‘Everyt’ing okay?’ said the troll.

The changed fortunes of the Watch had allowed Detritus to have a proper breastplate rather than a piece of elephant battle armour. As was normal practice for the uniform of a sergeant, the armourer had attempted to do a stylized representation of muscles on it. As far as Detritus was concerned, he hadn’t been able to get them all in.

‘Is dere any trouble?’ he said.

The crowd backed away.

‘None at all, officer,’ said Mr Raddley. ‘You, er, just loomed suddenly, that’s all …’

‘Dis is correct,’ said Detritus. ‘I am a loomer. It often happen suddenly. So dere’s no trouble, den?’

‘No trouble whatsoever, officer.’

‘Amazing t’ing, trouble,’ rumbled Detritus thoughtfully. ‘Always I go lookin’ for trouble, an’ when I find it people said it ain’t dere.’

Mr Raddley drew himself up.

‘But we want to take Father Tubelcek away to bury him,’ he said.

Detritus turned to Cheery Littlebottom. ‘You done everyt’ing you need?’

‘I suppose so …’

‘He dead?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘He gonna get any better?’

‘Better than dead? I doubt it.’

‘Okay, den you people can take him away.’

The two Watchmen stood aside as the body was carried down the stairs.

‘Why you takin’ pictures of the dead man?’ said Detritus.

‘Well, er, it might be helpful to see how he was lying.’

Detritus nodded sagely. ‘Ah, he was lyin’, was he? An’ him a holy man, too.’

Littlebottom pulled out the picture and looked at it again. It was almost black. But …

A constable arrived at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Is there someone up there called’ — there was a muffled snigger — ‘Cheery Littlebottom?’

‘Yes,’ said Littlebottom gloomily.

‘Well, Commander Vimes says you’ve to come to the Patrician’s palace right now, all right?’

‘Dat’s Corporal Littlebottom you’re talkin’ to,’ said Detritus.

‘It’s all right,’ said Littlebottom. ‘Nothing could make it any worse.’

Rumour is information distilled so finely that it can filter through anything. It does not need doors and windows — sometimes it doesn’t even need people. It can exist free and wild, running from ear to ear without ever touching lips.

It had escaped already. From the high window of the Patrician’s bedroom, Sam Vimes could see people drifting towards the palace. There wasn’t a mob — there wasn’t even what you might call a crowd — but the Brownian motion of the streets was bouncing more and more people in his direction.

He relaxed slightly when he saw one or two guards come through the gates.

On the bed, Lord Vetinari opened his eyes.

‘Ah … Commander Vimes,’ he murmured.

‘What’s been happening, sir?’ said Vimes.

‘I appear to be lying down, Vimes.’

‘You were in your office, sir. Unconscious.’

‘Dear me. I must have been … overdoing it. Well, thank you. If you would be kind enough to … help me up …’

Lord Vetinari tried to pull himself upright, swayed, and fell back again. His face was pale. Sweat beaded his forehead.

There was a knock at the door. Vimes opened it a fraction.