Feet of Clay

‘It’s me, sir. Fred Colon. I got a message. What’s up?’

‘Ah, Fred. Who’ve you got down there so far?’

‘There’s me and Constable Flint and Constable Slapper, sir.’

‘Right. Someone’s to go up to my place and get Willikins to bring me my street uniform. And my sword and crossbow. And an overnight bag. And some cigars. And tell Lady Sybil … tell Lady Sybil … well, they’ll just have to tell Lady Sybil I’ve got to deal with things down here, that’s all.’

‘What’s happening, sir? Someone downstairs said Lord Vetinari’s dead!’

‘Dead?’ murmured the Patrician from his bed. ‘Nonsense!’ He jerked himself upright, swung his legs off the bed, and folded up. It was a slow, terrible collapse. Lord Vetinari was a tall man, so there was a long way to fall. And he did it by folding up a joint at a time. His ankles gave way and he fell on his knees. His knees hit the ground with a bang and he bent at the waist. Finally his forehead bounced on the carpet.

‘Oh,’ he said.

‘His lordship’s just a bit …’ Vimes began — then he grabbed Colon and dragged him out of the room. ‘I reckon he’s been poisoned, Fred, and that’s the truth of it.’

Colon looked horrified. ‘Ye gods! Do you want me to get a doctor?’

‘Are you mad? We want him to live!’

Vimes bit his lip. He’d said the words that were on his mind, and now, without a doubt, the faint smoke of rumour would drift out across the city. ‘But someone ought to look at him …’ he said aloud.

‘Damn right!’ said Colon. ‘You want I should get a wizard?’

‘How do we know it wasn’t one of them?’

‘Ye gods!’

Vimes tried to think. All the doctors in the city were employed by the guilds, and all the guilds hated Vetinari, so …

‘When you’ve got enough people to spare a runner, send him up to the stables on Kings Down to fetch Doughnut Jimmy,’ he said.

Colon looked even more stricken. ‘Doughnut? He doesn’t know anything about doctoring! He dopes racehorses!’

‘Just get him, Fred.’

‘What if he won’t come?’

‘Then say that Commander Vimes knows why Laughing Boy didn’t win the Quirm 100 Dollars last week, and say that I know Chrysoprase the troll lost ten thousand on that race.’

Colon was impressed. ‘You’ve got a nasty twist of mind there, sir.’

‘There’s going to be a lot of people turning up pretty soon. I want a couple of Watchmen outside this room — trolls or dwarfs for preference — and no one is to come in without my permission, right?’

Colon’s face contorted as various emotions fought for space. Finally he managed to say, ‘But … poisoned? He’s got food-tasters and everything!’

‘Then maybe it was one of them, Fred.’

‘My gods, sir! You don’t trust anyone, do you?’

‘No, Fred. Incidentally, was it you? Just kidding,’ Vimes added quickly as Colon’s face threatened to burst into tears. ‘Off you go. We don’t have much time.’

Vimes shut the door and leaned on it. Then he turned the key in the lock and moved a chair under the handle.

Finally he hauled the Patrician off the floor and rolled him on to the bed. There was a grunt from the man, and his eyelids flickered.

Poison, thought Vimes. That’s the worst of all. It doesn’t make a noise, the poisoner can be miles away, you can’t see it, often you can’t really smell it or taste it, it could be anywhere — and there it is, doing its work …

The Patrician opened his eyes.

‘I would like a glass of water,’ he said.

There was a jug and a glass by the bed. Vimes picked up the jug, and hesitated. ‘I’ll send someone to get some,’ he said.

Lord Vetinari blinked, very slowly.

‘Ah, Sir Samuel,’ he said, ‘but whom can you trust?’

There was a crowd in the big audience chamber when Vimes finally went downstairs. They were milling about, worried and unsure, and, like important men everywhere, when they were worried and unsure they got angry.

The first to bustle up to Vimes was Mr Boggis of the Guild of Thieves. ‘What’s going on, Vimes?’ he demanded.

He met Vimes’s stare. ‘Sir Samuel, I mean,’ he said, losing a certain amount of bustle.

‘I believe Lord Vetinari has been poisoned,’ said Vimes.

The background muttering stopped. Boggis realized that, since he had been the one to ask the question, he was now the man on the spot. ‘Er … fatally?’ he said.

In the silence, a pin would have clanged.

‘Not yet,’ said Vimes.

Around the hall there was a turning of heads. The focus of the universal attention was Dr Downey, head of the Guild of Assassins.

Downey nodded. ‘I’m not aware of any arrangement with regard to Lord Vetinari,’ he said. ‘Besides, as I am sure is common knowledge, we have set the price for the Patrician at one million dollars.’

‘And who has that sort of money, indeed?’ said Vimes.

‘Well … you for one, Sir Samuel,’ said Downey. There was some nervous laughter.

‘We wish to see Lord Vetinari, in any case,’ said Boggis.

‘No.’

‘No? And why not, pray?’

‘Doctor’s orders.’