Feet of Clay

Nobby hung his head. ‘No one, sir. No one wanted to play him, sir.’ The little corporal swallowed, and then plunged onwards with the air of a man determined to get it all over with. ‘So we’re making a man out of straw, sir, so he’ll burn nicely when we throw him on the bonfire in the evening. There’s going to be fireworks, sir,’ he added, with dreadful certainty.

Vimes’s face shut down. Nobby preferred it when people shouted. He had been shouted at for most of his life. He could handle shouting.

‘No one wanted to be Stoneface Vimes,’ Vimes said coldly.

‘On account of him being on the losing side, sir.’

‘Losing? Vimes’s Ironheads won.^{30} He ruled the city for six months.’

Nobby squirmed again. ‘Yeah, but … everyone in the Society says he didn’t ought to of, sir. They said it was just a fluke, sir. After all, he was outnumbered ten to one, and he had warts, sir. And he was a bit of a bastard, sir, when all’s said and done. He did chop off a king’s head, sir. You got to be a bit of a nasty type to do that, sir. Saving your presence, Mr Vimes.’

Vimes shook his head. What did it matter, anyway? (But it did matter, somewhere.) It had all been a long time ago. It didn’t matter what a bunch of deranged romantics thought. Facts were facts.

‘All right, I understand,’ he said. ‘It’s almost funny, really. Because there’s something else I’ve got to tell you, Nobby.’

‘Yessir?’ said Nobby, looking relieved.

‘Do you remember your father?’

Nobby looked about to panic again. ‘What kind of question is that to suddenly ask anybody, sir?’

‘Purely a social enquiry.’

‘Old Sconner, sir? Not much, sir. Never used to see him much except when the milit’ry police used to come for to drag him outa the attic.’

‘Do you know much about your, er, antecedents?’

‘That is a lie, sir. I haven’t got no antecedents, sir, no matter what you might have been tole.’

‘Oh. Good. Er … you don’t actually know what “antecedents” means, do you, Nobby?’

Nobby shifted uneasily. He didn’t like being questioned by policemen, especially since he was one. ‘Not in so many words, sir.’

‘You never got told anything about your forebears?’ Another worried expression crossed Nobby’s face, so Vimes quickly added: ‘Your ancestors?’

‘Only old Sconner, sir. Sir … if all this is working up to asking about them sacks of vegetables which went missing from the shop in Treacle Mine Road, I was not anywhere near the—’

Vimes waved a hand vaguely. ‘He didn’t … leave you anything? Or anything?’

‘Coupla scars, sir. And this trick elbow of mine. It aches sometimes, when the weather changes. I always remembers ole Sconner when the wind blows from the Hub.’

‘Ah, right—’

‘And this, o’ course …’ Nobby fished around behind his rusting breastplate. And that was a marvel, too. Even Sergeant Colon’s armour could shine, if not actually gleam. But any metal anywhere near Nobby’s skin corroded very quickly. The corporal pulled out a leather thong that hung around his neck. There was a gold ring on it. Despite the fact that gold cannot corrode, it had nevertheless developed a patina.

‘He left it to me when he was on his deathbed,’ said Nobby. ‘Well, when I say “left it” …’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘Well, yeah, he did say “Give it back, you little bugger!”, sir. See, ’e ’ad it on a string round his neck, sir, just like me. But it’s not like a proper ring, sir. I’d have flogged it but it’s all I got to remember him by. Except when the wind blows from the Hub.’

Vimes took the ring and rubbed it with a finger. It was a seal ring, with a coat of arms on it. Age and wear and the immediate presence of the body of Corporal Nobbs had made it quite unreadable.

‘You are armigerous, Nobby.’

Nobby nodded. ‘But I got a special shampoo for it, sir.’

Vimes sighed. He was an honest man. He’d always felt that was one of the bigger defects in his personality.

‘When you’ve got a moment, nip along to the College of Heralds in Mollymog Street, will you? Take this ring with you and say I sent you.’

‘Er …’

‘It’s all right. Nobby,’ said Vimes. ‘You won’t get into trouble. Not as such.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘And you don’t have to bother with the “sir”, Nobby.’

‘Yessir.’

When Nobby had gone Vimes reached behind the desk and picked up a faded copy of Twurp’s Peerage^{31} or, as he personally thought of it, the guide to the criminal classes. You wouldn’t find slum dwellers in these pages, but you would find their landlords. And, while it was regarded as pretty good evidence of criminality to be living in a slum, for some reason owning a whole street of them merely got you invited to the very best social occasions.

These days they seemed to be bringing out a new edition every week. Dragon had been right about one thing, at least. Everyone in Ankh-Morpork seemed to be hankering after more arms than they were born with.

He looked up de Nobbes.