Feet of Clay

‘Dis is crank,’ he said, looking a lot happier now that the conversation was veering away from more personal concerns. ‘Dat’s like … crappy clay, jus’ good enough for dem lady potters wi’ dangly earrings wot make coffee mugs wot you can’t lift wid both hands.’ He rolled it again. ‘Also, it got a lotta grog in it. Dat’s bitsa old pots, all smashed up real small. Makes it stronger. Any potter got loadsa stuff like dis.’ He rubbed it again. ‘Dis has been sorta heated up but it ain’t prop’ly baked.’

‘But you can’t say where it came from?’

‘Outa der ground is der best I can do, lady,’ said Igneous. He relaxed a little now it appeared that enquiries were not to do with such matters as a recent batch of hollow statues and subjects of a similar nature. As sometimes happened in these circumstances, he tried to be helpful. ‘Come an’ have a look at dis.’

He loped away. The Watchmen followed him through the warehouse, observed by a couple of dozen cautious trolls. No one liked to see policemen up close, especially if the reason you were working at Igneous’s place was that it was nice and quiet and you wanted somewhere to lie low for a few weeks. Besides, while it was true that a lot of people came to Ankh-Morpork because it was a city of opportunity, sometimes it was the opportunity not to be hung, skewered or dismantled for whatever crimes you’d left behind in the mountains.

‘Just don’t look,’ said Angua.

‘Why?’ said Cheery.

‘Because there’s just us and there’s at least two dozen of them,’ said Angua. ‘And all our clothes were made for people with full sets of arms and legs.’

Igneous went through a doorway and out into the yard behind the factory. Pots were stacked high on pallets. Bricks were curing in long rows. And under a crude roof were several large mounds of clay.

‘Dere,’ said Igneous generously. ‘Clay.’

‘Is there a special name for it when it’s piled up like that?’ said Cheery timorously. She prodded the stuff.

‘Yeah,’ said Igneous. ‘Dat’s technic’ly wot we calls a heap.’

Angua shook her head sadly. So much for Clues. Clay was clay. She’d hoped there were all different sorts, and it turned out to be as common as dirt.

And then Igneous Helped the Police with Their Enquiries. ‘D’you mind if youse goes out the back way?’ he mumbled. ‘Youse makes the help nervous an’ I get pots I can’t sell.’

He indicated a pair of wide doors in the rear wall, big enough for a cart to get through. Then he fumbled in his apron and produced a large keyring.

The padlock on the gate was big and shiny and new.

‘You are afraid of theft?’ said Angua.

‘Now, lady, dat’s unfair,’ said Igneous. ‘Someone broke der ole lock when dey pinched some stuff tree, four munfs ago.’

‘Disgusting, isn’t it?’ said Angua. ‘Makes you wonder why you pay your taxes, I expect.’

In some ways Igneous was a lot brighter than, say, Mr Ironcrust. He ignored the remark. ‘It was just stuff,’ he said, ushering them towards the open gate as speedily as he dared.

‘Was it clay they stole?’ said Cheery.

‘It don’t cost much but it’s the principle of the t’ing,’ he said. ‘It beat me why dey bothered. It come to somet’ng when half a ton of clay can jus’ walk out the door.’

Angua looked at the lock again. ‘Yes, indeed,’ she said distantly.

The gate rattled shut behind them. They were outside, in an alley.

‘Fancy anyone stealing a load of clay,’ said Cheery. ‘Did he tell the Watch?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Angua. ‘Wasps don’t complain too loudly when they’re stung. Anyway, Detritus thinks Igneous is mixed up with smuggling Slab to the mountains, and so he’s itching for an excuse to have a poke around in there … Look, this is still technically my day off.’ She stepped back and peered up at the high spiked wall around the yard. ‘Could you bake clay in a baker’s oven?’ she said.

‘Oh, no.’

‘Doesn’t get hot enough?’

‘No, it’s the wrong shape. Some of your pots’d be baked hard while others’d still be green. Why do you ask?’

Why did I ask? Angua thought. Oh, what the hell … ‘Fancy a drink?’

‘Not ale,’ said Cheery quickly. ‘And nowhere where you have to sing while you drink. Or slap your knees.’

Angua nodded understandingly. ‘Somewhere, in fact, without dwarfs?’

‘Er … yes …’

‘Where we’re going,’ said Angua, ‘that won’t be a problem.’

The fog was rising fast. All morning it had hung around in alleys and cellars. Now it was moving back in for the night. It came out of the ground and up from the river and down from the sky, a clinging yellowish stinging blanket, the river Ankh in droplet form. It found its way through cracks and, against all common sense, managed to survive in lighted rooms, filling the air with an eye-watering haze and making the candles crackle. Outdoors, every figure loomed, every shape was a menace …

In a drab alley off a drab street Angua stopped, squared her shoulders, and pushed open a door.