Feet of Clay

‘Section Two, Rule One of the Thieves’ Guild Charter says that members must carry their cards on all professional occasions,’ said Carrot.

‘He’s not even drawn his sword!’ hissed the most stupid of the three-strong gang.

‘He doesn’t need to, he’s got a loaded wolf.’^{13}

Someone was writing in the gloom, the scritching of their pen the only sound.

Until a door creaked open.

The writer turned as quick as a bird. ‘You? I told you never to come back here!’

‘I know, I know, but it’s that damn thing! The production line stopped and it got out and it’s killed that priest!’

‘Did anyone see it?’

‘In the fog we had last night? I shouldn’t think so. But—’

‘Then it is not, ah-ha, a matter of significance.’

‘No? They’re not supposed to kill people. Well … that is,’ the speaker conceded, ‘not by smashing them on the head, anyway.’

‘They will if so instructed.’

‘I never told it to! Anyway, what if it turns on me?’

‘On its master? It can’t disobey the words in its head, man.’

The visitor sat down, shaking his head. ‘Yeah, but which words? I don’t know, I don’t know, this is getting too much, that damn thing around all the time—’

‘Making you a fat profit—’

‘All right, all right, but this other stuff, the poison, I never—’

‘Shut up! I’ll see you again tonight. You can tell the others that I certainly do have a candidate. And if you dare come here again …’

The Ankh-Morpork Royal College of Heralds turned out to be a green gate in a wall in Mollymog Street. Vimes tugged on the bell-pull. Something clanged on the other side of the wall and immediately the place erupted in a cacophony of hoots, growls, whistles and trumpetings.

A voice shouted, ‘Down, boy! Couchant! I said couchant! No! Not rampant! And thee shall have a sugar lump like a good boy. William! Stop that at once! Put him down! Mildred, let go of Graham!’

The animal noises subsided a bit and footsteps approached. A wicket gate in the main door opened a fraction.

Vimes saw an inch-wide segment of a very short man.

‘Yes? Are you the meat man?’

‘Commander Vimes,’ said Vimes. ‘I have an appointment.’

The animal noises started up again. ‘Eh?’

‘Commander Vimes!’ Vimes shouted.

‘Oh. I suppose thee’d better come in.’ The door swung open. Vimes stepped through. Silence fell. Several dozen pairs of eyes regarded Vimes with acute suspicion. Some of the eyes were small and red. Several were big and poked just above the surface of the scummy pond that occupied a lot of space in the yard. Some were on perches.

The yard was full of animals, but even they were crowded out by the smell of a yard full of animals. And most of them were clearly very old, which didn’t do anything for the smell.

A toothless lion yawned at Vimes. A lion running, or at least lounging around loose, was amazing in itself, but not so amazing as the fact that it was being used as a cushion by an elderly gryphon, which was asleep with all four claws in the air.

There were hedgehogs, and a greying leopard, and moulting pelicans. Green water surged in the pond and a couple of hippos surfaced and yawned. Nothing was in a cage, and nothing was trying to eat anything else.

‘Ah, it takes people like that, first time,’ said the old man. He had a wooden leg. ‘We’re quite a happy little family.’

Vimes turned and found himself looking at a small owl. ‘My gods,’ he said. ‘That’s a morpork, isn’t it?’

The old man’s face broke into a happy smile. ‘Ah, I can see thee knows thy heraldry,’ he cackled. ‘Daphne’s ancestors came all the way from some islands on the other side of the Hub, so they did.’^{14}

Vimes took out his City Watch badge and stared at the coat of arms embossed thereon.

The old man looked over his shoulder. ‘That’s not her, o’course,’ he said, indicating the owl perched on the Ankh. ‘That was her great-grandma, Olive. A morpork on an ankh, see? That is a pune or play on words. Laugh? I nearly started. That’s about as funny as you gets round here. We could do with a mate for her, tell you the truth. And a female hippo. I mean, his lordship says we’ve got two hippos, which is right enough, I’m just saying it’s not natural for Roderick and Keith, I ain’t passing judgement, it’s just not right, that’s all I’m saying. What was thy name again?’

‘Vimes. Sir Samuel Vimes. My wife made the appointment.’

The old man cackled again. ‘Ah, ’tis usually so.’

Moving quite fast despite his wooden leg, the old man led the way through the steaming mounds of multi-species dung to the building on the other side of the yard.

‘I expect this is good for the garden, anyway,’ said Vimes, trying to make conversation.

‘I tried it on my rhubarb,’ said the old man, pushing open the door. ‘But it grew to twenty feet tall, sir, and then spontaneously caught fire. Mind where the wyvern’s been, sir, he’s been ill — oh, what a shame. Never mind, it’ll scrape off beautiful when it dries. In thee goes, sir.’