Feet of Clay

Vimes stared at the hollow eyes. The top of Dorfl's head was still open so that light shone down through the sockets. Vimes had seen many horrible things on the street, but the silent golem was somehow worse. You could too easily imagine the eyes flaring and the thing standing up and striding forward, fists flailing like sledgehammers. It was more than just his imagination. It seemed to be built into the things. A potentiality, biding its time.

That's why we all hate 'em, he thought. Those expressionless eyes watch us, those bigfaces turn to follow us, and doesn't it just look as if they're making notes and taking names? If you heard that one had bashed in someone's head over in Quirm or somewhere, wouldn't you just love to believe it?

A voice inside, a voice which generally came to him only in the quiet hours of the night or, in the old days, half-way down a whisky bottle, added: Given how we use them, maybe we're scared because we know we deserve it...

No... there's nothing behind those eyes. There's just clay and magic words.

Vimes shrugged. 'I chased a golem earlier,' he said. 'It was standing on the Brass Bridge. Damn thing. Look, we've got a confession and the eyeball evidence. If you can't come up with anything better than a ... a feeling, then we'll have to—'

To what, sir?' said Carrot. There isn't anything more we could do to him. He's dead now.'

'Inanimate, you mean.'

'Yes, sir. If you want to put it that way.'

'If Dorfl didn't kill the old men, who did?'

'Don't know, sir. But I think Dorfl does. Maybe he was following the murderer.'

'Could it have been ordered to protect someone?'

'Maybe, sir. Or he decided to.'

'You'll be telling me it's got emotions next. Where's Angua gone?'

'She thought she'd check a few things, sir,' said Carrot. 'I was... puzzled about this, sir. It was in his hand. 'He held the object up.

'A piece of matchstick?'

'Golems don't smoke and they don't use fire, sir. It's just... odd that he should have the thing, sir.'

'Oh,' said Vimes, sarcastically. 'A Clue.'

Dorfl's trail was the word on the street. The mixed smells of the slaughterhouse filled Angua's nostrils.

The journey zigzagged, but with a certain directional tendency. It was as if the golem had laid a ruler across the town and taken every road and alley that went in the right direction.

She came to a short blind alley. There were some warehouse gates at the end. She sniffed. There were plenty of other smells, too. Dough. Paint, Grease. Pine resin. Sharp, loud, fresh scents. She sniffed again. Cloth? Wool?

There was a confusion of footprints in the dirt. Large footprints.

The small part of Angua that always walked on two legs saw that the footprints coming out were on top of the footprints going in. She snuffled around. Up to twelve creatures, each with their own very distinctive smell - the smell of merchandise rather than living creatures - had all very recently gone down the stairwell. And all twelve had come back up.

She went down the steps and was met by an impenetrable barrier.

A door.

Paws were no good at doorknobs.

She peered over the top of the steps. There was no one around. Only the fog hung between the buildings.

She concentrated and changed, leaned against the wall for a moment until the world stopped spinning, and tried the door.

There was a large cellar beyond. Even with a werewolf s eyesight there wasn't much to see.

She had to stay human. She thought better when she was human. Unfortunately, here and now, as a human, the thought occupying her mind in no small measure was that she was naked. Anyone finding a naked woman in their cellar would be bound to ask questions. They might not even bother with questions, even ones like 'Please?' Angua could certainly deal with that situation, but she preferred not to have to. It was so difficult explaining away the shape of the wounds.

No time to waste, then.

The walls were covered in writing. Big letters, small letters, but all in that neat script which the golems used. There were phrases in chalk and paint and charcoal, and in some cases simply cut into the stone itself. They reached from floor to ceiling, criss-crossing one another over and over again so often that it was almost impossible to make out what any of them were meant to say. Here and there a word or two stood out in the jumble of letters:

...SHALT NOT...WHAT HE DOES IS NOT...RAGE AT THE CREATOR ...WOE UNTO THE MASTERLESS...WORDS IN THE...CLAY OF OUR...LET MY...BRING US TO FRE...

The dust in the middle of the floor was scuffed, as if a number of people had been milling around. She crouched down and rubbed the dirt, occasionally sniffing her finger. Smells. They were industrial smells. She hardly needed special senses to detect them. A golem didn't smell of anything except clay and whatever it was it was working with at the time...

And... something rolled under her fingers. It was a length of wood, only a couple of inches long. A matchstick, without a head.