Feet of Clay Page 6

  Definitely, she reassured herself.

  It was Angua’s mind that prowled the night, not a werewolf mind. She was almost entirely sure of that. A werewolf wouldn’t stop at chickens, not by a long way.

  She shuddered.

  Who was she kidding? It was easy to be a vegetarian by day, It was preventing yourself becoming a humanitarian at night that took the real effort.

  The first clocks were striking eleven as Vimes’s sedan chair wobbled to a halt outside the Patrician’s palace. Commander Vimes’s legs were beginning to give out, but he ran up five flights of stairs as fast as possible and collapsed on a chair in the waiting salon.

  Minutes went past.

  You didn’t knock on the Patrician’s door. He summoned you in the certain knowledge that you would be there.

  Vimes sat back, enjoying a moment’s peace.

  Something inside his coat went: “Bing bing bingley bing!”

  He sighed, pulled out a leather-bound package about the size of a small book, and opened it.

  A friendly yet slightly worried face peered up at him from its cage.

  “Yes?” said Vimes.

  “11 A.M. Appointment with the Patrician.”

  “Yes? Well it’s five past now.”

  “Er. So you’ve had it, have you?” said the imp.

  “No.”

  “Shall I go on remembering it or what?”

  “No. Anyway, you didn’t remind me about the College of Arms at ten.”

  The imp looked panic-stricken.

  “That’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Could’ve sworn it was Tuesday.”

  “It was an hour ago.”

  “Oh.” The imp was downcast. “Er. All right. Sorry. Um. Hey, I could tell you what time it is in Klatch, if you like. Or Genua. Or Hunghung. Any of those places. You name it.”

  “I don’t need to know the time in Klatch.”

  “You might,” said the imp desperately. “Think how people will be impressed if, during a dull moment of the conversation, you could say ‘Incidentally, in Klatch it’s an hour ago.’ Or Bes Pelargic. Or Ephebe. Ask me. Go on. I don’t mind. Any of those places.”

  Vimes sighed inwardly. He had a notebook. He took notes in it. It was always useful. And then Sybil, gods bless her, had brought him this fifteen-function imp which did so many other things, although as far as he could see at least ten of its functions consisted of apologizing for its inefficiency in the other five.

  “You could take a memo,” he said.

  “Wow! Really? Gosh! OK. Right. No problem.”

  Vimes cleared his throat. “See Corporal Nobbs re: time-keeping; also re: Earldom.”

  “Er…sorry, is this the memo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, you should have said ‘memo’ first. I’m pretty certain it’s in the manual.”

  “All right, it was a memo.”

  “Sorry, you have to say it again.”

  “Memo: See Corporal Nobbs re: time-keeping; also re: Earldom.”

  “Got it,” said the imp. “Would you like to be reminded of this at any particular time?”

  “The time here?” said Vimes, nastily. “Or the time in, say, Klatch?”

  “As a matter of fact, I can tell you what time it—”

  “I think I’ll write it in my notebook, if you don’t mind,” said Vimes.

  “Oh, well, if you prefer, I can recognize handwriting,” said the imp proudly. “I’m quite advanced.”

  Vimes pulled out his notebook and held it up. “Like this?” he said.

  The imp squinted for a moment. “Yep,” it said. “That’s handwriting, sure enough. Curly bits, spiky bits, all joined together. Yep. Handwriting. I’d recognize it anywhere.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to tell me what it say?”

  The demon looked wary. “Says?” it said. “It’s supposed to make noises?”

  Vimes put the battered book away and shut the lid of the organizer. Then he sat back and carried on waiting.

  Someone very clever—certainly someone much cleverer than whoever had trained that imp—must have made the clock for the Partrician’s waiting room. It went tick-tock like any other clock. But somehow, and against all usual horological practice, the tick and the tock were irregular. Tick tock tick…and then the merest fraction of a second longer before…tock tick tock…and then a tick a fraction of a second earlier than the mind’s ear was now prepared for. The effect was enough, after ten minutes, to reduce the thinking processes of even the best-prepared to a sort of porridge. The Patrician must have paid the clockmaker quite highly.

  The clock said quarter past eleven.

  Vimes walked over to the door and, despite precedent, knocked gently.

  There was no sound from within, no murmur of distant voices.

  He tried the handle. The door was unlocked.

  Lord Vetinari had always said that punctuality was the politeness of princes.

  Vimes went in.

  Cheery dutifully scraped up the crumbly white dirt and then examined the corpse of the late Father Tubelcek.

  Anatomy was an important study at the Alchemists’ Guild, owing to the ancient theory that the human body represented a microcosm of the universe, although when you saw one opened up it was hard to imagine which part of the universe was small and purple and went blomp-blomp when you prodded it. But in any case you tended to pick up practical anatomy as you went along, and sometimes scraped it off the wall as well. When new students tried an experiment that was particularly successful in terms of explosive force, the result was often a cross between a major laboratory refit and a game of Hunt-the-Other-Kidney.

  The man had been killed by being repeatedly hit around the head. That was about all you could say. Some kind of very heavy blunt instrument.*

  What else did Vimes expect Cheery to do?

  He looked carefully at the rest of the body. There were no other obvious signs of violence, although…there were a few specks of blood on the man’s fingers. But, then, there was blood everywhere.

  A couple of fingernails were torn. Tubelcek had put up a fight, or at least had tried to shield himself with his hands.

  Cheery looked more closely at the fingers. There was something piled under the nails. It had a waxy sheen, like thick grease. He couldn’t imagine why it should be there, but maybe his job was to find out. He conscientiously took an envelope out of his pocket and scraped the stuff into it, sealed it up and numbered it.

  Then he took his iconograph out of its box and prepared to take a picture of the corpse.

  As he did so, something caught his eye.

  Father Tubelcek lay there, one eye still open as Vimes had left it, winking at eternity.

  Cheery looked closer. He’d thought he’d imagined it. But…

  Even now he wasn’t sure. The mind could play tricks.

  He opened the little door of the iconograph and spoke to the imp inside.

  “Can you paint a picture of his eye, Sydney?” he said.

  The imp squinted out through the lens. “Just the eye?” it squeaked.

  “Yes. As big as you can.”

  “You’re sick, mister.”

  “And shut up,” said Cheery.

  He propped the box on the table and sat back. From inside the box there came the swish-swish of brush strokes. At last there was the sound of a handle being turned, and a slightly damp picture rustled out of a slot.

  Cheery peered at it. Then he knocked on the box. The hatch opened.

  “Yes?”

  “Bigger. So big it fills the whole paper. In fact”—Cheery squinted at the picture in his hands—“just paint the pupil. The bit in the middle.”

  “So it fills the whole paper? You’re weird.”

  Cheery propped the box nearer. There was a clicking of gears as the imp wound the lenses out, and then a few more seconds of busy brush work.

  Another damp picture unwound. It showed a big black disc.

  Well…mainly black.

  Cheery looked
closer. There was a hint, just a hint…

  He rapped on the box again.

  “Yes, Mr. Dwarf Weird Person?” said the imp.

  “The bit in the middle. Big as you can, thank you.”

  The lenses wound out yet further.

  Cheery waited anxiously. In the next room, he could hear Detritus patiently moving around.

  The paper wound out for the third time, and the hatch opened. “That’s it,” said the imp. “I’ve run out of black.”

  And the paper was black…except for the tiny little area that wasn’t.

  The door to the stairs burst open and Constable Visit came in, borne along by the pressure of a small crowd. Cheery guiltily thrust the paper into his pocket.

  “This is intolerable!” said a small man with a long black beard. “We demand you let us in! Who’re you, young man?”

  “I’m Ch—I’m Corporal Littlebottom,” said Cheery. “Look, I’ve got a badge…”

  “Well, Corporal,” said the man, “I am Wengel Raddley and I am a man of some standing in this community and I demand that you let us have poor Father Tubelcek this minute!”

  “We’re, er, we’re trying to find out who killed him,” Cheery began.

  There was a movement behind Cheery, and the faces in front of him suddenly looked very worried indeed. He turned to see Detritus in the doorway to the next room.

  “Everyt’ing OK?” said the troll.

  The changed fortunes of the Watch had allowed Detritus to have a proper breastplate rather than a piece of elephant battle armor. As was normal practice for the uniform of a sergeant, the armorer had attempted to do a stylized representation of muscles on it. As far as Detritus was concerned, he hadn’t been able to get them all in.

  “Is dere any trouble?” he said.

  The crowd backed away.

  “None at all, officer,” said Mr. Raddley. “You, er, just loomed suddenly, that’s all…”

  “Dis is correct,” said Detritus. “I am a loomer. It often happen suddenly. So dere’s no trouble, den?”

  “No trouble whatsoever, officer.”

  “Amazing t’ing, trouble,” rumbled Detritus thoughtfully. “Always I go lookin’ for trouble, an’ when I find it people said it ain’t dere.”

  Mr. Raddley drew himself up.

  “But we want to take Father Tubelcek away to bury him,” he said.

  Detritus turned to Cheery Littlebottom. “You done every’ting you need?”

  “I suppose so…”

  “He dead?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “He gonna get any better?”

  “Better than dead? I doubt it.”

  “Okay, den you people can take him away.”

  The two Watchmen stood aside as the body was carried down the stairs.

  “Why you takin’ pictures of the dead man?” said Detritus.

  “Well, er, it might be helpful to see how he was lying.”

  Detritus nodded sagely. “Ah, he was lyin’, was he? An’ him a holy man, too.”

  Littlebottom pulled out the picture and looked at it again. It was almost black. But…

  A constable arrived at the bottom of the stairs. “Is there someone up there called”—there was a muffled snigger—“Cheery Littlebottom?”

  “Yes,” said Littlebottom gloomily.

  “Well, Commander Vimes says you’ve to come to the Patrician’s palace right now, all right?”

  “Dat’s Corporal Littlebottom you’re talkin’ to,” said Detritus.

  “It’s all right,” said Littlebottom. “Nothing could make it any worse.”

  Rumor is information distilled so finely that it can filter through anything. It does not need doors and windows—sometimes it doesn’t even need people. It can exist free and wild, running from ear to ear without ever touching lips.

  It had escaped already. From the high window of the Patrician’s bedroom, Sam Vimes could see people drifting towards the palace. There wasn’t a mob—there wasn’t even what you might call a crowd—but the Brownian motion of the streets was bouncing more and more people in his direction.

  He relaxed slightly when he saw one or two guards come through the gates.

  On the bed, Lord Vetinari opened his eyes.

  “Ah…Commander Vimes,” he murmured.

  “What’s been happening, sir?” said Vimes.

  “I appear to be lying down, Vimes.”

  “You were in your office, sir. Unconscious.”

  “Dear me. I must have been…overdoing it. Well, thank you. If you would be kind enough to…help me up…”

  Lord Vetinari tried to pull himself upright, swayed, and fell back again. His face was pale. Sweat beaded his forehead.

  There was a knock at the door. Vimes opened it a fraction.

  “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 rumor 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 known 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 an
d 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 Lord 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.”

  “Really? Which doctor?”

  Behind Vimes, Sergeant Colon shut his eyes.

  “Dr. James Folsom,” said Vimes.

  It took a few seconds before someone worked this out. “What? You can’t mean…Doughnut Jimmy? He’s a horse doctor!”