“Anything else?” said Vimes.
“Piece of bread, sir. And we check the loaf.”
“Soup spoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Put them on…”
Carrot detached one hand from the invisible tray to take an invisible piece of bread and an intangible spoon.
“Anything else?” said Vimes. “Salt and pepper?”
“I think I remember salt and pepper pots, sir.”
“On they go, then.”
Vimes stared hawk-like at the space between Carrots’s hands.
“No,” he said. “We wouldn’t have missed that, would we? I mean…we wouldn’t, would we?”
He reached out and picked up an invisible tube.
“Tell me we checked the salt,” he said.
“That’s the pepper, sir,” said Carrot helpfully.
“Salt! Mustard! Vinegar! Pepper!” said Vimes. “We didn’t check all the food and then let his lordship tip poison on to suit his taste, did we? Arsenic’s a metal. Can’t you get…metal salts? Tell me we asked ourselves that. We aren’t that stupid, are we?”
“I’ll check directly,” said Carrot. He looked around desperately. “I’ll just put the tray down—”
“Not yet,” said Vimes. “I’ve been here before. We don’t rush off shouting ‘Give me a towel!’ just because we’ve had one idea. Let’s keep looking, shall we? The spoon. What’s it made of?”
“Good point. I’ll check the cutlery, sir.”
“Now we’re cooking with charcoal! What’s he been drinking?”
“Boiled water, sir. We’ve tested the water. And I checked the glasses.”
“Good. So…we’ve got the tray and you put the tray in the dumbwaiter and then what?”
“The men in the kitchen haul on the ropes and it goes up to the sixth floor.”
“No stops?”
Carrot looked blank.
“It goes up six floors,” said Vimes. “It’s just a shaft with a big box in it that can be pulled up and down, isn’t it? I’ll bet there’s a door into it on every floor.”
“Some of the floors are hardly used these days, sir—”
“Even better for our poisoner, hmm? He just stands there, bold as you like, and waits for the tray to come by, right? We don’t know that the meal which arrives is the one that left, do we?”
“Brilliant, sir!”
“It happens at night, I’ll swear,” said Vimes. “He’s chipper in the evenings and out like a light next morning. What time is his supper sent up?”
“While he’s poorly, around six o’clock, sir,” said Carrot. “It’s got dark by then. Then he gets on with his writing.”
“Right. We’ve got a lot to do. Come on.”
The Patrician was sitting up in bed reading when Vimes entered. “Ah, Vimes,” he said.
“Your supper will be up shortly, my lord,” said Vimes. “And can I once again say that our job would be a lot easier if you let us move you out of the palace?”
“I’m sure it would be,” said Lord Vetinari.
There was a rattle from the dumbwaiter. Vimes walked across and opened the doors.
There was a dwarf in the box. He had a knife between his teeth and an axe in each hand, and was glowering with ferocious concentration.
“Good heavens,” said Vetinari weakly. “I hope at least they’ve included some mustard.”
“Any problems, Constable?” said Vimes.
“Nofe, fir,” said the dwarf, unfolding himself and removing the knife. “Very dull all the way up, sir. There was other doors and they all looked pretty unused, but I nailed ’em up anyway like Captain Carrot said, sir.”
“Well done. Down you go.”
Vimes shut the doors. There was more rattling as the dwarf began his descent.
“Every detail covered, eh, Vimes?”
“I hope so, sir.”
The box came back up again, with a tray in it. Vimes took it out.
“What’s this?”
“A Klatchian Hots without anchovies,” said Vimes, lifting the cover. “We got it from Ron’s Pizza Hovel round the corner. The way I see it, no one can poison all the food in the city. And the cutlery’s from my place.”
“You have the mind of a true policeman, Vimes.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Really? Was it a compliment?” The Patrician prodded at the plate with the air of an explorer in a strange country.
“Has someone already eaten this, Vimes?”
“No, sir. That’s just how they chop up the food.”
“Oh, I see. I thought perhaps the food-tasters were getting over-enthusiastic,” said the Patrician. “My word. What a treat I have to look forward to.”
“I can see you’re feeling better, sir,” said Vimes stiffy.
“Thank you, Vimes.”
When Vimes had gone Lord Vetinari ate the pizza, or at least those parts of it he thought he could recognize. Then he put the tray aside and blew out the candle by his bed. He sat in the dark for a while, then felt under his pillow until his fingers located a small sharp knife and a box of matches.
Thank goodness for Vimes. There was something endearing about his desperate, burning and above all mis-placed competence. If the poor man took any longer he’d have to start giving him hints.
In the main office Carrot sat alone, watching Dorfl.
The golem stood where it had been left. Someone had hung a dishcloth on one arm. The top of its head was still open.
Carrot sat for a while with his chin on one hand, just staring. Then he opened a desk drawer and took out Dorfl’s chem. He examined it. He got up. He walked over to the golem. He placed the words in the head.
An orange glow rose in Dorfl’s eyes. What was baked pottery took on that faintest of auras that marked the change between the living and the dead.
Carrot found the golem’s slate and pencil and pushed them into Dorfl’s hand, then stood back.
The burning gaze followed him as he removed his sword belt, undid his breastplate, took off his jerkin and pulled his woollen vest over his head.
The glow was reflected from his muscles. They glistened in the candlelight.
“No weapons,” said Carrot. “No armor. You see? Now listen to me…”
Dorfl lurched forward and swung a fist.
Carrot did not move.
The fist stopped a hair’s-breadth from Carrot’s unblinking eyes.
“I didn’t think you could,” he said, as the golem swung again and the fist jerked to a stop a fraction of an inch from Carrot’s stomach. “But sooner or later you’ll have to talk to me. Write, anyway.”
Dorfl paused. Then it picked up the slate pencil.
TAKE MY WORDS!
“Tell me about the golem who killed people.”
The pencil did not move.
“The others have killed themselves,” said Carrot.
I KNOW.
“How do you know?”
The golem watched him. Then it wrote:
CLAY OF MY CLAY.
“You feel what other golems feel?” said Carrot.
Dorfl nodded.
“And people are killing golems,” said Carrot. “I don’t know if I can stop that. But I can try. I think I know what’s happening, Dorfl. Some of it. I think I know who you were following. Clay of your clay. Shaming you all. Something went wrong. You tried to put it right. I think…you all had such hopes. But the words in your head’ll defeat you every time…”
The golem stayed motionless.
“You sold him, didn’t you,” said Carrot quietly. “Why?”
The words were scribbled quickly.
GOLEM MUST HAVE A MASTER.
“Why? Because the words say so?”
GOLEM MUST HAVE A MASTER!
Carrot sighed. Men had to breathe, fish had to swim, golems had to have a master. “I don’t know if I can sort this out, but no one else is going to try, believe me,” he said.
Do
rfl did not move.
Carrot went back to where he had been standing. “I’m wondering if the old priest and Mr. Hopkinson did something…or helped to do something,” he said, watching the golem’s face. “I’m wondering if…afterwards…something turned against them, found the world a bit too much…”
Dorfl remained impassive.
Carrot nodded. “Anyway, you’re free to go. What happens now is up to you. I’ll help you if I can. If a golem is a thing then it can’t commit murder, and I’ll still try to find out why all this is happening. If a golem can commit murder, then you are people, and what is being done to you is terrible and must be stopped. Either way, you win, Dorfl.” He turned his back and fiddled with some papers on his desk. “The big trouble,” he added, “is that everyone wants someone else to read their minds for them and then make the world work properly. Even golems, perhaps.”
He turned back to face the golem. “I know you’ve all got a secret. But, the way things are going, there won’t be any of you left to keep it.”
He looked hopefully at Dorfl.
NO. CLAY OF MY CLAY. I WILL NOT BETRAY.
Carrot sighed. “Well, I can’t force you.” He grinned. “Although, you know, I could. I could write a few extra words on your chem. Tell you to be talkative.”
The fires rose in Dorfl’s eyes.
“But I won’t. Because that would be inhumane. You haven’t murdered anyone. I can’t deprive you of your freedom because you haven’t got any. Go on. You can go. It’s not as if I don’t know where you live.”
TO WORK IS TO LIVE.
“What is it golems want, Dorfl? I’ve seen you golems walking around the streets and working all the time, but what is it you actually hope to achieve?”
The slate pencil scribbled.
RESPITE.
Then Dorfl turned around and walked out of the building.
“D*mn!” said Carrot, a difficult linguistic feat. He drummed his fingers on the desk, then got up abruptly, put his clothes back on and stalked down the corridor to find Angua.
She was leaning against the wall in Corporal Littlebottom’s office, talking to the dwarf.
“I’ve sent Dorfl home,” said Carrot.
“Has he got one?” said Angua.
“Well, back to the slaughterhouse, anyway. But it’s probably not a good time for a golem to be out alone so I’m just going to stroll along after him and keep…Are you all right, Corporal Littlebottom?”
“Yes, sir,” said Cheri.
“You’re wearing a…a…a…” Carrot’s mind rebelled at the thought of what the dwarf was wearing and settled for: “A kilt?”
“Yes, sir. A skirt, sir. A leather one, sir.”
Carrot tried to find a suitable response and had to resort to: “Oh.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Angua. “Cheri can keep an eye on the desk.”
“A…kilt,” said Carrot. “Oh. Well, er…just keep an eye on things. We won’t be long. And…er…just keep behind the desk, all right?”
“Come on,” said Angua.
When they were out in the fog Carrot said, “Do you think there’s something a bit…odd about Littlebottom?”
“Seems like a perfectly ordinary female to me,” said Angua.
“Female? He told you he was female?”
“She,” Angua corrected. “This is Ankh-Morpork, you know. We’ve got extra pronouns here.”
She could smell his bewilderment. Of course, everyone knew that, somewhere down under all those layers of leather and chain mail, dwarfs came in enough different types to ensure the future production of more dwarfs, but it was not a subject that dwarfs discussed other than at those essential points in a courtship when embarrassment might otherwise arise.
“Well, I would have thought she’d have the decency to keep it to herself,” Carrot said finally. “I mean, I’ve nothing against females. I’m pretty certain my stepmother is one. But I don’t think it’s very clever, you know, to go around drawing attention to the fact.”
“Carrot, I think you’ve got something wrong with your head,” said Angua.
“What?”
“I think you may have got it stuck up your bum. I mean, good grief! A bit of make-up and a dress and you’re acting as though she’d become Miss Va Va Voom and started dancing on tables down at the Skunk Club!”
There were a few seconds of shocked silence while they both considered the image of a dwarfish strip-tease dancer. Both minds rebelled.
“Anyway,” said Angua, “if people can’t be themselves in Ankh-Morpork, where can they?”
“There’ll be trouble when the other dwarfs notice,” said Carrot. “I could almost see his knees. Her knees.”
“Everyone’s got knees.”
“Perhaps, but it’s asking for trouble to flaunt them. I mean, I’m used to knees. I can look at knees and think, ‘Oh, yes, knees, they’re just hinges in your legs,’ but some of the lads—”
Angua sniffed. “He turned left here. Some of the lads what?”
“Well…I don’t know how they’ll react, that’s all. You shouldn’t have encouraged her. I mean, of course there’s female dwarfs but…I mean, they have the decency not to show it.”
He heard Angua gasp. Her voice sounded rather far away when she said, “Carrot, you know I’ve always respected your attitude to the citizens of Ankh-Morpork.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been impressed by the way you really seem to be blind to things like shape and color.”
“Yes?”
“And you always seem to care for people.”
“Yes?”
“And you know that I feel considerable affection for you.”
“Yes?”
“It’s just that, sometimes…”
“Yes?”
“I really, really, really wonder why.”
Carriages were thickly parked outside Lady Selachii’s mansion when Corporal Nobbs strolled up the drive. He knocked on the door.
A footman opened it. “Servants’ entrance,” said the footman, and made to shut the door again.
But Nobby’s outstretched foot had been ready for this. “Read these,” he said, thrusting two bits of paper at him.
The first one read:
I, after hearing evidence from a number of experts, including Mrs. Slipdry the midwife, certify that the balance of probability is that the bearer of this document, C. W. St. John Nobbs, is a human being.
Signed, Lord Vetinari.
The other was the letter from Dragon King of Arms.
The footman’s eyes widened. “Oh, I am terribly sorry, your lordship,” he said. He stared again at Corporal Nobbs. Nobby was clean-shaven—at least, the last time he’d shaved he’d been clean-shaven—but his face had so many minor topological features it looked like a very bad example of slash-and-burn agriculture.
“Oh, dear,” added the footman. He pulled himself together. “The other visitors normally just have cards.”
Nobby produced a battered deck. “I’m probably busy hobnobbing right now,” he said. “But I’m game for a few rounds of Cripple Mr. Onion afterwards, if you like.”
The footman looked him up and down. He didn’t get out much. He’d heard rumors—who hadn’t?—that working in the Watch was the rightful king of Ankh-Morpork. He’d have to admit that, if you wanted to hide a secret heir to the throne, you couldn’t possibly hide him more carefully than under the face of C. W. St. J. Nobbs.
On the other hand…the footman was something of an historian, and knew than in its long history even the throne itself had been occupied by creatures who had been hunchbacked, one-eyed, knuckle-dragging and as ugly as sin. On that basis Nobby was as royal as they came. If, technically, he wasn’t hunchbacked, this was only because he was hunched front and sides, too. There might be a time, the footman thought, when it paid to hitch your wagon to a star, even if said star was a red dwarf.
“You’ve never been to one of these affairs before, m’lord?” he said.
; “First time,” said Nobby.
“I’m sure your lordship’s blood will rise to the occasion,” said the footman weakly.
I’ll have to go, Angua thought as they hurried through the fog. I can’t go on living from month to month.
It’s not that he’s not likeable. You couldn’t wish to meet a more caring man.
That’s just it. He cares for everyone. He cares about everything. He cares indiscriminately. He knows everything about everyone because everyone interests him, and the caring is all general and never personal. He doesn’t think personal is the same as important.
If only he had some decent human quality, like selfishness.
I’m sure he doesn’t think about it that way, but you can tell the werewolf thing is upsetting him underneath. He cares about the things people say behind my back, and he doesn’t know how to deal with them.
What was it those dwarfs said the other day? One said something like, “She feels the need,” and the other one said, “Yeah, the need to feed.” I saw his expression. I can handle that sort of thing…well, most of the time…but he can’t. If only he’d thump someone. It wouldn’t do any good but at least he’d feel better.
It’s going to get worse. At best I’m going to get caught in someone’s chicken-house, and then the midden is really going to hit the windmill. Or I’ll get caught in someone’s room…
She tried to shut out the thought but it didn’t work. You could only control the werewolf, you couldn’t tame it.
It’s the city. Too many people, too many smells…
Maybe it would work if we were just alone somewhere, but if I said, “It’s me or the city,” he wouldn’t even see there was a choice.
Sooner or later, I’ve got to go home. It’s the best thing for him.
Vimes walked back through the damp night. He knew he was too angry to think properly.
He’d got nowhere, and he’d traveled a long way to get there. He’d got a cartload of facts and he’d done all the right logical things, and to someone, somewhere, he must look like a fool.
He probably looked like a fool to Carrot already. He’d kept coming up with bright ideas—proper policeman’s ideas—and each one had turned out to be a joke. He’d bullied and shouted and done all the proper things, and none of it had worked. They hadn’t found a thing. They’d merely increased their amount of ignorance.