Feet of Clay

Vimes.
    He picked up some of the coils of paper.
    …CREATE PEACE AND JUSTICE FOR ALL…
    …RULE US WISELY…
    …TEACH US FREEDOM…
    …LEAD US TO…
    Poor devil , he thought.
    “Let’s get you home. That hand needs treating—” said Angua.
    “ Listen , will you?” said Carrot. “He’s alive!”
    Vimes knelt down by Dorfl. The broken clay skull looked as empty as yesterday’s breakfast egg. But there was still a pinpoint of light in each eye socket.
    “Usssss,” hissed Dorfl, so faintly that Vimes wasn’t sure he’d heard it.
    A finger scratched on the floor.
    “Is it trying to write something?” said Angua.
    Vimes pulled out his notebook, eased it under Dorfl’s hand, and gently pushed a pencil into the golem’s fingers. They watched the hand as it wrote—a little jerkily but still with the mechanical precision of a golem—eight words.
    Then it stopped. The pencil rolled away. The lights in Dorfl’s eyes dwindled and went out.
    “Good grief,” breathed Angua. “They don’t need words in their heads…”
    “We can rebuild him,” said Carrot hoarsely. “We have the pottery.”
    Vimes stared at the words, and then at what remained of Dorfl.
    “Mister Vimes?” said Carrot.
    “Do it,” said Vimes.
    Carrot blinked.
    “Right now,” Vimes said. He looked back at the scrawl in his book.
    WORDS IN THE HEART CAN NOT BE TAKEN.
    “And when you rebuild him,” he said, “when you rebuild him…give him a voice. Understand? And get someone to look at your hand.”
    “A voice, sir?”
    “Do it!”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Right.” Vimes pulled himself together. “Constable Angua and I will have a look around here. Off you go.”
    He watched the two of them carry the remains out. “OK,” he said. “We’re looking for arsenic. Maybe there’ll be some workshop somewhere. I shouldn’t think they’d want to mix the poisoned candles up with the others. Cheri’ll know what—Where is Corporal Littlebottom?”
    “…Er…I don’t think I can hold on much longer…”
    They looked up.
    Cheri was hanging on the line of candles.
    “How did you get up there?” said Vimes.
    “I sort of found myself going past, sir.”
    “Can’t you just let go? You’re not that high—Oh…”
    A big trough of molten tallow was a few feet under her. Occasionally the surface went gloop .
    “Er…how hot would that be?” Vimes hissed to Angua.
    “Ever bitten hot jam?” she said.
    Vimes raised his voice. “Can’t you swing yourself along, Corporal?”
    “All the wood’s greasy, sir!”
    “Corporal Littlebottom, I order you not to fall off!”
    “Very good sir!”
    Vimes pulled off his jacket. “Hang on to this. I’ll see if I can climb up…” he muttered.
    “It won’t work!” said Angua. “The thing’s shaky enough as it is!”
    “I can feel my hands slipping, sir.”
    “Good grief, why didn’t you call out earlier?”
    “Everyone seemed to be busy, sir.”
    “Turn around, sir,” said Angua, undoing the buckles of her breastplate. “Right now, please! And shut your eyes!”
    “Why, what…?”
    “Rrright nowwww, sirrrrr!”
    “Oh…yes…”
    Vimes heard Angua back away from the candle machine, her footsteps punctuated by the clang of falling armor. Then she started running and the footsteps changed while she was running and then…
    He opened his eyes.
    The wolf sailed upwards in slow motion, caught the dwarf’s shoulder in its jaws as Cheri’s grip gave way, and then arced its body so that wolf and dwarf hit the floor on the far side of the vat.
    Angua rolled, whimpering.
    Cheri scrambled to her feet. “It’s a werewolf!”
    Angua rolled back and forth, pawing at her mouth.
    “What’s happened to it?” said Cheri, her panic receding a little. “It looks…hurt. Where’s Angua? Oh…”
    Vimes glanced at the dwarf’s torn leather shirt. “You wear chain mail under your clothes?” he said.
    “Oh…it’s my silver vest…but she knew about it. I told her…”
    Vimes grabbed Angua’s collar. She moved to bite him, and then caught his eye and turned her head away.
    “She only bit the silver,” said Cheri, distractedly.
    Angua pulled herself on to her feet, glared at them, and slunk off behind some crates. They heard her whimpering which, by degrees, became a voice.
    “…blasted blasted dwarfs and their blasted vests…”
    “You all right, Constable?” said Vimes.
    “…damn’ silver underwear…Can you throw me my clothes, please?”
    Vimes bundled up