Feet of Clay

a slight, damp pressure on his wrist.
    There was no way that an animal could have moved that fast, but there it was, and the wolf’s expression contrived to indicate very calmly that if the animal so desired the pressure could be increased more or less indefinitely.
    “Call it off!” he said, flinging the bow away with his free hand. “Tell it to let go!”
    “Oh, I never tell her anything,” said Carrot. “She makes up her own mind.”
    There was a clatter of iron-shod boots and half a dozen axe-bearing dwarfs raced out of the bakery gates, kicking up sparks as they skidded to a halt beside Carrot.
    “Get them!” shouted Mr. Ironcrust. Carrot dropped a hand on top of the dwarf’s helmet and turned him around.
    “It’s me, Mr. Ironcrust,” he said. “I believe these are the men?”
    “Right you are, Captain Carrot!” said the dwarf baker. “C’mon, lads! Let’s hang ’em up by the bura’zak-ka! ” *
    “Ooo,” murmured the weak of heart, damply.
    “Now, now, Mr. Ironcrust,” said Carrot patiently. “We don’t practice that punishment in Ankh-Morpork.” **
    “They bashed Bjorn Tightbritches senseless! And they kicked Olaf Stronginthearm in the bad’dhakz! † We’ll cut their—”
    “Mr. Ironcrust!”
    The dwarf baker hesitated and then, to the amazement and relief of the thieves, took a step backwards. “Yeah…all right, Captain Carrot. If you say so.”
    “I have business elsewhere, but I would be grateful if you would take them and turn them over to the Thieves’ Guild,” said Carrot.
    The quick thinker went pale. “Oh, no! They get really intense about unlicensed thieving! Anything but the Thieves’ Guild!”
    Carrot turned. The light caught his face in a certain way. “Anything?” he said.
    The unlicensed thieves looked at one another, and then all spoke at once.
    “The Thieves’ Guild. Fine. No problem.”
    “We like the Thieves’ Guild.”
    “Can’t wait. Thieves’ Guild, here I come.”
    “Fine body of men.”
    “Firm but fair.”
    “Good,” said Carrot. “Then everyone’s happy. Oh, yes.” He dug into his money pouch. “Here’s five pence for the loaf, Mr. Ironcrust. I’ve handled the other one, but you should be able to sand it off with no trouble.”
    The dwarf blinked at the coins. “ You want to pay me for saving my money?” he said.
    “As a tax payer you are entitled to the protection of the Watch,” said Carrot.
    There was a delicate pause. Mr. Ironcrust stared at his feet. One or two of the other dwarfs started to snigger.
    “I’ll tell you what,” said Carrot, in a kindly voice, “I’ll come around when I get a moment and help you fill in the forms, how about that?”
    A thief broke the embarrassed silence.
    “Er…could your…little dog…let go of my arm, please?”
    The wolf released its grip, jumped down and padded over to Carrot, who raised his hand to his helmet respectfully.
    “Good day to you all,” he said, and strode away.
    Thieves and victims watched him go.
    “Is he real ?” said the quick thinker.
    There was a growl from the baker, then “You bastards!” he shouted. “You bastards! ”
    “Wha…what? You’ve got the money back, haven’t you?”
    Two of his employees had to hold Mr. Ironcrust back.
    “Three years!” he said. “Three years and no one bothered! Three bloody years and not so much as a knock at the door! And he’ll ask me! Oh, yes! He’ll be nice about it! He’ll probably even go and get the extra forms so I won’t be put to the trouble! Why couldn’t you buggers have just run away?”

    Vimes peered around the shadowy, musty room. The voice might as well have come from a tomb.
    A panicky look crossed the face of the little Herald. “Perhaps Sir Samuel would be kind enough to step this way?” said the voice. It was chilly, clipping every syllable with precision. It was the kind of voice that didn’t blink.
    “That is, in fact, er…Dragon,” said Red Crescent.
    Vimes reached for his sword.
    “Dragon King of Arms,” said the man.
    “ King of Arms?” said Vimes.
    “Merely a title,” said the voice. “Pray enter.”
    For some reason the words re-spelled themselves in Vimes’s hindbrain as “prey, enter.”
    “King of Arms,” said the voice of Dragon, as Vimes passed into the shadows of the inner sanctum. “You will not need your sword, Commander. I have been Dragon King of Arms for more than five hundred years but I do not breathe fire, I assure you. Ah-ha.