Feet of Clay

under the living sky.”
    Dragon found the page he had been looking for and turned the book around. “This was his escutcheon,” he said.
    Vimes looked down at the familiar sign of the morpork owl perched on an ankh. It was atop a shield divided into four quarters, with a symbol in each quarter.
    “What’s this crown with a dagger through it?”
    “Oh, a traditional symbol, ah-ha. Indicates his role as defender of the crown.”
    “Really? And the bunch of rods with an axe in it?” He pointed.
    “A fasces. Symbolizes that he is… was an officer of the law. And the axe was an interesting harbinger of things to come, yes? But axes, I’m afraid, solve nothing.”
    Vimes stared at the third quarter. It contained a painting of what seemed to be a marble bust.
    “Symbolizing his nickname, ‘Old Stoneface’,” said Dragon helpfully. “He asked that some reference be made. Sometimes heraldry is nothing more than the art of punning.”
    “And this last one? A bunch of grapes? Bit of a boozer, was he?” said Vimes sourly.
    “No. Ah-ha. Word play. Vimes = Vines.”
    “Ah. The art of bad punning,” said Vimes. “I bet that had you people rolling on the floor.”
    Dragon shut the book and sighed. “There is seldom a reward for those who do what must be done. Alas, such is precedent, and I am powerless.” The old voice brightened up. “But, still…I was extremely pleased, Commander, to hear of your marriage to Lady Sybil. An ex cellent lineage. One of the most noble families in the city, ah-ha. The Ramkins, the Selachiis, the Venturis, the Nobbses, of course…”
    “That’s it, is it?” said Vimes. “I just go now?”
    “I seldom get visitors,” said Dragon. “Generally people are seen by the Heralds, but I thought you should get a proper explanation. Ah-ha. We’re so busy now. Once we dealt with real heraldry. But this, they tell me, is the Century of the Fruitbat. Now it seems that, as soon as a man opens his second meat-pie shop, he feels impelled to consider himself a gentleman.” He waved a thin white hand at three coats of arms pinned in a row on a board. “The butcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker,” he sneered, but genteelly. “Well, the candle-maker, in point of fact. Nothing will do but that we burrow through the records and prove them acceptably armigerous…”
    Vimes glanced at the three shields. “Haven’t I seen that one before?” he said.
    “Ah. Mr. Arthur Carry the candle-maker,” said Dragon. “Suddenly business is booming and he feels he must be a gentleman. A shield bisected by a bend sinister d’une mèche en metal gris —that is to say, a steel gray shield indicating his personal determination and zeal (how zealous, ah-ha, these businessmen are!) bisected by a wick. Upper half, a chandelle in a fenêtre avec rideaux houlant (a candle lighting a window with a warm glow, ah-ha), lower half two chandeliers illuminé (indicating the wretched man sells candles to rich and poor alike). Fortunately his father was a harbor master, which fact allowed us to stretch ourselves a little with a crest of a lampe au poisson (fish-shaped lamp), indicating both this and his son’s current profession. The motto I left in the common modern tongue and is ‘Art Brought Forth the Candle.’ I’m sorry, ah-ha, it was naughty but I couldn’t resist it.”
    “My sides ache,” said Vimes. Something kicked his brain, trying to get attention.
    “This one is for Mr. Gerhardt Sock, president of the Butchers’ Guild,” said Dragon. “His wife’s told him a coat of arms is the thing to have, and who are we to argue with the daughter of a tripe merchant, so we’ve made him a shield of red, for blood, and blue and white stripes, for a butcher’s apron, bisected by a string of sausages, centralis a cleaver held in a gloved hand, a boxing glove, which is, ah-ha, the best we could do for ‘sock.’ Motto is Futurus Meus est in Visceris , which translates as ‘My Future is in (the) Entrails’, both relating to his profession and, ah-ha, alluding to the old practice of telling—”
    “—The future from entrails,” said Vimes. “A-mazing.” Whatever was trying to get into his attention was really jumping up and down now.
    “While this one, ah-ha, is for Rudolph Potts of the Bakers’ Guild,” said Dragon, pointing to the third shield with a twig-thin finger. “Can you read it, Commander?”
    Vimes gave it a gloomy stare. “Well, it’s divided into three, and there’s a