Feet of Clay

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 and 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!”
    “So I understand,” said Vimes.
    “But why?”
    “Because many of his patients survive,” said Vimes. He raised his hands as the protests grew. “And now, gentlemen, I must leave you. Somewhere there’s a poisoner. I’d like to find him before he becomes a murderer.”
    He went back up the stairs, trying to ignore the shouts behind him.
    “You sure about old Doughnut, sir?” said Colon, catching him up.
    “Well, do you trust him?” said Vimes.
    “Doughnut? Of course not!”
    “Right. He’s untrustworthy, and so we don’t trust him. So that’s all right. But I’ve seen him revive a horse when everyone else said it was fit only for the knackers. Horse doctors have to get results, Fred.”
    And that was true enough: When a human doctor, after much bleeding and cupping, finds that a patient has died out of sheer desperation, he can always say, “Dear me, will of the gods, that will be thirty dollars please,” and walk away a free man. This is because human beings are not, technically, worth anything. A good racehorse, on the other hand, may be worth twenty thousand dollars. A doctor who lets one hurry off too soon to that great big