Feet of Clay

Willikins would have allowed him into the kitchen only on sufferance. And would have made him take his boots off.
    So that’s your life now, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes. A jumped-up copper to the nobs and a nob to the rest, eh?
    He frowned at the reflection in the mirror.
    He’d started out in the gutter, true enough. And now he was on three meat meals a day, good boots, a warm bed at night and, come to that, a wife too. Good old Sybil—although she did tend to talk about curtains these days, but Sergeant Colon had said this happened to wives and was a biological thing and perfectly normal.
    He’d actually been rather attached to his old cheap boots. He could read the street in them, the soles were so thin. It’d got so that he could tell where he was on a pitch-dark night just by the feel of the cobbles. Ah, well…
    There was something mildly strange about Sam Vimes’s shaving mirror. It was slightly convex, so that it reflected more of the room than a flat mirror would do, and it gave a very good view of the outbuildings and gardens beyond the window.
    Hmm. Going thin on top. Definitely a receding scalp there. Less hair to comb but, on the other hand, more face to wash…
    There was a flicker in the glass.
    He moved sideways and ducked.
    The mirror smashed.
    There was the sound of feet somewhere beyond the broken window, and then a crash and a scream.
    Vimes straightened up. He fished the largest piece of mirror out of the shaving bowl and propped it up on the black crossbow bolt that had buried itself in the wall.
    He finished shaving.
    Then he rang the bell for the butler. Willikins materialized. “Sir?”
    Vimes rinsed the razor. “Get the boy to nip along to the glazier, will you?”
    The butler’s eyes flickered to the window and then to the shattered mirror. “Yes, sir. And the bill to go to the Assassins’ Guild again, sir?”
    “With my compliments. And while he’s out he’s to call in at that shop in Five And Seven Yard and get me another shaving mirror. The dwarf there knows the kind I like.”
    “Yes, sir. And I shall fetch a dustpan and brush directly, sir. Shall I inform her ladyship of this eventuality, sir?”
    “No. She always says it’s my fault for encouraging them.”
    “Very good, sir,” said Willikins.
    He dematerialized.
    Sam Vimes dried himself off and went downstairs to the morning-room, where he opened the cabinet and took out the new crossbow Sybil had given to him as a wedding present. Sam Vimes was used to the old guard crossbows, which had a nasty habit of firing backwards in a tight corner, but this was a Burleigh and Stronginthearm made-to-measure job with the oiled walnut stock. There was none finer, it was said.
    Then he selected a thin cigar and strolled out into the garden.
    There was a commotion coming from the dragon house. Vimes entered, and shut the door behind him. He rested the crossbow against the door.
    The yammering and squeaking increased. Little gouts of flame puffed above the thick walls of the hatching pens.
    Vimes leaned over the nearest one. He picked up a newly hatched dragonette and tickled it under the chin. As it flamed excitedly he lit his cigar and savored the smoke.
    He blew a smoke ring at the figure hanging from the ceiling. “Good morning,” he said.
    The figure twisted frantically. By an amazing piece of muscle control it had managed to catch a foot around a beam as it fell, but it couldn’t quite pull itself up. Dropping was not to be thought of. A dozen baby dragons were underneath it, jumping up and down excitedly and flaming.
    “Er…good morning,” said the hanging figure.
    “Turned out nice again,” said Vimes, picking up a bucket of coal. “Although the fog will be back later, I expect.”
    He took a small nugget of coal and tossed it to the dragons. They squabbled for it.
    Vimes gripped another lump. The young dragon that had caught the coal already had a distinctly longer and hotter flame.
    “I suppose,” said the young man, “that I could not prevail upon you to let me down?”
    Another dragon caught some thrown coal and belched a fireball. The young man swung desperately to avoid it.
    “Guess,” said Vimes.
    “I suspect on reflection, that it was foolish of me to choose the roof,” said the assassin.
    “Probably,” said Vimes. He’d spent several hours a few weeks ago sawing through joists and carefully balancing the roof tiles.
    “I should have dropped off the wall and used the