Feet of Clay

confess in the end! And we’ve got these other crimes we’d like taken into consideration.”
    Dorfl held up its slate.
    I AM GUILTY.
    Something fell out of its hand.
    It was short, and white. A piece of matchstick, by the look of it. Carrot picked it up and stared at it. Then he looked at the list Colon had drawn up. It was quite long, and consisted of every unsolved crime in the city for the past couple of months.
    “It’s confessed to all these?”
    “Not yet,” said Nobby.
    “We haven’t read ’em all out yet,” said Colon.
    Dorfl wrote:
    I DID EVERYTHING.
    “Hey!” said Colon. “Mr. Vimes is going to be really pleased with us!”
    Carrot walked up to the golem. There was a faint orange glow in its eyes.
    “Did you kill Father Tubelcek?” he said.
    YES.
    “See?” said Sergeant Colon. “You can’t argue with that.”
    “Why did you do it?” said Carrot.
    No reply.
    “And Mr. Hopkinson at the Bread Museum?”
    YES.
    “You beat him to death with an iron bar?” said Carrot.
    YES.
    “Hang on,” said Colon, “I thought you said he was…”
    “Leave it, Fred,” said Carrot. “ Why did you kill the old man, Dorfl?”
    No reply.
    “Does there have to be a reason? You can’t trust golems, my dad always used to say,” said Colon. “Turn on you soon as look at you, he said.”
    “Have they ever killed anyone?” said Carrot.
    “Not for want of thinking about it,” said Colon darkly. “My dad said he had to work with one once and it used to look at him all the time. He’d turn around and there it would be…looking at him.”
    Dorfl sat staring straight in front.
    “Shine a candle in its eyes!’ said Nobby.
    Carrot pulled a chair across the floor and straddled it, facing Dorfl. He absentmindedly twirled the broken match between his fingers.
    “I know you didn’t kill Mr. Hopkinson and I don’t think you killed Father Tubelcek,” he said. “I think he was dying when you found him. I think you tried to save him, Dorfl. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can prove it if I can see your chem—”
    The light from the golem’s flaring eyes filled the room. He stepped forward, fists upraised.
    Nobby fired the crossbow.
    Dorfl snatched the long bolt out of the air. There was the sound of screaming metal and the bolt became a thin bar of red-hot iron with a bulge piled up around the golem’s grip.
    But Carrot was behind the golem, flipping open its head. As the golem turned, raising the iron bar like a club, the fire died in its eyes.
    “Got it,” said Carrot, holding up a yellowed scroll.

    At the end of Nonesuch Street was a gibbet, where wrongdoers—or, at least, people found guilty of wrongdoing—had been hung to twist gently in the wind as examples of just retribution and, as the elements took their toll, basic anatomy as well.
    Once parties of children were brought there by their parents to learn by dreadful example of the snares and perils that await the criminal, the outlaw, and those who happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they would see the terrible wreckage creaking on its chain and listen to the stern imprecations and then usually (this being Ankh-Morpork) would say “ Wow! Brilliant! ” and use the corpse as a swing.
    These days the city had more private and efficient ways of dealing with those it found surplus to requirements, but for the sake of tradition the gibbet’s incumbent was a quite realistic wooden body. The occasional stupid raven would have a peck at the eyeballs even now, and end up with a much shorter beak.
    Vimes tottered up to it, fighting for breath.
    The quarry could have gone anywhere by now. Such daylight as had been filtering through the fog had given up.
    Vimes stood beside the gibbet, which creaked.
    It had been built to creak. What’s the good of a public display of retribution, it had been argued, if it didn’t creak ominously? In richer times an elderly man had been employed to operate the creak by means of a length of string, but now there was a clockwork mechanism that needed to be wound up only once a month.
    Condensation dripped off the artificial corpse.
    “Blow this for a lark,” muttered Vimes, and tried to head back the way he came.
    After ten seconds of blundering, he tripped over something.
    It was a wooden corpse, hurled into the gutter.
    When he got back to the gibbet, the empty chain was swinging gently, jingling in the fog.

    Sergeant Colon tapped the golem’s chest. It went donk .
    “Like a flowerpot,”