Feet of Clay

Carrot.
    “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” said Angua. She looked around to make sure Cheery wasn’t there, and then sighed. “Come on, gentlemen, let’s get it over with.”
    “Don’t play with your food!” said a voice from the crowd.
    There were one or two giggles until Carrot turned in his seat, whereupon everyone was suddenly intensely interested in their drinks.
    “It’s OK,” said Angua quietly.
    Aware that something was out of kilter, but not quite sure what it was, the thieves edged back to the door. No one moved as they unbolted it and, still holding Angua, stepped out into the fog, shutting the door behind them.
    “Hadn’t we better help?” said a constable who was new to the Watch.
    “They don’t deserve help,” said Vimes.
    There was a clank of armor and then a long, deep growl, right outside in the street.
    And a scream. And then another scream. And a third scream modulated with “NONONOnonono no nonoNO!… aarghaargh aargh! ” Something heavy hit the door.
    Vimes turned back to Carrot. “You and Constable Angua,” he said. You…er…get along all right?”
    “Fine, sir,” said Carrot.
    “Some people might think that, er, there might be, er, problems…”
    There was a thud, and then a faint bubbling noise.
    “We work around them, sir,” said Carrot, raising his voice slightly.
    “I heard that her father’s not very happy about her working here…”
    “They don’t have much law up in Uberwald, sir. They think it’s for weak societies. The baron’s not a very civic-minded man.”
    “He’s pretty bloodthirsty, from what I’ve heard.”
    “She wants to stay in the Watch, sir. She likes meeting people.”
    From outside came another gurgle. Fingernails scrabbled at a windowpane. Then their owner disappeared abruptly from view.
    “Well, it’s not for me to judge,” said Vimes.
    “No, sir.”
    After a few moments of silence the door opened, slowly. Angua walked in, adjusting her clothes, and sat down. All the Watchmen in the room suddenly took a second course of advanced beer-study.
    “Er…” Carrot began.
    “Flesh wounds,” said Angua. “But one of them did shoot one of the others in the leg by accident.”
    “I think you’d better put it in your report as ‘self-inflicted wounds while resisting arrest’,” said Vimes.
    “Yes, sir,” said Angua.
    “Not all of them,” said Carrot.
    “They tried to rob our bar and take a wer—Angua hostage,” said Vimes.
    “Oh, I see what you mean, sir,” said Carrot. “Self-inflicted. Yes. Of course.”

    It had gone quiet in the Mended Drum. This was because it is usually very hard to be both loud and unconscious.
    Sergeant Colon was impressed at his own cleverness. Throwing a punch could stop a fight, of course, but in this case it had a quarter of rum, gin, and sixteen chopped lemons floating in it.
    Some people were still upright, however. They were the serious drinkers, who drank as if there was no tomorrow and rather hoped this would be the case.
    Fred Colon had reached the convivial-drunk stage. He turned to the man beside him. “’S good here, isn’t it,” he managed.
    “What’m I gonna tell me wife, that’s what I want to know…” moaned the man.
    “Dunno. Say you’ve bin bin bin working late,” said Colon. “An’ suck a peppermint before you goes home, that usually works—”
    “Working late? Hah! I’ve bin given the sack! Me! A craftsman! Fifteen years at Spadger and Williams, right, and then they go bust ’cos of Carry undercutting ’em and I get a job at Carry’s and, bang, I’m out of a job there , too! ‘Surplus to requirements!’ Bloody golems! Forcing real people out of a job! What they wanna work for? They got no mouth to feed, hah. But the damn’ thing goes at it so fast you can’t see its bloody arms movin’!”
    “Shame.”
    “Smash ’em up, that’s what I say. I mean, we had a golem at S an’ W’s but ole Zhlob just used to plod along, y’know, not buzz away like a blue-arsed fly. You wanna watch it, mate, they’ll have your job next.”
    “Stoneface wouldn’t stand f’r it,” said Colon, undulating gently.
    “Any chance of a job with you lot, then?”
    “Dunno,” said Colon. The man seemed to have become two men. “What’s it you do?”
    “I’m a Wick-Dipper and End-Teaser, mate,” they said.
    “I can see that’s a useful trade.”
    “Here you go, Fred,” said the barman, tapping him on the shoulder and putting a piece of paper in front of