Feet of Clay

flung themselves against the wall as the pale figure lurched past. It was clutching at its head as if trying to lift itself off the ground by its ears, and then occasionally banging its head against nearby buildings.
    While they watched, it pulled a metal mooring post out of the cobbles and started to hit itself over the head. Eventually the cast iron shattered.
    The figure dropped the stub, flung back its head, opened a mouth from which red light spilled, and roared like a bull in distress. Then it staggered on into the darkness.
    “There’s that golem again,” said the Duck Man. “The white one.”
    “Heheh, I gets heads like that myself, some mornings,” said Arnold Sideways.
    “I knows about golems,” said Coffin Henry, spitting expertly and hitting a beetle climbing the wall twenty feet away. “They ain’t s’posed to have a voice.”
    “Buggrit,” said Foul Ole Ron. “Dang the twigger f’r’a bang at the fusel, and shrimp, ’cos the worm’s on the other boot! See if he don’t.”
    “He meant it’s the same one we saw the other day,” said the dog. “After that ole priest got topped.”
    “Do you think we should tell someone?” said the Duck Man.
    The dog shook its head. “Nah,” it said. “We got a cushy number down here, no sense in spoiling it.”
    The five of them staggered on into the damp shadows.
    “I hate bloody golems, takin’ our jobs…”
    “We ain’t got jobs.”
    “See what I mean?”
    “What’s for supper?”
    “Mud and ole boots. HRRaawrk ptui!”
    “Millennium hand and shrimp, I sez.”
    “’M glad I’ve got a voice. I can speak up for myself.”
    “It’s time you fed your duck.”
    “What duck?”

    The fog glowed and sizzled around Five and Seven Yard. Flames roared up and all but set the thick clouds alight. Spitting liquid iron cooled in its moulds. Hammers rang out around the workshops. The ironmasters didn’t work by the clock, but by the more demanding physics of molten metal. Even though it was nearly midnight, Stronginthearm’s Iron Founders, Beaters and General Forging was still bustling.
    There were many Stronginthearms in Ankh-Morpork. It was a very common dwarf name. That had been a major consideration for Thomas Smith when he’d adopted it by official deed poll. The scowling dwarf holding a hammer which adorned his sign was a mere figment of the signpainter’s imagination. People thought “dwarfmade” was better, and Thomas Smith had decided not to argue.
    The Committee for Equal Heights had objected but things had mired somewhat because, firstly, most of the actual Committee was human, since dwarfs were generally too busy to worry about that sort of thing, * and in any case their position hinged on pointing out that Mr. Stronginthearm née Smith was too tall, which was clearly a sizeist discrimination and technically illegal under the Committee’s own rules.
    In the meantime Thomas had let his beard grow, wore an iron helmet if he thought anyone official was around, and put up his prices by twenty pence on the dollar.
    The drop hammers thumped, all in a row, powered by the big ox treadmill. There were swords to beat out and panels to be shaped. Sparks erupted.
    Stronginthearm took off his helmet (the Committee had been around again) and wiped the inside.
    “Dibbuk? Where the hell are you?”
    A sensation of filled space made him turn. The foundry’s golem was standing a few inches behind him, the forge light glowing on his dark red clay.
    “I told you not to do that, didn’t I?” Stronginthearm shouted above the din.
    The golem held up its slate.
    YES.
    “You’ve gone and done all your holy day stuff? You were away too long!”
    SORROW.
    “Well, now you’re back with us, go and take over on Number Three hammer and send Mr. Vincent up to my office, right?”
    YES.
    Stronginthearm climbed the stairs to his office. He turned at the top to look back across the redlit foundry floor. He saw Dibbuk walk over to the hammer and hold up a slate for the foreman. He saw Vincent the foreman walk away. He saw Dibbuk take the sword-blank than was being shaped and hold it in place for a few blows, then hurl it aside.
    Stronginthearm hurried back down the steps.
    When he was half-way down Dibbuk had laid his head on the anvil.
    When Stronginthearm reached the bottom the hammer struck for the first time.
    When he was half-way across the ash-crusted floor, other workers scurrying after him, the hammer struck for the second time.
    As he