Feet of Clay

otherwise the words in their heads—”
    “And then it came back and worked all night?”
    “Yeah. What else would it do? And then Alf came in on early turn and he said it came up outa the saw pit, stood there for a moment, and then…”
    “Was it sawing pine logs yesterday?” said Angua.
    “That’s right. Where’m I going to get another golem at short notice, may I ask?”
    “What’s this?” said Angua. She picked up a wood-framed square from a heap of sawdust. “This was its slate, was it?” She handed it to Carrot.
    “‘Thou Shalt Not Kill,’” Carrot read slowly. “‘Clay of My Clay. Ashamed.’ Do you have any idea why it’d write that?”
    “Search me,” said Skink. “They’re always doing dumb things.” He brightened up a bit. “Hey, perhaps it went potty? Get it? Clay…pot…potty?”
    “Extremely funny,” said Carrot gravely. “I will take this as evidence. Good morning.”
    “Why did you ask about pine logs?” he said to Angua as they stepped outside.
    “I smelled the same pine resin in the cellar.”
    “Pine resin’s just pine resin, isn’t it?”
    “No. Not to me. That golem was in there.”
    “They all were,” sighed Carrot. “And now they’re committing suicide.”
    “You can’t take life you haven’t got,” said Angua.
    “What shall we call it, then? “‘Destruction of property’?” said Carrot. “Anyway, we can’t ask them now…” He tapped the slate. “They’ve given us the answers,” he said. “Perhaps we can find out what the questions should have been.”

    “What do you mean, ‘nothing’?” said Vimes. “It’s got to be the book! He licks his fingers to turn a page, and every day he gets a little dose of arsenic! Fiendishly clever!”
    “Sorry, sir,” said Cheery, backing away. “I can’t find a trace. I’ve used all the tests I know.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “I could send it up to the Unseen University. They’ve built a new morphic resonator in the High Energy Magic Building. Magic would easily—”
    “Don’t do that,” said Vimes. “We’ll keep the wizards out of this. Damn! For half an hour there I really thought I’d got it…”
    He sat down at his desk. Something new was odd about the dwarf, but again he couldn’t quite work out what it was.
    “We’re missing something here, Littlebottom,” he said.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Let’s look at the facts. If you want to poison someone slowly you’ve either got to give them small doses all the time—or, at least, every day. We’re covered everything the Patrician does. It can’t be the air in the room—you and I have been in there every day. It’s not the food, we’re pretty sure of that. Is something stinging him? Can you poison a wasp? What we need—”
    “’Scuse me, sir.”
    Vimes turned.
    “Detritus? I thought you were off-duty?”
    “I got dem to give me der address of dat maid called Easy like you said,” said Detritus, stoically. “I went up dere and dere was people all lookin’ in.”
    “What d’you mean?”
    “Neighbors and dat. Cryin’ women all round’ der door. An’ I remember what you said about dat dipplo word—”
    “Diplomacy,” said Vimes.
    “Yeah. Not shoutin’ at people an’ dat. I fought, dis look a delicate situation. Also, dey was throwin’ stuff at me. So I came back here. I writ down der address. An’ now I’m goin’ home.” He saluted, rocked slightly from the force of the blow to the side of his head, and departed.
    “Thanks, Detritus,” said Vimes. He looked at the paper written in the troll’s big round hand.
    “1st Floor Back, 27 Cockbill Street,” he said. “Good grief!”
    “You know it, sir?”
    “Should. I was born in that street,” said Vimes. “It’s down below the Shades. Easy…Easy…Yes…Now I remember. There was a Mrs. Easy down the road. Skinny woman. Did a lot of sewing. Big family. Well, we were all big families—it was the only way to keep warm…”
    He frowned at the paper. It wasn’t as if it were any particular lead. Maidservants were always going off to see their mothers, every time there was the least little family upset. What was it his granny had used to say? “Yer son’s yer son till he takes a wife, but yer daughter’s yer daughter all yer life.” Sending a Watchman around would almost certainly be a waste of everyone’s time…
    “Well, well…Cockbill Street,” he said. He stared at the paper again. You might as well rename the place Memory Lane . No, you