Feet of Clay

couldn’t waste Watch resources on a wild-goose chase like that. But he might look in. On his way past. Some time today.
    “Er…Littlebottom?”
    “Sir?”
    “On your…your lips. Red. Er. On your lips…”
    “Lipstick, sir.”
    “Oh…er. Lipstick? Fine. Lipstick.”
    “Constable Angua gave it to me, sir.”
    “That was kind of her,” said Vimes. “I expect.”

    It was called the Rats Chamber. In theory this was because of the decoration; some former resident of the palace had thought that a fresco of dancing rats would be a real decorative coup. There was a pattern of rats woven in the carpet. On the ceiling rats danced in a circle, their tails intertwining at the centre. After half an hour in that room, most people wanted a wash.
    Soon, then, there would be a big rush on the hot water. The room was filling up fast.
    By common consent the chair was taken and amply filled by Mrs. Rosemary Palm, head of the Guild of Seamstresses, * as one of the most senior guild leaders.
    “Quiet, please! Gentlemen!”
    The noise level subsided a little.
    “Dr. Downey?” she said.
    The head of the Assassins’ Guild nodded. “My friends, I think we are all aware of the situation”—he began.
    “Yeah, so’s your accountant!” said a voice in the crowd. There was a ripple of nervous laughter but it didn’t last long, because you don’t laugh too loud at someone who knows exactly how much you’re worth dead.
    Dr. Downey smiled. “I can assure you once again, gentlemen—and ladies—that I am aware of no engagement regarding Lord Vetinari. In any case, I cannot imagine that an Assassin would use poison in this case. His lordship spent some time at the Assassins’ school. He knows the uses of caution. No doubt he will recover.”
    “And if he doesn’t?” said Mrs. Palm.
    “No one lives forever,” said Dr. Downey, in the calm voice of a man who personally knew this to be true. “Then, no doubt, we’ll get a new ruler.”
    The room went very silent.
    The word “Who?” hovered silently above every head.
    “Thing is…the thing is…” said Gerhardt Sock, head of the Butchers’ Guild, “it’s been…you’ve got to admit it…it’s been…well, think about some of the others…”
    The words “Lord Snapcase, now…at least this one isn’t actually insane” flickered in the group consciousness.
    “I have to admit,” said Mrs. Palm, “that under Vetinari it has certainly been safer to walk the streets—”
    “You should know, madam,” said Mr. Sock. Mrs. Palm gave him an icy look. There were a few sniggers.
    “I meant that a modest payment to the Thieves’ Guild is all that is required for perfect safety,” she finished.
    “And, indeed, a man may visit a house of ill—”
    “Negotiable hospitality,” said Mrs. Palm quickly.
    “Aye indeed, and be quite confident of not waking up stripped stark naked and beaten black and blue,” said Sick.
    “Unless his tastes run that way,” said Mrs. Palm. “We aim to give satisfaction. Very accurately, if required.”
    “Life has certainly been more reliable under Vetinari,” said Mr. Potts of the Bakers’ Guild.
    “He does have all street-theater players and mime artists thrown into the scorpion pit,” said Mr. Boggis of the Thieves’ Guild.
    “True. But let’s not forget that he has his bad points too. The man is capricious.”
    “You think so? Compared to the ones we had before he’s as reliable as a rock.”
    “Snapcase was reliable,” said Mr. Sock gloomily. “Remember when he made his horse a city councilor?”
    “You’ve got to admit it wasn’t a bad councilor. Compared to some of the others.”
    “As I recall, the others at that time were a vase of flowers, a heap of sand, and three people who had been beheaded.”
    “Remember all those fights? All the little gangs of thieves fighting all the time? It got so that there was hardly any energy left to actually steal things,” said Mr. Boggis.
    “Things are indeed more…reliable now.”
    Silence descended again. That was it, wasn’t it? Things were “reliable” now. Whatever else you said about old Vetinari, he made sure today was always followed by tomorrow. If you were murdered in your bed, at least it would be by arrangement.
    “Things were more exciting under Lord Snapcase,” someone ventured.
    “Yes, right up until the point when your head fell off.”
    “The trouble is,” said Mr. Boggis, “that the job makes people mad. You take some chap who’s no worse