Feet of Clay

weather. He liked to hear the sounds of the city. But anyone trying to climb up or down to it would run into everything in the way of loose tiles, shifting handholds and treacherous drainpipes that Vimes’s ingenuity could contrive. And Vimes had installed spiked railings down below. They were nice and ornamental but they were, above all, spiky.
    So far, Vimes was winning.
    There was a tentative knock at the door.
    It had issued from the knuckles of the dwarf applicant. Vimes ushered him into office, shut the door, and sat down at his desk.
    “So,” he said. “You’re an alchemist. Acid stains on your hands and no eyebrows.”
    “That’s right, sir.”
    “Not usual to find a dwarf in that line of work. You people always seem to toil in your uncle’s foundry or something.”
    You people , the dwarf noted. “Can’t get the hang of metal,” he said.
    “A dwarf who can’t get the hang of metal? That must be unique.”
    “Pretty rare, sir. But I was quite good at alchemy.”
    “Guild member?”
    “Not any more, sir.”
    “Oh? How did you leave the guild?”
    “Through the roof, sir. But I’m pretty certain I know what I did wrong.”
    Vimes leaned back. “The alchemists are always blowing things up. I never heard of them getting sacked for it.”
    “That’s because no one’s ever blown up the Guild Council, sir.”
    “What, all of it?”
    “Most of it, sir. All the easily detachable bits, at least.”
    Vimes found he was automatically opening the bottom drawer of his desk. He pushed it shut again and, instead, shuffled the papers in front of him. “What’s your name, lad?”
    The dwarf swallowed. This was clearly the bit he’d been dreading. “Littlebottom, sir.”
    Vimes didn’t even look up.
    “Ah, yes. It says here. That means you’re from the Uberwald mountain area, yes?”
    “Why…yes, sir,” said Littlebottom, mildly surprised. Humans generally couldn’t distinguish between dwarf clans.
    “Our Constable Angua comes from there,” said Vimes. “Now…it says here your first name is…can’t read Fred’s handwriting…er…”
    There was nothing for it. “Cheery, sir,” said Cheery Littlebottom.
    “Cheery, eh? Good to see the old naming traditions kept up. Cheery Littlebottom. Fine.”
    Littlebottom watched carefully. Not the faintest glimmer of amusement had crossed Vimes’s face.
    “Yes, sir. Cheery Littlebottom,” he said. And there still wasn’t as much as an extra wrinkle there. “My father was Jolly. Jolly Littlebottom,” he added, as one might prod at a bad tooth to see when the pain will come.
    “Really?”
    “And… his father was Beaky Littlebottom.”
    Not a trace, not a smidgeon of a grin twitched anywhere. Vimes merely pushed the paper aside.
    “Well, we work for a living here, Littlebottom.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “We don’t blow things up, Littlebottom.”
    “No, sir. I don’t blow everything up, sir. Some just melts.”
    Vimes drummed his fingers on the desk. “Know anything about dead bodies?”
    “They were only mildly concussed, sir.”
    Vimes sighed. “Listen. I know about how to be a copper. It’s mainly walking and talking. But there’s lots of things I don’t know. You find the scene of a crime and there’s some gray powder on the floor. What is it? I don’t know. But you fellows know how to mix things up in bowls and can find out. And maybe the dead person doesn’t seem to have a mark on them. Were they poisoned? It seems we need someone who knows what color a liver is supposed to be. I want someone who can look at the ashtray and tell me what kind of cigars I smoke.”
    “Pantweed’s Slim Panatellas,” said Littlebottom automatically.
    “Good gods!”
    “You’ve left the packet on the table, sir.”
    Vimes looked down. “All right,” he said. “So sometimes it’s an easy answer. But sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes we don’t even know if it was the right question.”
    He stood up. “I can’t say I like dwarfs much, Littlebottom. But I don’t like trolls or humans either, so I suppose that’s OK. Well, you’re the only applicant…thirty dollars a month, five dollars living-out allowance. I expect you to work to the job not the clock. There’s some mythical creature called, ‘overtime,’ only no one’s even seen its footprints. If troll officers call you a grit-sucker they’re out, and if you call them rocks you’re out. We’re just one big family and, when you’ve been to a few domestic disputes,