Feet of Clay

I’ve always respected your attitude to the citizens of Ankh-Morpork.”
    “Yes?”
    “I’ve been impressed by the way you really seem to be blind to things like shape and color.”
    “Yes?”
    “And you always seem to care for people.”
    “Yes?”
    “And you know that I feel considerable affection for you.”
    “Yes?”
    “It’s just that, sometimes…”
    “Yes?”
    “I really, really, really wonder why.”

    Carriages were thickly parked outside Lady Selachii’s mansion when Corporal Nobbs strolled up the drive. He knocked on the door.
    A footman opened it. “Servants’ entrance,” said the footman, and made to shut the door again.
    But Nobby’s outstretched foot had been ready for this. “Read these,” he said, thrusting two bits of paper at him.
    The first one read:
I, after hearing evidence from a number of experts, including Mrs. Slipdry the midwife, certify that the balance of probability is that the bearer of this document, C. W. St. John Nobbs, is a human being.
Signed, Lord Vetinari.
    The other was the letter from Dragon King of Arms.
    The footman’s eyes widened. “Oh, I am terribly sorry, your lordship,” he said. He stared again at Corporal Nobbs. Nobby was clean-shaven—at least, the last time he’d shaved he’d been clean-shaven—but his face had so many minor topological features it looked like a very bad example of slash-and-burn agriculture.
    “Oh, dear,” added the footman. He pulled himself together. “The other visitors normally just have cards.”
    Nobby produced a battered deck. “I’m probably busy hobnobbing right now,” he said. “But I’m game for a few rounds of Cripple Mr. Onion afterwards, if you like.”
    The footman looked him up and down. He didn’t get out much. He’d heard rumors—who hadn’t?—that working in the Watch was the rightful king of Ankh-Morpork. He’d have to admit that, if you wanted to hide a secret heir to the throne, you couldn’t possibly hide him more carefully than under the face of C. W. St. J. Nobbs.
    On the other hand…the footman was something of an historian, and knew than in its long history even the throne itself had been occupied by creatures who had been hunchbacked, one-eyed, knuckle-dragging and as ugly as sin. On that basis Nobby was as royal as they came. If, technically, he wasn’t hunchbacked, this was only because he was hunched front and sides, too. There might be a time, the footman thought, when it paid to hitch your wagon to a star, even if said star was a red dwarf.
    “You’ve never been to one of these affairs before, m’lord?” he said.
    “First time,” said Nobby.
    “I’m sure your lordship’s blood will rise to the occasion,” said the footman weakly.

    I’ll have to go , Angua thought as they hurried through the fog. I can’t go on living from month to month .
    It’s not that he’s not likeable. You couldn’t wish to meet a more caring man .
    That’s just it. He cares for everyone. He cares about everything. He cares indiscriminately. He knows everything about everyone because everyone interests him , and the caring is all general and never personal. He doesn’t think personal is the same as important .
    If only he had some decent human quality, like selfishness .
    I’m sure he doesn’t think about it that way, but you can tell the werewolf thing is upsetting him underneath. He cares about the things people say behind my back, and he doesn’t know how to deal with them.
    What was it those dwarfs said the other day? One said something like, “She feels the need,” and the other one said, “Yeah, the need to feed.” I saw his expression. I can handle that sort of thing…well, most of the time…but he can’t. If only he’d thump someone. It wouldn’t do any good but at least he’d feel better .
    It’s going to get worse. At best I’m going to get caught in someone’s chicken-house, and then the midden is really going to hit the windmill. Or I’ll get caught in someone’s room…
    She tried to shut out the thought but it didn’t work. You could only control the werewolf, you couldn’t tame it.
    It’s the city. Too many people, too many smells…
    Maybe it would work if we were just alone somewhere, but if I said, “It’s me or the city,” he wouldn’t even see there was a choice .
    Sooner or later, I’ve got to go home. It’s the best thing for him .

    Vimes walked back through the damp night. He knew he was too angry to think properly.
    He’d got