Feet of Clay

rather misshapen circle on his notes.
    Grog. Old baked clay, ground up small.
    They’d added some of their own clay. Dorfl had a new foot, didn’t he—it? It hadn’t made it quite right. They’d put part of their own selves into a new golem.
    That all sounded—well, Nobby would call it mucky. Vimes didn’t know what to call it. It sounded like some sort of secret-society thing. “Clay of my clay.” My own flesh and blood…
    Damn hulking things. Aping their betters!
    Vimes yawned. Sleep. He’d be better for some sleep. Or something.
    He stared at the page. Automatically his hand trailed down to the bottom drawer of his desk, as it always did when he was worried and trying to think. It wasn’t as though there was ever a bottle there these days—but old habits died ha…
    There was a soft glassy ching and a faint, seductive slosh.
    Vimes’s hand came up with a fat bottle. The label said: Bearhugger’s Distilleries: The MacAbre, Finest Malt.
    The liquid inside almost crawled up the sides of the glass in anticipation.
    He stared at it. He’d reached down into the drawer for the whiskey bottle and there it was.
    But it shouldn’t have been. He knew Carrot and Fred Colon kept an eye on him, but he’d never bought a bottle since he’d got married, because he’d promised Sybil, hadn’t he…?
    But this wasn’t any old rotgut. This was The MacAbre…
    He’d tried it once. He couldn’t quite remember why now, since in those days the only spirits he generally drank had the subtlety of a mallet to the inner ear. He must have found the money somehow. Just a sniff of it had been like Hogswatchnight. Just a sniff…

    “And she said, ‘That’s funny—it didn’t do that last night’!” said Corporal Nobbs.
    He beamed at the company.
    There was silence. Then someone in the crowd started to laugh, one of those little uncertain laughs a man laughs who is unsure that he’s not going to be silenced by those around him. Another man laughed. Two more picked it up. Then laughter exploded in the group as a whole.
    Nobby basked.
    “Then there’s the one about the Klatchian who walked into a pub with a tiny piano—” he began.
    “I think,” said Lady Selachii firmly, “that the buffet is ready.”
    “Got any pig knuckles?” said Nobby cheerfully. “Goes down a treat with Winkles, a plate of pig knuckles.”
    “I don’t normally eat extremities,” said Lady Selachii.
    “A pig-knuckle sandwich…Never tried a pig knuckle? You just can’t beat it,” said Nobby.
    “It is…perhaps…not the most delicate food?” said Lady Selachii.
    “Oh, you can cut the crusts off,” said Nobby. “Even the toenails. If you’re feeling posh.”

    Sergeant Colon opened his eyes, and groaned. His head ached. They’d hit him with something. It might have been a wall.
    They’d tied him up, too. He was trussed hand and foot.
    He appeared to be lying in darkness on a wooden floor. There was a greasy smell in the air, which seemed familiar yet annoyingly unrecognizable.
    As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark he could make out very faint lines of light, such as might surround a door. He could also hear voices.
    He tried to get up to his knees, and groaned as more pain crackled in his head.
    When people tied you up it was bad news. Of course, it was much better news than when they killed you, but it could mean they were just putting you on one side for killing later.
    This never used to happen, he told himself. In the old days, if you caught someone thieving, you practically held the door open for him to escape. That way, you got home in one piece.
    By using the angle between a wall and a heavy crate he managed to get upright. This was not much of an improvement on his former position, but after the thunder in his head had died away he hopped awkwardly towards the door.
    There were still voices on the other side of it.
    Someone apart from Sergeant Colon was in trouble.
    “— clown! You got me here for this? There’s a werewolf in the Watch! Ah-ha. Not one of your freaks. She’s a proper bimorphic! If you tossed a coin, she could smell what side it came down!”
    “How about if we kill him and drag his body away?”
    “You think she couldn’t smell the difference between a corpse and a living body?”
    Sergeant Colon moaned softly.
    “Er, how about we could march him out in the fog—?”
    “And they can smell fear, idiot. Ah-ha. Why couldn’t you have let him look around? What could he have seen? I know