Feet of Clay

that copper. A fat old coward with all the brains of, ah-ha, a pig. He stinks of fear all the time.”
    Sergeant Colon hoped he wasn’t about to stink of anything else.
    “Send Meshugah after him, ah-ha.”
    “Are you sure? It’s getting odd . It wanders off and screams in the night, and they’re not supposed to do that. And it’s cracking up. Trust dumb golems not to do something prop—”
    “Everyone knows you can’t trust golems. Ah-ha. See to it!”
    “I heard that Vimes is—”
    “I’ve seen to Vimes!”
    Colon eased himself away from the door as quietly as possible. He hadn’t the faintest idea what this thing called Meshugah the golems had made was, except that it sounded like a fine idea to be wherever it wasn’t.
    Now, if he were a resourceful type, like Sam Vimes or Captain Carrot, he’d…find a nail or something to snap these ropes, wouldn’t he? They were really tight, and cut into his wrists because the cord was so thin, little more than string wound and knotted many times. If he could find something to rub it on…
    But, unfortunately, and against all common sense, sometimes people inconsiderately throw their bound enemies into rooms entirely bereft of nails, handy bits of sharp stone, sharp-edged shards of glass or even, in extreme cases, enough pieces of old junk and tools to make a fully functional armored car.
    He managed to get on to his knees again and shuffled across the planks. Even a splinter would do. A lump of metal. A wide-open doorway marked F REEDOM . He’d settle for anything.
    What he got was a tiny circle of light on the floor. A knothole in the wood had long ago fallen out, and light—dim orange light—was shining through.
    Colon got down and applied his eye to the hole. Unfortunately this also brought his nose into a similar proximity.
    The stench was appalling.
    There was a suggestion of wateriness, or at least of liquidity. He must be over one of the numerous streams that flowed through the city, although they had of course been built-over centuries before and were now used—if their existence was even re-membered—for those purposes to which humanity had always put clean fresh water; i.e., making it as turbid and undrinkable as possible. And this one was flowing under the cattle markets. The smell of ammonia bored into Colon’s sinuses like a drill.
    And yet there was light down there.
    He held his breath and took another look.
    A couple of feet below him was a very small raft. Half a dozen rats were laid neatly on it, and a minute scrap of candle was burning.
    A tiny rowing boat entered his vision. A rat was in the bottom of it and, sitting amidships and rowing, was—
    “Wee Mad Arthur?”
    The gnome looked up. “Who’s that there, then?”
    “It’s me, your good old mate Fred Colon! Can you give me a hand?”
    “Wha’re yez doing up there?”
    “I’m all tied up and they’re going to kill me! Why does it smell so bad? ”
    “’S the old Cockbill stream. All the cattle pens drain into it.” Wee Mad Arthur grinned. “Yez can feel it doing yer tubes a power of good, eh? Just call me King of the Golden River, eh?”
    “They’re going to kill me, Arthur! Don’t piss about!”
    “Aha, good one!”
    Desperate cells flared in Colon’s mind. “I’ve been on the trail of those blokes who’re poisoning your rats,” he said.
    “The Ratcatchers’ Guild!” snarled Arthur, almost dropping an oar. “I knew it was them, right? This is where I got them rats! There’s more of ’em down here, dead as doornails!”
    “Right! And I’ve got to give the names to Commander Vimes! In person! With all my arms and legs on! He’s very particular about that sort of thing!”
    “Did yez know yez on a trapdoor?” said Arthur. “Wait right there.”
    Arthur rowed out of sight. Colon rolled over. After a while there was a scratching noise in the walls and then someone kicked him in the ear.
    “Ow!”
    “Would there be any money in this?” said Wee Mad Arthur, holding up his stub of candle. It was a small one, such as might be put on a child’s birthday cake.
    “What about your public duty?”
    “Aye, so there’s no money in this?”
    “Lots! I promise! Now untie me!”
    “This is string they’ve used,” said Arthur, somewhere around Colon’s hands. “Not proper rope at all.”
    Colon felt his hands free, although there was still pressure around his wrists.
    “Where’s the trapdoor?” he said.
    “Yer on it. Handy for dumping stuff. Dunt