Feet of Clay

wooden stairs against the side of a warehouse. The gnome went up them like the rats he hunted. Colon, panting like a steam engine, followed him.
    He stopped half-way up and looked around.
    The golem had reached the bottom step. It tested it carefully. The wood creaked and the whole stairway, gray with age, trembled.
    “It won’t take the weight!” said Wee Mad Arthur. “The bugger’s gonna smash it up! Yeah!”
    The golem took another step. The wood groaned.
    Colon got a grip on himself and hurried on up the stairs.
    Behind him, the golem seemed to have satisfied itself that the wood could indeed take its weight, and started to leap from step to step. The rails shook under Colon’s hands and the whole structure swayed.
    “Come on , will yez?” said Wee Mad Arthur, who had already reached the top. “It’s gaining on yez!”
    The golem lunged. The stairs gave way. Colon flung out his hands and grabbed the edge of the roof. Then his body thudded into the side of the building.
    There was the distant sound of woodwork hitting cobbles.
    “Come on then,” said Wee Mad Arthur. “Pull yourself up, yer silly bugger!”
    “Can’t,” said Colon.
    “Why not?”
    “It’s holding on to my foot…”

    “A cigar, your lordship?”
    “Brandy, my lord?”
    Lord de Nobbes sat back in the comfort of his chair. His feet only just reached the ground. Brandy and cigars, eh? This was the life all right. He took a deep puff at the cigar.
    “We were just talking, my lord, about the future governance of the city now that poor Lord Vetinari’s health is so bad…”
    Nobby nodded. This was the kind of thing you talked about when you were a nob. This was what he’d been born for.
    The brandy was giving him a pleasant warm feeling.
    “It would obviously upset the current equilibrium if we looked for a new Patrician at this point,” said another armchair. “What is your view, Lord de Nobbes?”
    “Oh, yeah. Right. The guilds’d fight like cats in a sack,” said Nobby. “Everyone knows that.”
    “A masterly summary, if I may say so.”
    There was a general murmur of agreement from the other chairs.
    Nobby grinned. Oh, yes. This was the bee’s pyjamas and no mistake. Hobnobbing with his fellow nobs, talking big talk about important matters instead of having to think up reasons why the tea-money tin was empty…oh, yes.
    A chair said, “Besides, are any of the guild leaders up to the task? Oh, they can organize a bunch of tradesmen, but ruling an entire city…I think not. Gentlemen, perhaps it is time for a new direction. Perhaps it is time for blood to reveal itself.”
    Odd way of putting it, Nobby thought, but clearly this was how you were supposed to speak.
    “At a time like this,” said a chair, “the city will surely look at those representatives of its most venerable families. It would be in all our interests if such a one would take up the burden.”
    “He’d need his head examined, if you want my opinion,” said Nobby. He took another swig of the brandy and waved the cigar expansively.
    “Still, not to worry,” he said. “Everyone knows we’ve got a king hanging around. No problem there. Send for Captain Carrot, that’s my advice.”

Another evening folded over the city in layers of fog.
    When Carrot arrived back at the Watch House Corporal Littlebottom made a face at him and indicated, with a flicker of her eyes, the three people sitting grimly on the bench against one wall.
    “They want to see an officer!” she hissed. “But S’arnt Colon isn’t back and I knocked on Mister Vimes’s door and I don’t think he’s in.”
    Carrot composed his features into a welcoming smile.
    “Mrs. Palm,” he said. “And Mr. Boggis…and Dr. Downey. I am so sorry. We’re rather stretched at present, what with the poisoning and this business with the golems—”
    The head of the Assassin’s Guild smiled, but only with his mouth. “It’s about the poisoning we wish to speak,” he said. “Is there somewhere a little less public?”
    “Well, there’s the canteen,” said Carrot. “It’ll be empty at this time of night. If you’d just step this way…”
    “You do well for yourselves here, I must say,” said Mrs. Palm. “A canteen—”
    She stopped as she stepped through the door.
    “People eat in here?” she said.
    “Well, grumble about the coffee, mostly,” said Carrot. “And write their reports. Commander Vimes is keen on reports.”
    “Captain Carrot,” said Dr. Downey, firmly,