Feet of Clay

candle’s burned down. Poisoned by the light. The light’s something you don’t see. Who looks at the light? Not some plodding old copper.”
    “Oh, you’re not that old, sir,” said Carrot, cheerfully.
    “What about plodding?”
    “Or that plodding, either,” Carrot added quickly. “I’ve always pointed out to people that you walk in a very purposeful and meaningful manner.”
    Vimes gave him a sharp look and saw nothing more than a keen and innocently helpful expression.
    “We don’t look at the light because the light is what we look with ,” said Vimes. “OK. And now I think we should go and have a look at the candle factory, shouldn’t we? You come, Littlebottom, and bring your…have you got taller, Littlebottom?”
    “High-heeled boots, sir,” said Cheri.
    “I thought dwarfs always wore iron boots…”
    “Yes, sir. But I’ve got high heels on mine, sir. I welded them on.”
    “Oh. Fine. Right.” Vimes pulled himself together. “Well, if you can still totter, bring your alchemy stuff with you. Detritus should’ve come off-duty from the palace. When it comes to locked doors you can’t beat Detritus—he’s a walking crowbar. We’ll pick him up on the way.”
    He loaded his crossbow and lit a match.
    “Right,” he said. “We’ve done it the modern way, now let’s try policing like grandfather used to do it. It’s time to—”
    “Prod buttock, sir?” said Carrot, hurriedly.
    “Close,” said Vimes, taking a deep drag and blowing out a smoke ring, “but no cigar.”

    Sergeant Colon’s view of the world was certainly changing. Just when something was about to fix itself firmly in his mind as the worst moment of his entire life, it was hurriedly replaced by something even nastier.
    Firstly, the drainpipe he was riding hit the wall of the building opposite. In a well-organized world he might have landed on a fire escape, but fire escapes were unknown in Ankh-Morpork and the flames generally had to leave via the roof.
    With the pipe thus leaning against the wall, he found himself sliding down the diagonal. Even this might have been a happy outcome were it not for the fact that Colon was a heavy man and, as his weight slid nearer to the middle of the unsupported pipe, the pipe sagged, and cast iron has only a very limited amount of sag before it snaps, which it now did. Colon dropped, and landed on something soft—at least, softer than the street—and the something went “mur-r-r-r-r-m!” He bounced off it and landed on something lower and softer which went “baaaaarp!” and rolled from this on to something even lower and apparently made of feathers, which went insane. And pecked him.
    The street was full of animals, milling around uncertainly. When animals are in a state of uncertainty they get nervous, and the street was already, as it were, paved with anxiety. The only benefit to Sergeant Colon was that this made it slightly softer than would otherwise have been the case.
    Hooves trod on his hands. Very large dribbly noses sneezed at him.
    Sergeant Colon had not hitherto had a great deal of experience of animals, except in portion sizes. When he’d been little he’d had a pink stuffed pig call Mr. Dreadful, and he’d got up to Chapter Six in Animal Husbandry . It had woodcuts in it. There was no mention of hot smelly breath and great clomping feet like soup plates on a stick. Cows, in Sergeant Colon’s book, should go “moo.” Every child knew that. They shouldn’t go “mur-r-r-r-r-m!” like some kind of undersea monster and spray you with spit.
    He tried to get up, skidded on some cow’s moment of crisis, and sat down on a sheep. It went “blaaaart!” What kind of noise was that for a sheep to make?
    He got up again and tried to make his way to the curb. “Shoo! Get out of the damn’ way, you sheep! Garn!”
    A goose hissed at him and stuck out altogether too much neck.
    Colon backed off, and stopped when something nudged him in the back. It was a pig.
    It was no Mr. Dreadful. This wasn’t the little piggy that went to market, or the little piggy that stayed at home. It would be quite hard to imagine what kind of foot would have a piggy like this, but it would probably be the kind that had hair and scales and toenails like cashew nuts.
    This piggy was the size of a pony. This piggy had tusks. And it wasn’t pink. It was a blue-black color and covered with sharp hair but it did have— let’s be fair , thought Colon—little red piggy eyes.
    This little