Feet of Clay

murder. You’re dead already, right?”
    “He stuck them right in me!”
    “Well, I’ve been down to interview the manager and he said it was an accident. He said he’s got nothing against vampires at all. He says he was merely carrying three boxes of HB Eraser Tips and tripped over the edge of your cloak.”
    “I don’t see why I can’t work where I like!”
    “Yes, but…in a pencil factory?”
    Detritus looked down at Littlebottom and grinned. “Welcome to life in der big city, Littlebottom, he said. “Dat’s an int’restin’ name.”
    “Is it?”
    “Most dwarfs have names like Rockheaver or Stronginthearm.”
    “Do they?”
    Detritus was not one for the fine detail of relationships, but the edge in Littlebottom’s voice got through to him. “’S a good name, though,” he said.
    “What’s Slab?” said Cheery.
    “It are chloric ammonium an’ radium mixed up. It give your head a tingle but melts troll brains. Big problem in der mountains and some buggers are makin’ it here in der city and we tryin’ to find how it get up dere. Mister Vimes is lettin’ me run a”—Detritus concentrated—“pub-lic a-ware-ness campaign tellin’ people what happens to buggers who sells it to kids…” He waved a hand at a large and rather crudely done poster on the wall. It said:

    “S LAB: J US’ SAY
    ‘A ARRGHAARRGHPLEEASSENNONONO UGH’.”

    He pushed open a door.
    “Dis is der ole privy wot we don’t use no more, you can use it for mixin’ up stuff, it the only place we got now, you have to clean it up first ’cos it smells like a toilet in here.”
    He opened another door. “And this der locker room,” he said. “You got your own peg and dat, and dere’s dese panels for getting changed behind ’cos we knows you dwarfs is modest. It a good life if you don’t weaken. Mr. Vimes is OK but he a bit weird about some stuff, he keepin’ on sayin’ stuff like dis city is a meltin’ pot an’ all der scum floats to der top, and stuff like dat. I’ll give you your helmet an’ badge in a minute but first”—he opened a rather larger locker on the other side of the room, which had “DTRiTUS” painted on it—“I got to go and hide dis hammer.”

    Two figures hurried out of Ironcrust’s Dwarf Bakery (“T’Bread Wi’ T’Edge”), threw themselves on to the cart and shouted at the driver to leave urgently.
    He turned a pale face towards them and pointed to the road ahead.
    There was a wolf there.
    Not a usual kind of wolf. It had a blond coat, which around its ears was almost long enough to be a mane. And wolves did not normally sit calmly on their haunches in the middle of a street.
    This one was growling. A long, low growl. It was the audible equivalent of a shortening fuse.
    The horse was transfixed, too frightened to stay where it was but far too terrified to move.
    One of the men carefully reached for a crossbow. The growl rose slightly. He even more carefully took his hand away. The growl subsided again.
    “What is it?”
    “It’s a wolf!”
    “In a city? What does it find to eat?”
    “Oh, why did you have to ask that?”
    “ Good morning, gentlemen!” said Carrot, as he stopped leaning against the wall. “Looks like the fog’s rising again. Thieves’ Guild licenses, please?”
    They turned. Carrot gave them a happy smile and nodded encouragingly.
    One of the men patted his coat in a theatrical display of absent-mindedness.
    “Ah. Well. Er. Left the house in a bit of a hurry this morning, must’ve forgotten—”
    “Section Two, Rule One of the Thieves’ Guild Charter says that members must carry their cards on all professional occasions,” said Carrot.
    “He’s not even drawn his sword!” hissed the most stupid of the three-strong gang.
    “He doesn’t need to, he’s got a loaded wolf.”

    Someone was writing in the gloom, the scritching of their pen the only sound.
    Until a door creaked open.
    The writer turned as quick as a bird. “You? I told you never to come back here!”
    “I know, I know, but it’s that damn thing! The production line stopped and it got out and it’s killed that priest!”
    “Did anyone see it?”
    “In the fog we had last night? I shouldn’t think so. But—”
    “Then it is not, ah-ha, a matter of significance.”
    “No? They’re not supposed to kill people. Well…that is,” the speaker conceded, “not by smashing them on the head, anyway.”
    “They will if so instructed.”
    “I never told it to! Anyway, what if