Feet of Clay (Discworld, #19; City Watch, #3)

by Terry Pratchett

He’d started out in the gutter, true enough. And now he was on three meat meals a day, good boots, a warm bed at night and, come to that, a wife, too. Good old Sybil—although she did tend to talk about curtains these days, but Sergeant Colon had said this happened to wives and was a biological thing and perfectly normal.

Most people were, after the initial confusion, somewhat relieved when they died. A subconscious weight had been removed. The other cosmic shoe had dropped. The worst had happened and they could, metaphorically, get on with their lives. Few people treated it as a simple annoyance that might go away if you complained enough.

“It all seems very badly organized. I wish to make a complaint. I pay my taxes, after all.” I AM DEATH, NOT TAXES. I TURN UP ONLY ONCE. The shade of Mr. Hopkinson began to fade. “It’s simply that I’ve always tried to plan ahead in a sensible way . . .” I FIND THE BEST APPROACH IS TO TAKE LIFE AS IT COMES. “That seems very irresponsible . . .” IT’S ALWAYS WORKED FOR ME.

“It beats me why Ankh-Morpork wants to celebrate the fact it had a civil war three hundred years ago,” said Angua, coming back to the here-and-now. “Why not? We won,” said Carrot. “Yes, but you lost, too.” “Always look on the positive side, that’s what I say. Ah, here we are.”

One of the advantages of a life much longer than average was that you saw how fragile the future was. Men said things like “peace in our time” or “an empire that will last a thousand years,” and less than half a lifetime later no one even remembered who they were, let alone what they had said or where the mob had buried their ashes. What changed history were smaller things. Often a few strokes of the pen would do the trick.

“They think they want good government and justice for all, Vimes, yet what is it they really crave, deep in their hearts? Only that things go on as normal and tomorrow is pretty much like today.”

Whoever had created humanity had left in a major design flaw. It was its tendency to bend at the knees.

And, while it was regarded as pretty good evidence of criminality to be living in a slum, for some reason owning a whole street of them merely got you invited to the very best social occasions.

The real world was far too real to leave neat little hints. It was full of too many things. It wasn’t by eliminating the impossible that you got at the truth, however improbable; it was by the much harder process of eliminating the possibilities.

People said that there was one law for the rich and one law for the poor, but it wasn’t true. There was no law for those who made the law, and no law for the incorrigibly lawless. All the laws and rules were for those people stupid enough to think like Cockbill Street people.

The gods had made the people of Cockbill Street poor, honest and provident, Vimes reflected. They might as well have hung signs saying “Kick me” on their backs and had done with it. But Cockbill Street people tended towards religion, at least of the less demonstrative kind. They always put a little life by for a rainy eternity.

When you’ve made up your mind to shout out who you are to the world, it’s a relief to know that you can do it in a whisper.

“You have the mind of a true policeman, Vimes.” “Thank you, sir.” “Really? Was it a compliment?”

“Well, I would have thought she’d have the decency to keep it to herself,” Carrot said finally. “I mean, I’ve nothing against females. I’m pretty certain my stepmother is one. But I don’t think it’s very clever, you know, to go around drawing attention to the fact.” “Carrot, I think you’ve got something wrong with your head,” said Angua. “What?” “I think you may have got it stuck up your bum. I mean, good grief! A bit of make-up and a dress and you’re acting as though she’d become Miss Va Va Voom and started dancing on tables down at the Skunk Club!”

“My point is that, in some strange way, he attracts people.” “Like a public hanging.”

And, of course, power and royalty are powerful aphrodisiacs . . .” “How powerful, would you say?” More silence. Then: “Probably not that powerful.” “He should do nicely.” “Splendid.”

“You’re being reasonable again!” snapped Angua. “You’re deliberately seeing everyone’s point of view! Can’t you try to be unfair even once?”

“And then it went into the poultry merchant’s, grabbed Mr. Terwillie, and”—the man stopped, aware there was a lady present, even if she was making snorting noises while trying not to laugh, and continued in a mumble—“made use of some sage and onion. If you know what I mean . . .” “You mean he—?” Vimes began. “Yes!” His companion nodded. “Poor old Terwillie won’t be able to look sage and onion in the face again, I reckon.” “By the sound of it, that’s the last thing he’ll do,” said Vimes.

“Right! And poor young Sid’s only an apprentice and didn’t deserve what it done to him!” “Oh, dear,” said Carrot. “Er . . . I think I’ve got an ointment that might be—” “Will it help with the apple?” the man demanded. “It shoved an apple in his mouth?” “Wrong!” Vimes winced. “Ouch . . .” “What’s going to be done, eh?” said the butcher, his face a few inches from Vimes’s. “Well, if you can get a grip on the stem—”

“I could shoot it through der head wid my bow, Mr. Vimes,” said Detritus, flourishing his converted siege weapon. “This is a crowded street, sergeant. It might hit an innocent person, even in Ankh-Morpork.” “Sorry, sir.” Detritus brightened. “But if it did we could always say they’d bin guilty of somethin’, sir?”

“Crossbow bolt through the head, if you please!” “If you say so, sir . . .” “Its head, Sergeant! Mine is fine! Carrot, get down off the thing!”

WORDS IN THE HEART CAN NOT BE TAKEN.

“You are in favor of the common people?” said Dragon mildly. “The common people?” said Vimes. “They’re nothing special. They’re no different from the rich and powerful except they’ve got no money or power. But the law should be there to balance things up a bit. So I suppose I’ve got to be on their side.”

Only crimes could take place in darkness. Punishment had to be done in the light.

“Commander, I always used to consider that you had a definite anti-authoritarian streak in you.” “Sir?” “It seems that you have managed to retain this even though you are Authority.” “Sir?” “That’s practically Zen.”

“Funny thing, that,” said Nobby. “You never get bad fortunes in cookies, ever noticed that? They never say stuff like: ‘Oh dear, things are going to be really bad.’ I mean, they’re never misfortune cookies.” Vimes lit a cigar and shook the match to put it out. “That, Corporal, is because of one of the fundamental driving forces of the universe.” “What? Like, people who read fortune cookies are the lucky ones?” said Nobby. “No. Because people who sell fortune cookies want to go on selling them.