Feet of Clay - Terry Pratchett [111]
As it spun Dorfl’s other hand lashed out, but was grabbed. The king swiveled with a strange grace, bore Dorfl to the floor, rolled and kicked out. Dorfl rolled too, flung out his arms to stop himself, and looked back to see both his feet pinwheeling into the wall.
The king picked up its own leg, balanced for a moment, and joined itself together.
Then its red gaze swept the factory and flared when it caught sight of Carrot.
“There must be a back way out of here,” muttered Angua. “Carry got out!”
The king started to run after them, but hit an immediate problem. It had put its leg on back to front. It began to limp in a circle but, somehow, the circle got nearer to Carrot.
“We can’t just leave Dorfl lying there,” said Carrot.
He pulled a long metal rod out of a stirring tank and eased himself back down to the grease-crusted floor.
The king rocked towards him. Carrot hopped backwards, steadied himself on a rail, and swung.
The golem lifted its hand, caught the rod out of the air and tossed it aside. It raised both fists and tried to step forward.
It couldn’t move. It looked down.
“Thsss,” said what remained of Dorfl, gripping its ankle.
The king bent, swung one hand with the palm edgewise, and calmly sheared the top off Dorfl’s head. It removed the chem and crumpled it up.
The glow died in Dorfl’s eyes.
Angua cannoned into Carrot so hard he almost fell over. She wrapped both arms around him and pulled him after her.
“It just killed Dorfl, just like that!” said Carrot.
“It’s a shame, yes,” said Angua. “Or it would be if Dorfl had been alive. Carrot, they’re like…machinery. Look, we can make it to the door—”
Carrot shook himself free. “It’s murder,” he said. “We’re Watchmen. We can’t just…watch! It killed him!”
“It’s an it and so’s he—”
“Commander Vimes said someone has to speak for the people with no voices!”
He really believes it, Angua thought. Vimes put words in his head.
“Keep it occupied!” he shouted, and darted away.
“How? Organize a sing-song?”
“I’ve got a plan.”
“Oh, good!”
Vimes looked up at the entrance of the candle-factory. He could dimly see two cressets burning on either side of a shield. “Look at that, will you?” he said. “Paint not dry and he flaunts the thing for all the world to see!”
“What’s dat, sir?” said Detritus.
“His damn’ coat of arms!”
Detritus looked up. “Why’s it got a lighted fish on it?” he said.
“In heraldry that’s a poisson,” said Vimes bitterly. “And it’s suppose to be a lamp.”
“A lamp made out of a poisson,” said Detritus. “Well, dere’s a fing.”
“At least it’s got the motto in proper language,” said Sergeant Colon. “Instead of all the old-fashioned stuff no one understands. ‘Art Brought Forth the Candle.’ That, Sergeant Detritus, is a pun, or play on words. ’Cos his name is Arthur, see.”
Vimes stood between the two sergeants and felt a hole open up in his head.
“Damn!” he said. “Damn, damn, damn! He showed it to me! ‘Dumb plodder Vimes! He won’t notice!’ Oh, yes! And he was right!”
“’S not that good,” said Colon. “I mean, you’ve got to know that Mr. Carry’s first name is Arthur—”
“Shut up, Fred!” snapped Vimes.
“Shutting up right now, sir.”
“The arrogance of the…who’s that?”
A figure darted out of the building, glanced around hurriedly, and scurried along the street.
“That’s Carry!” said Vimes. He didn’t even shout “After him!” but went from a standing start to a full run. The fleeing figure dodged between the occasional straying sheep or pig and didn’t have a bad turn of speed, but Vimes was powered by sheer anger and was only yards away when Carry ducked into an alleyway.
Vimes skidded to a halt and grabbed at the wall. He’d seen the shape of a crossbow and one of the things you learned in the Watch—that is, one of the things which hopefully you’d have a chance to learn—was that it was a very stupid thing indeed to follow someone with a crossbow into a dark alley where you’d be outlined against any light there was.