Feet of Clay - Terry Pratchett [74]
Cheery
Sherry
Sherri
Lucinda Littlebottom
Sharry
Sharri
Cheri
“Er…what do you think?” said Cheery nervously.
“‘Lucinda’?” said Angua, raising her eyebrows.
“I’ve always liked the sound of the name.”
“‘Cheri’ is nice,” said Angua. “And it is rather like the one you’ve got already. The way people spell in this town, no one will actually notice unless you point it out to them.”
Cheery’s shoulders sagged with released tension. 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.
“Cheri,” thought Angua. Now, what does that name conjure up? Does the mental picture include iron boots, iron helmet, a small worried face and a long beard?
Well, it does now.
Somewhere underneath Ankh-Morpork a rat went about its business, ambling unconcernedly through the ruins of a damp cellar. It turned a corner towards the grain store it knew was up ahead, and almost walked into another rat.
This one was standing on its hind-legs, though, and wearing a tiny black robe and carrying a scythe. Such of its snout that could be seen was bone-white.
SQUEAK? it said.
Then the vision faded and revealed a slightly smaller figure. There was nothing in the least rat-like about it, apart from its size. It was human, or least humanoid. It was dressed in ratskin trousers but was bare above the waist, apart from two bandoliers that criss-crossed its chest. And it was smoking a tiny cigar.
It raised a very small crossbow and fired.
The soul of the rat—for anything so similar in so many ways to human beings certainly has a soul—watched gloomily as the figure took its recent habitation by the tail and towed it away. Then it looked up at the Death of Rats, who appeared a lot more solid now.
“Squeak?” it said.
The Grim Squeaker nodded. SQUEAK.
A minute later Wee Mad Arthur emerged into the daylight, dragging the rat behind him. There were fifty-seven neatly lined up along the wall, but despite his name Wee Mad Arthur made a point of not killing the young and the pregnant females. It’s always a good idea to make sure you’ve got a job tomorrow.
His sign was still tacked up over the hole. Wee Mad Arthur, as the only insect and vermin exterminator able to meet the enemy on its own terms, found that it paid to advertise.
* * *
“WEE MAD” ARTHUR
FOR THOSE LITTLE THINGS THAT GET YOU DOWN
RATS *FREE*
MISE: 1¢ PER TEN TAILS
MOLES: ½ ¢ EACH
WARSPS: 50 ¢ PER NEST. HORNETS 20 ¢ EXTRA.
COCKROACHES AND SIMILAR BY ARANJEMENT.
SMALL FEES • BIG JOBS
* * *
Arthur took out the world’s smallest notebook and a piece of pencil lead. See here, now…fifty-eight skins at two a penny, City bounty for the tails at a penny per ten, and the carcasses to Gimlet at tuppence per three, the hard-driving dwarf bastard that he was…
There was a moment’s shadow, and then someone stamped on him.
“Right,” said the owner of the boot. “Still catching rats without a Guild card, are you? Easiest ten dollars we ever earned, Ron. Let’s go and—”
The man was lifted several inches off the ground, whirled around, and hurled against the wall. His companion stared as a streak of dust raced across his boot, but reacted too late.
“He’s gone up me trouser! He’s gone up me—arrgh!”
There was a crack.
“Me knee! Me knee! He’s broken me knee!”
The man who had been flung aside tried to get up, but something scurried across his chest and landed astride his nose.
“Hey, pal?” said Wee Mad Arthur. “Can yer mother sew, pal? Yeah? Then get her to stitch this one!”
He grabbed an eyelid in each hand and thrust his head forward with pin-point precision. There was another crack as the skulls met.
The man with the broken knee tried to drag himself away but Wee Mad Arthur leapt from his stunned comrade and proceed to kick him. The kicks of a man not much more than six inches high should not hurt, but Wee Mad Arthur seemed to have a lot more mass than his size would allow. Being nutted by Arthur was like being hit by a steel ball from a slingshot. A kick seemed to have all the power of one from a large man, but