'Done what?' said Angua.
Igneous hesitated.
Igneous was huge and... well, rocky. He moved around the streets of Ankh-Morpork like a small iceberg and, like an iceberg, there was more to him than immediately met the eye. He was known as a supplier of things. More or less any kind of things. And he was also a wall, which was the same as a fence only a lot harder and tougher to beat. Igneous never asked unnecessary questions, because he couldn't think of any.
'Muffin,* he said, finally. Igneous had always found the general denial was more reliable than the specific refutation.
'Glad to hear it,' said Angua. 'Now... where do you get your clay from?'
Igneous's face crinkled as he tried to work out where this line of questioning could possibly go. 'I got re-seats,' he said. 'Every bit prop'ly paid for.'
Angua nodded. It was probably true. Igneous, despite giving the appearance of not being able to count beyond ten without ripping off someone else's arm, and having an intimate involvement in the city's complex hierarchy of crime, was known to pay his bills. If you were going to be successful in the criminal world, you needed a reputation for honesty.
'Have you seen any like this before?' she said, holding out the sample.
'It day,' said Igneous, relaxing a little. 'I see clay all der time. It don't have no serial number. Clay's clay. Got lumps of it out der back. You make bricks an pots and stuff outa it. Dere's loads of potters in dis town and we all got der stuff. Why you wanna know about clay?'
'Can't you tell where it came from?'
Igneous took the tiny piece, sniffed it, and rolled it between his fingers.
'Dis is crank,' he said, looking a lot happier now that the conversation was veering away from more personal concerns. 'Dat's like... crappy clay, jus' good enough for dem lady potters wi' dangly earrings wot make coffee mugs wot you can't lift wid both hands.' He rolled it again. 'Also, it got a lotta grog in it. Dat's bitsa old pots, all smashed up real small. Makes it stronger. Any potter got loadsa stuff like dis.' He rubbed it again. 'Dis has been sorta heated up but it ain't prop'ly baked.'
'But you can't say where it came from?'
'Outa der ground is der best I can do, lady,' said Igneous. He relaxed a little now it appeared that enquiries were not to do with such matters as a recent batch of hollow statues and subjects of a similar nature. As sometimes happened in these circumstances, he tried to be helpful. 'Come an' have a look at dis.'
He loped away. The Watchmen followed him through the warehouse, observed by a couple of dozen cautious trolls. No one liked to see policemen up close, especially if the reason you were working at Igneous's place was that it was nice and quiet and you wanted somewhere to lie low for a few weeks. Besides, while it was true that a lot of people came to Ankh-Morpork because it was a city of opportunity, sometimes it was the opportunity not to be hung, skewered or dismantled for whatever crimes you'd left behind in the mountains.
'Just don't look,' said Angua.
'Why?' said Cheery.
'Because there's just us and there's at least two dozen of them,' said Angua. 'And all our clothes were made for people with full sets of arms and legs.'
Igneous went through a doorway and out into the yard behind the factory. Pots were stacked high on pallets. Bricks were curing in long rows. And under a crude roof were several large mounds of clay.
'Dere,' said Igneous generously. 'Clay.'
'Is there a special name for it when it's piled up like that?' said Cheery timorously. She prodded the stuff.
'Yeah,' said Igneous. 'Dat's technic'ly wot we calls a heap.'
Angua shook her head sadly. So much for Clues.
Clay was clay. She'd hoped there were all different sorts, and it turned out to be as common as dirt.
And then Igneous Helped the Police with Their Enquiries. 'D'you mind if youse goes out the back way?' he mumbled. 'Youse makes the help nervous an' I get pots I can't sell.'
He indicated a pair of wide doors in the rear wall, big enough for a cart to get through. Then he fumbled in his apron and produced a large keyring.
The padlock on the gate was big and shiny and new.
'You are afraid of theft?' said Angua.
'Now, lady, dat's unfair,' said Igneous. 'Someone broke der ole lock when dey pinched some stuff tree, four munfs ago.'
'Disgusting, isn't it?' said Angua. 'Makes you wonder why you pay your taxes, I expect.'
In some ways Igneous was a lot brighter than, say, Mr Ironcrust. He ignored the remark. 'It was just stuff,' he said, ushering them towards the open gate as speedily as he dared.
'Was it clay they stole?' said Cheery.
'It don't cost much but it's the principle of the t'ing,' he said. 'It beat me why dey bothered. It come to somet'ng when half a ton of clay can jus' walk out the door.'
Angua looked at the lock again. 'Yes, indeed,' she said distantly.
The gate rattled shut behind them. They were outside, in an alley.
'Fancy anyone stealing a load of clay,' said Cheery. 'Did he tell the Watch?'
'I shouldn't think so,' said Angua. 'Wasps don't complain too loudly when they're stung. Anyway, Detritus thinks Igneous is mixed up with smuggling Slab to the mountains, and so he's itching for an excuse to have a poke around in there... Look, this is still technically my day off.' She stepped back and peered up at the high spiked wall around the yard. 'Could you bake clay in a baker's oven?' she said.
'Oh, no.'
'Doesn't get hot enough?'
'No, it's the wrong shape. Some of your pots'd be baked hard while others'd still be green. Why do you ask?'
Why did I ask? Angua thought. Oh, what the hell... 'Fancy a drink?'
'Not ale,' said Cheery quickly. 'And nowhere where you have to sing while you drink. Or slap your knees.'
Angua nodded understandingly. 'Somewhere, in fact, without dwarfs?'
'Er ... yes
'Where we're going,' said Angua, 'that won't be a problem.'
The fog was rising fast. All morning it had hung around in alleys and cellars. Now it was moving back in for the night. It came out of the ground and up from the river and down from the sky, a clinging yellowish stinging blanket, the river Ankh in droplet form. It found its way through cracks and, against all common sense, managed to survive in lighted rooms, filling the air with an eye-watering haze and making the candles crackle. Outdoors, every figure loomed, every shape was a menace...
In a drab alley off a drab street Angua stopped, squared her shoulders, and pushed open a door.
The atmosphere in the long, low, dark room altered as she stepped inside. A moment of time rang like a glass bowl, and then there was a sense of relaxation. People turned back in their seats.
Well, they were seated. It was quite likely they were people.
Cheery moved closer to Angua. 'What's this place called?' she whispered.
'It hasn't really got a name,' said Angua, 'but sometimes we call it Biers.'
'It didn't look like an inn outside. How did you find it?'
'You don't. You... gravitate to it.'
Cheery looked around nervously. She wasn't sure where they were, apart from somewhere in the cattle-market district, somewhere up a maze of alleys.
Angua walked to the bar.
A deeper shadow appeared out of the gloom. 'Hello, Angua,' it said, in a deep, rolling voice. 'Fruit juice, is it?'
'Yes. Chilled.'
'And what about the dwarf?'
'She'll have him raw,' said a voice somewhere in the gloom. There was a ripple of laughter in the dark. Some of it sounded altogether too strange to Cheery. She couldn't imagine it issuing from normal lips. 'I'll have a fruit juice, too,' she quavered.
Angua glanced at the dwarf. She felt oddly grateful that the remark from the darkness seemed to have gone entirely over the small bullet head. She unhooked her badge and with care and deliberation laid it down on the counter. It went perlink. Then Angua leaned forward and showed the iconograph to the barman.
If it was a man. Cheery wasn't sure yet. A sign over the bar said 'Don't you ever change'.
'You know everything that's going on, Igor,' Angua said. Two old men got killed yesterday. And a load of clay got stolen from Igneous the troll recently. Did you ever hear about that?'
'What's that to you?'
'Killing old men is against the law,' said Angua. 'Of course, a lot of things are against the law, so we're very busy in the Watch. We like to be busy about important things. Otherwise we have to be busy about unimportant things. Are you hearing me?'
The shadow considered this. 'Go and take a seat,' it said. 'I'll bring your drinks.'
Angua led the way to a table in an alcove. The clientele lost interest in them. A buzz of conversation resumed.
'What is this place?' Cheery whispered.
'It's ... a place where people can be themselves,' said Angua slowly. 'People who... have to be a little careful at other times. You know?'
'No.'
Angua sighed. 'Vampires, zombies, bogeymen, ghouls, oh my. The und - ' She corrected herself. 'The differently alive,' she said. 'People who have to spend most of their time being very careful, not frightening people, fitting in. That's how it works here. Fit in, get a job, don't worry people, and you probably won't find a crowd outside with pitchforks and flaming torches. But sometimes it's good to go where everybody knows your shape.'
Now that Cheery's eyes had grown accustomed to the low light she could make out the variety of shapes on the benches. Some of them were a lot bigger than human. Some had pointy ears and long muzzles.
'Who's that girl?' she said. 'She looks... normal.'
'That's Violet. She's a tooth fairy. And next to her is Schleppel the bogeyman.'
In the far corner something sat huddled in a huge overcoat under a high, broad-brimmed pointed hat.
'And him?'
'That's old Man Trouble,' said Angua. 'If you know what's good for you, you don't mind him.'
'Er... any werewolves here?'
'One or two,' said Angua.
'I hate werewolves.'
'Oh?'
The oddest customer was sitting by herself, at a small round table. She appeared to be a very old lady, in a shawl and a straw hat with flowers in it. She was staring in front of her with an expression of good-natured aimlessness, and in context looked more frightening than any of the shadowy figures.
'What is she?' Cheery hissed.
'Her? Oh, that's Mrs Gammage.'
'And what does she do?'
'Do? Well, she comes in here most days for a drink and some company. Sometimes we ... they have a singsong. Old songs, that she remembers. She's practically blind. If you mean, is she an undead ... no, she isn't. Not a vampire, a werewolf, a zombie or a bogeyman. Just an old lady.'
A huge shambling hairy thing paused at Mrs Gammage's table and put a glass in front of her.
'Port and lemon. There you goes, Mrs Gammage,' it rumbled.
'Cheers, Charlie!' the old lady cackled. 'How's the plumbing business?'
'Doing fine, love,' said the bogeyman, and vanished into the gloom.
' That was a plumber? said Cheery.
'Of course not. I don't know who Charlie was. He probably died years ago. But she thinks the bogeyman is him, and who's going to tell her different?'
'You mean she doesn't know this place is - '
'Look, she's been coming here ever since the old days when it was the Crown and Axe,' said Angua. 'No one wants to spoil things. Everyone likes Mrs Gammage. They... watch out for her. Help her out in little ways.'
'How?'
'Well, I heard that last month someone broke into her hovel and stole some of her stuff...'
' That doesn't sound helpful.'
'... and it was all returned next day and a couple of thieves were found in the Shades with not a drop of blood left in their bodies.' Angua smiled, and her voice took on a mocking edge. 'You know, you get told a lot of bad things about the undead, but you never hear about the marvellous work they do in the community.'
Igor the barman appeared. He looked more or less human, apart from the hair on the back of his hands and the single unbifurcated eyebrow across his forehead. He tossed a couple of mats on the table and put their drinks down.
'You're probably wishing this was a dwarf bar,' said Angua. She lifted her beermat carefully and glanced at the underside.
Cheery looked around again. By now, if it had been a dwarf bar, the floor would be sticky with beer, the air would be full of flying quaff, and people would be singing. They'd probably be singing the latest dwarf tune, Gold, Gold, Gold, or one of the old favourites, like Gold, Gold, Gold, or the all-time biggie, Gold, Gold, Gold. In a few minutes, the first axe would have been thrown.
'No,' she said, 'it could never be that bad.'
'Drink up,' said Angua. 'We've got to go and see... something.'
A large hairy hand grabbed Angua's wrist. She looked up into a terrifying face, all eyes and mouth and hair.
'Hello, Shlitzen,' she said calmly.
'Hah, I'm hearing where there's a baron who's really unhappy about you,' said Shlitzen, alcohol crystallizing on his breath.
'That's my business, Shlitzen,' said Angua. 'Why don't you just go back behind your door like the good bogeyman that you are?'
'Hah, he's sayin' where you're disgracin' the Old Country - '
'Let go, please,' said Angua. Her skin was white where Shlitzen was gripping her.
Cheery looked from the wrist to the bogeyman's shoulder. Rangy though the creature was, muscles were strung along the arm like beads on a wire.
'Hah, you wearin' a badge,' it sneered. 'What's a good we - ?'
Angua moved so fast she was a blur. Her free hand pulled something from her belt and nipped it up and on to Shlitzen's head. He stopped, and stood swaying back and forth gently, making faint moaning sounds. On his head, flopping down around his ears like the knotted hanky of a style-impaired seaside sunbather, was a small square of heavy material.
Angua pushed back her chair and grabbed the beermat. The shadowy figures around the walls were muttering.
'Let's get out of here,' she said. 'Igor, give us half a minute and then you can take the blanket off him. Come on.'
They hurried out. The fog had already turned the sun into a mere suggestion, but it was vivid daylight compared to the gloom in Biers.
'What happened to him?' said Cheery, running to keep up with Angua's stride.
'Existential uncertainty,' Angua said. 'He doesn't know whether he exists or not. It's cruel, I know, but it's the only thing we've found that works against bogeymen. Blue fluffy blanket, for preference. ' She noted Cheery's blank expression. 'Look, bogeymen go away if you put your head under the blankets. Everyone knows that, don't they? So if you put their head under a blanket...'
'Oh, I see. Ooo, that's nasty.'
'He'll feel all right in ten minutes.' Angua skimmed the beermat across the alley.
'What was he saying about a baron?'
'I wasn't really listening,' said Angua carefully.
Cheery shivered in the fog, but not just from the cold. 'He sounded like he came from Uberwald, like us. There was a baron who lived near us and he hated people to leave.'
'Yes
'The whole family were werewolves. One of them ate my second cousin.'
Angua's memory spun in a hurry. Old meals came back to haunt her from the time before she'd said, no, this is not the way to live. A dwarf, a dwarf... No, she was pretty sure she'd never... The family had always made fun of her eating habits...
'That's why I can't stand them,' said Cheery. 'Oh, people say they can be tamed but I say, once a wolf, always a wolf. You can't trust them. They're basically evil, aren't they? They could go back to the wild at any moment, I say.'
'Yes. You may be right.'
'And the worst thing is, most of the time they walk around looking just like real people.'
Angua blinked, glad of the twin disguises of the fog and Cheery's unquestioning confidence. 'Come on. We're nearly there.'
'Where?'
'We're going to see someone who's either our murderer or who knows who the murderer is.'
Cheery stopped. 'But you've got only a sword and I haven't even got that!'
'Don't worry, we won't need weapons.'
'Oh, good.'
'They wouldn't be any use.'
'Oh.'
Vimes opened his door to see what all the shouting was about down in the office. The corporal manning - or in this case dwarfing - the desk was having trouble.
'Again? How many times have you been killed this week?'
'I was minding my own business!' said the unseen complainer.
'Stacking garlic? You're a vampire, aren't you? I mean, let's see what jobs you have been doing... Post sharpener for a fencing firm, sunglasses tester for Argus opticians ... Is it me, or is there some underlying trend here?'
'Excuse me, Commander Vimes?'
Vimes looked round into a smiling face that sought only to do good in the world, even if the world had other things it wanted done.
'Ah... Constable Visit, yes,' he said hurriedly. 'At the moment I'm afraid I'm rather busy, and I'm not even sure that I have got an immortal soul, haha, and perhaps you could call again when ...
'It's about those words you asked me to check,' said Visit reproachfully.
'What words?'
'The ones Father Tubelcek wrote in his own blood? You said to try and find out what they meant?'
'Oh. Yes. Come on into my office.' Vimes relaxed. This wasn't going to be another one of those painful conversations about the state of his soul and the necessity of giving it a wash and brush-up before eternal damnation set in. This was going to be about something important.
'It's ancient Cenotine, sir. It's out of one of their holy books, although of course when I say holy it is a fact that they were basically misguided in a...'
'Yes, yes, I'm sure,' said Vimes, sitting down. 'Does it by any chance say Mr X did it, aargh, aargh, aargh ?'
'No, sir. That phrase does not appear anywhere in any known holy book, sir. *
'Ah,'said Vimes.
'Besides, I looked at other documents in the room and the paper does not appear to be in the deceased's handwriting, sir.'
Vimes brightened up. 'Ah-ha! Someone else's? Does it say something like Take that, you bastard, we've been waiting ages to get you for what you did all those years ago ?'
'No, sir. That phrase also does not appear in any holy book anywhere,' said Constable Visit, and hesitated. 'Except in the Apocrypha to The Vengeful Testament of Offter,' he added conscientiously. ' These words are from the Cenotine Book of Truth,' he sniffed, 'as they called it. It's what their false god...'
'Could I just perhaps have the words and leave out the comparative religion?' said Vimes.
'Very well, sir.' Visit looked hurt, but unfolded a piece of paper and sniffed disparagingly. These are some of the rules that their god allegedly gave to the first people after he'd baked them out of clay, sir. Rules like Thou shall labour fruitfully all the days of your life , sir, and Thou shalt not kill , and Thou shalt be humble . That sort of thing.'
'Is that all?' said Vimes.
'Yes, sir,' said Visit.
'They're just religious quotations?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Any idea why it was in his mouth? Poor devil looked like he was having a last cigarette.'
'No, sir.'
'I could understand if it was one of the smite your enemies ones,' said Vimes. 'But that's just saying get on with your work and don't make trouble .'
'Ceno was a rather liberal god, sir. Not big on commandments.'
'Sounds almost decent, as gods go.'
Visit looked disapproving. The Cenotines died through five hundred years of waging some of the bloodiest wars on the continent, sir.'
'Spare the thunderbolts and spoil the congregation, eh?' said Vimes.
'Pardon, sir?'
'Oh, nothing. Well thank you, Constable. I'll, er, see that Captain Carrot is informed and, thank you once again, don't let me keep you from - '
Vimes's desperately accelerating voice was too late to prevent Visit pulling a roll of paper out of his breastplate.
'I've brought you the latest Unadorned Facts magazine, sir, and also this month's Battle Call, which contains many articles that I'm sure will be of interest to you, including Pastor Nasal Pedlers' exhortation to the congregation to rise up and speak to people sincerely through their letterboxes, sir.'
'Er, thank you.'
'I can't help noticing that the pamphlets and magazines I gave you last week are still on your desk where I left them, sir.'
'Oh, yes, well, sorry, you know how it is, the amount of work these days, makes it so hard to find the time to - '
'It's never too soon to contemplate eternal damnation, sir.'
'I think about it all the time, Constable. Thank you.'
Unfair, thought Vimes, when Visit had gone. A note is left at the scene of a crime in my town and does it have the decency to be a death-threat? No.
The last dying scrawl of a man determined to name his murderer? No. It's a bit of religious doggerel. What's the good of Clues that are more mysterious than the mystery?
He scribbled a note on Visit's translation and chucked it into his In Tray.
Too late, Angua remembered why she avoided the slaughterhouse district at this time of the month.
She could change at will at any time. That's what people forgot about werewolves. But they remembered the important thing. Full moonlight was the irresistible trigger: the lunar rays reached down into the centre of her morphic memory and flipped all the switches, whether she wanted them switched or not. Full moon was only a couple of days away. And the delicious smell of the penned animals and the blood from the slaughterhouses was chiming against her strict vegetarianism. The clash was bringing on her PLT.
She glared at the shadowy building in front of her. 'I think we'll go round the back,' she said. 'And you can knock.'
'Me? They won't take any notice of me!' said Cheery.
'You show them your badge and tell them you're the Watch.'
They'll ignore me! They'll laugh at me!'
'You're going to have to do it sooner or later. Go on.'
The door was opened by a stout man in a bloody apron. He was shocked to have his belt grabbed by one dwarf hand, while another dwarf hand was thrust in front of his face, holding a badge, and a dwarf voice in the region of his navel said, 'We're the Watch, right? Oh, yes! And if you don't let us in we'll have your guts for starters!'
'Good try,' murmured Angua. She lifted Cheery out of the way and smiled brightly at the butcher.
'Mr Sock? We'd like to speak to an employee of yours. Mr Dorfl.'
The man hadn't quite got over Cheery, but he managed to rally. 'Mr Dorfl? What's he done now?'
'We'd just like to talk to him. May we come in?'
Mr Sock looked at Cheery, who was trembling with nerves and excitement. 'I have a choice?' he said.
'Let's say - you have a kind of choice,' said Angua.
She tried to close her nostrils against the beguiling miasma of blood. There was even a sausage factory on the premises. It used all the bits of animals no one would ever otherwise eat, or even recognize. The odours of the abattoir turned her human stomach but, deep inside, part of her sat up and drooled and begged at the mingling smells of pork and beef and lamb and mutton and...
'Rat?' she said, sniffing. 'I didn't know you supplied the dwarf market, Mr Sock.'
Mr Sock was suddenly a man who wished to be seen to be cooperative.
'Dorfl! Come here right now!'
There was the sound of footsteps and a figure emerged from behind a rack of beef carcases.
Some people had a thing about the undead. Angua knew Commander Vimes was uneasy in their presence, although he was getting better these days. People always needed someone to feel superior to. The living hated the undead, and the undead loathed ¨C she felt her fists clench ¨C the unalive.
The golem called Dorfl lurched a little because one leg was slightly shorter than the other. It didn't wear any clothes because there was nothing whatsoever to conceal, and so she could see the mottling on it where fresh clay had been added over the years. There was so much patching that she wondered how old it could be. Originally, some attempt had been made to depict human musculature, but the repairs had nearly obscured these. The thing looked like the kind of pots Igneous despised, the ones made by people who thought that because it was hand-made it was supposed to look as if it was hand-made, and that thumbprints baked in the clay were a sign of integrity.
That was it. The thing looked hand-made. Of course, over the years it had mostly made itself, one repair at a time. Its triangular eyes glowed faintly. There were no pupils, just the dark red glow of a banked fire.
It was holding a long, heavy cleaver. Cheery's stare gravitated to this and remained fixed on it in terrified fascination. The other hand grasped a piece of string, on the end of which was a large, hairy and very smelly goat.
'What are you doing, Dorfl?'
The golem nodded towards the goat.
'Feeding the yudasgoat?'
Dorfl nodded again.
'Have you got something to do, Mr Sock?' said Angua.
'No, I've
'You have got something to do, Mr Sock,' said Angua emphatically.
'Ah. Er? Yes. Er? Yes. Okay. I'll just go and see to the offal boilers...'
As the butcher walked away he stopped to wave a finger under the place where Dorfl's nose would be if the golem had had a nose.
Tf you've been causing trouble...' he began.
'I expect those boilers could really do with attention,' said Angua sharply.
He hurried off.
There was silence in the yard, although the sounds of the city drifted in over the walls. From the other side of the slaughterhouse there was the occasional bleat of a worried sheep. Dorfl stood stock-still, holding his cleaver and looking down at the ground.
'Is it a troll made to look like a human?' whispered Cheery. 'Look at those eyesl'
'It's not a troll,' said Angua. 'It's a golem. A man of clay. It's a machine.'
'It looks like a human!'
'That's because it's a machine made for looking like a human.'
She walked around behind the thing. 'I'm going to read your chem, Dorfl,' she said.
The golem let go of the goat and raised the cleaver and brought it down sharply on to a chopping block beside Cheery, making the dwarf leap sideways. Then it pulled around a slate that was slung over its shoulder on a piece of string, unhooked the pencil, and wrote:
YES.
When Angua put her hand up, Cheery realized that there was a thin line across the golem's forehead. To her horror, the entire top of the head flipped up. Angua, quite unperturbed, reached inside. Her hand came out holding a yellowing scroll.
The golem froze. The eyes faded.
Angua unrolled the paper. 'Some kind of holy writing,' she said. 'It always is. Some old dead religion.'
'You've killed it?'
'No. You can't take away what isn't there.' She put the scroll back and closed the head with a click.
The golem came alive again, the glow returning to its eyes.
Cheery had been holding her breath. It came out in a rush. 'What did you do?' she managed.
'Tell her, Dorfl,' said Angua.
The golem's thick fingers were a blur as the pencil scratched across the slate.
I AM A GOLEM. I WAS MADEW OF CLAY. MY LIFE IS IN THE WORDS. BY MEANS OF WORDS OF PURPOSE IN MY HEAD I ACQUIRE LIFE. MY LIFE IS TO WORK. I OBEY ALL COMMANDS. I TAKE NO REST.
'What words of purpose?'
RELEVANT TEXTS THAT ME THE FOCUS OF BELIEF. GOLEM MUST WORK. GOLEM MUST HAVE A MASTER.
The goat lay down beside the golem and started to chew cud.
'There have been two murders, ' said Angua. 'I'm pretty certain a golem did one and probably both. Can you tell us anything, Dorfl?'
'Sorry, look,' said Cheery. 'Are you telling me this... thing is powered by words? I mean ... is it telling me it's powered by words?'
'Why not? Words do have power. Everyone knows that,' said Angua. There are more golems around than you might think. They're out of fashion now, but they last. They can work underwater, or in total darkness, or knee-deep in poison. For years. They don't need rest or feeding. They...'
'But that's slavery!' said Cheery.
'Of course it isn't. You might as well enslave a doorknob. Have you got anything to tell me, Dorfl?'
Cheery kept looking at the cleaver in the block. Words like length and heavy and sharp were filling her head more snugly than any words could have filled the clay skull of the golem.
Dorfl said nothing.
'How long have you been working here, Dorfl?'
NOW THREE HUNDRED DAYS ALREADY.
'And you have time off?'
TO MAKE A HOLLOW LAUGHING. WHAT WOULD I DO WITH TIME OFF?
'I mean, you're not always in the slaughterhouse?'
SOMETIMES I MAKE DELIVERIES.
'And meet other golems? Now listen, Dorfl, I know you things keep in touch somehow. And, if a golem is killing real people, I wouldn't give a busted teacup for your chances. Folk will be along here straight away with flaming torches. And sledgehammers. You get my drift?'
The golem shrugged.