Feet of Clay Read Free Page A

is talking about I am sure. He says it’s not like old fashioned police work which was catching the poor devils too stupid to run away!! Anyhow it all means a lot more work and new faces in the Watch.
    While he waited for a new sentence to form, Carrot took a sausage from his plate and lowered it.
    There was another unk .
    The waiter bustled up.
    “Another helping, Mister Carrot? On the house.” Every restaurant and eatery in Ankh-Morpork offered free food to Carrot, in the certain and happy knowledge that he would always insist on paying.
    “No, indeed, that was very good. Here we are…twenty pence and keep the change.”
    “How’s your young lady? Haven’t seen her today.”
    “Angua? Oh, she’s…around and about, you know. I shall definitely tell her you asked after her, though.”
    The dwarf nodded happily, and bustled off.
    Carrot wrote another few dutiful lines and then said, very softly, “Is that horse and cart still outside Ironcrust’s bakery?”
    There was a whine from under the table.
    “Really? That’s odd. All the deliveries were over hours ago and the flour and grit don’t usually arrive until the afternoon. Driver still sitting there?”
    Something barked, quietly.
    “And that looks quite a good horse for a delivery cart. And, you know, normally you’d expect the driver to put a nosebag on. And it’s the last Thursday in the month. Which is payday at Ironcrust’s.” Carrot laid down his pencil and waved a hand politely to catch the waiter’s eye.
    “Cup of acorn coffee, Mr. Gimlet? To take away?”

    In the Dwarf Bread Museum, in Whirligig Alley, Mr. Hopkinson the curator was somewhat excited. Apart from other considerations, he’d just been murdered. But at the moment he was choosing to consider this as an annoying background detail.
    He’d been beaten to death with a loaf of bread. This is unlikely even in the worst of human bakeries, but dwarf bread has amazing properties as a weapon of offense. Dwarfs regard baking as part of the art of warfare. When they make rock cakes, no simile is intended.
    “Look at this dent here,” said Hopkinson. “It’s quite ruined the crust!”
    A ND YOUR SKULL TOO , said Death.
    “Oh, yes,” said Hopkinson, in the voice of one who regards skulls as ten a penny but is well aware of the rarity value of a good bread exhibit. “But what was wrong with a simple cosh? Or even a hammer? I could have provided one if asked.”
    Death, who was by nature an obsessive personality himself, realized that he was in the presence of a master. The late Mr. Hopkinson had a squeaky voice and wore his spectacles on a length of black tape—his ghost now wore their spiritual counterpart—and these were always the signs of a mind that polished the undersides of furniture and stored paperclips by size.
    “It really is too bad,” said Mr. Hopkinson. “And ungrateful, too, after the help I gave them with the oven. I really feel I shall have to complain.”
    M R . H OPKINSON, ARE YOU FULLY AWARE THAT YOU ARE DEAD ?
    “Dead?” trilled the curator. “Oh, no. I can’t possibly be dead. Not at the moment. It’s simply not convenient. I haven’t even catalogued the combat muffins.”
    N EVERTHELESS .
    “No, no. I’m sorry, but it just won’t do. You will have to wait. I really cannot be bothered with that sort of nonsense.”
    Death was nonplussed. 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.
    Mr. Hopkinson’s hand went through a tabletop. “Oh.”
    Y OU SEE ?
    “This is most uncalled-for. Couldn’t you have arranged a less awkward time?”
    O NLY BY CONSULTATION WITH YOUR MURDERER .
    “It all seems very badly organized. I wish to make a complaint. I pay my taxes, after all.”
    I AM