‘Golems do all the really mucky jobs,’ said Vimes.
‘You could have mentioned this before, Cheery,’ said Carrot.
‘Well, you know, sir … Golems are just there, sir. No one notices golems.’
‘Grease under his fingernails,’ said Vimes, to the room in general. ‘The old man scratched at his murderer. Grease under his fingernails. With arsenic in it.’
He looked down at the notebook, still on his desk. It’s there, he thought. Something we haven’t seen. But we’ve looked everywhere. So we’ve seen the answer and haven’t seen that it is the answer. And if we don’t see it now, at this moment, we’ll never see it at all . . .
‘No offence, sir, but that’s probably not a help,’ said Cheery’s voice somewhere in the distance. ‘So many of the trades that use arsenic involve some kind of grease.’
Something we don’t see, thought Vimes. Something invisible. No, it wouldn’t have to be invisible. Something we don’t see because it’s always there. Something that strikes in the night . . .
And there it was.
He blinked. The glittering stars of exhaustion were causing his mind to think oddly. Well, thinking rationally hadn’t worked.
‘No one move,’ he said. He held up a hand for silence. There it is,’ he said softly. There. On my desk. You see it?’
‘What, sir?’ said Carrot.
‘You mean you haven’t worked it out?’ said Vimes.
‘What, sir?’
‘The thing that’s poisoning his lordship. There it is … on the desk. See?’
‘Your notebook?’
‘No!’
‘He drinks Bearhugger’s whisky?’ said Cheery.
‘I doubt it,’ said Vimes.
‘The blotter?’ said Carrot. ‘Poisoned pens? A packet of Pantweeds?’
‘Where’re they?’ said Vimes, patting his pockets.
‘Just sticking out from under the letters in the In Tray, sir,’ said Carrot. He added reproachfully, ‘You know, sir, the ones you don’t answer.’
Vimes picked up the packet and extracted another cigar. Thanks,’ he said. ‘Hah! I didn’t ask Mildred Easy what else she took! But of course they’re a servant’s little bonus, too! And old Mrs Easy was a seamstress, a proper seamstress! And this is autumn! Killed by the nights drawing in! See?’
Carrot crouched down and looked at the surface of the desk. ‘Can’t see it myself, sir,’ he said.
‘Of course you can’t,’ said Vimes. ‘Because there’s nothing to see. You can’t see it. That’s how you can tell it’s there. If it wasn’t there you’d soon see it!’ He gave a huge manic grin. ‘Only you wouldn’t! See?’
‘You all right, sir?’ said Carrot. ‘I know you’ve been overdoing it a bit these last few days’
‘I’ve been underdoing it!’ said Vimes. ‘I’ve been running around looking for damn Clues instead of just thinking for five minutes! What is it I’m always telling you?’
‘Er … er … Never trust anybody, sir?’
‘No, not that.’
‘Er … er … Everyone’s guilty of something, sir?’
‘Not that, either.’
‘Er … er … Just because someone’s a member of an ethnic minority doesn’t mean they’re not a nasty small-minded little jerk, sir?’
‘N When did I say that?’
‘Last week, sir. After we’d had that visit from the Campaign for Equal Heights, sir.’
Well, not that. I mean . . . I’m pretty sure I’m always saying something else that’s very relevant here. Something pithy about police work.’
‘Can’t remember anything right now, sir.’
‘Well, I’ll damn well make up something and start saying it a lot from now on.’
‘Jolly good, sir.’ Carrot beamed. ‘It’s good to see you’re your old self again, sir. Looking forward to kicking arto prodding buttock, sir. Er . . . What have we found, sir?’
‘You’ll see! We’re going to the palace. Fetch Angua. We might need her. And bring the search warrant.’
‘You mean the sledgehammer, sir?’
‘Yes. And Sergeant Colon, too.’
‘He hasn’t signed in again yet, sir,’ said Cheery. ‘He should have gone off-duty an hour ago.’
‘Probably hanging around somewhere, staying out of trouble,’ said Vimes.
Wee Mad Arthur peered over the edge of the wall. Somewhere below Colon, two red eyes stared up at him.
‘Heavy, is it?’
“S!’
‘Kick it with your other foot!’
There was a sucking sound. Colon winced. Then there was a plop, a moment of silence, and a loud crash of pottery down in the street.
‘The boot it was holding came off,’ moaned Colon.
‘How did that happen?’
‘It got. . . lubricated . . .’
Wee Mad Arthur tugged at a finger. ‘Up yez come, then.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Why not? It ain’t holding on to yez no more.’
‘Arms tired. Another ten seconds and I’m gonna be a chalk outline . . .’
‘Nah, no one’s got that much chalk.’ Wee Mad Arthur knelt down so that his head was level with Colon’s eyes. ‘If you gonna die, d’yez mind signing a chitty to say yez promised me a dollar?’
Down below, there was a chink of pottery shards.
‘What was that?’ said Colon. ‘I thought the damn thing smashed up …”
Wee Mad Arthur looked down. ‘D’yez believe in that reincarnation stuff, Mr Colon?’ he said.
‘You wouldn’t get me touching that foreign muck,’ said Colon.
‘Well, it’s putting itself together. Like one of them jiggling saw puzzles.’
‘Well done, Wee Mad Arthur,’ said Colon. ‘But I know you’re just saying that so’s I’ll make the effort to haul meself up, right? Statues don’t go putting themselves back together when they’re smashed up.’
‘Please yezself. It’s done nearly a whole leg already.’
Colon managed to peer down through the small and smelly space between the wall and his armpit. All he could see were shreds of fog and a faint glow.
‘You sure?’ he said.
‘Yez run around rat holes, yez learns to see good in the dark,’ said Wee Mad Arthur. ‘Otherwise yez dead.’
Something hissed, somewhere below Colon’s feet.
With his one booted foot and his toes he scrabbled at the brickwork.
‘It’s having a wee bit o’ trouble,’ said Wee Mad Arthur conversationally. ‘Looks like it’s put its knees on wrong way round.’
Dorfl sat hunched in the abandoned cellar where the golems had met. Occasionally the golem raised its head and hissed. Red light spilled from its eyes. If something had streamed back down through the glow, soared through the eye-sockets into the red sky beyond, there would be …
Dorfl huddled under the glow of the universe. Its murmur was a long way off, muted, nothing to do with Dorfl.
The Words stood around the horizon, reaching all the way to the sky.
And a voice said quietly, ‘You own yourself.’ Dorfl saw the scene again arid again, saw the concerned face, hand reaching up, filling its vision, felt the sudden icy knowledge . . .
‘. . . Own yourself…
It echoed off the Words, and then rebounded, and then rolled back and forth, increasing in volume until the little world between the Words was gripped in the sound.
Golem Must Have a Master. The letters towered against the world, but the echoes poured around them, blasting like a sandstorm. Cracks started and then ran, zigzagging across the stone, and then
The Words exploded. Great slabs of them, mountain-sized, crashed in showers of red sand.
The universe poured in. Dorfl felt the universe pick it up and bowl it over and then lift it off its feet and up …
. . . and now the golem was among the universe. It could feel it all around, the purr of it, the busyness, the spinning complexity of it, the roar . . .
There were no Words between you and It.
You belonged to It, It belonged to you.
You couldn’t turn your back on It because there It was, in front of you.
Dorfl was responsible for every tick and swerve of It.
You couldn’t say, ‘I had orders.’ You couldn’t say, ‘It’s not fair.’ No one was listening. There were no Words. You owned yourself.
Dorfl orbited a pair of glowing suns and hurtled off again.
Not Thou Shalt Not. Say I Will Not.
Dorfl tumbled through the red sky, then saw a dark hole ahead. The golem felt it dragging at him, and streamed down through the glow and the hole grew larger and sped across the edges of Dorfl’s vision . . .
The golem opened his eyes.
NO MASTER!
Dorfl unfolded in one movement and stood upright. He reached out one arm and extended a finger.
The golem pushed the finger easily into the wall where the argument had taken place, and then dragged it carefully through the splintering brickwork. It took him a couple of minutes but it was something Dorfl felt needed to be said.
Dorfl completed the last letter and poked a row of three dots after it. Then the golem walked away, leaving behind:
NO MASTER…
A blue overcast from the cigars hid the ceiling of the smoking-room.
‘Ah, yes. Captain Carrot,’ said a chair. ‘Yes . . . indeed . . . but… is he the right man?’