Feet of Clay: A Novel of Discworld
Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Pages: 400
ISBN: 0062275518
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
It's murder in Discworld!—which ordinarily is no big deal. But what bothers Watch Commander Sir Sam Vimes is that the unusual deaths of three elderly Ankh-Morporkians do not bear the clean, efficient marks of the Assassins' Guild. An apparent lack of any motive is also quite troubling. All Vimes has are some tracks of white clay and more of those bothersome "clue" things that only serve to muck up an investigation. The anger of a fearful populace is already being dangerously channeled toward the city's small community of golems—the mindless, absurdly industrious creatures of baked clay, who can occasionally be found toiling in the city's factories. And certain highly placed personages are using the unrest as an excuse to resurrect a monarchy—which would be bad enough even if the "king" they were grooming wasn't as empty-headed as your typical animated pottery.
butler fold his, Vimes’s, clothes, he suppressed a terrible urge to kick the butler’s shiny backside as an affront to the dignity of man. The razor moved calmly over the stubble of the night. Last night there had been some official dinner. He couldn’t recall now what it had been for. He seemed to spend his whole life at the things. Arch, giggling women and braying young men who’d been at the back of the line when the chins were handed out. And, as usual, he’d come back through the fog-bound
Into the skin, slowly… Cheery hammered on the door. A guard opened it. “Get another bed.” “What?” “Another bed. From anywhere. And fresh bed linen.” He looked down. There wasn’t much of a carpet on the floor. Even so, in a bedroom, where people might walk with bare feet… “And take away this rug and bring another one.” What else? Detritus came in, nodded at Cheery, and looked carefully around the room. Finally he picked up a battered chair. “Dis’ll have to do,” he said. “If he want, I can
“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
when, after a few hours’ quality gutter-time, you’re beginning to feel the retribution of sobriety while still being drunk enough to make it worse. “How’d we get here, Sarge?” Colon started to scratch his head and stopped because of the noise. “I reckon…” he said, winnowing the frazzled shreds of his short-term memory, “I…reckon…seems to me there was something about stormin’ the palace and demandin’ your birthright…” Nobby choked and spat out the cigarette. “We didn’t do that, did we?” “You
“True. But let’s not forget that he has his bad points too. The man is capricious.” “You think so? Compared to the ones we had before he’s as reliable as a rock.” “Snapcase was reliable,” said Mr. Sock gloomily. “Remember when he made his horse a city councilor?” “You’ve got to admit it wasn’t a bad councilor. Compared to some of the others.” “As I recall, the others at that time were a vase of flowers, a heap of sand, and three people who had been beheaded.” “Remember all those fights? All