Feet of Clay (Discworld 19)

'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.