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. ;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.'