Feet of Clay (Discworld 19)

They stared at her. And her ears.

Their eyes travelled downwards. There was no such concept as a modesty panel in Ankh-Morpork. All that was usually visible under the desk was the bottom half of Sergeant Colon. Of the large number of good reasons for shielding the bottom half of Sergeant Colon from view, its potential for engendering lust was not among the top ten.

'That's...female clothes, isn't it?' said one of the dwarfs.

Cheri swallowed. Why now? She'd sort of assumed Angua would be around. People always calmed down when she smiled at them, it was really amazing.

'Well?' she quavered. 'So what? I can if I want to.'

'And ... on your ear . , .'

'Well?'

'That's... my mother never even... urgh... that's disgusting! In public, too! What happens if kids come in?'

'I can see your ankles!' said another dwarf.

'I'm going to speak to Captain Carrot about this!' said the third. 'I never thought I'd live to see the day!'

Two of the dwarfs stormed off towards the locker-room. Another one hurried after them, but hesitated as he drew level with the desk. He gave Cheri a frantic look.

'Er ... er ... nice ankles, though,' he said, and then ran.

The fourth dwarf waited until the others had gone and then sidled up.

Cheri was shaking with nervousness. 'Don't you say a thing about my legs!' she said, waving a finger.

'Er...' The dwarf looked around hurriedly, and leaned forward. 'Er ... is that... lipstick?'

'Yes! What about it?'

'Er...' The dwarf leaned forward even more, looked around again, this time conspiratorially, and lowered her voice. 'Er ... could I try it?'

Angua and Carrot walked silently through the fog, except for Angua's occasional crisp and brief directions.

Then she stopped. Up until then Dorfl's scent, or at least the fresh scent of old meat and cow dung, had headed quite directly back to the slaughterhouse district.

'It's gone up this alley,' she said. 'That's nearly doubling back. And ... it was moving faster... and... there's a lot of humans and... sausages'?'

Carrot started to run. A lot of people and the smell of sausages meant a performance of the street theatre that was life in Ankh-Morpork.

There was a crowd further up the alley. It had obviously been there for some time, because at the rear was a familiar figure with a tray, craning to see over the tops of the heads.

'What's going on, Mr Dibbler?' said Carrot.

'Oh, hello, cap'n. They've got a golem.'

'Who have?'

'Oh, some blokes. They've just fetched the hammers.'

There was a press of bodies in front of Carrot. He put both hands together and rammed them between a couple of people, and then moved them apart. Grunting and struggling, the crowd opened up like a watercourse in front of the better class of prophet.

Dorfl was standing at bay at the end of the alley. Three men with hammers were approaching the golem cautiously, in the way of mobs, each unwilling to strike the first blow in case the second blow came right back at him.

The golem was crouching back, shielding itself with its slate on which was written:

I AM WORTH 530 DOLLARS.