‘No, sir. That phrase also does not appear in any holy book anywhere,’ said Constable Visit, and hesitated. ‘Except in the Apocrypha to The Vengeful Testament of Offler,’ he added conscientiously. ‘These words are from the Cenotine Book of Truth,’{41} he sniffed, ‘as they called it. It’s what their false god …’
‘Could I just perhaps have the words and leave out the comparative religion?’ said Vimes.
‘Very well, sir.’ Visit looked hurt, but unfolded a piece of paper and sniffed disparagingly. ‘These are some of the rules that their god allegedly gave to the first people after he’d baked them out of clay, sir. Rules like “Thou shalt labour fruitfully all the days of your life”, sir, and “Thou shalt not kill”, and “Thou shalt be humble”. That sort of thing.’
‘Is that all?’ said Vimes.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Visit.
‘They’re just religious quotations?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any idea why it was in his mouth? Poor devil looked like he was having a last cigarette.’
‘No, sir.’
‘I could understand if it was one of the “smite your enemies” ones,’ said Vimes. ‘But that’s just saying “get on with your work and don’t make trouble”.’
‘Ceno was a rather liberal god, sir. Not big on commandments.’
‘Sounds almost decent, as gods go.’
Visit looked disapproving. ‘The Cenotines died through five hundred years of waging some of the bloodiest wars on the continent, sir.’
‘Spare the thunderbolts and spoil the congregation, eh?’ said Vimes.
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘Oh, nothing. Well thank you, Constable. I’ll, er, see that Captain Carrot is informed and, thank you once again, don’t let me keep you from—’
Vimes’s desperately accelerating voice was too late to prevent Visit pulling a roll of paper out of his breastplate.
‘I’ve brought you the latest Unadorned Facts magazine, sir, and also this month’s Battle Call,{42} which contains many articles that I’m sure will be of interest to you, including Pastor Nasal Pedlers’ exhortation to the congregation to rise up and speak to people sincerely through their letterboxes, sir.’
‘Er, thank you.’
‘I can’t help noticing that the pamphlets and magazines I gave you last week are still on your desk where I left them, sir.’
‘Oh, yes, well, sorry, you know how it is, the amount of work these days, makes it so hard to find the time to—’
‘It’s never too soon to contemplate eternal damnation, sir.’
‘I think about it all the time, Constable. Thank you.’
Unfair, thought Vimes, when Visit had gone. A note is left at the scene of a crime in my town and does it have the decency to be a death-threat? No. The last dying scrawl of a man determined to name his murderer? No. It’s a bit of religious doggerel. What’s the good of Clues that are more mysterious than the mystery?
He scribbled a note on Visit’s translation and chucked it into his In Tray.
Too late, Angua remembered why she avoided the slaughterhouse district at this time of the month.
She could change at will at any time. That’s what people forgot about werewolves. But they remembered the important thing. Full moonlight was the irresistible trigger: the lunar rays reached down into the centre of her morphic memory and flipped all the switches, whether she wanted them switched or not. Full moon was only a couple of days away. And the delicious smell of the penned animals and the blood from the slaughterhouses was chiming against her strict vegetarianism. The clash was bringing on her PLT.
She glared at the shadowy building in front of her. ‘I think we’ll go round the back,’ she said. ‘And you can knock.’
‘Me? They won’t take any notice of me!’ said Cheery.
‘You show them your badge and tell them you’re the Watch.’
‘They’ll ignore me! They’ll laugh at me!’
‘You’re going to have to do it sooner or later. Go on.’
The door was opened by a stout man in a bloody apron. He was shocked to have his belt grabbed by one dwarf hand, while another dwarf hand was thrust in front of his face, holding a badge, and a dwarf voice in the region of his navel said, ‘We’re the Watch, right? Oh, yes! And if you don’t let us in we’ll have your guts for starters!’
‘Good try,’ murmured Angua. She lifted Cheery out of the way and smiled brightly at the butcher.
‘Mr Sock? We’d like to speak to an employee of yours. Mr Dorfl.’{43}
The man hadn’t quite got over Cheery, but he managed to rally. ‘Mr Dorfl? What’s he done now?’
‘We’d just like to talk to him. May we come in?’
Mr Sock looked at Cheery, who was trembling with nerves and excitement. ‘I have a choice?’ he said.
‘Let’s say — you have a kind of choice,’ said Angua.
She tried to close her nostrils against the beguiling miasma of blood. There was even a sausage factory on the premises. It used all the bits of animals no one would ever otherwise eat, or even recognize. The odours of the abattoir turned her human stomach but, deep inside, part of her sat up and drooled and begged at the mingling smells of pork and beef and lamb and mutton and …
‘Rat?’ she said, sniffing. ‘I didn’t know you supplied the dwarf market, Mr Sock.’
Mr Sock was suddenly a man who wished to be seen to be cooperative.
‘Dorfl! Come here right now!’
There was the sound of footsteps and a figure emerged from behind a rack of beef carcases.
Some people had a thing about the undead. Angua knew Commander Vimes was uneasy in their presence, although he was getting better these days. People always needed someone to feel superior to. The living hated the undead, and the undead loathed — she felt her fists clench — the unalive.
The golem called Dorfl lurched a little because one leg was slightly shorter than the other. It didn’t wear any clothes because there was nothing whatsoever to conceal, and so she could see the mottling on it where fresh clay had been added over the years. There was so much patching that she wondered how old it could be. Originally, some attempt had been made to depict human musculature, but the repairs had nearly obscured these. The thing looked like the kind of pots Igneous despised, the ones made by people who thought that because it was hand-made it was supposed to look as if it was hand-made, and that thumbprints baked in the clay were a sign of integrity.
That was it. The thing looked hand-made. Of course, over the years it had mostly made itself, one repair at a time. Its triangular eyes glowed faintly. There were no pupils, just the dark red glow of a banked fire.
It was holding a long, heavy cleaver. Cheery’s stare gravitated to this and remained fixed on it in terrified fascination. The other hand grasped a piece of string, on the end of which was a large, hairy and very smelly goat.
‘What are you doing, Dorfl?’
The golem nodded towards the goat.
‘Feeding the yudasgoat?’{44}
Dorfl nodded again.
‘Have you got something to do, Mr Sock?’ said Angua.
‘No, I’ve …’
‘You have got something to do, Mr Sock,’ said Angua emphatically.
‘Ah. Er? Yes. Er? Yes. Okay. I’ll just go and see to the offal boilers …’
As the butcher walked away he stopped to wave a finger under the place where Dorfl’s nose would be if the golem had had a nose.