'I hate bloody golems, takin' our jobs...'
'We ain't got jobs.'
'See what I mean?'
'What's for supper?'
'Mud and ole boots. HRRaawrk ptui!'
'Millennium hand and shrimp, I sez.'
''m glad I've got a voice. I can speak up for meself.'
'It's time you fed your duck.'
'What duck?'
The fog glowed and sizzled around Five and Seven Yard. Flames roared up and all but set the thick clouds alight. Spitting liquid iron cooled in its moulds. Hammers rang out around the workshops. The ironmasters didn't work by the clock, but by the more demanding physics of molten metal. Even though it was nearly midnight, Stronginthearm's Iron Founders, Beaters and General Forging was still bustling.
There were many Stronginthearms in Ankh-Morpork. It was a very common dwarf name. That had been a major consideration for Thomas Smith when he'd adopted it by official deed poll. The scowling dwarf holding a hammer which adorned his sign was a mere figment of the signpainter's imagination. People thought 'dwarfmade' was better, and Thomas Smith had decided not to argue.
The Committee for Equal Heights had objected but things had mired somewhat because, firstly, most of the actual Committee was human, since dwarfs were generally too busy to worry about that sort of thing,[13] and in any case their position hinged on pointing out that Mr Stronginthearm n¨¦ Smith was too tall, which was clearly a sizeist discrimination and technically illegal under the Committee's own rules.
In the meantime Thomas had let his beard grow, wore an iron helmet if he thought anyone official was around, and put up his prices by twenty pence on the dollar.
The drop hammers thumped, all in a row, powered by the big ox treadmill. There were swords to beat out and panels to be shaped. Sparks erupted.
Stronginthearm took off his helmet (the Committee had been around again) ancl wiped the inside.
'Dibbuk? Where the hell are you?'
A sensation of filled space made him turn. The foundry's golem was standing a few inches behind him, the forge light glowing on his dark red clay. oldest of the three waved his bow under the barman's nose. 'All the money right now!' he screamed. 'Otherwise,' he said, to the room in general, 'you've got a dead barman.'
'Plenty of other bars in town, boyo,' said a voice.
Mr Cheese didn't look up from the glass he was polishing. 'I know that was you, Constable Thighbiter,' he said calmly. There's two dollars and thirty pence on your slate, thank you very much.'
The thieves drew closer together. Bars shouldn't act like this. And they fancied they could hear the faint sliding noises of assorted weapons being drawn from various sheaths.
'Haven't I seen you before?' said Carrot.
'Oh gods, it's him,' moaned one of the men. The bread-thrower!'
'I thought Mr Ironcrust was taking you to the Thieves' Guild,' Carrot went on.
There was a bit of an argument about taxes...'
'Don't tell him!'
Carrot tapped his head. The tax forms!' he said. 'I expect Mr Ironcrust is worried I've forgotten about them!'
The thieves were now so close together they looked like a fat six-armed man with a very large bill for hats.
'Er ... Watchmen aren't allowed to kill people, right?' said one of them.
'Not while we're on duty,' said Vimes.
The boldest of the three moved suddenly, grabbed Angua and pulled her upright. 'We walk out of here unharmed or the girl gets it, all right?' he snarled.