'How should I know?' snapped Stronginthearm.
'I mean, it brought the tea round this afternoon as normal as anything. Then it went off for a coupla hours, and now this...'
Stronginthearm shrugged. A golem was a golem and that was all there was to it, but the recollection of that bland face positioning itself under the giant hammer had shaken him.
'I heard the other day the sawmill in Dimwell Street wouldn't mind selling the one it's got,' said the foreman. 'It sawed up a mahogany trunk into matchsticks, or something. You want I should go and have a word?'
Stronginthearm looked at the slate again.
Dibbuk had never been very wordy. He'd carry red-hot iron, hammer sword-blanks with his fists, clean out clinkers from a smelter still too hot for a man to touch... and never say a word. Of course, he couldn't say any words, but Dibbuk had always given the impression that there were none he'd particularly wanted to say in any case. He just worked. These were the most words he'd ever written at any one time.
They spoke to Stronginthearm of black distress, and a mind that would have been screaming if it could only have uttered a sound. Which was daft! The things couldn't commit suicide.
'Boss?' said the foreman. 'I said, you want me to get another one?'
Stronginthearm skimmed the slate away and, with a feeling of relief, watched it shatter against the wall. 'No,' he said. 'Just clear this thing up. And get the bloody hammer fixed.'
Sergeant Colon, after some considerable effort, managed to get his head higher than the gutter.
'You - you all right, Corporal Lord de Nobbes?' he mumbled.
'Dunno, Fred. Whose face is this?'
''S mine, Nobby.'
Thank gods for that, I thought it was me...'
Colon fell back. 'We're lyin' in the gutter, Nobby,' he moaned. 'Ooo.'
'We're all lyin' in the gutter, Fred. But some of us're lookin' at the stars
'Well, I'm lookin' at your face, Nobby. Stars'd be a lot better, believe you me. C'mon...'
With several false starts they both managed to get upright, mainly by pulling themselves up one another.
'Where're're're we, Nobby?'
''m sure we left the Drum,... 've I got a sheet over m'head?'
'It's the fog, Nobby.'
'What about these legs down here?'
'I reckon them's your legs, Nobby. I've got mine.'
'Right. Right. Ooo ... I reckon I drunk a lot, Sarge.'
'Drunk as a lord, eh?'
Nobby reached gingerly up to his helmet. Someone had put a paper coronet around it. His questing hand found a dog-end behind his ear.
It was that unpleasant hour of the drinking day when, after a few hours' quality gutter-time, you're beginning to feel the retribution of sobriety while still being drunk enough to make it worse.
'How'd we get here, Sarge?'
Colon started to scratch his head and stopped because of the noise.
'I reckon...' he said, winnowing the frazzled shreds of his short-term memory, 'I... reckon... seems to me there was something about stormin' the palace and demandin' your birthright...'