Free Feet of Clay by Terry Pratchett

snigger—“Cheery Littlebottom?”
    “Yes,” said Littlebottom gloomily.
    “Well, Commander Vimes says you’ve to come to the Patrician’s palace right now, all right?”
    “Dat’s Corporal Littlebottom you’re talkin’ to,” said Detritus.
    “It’s all right,” said Littlebottom. “Nothing could make it any worse.”

    Rumor is information distilled so finely that it can filter through anything. It does not need doors and windows—sometimes it doesn’t even need people. It can exist free and wild, running from ear to ear without ever touching lips.
    It had escaped already. From the high window of the Patrician’s bedroom, Sam Vimes could see people drifting towards the palace. There wasn’t a mob—there wasn’t even what you might call a crowd—but the Brownian motion of the streets was bouncing more and more people in his direction.
    He relaxed slightly when he saw one or two guards come through the gates.
    On the bed, Lord Vetinari opened his eyes.
    “Ah…Commander Vimes,” he murmured.
    “What’s been happening, sir?” said Vimes.
    “I appear to be lying down, Vimes.”
    “You were in your office, sir. Unconscious.”
    “Dear me. I must have been…overdoing it. Well, thank you. If you would be kind enough to…help me up…”
    Lord Vetinari tried to pull himself upright, swayed, and fell back again. His face was pale. Sweat beaded his forehead.
    There was a knock at the door. Vimes opened it a fraction.
    “It’s me, sir. Fred Colon. I got a message. What’s up?”
    “Ah, Fred. Who’ve you got down there so far?”
    “There’s me and Constable Flint and Constable Slapper, sir.”
    “Right. Someone’s to go up to my place and get Willikins to bring me my street uniform. And my sword and crossbow. And an overnight bag. And some cigars. And tell Lady Sybil…tell Lady Sybil…well, they’ll just have to tell Lady Sybil I’ve got to deal with things down here, that’s all.”
    “What’s happening , sir? Someone downstairs said Lord Vetinari’s dead!”
    “Dead?” murmured the Patrician from his bed. “Nonsense!” He jerked himself upright, swung his legs off the bed, and folded up. It was a slow, terrible collapse. Lord Vetinari was a tall man, so there was a long way to fall. And he did it by folding up a joint at a time. His ankles gave way and he fell on his knees. His knees hit the ground with a bang and he bent at the waist. Finally his forehead bounced on the carpet.
    “Oh,” he said.
    “His Lordship’s just a bit…” Vimes began—then he grabbed Colon and dragged him out of the room. “I reckon he’s been poisoned, Fred, and that’s the truth of it.”
    Colon looked horrified. “Ye gods! Do you want me to get a doctor?”
    “Are you mad? We want him to live!”
    Vimes bit his lip. He’d said the words that were on his mind and now, without a doubt, the faint smoke of rumor would drift out across the city. “But someone ought to look at him…” he said aloud.
    “Damn’ right!” said Colon. “You want I should get a wizard?”
    “How do we know it wasn’t one of them?”
    “Ye gods!”
    Vimes tried to think. All the doctors in the city were employed by the guilds, and all the guilds hated Vetinari, so…
    “When you’ve got enough people to spare a runner, send him up to the stables on Kings Down to fetch Doughnut Jimmy,” he said.
    Colon looked even more stricken. “Doughnut? He doesn’t known anything about doctoring! He dopes racehorses!”
    “Just get him, Fred.”
    “What if he won’t come?”
    “Then say that Commander Vimes knows why Laughing Boy didn’t win the Quirm 100 Dollars last week, and say that I know Chrysoprase the troll lost ten thousand on that race.”
    Colon was impressed. “You’ve got a nasty twist of mind there, sir.”
    “There’s going to be a lot of people turning up pretty soon. I want a couple of Watchmen outside this room—trolls or dwarfs for preference—and no one is to come in without my permission,