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The Truth
Terry Pratchett
7/2/01

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Terry Pratchett - The Truth

Books by Terry Pratchett

TRUCKERS*

DIGGERS*

WINGS*

THE CARPET PEOPLE*

ONLY YOU CAN SAVE MANKIND*

JOHNNY AND THE DEAD*

JOHNNY AND THE BOMB*

GOOD OMENS (with Neil Caiman)

STRATA

THE DARK SIDE OF THE SUN

THE UNADULTERATED CAT (with
Gray Jolliffe)†

THE PRATCHETT PORTFOLIO (with
Paul Kidby)†

The Discworld® series:

THE COLOUR OF MAGIC*

THE LIGHT FANTASTIC*

EQUAL RITES*

MORT*

SOURCERY*

WYRD SISTERS*

PYRAMIDS*

GUARDS! GUARDS!*

ERIC*†

MOVING PICTURES*

REAPER MAN*

WITCHES ABROAD*

SMALL GODS*

LORDS AND LADIES*

MEN AT ARMS*

SOUL MUSIC*

INTERESTING TIMES*

MASKERADE*

FEET OF CLAY*

HOGFATHER*

JINGO*

THE LAST CONTINENT*

CARPE JUGULUM*

THE FIFTH ELEPHANT*

THE COLOUR OF MAGIC - graphic
novel

THE LIGHT FANTASTIC - graphic
novel

MORT: A DISCWORLD BIG COMIC
(with Graham Higgins)†

SOUL MUSIC: The Illustrated
Screenplay

WYRD SISTERS: The Illustrated
Screenplay

MORT - THE PLAY (adapted by
Stephen Briggs)

WYRD SISTERS - THE PLAY
(adapted by Stephen Briggs)

GUARDS! GUARDS! - THE PLAY
(adapted by Stephen Briggs)

MEN AT ARMS - THE PLAY (adapted
by Stephen Briggs)

THE DISCWORLD COMPANION (with
Stephen Briggs)

THE STREETS OF ANKH-MORPORK
(with Stephen Briggs)

THE DISCWORLD MAPP (with
Stephen Briggs)

A TOURIST GUIDE TO LANCRE (with
Stephen Briggs and Paul Kidby)

DEATH'S DOMAIN (with Paul
Kidby)

NANY OGG'S COOKBOOK (with
Stephen Briggs, Tina Hannan and Paul Kidby)

* also available in audio

† published by Victor Gollancz

THE
TRUTH

Terry
Pratchett

Doubleday

LONDON  •
NEW YORK  •  TORONTO
•  SYDNEY  •
AUCKLAND

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5
5SA

a division of The Random House
Group Ltd

RANDOM HOUSE AUSTRALIA (PTY)
LTD

20 Alfred Street, Milsons
Point, Sydney,

New South Wales 2061, Australia

RANDOM HOUSE NEW ZEALAND

18 Poland Road, Glenfield,
Auckland 10, New Zealand

RANDOM HOUSE SOUTH AFRICA (PTY)
LTD

Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road,
Parktown 2193, South Africa

Published 2000 by Doubleday

a division of Transworld
Publishers

Copyright © Terry and Lyn
Pratchett 2000

The right of Terry Pratchett to
be identified as the author of this work has been asserted

in accordance with sections 77
and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book
are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living

or dead, is purely
coincidental.

Discworld® is a trade mark
registered by Terry Pratchett

A catalogue record for this
book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 0385 601026

All rights reserved. No part of
this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording, or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publishers.

Typeset in 101/2  / 14pt Meridien by Falcon Oast Graphic Art

Printed in Great Britain

by Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Sometimes a fantasy author has to point out the
strangeness of reality. The way Ankh-Morpork dealt with its flood problems (see
p. 230 and onwards) is curiously similar to that adopted by the city of
Seattle, Washington, towards the end of the nineteenth century. Really. Go and
see. Try the clam chowder while you're there.

The rumour spread through the city like wildfire (which
had quite often spread through Ankh-Morpork since its citizens had learned the
words 'fire insurance').

The dwarfs can
turn lead into gold . . .

It buzzed through
the fetid air of the Alchemists' quarter, where they had been trying to do the
same thing for centuries without success but were certain that they'd manage it
by tomorrow, or next Tuesday at least, or the end of the month for definite.

It caused
speculation among the wizards at Unseen University, where they knew you could
turn one element into another element, provided you didn't mind it turning back
again next day, and where was the good in that? Besides, most elements were
happy where they were.

It seared into the
scarred, puffy and sometimes totally missing ears of the Thieves' Guild, where
people put an edge on their crowbars. Who cared where the gold came
from?

The dwarfs can
turn lead into gold . . .

It reached the
cold but incredibly acute ears of the Patrician, and it did that fairly
quickly, because you did not stay ruler of Ankh-Morpork for long if you were
second with the news. He sighed and made a note of it, and added it to a lot of
other notes.

The dwarfs can
turn lead into gold . . .

It reached the
pointy ears of the dwarfs.

'Can we?'

'Damned if I know.
I can't.'

'Yeah, but if you
could, you wouldn't say. I wouldn't say, if I could.'

'Can you?'

'No!'

'Ah-ha!'

It came to the ears of the Night Watch of the city guard,
as they did gate duty at ten o'clock on an icy night. Gate duty in Ankh-Morpork
was not taxing. It consisted mainly of waving through anything that wanted to
go through, although traffic was minimal in the dark and freezing fog.

They hunched in
the shelter of the gate arch, sharing one damp cigarette.

'You can't turn
something into something else,' said Corporal Nobbs. The Alchemists have been
trying it for years.'

They can gen'rally
turn a house into a hole in the ground,' said Sergeant Colon.

That's what I'm
talking about,' said Corporal Nobbs. 'Can't be done. It's all to do with . . .
elements. An alchemist told me. Everything's made up of elements, right? Earth,
Water, Air, Fire and . . . sunnink. Well-known fact. Everything's got 'em all
mixed up just right.'

He stamped his
feet in an effort to get some warmth into them.

'If it was
possible to turn lead into gold, everyone'd be doing it,' he said.

'Wizards could do
it,' said Sergeant Colon.

'Oh, well, magic,'
said Nobby dismissively.

A large cart
rumbled out of the yellow clouds and entered the arch, splashing Colon as it
wobbled through one of the puddles that were such a feature of Ankh-Morpork's
highways.

'Bloody dwarfs,'
he said, as it continued on into the city. But he didn't say it too loudly.

There were a lot
of them pushing that cart,' said Corporal Nobbs reflectively. It lurched slowly
round a corner and was lost to view.

'Prob'ly all that
gold,' said Colon.

'Hah. Yeah. That'd
be it, then.'

And the rumour came to the ears of William de Worde, and
in a sense it stopped there, because he dutifully wrote it down.

It was his job.
Lady Margolotta of Uberwald sent him five dollars a month to do it. The Dowager
Duchess of Quirm also sent him five dollars. So did King Verence of Lancre, and
a few other Ramtop notables. So did the Seriph of Al Khali, although in his
case the payment was half a cartload of figs, twice a year.

All in all, he
considered, he was on to a good thing. All he had to do was write one letter
very carefully, trace it backwards on to a piece of boxwood provided for him by
Mr Cripslock the engraver in the Street of Cunning Artificers, and then pay Mr
Cripslock twenty dollars to carefully remove the wood that wasn't letters and
make five impressions on sheets of paper.

Of course, it had
to be done thoughtfully, with spaces left after To my Noble Client the', and so
on, which he had to fill in later, but even deducting expenses it still left
him the best part of thirty dollars for little more than one day's work a
month.

A young man
without too many responsibilities could live modestly in Ankh-Morpork on thirty
or forty dollars a month; he always sold the figs, because although it was
possible to live on figs you soon wished you didn't.

And there were
always additional sums to be picked up here and there. The world of letters was
a closed boo-- mysterious papery object to many of Ankh-Morpork's citizens, but
if they ever did need to commit things to paper quite a few of them
walked up the creaky stairs past the sign 'William de Worde: Things Written
Down'.

Dwarfs, for
example. Dwarfs were always coming to seek work in the city, and the first
thing they did was send a letter home saying how well they were doing. This was
such a predictable occurrence, even if the dwarf in question was so far down on
his luck that he'd been forced to eat his helmet, that William had Mr Cripslock
produce several dozen stock letters which needed only a few spaces filled in to
be perfectly acceptable.

Fond dwarf parents
all over the mountains treasured letters which looked something like this:

Dear [Mume Dad],

Well, I
arrived here all right and I am staying, at [109 Cockbill Street The Shades
Ankh-Morpk]. Everythyng is fine. I have got a goode job working for [Mr
C.M.O.T. Dibbler, Merchant Venturer] and will be makinge lots of money
really soon now. I am rememberinge alle your gode advyce and am not drinkynge,
in bars or mixsing with Trolls. Well thas about itte mu,'t goe now, looking
forwade to seing you and [Emelia] agane, your loving son,

[Tomas
Brokenbrow]

. . . who was
usually swaying while he dictated it. It was twenty pence easily made, and as
an additional service William carefully tailored the spelling to the client and
allowed them to choose their own punctuation.

On this particular
evening, with the sleet gurgling in the downspouts outside his lodgings,
William sat in the tiny office over the Guild of Conjurors and wrote carefully,
half listening to the hopeless but painstaking catechism of the trainee
conjurors at their evening class in the room below.

'. . . pay
attention. Are you ready? Right. Egg. Glass . . .'

'Egg. Glass,'
the class droned listlessly.

'. . .
Glass. Egg . . .'

'Glass. Egg .
. .'

'. . . Magic word
. . .'

'Magic word
. . .  '

'Fazammm. Just
like that. Ahahahahaha . . .'

'Faz-ammm. Just
like that. Aha-ha-ha-ha-ha . . .'

William pulled
another sheet of paper towards him, sharpened a fresh quill, stared at the wall
for a moment and then wrote as follows:

And finally, on the lighter Side, it is being said
that the Dwarfs can Turn Lead into Gold, though no one knows whence the rumour
comes, and Dwarfs going about their lawful occa,'ions in the City are hailed
with cries such as, e.g., 'Hollah, short stuff, let's see you make some Gold
then!' although only Newcomers do this because all here know what happens if
you call a Dwarf 'short stuff, viz., you are Dead.

Yr. obdt.
servant, William de Worde

He always liked to
finish his letters on a happy note.

He fetched a sheet
of boxwood, lit another candle and laid the letter face down on the wood. A
quick rub with the back of a spoon transferred the ink, and thirty dollars and
enough figs to make you really ill were as good as in the bank.

He'd drop it into
Mr Cripslock tonight, pick up the copies after a leisurely lunch tomorrow, and
with any luck should have them all away by the middle of the week.

William put on his
coat, wrapped the wood block carefully in some waxed paper and stepped out into
the freezing night.

The world is made up of four elements: Earth, Air, Fire
and Water. This is a fact well known even to Corporal Nobbs. It's also wrong.
There's a fifth element, and generally it's called Surprise.

For example, the
dwarfs found out how to turn lead into gold by doing it the hard way. The
difference between that and the easy way is that the hard way works.

The dwarfs dwarfhandled their overloaded, creaking cart
along the street, peering ahead in fog. Ice formed on the cart and hung from
their beards.

All it needed was
one frozen puddle.

Good old Dame
Fortune. You can depend on her.

The fog closed in, making every light a dim glow and
muffling all sounds. It was clear to Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs that no
barbarian horde would be including the invasion of Ankh-Morpork in their travel
plans for this evening. The watchmen didn't blame them.

They closed the
gates. This was not the ominous activity that it might appear, since the keys
had been lost long ago and latecomers usually threw gravel at the windows of
the houses built on top of the wall until they found a friend to lift the bar.
It was assumed that foreign invaders wouldn't know which windows to throw
gravel at.

Then the two
watchmen trailed through the slush and muck to the Water Gate, by which the
river Ankh had the good fortune to enter the city. The water was invisible in
the dark, but the occasional ghostly shape of an ice floe drifted past below
the parapet.

'Hang on,' said
Nobby, as they laid hands on the windlass of the portcullis. 'There's someone
down there.'

'In the river?'
said Colon.

He listened. There
was the creak of an oar, far below.

Sergeant Colon
cupped his hands around his mouth and issued the traditional policeman's cry of
challenge.

'Oi! You!'

For a moment there
was no sound but the wind and the gurgling of the water. Then a voice said:
'Yes?'

'Are you invading
the city or what?'

There was another
pause. Then:

'What?'

'What what?' said
Colon, raising the stakes.

'What were the
other options?'

'Don't mess me
about . . . Are you, down there in the boat, invading this city?'

'No.'

'Fair enough,'
said Colon, who on a night like this would happily take someone's word for it.
'Get a move on, then, 'cos we're going to drop the gate.'

After a while the
splash of the oars resumed and disappeared downriver.

'You reckon that
was enough, just askin' 'em?' said Nobby.

'Well, they ought
to know,' said Colon.

'Yeah, but--'

'It was a tiny
little rowin' boat, Nobby. Of course, if you want to go all the way down to
them nice icy steps on the jetty--'

'No, sarge.'

'Then let's get
back to the Watch House, all right?'

William turned up his collar as he hurried towards Cripslock
the engraver. The usually busy streets were deserted. Only those people with
the most pressing business were out of doors. It was turning out to be a very
nasty winter indeed, a gazpacho of freezing fog, snow and Ankh-Morpork's
ever-present, ever-rolling smog.

His eye was caught
by a little pool of light by the Watchmakers' Guild. A small hunched figure was
outlined in the glow.

He wandered over.

A hopeless sort of
voice said, 'Hot sausages? Inna bun?'

'Mr Dibbler?' said
William.

Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler,
Ankh-Morpork's most enterprisingly unsuccessful businessman, peered at William
over the top of his portable sausage-cooking tray. Snowflakes hissed in the
congealing fat.

William sighed.
'You're out late, Mr Dibbler,' he said politely.

'Ah, Mr Word.
Times is hard in the hot sausage trade,' said Dibbler.

'Can't make both
ends meat, eh?' said William. He couldn't have stopped himself for a hundred
dollars and a shipload of figs.

'Definitely in a
period of slump in the comestibles market,' said Dibbler, too sunk in gloom to
notice. 'Don't seem to find anyone ready to buy a sausage in a bun these days.'

William looked
down at the tray. If Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler was selling hot sausages, it was
a sure sign that one of his more ambitious enterprises had gone wahoonie-shaped
yet again. Selling hot sausages from a tray was by way of being the ground
state of Dibbler's existence, from which he constantly sought to extricate
himself and back to which he constantly returned when his latest venture went all
runny. Which was a shame, because Dibbler was an extremely good hot sausage
salesman. He had to be, given the nature of his sausages.

'I should have got
a proper education like you,' said Dibbler despondently. 'A nice job indoors
with no heavy lifting. I could have found my nitch, if'n I'd have got a good
education.'

'Nitch?'

'One of the
wizards told me about 'em,' said Dibbler. 'Everything's got a nitch. You know.
Like: where they ought to be. What they was cut out for?'

William nodded. He
was good with words. 'Niche?' he said.

'One of them
things, yes.' Dibbler sighed. 'I missed out on the semaphore. Just didn't see
it coming. Next thing you know, everyone's got a clacks company. Big money. Too
rich for my blood. I could've done all right with the Fung Shooey, though.
Sheer bloody bad luck there.'

'I've certainly
felt better with my chair in a different position,' said William. That advice
had cost him two dollars, along with an injunction to keep the lid down on the
privy so that the Dragon of Unhappiness wouldn't fly up his bottom.

'You were my first
customer and I thank you,' said Dibbler. 'I was all set up, I'd got the Dibbler
wind-chimes and the Dibbler mirrors, it was gravy all the way - I mean,
everything was positioned for maximum harmony, and then . . . smack. Bad karma
plops on me once more.' ,

'It was a week
before Mr Passmore was able to walk again, though,' said William. The case of
Dibbler's second customer had been very useful for his news letter, which
rather made up for the two dollars.

'I wasn't to know
there really is a Dragon of Unhappiness,' said Dibbler.

'I don't think
there was until you convinced him that one exists,' said William.

Dibbler brightened
a little. 'Ah, well, say what you like, I've always been good at selling ideas.
Can I convince you of the idea that a sausage in a bun is what you desire at
this time?'

'Actually, I've
really got to get this along to--' William began, and then said, 'Did you just
hear someone shout?'

'I've got some
cold pork pies, too, somewhere,' said Dibbler, ferreting in his tray. 'I can
give you a convincingly bargain price on--'

'I'm sure I heard
something,' said William.

Dibbler cocked an
ear. 'Sort of like a rumbling?' he said.

'Yes.'

They stared into
the slowly rolling clouds that filled Broad Way.

Which became,
quite suddenly, a huge tarpaulin-covered cart, moving unstoppably and very
fast. . .

And the last thing
William remembered, before something flew out of the night and smacked him
between the eyes, was someone shouting, 'Stop the press!'

The rumour, having been pinned to the page by William's
pen like a butterfly to a cork, didn't come to the ears of some people, because
they had other, darker things on their mind.

Their rowboat slid
through the hissing waters of the river Ankh, which closed behind it slowly.

Two men were bent
over the oars. The third sat in the pointy end. Occasionally he spoke.

He said things
like 'My nose itches.'

'You'll just have
to wait till we get there,' said one of the rowers.

'You could let me
out again. It really itches.'

'We let you out
when we stopped for supper.'

'It didn't itch
then.'

The other rower
said, 'Shall I hit him up alongside the --ing head with the --ing oar again, Mr
Pin?'

'Good idea, Mr
Tulip.'

There was a dull
thump in the darkness.

'Ow.'

'Now no more fuss,
friend, otherwise Mr Tulip will Jose his temper.'

Too --ing right.'
Then there was a sound like an industrial pump.

'Hey, go easy on
that stuff, why don't you?'

'Ain't --ing
killed me yet, Mr Pin.'

The boat oozed to
a halt alongside a tiny, little-used landing stage. The tall figure who had so
recently been the focus of Mr Pin's attention was bundled ashore and hustled
down an alley.

A moment later
there was the sound of a carriage rolling away into the night.

It would seem
quite impossible, on such a mucky night, that there could have been anyone to
witness this scene.

But there was. The
universe requires everything to be observed, lest it cease to exist.

A figure shuffled
out from the shadows of the alley, close by. There was a smaller shape wobbling
uncertainly by its side.

Both of them
watched the departing coach as it disappeared into the snow.

The smaller of the
two figures said, 'Well, well, well. There's a fing. Man all bundled up and
hooded. An interesting fing, eh?'

The taller figure
nodded. It wore a huge old greatcoat several sizes too big, and a felt hat that
had been reshaped by time and weather into a soft cone that overhung the
wearer's head.

'Scraplit,' it
said. 'Thatch and trouser, a blewit the grawney man. I told 'im. I told 'im.
Millennium hand and shrimp. Bugrit.'

After a pause it
reached into its pocket and produced a sausage, which it broke into two pieces.
One bit disappeared under the hat, and the other was tossed to the smaller figure,
who was doing most of the talking or, at least, most of the coherent talking.

'Looks like a
dirty deed to me,' said the smaller figure, which had four legs.

The sausage was
consumed in silence. Then the pair set off into the night again.

In the same way
that a pigeon can't walk without bobbing its head, the taller figure appeared
unable to move without a sort of low-key, random mumbling:

'I told
'em, I told 'em. Millennium hand and shrimp. I said, I said, I said. Oh,
no. But they only run out, I told 'em. Sod 'em. Doorsteps. I said, I
said, I said. Teeth. Wassa name of age, I said I told 'em, not my fault,
matterofact, matterofact, stands to reason . . .'

The rumour did
come to his ears later on, but by then he was part of it.

As for Mr Pin and
Mr Tulip, all that need be known about them at this point is that they are the
kind of people who call you 'friend'. People like that aren't friendly.

William opened his eyes. I've gone blind, he thought.

Then he moved the
blanket.

And then the pain
hit him.

It was a sharp and
insistent sort of pain, centred right over the eyes. He reached up gingerly.
There seemed to be some bruising and what felt like a dent in the flesh, if not
the bone.

He sat up. He was
in a sloping-ceilinged room. A bit of grubby snow crusted the bottom of a small
window. Apart from the bed, which was just a mattress and blanket, the room was
unfurnished.

A thump shook the
building. Dust drifted down from the ceiling) He got up, clutching at his
forehead, and staggered to the door. It opened into a much larger room or, more
accurately, a workshop.

Another thump
rattled his teeth.

William tried to
focus.

The room was full
of dwarfs, toiling over a couple of long benches. But at the far end several of
them were clustered around something like a complex piece of weaving machinery.

It went thump
again.

William rubbed his
head. 'What's happening?' he said.

The nearest dwarf
looked up at him and nudged a colleague urgently. The nudge passed itself along
the rows, and the room was suddenly filled wall to wall with a cautious
silence. A dozen solemn dwarf faces looked hard at William.

No one can look
harder than a dwarf. Perhaps it's because there is only quite a small amount of
face between the statutory round iron helmet and the beard. Dwarf expressions
are more concentrated.

'Urn,' he said.
'Hello?'

One of the dwarfs
in front of the big machine was the first to unfreeze.

'Back to work,
lads,' he said, and came and looked William sternly in the groin.

'You all right,
your lordship?' he said.

William winced.
'Um . . . what happened?' he said. 'I, uh, remember seeing a cart, and then
something hit. . .'

'It ran away from
us,' said the dwarf. 'Load slipped, too. Sorry about that.'

'What happened to
Mr Dibbler?'

The dwarf put his
head on one side. 'The skinny man with the sausages?' he said.

'That's right. Was
he hurt?'

'I don't think
so,' said the dwarf carefully. 'He sold young Thunderaxe a sausage in a bun, I
do know that.'

William thought
about this. Ankh-Morpork had many traps for the unwary newcomer.

'Well, then, is Mr
Thunderaxe all right?' he said.

'Probably. He
shouted under the door just now that he was feeling a lot better but would stay
where he was for the time being,' said the dwarf. He reached under a bench and
solemnly handed William a rectangle wrapped in grubby paper.

'Yours, I think,'

William unwrapped
his wooden block. It was split right across where a wheel of the cart had run
over it, and the writing had been smudged. He sighed.

' 'scuse me,' said
the dwarf, 'but what was it meant to be?'

'It's a block
prepared for a woodcut,' said William. He wondered how he could possibly
explain the idea to a dwarf from outside the city. 'You know? Engraving? A . .
. a sort of very nearly magical way of getting lots of copies of
writing? I'm afraid I shall have to go and make another one now,'

The dwarf gave him
an odd look, and then took the block from him and turned it over and over in
his hands.

'You see,' said
William, 'the engraver cuts away bits of--'

'Have you still
got the original?' said the dwarf.

'Pardon?'

'The original,'
said the dwarf patiently.

'Oh, yes,' William
reached inside his jacket and produced it.

'Can I borrow it
for a moment?'

'Well, all right,
but I shall need it again to--'

The dwarf scanned
the letter a while, and then turned and hit the nearest dwarf a resounding boing
on the helmet.

'Ten point across
three,' he said, handing him the paper. The struck dwarf nodded, and then its
right hand moved quickly across the rack of little boxes, selecting things.

'I ought to be
getting back so I can--' William began.

'This won't take
long,' said the head dwarf. 'Just you step along this way, will you? This might
be of interest to a man of letters such as yourself,'

William followed
him along the avenue of busy dwarfs to the machine, which had been thumping
away steadily.

'Oh. It's an
engraving press,' said William vaguely.

'This one's a bit
different,' said the dwarf. 'We've . . . modified it,' He took a large sheet of
paper off a pile by the press and gave it to William, who read:

GUNILLA
GOODMOUNTAIN CO.

Reƒpectfully Solicit

Work for their New

WORD SMITHY

A method of taking multiple
impresfions

the like of which

Hath not hiterto been Seen.

Reaƒbnable rates.

At the Sign of The Bucket, Gleam Street,

off Treacle Mine Road, Ankh-Morpork.

'What do you
think?' said the dwarf shyly.

'Are you Gunilla
Goodmountain?'

'Yes. What do you
think?'

'We-ell . . .
you've got the letters nice and regular, I must say,' said William. 'But I
can't see what's so new about it. And you've spelled hitherto
wrong. There should be another h after the first t. You'll have to cut it all
out again unless you want people to laugh at you,'

'Really?' said
Goodmountain. He nudged one of his colleagues.

'Just give me a
ninety-six-point lower-case h, will you, Caslong? Thank you,'

Goodmountain bent
over the press, picked up a spanner and busied himself somewhere in the
mechanical gloom.

'You must have a
really steady hand to get the letters so neat,' said William. He felt a bit
sorry that he'd pointed out the mistake. Probably no one would have noticed in
any case. Ankh-Morpork people considered that spelling was a sort of optional
extra. They believed in it in the same way they believed in punctuation; it
didn't matter where you put it so long as it was there.

The dwarf finished
whatever arcane activity he had been engaged in, dabbed with an inked pad at
something inside the press, and got down.

'I'm sure it
won't' - thump - 'matter about the spelling,' said William.

Goodmountain
opened the press again and wordlessly handed William a damp sheet of paper.

William read it.

The extra h was in
place.

'How--?' he began.

'This is a very
nearly magical way of getting lots of copies quickly,' said Goodmountain.
Another dwarf appeared at his elbow, holding a big metal rectangle. It was full
of little metal letters, back to front. Goodmountain took it and gave William a
big grin.

'Want to make any
changes before we go to press?' he said. 'Just say the word. A couple of dozen
prints be enough?'

'Oh dear,' said
William. This is printing, isn't it. . . ?'

The Bucket was a tavern, of sorts. There was no passing
trade. The street was if not a dead end then seriously wounded by the area's
change in fortunes. Few businesses fronted on to it. It consisted mainly of the
back ends of yards and warehouses. No one even remembered why it was called
Gleam Street. There was nothing very sparkling about it.

Besides, calling a
tavern the Bucket was not a decision destined to feature in Great Marketing
Decisions of History. Its owner was Mr Cheese, who was thin, dry and only
smiled when he heard news of some serious murder. Traditionally he had sold
short measure but, to make up for it, had short-changed as well. However, the
pub had been taken over by the City Watch as the unofficial policemen's pub,
because policemen like to drink in places where no one else goes and they don't
have to be reminded that they are policemen.

This had been a
benefit in some ways. Not even licensed thieves tried to rob the Bucket now.
Policemen didn't like their drinking disturbed. On the other hand, Mr Cheese
had never found a bigger bunch of petty criminals than those wearing the Watch
uniform. He saw more dud dollars and strange pieces of foreign currency cross
his bar in the first month than he'd found in ten years in the business. It
made you depressed, it really did. But some of the murder descriptions were
quite funny.

He made part of
his living by renting out the rat's nest of old sheds and cellars that backed
on to the pub. They tended to be occupied very temporarily by the kind of
enthusiastic manufacturer who believed that what the world really, really
needed today was an inflatable dartboard.

But there was a
crowd outside the Bucket now, reading one of the' slightly misprinted posters
that Goodmountain had nailed up on the door. Goodmountain followed William out
and nailed up the corrected version.

'Sorry about your
head,' he said. 'Looks like we made a bit of an impression on you. Have this
one on the house.'

William skulked
home, keeping in the shadows in case he met Mr Cripslock. But he folded his
printed sheets into their envelopes and took them down to the Hubward Gate and
gave them to the messengers, reflecting as he did so that he was doing this
several days before he had expected to.

The messengers
gave him some very odd looks.

He went back to
his lodgings and had a look at himself in the mirror over the washbasin. A
large R, printed in bruise colours, Occupied a lot of his forehead.

He stuck a bandage
over it.

And he still had
eighteen more copies. As an afterthought, and feeling rather daring, he looked
through his notes for the addresses of eighteen prominent citizens who could
probably afford it, wrote a short covering letter to each one offering this
service for . . . he thought for a while and then carefully wrote '$5' . . .
and folded the free sheets into eighteen envelopes. Of course, he could always
have asked Mr Cripslock to do more copies as well, but it had never seemed right.
After the old boy had spent all day chipping out the words, asking him to sully
his craftsmanship by making dozens of duplicates seemed disrespectful. But you
didn't have to respect lumps of metal and machines. Machines weren't alive.

That, really, was
where the trouble was going to start. And there was going to be trouble. The
dwarfs had seemed quite unconcerned when he'd told them how much of it there
was going to be.

The coach arrived at a large house in the city. A door was
opened. A door was shut. Another door was knocked on. It was opened. It shut.
The carriage pulled away.

One ground-floor
room was heavily curtained, and only the barest gleam of light filtered out.
Only the faintest of noises filtered out, too, but any listener would have
heard a murmur of conversation die down. Then a chair was knocked over and
several people shouted, all at once.

'That is him!'

'It's a trick . .
. isn't it?'

'I'll be damned!'

'If it is
him, so are we all!'

The hubbub died
away. And then, very calmly, someone began to talk.

'Good. Good. Take
him away, gentlemen. Make him comfortable in the cellar.'

There were
footsteps. A door opened and closed.

A more querulous
voice said, 'We could simply replace--'

'No, we
could not. I understand that our guest is, fortunately, a man of rather low
intelligence.' There was this about the first speaker's voice. It spoke as if
disagreeing was not simply unthinkable but impossible. It was used to being in
the company of listeners.

'But he looks the
spit and image--'

'Yes. Astonishing,
isn't it? Let us not overcomplicate matters, though. We are a bodyguard of
lies, gentlemen. We are all that stands between the city and oblivion, so let
us make this one chance work. Vetinari may be quite willing to see humans
become a minority in their greatest city, but frankly his death by
assassination would be . . . unfortunate. It would cause turmoil, and turmoil
is hard to steer. And we all know that there are people who take too much of an
interest. No. There is a third way. A gentle slide from one condition to
another.'

'And what will
happen to our new friend?'

'Oh,   our
employees  are  known
to  be   men   of  resource, gentlemen. I'm sure they know how
to deal with a man whose face no longer fits, eh?'

There was
laughter.

Things were a little fraught in Unseen University. The
wizards were scuttling from building to building, glancing at the sky.

The problem, of
course, was the frogs. Not rains of frogs, which were uncommon now in
Ankh-Morpork, but specifically foreign treefrogs from the humid jungles of
Klatch. They were small, brightly coloured, happy little creatures who secreted
some of the nastiest toxins in the world, which is why the job of looking after
the large vivarium where they happily passed their days was given to first-year
students, on the basis that if they got things wrong there wouldn't be too much
education wasted.

Very occasionally
a frog was removed from the vivarium and put into a rather smaller jar where it
briefly became a very happy frog indeed, and then went to sleep and woke up in
that great big jungle in the sky.

And thus the
University got the active ingredient which it made up into pills and fed to the
Bursar, to keep him sane. At least, apparently sane, because nothing was
that simple at good old UU. In fact he was incurably insane and hallucinated
more or less continuously, but by a remarkable stroke of lateral thinking his
fellow wizards had reasoned that, in that case, the whole business could be
sorted out if only they could find a formula that caused him to hallucinate
that he was completely sane*

[* This is a very
common hallucination, shared by most people.]

This had worked
well. There had been a few false starts. For several hours, at one point, he
had hallucinated that he was a bookcase. But now he was permanently
hallucinating that he was a bursar, and that almost made up for the small
side-effect that also led him to hallucinate that he could fly.

Of course, many
people in the universe have also had the misplaced belief that they can safely
ignore gravity, mostly after taking some local equivalent of dried frog pills,
and this has led to much extra work for elementary physics and caused brief
traffic jams in the street below. When a wizard hallucinates that he can fly,
things are different.

'Bursaar! You come
down here right this minute!' Arch-chancellor Mustrum Ridcully barked through
his megaphone. 'You know what I said about goin' higher than the walls!'

The Bursar floated
gently down towards the lawn. 'You wanted me, Archchancellor?'

Ridcully waved a
piece of paper at him. 'You were tellin' me the other day we were spendin' a
ton of money with the engravers, weren't you?' he barked.

The Bursar got his
mind up to something approaching the correct speed. 'I was?' he said.

'Breakin' the
budget, you said. Remember it distinctly.'

A few cogs meshed
in the jittery gearbox of the Bursar's brain. 'Oh. Yes. Yes. Very true,' he
said. Another gear clonked into place. 'A fortune every year, I'm afraid. The
Guild of Engravers--'

'Chap here says,'
the Archchancellor glanced at the sheet, 'he can do us ten copies of a thousand
words each for a dollar. Is that cheap?'

'I think, uh,
there must be a mis-carving there, Archchancellor,' said the Bursar, finally
managing to get his voice into the smooth and soothing tones he found best in
dealing with Ridcully. That sum would not keep him in boxwood.'

'Says here' -
rustle - 'down to ten-point size,' said Ridcully.

The Bursar lost
control for a moment. 'Ridiculous!'

'What?'

'Sorry,
Archchancellor. I mean, that can't be right. Even if anyone could consistently
carve that fine, the wood would crumble after a couple of impressions.'

'Know about this
sort of thing, do you?'

'Well, my
great-uncle was an engraver, Archchancellor. And the print bill is a major
drain, as you know. I think I can say with some justification that I have been
able to keep the Guild down to a very--'

'Don't they invite
you to their annual blow-out?'

'Well, as a major
customer of course the University is invited to their official dinner and as
the designated officer I naturally see it as part of my duties to--'

'Fifteen courses,
I heard.'

'--and of course
there is our policy of maintaining a friendly relationship with the other
Gui--'

'Not
including the nuts and coffee.'

The Bursar
hesitated. The Archchancellor tended to combine wooden-headed stupidity with
distressing insight.

The problem,
Archchancellor,' he tried, 'is that we have always been very much
against using movable type printing for magic purposes because--'

'Yes, yes, I know
all about that,' said the Archchancellor. 'But there's all the other
stuff, more of it every day . . . forms and charts and gods know what. You know
I've always wanted a paperless office--'

'Yes,
Archchancellor, that's why you hide it all in cupboards and throw it out of the
window at night.'

'Clean desk, clean
mind,' said the Archchancellor. He thrust the leaflet into the Bursar's hand.

'Just you trot
down there, why don't you, and see if it's just a lot of hot air. But walk,
please.'

William felt drawn back to the sheds behind the Bucket
next day. Apart from anything else, he had nothing to do and he didn't like
being useless.

There are, it has
been said, two types of people in the world. There are those who, when
presented with a glass that is exactly half full, say: this glass is half full.
And then there are those who say: this glass is half empty.

The world belongs,
however, to those who can look at the glass and say: 'What's up with this
glass? Excuse me? Excuse me? This is my glass? I don't think
so. My glass was full! And it was a bigger glass!

And at the other
end of the bar the world is full of the other type of person, who has a broken
glass, or a glass that has been carelessly knocked over (usually by one of the
people calling for a larger glass), or who had no glass at all, because they
were at the back of the crowd and had failed to catch the barman's eye.

William was one of
the glassless. And this was odd, because he'd been born into a family that not
only had a very large glass indeed but could afford to have people discreetly
standing around with bottles to keep it filled up.

It was
self-imposed glasslessness, and it had started at a fairly early age when he'd
been sent away to school.

William's brother
Rupert, being the elder, had gone to the Assassins' School in Ankh-Morpork,
widely regarded as being the best school in the world for the full-glass class.
William, as a less-important son, had been sent to Hugglestones, a boarding
school so bleak and spartan that only the upper glasses would dream of sending
their sons there.

Hugglestones was a
granite building on a rain-soaked moor, and its  stated purpose was to make men
from boys.  The policy employed
involved a certain amount of wastage, and consisted in William's recollection
at least of very simple and violent games in the healthy outdoor sleet. The
small, slow, fat or merely unpopular were
mown  down,   as
nature  intended,  but natural selection operates in many ways
and William found that he had a certain capacity for survival. A good way to
survive on the playing fields of Hugglestones was to run very fast and shout a
lot while inexplicably always being a long way from the ball. This had earned
him, oddly enough, a reputation for being keen, and keenness was highly prized
at Hugglestones, if only because actual achievement was so rare. The staff at
Hugglestones believed that in sufficient quantities 'being keen' could take the
place of lesser attributes like intelligence, foresight and training.

He had been
truly keen on anything involving words. At Hugglestones this had not counted
for a great deal, since most of its graduates never expected to have to do much
more with a pen than sign their names (a feat which most of them could manage
after three or four years), but it had meant long mornings peacefully reading
anything that took his fancy while around him the hulking front-row forwards
who would one day be at least the deputy-leaders of the land learned how to
hold a pen without crushing it.

William left with
a good report, which tended to be the case with pupils that most of the
teachers could only vaguely remember. Afterwards, his father had faced the
problem of what to do with him.

He was the younger
son, and family tradition sent youngest sons into some church or other, where
they couldn't do much harm on a physical level. But too much reading had taken
its toll. William found that he now thought of prayer as a sophisticated way of
pleading with thunderstorms.

Going into land management
was just about acceptable, but it seemed to William that land managed itself
pretty well, on the whole. He was all in favour of the countryside, provided
that it was on the other side of a window.

A military career
somewhere was unlikely. William had a rooted objection to killing people he
didn't know.

He enjoyed reading
and writing. He liked words. Words didn't shout or make loud noises,
which pretty much defined the rest of his family. They didn't involve getting
muddy in the freezing cold. They didn't hunt inoffensive animals, either. They
did what he told them to. So, he'd said, he wanted to write.

His father had
erupted. In his personal world a scribe was only one step higher than a
teacher. Good gods, man, they didn't even ride a horse! So there had been
Words.

As a result,
William had gone off to Ankh-Morpork, the usual destination for the lost and
the aimless. There he'd made words his living, in a quiet sort of way, and
considered that he'd got off easily compared to brother Rupert, who was big and
good natured and a Hugglestones natural apart from the accident of birth.

And then there had
been the war against Klatch . . .

It was an
insignificant war, which was over before it started, the kind of war that both
sides pretended hadn't really happened, but one of the things that did happen
in the few confused days of wretched turmoil was the death of Rupert de Worde.
He had died for his beliefs; chief among them was the very Hugglestonian one
that bravery could replace armour, and that Klatchians would turn and run if
you shouted loud enough.

William's father,
during their last meeting, had gone on at some length about the proud and noble
traditions of the de Wordes. These had mostly involved unpleasant deaths,
preferably of foreigners, but somehow, William gathered, the de Wordes had
always considered that it was a decent second prize to die themselves. A de
Worde was always to the fore when the city called. That was why they existed.
Wasn't the family motto Le Mot Juste? The Right Word In The Right Place,
said Lord de Worde. He simply could not understand why William did not want to
embrace this fine tradition and he dealt with it, in the manner of his kind, by
not dealing with it.

And now a great
frigid silence had descended between the de Wordes that made the winter chill
seem like a sauna.

In this gloomy
frame of mind it was positively cheering to wander into the print room to find
the Bursar arguing the theory of words with Goodmountain.

'Hold on, hold
on,' said the Bursar. 'Yes, indeed, figuratively a word is made up of
individual letters but they have only a,' he waved his long fingers gracefully,
'theoretical existence, if I may put it that way. They are, as it were,
words partis in potentia, and it is, I am afraid, unsophisticated in the
extreme to imagine that they have any real existence unis et separata.
Indeed, the very concept of letters having their own physical existence is,
philosophically, extremely worrying. Indeed, it would be like noses and fingers
running around the world all by themselves--'

That's three
'indeeds', thought William, who noticed things like that. Three indeeds used by
a person in one brief speech generally meant an internal spring was about to
break.

'We got whole
boxes of letters,' said Goodmountain flatly. 'We can make any words you want.'

That's the
trouble, you see,' said the Bursar. 'Supposing the metal remembers the words it
has printed? At least engravers melt down their plates, and the cleansing
effect of fire will--'

' 'scuse me, your
reverence,' said Goodmountain. One of the dwarfs had tapped him gently on the
shoulder and handed him a square of paper. He passed it up to the Bursar.

'Young Caslong
here thought you might like this as a souvenir,' he said. 'He took it down
directly from the case and pulled it off on the stone. He's very quick like
that.'

The Bursar tried
to look the young dwarf sternly up and down, although this was a pretty
pointless intimidatory tactic to use on dwarfs since they had very little up to
look down from.

'Really?' he said.
'How very . . .' His eyes scanned the paper.

And then bulged.

'But these are . .
. when I said . . . I only just said . . . How did you know I was going to say
. . . I mean, my actual words . . .' he stuttered.

'Of course they're
not properly justified,' said Goodmountain.

'Now just a moment--'
the Bursar began.

William left them
to it. The stone he could work out - even the engravers used a big flat stone
as a workbench. And he'd seen dwarfs pulling paper sheets off the metal
letters, so that made sense, too. And what the Bursar said had been
unjustified. It wasn't as if metal had a soul.

He looked over the
head of a dwarf who was busily assembling letters in a little metal hod, the
stubby fingers darting from box to box in the big tray of type in front of him.
Capital letters all in the top, small letters all in the bottom. It was even
possible to get an idea of what the dwarf was assembling, just by watching the
movements of his hands across the tray.

'M-a-k-e-$-$-$-I-n-n-Y-o-u-r-e-S-p-a-r-e-T-y-m--' he murmured.

A certainty
formed. He glanced down at the sheets of grubby paper beside the tray.

They were covered
with the dense spiky handwriting that identified its owner as an anal-retentive
with a poor grip.

There were no
flies on C.M.O.T. Dibbler. He would have charged them rent.

With barely a
conscious thought, William pulled out his notebook, licked his pencil and
wrote, very carefully, in his private shorthand:

'Amzg scenes hv
ocrd in the Ct with the Openg o t Prntg Engn at the Sgn o t Bucket by G.
Goodmountain, Dwf, which hs causd mch intereƒt amng all prts inc. chfs of
commerƒe.'

He paused. The
conversation at the other end of the room was definitely taking a more
conciliatory turn.

'How much a
thousand?' said the Bursar.

'Even cheaper for
bulk rates,' said Goodmountain. 'Small runs no problem.'

The Bursar's face
had that warm glaze of someone who deals in numbers and can see one huge and
inconvenient number getting smaller in the very near future, and in those
circumstances philosophy doesn't stand much of a chance. And what was visible
of Goodmountain's face had the cheerful scowl of someone who's worked out how
to turn lead into still more gold.

'Well, of course,
a contract of this size would have to be ratified by the Archchancellor
himself,' said the Bursar, 'but I can assure you that he listens very
carefully to everything I say.'

I'm sure he does,
your lordship,' said Goodmountain cheerfully.

'Uh, by the way,'
said the Bursar, 'do you people have an Annual Dinner?'

'Oh, yes.
Definitely,' said the dwarf.

'When is it?'

'When would you
like it?'

William scribbled:
'Mch businƒs sms likly wth a Certain Educational Body in t Ct,' and then,
because he had a truly honest nature, he added, 'we hear.'

Well, that was
pretty good going. He'd got one letter away only this morning and already he
had an important note for the next--

--except, of
course, the customers weren't expecting another one for almost a month. He had
a certain feeling that by then no one would be very interested. On the other
hand, if he didn 't tell them about it, someone would be bound to
complain. There had been all that trouble with the rain of dogs in Treacle Mine
Road last year, and it wasn't as if that had even happened.

But even if he got
the dwarfs to make the type really big, one item of gossip wasn't going to go
very far.

Blast.

He'd have to
scuttle around a bit and find some more.

On an impulse he
wandered over to the departing Bursar.

'Excuse me, sir,'
he said.

The Bursar, who
was feeling in a very cheerful mood, raised an eyebrow in a good-humoured way.

'Hmm?' he said.
'It's Mr de Worde, isn't it?'

'Yes, sir. I--'

I'm afraid we do
all our own writing down at the University,' said the Bursar.

'I wonder if I
could just ask you what you think of Mr Good-mountain's new printing engine,
sir?' said William.

'Why?'

'Er . . . Because
I'd quite like to know? And I'd like to write it down for my news letter. You
know? Views of a leading member of Ankh-Morpork's thaumaturgical
establishment?'

'Oh?' The Bursar
hesitated. 'This is the little thing you send out to the Duchess of Quirm and
the Duke of Sto Helit and people like that, isn't it?'

'Yes, sir,' said
William. Wizards were terrible snobs.

'Er. Well, then .
. . you can say that I said it is a step in the right direction that will . . .
er . . . be welcomed by all forward-thinking people and will drag the city
kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat.' He watched eagle-eyed
as William wrote this down. 'And my name is Dr A.A. Dinwiddie, D.M.(7th),
D.Thau., B.Occ., M.Coll., B.R That's Dinwiddie with an o.'

'Yes, Dr
Dinwiddie. Er . . . the Century of the Fruitbat is nearly over, sir. Would you
like the city to be dragged kicking and screaming out of the Century of
the Fruitbat?'

'Indeed.'

William wrote this
down. It was a puzzle why things were always dragged kicking and screaming. No
one ever seemed to want to, for example, lead them gently by the hand.

'And I'm sure you
will send me a copy when it comes out, of course,' said the Bursar.

'Yes, Dr
Dinwiddie.'

'And if you want
anything from me at any other time, don't hesitate to ask.'

'Thank you, sir.
But I'd always understood, sir, that Unseen University was against the use of
movable type?'

'Oh, I think it's
time to embrace the exciting challenges presented to us by the Century of the
Fruitbat,' said the Bursar.

'We . . . That's
the one we're just about to leave, sir.'

Then it's high
time we embraced them, don't you think?'

'Good point, sir.'

'And now I must
fly,' said the Bursar. 'Except that I mustn't.'

Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, poked at the
ink in his inkwell. There was ice in it.

'Don't you even
have a proper fire?' said Hughnon Ridcully, Chief Priest of Blind lo and
unofficial spokesman for the city's religious establishment. I mean, I'm not
one for stuffy rooms, but it's freezing in here!'

'Brisk,
certainly,' said Lord Vetinari. 'It's odd, but the ice isn't as dark as the
rest of the ink. What causes that, do you think?'

'Science,
probably,' said Hughnon vaguely. Like his wizardly brother, Archchancellor
Mustrum, he didn't like to bother himself with patently silly questions. Both
gods and magic required solid, sensible men, and the brothers Ridcully were
solid as rocks. And, in some respects, as sensible.

'Ah. Anyway . . .
you were saying?'

'You must put a
stop to this, Havelock. You know the . . . understanding.'

Vetinari seemed
engrossed in the ink. 'Must, your reverence?' he said calmly, without looking
up.

'You know
why we're all against this movable type nonsense!'

'Remind me again .
. . Look, it bobs up and down

Hughnon sighed.
'Words are too important to be left to machinery. We've got nothing against
engraving, you know that. We've nothing against words being nailed down
properly. But words that can be taken apart and used to make other words . . .
well, that's downright dangerous. And I thought you weren't in favour, either?'

'Broadly, yes,'
said the Patrician. 'But many years of ruling this city, your reverence, have
taught me that you cannot apply brakes to a volcano. Sometimes it is best to
let these things run their course. They generally die down again after a
while.'

'You have not
always taken such a relaxed approach, Havelock,' said Hughnon.

The Patrician gave
him a cool stare that went on for a couple of seconds beyond the comfort
barrier.

'Flexibility and
understanding have always been my watchwords,' he said.

'My god, have
they?'

'Indeed. And what
I would like you and your brother to understand now, your reverence, in a
flexible way, is that this enterprise is being undertaken by dwarfs. And do you
know where the largest dwarf city is, your reverence?'

'What? Oh . . .
let's see . . . there's that place in--'

'Yes, everyone
starts by saying that. But it's Ankh-Morpork, in fact. There are more than
fifty thousand dwarfs here now.'

'Surely not?'

'I assure you. We
have currently very good relationships with the dwarf communities in Copperhead
and Uberwald. In dealings with the dwarfs I have seen to it that the city's hand
of friendship is permanently outstretched in a slightly downward direction. And
in this current cold snap I am sure we are all very glad that bargeloads of
coal and lamp oil are coming down from the dwarf mines every day. Do you catch
my meaning?'

Hughnon glanced at
the fireplace. Against all probability, one lump of coal was smouldering all by
itself.

'And of course,'
the Patrician went on, 'it is increasingly hard to ignore this new type, aha,
of printing when vast printeries now exist in the Agatean Empire and, as I am
sure you are aware, in Omnia. And from Omnia, as you no doubt know, the Omnians
export huge amounts of their holy Book of Om and these pamphlets they're so
keen on,'

'Evangelical
nonsense,' said Hughnon. 'You should have banned them long ago,'

Once again the
stare went on a good deal too long.

'Ban a
religion, your reverence?'

'Well, when I say ban,
I mean--'

'I'm sure
no one could call me a despot, your reverence,' said Lord Vetinari severely.

Hughnon Ridcully
made a misjudged attempt to lighten the mood. 'Not twice at any rate, ahaha,'

'I'm sorry?'

'I said . . . not
twice at any rate . . . ahaha.'

'I do apologize,
but you seem to have lost me there.'

'It was, uh, a
minor witticism, Hav-- my lord.'

'Oh. Yes. Ahah,'
said Vetinari, and the words withered in the air. 'No, I'm afraid you will find
that the Omnians are quite free to distribute their good news about Om. But
take heart! Surely you have some good news about Io?'

'What? Oh. Yes, of
course. He had a bit of a cold last month, but he's up and about again.'

'Capital. That is
good news. No doubt these printers will happily spread the word on your behalf.
I'm sure they will work to your exacting requirements.'

'And these are
your reasons, my lord?'

'Do you think I
have others?' said Lord Vetinari. 'My motives, as ever, are entirely
transparent.'

Hughnon reflected
that 'entirely transparent' meant either that you could see right through them
or that you couldn't see them at all.

Lord Vetinari
shuffled through a file of paper. 'However, the Guild of Engravers has
put its rates up three times in the past year.'

'Ah. I see,' said
Hughnon.

'A civilization
runs on words, your reverence. Civilization is words. Which, on the whole,
should not be too expensive. The world turns, your reverence, and we must spin
with it.' He smiled. 'Once upon a time nations fought like great grunting
beasts in a swamp. Ankh-Morpork ruled a large part of that swamp because it had
the best claws. But today gold has taken the place of steel and, my goodness,
the Ankh-Morpork dollar seems to be the currency of choice. Tomorrow . . .
perhaps the weaponry will be just words. The most words, the quickest words,
the last words. Look out of the window. Tell me what you see.'

'Fog,' said the
Chief Priest.

Vetinari sighed.
Sometimes the weather had no sense of narrative convenience.

'If it was a
fine day,' he said sharply, 'you would see the big semaphore tower on the
other side of the river. Words flying back and forth from every corner of the
continent. Not long ago it would take me the better part of a month to exchange
letters with our ambassador in Genua. Now I can have a reply tomorrow. Certain
things become easier, but this makes them harder in other ways. We have to
change the way we think. We have to move with the times. Have you heard of
c-commerce?'

'Certainly. The
merchant ships are always--'

'I mean that you
may now send a clacks all the way to Genua to order a . . . a pint of prawns,
if you like. Is that not a notable thing?'

They would be pretty
high when they got here, my lord!'

'Certainly. That
was just an example. But now think of a prawn as merely an assemblage of
information!' said Lord Vetinari, his eyes sparkling.

'Are you
suggesting that prawns could travel by semaphore?' said the Chief Priest. I
suppose that you might be able to flick them from--'

'I was
endeavouring to point out the fact that information is also bought and
sold,' said Lord Vetinari. 'And also that what was once considered impossible
is now quite easily achieved. Kings and lords come and go and leave nothing but
statues in a desert, while a couple of young men tinkering in a workshop change
the way the world works.'

He walked over to
a table on which was spread out a map of the world. It was a workman's map;
this is to say, it was a map used by someone who needed to refer to it a lot.
It was covered with notes and markers.

'We've always
looked beyond the walls for the invaders,' he said. 'We always thought change
came from outside, usually on the point of a sword. And then we look around and
find that it comes from the inside of the head of someone you wouldn't notice
in the street. In certain circumstances it may be convenient to remove the
head, but there seem to be such a lot of them these days.'

He gestured towards
the busy map.

'A thousand years
ago we thought the world was a bowl,' he said. 'Five hundred years ago we knew
it was a globe. Today we know it is flat and round and carried through space on
the back of a turtle.' He turned and gave the High Priest another smile. 'Don't
you wonder what shape it will turn out to be tomorrow?'

But a family trait
of all the Ridcullys was not to let go of a thread until you've unravelled the
whole garment.

'Besides, they
have these little pincer things, you know, and would probably hang on like--'

'What do?'

'Prawns. They'd
hang on to--'

'You are taking me
rather too literally, your reverence,' said Vetinari sharply.

'Oh.'

'I was merely
endeavouring to indicate that if we do not grab events by the collar they will
have us by the throat.'

It'll end in
trouble, my lord,' said Ridcully. He'd found it a good general comment in
practically any debate. Besides, it was so often true.

Lord Vetinari
sighed. In my experience, practically everything does,' he said. That is the
nature of things. All we can do is sing as we go,'

He stood up.
'However, I will pay a personal visit to the dwarfs in question,' He reached
out to ring a bell on his desk, stopped, and with a smile at the priest moved
his hand instead to a brass and leather tube that hung from two brass hooks.
The mouthpiece was in the shape of a dragon.

He whistled into
it, and then said, 'Mr Drumknott? My coach, please,'

'Is it me,' said
Ridcully, giving the new-fangled speaking tube a nervous glance, 'or is there a
terrible smell in here?'

Lord Vetinari gave
him a quizzical look and glanced down.

There was a basket
just underneath his desk. In it was what appeared to be, at first glance and
certainly at first smell, a dead dog. It lay with all four legs in the air.
Only the occasional gentle expulsion of wind suggested that some living process
was going on.

'It's his teeth,'
he said coldly. The dog Wuffles turned over and regarded the priest with one
baleful black eye.

'He's doing very
well for a dog of his age,' said Hughnon, in a desperate attempt to climb a
suddenly tilting slope. 'How old would he be now?'

'Sixteen,' said
the Patrician. 'That's over a hundred in dog years.'

Wuffles dragged
himself into a sitting position and growled, releasing a gust of stale odours
from the depths of his basket.

'He's very
healthy,' said Hughnon while trying not to breathe. 'For his age, I mean. I
expect you get used to the smell.'

'What smell?' said
Lord Vetinari.

'Ah. Yes. Indeed,'
said Hughnon.

As Lord Vetinari's coach rattled off through the slush
towards Gleam Street it may have surprised its occupant to know that, in a
cellar quite near by, someone looking very much like him was chained to the
wall.

It was quite a
long chain, giving him access to a table and chair, a bed, and a hole in the
floor.

Currently he was
at the table. On the other side of it was Mr Pin. Mr Tulip was leaning
menacingly against the wall. It would be clear to any experienced person that
what was going on here was 'good cop, bad cop' with the peculiar drawback that
there were no cops. There was just an apparently endless supply of Mr Tulip.

'So . . .
Charlie,' said Mr Pin, 'how about it?'

'It's not illegal,
is it?' said the man addressed as Charlie.

Mr Pin spread his
hands. 'What's legality, Charlie? Just words on paper. But you won't be doing
anything wrong.'

Charlie nodded
uncertainly. 'But ten thousand dollars doesn't sound like the kind of money you
get for doing something right,' he said. 'Not for just saying a few words,'

'Mr Tulip here
once got even more money than that for saying just a few words, Charlie,' said
Mr Pin soothingly.

'Yeah, I said,
Give me all the --ing cash or the girl gets it, ' said Mr Tulip.

'Was that right?'
said Charlie, who seemed to Mr Pin to have a highly developed death wish.

'Absolutely right
for that occasion, yes,' he said.

'Yes, but it's not
often people make money like that,' said the suicidal Charlie. His eyes kept
straying to the monstrous bulk of Mr Tulip, who was holding a paper bag in one
hand and, in the other hand, a spoon. He was using the spoon to ferry a fine
white powder to his nose, his mouth and once, Charlie would have sworn, his
ear.

'Well, you are a
special man, Charlie,' said Mr Pin. 'And afterwards you will have to stay out
of sight for a long time.'

37

'Yeah,' said Mr
Tulip, in a spray of powder. There was a sudden strong smell of mothballs.

'All right, but
why did you have to kidnap me, then? One minute I was locking up for the night,
next minute - bang! And you've got me chained up.'

Mr Pin decided to
change tack. Charlie was arguing too much for a man in the same room as Mr
Tulip, especially a Mr Tulip who was halfway through a bag of powdered
mothballs. He gave him a big friendly smile.

'There's no point
in dwelling on the past, my friend,' he said. 'This is business. All we want is
a few days of your time, and then you end up with a fortune and - and I believe
this is important, Charlie - a lifetime in which to spend it.'

Charlie was
turning out to be very stupid indeed.

'But how do you
know I won't tell someone?' he insisted.

Mr Pin sighed. 'We
trust you, Charlie.'

The man had run a
clothes shop in Pseudopolis. Small shopkeepers had to be smart, didn't they?
They were usually sharp as knives when it came to making just the right amount
of wrong change. So much for physiognomy, thought Mr Pin. This man could pass
for the Patrician even in a good light, but while by all accounts Lord Vetinari
would have already worked out all the nasty ways the future could go, Charlie
was actually entertaining the idea that he was going to come out of this alive
and might even outsmart Mr Pin. He was actually trying to be cunning. He was
sitting a few feet away from Mr Tulip, a man trying to snort crushed moth
repellant, and he was trying guile. You almost had to admire the man.

'I'll need to be
back by Friday,' said Charlie. 'It'll all be over by Friday, will it?'

~blk~

The shed that was now leased by the dwarfs had in the
course of its rickety life been a forge and a laundry and a dozen other
enterprises, and had last been used as a rocking-horse factory by someone who
had thought something was the Next Big Thing when it was by then one day away
from becoming the Last Big Flop. Stacks of half-finished rocking horses that Mr
Cheese had

38

been unable to sell for the back rent still filled one
wall all the way to the tin roof. There was a shelf of corroding paint tins.
Brushes had fossilized in their jars.

The press occupied
the centre of the floor, with several dwarfs at work. William had seen presses.
The engravers used them. This one had an organic quality, though. The dwarfs
spent as much time changing the press as they did using it. Extra rollers
appeared, endless belts were threaded into the works. The press grew by the
hour.

Goodmountain was
working in front of several of the large sloped boxes, each one of which was
divided into several dozen compartments.

William watched
the dwarf's hand fly over the little boxes of leaden letters.

'Why's there a
bigger box for the Es?'

' 'cos that's the
letter we use most of.'

'Is that why it's
in the middle of the box?'

'Right. Es then Ts
then As . . .'

'I mean, people
would expect to see A in the middle.'

'We put E.'

'But you've got
more Ns than Us. And U is a vowel.'

'People use more
Ns than you think.'

On the other side
of the room Caslong's stubby dwarf fingers danced across his own boxes of
letters.

'You can almost
read what he's working on--' William began.

Goodmountain
glanced up. His eyes narrowed for a moment.

' . . . Make
. . . more . . . money . . . inn . . . youre . . . Spare . . . Time . . .
' he said. 'Sounds like Mr Dibbler has been back.'

William stared
down at the box of letters again. Of course, a quill pen potentially contained
anything you wrote with it. He could understand that. But it did so in a
clearly theoretical way, a safe way. Whereas these dull grey blocks looked
threatening. He could understand why they worried people. Put us together in
the right way, they seemed to say, and we can be anything you want. We could
even be something you don't want. We can spell anything. We can certainly spell
trouble.

The ban on movable
type wasn't exactly a law. But he knew the

39

engravers didn't like it, because they had the world
operating just as they wanted it, thank you very much. And Lord Vetinari was
said not to like it, because too many words only upset people. And the wizards
and the priests didn't like it because words were important.

An engraved page
was an engraved page, complete and unique. But if you took the leaden letters
that had previously been used to set the words of a god, and then used them to
set a cookery book, what did that do to the holy wisdom? For that matter, what
would it do to the pie? As for printing a book of spells, and then using the
same type for a book of navigation - well, the voyage might go anywhere.

On cue, because
history likes neatness, he heard the sound of a carriage drawing up in the
street outside. A few moments later Lord Vetinari stepped inside and stood
leaning heavily on his stick and surveying the room with mild interest.

'Why . . . Lord de
Worde,' he said, looking surprised. I had no idea that you were involved in
this enterprise

William coloured
as he hurried over to the city's supreme ruler. 'It's Mister de Worde, my lord.'

'Ah, yes. Of
course. Indeed.' Lord Vetinari's gaze traversed the inky room, paused a moment
on the pile of madly smiling rocking horses, and then took in the toiling
dwarfs. 'Yes. Of course. And are you in charge?'

'No one is, my
lord,' said William. 'But Mr Goodmountain over there seems to do most of the
talking.'

'So what exactly
is your purpose here?'

'Er . . .' William
paused, which he knew was never a good tactic with the Patrician. 'Frankly,
sir, it's warm, my office is freezing, and . . . well, it's fascinating. Look,
I know it's not really--'

Lord Vetinari
nodded and raised a hand. 'Be so good as to ask Mr Goodmountain to come over
here, will you?'

William tried to
whisper a few instructions into Gunilla's ear as he hustled him over to the tall
figure of the Patrician.

'Ah, good,' said
the Patrician. 'Now, I would just like to ask one or two questions, if I may?'

Goodmountain
nodded.

40

'Firstly, is Mr
Cut-My-Own-Throat Dibbler involved in this enterprise in any significant
managerial capacity?'

'What?' said
William. He hadn't been expecting this.

'Shifty fellow,
sells sausages--'

'Oh, him. No. Just
the dwarfs.'

'I see. And is
this building built on a crack in space-time?'

'What?' said
Gunilla.

The Patrician
sighed. 'When one has been ruler of this city as long as I have,' he said, 'one
gets to know with a sad certainty that whenever some well-meaning soul begins a
novel enterprise they always, with some kind of uncanny foresight, site it at
the point where it will do maximum harm to the fabric of reality. There was
that Holy Wood moving picture fiasco a few years ago, yes? And that Music with
Rocks In business not long after, we never got to the bottom of that. And of
course the wizards seem to break into the Dungeon Dimensions so often they
might as well install a revolving door. And I'm sure I don't have to remind you
what happened when the late Mr Hong chose to open his Three Jolly Luck
Take-Away Fish Bar in Dagon Street during the lunar eclipse. Yes? You see,
gentlemen, it would be nice to think that someone, somewhere in this city, is
engaged in some simple enterprise that is hot going to end up causing tentacled
monsters and dread apparitions to stalk the streets eating people. So . . . ?'

'What?' said
Goodmountain.

'We haven't noticed
any cracks,' said William.

'Ah, but possibly
on this very site a strange cult once engaged in eldritch rites, the very
essence of which permeated the neighbourhood, and which seeks only the rite,
ahah, circumstances to once again arise and walk around eating people?'

'What?' said
Gunilla. He looked helplessly at William, who could only add:

They made rocking
horses here.'

'Really? I've
always thought there was something slightly sinister about rocking horses,'
said Lord Vetinari, but he looked subtly disappointed. Then he brightened up.
He pointed to the big stone on which the type was arranged.

'Aha,' he said.
'Innocently taken from the overgrown ruins of a

41

megalithic stone circle, this stone is redolent with the
blood of thousands, I have no doubt, who will emerge to seek revenge, you may
depend upon it.'

'It was cut
specially for me by my brother,' said Gunilla. 'And I don't have to take that
kind of talk, mister. Who do you think you are, coming in here and talking daft
like that?'

William stepped
forward at a healthy fraction of the speed of terror.

'I wonder if I
might just take Mr Goodmountain aside and explain one or two things to him?' he
said quickly.

The Patrician's
bright, enquiring smile did not so much as flicker.

'What a good
idea,' he said, as William frogmarched the dwarf to a corner. 'He will be sure
to thank you for it later.'

Lord Vetinari
stood leaning on his stick and looking at the press with an air of benevolent
interest, while behind him William de Worde explained the political realities
of Ankh-Morpork, especially those relating to sudden death. With gestures.

After thirty
seconds of this, Goodmountain came back and stood foursquare in front of the
Patrician, with his thumbs in his belt.

'I speak as I
find, me,' he said. 'Always have done, always will--'

'And what is it
that you call a spade?' said Lord Vetinari.

'What? Never use
spades,' said the glowering dwarf. 'Farmers use spades. But I call a shovel a
shovel.'

'Yes, I thought
you would,' said Lord Vetinari.

'Young William
here says you're a ruthless despot who doesn't like printing. But I say you're
a fair-minded man who won't stand in the way of an honest dwarf making a bit of
a living, am I right?'

Once again Lord
Vetinari's smile remained in place.

'Mr de Worde, a
moment, please . . .'

The Patrician put
his arm companionably around William's shoulders and walked him gently away
from the watching dwarfs.

'I only said that
some people call you--' William began.

'Now, sir,' said
the Patrician, waving this away. 'I think I might just be persuaded, against
all experience, that we have here a little endeavour that might just be pursued
without filling my streets with inconvenient occult rubbish. It is hard to
imagine such a thing

42

in Ankh-Morpork, but I could just about accept it as a
possibility. And it so happens that I feel the question of printing
is one that might, with care, be re-opened.'

'You do?'

'Yes. So I am
minded to allow your friends to proceed with their folly.'

'Er, they're not
exactly--' William began.

'Of course, I
should add that, in the event of there being any problems of a tentacular
nature, you would be held personally responsible.'

'Me? But I--'

'Ah. You feel that
I am being unfair? Ruthlessly despotic, perhaps?'

'Well, I, er--'

'Apart from
anything else, the dwarfs are a very hard-working and valuable ethnic grouping
in the city,' said the Patrician. 'On the whole, I wish to avoid any low-level
difficulties at this time, what with the unsettled situation in Uberwald and the
whole Muntab question.'

'Where's Muntab?'
said William.

'Exactly. How is
Lord de Worde, by the way? You should write to him more often, you know.'

William said
nothing.

'I always think it
is a very sad thing when families fall out,' said Lord Vetinari. There is far
too much mutton-headed ill-feeling in the world.' He gave William a
companionable pat. 'I'm sure you will see to it that the printing enterprise
stays firmly in the realms, of the cult, the canny and the scrutable. Do I make
myself clear?'

'But I don't have
any control ov--'

'Hmm?'

'Yes, Lord
Vetinari,' said William.

'Good. Good!' The
Patrician straightened up, turned, and beamed at the dwarfs.

'Jolly good,' he
said. 'My word. Lots of little letters, all screwed together. Possibly an idea
whose time has come. I may even have an occasional job for you myself.'

43

William waved
frantically at Gunilla from behind the Patrician's back.

'Special rate for
government jobs,' the dwarf muttered.

'Oh, but I
wouldn't dream of paying any less than other customers,' said the Patrician.

'I wasn't going to
charge you less than--'

'Well, I'm sure
we've all been very pleased to see you here, your lordship,' said William
brightly, swivelling the Patrician in the direction of the door. 'We look
forward to the pleasure of your custom.'

'Are you quite
sure Mr Dibbler isn't involved in this concern?'

'I think he's
having some things printed, but that's all,' said William.

'Astonishing.
Astonishing,' said Lord Vetinari, getting into his coach. 'I do hope he isn't
ill.'

Two figures
watched his departure from the rooftop opposite.

One of them said,
very, very quietly, '--!'

The other said,
'You have a point of view, Mr Tulip?'

'And he's the man
who runs the city?'

'Yeah,'

'So where's his
--ing bodyguards?'

'If we wanted to
scrag him, here and now, how useful would, say, four bodyguards be?'

'As a --ing
chocolate kettle, Mr Pin.'

'There you are,
then,'

'But I could knock
him over from here with a --ing brick!'

'I gather there
are many organizations who hold Views on that, Mr Tulip. People tell me this
dump is thriving. The man at the top has a lot of friends when everything is
going well. You would soon run out of bricks,'

Mr Tulip looked
down at the departing coach. 'From what I hear he mostly doesn't do a --ing
thing!' he complained.

'Yeah,' said Mr
Pin smoothly. 'One of the hardest things to do properly, in politics.'

Mr Tulip and Mr
Pin brought different things to their partnership, and in this instance what Mr
Pin brought was political savvy. Mr Tulip respected this, even if he didn't
understand it. He

44

contented himself with muttering, 'It'd be simpler to
--ing kill him,'

'Oh, for a --ing
simple world,' said Mr Pin. 'Look, lay off the honk, eh? That stuff's for
trolls. It's worse than slab. And they cut it with ground glass,'

' 's chemical,'
said Mr Tulip sullenly.

Mr Pin sighed.
'Shall I try again?' he said. 'Listen carefully. Drugs equals chemicals, but,
and please do listen to this part, sheesh, chemicals do not equal drugs.
Remember all that trouble with the calcium carbonate? When you paid the man
five dollars?'

'Made me feel
good,' muttered Mr Tulip.

'Calcium
carbonate?' said Mr Pin. 'Even for you, I mean . . . Look, you put up your
actual nose enough chalk that someone could probably cut your head off and
write on a blackboard with your neck?'

That was the major
problem with Mr Tulip, he thought, as they made their way to the ground. It
wasn't that he had a drugs habit. He wanted to have a drugs habit. What he had
was a stupidity habit, which cut in whenever he found anything being sold in
little bags, and this had resulted in Mr Tulip seeking heaven in flour, salt,
baking powder and pickled beef sandwiches. In a street where furtive people
were selling Clang, Slip, Chop, Rhino, Skunk, Triplin, Floats, Honk, Double
Honk, Congers and Slack, Mr Tulip had an unerring way of finding the man who
was retailing curry powder at what worked out as six hundred dollars a pound.
It was so --ing embarrassing.

Currently he was
experimenting with the whole range of recreational chemicals available to
Ankh-Morpork's troll population, because at least when dealing with trolls Mr
Tulip had a moderate chance of outsmarting somebody. In theory Slab and Honk
shouldn't have any effect on the human brain, apart from maybe dissolving it.
Mr Tulip was hanging in there. He'd tried normality once and hadn't liked it.

Mr Pin sighed
again. 'Come on,' he said. 'Let's feed the geek,'

In Ankh-Morpork it
is very hard to watch without being watched in turn, and the two furtive
watchers were indeed under careful observation.

45

They were being
watched by a small dog, variously coloured but mainly a rusty grey.
Occasionally it scratched itself, with a noise like someone trying to shave a
wire brush.

There was a piece
of string around its neck. This was attached to another piece of string or,
rather, to a length made up of pieces of string inexpertly knotted together.

The string was
being held in the hand of a man. At least, such might be deduced from the fact
that it disappeared into the same pocket of the grubby coat as one sleeve,
which presumably had an arm in it, and theoretically therefore a hand on the
end.

It was a strange
coat. It stretched from the pavement almost to the brim of the hat above it,
which was shaped rather like a sugar loaf. There was a suggestion of grey hair
around the join. One arm burrowed in the suspicious depths of a pocket and
produced a cold sausage.

'Two men spyin' on
the Patrician,' said the dog. 'An interestin' fing.'

'Bugrem,' said the
man, and broke the sausage into two democratic halves.

~blk~

William wrote a short paragraph about Patrician Visits The
Bucket, and examined his notebook.

Amazing, really.
He'd found no less than a dozen items for his news letter in only a day. It was
astonishing what people would tell you if you asked them.

Someone had stolen
one of the golden fangs of the statue of Offler the Crocodile God; he'd
promised Sergeant Colon a drink for telling him that, but in any case had got
some way towards payment by appending to his paragraph the sentence: The Watch
are Mightily in Pursuit of the Wrongdoer, and are Confident of Apprehen,'ion at
an Early Juncture.'

He was not
entirely sure about this, although Sergeant Colon had looked very sincere when
he said it.

The nature of
truth always bothered William. He had been brought up to tell it or, more
correctly, to 'own up' and some habits are hard to break if they've been beaten
in hard enough. And Lord de Worde had inclined to the old proverb that, as you
bend the twig, so grows the tree. William had not been a particularly flexible

46

twig. Lord de Worde had not, himself, been a violent man.
He'd merely employed them. Lord de Worde, as far as William could recall, had
no great enthusiasm for anything that involved touching people.

Anyway, William
always told himself, he was no good at making things up; anything that wasn't
the truth simply unravelled for him. Even little white lies, like 'I shall
definitely have the money by the end of the week', always ended in trouble.
That was 'telling stories', a sin in the de Worde compendium that was worse
than lying; it was trying to make lies interesting.

So William de
Worde told the truth, out of cosmic self defence. He'd found a hard truth less
hard than an easy lie.

There had been
rather a good fight in the Mended Drum. William was very pleased with that one:
'Whereupon Brezock the Barbarian picked up a table and delivered a blow to
Moltin the Snatcher, who in his turn seized hold of the Chandeliers and swung
thereon, the while crying, Take that, thou B*st*rd that you are!!! ,
at which juncture, a ruckus commenced and 5 or 6 people were hurt.'

He took it all
down to the Bucket.

Gunilla read it
with interest; it seemed to take very little time for the dwarfs to set it up
in type.

And it was odd,
but. . .

. . . once it was
in type, all the letters so neat and regular . . .

. . . it looked
more real.

Boddony, who
seemed to be second in command of the print room, squinted at the columns of
type over Goodmountain's shoulders.

'Hmm,' he said.

'What do you
think?' said William.

'Looks a bit . . .
grey,' said the dwarf. 'All the type bunched up. Looks like a book,'

'Well, that's all
right, isn't it?' said William. Looking like a book sounded like a good thing.

'Maybe you want it
more sort of spaced out?' said Gunilla.

William stared at
the printed page. An idea crept over him. It seemed to evolve from the page
itself.

47

'How about,' he
said, 'if we put a little title on each piece?'

He picked up a
scrap of paper and doodled: 5,'6 Hurt in Tavern Brawl.

Boddony read it
solemnly. 'Yes,' he said eventually. That looks . . . suitable. .' He passed
the paper across the table.

'What do you call
this news sheet?' he said.

'I don't,' said
William.

'You've got to
call it something,' said Boddony. 'What do you put at the top?'

'Generally
something like To my Lord the . . . ' William began. Boddony shook
his head.

'You can't put
that,' he said. 'You want something a bit more general. More snappy.'

'How about
Ankh-Morpork Items ?' said William. 'Sorry, but I'm not much good at
names.'

Gunilla pulled his
little hod out of his apron and selected some letters from one of the cases on
the table. He screwed them together, inked them, and rolled a sheet of paper
over them.

William read:
Ankh-Morpork times.

'Messed that up a
bit. Wasn't paying attention,' muttered Gunilla, reaching for the type. William
stopped him.

'I don't know,' he
said. 'Er. Leave it as it is . . . just make it a bigger T and a smaller i.'

'That's it, then,'
said Gunilla. 'All done. All right, lad? How many copies do you want?'

'Er . . . twenty?
Thirty?'

'How about a
couple of hundred?' Gunilla nodded at the dwarfs, who set to work. 'It's hardly
worth going to press for less.'

'Good grief! I
can't imagine there's enough people in the city that'd pay five dollars!'

'All right, charge
'em half a dollar. Then it'll be fifty dollars for us and the same for you.'

'My word! Really?'
William stared at the beaming dwarf. 'But I've still got to sell them,' he
said. 'It's not as though they're cakes in a shop. It's not like--'

He sniffed. His
eyes began to water.

48

'Oh dear,' he
said. 'We're going to have another visitor. I know that smell.'

'What smell?' said
the dwarf.

The door creaked
open.

There was this to
be said about the Smell of Foul Ole Ron, an odour so intense that it took on a
personality of its own and fully justified the capital letter: after the
initial shock the organs of smell just gave up and shut down, as if no more
able to comprehend the thing than an oyster can comprehend the ocean. After
some minutes in its presence, wax would trickle out of people's ears and their
hair would begin to bleach.

It had developed
to such a degree that it now led a semi-independent life of its own, and often
went to the theatre by itself, or read small volumes of poetry. Ron was
outclassed by his Smell.

Foul Ole Ron's
hands were thrust deeply into his pockets, but from one pocket issued a length
of string, or rather a great many lengths of string tied into one length. The
other end was attached to a small dog of the greyish persuasion. It was
possibly a terrier. It walked with a limp and also in a kind of oblique
fashion, as though it was trying to insinuate its way through the world. It
walked like a dog who has long ago learned that the world contains more thrown
boots than meaty bones. It walked like a dog that was prepared, at any moment,
to run.

It looked up at
William with crusted eyes and said: 'Woof.'

William felt that
he ought to stand up for mankind.

'Sorry about the
smell,' he said. Then he stared at the dog.

'What's this smell
you keep on about?' said Gunilla. The rivets on his helmet were beginning to
tarnish.

'It, er, belongs
to Mr . . . er . . . Ron,' said William, still giving the dog a suspicious
look. 'People say it's glandular.'

He was sure he'd
seen the dog before. It was always in the corner of the picture, as it were -
ambling through the streets, or just sitting on a corner, watching the world go
by.

'What does he
want?' said Gunilla. 'D'you think he wants us to print something?'

'Shouldn't think
so,' said William. 'He's a sort of beggar. Only they won't let him in the
Beggars' Guild any more.'

49

'He isn't saying
anything.'

'Well, usually he
just stands there until people give him something to go away. Er . . . you've
heard of things like the Welcome Wagon, where various neighbours and traders
greet newcomers to an area?'

'Yes.'

'Well, this is the
dark side.'

Foul Ole Ron
nodded and held out a hand, ' 's'right, Mister Push. Don't try the blarney
gobble on me, juggins, I told 'em, I ain't slanging the gentry, bugrit.
Millennium hand and shrimp. Dang.'

'Woof.'

William glared at
the dog again.

'Growl,' it said.

Gunilla scratched
somewhere in the recesses of his beard.

'One thing I
already noticed about this here town,' he said, 'is that people'll buy
practically anything off a man in the street.'

He picked up a
handful of the news sheets, still damp from the press.

'Can you
understand me, mister?' he said.

'Bugrit.'

Gunilla nudged
William in the ribs. 'Does that mean yes or no, d'you think?'

'Probably yes.'

'Okay. Well, see
here now, if you sell these things at, oh, twenty pence each, you can keep--'

'Hey, you can't
sell it that cheap,' said William.

'Why not?'

'Why? Because . .
. because . . because, well, anyone will be able to read it, that's why!'

'Good, 'cos that
means anyone'll be able to pay twenty pence,' said Gunilla calmly. There's lots
more poor folk than rich folk and it's easier to get money out of 'em.' He
grimaced at Foul Ole Ron. 'This may seem a strange question,' he said, 'but
have you got any friends?'

'I told 'em! I
told 'em! Bugrem!'

'Probably yes,'
said William. 'He hangs put with a bunch of . . . er . . . unfortunates who
live under one of the bridges. Well, not exactly hangs out . More
droops .'

50

'Well now,' said
Gunilla, waving the copy of the Times at Ron, 'you can tell them that if they
can sell these to people for twenty pence each, I'll let you keep one nice
shiny penny.'

'Yeah? And you can
put yer nice shiny penny where the sun don't shine,' said Ron.

'Oh, so you--'
Gunilla began.

William laid a
hand on his arm. 'Sorry, just a minute-- What was that you said, Ron?' he said.

'Bugrit,' said
Foul Ole Ron.

It had sounded
like Ron's voice and it had seemed to come from the general area of Ron's face,
it was just that it had demonstrated a coherence you didn't often get.

'You want more
than a penny?' said William carefully.

'Got to be worth
five pence a time,' said Ron. More or less.

For some reason
William's gaze was dragged down to the small grey dog. It returned it amiably
and said, 'Woof?'

He looked back up
again. 'Are you all right, Foul Ole Ron?' he said.

'Gottle o' geer,
gottle o' geer,' said Ron mysteriously.

'All right . . .
two pence,' said Gunilla.

'Four,' Ron seemed
to say. 'But let's not mess about, okay? One dollar per thirty?'

'It's a deal,'
said Goodmountain, who spat on his hand and would have held it out to seal the
contract if William hadn't gripped it urgently.

'Don't.'

'What's wrong?'

William sighed.
'Have you got any horribly disfiguring diseases?'

'No!'

'Do you want
some?'

'Oh.' Gunilla
lowered his hand. 'You tell your friends to get round here right now, okay?' he
said. He turned to William.

'Trustworthy, are
they?'

'Well . . . sort
of,' said William. 'It's probably not a good idea to leave paint thinners
around.'

Outside, Foul Ole
Ron and his dog ambled down the street. And the strange thing was that a
conversation was going on,

51

even though there was technically only one person there.

'See? I told you.
You just let me do the talkin', all right?'

'Bugrit.'

'Right. You stick
with me and you won't go far wrong.'

'Bugrit.'

'Really? Well, I
s'pose that'll have to do. Bark, bark.'

~blk~

Twelve people lived under the Misbegot Bridge and in a
life of luxury, although luxury is not hard to achieve when you define it as
something to eat at least once a day and especially when you have such a broad
definition of 'something to eat'. Technically they were beggars, although they
seldom had to beg. Possibly they were thieves, although they only took what had
been thrown away, usually by people hurrying to be out of their presence.

Outsiders
considered that the leader of the group was Coffin Henry, who would have been
the city's champion expectorator if anyone else had wanted the title. But the
group had the true democracy of the voteless. There was Arnold Sideways, whose
lack of legs only served to give him an extra advantage in any pub fight, where
a man with good teeth at groin height had it all his own way. And if it wasn't
for the duck whose presence on his head he consistently denied, the Duck Man
would have been viewed as well-spoken and educated and as sane as the next man.
Unfortunately, the next man was Foul Ole Ron.

The other eight
people were Altogether Andrews.

Altogether Andrews
was one man with considerably more than one mind. In a rest state, when he had
no particular problem to confront, there was no sign of this except a sort of
background twitch and flicker as his features passed randomly under the control
of, variously, Jossi, Lady Hermione, Little Sidney, Mr Viddle, Curly, the Judge
and Tinker; there was also Burke, but the crew had only ever seen Burke once
and never wanted to again, so the other seven personalities kept him buried.
Nobody in the body answered to the name of Andrews. In the opinion of the Duck
Man, who was probably the best in the crew at thinking in a straight line,
Andrews had probably been some innocent and hospitable person of a psychic
disposition who had simply been overwhelmed by the colonizing souls.

52

Only among the
gentle crew under the bridge could a consensus person like Andrews find an
accommodating niche. They'd welcomed him, or them, to the fraternity around the
smoky fire. Someone who wasn't the same person for more than five minutes at a
time could fit right in.

One other thing
that united the crew - although probably nothing could unite Altogether Andrews
- was a readiness to believe that a dog could talk. The group around the
smouldering fire believed they had heard a lot of things talk, such as walls. A
dog was easy by comparison. Besides, they respected the fact that Gaspode had
the sharpest mind of the lot and never drank anything that corroded the container.

'Let's try this
again, shall we?' he said. 'If you sell thirty of the things, you'll get a
dollar. A whole dollar. Got that?'

'Bugrit.'

'Quack.'

'Haaargghhh . . .
gak!'

'How much is that
in old boots?'

Gaspode sighed.
'No, Arnold. You can use the money to buy as many old--'

There was a rumble
from Altogether Andrews, and the rest of the crew went very still. When
Altogether Andrews was quiet for a while you never knew who he was going to be.

There was always
the possibility that it would be Burke.

'Can I ask a
question?' said Altogether Andrews, in a rather hoarse treble.

The crew relaxed.
That sounded like Lady Hermione. She wasn't a problem.

'Yes . . . your
ladyship?' said Gaspode.

'This wouldn't be
. . . work, would it?'

The mention of the
word sent the rest of the crew into a fugue of stress and bewildered panic.

'Haaaruk . . .
gak!'

'Bugrit!'

'Quack!'

'No, no, no,' said
Gaspode hurriedly. 'It's hardly work, is it? Just handing out stuff and takin'
money? Doesn't sound like work to me.'

53

'I ain't working!'
shouted Coffin Henry. I am socially inadequate in the whole area of doin'
anything!'

'We do not work,'
said Arnold Sideways. 'We is gentlemen of les-u-are.'

'Ahem,' said Lady
Hermione.

'Gentlemen and
ladies of les-u-are,' said Arnold gallantly.

'This is a very
nasty winter. Extra money would certainly come in handy,' said the Duck Man.

'What for?' said
Arnold.

'We could live
like kings on a dollar a day, Arnold,'

'What, you mean
someone'd chop our heads off?'.

'No, I--'

'Someone'd climb
up inside the privy with a red-hot poker and--'

'No! I meant--'

'Someone'd drown
us in a butt of wine?'

'No, that's dying
like kings, Arnold,'

'I shouldn't
reckon there's a butt of wine big enough that you couldn't drink your way out
of it,' muttered Gaspode. 'So, what about it, masters? Oh, and mistress, o'
course. Shall I-- shall Ron tell that lad we're up for it?'

'Indeed,'

'Okay,'

'Gawwwark . . .
pt!'

'Bugrit!'

They looked at
Altogether Andrews. His lips moved, his face flickered. Then he held up five
democratic fingers.

'The ayes have
it,' said Gaspode.

~blk~

Mr Pin lit a cigar. Smoking was his one vice. At least, it
was his only vice that he thought of as a vice. All the others were just job
skills.

Mr Tulip's vices
were also limitless, but he owned up to cheap aftershave because a man has to
drink something. The drugs didn't count, if only because the only time he'd
ever got real ones was when they'd robbed a horse doctor and he'd taken a
couple of big pills that had made every vein in his body stand out like a
purple hosepipe.

54

The pair were not
thugs. At least they did not see themselves as thugs. Nor were they thieves. At
least they never thought of themselves as thieves. They did not think of
themselves as assassins. Assassins were posh and had rules. Pin and Tulip - the
New Firm, as Mr Pin liked to refer to themselves - did not have rules.

They thought of
themselves as facilitators. They were men who made things happen, men who were
going places.

It has to be added
that when one says 'they thought' it means 'Mr Pin thought'. Mr Tulip used his
head all the time, from a distance of about eight inches, but he was not,
except in one or two unexpected areas, a man given much to using his brain. On
the whole, he left Mr Pin to do the polysyllabic cogitation.

Mr Pin, on the
other hand, was not very good at sustained, mindless violence, and admired the
fact that Mr Tulip had an apparently bottomless supply. When they had first
met, and had recognized in each other the qualities that would make their
partnership greater than the sum of its parts, he'd seen that Mr Tulip was not,
as he appeared to the rest of the world, just another nutjob. Some negative
qualities can reach a pitch of perfection that changes their very nature, and
Mr Tulip had turned anger into an art.

It was not anger
at anything. It was just pure, platonic anger from somewhere in the reptilian
depths of the soul, a fountain of never-ending red-hot grudge; Mr Tulip lived
his life on that thin line most people occupy just before they haul off and hit
someone repeatedly with a spanner. For Mr Tulip, anger was the ground state of
being. Pin had occasionally wondered what had happened to the man to make him
as angry as that, but to Tulip the past was another country with very, very
well-guarded borders. Sometimes Mr Pin heard him screaming at night.

It was quite hard
to hire Mr Tulip and Mr Pin. You had to know the right people. To be more
accurate, you had to know the wrong people, and you got to know them by hanging
around a certain kind of bar and surviving, which was kind of a first test. The
wrong people, of course, would not know Mr Tulip and Mr Pin. But they would
know a man. And that man would, in a general sense, express the guarded opinion
that he might know how to get in

55

touch with men of a Pin-like or Tulipolitic disposition.
He could not exactly recall much more than that at the moment, due to memory
loss brought on by lack of money. Once cured, he might indicate in a general
kind of way another address where you would meet, in a dark corner, a man who
would tell you emphatically that he had never heard of anyone called Tulip or
Pin. He would also ask where you would be at, say, nine o'clock tonight.

And then you would
meet Mr Tulip and Mr Pin. They would know you had money, they would know you
had something on your mind and, if you had been really stupid, they now knew
your address.

And it had
therefore come as a surprise to the New Firm that their latest client had come
straight to them. This was worrying. It was also worrying that he was dead.
Generally the New Firm had no problem with corpses, but they didn't like them
to speak.

Mr Slant coughed.
Mr Pin noticed that this created a small cloud of dust. For Mr Slant was a
zombie.

'I must reiterate,'
said Mr Slant, 'that I am a mere facilitator in this matter--'

'Just like us,'
said Mr Tulip.

Mr Slant indicated
with a look that he would never in a thousand years be just like Mr Tulip, but
he said: 'Quite so. My clients wished me to find some . . . experts. I found
you. I gave you some sealed instructions. You have accepted the contract. And I
understand that as a result of this you have made certain . . . arrangements. I
do not know what those arrangements are. I will continue not to know what those
arrangements are. My relationship with you is, as they say, on the long finger.
Do you understand me?'

'What --ing finger
is that?' said Mr Tulip. He was getting jittery in the presence of the dead
lawyer.

'We see each other
only when necessary, we say as little as possible.'

'I hate --ing
zombies,' said Mr Tulip. That morning he'd tried something he'd found in a box
under the sink. If it cleaned drains, he'd reasoned, that meant it was
chemical. Now he was getting strange messages from his large intestine.

'I am sure the
feeling is mutual,' said Mr Slant.

56

'I understand what
you're saying,' said Mr Pin. 'You're saying that if this goes bad you've never
seen us in your life--'

'Ahem . . .' Mr
Slant coughed.

'Your afterlife,'
Mr Pin corrected himself. 'Okay. What about the money?'

'As requested,
thirty thousand dollars for special expenses will be included in the sum
already agreed.'

'In gems. Not
cash.'

'Of course. And my
clients would hardly write you a cheque. It will be delivered tonight. And
perhaps I should mention one other matter.' His dry fingers shuffled through
the dry papers in his dry briefcase, and he handed Mr Pin a folder.

Mr Pin read it. He
turned a few pages quickly.

'You may show it
to your monkey,' said Mr Slant.

Mr Pin managed to
grab Mr Tulip's arm before it reached the zombie's head. Mr Slant did not even
flinch.

'He's got the
story of our lives, Mr Tulip!'

'So? I can still
rip his --ing stitched-on head right off!'

'No, you cannot,'
said Mr Slant. 'Your colleague will tell you why,'

'Because our legal
friend here will have made a lot of copies, won't you, Mr Slant? And probably
lodged them in all kinds of places in case he di-- in case--'

'. . . of
accidents,' said Mr Slant smoothly. 'Well done. You have had an interesting
career so far, gentlemen. You are quite young. Your talents have taken you a
long way in a short time and given you quite a reputation in your chosen
profession. While of course I have no idea about the task you are undertaking -
no idea whatsoever, I must stress - I have no doubt that you will impress us
all.'

'Does he know
about the contract in Quirm?' said Mr Tulip.

'Yes,' said Mr
Pin.

That stuff with
the wire netting and the crabs and that --ing banker?'

'Yes.'

'And the thing
with the puppies and that kid?'

'He does now,'
said Mr Pin. 'He knows nearly everything. Very

57

clever. You believe you know where the bodies are buried,
Mr Slant?'

'I've talked to
one or two of them,' said Mr Slant. 'But it would appear that you have never
committed a crime within Ankh-Morpork, otherwise of course I could not talk to
you.'

'Who says we've
never committed a --ing crime in Ankh-Morpork?' Mr Tulip demanded in an
offended tone.

'As I understand
it, you have never been to this city before.'

'Well? We've had
all --ing day!'

'Have you been
caught?' said Mr Slant.

'No!'

Then you have
committed no crime. May I express the hope that your business here does not
involve any kind of criminal activity?'

'Perish the
thought,' said Mr Pin.

'The City Watch
here are quite dogged in some respects. And the various Guilds jealously guard
their professional territories.'

'We hold the
police in high regard,' said Mr Pin. 'We have a great respect for the work they
do.'

'We --ing love
policemen,' said Mr Tulip.

'If there was a
policemen's ball, we would be among the first to buy a ticket,' said Mr Pin.

' 'specially if it
was mounted on a plinth, or a little display stand of some sort,' said Mr
Tulip, ' 'cos we like beautiful things.'

'I just wanted to
be sure that we understood one another,' said Mr Slant, snapping his case
closed. He stood up, nodding to them, and walked stiffly out of the room.

'What a--' Mr
Tulip began, but Mr Pin raised a finger to his lips. He crossed silently to the
door and opened it. The lawyer had gone.

'He knows what
we're --ing here for,' Mr Tulip whispered hotly. 'What's he --ing pretending
for?'

'Because he's a
lawyer,' said Mr Pin. 'Nice place, this,' he added, in a slightly over-loud
voice.

Mr Tulip looked
around. 'Nah,' he said dismissively. 'I fort that at the start, but it's just a
late eighteenth-century copy of the --ing Baroque Style. They got the
dimensions all wrong. Didja see them pillars in the hall? Didja? --ing
sixth-century Ephebian with

58

Second-Empire Djelibeybian --ing finials! It was all I
could do not to laugh,'

'Yes,' said Mr
Pin. 'As I have remarked before, Mr Tulip, in many ways you are a very
unexpected man.'

Mr Tulip walked
over to a shrouded picture and tweaked the cloth aside.

'Well, -- me, it's
a --ing da Quirm,' he said. 'I seen a print of it. Woman Holding Ferret. He did
it just after he moved from Genua and was influenced by --ing Caravati. Look at
that --ing brushwork, will ya? See the way the line of the hand draws the --ing
eye into the picture? Look at the quality of the light on the landscape you can
see through the --ing window there. See the way the ferret's nose follows you
around the room? That's --ing genius, that is. I don't mind telling you that if
I was here by myself I'd be in --ing tears.'

'It's very
pretty.'

'Pretty?' said Mr
Tulip, despairing of his colleague's taste. He walked over to a statue by the
door and stared hard at it, then ran his fingers lightly across the marble.

'I fort so! This
is a --ing Scolpini! I'd bet anything. But I've never seen it in a catalogue.
And it's been left in an empty house, where anyone could just --ing walk in and
nick it!'

This place is
under powerful protection. You saw the seals on the door.'

'Guilds? Bunch of
--ing amateurs. We could go through this place like a hot knife through --ing
thin ice and you know it. Amateurs and rocks and lawn ornaments and dead men
walking about . . . We could knock this --ing city over.'

Mr Pin said
nothing. A similar idea had occurred to him, but unlike with his colleague deed
did not automatically follow upon what passed for thought.

The Firm had,
indeed, not operated in Ankh-Morpork before. Mr Pin had kept away because,
well, there were plenty of other cities, and an instinct for survival had told
him that the Big Wahoonie*

~blk~~foot~

* The world's rarest and most evil-smelling vegetable, and
consequently much prized by connoisseurs (who seldom prize anything cheap and
common). Also a slang name for Ankh-Morpork, although it does not smell as bad
as that.

59

should wait a while. He'd had a Plan, ever since he'd met
Mr Tulip and found that his own inventiveness combined with Tulip's incessant
anger promised a successful career. He'd developed their business in Genua,
Pseudopolis, Quirm - cities smaller and easier to navigate than Ankh-Morpork
although, these days, it seemed they increasingly resembled it.

The reason that
they had done well, he'd realized, was that sooner or later people went soft.
Take the trollish Breccia, f'rinstance. Once the honk and slab route had been
established all the way to Uberwald, and the rival clans had been eliminated,
the trolls had got soft. The tons acted like society lords. It was the same
everywhere - the big old gangs and families reached some kind of equilibrium
with society and settled down to be a specialist kind of businessman. They cut
down on henchmen and employed butlers instead. And then, when there was a bit
of difficulty, they needed muscle that could think . . . and there was the New
Firm, ready and willing.

And waiting.

One day there'd be
time for a new generation, Mr Pin thought. One with a new way of doing things,
one without the shackles of tradition holding them back. Happening people. Mr
Tulip, for example, happened all the time.

'Hey, will you
--ing look at this?' said the happening Tulip, who had uncovered another
painting. 'Signed by Gogli, but it's a --ing fake. Look at the way the light
falls here, willya? And the leaves on this tree? If --ing Gogli painted that,
it was with his --ing foot. Probably by some --ing pupil

While they had
been marking time in the city Mr Pin had followed Mr Tulip, trailing scouring
powder and canine worming tablets, through one after another of the city's art
galleries. The man had insisted. It had been an education, mostly for the
curators.

Mr Tulip had the
instinct for art which he did not have for chemistry. Sneezing icing sugar and
dribbling foot powder, he was ushered into private galleries, where he ran his
bloodshot eye over nervously proffered trays of ivory miniatures.

Mr Pin had watched
in silent admiration while his colleague spoke colourfully and at length on the
differences between ivory faked the

60

old way, with bones, and the --ing new way the --ing
dwarfs had come up with, using --ing refined oil, chalk and --ing Spirits of
Nacle.

He'd lurched over
to the tapestries, declaimed at length about high and low weaving, burst into
tears in front of a verdant scene, and then demonstrated that the gallery's
prized thirteenth-century Sto Lat tapestry couldn't be more than a hundred
years old because, see that -ing bit of purple there? No way was that --ing dye
around then. 'And . . . what's this? An Agatean embalming pot from the P'gi Su
Dynasty? Someone took you to the --ing cleaners, mister. The glaze is rubbish.'

It was astounding,
and Mr Pin had been so enthralled that he had all but forgotten to slip a few
small valuable items into his pocket. But in truth he was familiar with Tulip
on art. When they had occasionally to torch a premises Mr Tulip always made
sure that any truly irreplaceable pieces were removed first, even though that
meant taking extra time to tie the inhabitants to their beds. Somewhere under
that self-inflicted scar tissue and at the heart of that shuddering anger was
the soul of a true connoisseur with an unerring instinct for beauty. It was a
strange thing to find in the body of a man who would mainline bath salts.

The big doors at
the other end of the room swung open, revealing the dark space beyond.

'Mr Tulip?' said
Mr Pin.

Tulip drew himself
away from a painstaking examination of a possible Tapasi table, with its
magnificent inlay work involving dozens of --ing rare veneers.

'Huh?'

Time to meet the
bosses again,' said Mr Pin.

~blk~

William was just getting ready to leave his office for good
when someone knocked at his door.

He opened it
cautiously, but it was pushed the rest of the way.

'You utterly,
utterly - ungrateful person!'

It wasn't a nice
thing to be called, especially by a young lady. She used a simple word like
'ungrateful' in a way that would require a dash and an 'ing' in the mouth of Mr
Tulip.

61

William had seen
Sacharissa Cripslock before, generally helping her grandfather in his tiny
workshop. He'd never paid her much attention. She wasn't particularly
attractive, but she wasn't particularly bad-looking, either. She was just a
girl in an apron, doing slightly dainty things in the background, such as light
dusting and arranging flowers. Insofar as he'd formed any opinion of her, it
was that she suffered from misplaced gentility and the mistaken belief that
etiquette meant good breeding. She mistook mannerisms for manners.

Now he could see
her a lot plainer, mostly because she was advancing towards him across the
room, and in the light-headed way of people who think they're just about to die
he realized that she was quite good-looking if considered over several
centuries. Concepts of beauty change over the years, and two hundred years ago
Sacharissa's eyes would have made the great painter Caravati bite, his brush in
half; three hundred years ago the sculptor Mauvaise would have taken one look
at her chin and dropped his chisel on his foot; a thousand years ago the
Ephebian poets would have agreed that her nose alone was capable of launching
at least forty ships. And she had good medieval ears.

Her hand was quite
modern, though, and it caught William a stinging blow on the cheek.

'That twenty
dollars a month was nearly all we had!'

'Sorry? What?'

'All right, he
isn't very fast, but in his day he was one of the best engravers in the
business!'

'Oh . . . yes. Er
. . .' William had a sudden flash of guilt about Mr Cripslock.

'And you took it
away, just like that!'

'I didn't mean to!
The dwarfs just. . . things just happened!'

'You're working
for them?'

'Sort of. . . with
them . . .' said William.

'While we starve,
I suppose?'

Sacharissa stood
there panting. She had a well-crafted supply of other features that never go
out of fashion at all and are perfectly at home in any century. She clearly
believed that severe, old-fashioned dresses toned these down. They did not.

62

'Look, I'm stuck
with them,' said William, trying not to stare. 'I mean, stuck with the dwarfs.
Lord Vetinari was very . . . definite about it. And it's suddenly all become
very complicated--'

The Guild of
Engravers is going to be livid about this, you do know that?' she demanded.

'Er . . . yes.' A
desperate idea struck William rather harder than her hand. That's a point. You
wouldn't like to, er, be official about that, would you? You know: We are
livid, says spokesm-- spokeswoman for the Guild of Engravers?'

'Why?' she said
suspiciously.

'I'm desperate for
things to put in my next edition,' said William desperately. 'Look, can you
help me? I can give you - oh, twenty pence an item, and I could use at least
five a day.'

She opened her
mouth to snap a reply, but calculation cut in. 'A dollar a day?' she said.

'More, if they're
nice and long,' said William wildly.

'For that letter
thing you do?'

'Yes.'

'A dollar?'

'Yes.'

She eyed him with
mistrust. 'You can't afford that, can you? I thought you only got thirty
dollars yourself. You told grandfather.'

Things have moved
on a bit. I haven't caught up with it myself, to tell you the truth.'

She was still
looking at him doubtfully, but natural Ankh-Morpork interest in the distant
prospect of a dollar was gaining the upper hand.

'Well, I hear
things,' she began. 'And . . . well, writing things down? I suppose that's a
suitable job for a lady, isn't it? It's practically cultural.'

'Er . . . close, I
suppose.'

'I wouldn't like
to do anything that wasn't . . . proper.'

'Oh, I'm sure it's
proper.'

'And the Guild
can't object to that, can they? You've been doing it for years, after all. . .'

'Look, I'm just
me,' said William. 'If the Guild object, they'll have to sort it out with the
Patrician.'

63

'Well . . . all
right . . . if you're sure it's an acceptable job for a young lady

'Come down to the
printing works tomorrow, then,' said William. 'I think we ought to be able to
produce another paper of news in a few days.'

~blk~

This was a ballroom, still plush in red and gold, but
musty in the semi-darkness and ghostly with its shrouded chandeliers. The
candlelight in the centre was dimly reflected from the mirrors around the
walls; they had probably once brightened the place up considerably but over the
years some sort of curious tarnish had blotched its way across them, so that
the reflections of the candles looked like dim sub-aqueous glows through a
forest of seaweed.

Mr Pin was halfway
across the floor when he realized that the only footsteps he could hear were
his own. Mr Tulip had veered off in .the gloom and was dragging the shroud off
something that had been pushed against one wall.

'Well. I'll be a .
. .' the man began. 'This is a --ing treasure! I fort so! A genuine --ing
Intaglio Ernesto, too. See that mother-of-pearl work there?'

'This isn't the
time, Mr Tulip--'

'He only made six
of them. Oh, no, they haven't even kept it --ing tuned!'

'Godsdammit, we're
supposed to be professionals

'Perhaps your -
colleague would like it as a present?' said a voice from the centre of the
room.

There were half a
dozen chairs around the circle of candlelight. They were an old-fashioned kind,
and the backs curved out and up to form a deep leathery arch that had,
presumably, been designed to keep out the draughts but now gave the occupants
their own deep pools of shadow.

Mr Pin had been
here before. He'd admired the set-up. Anyone inside the ring of candles
couldn't see who was in the depths of the chairs, while at the same time being
fully visible themselves.

It occurred to him
now that the arrangement also meant that the people in the chairs couldn't see
who was in the other chairs.

Mr Pin was a rat.
He was quite happy with the description. Rats

64

had a lot to recommend them. And this layout had been
dreamed up by someone who thought like him.

One of the chairs
said, 'Your friend Daffodil--'

'Tulip,' said Mr
Pin.

'Your friend Mr
Tulip would perhaps like part of your payment to be the harpsichord?' said the
chair.

'It's not a --ing
harpsichord, it's a --ing virginal,' growled Mr Tulip. 'One --ing string to a
note instead of two! So called because it was an instrument for --ing young
ladies!'

'My word, was it?'
said one of the chairs. 'I thought it was just a sort of early piano!'

'Intended to be
played by young ladies,' said Mr Pin smoothly. 'And Mr Tulip does not collect
art, he merely . . . appreciates it. Our payment will be in gems, as agreed.'

'As you wish.
Please step into the circle . . .'

'--ing
harpsichord,' muttered Mr Tulip.

The New Firm came
under the hidden gaze of the chairs as they took up their positions.

What the chairs
saw was this:

Mr Pin was small
and slim and, like his namesake, slightly larger in the head than ought to be
the case. If there was a word for him apart from 'rat' it was 'dapper'; he
drank little, he watched what he ate and considered that his body, slightly
malformed though it was, was a temple. He also used too much oil on his hair
and parted it in the middle in a way that was twenty years out of style, and
his black suit was on the greasy side, and his little eyes were constantly
moving, taking in everything.

It was hard to see
Mr Tulip's eyes, because of a certain puffiness probably caused by too much
enthusiasm for things in bags.* The bags had also possibly caused the general
blotchiness and the thick veins that stood out on his forehead, but Mr Tulip
was in any case the kind of heavy-set man who is on the verge of bursting out
of his clothes and, despite his artistic inclinations, projected the image of a
would-be wrestler who had failed the intelligence test. If his

~blk~~foot~

* Your Brain On Drugs is a terrible sight, but Mr Tulip
was living proof of the fact that so was Your Brain on a cocktail of horse liniment,
sherbet and powdered water-retention pills.

65

body was a temple, it was one of those strange ones where
people did odd things to animals in the basement, and if he watched what he ate
it was only to see it wriggle.

Several of the
chairs wondered, not if they were doing the right thing, since that was
indisputable, but whether they were doing it with the right people. Mr Tulip,
after all, wasn't a man you'd want to see standing too close to a naked flame.

'When will you be
ready?' said a chair. 'How is your . . . protege today?'

'We think Tuesday
morning would be a good time,' said Mr Pin. 'By then he'll be as good as he's
going to get.'

'And there will be
no deaths involved,' said a chair. 'This is important.'

'Mr Tulip will be
as gentle as a lamb,' said Mr Pin.

Unseen gazes
avoided the sight of Mr Tulip, who had chosen this moment to suck up his nose a
large quantity of slab.

'Er, yes,' said a
chair. 'His lordship is not to be harmed any more than is strictly necessary.
Vetinari dead would be more dangerous than Vetinari alive.'

'And at all costs
there must be no trouble with the Watch.'

'Yeah, we know
about the Watch,' said Mr Pin. 'Mr Slant told us.'

'Commander Vimes
is running a very . . . efficient Watch.'

'No problem,' said
Mr Pin.

'And it employs a
werewolf.'

White powder
fountained into the air. Mr Pin had to slap his colleague on the back.

'A --ing werewolf?
Are you --ing crazy?'

'Uh . . . why does
your partner keep saying ' 'ing' ', Mr Pin?' said a chair.

'You must be out
of your --ing minds!' Tulip growled.

'Speech
impediment,' said Pin. 'A werewolf? Thank you for telling us. Thank you very
much. They're worse than vampires when they're on the trail! You do know that,
do you?'

'You were
recommended to us as men of resource.'

'Expensive men of
resource,' said Mr Pin.

A chair sighed.
There are seldom any other kind. Very well, very well. Mr Slant will discuss
this with you.'

66

'Yeah, but they've
got a sense a' smell that you wouldn't believe,' Mr Tulip went on. 'Money's no
use to a --ing dead man.'

'Are there any
other surprises?' said Mr Pin. 'You've got bright watchmen and one of 'em's a
werewolf. Anything else? They've got trolls too?'

'Oh, yes. Several.
And dwarfs. And zombies.'

'In a Watch? What
kind of a city are you running here?'

'We are not
running the city,' said a chair.

'But we care about
the way it is going,' said another.

'Ah,' said Mr Pin.
'Right. I remember. You are concerned citizens.' He knew about concerned
citizens. Wherever they were, they all spoke the same private language, where
'traditional values' meant 'hang someone'. He did not have a problem with this,
broadly speaking, but it never hurt to understand your employer.

'You could have
got someone else,' he said. 'You've got a guild of Assassins here.'

A chair made a
sucking sound between its teeth.

'The trouble with
the city at present,' it said, 'is that a number of otherwise intelligent
people find the status quo . . . convenient, even though it will undoubtedly
ruin the city.'

'Ah,' said Mr Pin.
They are unconcerned citizens.'

'Precisely,
gentlemen.'

There's a lot of
them?'

The chair ignored
this.

'We look forward
to seeing you again, gentlemen. Tomorrow night. When, I trust, you will
announce your readiness. Good evening.'

The circle of
chairs was silent for a while after the New Firm had left. Then a black-clad
figure entered soundlessly through the big doors, approached the light, nodded
and hurried away.

'They're well
outside the building,' said a chair.

'What ghastly
people.'

'We should have
used the Assassins' Guild, though.'

'Hah! They've done
rather well out of Vetinari. In any case, we do not want him dead. However, it
occurs to me that we may eventually have a job for the Guild, later on.'

67

'Quite so. When
our friends have safely left the city . . . the roads can be so dangerous at
this time of year.'

'No, gentlemen. We
will stick to our plan. The one called Charlie will be kept around until
everything is entirely settled, in case he can be of further use, and then our
gentlemen will take him a long, long way away to, hah, pay him off. Perhaps
later we will call the Assassins in, just in case Mr Pin has any clever ideas.'

'Good point.
Although it does seem such a waste. The things one could do with Charlie . . .'

'I told you, it
would not work. The man is a clown.'

'I suppose you are
right. Better something once-and-for-all, then.'

'I'm sure we
understand one another. And now . . . this meeting of the Committee to Unelect
the Patrician is declared closed. And hasn't happened.'

~blk~

Lord Vetinari by habit rose so early that bedtime was
merely an excuse to change his clothes.

He liked the time
just before a winter's dawn. It was generally foggy, which made it hard to see
the city, and for a few hours there was no sound but the occasional brief
scream.

But the
tranquillity was broken this morning by a cry just outside the palace gates.

'Hoinarylup!'

He went to the
window.

'Squidaped-oyt!'

The Patrician
walked back to his desk and rang the bell for his clerk Drumknott, who was
despatched to the walls to investigate.

'It is the beggar
known as Foul Ole Ron, sir,' Drumknott reported five minutes later. 'Selling
this . . . paper full of things.' He held it between two fingers as though
expecting it to explode.

Lord Vetinari took
it and read through it. Then he read through it again.

'Well, well,' he
said.' The Ankh-Morpork Times . Was anyone else buying this?'

'A number of
people, my lord. People coming off the night shifts, market people and so on.'

68

'I see no mention
of Hoinarylup or Squidaped-oyt.'

'No, my lord.'

'How very
strange.' Lord Vetinari read for a moment and said, 'Hm-,'mz. Clear my
appointments this morning, will you? I will see the Guild of Towncriers at nine
o'clock and the Guild of Engravers at ten past.'

'I wasn't aware
they had appointments, sir.'

'They will have,'
said Lord Vetinari. 'When they see this, they will have. Well, well. . . I see
fifty-six people were hurt in a tavern brawl.'

'That seems rather
a lot, my lord.'

'It must be true,
Drumknott,' said the Patrician. 'It's in the paper. Oh, and send a message to
that nice Mr de Worde, too. I will see him at nine thirty.'

He ran his eye
down the grey type again. 'And please also put out the word that I wish to see
no harm coming to Mr de Worde, will you?'

Drumknott, usually
so adept in his understanding of his master's requirements, hesitated a moment.

'My lord, do you
mean that you want no harm to come to Mr de Worde, or that you want no harm to
come to Mr de Worde?'

'Did you wink at me,
Drumknott?'

'No, sir!'

'Drumknott, I
believe it is the right of every citizen of Ankh-Morpork to walk the streets
unmolested.'

'Good gods, sir!
Is it?'

'Indeed.'

'But I thought you
were very much against movable type, sir. You said that it would make printing
too cheap, and people would--'

'Sheearna-plp!'
shouted the newspaper seller, down by the gates.

'Are you poised
for the exciting new millennium that lies before us, Drumknott? Are you ready
to grasp the future with a willing hand?'

'I don't know, my
lord. Is special clothing required?'

~blk~

The other lodgers were already at the breakfast table when
William hurried down. He was hurrying because Mrs Arcanum had Views about
people who were late for meals.

69

Mrs Arcanum,
proprietress of Mrs Eucrasia Arcanum's Lodging House for Respectable Working
Men, was what Sacharissa was unconsciously training to be. She wasn't just
respectable, she was Respectable; it was a lifestyle, religion and hobby
combined. She liked respectable people who were Clean and Decent; she used the
phrase as if it was impossible to be one without being the other. She kept
respectable beds and cooked cheap but respectable meals for her respectable
lodgers, who apart from William were mostly middle-aged, unmarried and extremely
sober. They were mainly craftsmen in small trades, and were almost all heavily
built, well-scrubbed, owned serious boots and were clumsily polite at the
dining table.

Oddly enough - or,
at least, oddly enough to William's expectations of people like Mrs Arcanum -
she wasn't averse to dwarfs and trolls. At least, the clean and decent ones.
Mrs Arcanum rated Decency above species.

'It says here
fifty-six people were hurt in a brawl,' said Mr Mackleduff, who by dint of
being the longest-surviving lodger acted as a kind of president at mealtimes.
He had bought a copy of the Times on his way home from the bakery, where he was
night-shift foreman.

'Fancy,' said Mrs
Arcanum.

'I think it must
have been five or six,' said William.

'Says fifty-six
here,' said Mr Mackleduff sternly. 'In black and white.'

'It must be
right,' said Mrs Arcanum, to general agreement, 'otherwise they wouldn't let
them put it in.'

'I wonder who's
doing it?' said Mr Prone, who travelled in wholesale boots and shoes.

'Oh, they'd be special
people for doing this,' said Mr Mackleduff.

'Really?' said
William.

'Oh, yes,' said Mr
Mackleduff, who was one of those large men who were instantly expert on
anything. They wouldn't allow just anyone to write what they like. That stands
to reason.'

So it was in a
thoughtful mood that William made his way to the shed behind the Bucket.

70

Goodmountain
looked up from the stone where he was carefully setting the type for a
playbill.

'There's a spot of
cash for you over there,' he said, nodding to a bench.

It was mostly in
coppers. It was almost thirty dollars.

William stared at
it. This can't be right,' he whispered.

'Mr Ron and his
friends kept coming back for more,' said Goodmountain.

'But . . . but it
was only usual stuff,' said William. 'It wasn't even anything very important.
Just . . . stuff that happened.'

'Ah, well, people
like to know about stuff that happened,' said the dwarf. 'And I reckon we can
sell three times as many tomorrow if we halve the price.'

'Halve the price?'

'People like to be
in the know. Just a thought.' The dwarf grinned again. There's a young lady in
the back room.'

In the days when
this place had been a laundry, back in the pre-rocking-horse age, one area had
been partitioned off with some cheap panelling to waist height, to segregate
the clerks and the person whose job it was to explain to customers where their
socks had gone. Sacharissa was sitting primly on a stool, clutching her handbag
to her with her elbows close to her sides in order to expose herself to as little
of the grime as possible.

She gave him a
nod.

Now, why had he
asked her to come along? Oh, yes . . . she was sensible, more or less, and did
her grandfather's books and, frankly, William didn't meet many literate people.
He met the sort to whom a pen was a piece of difficult machinery. If she knew
what an apostrophe was, he could put up with the fact that she acted as if she
was living in a previous century.

'Is this your
office now?' she whispered.

'I suppose so.'

'You didn't tell
me about the dwarfs!'

'Do you mind?'

'Oh, no. Dwarfs
are very law-abiding and respectable, in my experience.'

William now
realized that he was talking to a girl who had

71

never been in certain streets when the bars were closing.

'I've already got
two good items for you,' Sacharissa went on, as if imparting state secrets.

'Er . . . yes?'

'My grandfather
says this is the longest, coldest winter he can remember.'

'Yes?'

'Well, he's
eighty. That's a long time.'

'Oh.'

'And the meeting
of the Dolly Sisters' Baking and Flower Circle Annual Competition had to be
abandoned last night because the cake table got knocked over. I found out all
about it from the secretary, and I've written it all down neatly.'

'Oh? Um. Is that
really interesting, do you think?'

She handed him a
page torn from a cheap exercise book.

He read: '
The Dolly Sisters' Baking and Flower Circle Annual Competition was held
in the Reading Room in Lobbin Clout Street, Dolly Sisters. Mrs H. Rivers was
the President. She welcomed all members and commented on the Sumptuous
Offerings. Prizes were awarded as follows

William ran his
eye down the meticulous list of names and awards.

' Specimen
in Jar ?' he queried.

'That was the
competition for dahlias,' said Sacharissa.

William carefully
inserted the word 'dahlia' after the word 'specimen', and read on.

' A fine
display of Loose Stool Covers ?'

'Well?'

'Oh . . .
nothing.' William carefully changed this to 'Loose Covers for stools', which
was barely an improvement, and continued to read with the air of a jungle
explorer who might expect any kind of exotic beast to spring out of the
peaceful undergrowth. The story concluded:

' However,
everyone's Spirits were Dampened when a naked man, hotly pursued by Members of
the Watch, burst through the Window and ran around the Room, causing much
Disarray of the Tarts before being Apprehended by the Trifles. The meeting

72

closed at 9 p.m. Mrs Rivers thanked all Members. '

'What do you
think?' said Sacharissa, with just a hint of nervousness.

'You know,' said
William, in a sort of distant voice, 'I think it is quite likely that it would
be impossible to improve this piece in any way. Um . . . what would you say was
the most important thing that happened at the meeting?'

Her hand flew to
her mouth in dismay. 'Oh, yes! I forgot to put that in! Mrs Flatter won first
prize for her sponge! She's been runner-up for six years, too.'

William stared at
the wall. 'Well done,' he said. 'I should put that in, if I was you. But you
could drop in at the Watch House in Dolly Sisters and ask about the naked
man--'

'I shall do no
such thing! Respectable women don't have anything to do with the Watch!'

'I meant, ask why
he was being chased, of course.'

'But why should I
do that?'

William tried to
put words around a vague idea. 'People will want to know,' he said.

'But won't the
Watch mind me asking?'

'Well, they're our
Watch. I don't see why they should. And perhaps you could find some more really
old people to ask about the weather? Who is the oldest inhabitant in the city?'

'I don't know. One
of the wizards, I expect.'

'Could you go to
the University and ask him if he remembers it ever being colder than this?'

'Is this where you
put things in the paper?' said a voice at the doorway.

It belonged to a
small man with a beaming red face, one of those people blessed with the
permanent expression of someone who has just heard a rather saucy joke.

'Only I grew this
carrot,' he went on, 'and I reckon it's grown into a very interesting shape.
Eh? What d'you think, eh? Talk about a giggle, eh? I took it down the pub and
everyone was killin' 'emselves! They said I should put it in your paper!'

He held it aloft.
It was a very interesting shape. And William went a very interesting shade.

73

'That's a very
strange carrot,' said Sacharissa, eyeing it critically. 'What do you think, Mr
de Worde?'

'Er . . . er . . .
you go along to the University, why don't you? And I'll see to this . . .
gentleman,' said William, when he felt he could speak again.

'My wife couldn't
stop laughin'!'

'What a lucky man
you are, sir,' said William solemnly.

'It's a shame you
can't put pictures in your paper, eh?'

'Yes, but I think
I may be in enough trouble already,' said William, opening his notebook.

When the man and
his hilarious vegetable had been dealt with, William wandered out into the
printing shop. The dwarfs were talking in a group, around a trapdoor in the
floor.

'Pump's frozen
again,' said Goodmountain. 'Can't mix up any more ink. Old man Cheese says
there used to be a well somewhere round here . . .'

There was a shout
from below. A couple of dwarfs descended the ladder.

'Mr Goodmountain,
can you think of any reason I should put this in the paper?' said William,
handing him Sacharissa's report of the Flowers and Cookery meeting. It's a bit
. . . dull. . .'

The dwarf read the
copy. There's seventy-three reasons,' he said. 'That's 'cos there's
seventy-three names. I expect people like to see their names in the paper.'

'But what about
the naked man?'

'Yeah . . . shame
she didn't get his name.'

There was another
shout from below.

'Shall we have a
look?' said Goodmountain.

To William's
complete lack of surprise, the little cellar under the shed was much better
built than the shed itself. But then, practically everywhere in Ankh-Morpork had
cellars that were once the first or even second or third floors of ancient
buildings, built at the time of one of the city's empires when men thought that
the future was going to last for ever. And then the river had flooded and
brought mud with it, and walls had gone higher and, now, what Ankh-Morpork was
built on was mostly Ankh-Morpork. People said that anyone with a good sense of
direction and a

74

pickaxe could cross the city underground by simply
knocking holes in walls.

Rusted tins and
piles of timber rotted to tissue strength were piled up against one wall. And
in the middle of the wall was a bricked-up doorway, the more recent bricks
already looking worn and tatty compared to the ancient stone surrounding them.

'What's through
there?' said Boddony.

The old street,
probably,' said William.

The street has a
cellar? What does it keep there?'

'Oh, when parts of
the city get badly flooded people just keep building on up,' said William. This
was probably a ground-floor room once, you see. People just bricked up the
doors and windows and built on another storey. In some parts of the city, they
say, there's six or seven levels underground. Mostly full of mud. And that's
choosing my words with care--'

'I am looking for
Mister William der Worde,' rumbled a voice above them.

An enormous troll
was blocking out the light from the cellar trapdoor.

That's me,' said
William.

'Der Patrician
will see you now,' said the troll.

'I don't have an
appointment with Lord Vetinari!'

'Ah, well,' said
the troll, 'you'd be amazed at how many people has appointments wid der
Patrician an' dey don't know it. So you'd better hurry. I would hurry, if I was
you.'

~blk~

There was no sound but the ticking of the clock. William
watched in apprehension as, apparently forgetting his presence, Lord Vetinari
read his way through the Times again.

'What a very . . .
interesting document,' said the Patrician, suddenly laying it aside. 'But I'm
forced to ask . . . Why?

'It's just my news
sheet,' said William, 'but bigger. Er . . . people like to know things.'

'Which people?'

'Well . . .
everyone, really.'

'Do they? Did they
tell you this?'

75

William swallowed.
'Well . . . no. But you know I've been writing my news letter for some time
now--'

'For various
foreign notables and similar people.' Lord Vetinari nodded. 'People who need to
know. Knowing things is part of their profession. But you are selling this to
anyone in the street, is that correct?'

'I suppose so,
sir.'

'Interesting. Then
you wouldn't entertain the idea, would you, that a state is, say, rather like
one of those old rowing galleys? The ones which had banks of oarsmen down
below, and a helmsman and so on above? It is certainly in everyone's interest
that the ship does not founder but, I put it to you, it is perhaps not in the
interest of the rowers that they know of every shoal avoided, every collision
fended off. It would only serve to worry them and put them off their stroke.
What the rowers need to know is how to row, hmm?'

'And that the
helmsman is a good one,' said William. He couldn't stop the sentence. It said
itself. It was out there, hanging in the air.

Lord Vetinari gave
him a stare that went on for several seconds beyond the necessary time. Then
his face instantly broke into a broad smile.

'To be sure. And
so they should, so they should. This is the age of words, after all. Fifty-six
hurt in tavern brawl, eh? Astounding. What further news do you have for us,
sir?'

'Well, er . . .
it's been very cold

'Has it? Has it,
indeed? My word!' On his desk the tiny iceberg bumped against the side of Lord
Vetinari's inkwell.

'Yes, and there
was a bit of a . . . fracas . . . at some cookery meeting last night. . .'

'A fracas, eh?'

'Well, probably
more of a rumpus, really.* And someone has grown a funny-shaped vegetable.'

~blk~~foot~

* Words resemble fish in that some specialist ones can
survive only in a kind of reef, where their curious shapes and usages are
protected from the hurly-burly of the open sea. 'Rumpus' and 'fracas' are found
only in certain newspapers (in much the same way that 'beverages' are found
only in certain menus). They are never used in normal conversation.

76

That's the stuff.
What shape?'

'A . . . an
amusing shape, sir.'

'Could I give you
a little bit of advice, Mr de Worde?'

'Please do, sir.'

'Be careful.
People like to be told what they already know. Remember that. They get
uncomfortable when you tell them new things. New things . . . well, new things
aren't what they expect. They like to know that, say, a dog will bite a man.
That is what dogs do. They don't want to know that a man bites a dog, because
the world is not supposed to happen like that. In short, what people think they
want is news, but what they really crave is olds. I can see you've got the hang
of it already.'

'Yes, sir,' said
William, not at all sure he fully understood this but certain that he didn't
like the bit he did understand.

'I believe the
Guild of Engravers has some things it wishes to discuss with Mr Goodmountain,
William, but I have always thought that we should go forward to the future.'

'Yes, sir. Quite
hard to go any other way.'

Once again, there
was the too-long stare and then the sudden unfreezing of the face.

'Indeed. Good day,
Mr de Worde. Oh . . . and do tread carefully. I'm sure you wouldn't want to
become news . . . would you?'

~blk~

William turned over the Patrician's words as he walked
back to Gleam Street, and it is not wise to be thinking too deeply when walking
the streets of Ankh-Morpork.

He walked past
Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler with barely a nod, but in any case Mr Dibbler was
otherwise engaged. He had two customers. Two at once, unless one was daring
another, was a great rarity. But these two were worrying him. They were
inspecting the merchandise.

C.M.O.T. Dibbler
sold his buns and pies all around the city, even outside the Assassins' Guild.
He was a good judge of people, especially when it involved judging when to step
innocently round a corner and then run like hell, and he had just decided that
he was really unlucky to be standing here and also that it was too late.

77

He didn't often
meet killers. Murderers, yes, but murderers usually had some strange reason and
in any case generally murdered friends and relations. And he'd met plenty of
assassins, but assassination had a certain style and even certain rules.

These men were
killers. The big one with the powdery streaks down his jacket and the smell of
mothballs was just a vicious thug, no problem there, but the small one with the
lank hair had the smell of violent and spiteful death about him. You didn't
often look into the eyes of someone who'd kill because it seemed like a good
idea at the time.

Moving his hands
carefully, Dibbler opened the special section of his tray, the high-class one
that contained sausages whose contents were 1) meat, 2) from a known
four-footed creature, 3) probably land-dwelling.

'Or may I
recommend these, gentlemen,' he said, and because old habits died hard he
couldn't stop himself from adding, 'Finest pork.'

'Good, are they?'

'You'll never want
to eat another, sir.'

The other man
said, 'How about the other sort?'

'Pardon?'

'Hooves and pig
snot and rats what fell in the --ing mincer.'

'What Mr Tulip
here means,' said Mr Pin, 'is a more organic sausage.'

'Yeah,' said Mr
Tulip. I'm very --ing environmental like that.'

'Are you sure? No,
no, fine!' Dibbler raised a hand. The manner of the two men had changed. They
were clearly very sure of everything. 'We-ell, you want a bad-- a less good
sausage, then . . . er?'

'With --ing
fingernails in it,' said Mr Tulip.

'Well, er . . . I
do . . . I could . . .' Dibbler gave up. He was a salesman. You sold what you
sold. 'Let me tell you about these sausages,' he went on, smoothly shifting an
internal motor into reverse. 'When someone chopped off his thumb in the abattoir,
they didn't even stop the grinder. You prob'ly won't find any rat in them 'cos
rats don't go near the place. There's animals in there that . . . well,

78

you know how they say life began in some kind of big soup?
Same with these sausages. If you want a bad sausage, you won't get better than
these.'

'You keep 'em for
your special customers, do .you?' said Mr Pin.

'To me, sir, every
customer is special.'

'And you got
mustard?'

'People call it
mustard,' Dibbler began, getting carried away, 'but I call it--'

'I like --ing
mustard,' said Mr Tulip.

'--really great
mustard,' said Dibbler, not missing a beat.

'We'll take two,'
said Mr Pin. He did not reach for his wallet.

'On the house!'
said Dibbler. He stunned two sausages, enbunned them and thrust them forward.
Mr Tulip took both of them, and the mustard pot.

'Do you know what
they called a sausage-in-a-bun in Quirm?' said Mr Pin, as the two walked away.

'No?' said Mr
Tulip.

They called it le
sausage-in-le-bun,'

'What, in a --ing
foreign language? You're --ing kidding!'

'I'm not a --ing
kidder, Mr Tulip.'

'I mean, they
ought to call it a . . . a . . . sausage dans lar derriere,' said Mr Tulip. He
took a bite of his Dibbler delight. 'Hey, that's what this --ing thing tastes
of,' he added, with his mouth full.

'In a bun, Mr
Tulip.'

'I know what I
meant. This is a --ing awful sausage.'

Dibbler watched
them go. It wasn't often you heard language like that in Ankh-Morpork. Most
people talked without leaving gaps in their sentences, and he wondered what the
word 'ing' meant.

~blk~

A crowd was gathered outside a large building in Welcome
Soap, and the cart traffic was already backed up all the way to Broad Way. And,
thought William, wherever a large crowd is gathered, someone ought to write
down why.

The reason in this
case was clear. A man was standing on the flat

79

parapet just outside the fourth-storey window, back
against the wall, staring downwards with a frozen expression.

Far below, the
crowd were trying to be helpful. It was not in the robust Ankh-Morpork nature
to dissuade anyone in this position. It was a free city, after all. So was the
advice.

'Much better to
try the Thieves' Guild!' a man yelled. 'Six floors, and then you're on good
solid cobbles! Crack your skull first go!'

'There's proper
flagstones around the palace,' advised the man next to him.

'Well, certainly,'
said his immediate neighbour. 'But the Patrician'll kill him if he tries to
jump from up there, am I right?'

'Well?'

'Well, it's a
question of style, isn't it?'

'Tower of Art's
good,' said a woman confidently. 'Nine hundred feet, almost. And you get a good
view.'

'Granted, granted.
But you also get a long time to think about things. On the way down, I mean.
Not a good time for introspection, in my view.'

'Look, I've got a
load of prawns on my wagon and if I'm held up any longer they're gonna be
walking home,' moaned a carter. 'Why doesn't he just jump?'

'He's thinking
about it. It's a big step, after all.'

The man on the
edge turned his head when he heard a shuffling noise. William was sidling along
the ledge, trying hard not to look down.

' 'Morning. Come
to try and talk me out of it, 'ave yer?'

'I . . . I. . .'
William really tried not to look down. The ledge had looked a lot wider from
below. He was regretting the whole thing. 'I wouldn't dream of it. . .'

'I'm always open
to being talked out of it.'

'Yes, yes . . . er
. . . would you care to give me your name and address?' said William. There was
a hitherto unsuspected nasty breeze up here, gusting treacherously around the
rooftops. It fluttered the pages of his notebook.

'Why?'

'Er . . . because
from this height on to solid ground it's often hard

80

to find out that sort of thing afterwards,' said William,
trying not to breathe out too much. 'And if I'm going to put this in the paper,
it'd look much better if I say who you were.'

'What paper?'

William pulled a
copy of the Times out of his pocket. It rattled in the wind as he wordlessly
handed it over.

The man sat down
and read it, his lips moving, his legs dangling over the drop.

'So this is, like,
things that happen?' he said. 'Like a towncrier, but written down?'

That's right. So,
what was your name?'

'What do you mean,
was?'

'Well, you know .
. . obviously . . .' said William wretchedly. He waved his hand towards the
void, and almost lost his balance. 'If you . . .'

'Arthur Crank.'

'And where did you
live, Arthur?'

'Prattle Alley.'

'And what was your
job?'

'There you go with
the was again. The Watch usually give me a cup of tea, you know.'

A warning bell
went off in William's head. 'You . . . jump a lot, do you?'

'Only the
difficult bits.'

'And they are?'

'The climbing-up
bits. I don't do the actual jumping, obviously. That's not a skilled job. I'm
more into the cry for help aspect.'

William tried to
grip sheer wall. 'And the help you want is . . . ?'

'Could you make it
twenty dollars?'

'Or you jump?'

'Ah, well, not
exactly jump, obviously. Not the whole jump. Not as per such. But I shall
continue to threaten to jump, if you get my drift.'

The building
seemed a lot higher to William than it had done when he climbed the stairs. The
people below were a lot smaller. He could make out faces looking up. Foul Ole
Ron was there, with his scabby dog and the rest of the crew, because they had
an

81

uncanny gravitational attraction to impromptu street
theatre. He could even make out Coffin Henry's 'Will Threaten For Food' sign.
And he could see the queues of wagons, by now paralysing half the city. He
could feel his knees buckling . . .

Arthur grabbed
him. 'Oi, this is my patch,' he said. 'Find your own spot.'

'You said the
jumping-off wasn't a skilled job,' said William, trying to concentrate on his
notes as the world spun gently around him. 'What was your job, Mr Crank?'

'Steeplejack.'

'Arthur Crank, you
come down here right this minute!'

Arthur looked
down.

'Oh gawds, they've
gone and fetched the wife,' he said.

'Constable
Fiddyment here says you're . . .' the distant pink face of Mrs Crank paused to
listen again to the watchman standing next to her, 'interferin' with the
merc-ant-ile well-bein' of the city, you ole fool!'

'Can't argue with
the wife,' said Arthur, giving William a sheepish look.

'I'll hide your
trousers another time, you silly ole man! You come down here or I'll give you what
for!'

'Three happy
married years,' said Arthur cheerfully, waving at the distant figure. 'The
other thirty-two haven't been too bad, either. But she can't cook cabbage worth
a damn.'

'Really?' said
William, and dreamily fell forward.

He woke up lying
on the ground, which was what he'd expected, but still in a three-dimensional
shape, which he hadn't. He realized that he was not dead. One reason for this
was the face of Corporal Nobbs of the Watch looking down at him. William
considered that he had lived a relatively blameless life and, if he died, did
not expect to encounter anything with a face like Corporal Nobbs, the worst
thing ever to hit a uniform if you didn't count seagulls.

'Ah, you're all
right,' said Nobbs, looking slightly disappointed.

'Feel . . .
faint,' William murmured.

'I could give you
the kiss of life if you like,' said Nobbs.

Unbidden by
William, various muscles spasmed and jerked him

82

vertical so fast that his feet momentarily left the
ground.

'Much better now!'
he shouted.

'Only we learned
it down the Watch House and I haven't had a chance to try it yet

'Fit as a fiddle!'
William wailed.

'. . . I've been
practising on my hand and everything

'Never felt
better!'

'Old Arthur
Crank's always doing that,' said the watchman. 'He's just after tobacco money.
Still, everyone clapped when he carried you down. It's amazing how he can still
climb drainpipes like that.'

'Is it really . .
. ?' William felt oddly empty.

'It was great when
you were sick. I mean, from four storeys up it looked quite pretty. Someone
ought to have taken a picture--'

'Got to be going!'
William screamed.

I must be going
mad, he thought, as he hurried towards Gleam Street. Why the hell did I do it?
It wasn't as if it was my business.

Except, come to
think of it, it is now.

~blk~

Mr Tulip burped. 'What're we going to do now?' he said.

Mr Pin had
acquired a map of the city and was examining it closely.

'We are not your
old-style bother boys, Mr Tulip. We are thinking men. We learn. We learn fast.'

'What're we going
to do now?' Mr Tulip repeated. Sooner or later he'd be able to catch up.

'We're going to
buy ourselves a little insurance, that's what we're going to do. I don't like
no lawyer having all that muck on us. Ah . . . here we are. It's the other side
of the University.'

'We're going to
buy some magic?' said Mr Tulip.

'Not exactly
magic.'

'I fort you said
this city was a --ing pushover?'

'It has its good
points, Mr Tulip.'

Mr Tulip grinned.
'--ing right,' he said. 'I want to go back to the Museum of Antiquities!'

'Now, now, Mr
Tulip. Business first, pleasure later,' said Mr Pin.

83

'I want to --ing
see all of 'em!'

'Later on. Later
on. Can you wait twenty minutes without exploding?'

The map led them
to the Thaumatological Park, just hubwards of Unseen University. It was still
so new that the modern flat-roofed buildings, winners of several awards from
the Guild of Architects, hadn't even begun to let in water and shed window
panes in a breeze.

An attempt had
been made to pretty up the immediate area with grass and trees, but since the
site had been built partly on the old ground known as the 'unreal estate' this
had not worked as planned. The area had been a dump for Unseen University for
thousands of years. There was a lot more below that turf than old mutton bones,
and magic leaks. On any map of thaumic pollution the unreal estate would be the
centre of some extremely concentric circles.

Already the grass
was multi-coloured and some of the trees had walked away.

Nevertheless,
several businesses were thriving there, products of what the Archchancellor, or
at least his speech writer, had called 'a marriage between magic and modern
business; after all, the modern world doesn't need very many magic rings and
magic swords, but it does need some way to keep its appointments in order. Lot
of garbage, really, but I suppose it makes everyone happy. Is it time for that
lunch yet?'

One of the results
of this joyful union was now on the counter in front of Mr Pin.

'It's the Mk II,'
said the wizard, who was glad there was a counter between him and Mr Tulip. 'Er
. . . cutting edge.'

'That's good,'
said Mr Tulip. 'We --ing love cutting edges.'

'How does it
work?' said Mr Pin.

'It's got
contextual help,' said the wizard. 'All you have to do is, er, open the lid.'

To the wizard's
horror a very thin knife appeared magically in his customer's hand and was used
to release the catch.

The lid sprang
back. A small green imp sprang up.

'Bingely-bingely-bee--'

84

It froze. Even a
creation of biothaumic particles will hesitate when a knife is pressed to its
throat.

'What the hell's
this?' said Mr Pin. 'I said I want something that listensV

'It does listen,
it does listen!' said the wizard hurriedly. 'But it can say things too!'

'Like what?
Bingely-bingely?'

The imp gave a
nervous cough. 'Good for you!' it said. 'You have wisely purchased the
Dis-organizer Mk II, the latest in biothaumaturgic design, with a host of
useful features and no resemblance whatsoever to the Mk I which you may have
inadvertently destroyed by stamping on it heavily!' it said, adding,

~blk~~indent text~

'This device is provided without warranty of any kind as
to reliability, accuracy, existence or otherwise or fitness for any particular
purpose and Bioalchemic Products specifically does not warrant, guarantee,
imply or make any representations as to its merchantability for any particular
purpose and furthermore shall have no liability for or responsibility to you or
any other person, entity or deity with respect of any loss or damage whatsoever
caused by this device or object or by any attempts to destroy it by hammering
it against a wall or dropping it into a deep well or any other means whatsoever
and moreover asserts that you indicate your acceptance of this agreement or any
other agreement that may be substituted at any time by coming within five miles
of the product or observing it through large telescopes or by any other means
because you are such an easily cowed moron who will happily accept arrogant and
unilateral conditions on a piece of highly priced garbage that you would not
dream of accepting on a bag of dog biscuits and is used solely at your own
risk.'

~blk~

The imp took a
deep breath. 'May I introduce to you the rest of my wide range of interesting
and amusing sounds, Insert Name Here?'

Mr Pin glanced at
Mr Tulip. 'All right.'

'For example, I
can go tra-la! '

'No.'

'An amusing bugle
call?'

'No.'

'
Ding! ?'

'No.'

'Or I can be
instructed to make droll and diverting comments when performing various
actions.'

'Why?'

'Er . . . some
people like us to say things like I'll be back when you open the box
again , or something like that

'Why do you do
noises?' said Mr Pin.

'People like
noises.'

'We don't,' said
Mr Pin.

85

'We --ing hate
noises,' said Mr Tulip.

'Good for you! I
can do lots of silence,' the imp volunteered. But suicidal programming forced
it to continue: 'And would you like a different colour scheme?'

'What?'

'What colour would
you like me to be?' As it spoke, one of the imp's long ears slowly turned purple
and its nose became a vaguely disquieting shade of blue.

'We don't want any
colours,' said Mr Pin. 'We don't want noises. We don't want cheerfulness. We
just want you to do what you're told.'

'Perhaps you would
like to take a moment to fill in your registration card?' said the imp
desperately, holding it up.

A knife thrown at
snake speed snapped the card out of its hand and nailed it to the desk.

'Or perhaps you
would like to leave it until later . . .'

'Your man here--'
Mr Pin began. 'Where did he go?'

Mr Tulip reached
behind the counter and hauled up the wizard. ,

'Your man here
says you're one of those imps that can repeat everything you hear,' said Pin.

'Yes, Insert Name
Here, sir,' said the imp.

'And you don't
make stuff up?'

'They can't,' the
wizard panted. 'They have no imagination at all.'

'So if someone
heard it, they'd know it was real?'

'Yes, indeed.'

'Sounds just the
thing we're looking for,' said Mr Pin.

'And how will you
be paying?' said the wizard.

Mr Pin snapped his
fingers. Mr Tulip drew himself up and out, squared his shoulders and cracked
knuckles that were like two bags of pink walnuts.

'Before we --ing
talk about paying,' said Mr Tulip, 'we want to talk to the bloke that wrote
that --ing warranty.'

~blk~

What William now had to think of as his office had changed
quite a lot. The old laundry fixings, dismembered rocking horses and

86

other rubbish had been spirited away and two desks stood
back to back in the middle of the floor.

They were ancient
and battered and to stop them wobbling they needed, against all common sense,
bits of folded cardboard under all four legs.

'I got them from
the secondhand shop along the road,' said Sacharissa nervously. They weren't
very expensive.'

'Yes, I can see
that. Er . . . Miss Cripslock . . . I've been thinking . . . your grandfather
can engrave a picture, can he?'

'Yes, of course.
Why have you got mud all over you?'

'And if we got an
iconograph and learned how to use it to take pictures,' William went on,
ignoring this, 'could he engrave the picture that the imp paints?'

'I suppose so.'

'And do you know
any good iconographers in the city?'

'I could ask
around. What happened to you?'

'Oh, there was a
threatened suicide in Welcome Soap.'

'Any good?'
Sacharissa looked startled at the sound of her own voice. 'I mean, obviously I
wouldn't wish anyone to die, but, er, we've got quite a lot of space

'I might be able
to make something of it. He, er, saved the life of the man who climbed up to
talk him down.'

'How brave. Did
you get the name of the man who climbed up after him?'

'Urn, no. Er, he
was a Mystery Man,' said William.

'Oh, well, that's
something. There's some people waiting to see you outside,' said Sacharissa.
She glanced at her notes. 'There's a man who's lost his watch, a zombie who . .
. well, I can't make out what he wants. There's a troll who wants a job, and
there's someone who's got a complaint about the story of the fight at the
Mended Drum and wants to behead you.'

'Oh, dear. All
right, one at a time

The watch-loser
was easy.

'It was one of the
new clockwork ones my father gave to me,' said the man. 'I've been looking for
it all week!'

'It's not
exactly--'

'If you can put in
the paper that I've lost it, maybe someone

87

who has found it will turn it in?' said the man, with
unwarranted hopefulness. 'And I'll give you sixpence for your trouble.'

Sixpence was
sixpence. William made a few notes.

The zombie was
more difficult. For a start he was grey, shading to green in places, and
smelled very strongly of artificial hyacinth aftershave, some of the more
recent zombies having realized that their chance of making friends in their new
life would be greatly improved if they smelled of flowers rather than just
smelled.

'People like to
know about people who are dead,' he said. His name was Mr Bendy, and he
pronounced it in a way that made it clear that the 'Mr' was very much a part of
the name.

'They do?'

'Yes,' said Mr
Bendy emphatically. 'Dead people can be very interesting. I expect people would
be very interested in reading about dead people.'

'Do you mean
obituaries?'

'Well, yes, I
suppose they would be. I could write them in an interesting way.'

'All right. Twenty
pence each, then.'

Mr Bendy nodded.
It was clear that he would have done it for nothing. He handed William a wad of
yellow, crackling paper.

'Here's an
interesting one to start you off,' he said.

'Oh? Whose is it?'

'Mine. It's very
interesting. Especially the bit where I died.'

The next man to
come in was in fact a troll. Unusually for trolls, who usually wore just enough
to satisfy humanity's mysterious demands for decency, this one actually wore a
suit. At least, it was largely tubes of cloth that covered his body, and 'suit'
was about the only word.

' 'm Rocky,' he
mumbled, looking down. Til take any job, guv.'

'What was your
last job?' said William.

'Boxer, guv. But I
wasn't happy wiv it. Kept getting knocked down.'

'Can you write or
take pictures?' said William, wincing.

'No, guv. I can do
heavy liftin'. 'n' I can'whistle tunes, guv.'

'That's . . . a
good talent, but I don't think we--'

88

The door flew open
and a thick-shouldered, leather-clad man burst in, flourishing an axe.

'You got no right
putting that about me in the paper!' he said, waving the blade under William's
nose.

'Who are you?'

'I'm Brezock the
Barbarian, and I--'

The brain works
fast when it thinks it is about to be cut in half.

'Oh, if it's a
complaint you have, you have to take it up with the Complaints, Beheadings and
Horsewhippings Editor,' said William. 'Mr Rocky here.'

'Dat's me,' boomed
Rocky cheerfully, laying a hand on the man's shoulder. There was only room for
three of his fingers. Brezock sagged.

'I. . . just. . .
want to say,' said Brezock, slowly, 'that you put in I hit someone with a
table. I never done that. What'd people think of me if they heard I go around
hitting people with tables? What'd that do to my reputation?'

'I see.'

'I knifed him. A
table's a cissy weapon.'

'We shall
certainly print a correction,' said William, picking up his pencil.

'You couldn't add
that I tore Slicer Gadley's ear off with my teeth, could you? That'd make
people sit up. Ears aren't easy to do.'

When they had all
gone, Rocky to sit on a chair outside the door, William and Sacharissa stared
at one another.

'It's been a very
strange morning,' he said.

'I've found out
about the winter,' said Sacharissa. 'And there was an unlicensed theft from a
jewellery shop in the Artificers Street. They got quite a lot of silver.'

'How did you find
that out?'

'One of the journeyman
jewellers told me.' Sacharissa gave a little cough. 'He, um, always comes to
have a little chat with me when he sees me walking past.'

'Really? Well
done!'

'And while I was
waiting for you I had an idea. I got Gunilla to set this in type.' She shyly
pushed a piece of paper across the desk.

'It looks more
impressive at the top of the page,' she said nervously. 'What do you think?'

'What are all the
fruit salads and leaves and things?' said William.

Sacharissa
blushed. 'I did that. A bit of unofficial engraving. I thought it might make it
look . . . you know, high class and impressive. Er . . . do you like it?'

'It's very good,'
said William hurriedly. 'Very nice . . . er, cherries--'

'--grapes--'

'Yes, of course, I
meant grapes. What's the quote from? It's very meaningful without, er, meaning
anything very much.'

'I think it's just
a quote,' said Sacharissa.

~blk~

Mr Pin lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into the
still damp air of the wine cellar.

'Now, it seems to
me what we got here is a failure to communicate,' he said. 'I mean, it's not
like we're asking you to memorize a book or anything. You just got to look at
Mr Tulip here. Is this hard? Lots of people do it without any kinda special
training.'

'I sort of . . .
I-lose my bottle,' said Charlie. His feet clanked against several empty ones.

'Mr Tulip is not a
scary man,' said Mr Pin. This was flying in the face of the current evidence,
he had to admit. His partner had bought a twist of what the dealer had sworn
was devil dust but which looked to Mr Pin very much like powdered copper
sulphate, and this had apparently reacted with the chemicals from the Slab
which had been Mr Tulip's afternoon snack and turned one of his sinuses into a
small bag of electricity. His

90

right eye was spinning slowly, and sparks twinkled on his
nasal hairs.

'I mean, does he
look scary?' Mr Pin went on. 'Remember, you are Lord Vetinari. Understand?
You're not going to take anything from some guard. If he talks back to you,
just look at him.'

'Like this,' said
Mr Tulip, half of his face flashing on and off.

Charlie leapt
back.

'Not quite like
that, perhaps,' said Mr Pin. 'But close.'

'I don't want to
do this any more!' Charlie wailed.

'Ten thousand
dollars, Charlie,' said Mr Pin. That's a lot of money.'

'I've heard of
this Vetinari,' said Charlie. 'If this goes wrong he'll have me thrown into the
scorpion pit!'

Mr Pin spread his
hands expansively. 'Well, the scorpion pit isn't as bad as it's cracked up to
be, you know?'

'It's a --ing
picnic compared to me,' rumbled Mr Tulip, his nose lighting up.

Charlie's eyes
sought a way out. Unfortunately, one of them was cleverness. Mr Pin hated the
sight of Charlie trying to be clever. It was like watching a dog try to play
the trombone.

'I'm not doing it
for ten thousand dollars,' he said. 'I mean . . . you need me . . .'

He let it hang in
the air, which was very much what Mr Pin was considering doing with Charlie.

'We had a deal,
Charlie,' he said mildly.

'Yeah, well, I
reckon there's more money in this now,' said Charlie.

'What do you
think, Mr Tulip?'

Tulip opened his
mouth to reply but sneezed instead. A thin bolt of lightning earthed itself on
Charlie's chain.

'Maybe we could go
to fifteen thousand,' said Mr Pin. 'And that's coming out of our share,
Charlie.'

'Yeah, well. . .'
said Charlie. He was as far away from Mr Tulip as possible now, because the
man's dry hair was standing out from his head.

'But we want to
see some extra effort, right?' said Mr Pin. 'Starting right now. All you have
to do is say . . . What do you have to say?'

91

' You are
relieved of your post, my man. Go away, ' said Charlie.

'Except we don't
say it like that, do we, Charlie?' said Mr Pin. It's an order. You are his
boss. And you have to give him a haughty stare . . . Look, how can I put it?
You're a shopkeeper. Imagine that he's asked for credit.'

~blk~

It was six in the morning. Freezing fog held the city in
its breathless grip.

Through the mists
they came, and into the press room behind the Bucket they lurched, and out into
the mists they went again, on a variety of legs, crutches and wheels.

'Mrpikeerah-tis!'

Lord Vetinari
heard the cry and sent the overnight clerk down to the gate again.

He noted the
title. He smiled at the motto.

He read the words:

~blk~~Frame~

IT IS THE COLDEST
WINTER

IN LIVING MEMORY,
AND

THAT IS OFFICIAL.

~blk~

Dr Fettle Dodgast (132) of Unfeen University, told the
Times: 'It if as cold as I can remember. Mind you, we don't get the winter
thefe days that we had when I was ,'^young.'

~blk~

Isicles as long as a man's arm have been seen on gutters
about the city and many pumps have frozen.

~blk~

Dr Dodgast (132) says the winter is worse than the one in
1902 when wolves invaded te acity. He added 'and we were glad of that, because
we hadn't seen fresh meat for a fortnight'

. . .

92

Mr Josia Winder (45) of 12b Martlebury Street has %a
Humerous Vegetable that he will exhibit to all comers upon payment of a small
sum. It is most droll.

. . .

Mr Clarence Harry (39) begs to inform the public that he
has lost a valuable watch, probably in the area of Dolly Sisters. Reward to
finder. Please report to Times office.

. . .

A icongrapher with thier own equipptment vanted by this
publication. Apply at the Times office. The sign of the Bucket.

A miscreatn stole $200 worth of silver from H. Hogland and
Son, Jewllrs., of Nonsuch Street yesterday p.m. Mr Hogland, (32) who was
threatened at knifepoint, told the Times: 'I shall recognise the man if I
should see him again because not many people have a ftocking on their head.'

~blk~

And Lord Vetinari
smiled.

And someone
knocked softly at the door.

And he glanced at
the clock.

'Come,' he said.

Nothing happened.
After a few seconds, the soft knock came again.

'Come in.'

And there was the
pregnant silence again.

And Lord Vetinari
touched an apparently ordinary part of his desktop.

And a long drawer
appeared out of what had seemed to be the solid walnut of the desk, sliding
forward as though on oil. It contained a number of slim devices on a bed of
black velvet, and a description of any one of them would certainly involve the
word 'sharp'.

93

And he chose one,
held it casually by his side, crossed soundlessly towards the door and turned
the handle, stepping back quickly in case of a sudden rush.

No one pushed.

And the door,
yielding to an unevenness in the hinges, swung inwards.

~blk~

Mr Mackleduff smoothed out the paper. It was already
accepted by all around the breakfast table that, as the man who bought the
paper, he was not simply its owner but, as it were, its priest, relaying its
contents to the appreciative masses.

'It says here a
man in Martlebury Street has grown a vegetable that's a funny shape,' he said.

'I should very
much like to see that,' said Mrs Arcanum. There was a choking noise from further
down the table. 'Are you all right, Mr de Worde?' she added, as Mr Prone
thumped him on the back.

'Yes, yes,
really,' gasped William. 'S-sorry. Some tea went down the wrong way.'

'There's good soil
in that part of the city,' opined Mr Cartwright, travelling seed salesman.

William
concentrated desperately on his toast, while over his head every news item was
presented with the care and veneration of a blessed relic.

'Someone held up a
shopkeeper at knifepoint,' Mr Mackleduff went on.

'Soon we will not
be safe in our beds,' said Mrs Arcanum.

'I don't think
this is the coldest winter for more than a hundred years, though,' said Mr
Cartwright. I'm sure that one we had ten years ago was worse. Hit my sales
something cruel.'

'It's in the
paper,' said Mr Mackleduff, in the quiet voice of someone laying down an ace.

'It was a very
strange obituary that you read out, too,' said Mrs Arcanum. William nodded
silently over his boiled egg. I'm sure it's not usual to talk about the things
someone's done since they died.'

Mr Longshaft, who
was a dwarf and something in the jewellery business, helped himself to another
slice of toast.

'I suppose it
takes all sorts,' he said calmly.

94

The city is
getting rather crowded, though,' said Mr Windling, who had some unspecified
clerical job. 'Still, at least zombies are human. No offence meant, of course.'

Mr Longshaft
smiled faintly as he buttered the toast, and William wondered why he always
disliked people who said 'no offence meant'. Maybe it was because they found it
easier to say 'no offence meant' than actually refrain from giving offence.

'Well, I suppose
we have to move with the times,' said Mrs Arcanum. 'And I hope that other poor
man finds his watch.'

In fact Mr Harry
was waiting outside the office when William arrived. He grabbed William's hand
and shook it.

'Amazing, sir,
amazing!' he said. 'How did you do it? It must be magic! You put that notice in
your paper and when I got home, blow me down if the watch wasn't in my other
jacket! Gods bless your paper, say I!'

Inside,
Goodmountain gave William the news. The Times had sold eight hundred copies so
far today. At five pence each, William's share came to sixteen dollars. In
pennies, it came to quite a large heap on the desk.

This is insane,'
said William. 'All we did was write things down!'

'There is a bit of
a problem, lad,' said Goodmountain. 'Are you going to want to do another one
for tomorrow?'

'Good gods, I hope
not!'

'Well, I've got a
story for you,' said the dwarf glumly. 'I hear the Guild of Engravers are
already setting up their own press. They've got a lot of money behind 'em, too.
They could put us right out of business when it comes to general printing,'

'Can they do
that?'

'Of course. They
use presses anyway. Type isn't hard to make, especially when you've got a lot
of engravers. They can do really good work. To be honest, we didn't reckon
they'd cotton on this soon,'

'I'm amazed!'

'Well, younger
members of the Guild have seen the work coming out of Omnia and the Agatean
Empire. Turns out they've been looking for a chance like this. I hear there was
a special meeting last night. A few changes of officers.'

95

'That must have
been worth seeing.'

'So if you could
keep your paper going . . .' said the dwarf.

'I don't want all
this money!' William wailed. 'Money causes problems!'

'We could sell the
Times cheaper,' said Sacharissa, giving him an odd look.

'We'd only make
more money,' said William gloomily.

'We could . . . we
could pay the street vendors more,' said Sacharissa.

'Tricky,' said
Goodmountain. 'A body can only take so much turpentine.'

'Then we could at
least make sure they get a good breakfast,' said Sacharissa. 'A big stew with
named meat, perhaps.'

'But I'm not even
sure there is enough news to fill a--' William began, and stopped. That wasn't
the way it worked, was it? If it was in the paper, it was news. If it was news
it went in the paper, and if it was in the paper it was news. And it was the
truth.

He remembered the
breakfast table. They' wouldn't let 'them' put it in the paper if it wasn't
true, would they?

William wasn't a
very political person. But he found himself using unfamiliar mental muscles
when he thought about 'they'. Some of them had to do with memory.

'We could employ
more people to help us get the news,' said Sacharissa. 'And what about news
from other places? Pseudopolis and Quirm? We just have to talk to passengers
getting off the coaches--'

'Dwarfs would like
to hear what's been happening in Uberwald and Copperhead,' said Goodmountain,
stroking his beard.

'It takes nearly a
week for a coach to get there from here!' said William.

'So? It's still
news.'

'I suppose we
couldn't use the clacks, could we?' said Sacharissa.

'The semaphore
towers? Are you mad?' said William. 'That's really expensive!'

'Well? You were
the one who was worried we had too much money!'

There was a flash
of light. William spun around.

96

A . . . . thing
occupied the doorway. There was a tripod. There was a pair of skinny,
black-clad legs behind it and a large black box on top of it. One black-clad
arm extended out from behind the box and was holding a sort of small hod, which
was smoking.

'Nice vun,' said a
voice from behind the box. The light vas shinink so good off the dvarf's
helmet, I could not resist it. You vanted an iconographer? My name is Otto
Chriek.'

'Oh. Yes?' said
Sacharissa. 'Are you any good?'

'I am a vizard in
zer darkroom. I am experimenting all the time,' said Otto Chriek. 'And I have
all my own eqvipment and also a keen and positive attitude!'

'Sacharissa!'
hissed William urgently.

'We could probably
start you at a dollar a day--'

'Sacharissa!'

'Yes? What?'

'He's a vampire!'

'I object most
stronkly,' said the hidden Otto. 'It iss such an easy assumption to believe
that everyvun with an Uberwald accent is a vampire, is it not? There are many
thousands of people from Uberwald who are not vampires!'

William waved his
hand aimlessly, trying to shrug off the embarrassment. 'All right, I'm sorry,
but--'

'I am a vampire,
as it happens,' Otto went on. 'But if I had said Hello my cheeky cock
sparrow mate old boy by crikey vot vould you have said zen, eh?'

'We'd have been
completely taken in,' said William.

'Anyvay, your
notice did say vanted , so I thought it vas, you know, affirmative
action,' said Otto. 'Alzo, I have zis . . .' A thin, blue-veined hand was held
up, gripping a small twist of shiny black ribbon.

'Oh? You've signed
the pledge?' said Sacharissa.

'At the Meeting
Rooms in Abattoirs Lane,' said Otto triumphantly, 'vhere I attend every veek for
our big singsong and tea and a bun and wholesome conversation on themes of
positive reinforcement keeping off the whole subject of bodily fluids by strict
instruction. I am not any longer any stupid sucker!'

'What do you
think, Mr Goodmountain?' said William.

Goodmountain
scratched his nose. 'It's up to you,' he said. 'If he

97

tries anything with my lads he'll be looking for his legs.
What's this pledge?'

'It's the Uberwald
Temperance Movement,' said Sacharissa. 'A vampire signs up and forswears any
human blood--'

Otto shuddered.
'Ve prefer zer b-vord ,' he said.

'The b-word,'
Sacharissa corrected herself. The movement is becoming very popular. They know
it's the only chance they've got.'

'Well . . . okay,'
said William. He was uneasy about vampires himself, but turning the newcomer
down after all this would be like kicking a puppy. 'Do you mind setting up your
stuff in the cellar?'

'A cellar?' said
Otto. Top hole!'

First the dwarfs
had come, William thought as he went back to his desk. They'd been insulted
because of their diligence and because of their height, but they had kept their
heads down* and prospered. Then the trolls had come, and they got on a little
better, because people don't throw as many stones at creatures seven feet tall
who could throw rocks back. Then the zombies had come out of.the casket. One or
two werewolves had crept in under the door. The gnomes had integrated quickly,
despite a bad start, because they were tough and even more dangerous to cross
than a troll; at least a troll couldn't run up your trouser leg. There weren't
that many species left.

The vampires had
never made it. They weren't sociable, even amongst themselves, they didn't
think as a species, they were unpleasantly weird and they sure as hell didn't
have their own food shops.

So now it was
dawning on some of the brighter ones that the only way people would accept
vampires was if they stopped being vampires. That was a large price to pay for
social acceptability, but perhaps not so large as the one that involved having
your head cut off and your ashes scattered on the river. A life of steak
tartare wasn't too bad if you compared it with a death of stake au naturelle.+

~blk~~foot~

* Which was not
hard, as unkind people pointed out.    .

t In any case,
anyone eating raw steak from an Ankh-Morpork slaughterhouse was embarking on a
life of danger and excitement that should satisfy anyone.

98

'Er, I think we'd
like to see who we're employing, though,' William said aloud.

Otto emerged, very
slowly and nervously, from behind the lens. He was thin, pale and wore little
oval dark glasses. He still clutched the twist of black ribbon as if it was a
talisman, which it more or less was.

'It's all right,
we won't bite you,' said Sacharissa.

'And one good turn
deserves another, eh?' said Goodmountain.

'That was a bit
tasteless, Mr Goodmountain,' said Sacharissa.

'So am I,' said
the dwarf, turning back to the stone. 'Just so long as people know where I
stand, that's all,'

'You vill not be
sorry,' said Otto. 'I am completely reformed, I assure you. Vot is it you vant
me to take pictures of, please?'

'News,' said
William.

'Vot is news,
please?'

'News is . . .'
William began. 'News . . . is what we put in the paper--'

'What d'you think
of this, eh?' said a cheerful voice.

William turned.
There was a horribly familiar face looking at him over the top of a cardboard
box.

'Hello, Mr
Wintler,' he said. 'Er, Sacharissa, I wonder if you could go and--'

He wasn't quick
enough. Mr Wintler, a man of the variety that thinks a whoopee cushion is the
last word in repartee, was not the kind to let a mere freezing reception stand
in his way. 'I was digging my garden this morning and up came this parsnip, and
I thought: that young man at the paper will laugh himself silly when he sees
it, 'cos my lady wife couldn't keep a straight face, and--'

To William's
horror he was already reaching into the box. 'Mr Wintler, I really don't
think--'

But the hand was
already rising, and there was the sound of something scraping on the side of the
box. 'I bet the young lady here would like a good chuckle too, eh?'

William shut his
eyes.

He heard
Sacharissa gasp. Then she said, 'Golly, it's amazingly lifelike!'

William opened his
eyes. 'Oh, it's a nose,' he said. 'A parsnip with a sort of knobbly face and a
huge noseV

99

'You vant I should
take a picture?' said Otto.

'Yes!' said
William, drunk with relief. 'Take a big picture of Mr Wintler and his
wonderfully nasal parsnip, Otto! Your first job! Yes, indeed!'

Mr Wintler beamed.
'And shall I run back home and fetch my carrot?' he said.

'No!' said William
and Goodmountain in whiplash unison.

'You vant the
picture right now?' said Otto.

'We certainly do!'
said William. The sooner we can let him go home, the sooner our Mr Wintler can
find another wonderfully humorous vegetable, eh, Mr Wintler? What will it be
next time? A bean with ears? A beetroot shaped like a potato? A sprout with an
enormous hairy tongue?'

'Right here and
now is ven you vant the picture?' said Otto, anxiety hanging off every
syllable.

'Right now, yes!'

'As a matter of
fact, there is a swede coming along that I've got great hopes of--' Mr Wintler
began.

'Oh, veil. . . if
you vill look zis vay, Mr Vintler,' said Otto. He got behind the iconograph and
uncovered the lens. William got a glimpse of the imp peering out, brush poised.
In his spare hand Otto slowly held up, on a stick, a cage containing a fat and
drowsing salamander, finger poised on the trigger that would bring a small
hammer down on its head just hard enough to annoy it.

'Be smiling,
please!'

'Hold on,' said
Sacharissa. 'Should a vampire really--?'

Click.

The salamander
flared, etching the room with searing white light and dark shadows.

Otto screamed. He
fell to the floor, clutching at his throat. He sprang to his feet, goggle-eyed
and gasping, and staggered, knock-kneed and wobbly-legged, the length of the
room and back again. He sank down behind a desk, scattering paperwork with a
wildly flailing hand.

'Aarghaarghaaargh
. . .'

And then there was
a shocked silence.

100

Otto stood up,
adjusted his cravat and dusted himself off. Only then did he look up at the row
of shocked faces.

'Veil?' he said
sternly. 'Vot are you all looking at? It is just a normal reaction, zat is all.
I am vorking on it. Light in all its forms is mine passion. Light is my canvas,
shadows are my brush.'

'But strong light
hurts you!' said Sacharissa. 'It hurts vampires!'

'Yes. It iss a bit
of a bugger, but zere you go.'

'And, er, that
happens every time you take a picture, does it?' said William.

'No, sometimes it
iss a lot vorse.'

'Worse?'

'I sometimes
crumble to dust. But zat vich does not kill us makes us stronk.'

'Stronk?'

'Indeed!'

William caught
Sacharissa's gaze. Her look said it all: we've hired him. Have we got the heart
to fire him now? And don't make fun of his accent unless your Uberwaldean is
really good, okay?

Otto adjusted the
iconograph and inserted a fresh sheet.

'And now, shall ve
try vun more?' he said brightly. 'And zis time - everybody smile!'

~blk~

Mail was arriving. William was used to a certain amount,
usually from clients of his news letter complaining that he hadn't told them
about the double-headed giants, plagues and rains of domestic animals that they
had heard had been happening in Ankh-Morpork; his father had been right about
one thing, at least, when he'd asserted that lies could run round the world
before the truth could get its boots on. And it was amazing how people wanted
to believe them.

These were . . .
well, it was as if he'd shaken a tree and all the nuts had fallen out. Several
letters were complaining that there had been much colder winters than this,
although no two of them could agree when it was. One said vegetables were not
as funny as they used to be, especially leeks. Another asked what the Guild of
Thieves was doing about unlicensed crime in the city. There was one saying that
all these robberies were down to dwarfs who

101

shouldn't be allowed into the city to steal the work out
of honest humans' mouths.

'Put a title like
Letters on the top and put them in,' said William. 'Except the one
about the dwarfs. That sounds like Mr Windling. It sounds like my father, too,
except that at least he can spell undesirable and wouldn't use
crayon.'

'Why not that
letter?'

'Because it's offensive.'

'Some people think
it's true, though,' said Sacharissa. 'There's been a lot of trouble.'

'Yes, but we
shouldn't print it.'

William called
Goodmountain over and showed him the letter. The dwarf read it.

'Put it in,' he
suggested. 'It'll fill a few inches.'

'But people will
object,' said William.

'Good. Put their
letters in, too.'

Sacharissa sighed.
'We'll probably need them,' she said. 'William, grandfather says no one in the
Guild will engrave the iconographs for us.'

'Why not? We can
afford the rates.'

'We're not Guild
members. It's all getting unpleasant. Will you tell Otto?'

William sighed and
walked over to the ladder.

The dwarfs used
the cellar as a bedroom, being naturally happier with a floor over their heads.
Otto had been allowed to use a dank corner, which he'd made his own by hanging
an old sheet across on a rope.

'Oh, hello, Mr
Villiam,' he said, pouring something noxious from one bottle into another.

'I'm afraid it
looks as if we won't get anyone to engrave your pictures,' said William.

The vampire seemed
unmoved by this. 'Yes, I vundered about zat.'

'So I'm sorry to
say that--'

'No problem, Mr
Villiam. Zere is alvays a yay.'

'How? You can't
engrave, can you?'

'No, but . . . all
ve are printing is black and vite, yes?
And zer

102

paper is vite zo all ve are really printink is black,
okay? I looked at how zer dvarfs do zer letters, and zey haf all zese bits of
metal lying around and . . . you know how zer engravers can engrave metal viz
acid?'

'Yes?'

'Zo, all I haf to
do is teach zer imps to paint viz acid. End of problem. Getting grey took a bit
of thought, but I zink I haf--'

'You mean you can
get the imps to etch the picture straight on to a plate?'

'Yes. It is vun of
those ideas that are obvious ven you zink about it.' Otto looked wistful. 'And
I zink about light all zer time. All zer . . . time.'

William vaguely
remembered something someone had once said: the only thing more dangerous than
a vampire crazed with blood lust was a vampire crazed with anything else. All
the meticulous single-mindedness that went into finding young women who slept
with their bedroom window open was channelled into some other interest, with
merciless and painstaking efficiency.

'Er, why do you
need to work in a dark room, though?' he said. 'The imps don't need it, do
they?'

'Ah, zis is for my
experiment,' said Otto proudly. 'You know zat another term for an iconographer
would be photographer ? From the old word photus in Latation, vhich
means--'

' To prance
around like a pillock ordering everyone about as if you owned the place ,'
said William.

'Ah, you know it!'

William nodded.
He'd always wondered about that word.

'Veil, I am
vorking on an obscurograph,'

William's forehead
wrinkled. It was turning into a long day. Taking pictures with darkness?' he
ventured.

'Viz true
darkness, to be precise,' said Otto, excitement entering his voice. 'Not just
absence of light. Zer light on zer ozzer side of darkness. You could call it .
. . living darkness. Ve can't see it, but imps can. Did you know zer
Uberwaldean Deep Cave land eel emits a burst of dark light ven startled?'

William glanced at
a large glass jar on the bench. A couple of ugly things were coiled up in the
bottom.

103

'And that will
work, will it?'

'I zink so. Hold
it vun minute.'

'I really ought to
be getting back--'

'Zis vill not take
a second

Otto gently lifted
one of the eels out of its jar and put it into the hod usually occupied by a
salamander. He carefully aimed one of his iconographs at William and nodded.

'Vun . . . two . .
. three . . . BOO!'

There was--

--there was a soft
noiseless implosion, a very brief sensation of the world being screwed up
small, frozen, smashed into tiny little sharp pins and hammered through every
cell of William's body.* Then the gloom of the cellar flowed back.

'That was . . .
very strange,' said William, blinking. 'It was like something very cold walking
through me.'

'Much may be
learnt about dark light now ve have left our disgusting past behind us and haf
emerged into zer bright new future vhere ve do not zink about zer b-vord all
day in any vay at all,' said Otto,'fiddling with the iconograph. He looked hard
at the picture the imp had painted and then glanced up at William. 'Oh veil,
back to zer drawink board,' he said.

'Can I see?'

'It vould
embarrass me,' said Otto, putting the square of cardboard down on his makeshift
bench. 'All zer time I am doing things wronk.'

'Oh, but I'd--'

'Mister de Worde,
dere's something happening!'

The bellow came
from Rocky, whose head eclipsed the hole.

'What is it?'

'Something at der
palace. Someone's been killed!'

William sprang up
the ladder. Sacharissa was sitting at her desk, looking pale.

'Someone's
assassinated Vetinari?' said William.

'Er, no,' said
Sacharissa. 'Not . . . exactly,'

Down  in
the  cellar  Otto
Chriek  picked  up
the   dark  light

~blk~~foot~

* In many ways William de Worde had quite a graphic
imagination.

104

iconograph and looked at it again. Then he scratched it
with a long pale finger, as if trying to remove something.

'Strange . . ,' he
said.

The imp hadn't
imagined it, he knew. Imps had no imagination whatsoever. They didn't know how
to lie.

He looked around
the bare cellar suspiciously.

'Is zere anyvun
zere?' he said. 'Is anyvun playink zer silly buggers?'

Thankfully there
was no answer.

Dark light. Oh
dear. There were lots of theories about dark light. . .

'Otto!'

He glanced up,
shoving the picture into his pocket.

'Yes, Mr Villiam?'

'Get your stuff
together and come with me! Lord Vetinari's murdered someone! Er, it is
alleged,' William added. 'And it can't possibly be true.'

~blk~

It sometimes seemed to William that the whole population
of Ankh-Morpork was simply a mob waiting to happen. It was mostly spread thin,
like some kind of great amoeba, all across the city. But when something
happened somewhere it contracted around that point, like a cell around a piece
of food, filling the streets with people.

It was growing
around the main gates to the palace. It came together apparently at random. A
knot of people would attract other people, and become a bigger, more
complicated knot. Carts and sedan chairs would stop to find out what was going
on. The invisible beast grew bigger.

There were
watchmen on the gate instead of the palace guard. This was a problem. 'Let me
in, I'm nosy,' was not a request likely to achieve success. It lacked a certain
authority.

'Vy are ve
stoppink?' said Otto.

'That's Sergeant
Detritus on the gate,' said William.

'Ah. A troll. Very
stupid,' opined Otto.

'But hard to fool.
I'm afraid I shall have to try the truth.'

'Vy vill zat
vork?'

105

'He's a policeman.
The truth usually confuses them. They don't often hear it.'

The big troll
sergeant watched William impassively as he approached. It was a proper
policeman's stare. It gave nothing away. It said: I can see you, now I'm
waiting to see what you're going to do that's wrong.

'Good morning,
sergeant,' said William.

A nod from the
troll indicated that he was prepared to accept, on available evidence, that it
was morning and, in certain circumstances, by some people, it might be
considered good.

'I urgently need
to see Commander Vimes.'

'Oh, yes?'

'Yes. Indeed.'

'And does he
urgently need to see you?' The troll leaned closer. 'You're Mr de Worde,
right?'

'Yes. I work for the
Times.'

'I don't read
dat,' said the troll.

'Really? We'll
bring out a large-print edition,' said William.

'Dat was a very
funny joke,' said Detritus. Ting is, fick though I am, I am der one that's
sayin' you can stay outside, so-- What's dat vampire doing?'

'Hold it just vun
second!' said Otto.

WHOOMPH.

'--damndamndamn!'

Detritus watched
Otto roll around on the cobbles screaming.

'What was dat
about?' he said, eventually.

'He's taken a
picture of you not letting me into the palace,' said William.

Detritus, although
born above the snowline on some distant mountain, a troll who had never seen a
human until he was five years old, nevertheless was a policeman to his craggy,
dragging fingertips and reacted accordingly.

'He can't do dat,'
he said.

William pulled out
his notebook and poised his pencil. 'Could you explain to my readers exactly
why not?' he said.

Detritus looked
around, a little worried. 'Where are dey?'

'No, I mean I'm
going to write down what you say.'

106

Basic policing
rushed to Detritus's aid once again. 'You can't do dat,' he said.

Then can I write
down why I can't write anything down?' William said, smiling brightly.

Detritus reached
up and moved a little lever on the side of his helmet. A barely audible
whirring noise became fractionally louder. The troll had a helmet with a
clockwork fan, to blow air across his silicon brain when overheating threatened
to reduce its operating efficiency. Right now he obviously needed a cooler
head.

'Ah. Dis is some
kind of politics, right?' he said.

'Um, maybe.
Sorry.'

Otto had staggered
to his feet and was fiddling with the icono-graph again.

Detritus reached a
decision. He nodded to a constable.

'Fiddyment, you
take dese . . . two to Mister Vimes. Dey are not to fall down any steps on der
way or any stuff like dat.'

Mister Vimes,
thought William, as they hurried after the constable. All the watchmen called
him that. The man had been a knight and was now a duke and a commander, but
they called him Mister. And it was Mister, too, the full two syllables, not the
everyday unheeded 'Mr'; it was the 'mister' you used when you wanted to say
things like Tut down that crossbow and turn around real slow, mister.' He
wondered why.

William had not
been brought up to respect the Watch. They weren't our kind of people. It was
conceded that they were useful, like sheepdogs, because clearly someone had to
keep people in order, heavens knew, but only a fool would let a sheepdog sleep
in the parlour. The Watch, in other words, was a regrettably necessary sub-set
of the criminal classes, a section of the population informally defined by Lord
de Worde as anyone with less than a thousand dollars a year.

William's family
and everyone they knew also had a mental map of the city that was divided into
parts where you found upstanding citizens and other parts where you found
criminals. It had come as a shock to them . . . no, he corrected himself, it
had come as an affront to learn that Vimes operated on a different map.
Apparently he'd instructed his men to use the front door when calling at any

107

building, even in broad daylight, when sheer common sense
said that they should use the back, just like any other servant.* The man
simply had no idea.

That Vetinari had
made him a duke was just another example of the Patrician's lack of grip.

William therefore
felt predisposed to like Vimes, if only because of the type of enemies he made,
but as far as he could see everything about the man could be prefaced by the
word 'badly', as in -spoken, -educated and -in need of a drink.

Fiddyment stopped
in the big hall of the palace.

'Don't you go
anywhere and don't you do anything,' he said. 'I'll go and--'

But Vimes was
already coming down the wide stairs, trailed by a giant of a man William
recognized as Captain Carrot.

You could add
'-dressed' to Vimes's list. It wasn't that he wore bad clothes. He just seemed
to generate an internal scruffiness field. The man could rumple a helmet.

Fiddyment met them
halfway. There was a muttered conversation, out of which the unmistakable words
'He's what?' arose, in Vimes's voice. He glared darkly at William. The
expression was clear. It said: it's been a bad day and now there's you.

Vimes walked the
rest of the way down the stairs and looked William up and down.

'What is it you're
wanting?' he demanded.

'I want to know
what's happened here, please,' said William.

'Why?'

'Because people
will want to know.'

'Hah! They'll find
out soon enough!'

'But who from,
sir?'

Vimes walked round
William as if he was examining some strange new thing.

'You're Lord de
Worde's boy, aren't you?'

'Yes, your grace.'

'Commander will
do,' said Vimes sharply. 'And you write that little gossipy thing, right?'

~blk~~foot~

* William's class understood that justice was like coal or
potatoes. You ordered it when you needed it.

108

'Broadly, sir.'

'What was it you
did to Sergeant Detritus?'

'I only wrote down
what he said, sir.'

'Aha, pulled a pen
on him, eh?'

'Sir?'

'Writing things
down at people? Teh, tch . . . that sort of thing only causes trouble.'

Vimes stopped
walking round William, but having him glare from a few inches away was no
improvement.

'This has not been
a nice day,' he said. 'And it's going to get a lot worse. Why should I waste my
time talking to you?'

'I can tell you
one good reason,' said William.

'Well, go on,
then.'

'You should talk
to me so that I can write it down, sir. All neat and correct. The actual words
you say, right down there on the paper. And you know who I am, and if I get
them wrong you know where to find me.'

'So? You're
telling me that if I do what you want you'll do what you want?'

'I'm saying, sir,
that a lie can run round the world before the truth has got its boots on.'

'Ha! Did you just
make that up?'

'No, sir. But you
know it's true.'

Vimes sucked on
his cigar. 'And you'll let me see what you've written?'

'Of course. I'll
make sure you get one of the first papers off the press, sir.'

'I meant before it
gets published, and you know it.'

'To tell you the
truth, no, I don't think I should do that, sir.'

'I am the
Commander of the Watch, lad.'

'Yes, sir. And I'm
not. I think that's my point, really, although I'll work on it some more.'

Vimes stared at
him a little too long. Then, in a slightly different tone of voice, he said:

'Lord Vetinari was
seen by three cleaning maids of the household staff, all respectable ladies,
after they were alerted by the barking of his lordship's dog at about seven
o'clock this morning. He said'

109

- here Vimes consulted his own notebook - ' I've
killed him, I've killed him, I'm sorry. They saw what looked very much
like a body on the floor. Lord Vetinari was holding a knife. They ran
downstairs to fetch someone. On their return they found his lordship missing.
The body was that of Rufus Drumknott, the Patrician's personal secretary. He
had been stabbed and is seriously ill. A search of the buildings located Lord
Vetinari in the stables. He was unconscious on the floor. A horse was saddled.
The saddlebags contained . . . seventy thousand dollars . . . Captain, this is
damn stupid.'

'I know, sir,'
said Carrot. They are the facts, sir.'

'But they're not
the right facts! They're stupid facts!'

'I know, sir. I
can't imagine his lordship trying to kill anyone.'

'Are you mad?'
said Vimes. 'I can't imagine him saying sorry!'

Vimes turned and
glared at William, as if surprised to find him still there. 'Yes?' he demanded.

'Why was his
lordship unconscious, sir?'

Vimes shrugged.
'It looks as though he was trying to get on the horse. He's got a game leg.
Maybe he slipped-- I can't believe I'm saying this. Anyway, that's your lot,
understand?'

'I'd like to get
an iconograph of you, please,' William persisted.

'Why?'    .

William thought
fast. 'It will reassure the citizens that you are on the case and handling this
personally, commander. My iconogra-pher is just downstairs. Otto!'

'Good gods, a damn
vamp--' Vimes began.

'He's a Black
Ribboner, sir,' Carrot whispered. Vimes rolled his eyes.

'Good mornink,'
said Otto. 'Do not be movink, please, you are making a good pattern of light
and shade.' He kicked out the legs of the tripod, peered into the iconograph
and raised a salamander in its cage.

'Looking this vay,
please--'

Click.

WHOOMPH.

'--oh, shee-yut!'

Dust floated to
the floor. In the midst of it a twist of black ribbon spiralled down.

110

There was a moment
of shocked silence. Then Vimes said, 'What the hell happened just then?'

'Too much flash, I
think,' said William. He reached down with a trembling hand and retrieved a
small square of card that was sticking out of the little grey cone of the late
Otto Chriek.

' DO NOT BE
ALARMED, ' he read. ' The former bearer of this card has suffered a
minor accident. You vill need a drop of blood from any species, and a dustpan
and brush. '

'Well, the
kitchens are over that way,' said Vimes. 'Sort him out. I don't want my men
treading him in all over the damn place.'

'One last thing,
sir. Would you like me to say that if anyone saw anything suspicious they
should tell you, sir?' said William.

'In this town?
We'd need every man on the Watch just to control the queue. Just you be careful
what you write, that's all.'

The two watchmen
strode away, Carrot giving William a wan smile as he passed.

William busied
himself in carefully scraping up Otto with two pages from his notebook and
depositing the dust in the bag the vampire used to carry his equipment.

Then it dawned on
him that he was alone - Otto probably didn't count at the moment - in the
palace with Commander Vimes's permission to be there, if 'the kitchens are over
that way' could be parlayed into 'permission'. And William was good with words.
Truth was what he told. Honesty was sometimes not the same thing.

He picked up the
bag and found his way to the back stairs and the kitchen, whence came a hubbub.

Staff were
wandering around with the bewildered air of people with nothing to do who were
nevertheless still being paid to do it. William sidled over to a maid who was
sobbing into a grubby handkerchief.

'Excuse me, miss,
but could you let me have a drop of blood-- Yes, perhaps this isn't the right
moment,' he added nervously, as she fled shrieking.

' 'ere, what did
you say to our Rene?' said a thickset man, putting down a tray of hot loaves.

'Are you the
baker?' said William.

The man gave him a
look. 'What does it look like?'

111

'I can see what it
looks like,' said William. There was another look, but this one had just a
measure of respect in it. 'I'm still asking the question,' he went on.

'I'm the butcher,
as it happens,' said the man. 'Well done. The baker's off sick. And who are
you, askin' me questions?'

'Commander Vimes
sent me down here,' said William. He was appalled at the ease with which the
truth turned into a something that was almost a lie, just by being positioned
correctly. He opened his notebook. I'm from the Times. Did you--'

'What, the paper?'
said the butcher.

That's right. Did
you--'

'Hah! You got it
completely up your bum about the winter, y'know. You should've said it was the
Year of the Ant, that was the worst. You should've arsked me. I could've put
you right.'

'And you are--?'

'Sidney Clancy and
Son, aged 39, 11 Long Hogmeat, Purveyors of Finest Cat and Dog Meats to The
Gentry . . . Why aren't you writing it down?'

'Lord Vetinari
eats pet food?'

'He doesn't eat
much of anything from what I hear. No, I delivers for his dog; Finest stuff.
Prime. We sell only the best at 11 Long Hogmeat, open every day from 6 a.m. to
mid--'

'Oh, his dog.
Right,' said William. 'Er.' He looked around at the throng. Some of those
people could tell him things, and he was talking to a dogmeat man. Still. . .

'Could you let me
have a tiny piece of meat?' he said.

'Are you going to
put it in the paper?'

'Yes. Sort of. In
a way.'

~blk~

William found a quiet alcove hidden from the general
excitement and gingerly let the piece of meat dribble one drop of blood on to
the little grey pile.

The dust
mushroomed up into the air, became a mass of coloured flecks, became Otto
Chriek.

'How vas that
vun?' he said. 'Oh

'I think you got
the picture,' said William. 'Er, your jacket. . .'

Part of the sleeve
of the vampire's jacket was now the colour and

112

texture of the stair carpet in the big hall, a rather dull
pattern of red and blue.

'Carpet dust got
mixed in, I expect,' said Otto. 'Do not be alarmed. Happens all zer time,' He
sniffed the sleeve. 'Finest steak? Thank you!'

'It was dog food,'
said William the Truthful.

'Dog food?'

'Yes. Grab your
stuff and follow me.'

'Dog food?'

'You did say it
was finest steak. Lord Vetinari is kind to his dog. Look, don't complain to me.
If this sort of thing happens a lot then you ought to carry a little bottle of
emergency blood! Otherwise people will do the best they can!'

'Veil, yes, fine,
zank you anyvay,' the vampire mumbled, trailing behind him. 'Dog food, dog food,
oh dear me . . . vhere are ve goink now?'

'To the Oblong
Office to see where the attack was made,' said William. 'I just hope it isn't
being guarded by someone clever.'

'Ve will get into
a lot off trouble.'

'Why?' said
William. He'd been thinking the same thing, but: why? The palace belonged to
the city, more or less. The Watch probably wouldn't like him going in there,
but William felt in his bones that you couldn't run a city on the basis of what
the Watch liked. The Watch would probably like it if everyone spent their time
indoors, with their hands on the table where people could see them.

The door to the
Oblong Office was open. Guarding it, if you could truly be said to be on guard
whilst leaning against the wall staring at the opposite wall, was Corporal
Nobbs. He was smoking a surreptitious cigarette.

'Ah, just the man
I was looking for!' said William. That was true. Nobby was more than he'd hoped
for.

The cigarette
disappeared by magic.

'Am I?' wheezed
Nobbs, smoke curling out of his ears.

'Yes, I've been
talking to Commander Vimes, and now I would like to see the room where the
crime was committed.' William had great hopes of that sentence. It seemed to
contain the

113

words 'and he gave me permission to' without actually
doing so.

Corporal Nobbs
looked uncertain, but then he noticed the notebook. And Otto. The cigarette
appeared between his lips again.

' 'ere, are you
from that news paper?'

'That's right,'
said William. 'I thought people would be interested in seeing how our brave
Watch swings into action at a time like this.'

Corporal Nobbs's
skinny chest visibly swelled.

'Corporal Nobby
Nobbs, sir, probably 34, bin in uniform since prob'ly ten years old, man and
boy.'

William felt he
ought to make a show of writing this down. 'Probably 34?'

'Our mam has never
been one for numbers, sir. Always a bit vague on fine detail, our mam.'

'And . . .'
William took a closer look at the corporal. You had to assume he was a human
being because he was broadly the right shape, could talk and wasn't covered in
hair. 'Man and boy and . . . ?' he heard himself say.

'Just man and boy,
sir,' said Corporal Nobbs reproachfully. 'Just man and boy.'

'And were you
first on the scene, corporal?'

'Last on the
scene, sir.'

'And your
important job is to . . . ?'

'Stop anyone going
through this door, sir,' said Corporal Nobbs, trying to read William's notes
upside down. 'That's Nobbs without a K , sir. It's
amazing how people get that wrong. What's he. doing with that box?'

'Got to take a
picture of Ankh-Morpork's finest,' said William, easing himself towards the
door. Of course, that was a lie, but since it was such an obvious lie he
considered that it didn't count. It was like saying the sky was green.

By now Corporal
Nobbs was almost leaving the floor under the lifting power of pride.

'Could I have a
copy for my mam?' he said.

'Smile, please . .
.' said Otto.

'I am smilin'.'

'Stop smiling,
please.'

114

Click. WHOOMPH.

'Aaarghaarghaargh

A screaming
vampire is always the centre of attention. William slipped into the Oblong
Office.

Just inside the
door was a chalk outline. In coloured chalk. It must have been done by Corporal
Nobbs, because he was the only person who would add a pipe and draw in some
flowers and clouds.

There was also a
stink of peppermint.

There was a chair,
knocked over.

There was a
basket, kicked upside down in the corner of the room.

There was a short,
evil-looking metal arrow sticking into the floor at an angle; it had a City
Watch label tied to it now.

There was a dwarf.
He-- no, William corrected himself, on seeing the heavy leather skirt and the
slight raised heels to the iron boots - she was lying down on her stomach,
picking at something on the floor with a pair of tweezers. It looked like a
smashed jar.

She glanced up.
'Are you new? Where's your uniform?' she said.

'Well, er, I, er .
. .'

She narrowed her
eyes. 'You're not a watchman, are you? Does Mister Vimes know you're here?'

The way of the
truthful-by-nature is as a bicycle race in a pair of sandpaper underpants, but
William clung to an indisputable fact.

'I spoke to him
just now,' he said.

But the dwarf
wasn't Sergeant Detritus, and certainly not Corporal Nobbs.

'And he said you
could come in here?' she demanded.

'Not exactly
said--'

The dwarf walked
across and swiftly opened the door. 'Then get--'

'Ah, a vonderful
framing effect!' said Otto, who'd been on the other side of the door.

Click!

William shut his
eyes.

WHOOMPH.

115

'. . .
oohhbuggerrrrr . . .'

This time William
caught the little piece of paper before it hit the ground.

The dwarf stood
open-mouthed. Then she closed her mouth. Then she opened it again to say: 'What
the hell just happened?'

'I suppose you
could call it a sort of industrial injury,' said William. 'Hang on, I think
I've still got a piece of dog food somewhere. Honestly, there's got to be a
better way than this

He unwrapped the
meat from a grubby piece of newspaper and gingerly dropped it on to the heap.

The ash fountained
and Otto arose, blinking.

'How vas that? Vun
more? This time viz the obscurograph?' he said. He was already reaching for his
bag.

'Get out of here
right now!' said the dwarf.

'Oh, please' -
William glanced at the dwarf's shoulder - 'corporal, let Mm do his job. Give
him a chance, eh? He's a Black Ribboner, after all. . .' Behind the watchman
Otto took an ugly, newt-like creature out of its jar.

'Do you want me to
arrest the pair of you? You're interfering with the scene of a crime!'

'What crime, would
you say?' said William, flipping open his notebook.

'Out, the pair
of--'

'Boo,' said Otto
softly.

The land eel must
have been quite tense already. In response to thousands of years of evolution
in a high magical environment it. discharged a night-time's worth of darkness
all at once. It filled the room for a moment, sheer solid black laced with
traceries of blue and violet. Again for a moment William thought he could feel
it wash through him in a flood. Then light flowed back, like chilly water after
a pebble has been dropped in the lake.

The corporal glared
at Otto. 'That was dark light, wasn't it?'

'Ah, you too are
from Uberwald--' Otto began happily.

'Yes, and I did
not expect to see that here! Get out!'

They hurried past
the startled Corporal Nobbs, down the wide stairs and out into the frosty air
of the courtyard.

'Is there
something you ought to be telling me,
Otto?' said

116

William. 'She seemed extremely angry when you took that
second picture,'

'Veil, it's a
little hard to explain,' said the vampire awkwardly.

'It's not harmful,
is it?'

'Oh, no, zere are
no physical effects vhatsoever--'

'Or mental
effects?' said William, who had spun words too often to miss such a carefully
misleading statement.

'Perhaps zis is
not zer time. . .'

'That's true. Tell
me about it later. Before you try it again, okay?'

William's head
buzzed as he ran along Filigree Street. Barely an hour ago he'd been agonizing
over what stupid letters to put in the newspaper and the world had seemed more
or less normal. Now it had been turned upside down. Lord Vetinari was supposed
to have tried to kill someone, and that didn't make sense, if only because the
person he had tried to kill was apparently still alive. He'd been trying to get
away with a load of money, too, and that didn't make sense either. Oh, it
wasn't hard to imagine a person embezzling money and attacking someone, but if
you mentally inserted someone like the Patrician into the picture it all fell
apart. And what about the peppermint? The room had reeked of it.

There were a lot
more questions. The look in the corporal's eye as she'd chased him out of the
office suggested firmly to William that he was unlikely to get any more answers
from the Watch.

And looming up in
his mind was the gaunt shape of the press. Somehow he was going to have to make
a coherent story about all this, and he'd have to do it now . . .

The happy figure
of Mr Wintler greeted him as he strode into the press room.

'What do you think
of this funny marrow, eh, Mr de Worde?'

'I suggest you
stuff it, Mr Wintler,' said William, pushing past.

'Just as you say,
sir, that's just what my lady wife said too.'

'I'm sorry, but he
insisted on waiting for you,' Sacharissa whispered as William sat down. 'What's
going on?'

'I'm not sure . .
.' said William, staring hard at his notes.

'Who's been killed?'

'Er, no one . . .
I think . . .'

117

That's a mercy,
then.' Sacharissa looked down at the papers covering her desk.

I'm afraid we've
had five other people in here with humorous vegetables,' she said.

'Oh.'

'Yes. They weren't
all that funny, to tell the truth.'

'Oh.'

'No, they mainly
looked like . . . um, you know.'

'Oh . . . what?'

'You know,' she
said, beginning to go red. 'A man's . . . um, you

know.'

'Oh.'

'Not even very
much like, um, you know, too. I mean, you had to want to see a . . . um, you
know . . . there, if you understand

me.'

William hoped that
no one was making notes about this conversation. 'Oh,' he said.

'But I took their
names and addresses, just in case,' said Sacharissa. I thought it might be
worth it if we're short of stuff.'

'We're never going
to be that short,' said William quickly.

'You don't think
so?'

I'm positive.'

'You may be
right,' she said, looking at the mess of paper on her desk. 'It's been very
busy in here while you were out. People have been queueing up with all sorts of
news. Things that are going to happen, lost dogs, things they want to sell--'

'That's
advertising,' said William, trying to concentrate on his notes. 'If they want
it in the paper they have to pay.'

'I don't see that
it's up to us to decide--'

William thumped
the desk, to his own amazement and Sacharissa's shock.

'Something is
happening, do you understand? Something really real is happening. And it's not
an amusing shape! It's really serious! And I've got to write it down as soon as
possible! Can you just let me do that?'

He realized
Sacharissa was staring not at him but at his fist. He followed her gaze.

118

'Oh, no . . . what
the hell is this?'

A long sharp nail
projected straight upwards from the desk, an inch from his hand. It must have
been at least six inches long. Pieces of paper had been impaled on it. When he
picked it up he saw that it remained upright because it had been hammered
through a wooden block.

'It's a spike,'
said Sacharissa quietly. 'I, I, er, brought it in to keep our papers tidy. M-my
grandfather always uses one. All . . . all the engravers do. It's . . . it's
sort of a cross between a filing cabinet and a wastepaper basket. I thought it
would be useful. Er, it'll save you using the floor.'

'Er, right, yes,
good idea,' said William, looking at her reddening face. 'Er . . .'

He couldn't think
straight. 'Mr Goodmountain?' he yelled.

The dwarf looked
up from a playbill he was setting.

'Can you put stuff
in type if I dictate to you?'

'Yes.'

'Sacharissa, please
go and find Ron and his . . . friends. I want to get a small paper out as soon
as possible. Not tomorrow morning. Right now. Please?'

She was about to
protest, and then she saw the look in his eye. 'Are you sure you're allowed to
do this?' she said.

'No! I'm not! I
won't know until after I've done it! That's why I've got to do it! Then I'll
know! And I'm sorry I'm shouting!'

He pushed his
chair aside and went over to Goodmountain, who was standing patiently by a case
of type.

'All right. . . we
need a line at the top . . .' William shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of
his nose while he thought. 'Er . . . Amazing Scenes In Ankh-Morpork
. . . got that? In very big type. Then in smaller type, underneath . . .
Patrician Attacks Clerk With Knife . . . er. . .' That didn't sound
right, he knew. It was grammatically inexact. It was the Patrician who had the
knife, not the clerk. 'We can sort that out later . . . er . . . in smaller
type again . . . Mysterious Events In Stables . . . go down another
size of type . . . Watch Baffled . Okay? And now we'll start the
story . . .'

'Start it?' said
Goodmountain, his hand dancing across the boxes of type. 'Aren't we nearly
finished?'

119

William flicked
back and forth through his notes. How to begin, how to begin . . . Something
interesting . . . No, something amazing . . . Some amazing things . . . no . .
. no . . . The story was surely the strangeness of it all. . .

' Suspicious
circumstances surround the attack . . . make that alleged
attack . . .'

'I thought you
said he admitted it,' said Sacharissa, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

'I know, I know,
it's just that I think that if Lord Vetinari wanted to kill someone they'd be
dead . . . look him up in Twurp's Peerage, will you, I'm sure he was educated
in the Assassins' Guild--'

'Alleged or not?'
said Goodmountain, his hand hovering over the As. 'Just say the word.'

'Make it the
apparent attack ,' said William, ' by Lord Vetinari on Rufus
Drumknott, his clerk, in the palace today. Er . . . er . . . Palace staff
heard-- '

'Do you want me to
work on this or do you want me to find the beggars?' Sacharissa demanded. 'I
can't do both.' William gave her a blank stare. Then he nodded. 'Rocky?'

The troll by the
door awoke with a snort. 'Yessir?' 'Go and find Foul Ole Ron and the others and
get them up here as soon as possible. Tell them there'll be a bonus. Now, where
was I?'

' Palace
staff heard, ' Goodmountain prompted. ' --heard his lordship-- '

' --who
graduated with full honours from the Guild of Assassins in 1968, '
Sacharissa called out.

'Put that in,'
said William urgently. 'And then go on with . . . say 'I killed him, I
killed him, I'm sorry' . . . Good grief, Vimes is right, this is insane,
he'd have to be mad to talk like this.' 'Mr de Worde, is it?' said a voice.
'Oh, what the hell is it this time?'

William turned. He
saw the trolls first, because even when they're standing at the back a group of
four big trolls are metaphorically to the fore of any picture. The two humans
in front of them were a mere detail, and in any case one of them was only

120

human by tradition. He had the grey pallor of a zombie and
wore the expression of one who, while not seeking to be unpleasant in himself,
was the cause of much unpleasantness in other people.

'Mr de Worde? I
believe you know me. I am Mr Slant of the Guild of Lawyers,' said Mr Slant,
bowing stiffly. This,' he indicated the slight young man next to him, 'is Mr
Ronald Carney, the new chairman of the Guild of Engravers and Printers. The four
gentlemen behind me do not belong to any guild, as far as I am aware--'

'Engravers and
Printers?' said Goodmountain.

'Yes,' said
Carney. 'We have expanded our charter. Guild membership is two hundred dollars
a year--'

'I'm not--'
William began, but Goodmountain laid a hand on his arm.

This is the
shakedown, but it isn't as bad as I thought it might be,' he whispered. 'We
haven't got time to argue and at this rate we'll make it back in a few days.
End of problem!'

'However,' said Mr
Slant, in his special lawyer's voice that sucked in money at every pore, 'in
this instance, in view of the special circumstances, there will also be a
one-off payment of, say, two thousand dollars.'

The dwarfs went
quiet. Then there was a metallic chorus. Each dwarf had laid down his type,
reached under the stone and pulled out a battle axe.

That's agreed,
then, is it?' said Mr Slant, stepping aside. The trolls were straightening up.
It didn't take a major excuse for trolls and dwarfs to fight; sometimes, being
on the same world was enough.

This time it was
William who restrained Goodmountain. 'Hold on, hold on, there must be a law
against killing lawyers.'

'Are you sure?'

There're still
some around, aren't there? Besides, he's a zombie. If you cut him in half both
bits will sue you.' William raised his voice. 'We can't pay, Mr Slant.'

'In that case,
accepted law and practice allows me--'

'I want to see
your charter!' Sacharissa snapped. 'I've known you since we were kids, Ronnie
Carney, and you're always up to something.'

121

'Good afternoon,
Miss Cripslock,' said Mr Slant. 'As a matter of fact we thought someone might
ask, so I brought the new charter with me. I hope we are all law-abiding here.'

Sacharissa
snatched the impressive-looking scroll, with its large dangling seal, and
glared at it as if trying to burn the words off the parchment by the mere
friction of reading. 'Oh,' she said. 'It. . . seems to be in order.' 'Quite
so.'

'Except for the
Patrician's signature,' Sacharissa added, handing back the scroll.

That is a mere
formality, my dear.'

'I'm not your dear
and it's not on there, formal or not. So this isn't legal, is it?'

Mr Slant twitched.
'Clearly we cannot get a signature from a man in prison on a very serious
charge,' he said.

Aha, that's a
wallpaper word, thought William. When people say dearly something,  that
means  there's  a
huge  crack in  their argument and they know things aren't
clear at all. 'Then who is running the city?' he said. 'I don't know,' said Mr
Slant. 'That is not my concern. I--' 'Mr Goodmountain?' said William. 'Large
type, please.' 'Got you,' said the dwarf. His hand hovered over a fresh case.
'In caps, size to fit,  WHO RUNS
ANKH-MORPORK? ' said William.  'Now
into body type,  upper and lower
case,  across two columns: Who is
governing the city while Lord Vetinari is imprisoned? Asked for an opinion
today, a leading legal figure said' he did not know and it was no concern of
his. Mr Slant of the Lawyers' Guild went on to say-- '

'You can't put
that in your newspaper!' barked Slant. 'Set that directly, please, Mr
Goodmountain.' 'Setting it already,' said the dwarf, the leaden slugs clicking
into place. Out of the corner of his eye William saw Otto emerging from the
cellar and looking puzzled at the noise.

' Mr Slant
went on to say . . .? ' said William, glaring at the lawyer. 'You will
find it very hard to print that,' said Mr Carney, ignoring the lawyer's frantic
hand signals, 'with no damn press!'

' . . .   was the view of Mr Carney of the Guild of
Engravers,

122

spelled with an e before the y,' said William, ' who
earlier today tried to put the Times out of business by means of an illegal
document.' William realized that although his mouth felt full of acid he was
enjoying this immensely. ' Asked for his opinion of this flagrant abuse
of the city laws, Mr Slant said . . . ?'

'STOP TAKING DOWN
EVERYTHING WE SAY!' yelled Slant.

'Full caps for the
whole sentence, please, Mr Goodmountain.'

The trolls and the
dwarfs were staring at William and the lawyer. They understood that a fight was
going on, but they couldn't see any blood.

'And when you're
ready, Otto?' said William, turning round.

'If the dvarfs
vould just close up a bit more,' said Otto, squinting into the iconograph. 'Oh,
zat'sgood, let's see the light gleam on zose big choppers . . . trolls, please
vave your fists, zat's right . . . big smile, everyvun

It is amazing how
people will obey a man pointing a lens at them. They'll come to their senses in
a fraction of a second, but that's all he needs.

Click.

WHOOMPH.

'. . .
aaarghaaarghaaarghaaaaaagh

William reached
the falling iconograph just ahead of Mr Slant, who could move very fast for a
man with no apparent knees.

'It's ours,' he
said, holding it firmly, while the dust of Otto Chriek settled around them.

'What are you
intending to do with this picture?'

'I don't have to
tell you. This is our workshop. We didn't ask you to come here.'

'But I am here on
legal business!'

'Then it can't be
wrong to take a picture of you, can it?' said William. 'But if you think
differently, then I will of course be happy to quote you!'

Slant glared at
him and then marched back to the group by the door. William heard him say, 'It
is my considered legal opinion that we leave at this juncture.'

'But you said you
could--' Carney began, glaring at William.

123

'My very
considered opinion,' said Mr Slant again, 'is that we go right now, in
silence.'

'But you said--'

'In silence, I
suggest!'

They left.

There was a group
sigh of relief from the dwarfs, and a replacement of axes.

'You want me to
set this properly?' said Goodmountain.

'There'll be
trouble over it,' said Sacharissa.

'Yes, but how much
trouble are we in already?' said William. 'On a scale of one to ten?'

'At the moment . .
. about eight,' said Sacharissa. 'But when the next edition is on the streets .
. .' she shut her eyes a moment and her lips moved in calculation '. . . about
two thousand, three hundred and seventeen?'

'Then we'll put it
in,' said William.

Goodmountain
turned to his workers. 'Leave the axes where you can see 'em, boys,' he said.

'Look, I don't
want anyone else to get into trouble,' said William. 'I'll even set the rest of
the type myself, and I can run some copies off on the press.'

'Needs three to
operate and you won't get much speed,' said Goodmountain. He saw William's
expression, grinned and slapped him as high up the back as a dwarf could
manage. 'Don't worry, lad. We want to protect our investment.'

'And I'm not
leaving,' said Sacharissa. 'I need that dollar!'

'Two dollars,' said
William absently. 'It's time for a rise. What about you, Ott-- Oh, can someone
sweep up Otto, please?'

A few minutes
later the restored vampire pulled himself upright against his tripod and lifted
out a copper plate with trembling fingers.

'Vot is happenink
next, please?'

'Are you staying
with us? It could be dangerous,' said William, realizing that he was saying
this to a vampire iconographer who undied every time he took a picture.

'Vot kind of
danger?' said Otto, tilting the plate this way and that in order to examine it
better. 'Well, legal, to start with.'

124

'Has anyvun
mentioned garlic zo far?'

'No.'

'Can I have vun
hundred and eighty dollars for the Akina TR-10 dual-imp iconograph viz the
telescopic seat and big shiny lever?'

'Er . . . not
yet,'

'Okay,' said Otto
philosophically. 'Zen I shall require five dollars for repairs and
improvements. I can see zis is a different kind of job.'

'All right. All
right, then,' William looked around the press room. Everyone was silent, and
everyone was watching him.

A few days ago
he'd have expected today to be . . . well, dull. It usually was, just after
he'd sent out his news letter. He generally spent the time wandering around the
city or reading in his tiny office while waiting for the next client with a
letter to be written or, sometimes, read out.

Often both kinds
were difficult. People prepared to trust a postal system that largely depended
on handing an envelope to some trustworthy-looking person who was heading in
the right direction generally had something important to say. But the point was
that they weren't his difficulties. It wasn't him making a last-minute plea to
the Patrician, or hearing the terrible news about the collapse of shaft #3,
although of course he did his best to make things easier for the customer. It
had worked very well. If stress were food, he'd succeeded in turning his life
into porridge.

The press waited.
It looked, now, like a great big beast. Soon he'd throw a lot of words into it.
And in a few hours it would be hungry again, as if those words had never
happened. You could feed it, but you could never fill it up.

He shuddered. What
had he got them all into?

But he felt on
fire. There was a truth somewhere, and he hadn't found it yet. He was going to,
because he knew, he knew that once this edition hit the streets--

'Bugrit!'

'Hawrrak . . .
pwit!'

'Quack!'

He glanced at the
crowd coming in. Of course, the truth hid in some unlikely places and had some
strange handmaidens.

'Let's go to
press,' he said.

125

It was an hour
later. The sellers were already coming back for more. The rumbling of the press
made the tin roof shake. The piles of copper mounting up in front of
Goodmountain leapt into the air at every thump.

William examined
his reflection in a piece of polished brass. Somehow he'd got ink all over
himself. He did the best he could with his handkerchief.

He'd sent
Altogether Andrews to sell the papers near Pseudopolis Yard, reckoning him to
be the most consistently sane of the fraternity. At least five of his
personalities could hold a coherent conversation.

By now, surely,
the Watch would have had time to read the story, even if they'd had to send out
for help with the longer words.

He. was aware of
someone staring at him. He turned and saw Sacharissa's head bend down over her
work again. Someone sniggered, behind him.

There was no one
there who was paying him any attention. There was a three-way argument over a
matter of sixpence going on between Goodmountain, Foul Ole Ron and Foul Ole
Ron, Ron being capable of keeping a pretty good row going all by himself. The
dwarfs were hard at work around the press. Otto had retired to his darkroom,
where he was once again mysteriously also hard at work.

Only Ron's dog was
watching William. He considered that it had, for a dog, a very offensive and
knowing look.

A couple of months
ago someone had tried to hand William the old story about there being a dog in
the city that could talk. It was the third time this year. William had
explained that it was an urban myth. It was always a friend of a friend who had
heard it talk, and it was never anyone who had seen the dog. The dog in front
of William didn't look as if it could talk, but it did look as if it could
swear.

There seemed to be
no stopping that kind of story. People swore that there was some long-lost heir
to the throne of Ankh living incognito in the town. William certainly
recognized wishful

126

thinking when he heard it. There was the other old
chestnut about a werewolf being employed in the Watch, too. Until recently he'd
dismissed that one, but he was having some doubts lately. After all, the Times
employed a vampire . . .

He stared at the
wall, tapping his teeth with his pencil.

'I'm going to see
Commander Vimes,' he said at last. 'It's better than hiding.'

'We're being
invited to all sorts of things,' said Sacharissa, looking up from her
paperwork. 'Well, I say invited . . . Lady Selachii has ordered us to attend
her ball on Thursday next week and write at least 500 words which we will of
course let her see before publication.'

'Good idea,'
Goodmountain called over his shoulder. 'Lots of names at balls, and--'

'--names sell
newspapers,' said William. 'Yes. I know. Do you want to go?'

'Me? I haven't got
anything to wear!' said Sacharissa. 'It'd cost forty dollars for the kind of
dress you wear to that sort of thing. And we can't afford that kind of money.'

William hesitated.
Then he said: 'Stand up and twirl around, could you?'

She actually
blushed. 'Whatever for?'

'I want to see
what size you are . . . you know, all over.'

She stood up and
turned around nervously. There was a chorus of whistles from the crew and a
number of untranslatable comments in dwarfish.

'You're pretty
close,' said William. 'If I could get you a really good dress, could you find
someone to make any adjustments you need? It might have to be let out a bit in
the, in the, you know . . . in the top.'

'What kind of
dress?' she said suspiciously.

'My sister's got
hundreds of evening dresses and she spends all her time at our place in the
country,'' said William. The family never comes back to the city these days.
I'll give you the key to the town house this evening and you can go and help
yourself.'

'Won't she mind?'
„

'She'll probably
never notice. Anyway,* think she'd be shocked

127

to find that anyone could spend as little as forty dollars
on a dress. Don't worry about it.'

Town house? Place
in the country?' said Sacharissa, displaying an inconveniently journalistic
trait of picking on the words you hoped wouldn't be noticed.

'My family's
rich,' said William. 'I'm not.'

He glanced at the
rooftop opposite when he stepped outside, because something in its outline was
different, and saw a spiky head outlined against the afternoon sky.

It was a gargoyle.
William had got used to seeing them everywhere in the city. Sometimes one would
stay in the same place for months at a time. You seldom saw them actually
moving from one roof to another. But you also seldom saw them at all in
districts like this. Gargoyles liked high stone buildings with lots of gutters
and fiddly architecture, which attracted pigeons. Even gargoyles have to eat.

There was also
something going on further down the street. Several large carts were outside
one of the old warehouses, and crates were being carried inside.

He spotted several
more gargoyles on the way across the bridge to Pseudopolis Yard. Every single
one of them turned its head to watch him.

Sergeant Detritus
was on duty at the desk. He looked at William in surprise.

'By damn, dat was
quick. You run all der way?' he said.

'What are you
talking about?'

'Mister Vimes only
sent for you a coupla minutes ago,' said Detritus. 'Go on up, I should. Don't
worry, he's stopped shoutin',' He gave William a rather-you-than-me look. 'But
he are not glad about being in a tent, as dey say.'

'Has he ever been
a happy camper?'

'Not much,' said
Detritus, grinning evilly.

William climbed
the stairs and knocked at the door, which swung open.

Commander Vimes
looked up from his desk. His eyes narrowed.

'Well, well, that
was quick,' he said. 'Ran all the way, did you?'

128

'No, sir, I was
coming here hoping to ask you some questions.'

'That was kind of
you,' said Vimes.

There was a
definite feeling that although the little village was quiet at the moment -
women hanging out washing, cats sleeping in the sun - soon the volcano was
going to explode and hundreds were going to be buried in the ash.

'So--' William
began.

'Why did you do
this?' said Vimes. William could see the Times on the desk in front of the
commander. He could read the headlines from here:

Patrician
Attacks Clerk With Knife

(He
had the knife, not the clerk)

==================================

MYSTERIOUS
EVENTS IN STABLES

Strange
Smell of Peppermint

WATCH
BAFFLED

'Baffled, am I?'
said Vimes.

'If you are
telling me that you are not, commander, I will be happy to make a note of the
fa--'

'Leave that
notebook alone!'

William looked
surprised. The notebook was the cheapest kind, made of paper recycled so many
times you could use it as a towel, but once again someone was glaring at it as
if it was a weapon.

'I won't have you
doing to me what you did to Slant,' said Vimes.

'Every word of
that story is true, sir.'

129

'I'd bet on it. It
sounds like his style.'

'Look, commander,
if there's something wrong with my story, tell me what it is.'

Vimes sat back and
waved his hands.

'Are you going to
print everything you hear?' he said. 'Do you intend to run around my city like
some loose . . . loose siege weapon? You sit there clutching your precious
integrity like a teddy bear and you haven't the faintest idea, have you, not
the faintest idea how hard you can make my job?'

'It's not against
the law to--'

'Isn't it? Isn't
it, though? In Ankh-Morpork? Stuff like this? It reads like Behaviour Likely to
Cause a Breach of the Peace to me\'

'It might upset
people, but this is important--'

'And what will you
write next, I wonder?'

'I haven't printed
that you have a werewolf employed in the Watch,' said William. He regretted it
instantly, but Vimes was getting on his nerves.

'Where did you
hear that?' said a quiet voice behind him. He turned in his chair. A
fair-haired young woman in Watch uniform was leaning against the wall. She must
have been there all the time.

'This is Sergeant
Angua,' said Vimes. 'You can speak freely in front of her.'

'I've . . . heard
rumours,' said William. He'd seen the sergeant in the streets. She had a habit
of staring a bit too sharply at people, he'd considered.

'And?'

'Look, I can see
this is worrying you,' said William. 'Please let me assure you that Corporal
Nobbs's secret is safe with me.'

No one spoke.
William congratulated himself. It had been a shot in the dark, but he could
tell by Sergeant Angua's face that he'd won this one. It seemed to have shut
down, locking away all expression.

'We don't often
talk about Corporal Nobbs's species,' said Vimes, after a while. 'I would deem
it a small favour if you would take the same approach.'

'Yes, sir. So
could I ask you why you're having me watched?'

130

'I am?'

The gargoyles.
Everyone knows a lot of them work for the Watch these days.'

'We're not
watching you. We're watching to see what happens to you,' said Sergeant Angua.

'Because of this,'
said Vimes, slapping the newspaper.

'But I'm not doing
anything wrong,' said William.

'No, it may just
be you're not doing anything illegal,' said Vimes. 'Although you're coming damn
close. Other people do not have my kind and understanding disposition, though.
All I ask is that you try not to bleed all over the street.'

'I'll try.'

'And don't write
that down.'

'Fine.'

'And don't write
down that I said don't write that down.'

'Okay. Can I write
down that you said that I shouldn't write down that you said--' William
stopped. The mountain was rumbling. 'Only joking.'

'Haha. And no tapping
my officers for information.'

'And no giving dog
biscuits to Corporal Nobbs,' said Sergeant Angua. She walked around behind
Vimes and peered over his shoulder. The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret ?'

'Printer's error,'
said William shortly. 'Anything else I shouldn't do, commander?'

'Just don't get in
the way.'

'I'll make a--
I'll remember,' said William. 'But, if you don't mind my asking, what's in it
for me?'

Tm Commander of
the Watch and I'm asking you politely.'

'And that's it?'

'I could ask you
impolitely, Mr de Worde.' Vimes sighed. 'Look, can you see things my way? A
crime has been committed. The Guilds are in an uproar. You've heard of too many
chiefs? Well, right now there's a hundred many chiefs. I've Captain Carrot and
a lot of men I really can't spare guarding the Oblong Office and the rest of
the clerks, which means I'm short-handed everywhere else. I've got to deal with
all this and . . . actively pursue state of non-bafflement. I've got
Vetinari in the cells. And Drumknolt, too--'

131

'But wasn't he the
victim, sir?'

'One of my men is
tending him.'

'Not one of the
city doctors?'

Vimes stared
fixedly at the notebook. 'The doctors of this city are a fine body of men,' he
said in a level tone, 'and I would not see a word written against them. One of
my staff just happens to have . . . special skills.'

'You mean he can
tell someone else's arse from their elbow?'

Vimes was a fast
learner. He sat with his hands folded and a completely impassive expression.

'Can I ask another
question?' said William.

'Nothing will stop
you, will it?'

'Have you found
Lord Vetinari's dog?'

Again, total
blankness. But this time William had the impression that behind it several
dozen wheels had begun to spin.

'Dog?' said Vimes.

'Wuffles, I
believe he's called,' said William.

Vimes sat watching
him impassively.

'A terrier, I
think,' said William.

Vimes failed to
move a muscle.

'Why was there a
crossbow bolt sticking in the floor?' said William. 'That doesn't make sense to
me, unless there was someone else in the room. And it had gone in a long way.
That's not a rebound. Someone was firing at something on the floor. Dog-sized,
perhaps?'

Not a feature
twitched on the commander's face.

'And then there's
the peppermint,' William went on. 'There's a. puzzle. I mean, why peppermint?
And then I thought, maybe someone didn't want to be traced by their smell?
Perhaps they'd heard about your werewolf too? A few jars of peppermint oil
thrown down would confuse things a bit?'

There it was, a
faint flicker as Vimes glanced momentarily at some paperwork in front of him.
Lotto! thought William.*

At last, like some
oracle that speaks once a year, Vimes said, 'I don't trust you, Mr de Worde.
And I've just realized why. It's not just that you're going to cause trouble.
Dealing with trouble is my

* At this point
Bingo had not been introduced to Ankh-Morpork.

132

job, it's what I'm paid for, that's why they give me an
armour allowance. But who are you responsible to? I have to answer for what I
do, although right now I'm damned if I know who to. But you? It seems to me you
can do what the hell you like.'

'I suppose I'm
answerable to the truth, sir.'

'Oh, really? How,
exactly?'

'Sorry?'

'If you tell lies,
does the truth come and smack you in the face? I'm impressed. Ordinary everyday
people like me are responsible to other people. Even Vetinari always had-- has
one eye on the Guilds. But you . . . you are answerable to the truth. Amazing.
What's its address? Does it read the paper?'

'She, sir,' said
Sergeant Angua. There's a goddess of truth, I believe.'

'Can't have many
followers, then,' said Vimes. 'Except our friend here,' He stared at William
again over the top of his fingers, and once again the wheels turned.

'Supposing . . .
just supposing . . . you came into possession of a little drawing of a dog,' he
said. 'Could you print it in your paper?'

'We are talking
about Wuffles, are we?' said William.

'Could you?'

'I'm sure I
could.'

'We would be
interested in knowing why he barked just before the . . . event,' said Vimes.

'And if you could
find him Corporal Nobbs could speak to him in dog language, yes?' said William.

Once again Vimes
did his impression of a statue. 'We could get a drawing of the dog to you in an
hour,' he said.

Thank you. Who is
running the city at the moment, commander?'

'I'm just a
copper,' said Vimes. They don't tell me these things. But I imagine a new
Patrician will be elected. It's all laid down in the city statutes.'

'Who can tell me
more about them?' said William, mentally adding 'Just a capper' my bum!

'Mr Slant is your
man there,' said Vimes, and thif time he smiled. 'Very helpful, I believe. Good
afternoon, Mr de Worde. Sergeant, show Mr de Worde out, will you?'

133

1 want to see Lord Vetinari,' said William.

'You what?'

'It's a reasonable
request, sir.'

'No. Firstly, he
is still unconscious. Secondly, he is my prisoner.'

'Aren't you even
letting a lawyer see him?'

'I think his
lordship is in enough trouble already, lad.'

'What about
Drumknott? He isn't a prisoner, is he?'

Vimes glanced up
at Sergeant Angua, who shrugged.

'All right.
There's no law against that, and we can't have people saying he's dead,' he
said. He unhooked a speaking tube from a brass and leather construction on his
desk and hesitated.

'Have they got that
problem sorted out, sergeant?' he said, ignoring William.

'Yes, sir. The
pneumatic message system and the speaking tubes are definitely separated now.'

'Are you sure? You
do know Constable Keenside had all his teeth knocked out yesterday?'

They say it can't
happen again, sir.'

'Well, obviously
it can't. He hasn't got any more teeth. Oh, well . . .' Vimes picked up the
tube, held it away from him for a moment and then spoke into it.

Tut me through to
the cells, will you?'

'Wizzip?
Wipwipwip?'

'Say again?'

'Sneedle
flipsock?'

'This is Vimes!'

'Scitscrit?'

Vimes put the tube
back on its cradle and stared at Sergeant Angua.

'They're still
working on it, sir,' she said. 'They say rats have been nibbling at the tubes.'

'Rats?'

'I'm afraid so,
sir.'

Vimes groaned and
turned to William. 'Sergeant Angua will take you to the cells,' he said.

And then William
was on the other side of the door.

'Come on,' said
the sergeant.

134

'How did I do?'
said William.

'I've seen worse.'

'Sorry to mention
Corporal Nobbs, but--'

'Oh, don't worry
about it,' said Sergeant Angua. 'Your powers of observation will be the talk of
the station. Look, he's being kind to you because he hasn't worked out what you
are yet, okay? Just be careful, that's all.'

'And you have
worked out what I am, have you?' said William.

'Let's just say I
don't rely on first impressions. Mind the step.'

She led the way
down into the cells. William noted, without being so crass as to write it down,
that there were two watchmen on duty at the bottom.

'Are there usually
guards down here? I mean, the cells have locks, don't they?'

'I hear you've got
a vampire working for you,' said Sergeant Angua.

'Otto? Oh, yes.
Well, we're not prejudiced about that sort of thing

The sergeant did
not answer. Instead she opened a door off the main cell corridor and called
out: 'Visitor for the patients, Igor.'

'Right with you,
thargent.'

The room within
was brightly lit by an uncanny, flickering blue light. Jars lined shelves on
one wall. Some had strange things moving in them - very strange things. Other
things just floated. Blue sparks sizzled on some complex machine, all copper
balls and glass rods, in the corner. But what mainly drew William's attention
was the great big eye. ^

Before he could
actually scream a hand reached up and what he'd thought was a huge eyeball was
revealed as the largest magnifying glass he'd ever seen, swivelling up on a
metal bracket attached to the forehead of its owner. But the face it revealed
was barely an improvement, when it came to mouth-desiccating horror.

The eyes were on
different levels. One ear was larger than the other. The face was a network of
scars. But that was nothing compared to the deformed hairstyle; Igor's greasy
black hair had been

135

brushed forward into an overhanging quiff in the manner of
some of the city's noisier young musicians, but to a length that could take out
the eye of any innocent pedestrian. By the looks of the . . . organic nature of
Igor's work area, he would then be able to help

put it back.

There was a fish
tank bubbling on one bench. Inside it some potatoes were idly swimming
backwards and forwards.

'Young Igor here
is part of our forensic department,' said Sergeant Angua. 'Igor, this is Mr de
Worde. He wants to see the

patients.'

William saw the
quick glance Igor gave the sergeant, who added,

'Mister Vimes says
it's okay.'

'Right this way,
then,' said Igor, lurching past William into the corridor. 'Always nice to get
visitors down here, Mr de Worde. You will find we keep a very relaxed thell
down here. I'll just go and get the keys.'

'Why does he only
lisp the occasional s?' said William, as Igor limped towards a cupboard.

'He's trying to be
modern. You never met an Igor before?'

'Not one like
that, no! He's got two thumbs on his right hand!'

'He's from
Uberwald,' said the sergeant. 'Igors are very much into self-improvement. Fine
surgeons, though. Just don't shake hands with one in a thunderstorm--'

'Here we are,
then,' said Igor, lurching back. 'Who first?'

'Lord Vetinari?' said
William.

'He's still
athleep,' said Igor.

'What, after all
this time?'

'Not surprithing.
It was a nasty blow he had--'

Sergeant Angua
coughed loudly.

'I thought he fell
off a horse,' said William.

'Well, yes . . .
and caught himthelf a blow when he hit the floor, I've no doubt,' said Igor,
glancing at Angua.

He turned the key.

Lord Vetinari lay
on a narrow bed. His face looked pale but he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

'He's not woken up
at all?' said William.

'No. I look in on
him every fifteen minutes or tho. It can

136

be like that. Sometimeth the body just says: thleep.'

'I heard he hardly
ever sleeps,' said William.

'Maybe he's taking
the opportunity,' said Igor, gently closing the door.

He unlocked the
next cell.

Drumknott was sitting
up in bed, his head bandaged. He was drinking some soup. He looked startled
when he saw them, and nearly spilled it.

'And how are we?'
said Igor, as cheerfully as a face full of stitches can allow.

'Er, I'm feeling
much better . . .' The young man looked from one face to another, uncertain.

'Mr de Worde here
would like to talk to you,' said Sergeant Angua. 'I'll go and help Igor sort
out his eyeballs. Or something.'

William was left
in an awkward silence. Drumknott was one of those people with no discernible
character.

'You're Lord de
Worde's son, aren't you?' said Drumknott. 'You write that news sheet.'

'Yes,' said
William. It seemed he'd always be his father's son. 'Um. They say Lord Vetinari
stabbed you.'

'So they say,'
said the clerk.

'You were there,
though.'

'I knocked on the
door to take him his copy of the paper as he'd requested, his lordship opened
it, I walked into the room . . . and the next thing I know I was waking up here
with Mr Igor looking at me.'

That must have
come as a shock,' said William, with a momentary flash of pride that the Times
had figured in this in some small way.

'They say I'd have
lost the use of my arm if Igor hadn't been so good with a needle,' said
Drumknott earnestly.

'But your head's
bandaged, too,' said William.

'I think I must
have fallen over when . . . when whatever it was happened,' said Drumknott.

My gods, thought
William, he's embarrassed.

'I have every
confidence that there has been a mistake,' Drumknott went on.

137

'Has his lordship
been preoccupied lately?'

'His lordship is
always preoccupied. It's his job,' said the clerk.

'Do you know that
three people heard him say that he'd killed

you?'

'I cannot explain
that. They must have been mistaken.'

The words were
clipped sharp. Any moment now, William told himself . . . 'Why do you think--'
he began, and was proved right.

'I think I don't
have to talk to you,' said Drumknott. 'Do I?'

'No, but--'

'Sergeant!'
Drumknott shouted.

There were swift
footsteps and the cell door opened.

'Yes?' said
Sergeant Angua.

'I have finished
talking to this gentleman,' said Drumknott. 'And I am tired.'

William sighed and
put his notebook away. 'Thank you,' he said. 'You've been very . . . helpful.'

As he walked along
the corridor he said, 'He doesn't want to believe his lordship might have
attacked him.'

'Really,' said the
sergeant.

'Looks like quite
a bang he had on his head,' William went on.

'Does it?'

'Look, even I can
see this smells funny.'

'Can you?'

'I see,' said
William. 'You went to the Mister Vimes School of Communication, yes?'

'Did I?' said
Sergeant Angua.

'Loyalty is a
wonderful thing.'

'Is it? The way
out is this way--'

After she had
carefully ushered William into the street Sergeant Angua went back upstairs
into Vimes's office and quietly shut the door behind her.

'So he only
spotted the gargoyles?' said Vimes, who was watching William walk down the
street.

'Apparently. But I
wouldn't underestimate him, sir. He notices things. He was dead right about the
peppermint bomb. And how

138

many officers would have noticed how deeply that arrow
went into the floor?'

'That's
unfortunately true.'

'And he spotted
Igor's second thumb, and hardly anyone else has noticed the swimming potatoes.'

'Igor hasn't got
rid of them yet?'

'Noi sir. He
believes that instant fish and chips are only a generation away.'

Vimes sighed. 'All
right, sergeant. Forget the potatoes. What are the odds?'

'Sir?'

'I know what goes
on in the duty room. They wouldn't be watchmen if someone wasn't running a
book.'

'On Mr de Worde?'

'Yes.'

'Well . . . six'll
get you ten that he'll be dead by next Monday, sir.'

'You might just
spread the word that I don't like that sort of thing, will you?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Find out who's
running the book, and when you have found out that it is Nobby, take it off
him.'

'Right, sir. And
Mr de Worde?'

Vimes stared at
the ceiling. 'How many officers are watching him?' he said.

'Two.'

'Nobby's usually
good at judging odds. Think that'll be enough?'

'No.'

'Me neither. But
we're stretched. He's going to have to learn the hard way. And the trouble with
the hard way is you only get one lesson.'

Mr Tulip emerged
from the alleyway where he had just negotiated the purchase of a very small
packet of what would shortly prove to be rat poison cut with powdered washing
crystals.

He found Mr Pin
reading a large piece of paper. 'What's that?' he said.

139

Trouble, I
expect,' said Mr Pin, folding it up and putting it in his pocket. 'Yes,
indeed.'

This city is
getting on my --ing nerves,' said Mr Tulip, as they continued down the street.
'I got a --ing headache. And my leg hurts,'

'So? It bit me,
too. You made a big mistake with that dog,' 'Are you saying I shouldn't've shot
at it?' 'No, I'm saying you shouldn't've missed. It got away,' 'It's only a
dog,' Mr Tulip grumbled. 'What's such a problem about a dog? It's not like it's
a reliable --ing witness. They never told us about no --ing dog,' His ankle was
beginning to get that hot, dark sensation that suggested that someone hadn't
been brushing their teeth lately. 'You just try carrying a guy with a --ing dog
snapping at your legs! And how come the --ing zombie never told us the guy was
so --ing fasti If he hadn't been staring at the geek he'd have --ing gotmel'

Mr Pin shrugged.
But he'd made a note of that. Mr Slant had failed to tell the New Firm quite a
lot of things, and one of them was that Vetinari moved like a snake.

This was going to
cost the lawyer a lot of money. Mr Pin had nearly got cut.

But he was proud
of stabbing the clerk and shoving Charlie out on the landing to babble to the
stupid servants. That hadn't been in the script. That was the kind of service
you got from the New Firm. He snapped his fingers as he walked. Yeah! They
could react, they could extemporize, they could get creative . . . 'Excuse me,
gentlemen?'

A figure had
stepped out of the alleyway ahead of them, a knife in each hand.

'Thieves' Guild,'
it said. 'Excuse me? This is an official robbery,' To the surprise of the
thief, Mr Pin and Mr Tulip seemed neither shocked nor frightened, despite the
size of the knives. Instead they looked like a pair of lepidopterists who'd
stumbled across an entirely new kind of butterfly and found it trying to wave a
tiny little net.

'Official
robbery?' said Mr Tulip slowly.

'Ah, you're
visitors to our fair city?' said the thief. Then this is

140

your lucky day, sir and . . . sir. A theft of twenty-five
dollars entitles you to immunity from further street theft for a period of a
full six months plus, for this week only, the choice of this handsome box of
crystal wine glasses or a useful set of barbecue tools which will be the envy
of your friends,'

'You mean . . .
you're legal?' said Mr Pin.

'What --ing
friends?' said Mr Tulip.

'Yes, sir. Lord
Vetinari feels that since there'll always be some crime in the city, it might
as well be organized,'

Mr Tulip and Mr
Pin looked at one another.

'Well,
Legal is my middle name,' said Mr Pin, shrugging. 'Over to you, Mr
Tulip,'

'And since you are
newcomers I can offer you an introductory hundred-dollar theft, which will give
you subsequent immunity for a full twenty-six months plus this booklet of
restaurant, livery hire, clothing and entertainment vouchers worth a full
twenty-five dollars at today's prices. Your neighbours will admire--'

Mr Tulip's arm
moved in a blur. One banana-bunch hand caught the thief around the neck and
slammed his head against the wall.

'Unfortunately, Mr
Tulip's middle name is Bastard ,' said Mr Pin, lighting a cigarette.
The meaty sounds of his colleague's permanent anger continued behind him as he
picked up the wine glasses and examined them critically.

Teh . . . cheap
paste, not crystal at all,' he said. 'Who can you trust these days? It makes
you despair,'

The body of the
thief slumped to the ground.

'I think I'll go
for the --ing barbecue set,' said Mr Tulip, stepping over it. 'I see here where
it contains a number of oh-so-useful skewers and spatulas that will add a --ing
new dimension of enjoyment to those al fresco patio meals,'

He ripped open the
box and dragged out a blue and white apron, which he examined critically.

' Kill the
Cook!!! ' he said, slipping it over his head. 'Hey, this is classy stuff.
I'll have to get some --ing friends so's they can envy me when I'm having a
meal with --ing Al Fresco. How about them --ing vouchers?'

There's never any
good stuff in these things,' said Mr Pin. 'It's just

141

a way of shifting stuff no one can sell. See here . . .
25% off Happy Hour Prices at Furby's Castle of Cabbage .' He tossed
the booklet aside.

'Not bad, though,'
said Mr Tulip. 'And he only had twenty dollars on him, so it's a --ing
bargain.'

I'll be glad when
we leave this place,' said Mr Pin. 'It's too strange. Let's just frighten the
dead man and get out of here.'

'Eyinnngg . . .
GUT!'

The cry of the
wild newspaper seller rang out across the twilit square as William set off back
to Gleam Street. They were still selling well, he could see.

It was only by
accident, as a citizen hurried past him, that he saw the headline:

WOMAN
GIVES BIRTH TO COBRA

Surely Sacharissa
hadn't got out another edition by herself, had she? He ran back to the seller.

It wasn't the
Times. The title, in big bold type that was rather better than the stuff the
dwarfs made, was:

'What's all this?'
he said to the seller, who was socially above Ron's group by several layers of
grime.

'All this what?'

'All this thisV
The stupid interview with Drumknott had left William very annoyed.

'Don't ask me,
guv. I get a penny for every one I sell, that's all I know.'

' Rain of
Soup in Genua ? Hen Lays Egg Three Times In Hurricane ? Where'd
all this come from?'

'Look, guv, if I
was a readin' man I wouldn't be flogging papers, right?'

142

'Someone else has
started a paper!' said William. He cast his eyes down to the small print at the
bottom of the single page and, in this paper, even the small print wasn't very
small. 'In Gleam Street?'

He recalled the
workmen bustling around outside the old warehouse. How could-- But the
Engravers' Guild could, couldn't they? They already had presses, and they
certainly had the money. Tuppence was ridiculous, though, even for this single
sheet of . . . of rubbish. If the seller got a penny, then how in the world
could the printer make any money?

Then he realized:
that wouldn't be the point, would it . . . the point was to put the Times out
of business.

A big red and
white sign for the Inquirer was already in place across the street from the
Bucket. More carts were queueing outside.

One of
Goodmountain's dwarfs was peering around from behind the wall.

'There's three
presses in there already,' he said. 'You saw what they've done? They got it out
in half an hour!'

'Yes, but it's
only one sheet. And it's made-up stuff.'

'Is it? Even the
one about the snake?'

'I'd bet a
thousand dollars.' William remembered that the smaller print had said this had
happened in Lancre. He revised his estimate. 'I'd bet at least a hundred
dollars.'

'That's not the
worst of it,' said the dwarf. 'You'd better come in.'

Inside the press
was creaking away, but most of the dwarfs were idle.

'Shall I give you
the headlines?' said Sacharissa, as he entered.

'You'd better,'
said William, sitting down at his crowded desk.

'Engravers Offer
Dwarfs One Thousand Dollars For Press.'

'Oh, no . . .'

'Vampire Iconographer
and Hard-Working Writer Tempted with 500 Dollar Salaries,' Sacharissa went on.

'Oh, really . . .'

'Dwarfs Buggered
For Paper.'

'What?

'That's a direct
quote from Mr Goodmountain,' said Sacharissa. 'I don't pretend to know exactly
what it means, but I understand

143

they've got enough for only one more edition.'

'And if we want
any more it's five times the old price,' said Goodmountain, coming up. 'The
Engravers are buying it up. Supply and demand, King says.'

'King?' William's
brow wrinkled. 'You mean Mr King?'

'Yeah, King of the
Golden River,' said the dwarf. 'And, yeah, we could just about pay that but if
them across the road are going to sell their sheet for 2p we'll be working for
practically nothing.'

'Otto told the man
from the Guild that he'd break his pledge if he saw him here again,' said
Sacharissa. 'He was very angry because the man was angling to find out how he
was taking printable iconographs.'

'What about you?'

'I'm staying. I
don't trust them, especially when they're so sneaky. They seemed very . . .
low-class people,' said Sacharissa. 'But what are we going to do?'

William bit his
thumbnail and stared at his desk. When he moved his feet a boot fetched up
against the money chest with a reassuring thud.

'We could cut down
a bit, I daresay,' said Goodmountain.

'Yes, but then
people won't buy the paper,' said Sacharissa. 'And they ought to buy our paper,
because it's got real news in it.'

The news in the
Inquirer looks more interesting, I have to admit,' said Goodmountain.

That's because it
doesn't actually have to have any facts in it!' she snapped. 'Now, I don't mind
going back to a dollar a day and Otto says he'd work for half a dollar if he
can go on living in the cellar.'

William was still
staring at nothing. 'Apart from the truth,' he said in a distant voice, 'what
have we got that the Guild hasn't got? Can we print faster?'

'One press against
three? No,' said Goodmountain. 'But I bet we can set type faster.'

'And that means. .
. ?'

'We can probably
beat them in getting the first paper on to the street.'

'O-kay. That might
help. Sacharissa, do you know anyone who wants a job?'

144

'Know? Haven't you
been looking at the letters?'

'Not as such

'Lots of people
want a job! This is Ankh-Morpork!'

'All right, find
the three letters with the fewest spelling mistakes and send Rocky round to
hire the writers.'

'One of them was
Mr Bendy,' Sacharissa warned. 'He wants more work. Not many interesting people
are dying. Did you know he attends meetings for fun and very carefully writes
down everything that's said?'

'Does he do it
accurately?'

'I'm sure he does.
He's exactly that sort of person. But I don't think we've got the space--'

Tomorrow morning
we'll go to four pages. Don't look like that. I've got more stuff about Vetinari,
and we've got, oh, twelve hours to get some paper,'

'I told you, King
won't sell us any more paper at a decent price,' said Goodmountain.

There's a story
right there, then,' said William.

'I mean--'

'Yes, I know. I've
got some stuff to write, and then you and I will go to see him. Oh, and send
someone to the semaphore tower, will you? I want to send a clacks to the King
of Lancre. I think I met him once.'

'Clacks cost
money. Lots of money.'

'Do it anyway.
We'll find the money somehow,' William leaned over towards the cellar ladder.
'Otto?'

The vampire
emerged to waist height. He was holding a half-dismantled iconograph in his
hand.

'Vot can I do for
you?'

'Can you think of
anything extra we can do to sell more papers?'

'Vot do you vant
now? Pictures that jump out of zer page? Pictures zat talk? Pictures vhere zer
eyes follow you around zer room?'

There's no need to
take offence,' said William. 'It wasn't as if I asked for colour or anything--'

'Colour?' said the
vampire. 'Is that all? Colour iss easy-peasy. How soon do you vant it?'

145

'Can't be done,'
said Goodmountain firmly.

'Oh, zo you say?
Is there somevhere here that makes coloured glass?'

'Yeah, I know the
dwarf who runs the stained-glass works in Phedre Road,' said Goodmountain. 'They
do hundreds of shades, but--'

'I vish to see
samples right now. And of inks, too. You can get coloured inks alzo?'

'That's easy,'
said the dwarf, 'but you'd need hundreds of different ones . . . wouldn't you?'

'No, ziss is not
so. I vill make you a list of vot I reqvire. I cannot promise a Burleigh
Ztronginzerarm job first cat out of zer bag, off course. I mean you should not
ask me for zer subtle play of light on autumn leafs or anyzing like zat. But
zomething with stronk shades should be fine. Zis vill be okay?'

'It'd be amazing.'

'Zank you.'

William stood up.
'And now,' he said, 'let's go and see the King of the Golden River.'

'I've always been
puzzled why people call him that,' said Sacharissa. 'I mean, there's no river
of gold around here, is there?'

'Gentlemen.'

Mr Slant was
waiting in the hall of the empty house. He stood up when the New Firm entered
and clutched his briefcase. He looked as if he was in an unusually bad temper.

'Where have you
been?'

'Getting a bite,
Mr Slant. You didn't turn up this morning, and Mr Tulip gets hungry.'

'I told you to
maintain a very low profile.'

'Mr Tulip isn't
good at low profiles. Anyway, it all went off well. You must have heard. Oh, we
nearly got killed because you didn't tell us a lot of stuff, and that's going
to cost you but, hey, who cares about us? What's the problem?'

Mr Slant glared at
them. 'My time is valuable, Mr Pin. So I will not spin this out. What did you
do with the dog?'

'No one said
anything to us about that dog,' said Mr Tulip, and Mr Pin knew he'd got the
tone wrong.

146

'Ah, so you
encountered the dog,' said Mr Slant. 'Where is it?'

'Gone. Ran off.
Bit our --ing legs and ran off.'

Mr Slant sighed.
It was like the wind from an ancient tomb.

'I did tell you
that the Watch has a werewolf on the staff,' he said.

'Well? So what?'
said Mr Pin.

'A werewolf would
have no difficulty in talking to a dog.'

'What? You're
telling us people will listen to a dog?' said Mr Pin.

'Unfortunately,
yes,' said Mr Slant. 'A dog has got personality. Personality counts for a lot.
And the legal precedents are clear. In the history of this city, gentlemen, we
have put on trial at various times seven pigs, a tribe of rats, four horses,
one flea and a swarm of bees. Last year a parrot was allowed as a prosecution
witness in a serious murder case, and I had to arrange a witness protection
scheme for it. I believe it is now pretending to be a very large budgerigar a
long way away.' Mr Slant shook his head. 'Animals, alas, have their place in a
court of law. There are all kinds of objections that could be made but the
point is, Mr Pin, that Commander Vimes will build a case on it. He will start
questioning . . . people. He already knows things are not right, but he has to
work within the bounds of proof and evidence, and he has neither. If he finds
the dog, I think things will unravel.'

'Slip him a few
thousand dollars,' said Mr Pin. 'That always works with watchmen.'

'I believe that
the last person who tried to bribe Vimes still doesn't have full use of one of
his fingers,' said Mr Slant.

'We did everything
you --ing told us!' shouted Mr Tulip, pointing a sausage-thick finger.

Mr Slant looked
him up and down, as if seeing him for the first time.

' Kill the
Cook!!! ' he said. 'How amusing. However, I understood that we were
employing professionals.'

Mr Pin had seen
this one coming and once again caught Mr Tulip's fist in mid-air, being
momentarily lifted off his feet.

The envelopes, Mr
Tulip,' he sang. This man knows things

'Hard to know any
--ing thing when you're dead,' snarled Mr Tulip.

147

'Actually the mind
becomes crystal clear,' said Mr Slant. He stood up and Mr Pin noticed how a
zombie rises, using pairs of muscles in turn, not so much standing as unfolding
upwards.

'Your . . . other
assistant is still safe?' Slant said.

'Back down in the
cellar, drunk as a skunk,' said Mr Pin. 'I don't see why we don't just scrag
him right now. He nearly turned and ran when he saw Vetinari. If the man hadn't
been so surprised we'd have been in big trouble. Who'd notice one more corpse
in a city like this?'

'The Watch, Mr
Pin. How many times must I tell you this? They are uncannily good at noticing
things.'

'Mr Tulip here
won't leave 'em much to notice--' Mr Pin stopped. The Watch frighten you that
much, do they?'

'This is
Ankh-Morpork,' snapped the lawyer. 'We are a very cosmopolitan city. Being dead
in Ankh-Morpork is sometimes only an inconvenience, do you understand? We have
wizards, we have mediums of all sizes. And bodies do have a habit of turning
up. We want nothing that is going to give the Watch a clue, do you understand?'

'They'd listen to
a --ing dead man?' said Mr Tulip.

'I don't see why
not. You are,' said the zombie. He relaxed a little. 'Anyway, it is always
possible that there may be further use for your . . . colleague. Some further
little outing to convince the unconvinced. He is too valuable an asset to . .
retire just yet.'

'Yeah, okay. We'll
keep him in a bottle. But we want extra for the dog,' said Mr Pin.

'It's only a dog,
Mr Pin,' said Slant, raising his eyebrows. 'Even Mr Tulip could out-think a
dog, I expect.'

'Got to find the
dog first,' said Mr Pin, stepping smartly in front of his colleague. 'Lots of
dogs in this town.'

The zombie sighed
again. 'I can add another five thousand dollars in jewels to your fee,' he
said. He held up a hand. 'And please don't insult both of us by saying
ten automatically. The task is not hard. Lost dogs in this town
either end up running with one of the feral packs or begin a new life as a pair
of gloves,'

'I want to know
who's giving me these orders,' said Mr Pin. He could feel the weight of the
Dis-organizer inside his jacket.

148

Mr Slant looked
surprised. 'Me, Mr Pin.'

'Your clients, I
meant,'

'Oh, really!'

'This is going to
get political,' Mr Pin persisted. 'You can't fight politics. I'm going to need
to know how far we've got to run when people find out what happened. And who's
going to protect us if we're caught,'

'In this city,
gentlemen,' said Mr Slant, 'the facts are never what they seem. Take care of
the dog, and . . . others will look after you. There are plans afoot. Who can
say what really happened? People are easily confused, and here I speak as one
who has spent centuries in court rooms. Apparently, they say, a lie can run round
the world before the truth has got its boots on. What an obnoxious little
phrase, don't you think? So . . . do not panic, and all will be well. And do
not be stupid, either. My . . . clients have long memories and deep pockets.
Other killers can be hired. Do you understand me?' He snapped the catches on
his case. 'Good day to you,'

The door swung to
behind him.

There was a
rattling behind Mr Pin as Mr Tulip pulled out his set of stylish executive
barbecue tools.

'What are you
doing?'

That --ing zombie is
going to end up on the end of a couple of --ing handy and versatile kebab
skewers,' said Mr Tulip. 'An' then I'm gonna put an edge on this --ing spatula.
An' then . . . then I'm gonna get medieval on his arse.'

There were more
pressing problems, but this one intrigued Mr Pin.

'How, exactly?' he
said.

'I thought maybe a
maypole,' said Mr Tulip reflectively. 'An' then a display of country dancing,
land tillage under the three-field system, several plagues and, if my --ing
hand ain't too tired, the invention of the --ing horse collar,'

'Sounds good,'
said Mr Pin. 'Now let's find that damn dog,'

'How we gonna do
that?'

'Intelligently,'
said Mr Pin.

'I hate that --ing
way.'

149

He was called King
of the Golden River. This was a recognition of his wealth and achievements and
the source of his success, which •was not quite the classical river of gold. It
was a considerable advance on his former nickname, which was Piss Harry.

Harry King had
made his fortune by the careful application of the old adage: where there's
muck there's brass. There was money to be made out of things that people threw
away. Especially the very human things that people threw away.

The real
foundations of his fortune came when he started leaving empty buckets at
various hostelries around the city centre, especially those that were more than
a gutter's length from the river. He charged a very modest fee to take them
away when they were full. It became part of the life of every pub landlord;
they'd hear a clank in the middle of the night and turn over in their sleep
content in the knowledge that one of Piss Harry's men was, in a small way,
making the world a better-smelling place.

They didn't wonder
what happened to the full buckets, but Harry King had learned something that
can be the key to great riches: there is very little, however disgusting, that
isn't used somewhere in some industry. There are people out there who want
large quantities of ammonia and saltpetre. If you can't sell it to the
alchemists then the farmers probably want it. If even the farmers don't want it
then there is nothing, nothing, however gross, that you can't sell to the
tanners.

Harry felt like
the only man in a mining camp who knows what gold looks like.

He started taking
on whole streets at a time, and branched out. In the well-to-do areas the
householders paid him, paid him, to take away night soil, the by now
established buckets, the horse manure, the dustbins and even the dog muck. Dog
muck? Did they have any idea how much the tanners paid for the finest white dog
muck? It was like being paid to take away squishy diamonds.

Harry couldn't
help it. The world fell over itself to give him money. Someone, somewhere,
would pay him for a dead horse or two tons of prawns so far beyond their
best-before date it couldn't be seen with a telescope, and the most wonderful
part of all was that someone had already paid him to take them away. If
anything

150

absolutely failed to find a buyer, not even from the
catmeat men, not even from the tanners, not even from Mr Dibbler himself, there
were his mighty compost heaps downstream of the city, where the volcanic heat
of decomposition made fertile soil ('10p a bag, bring your own bag . . .') out
of everything that was left including, according to rumour, various shadowy businessmen
who had come second in a takeover battle ('. . . brings up your dahlias a
treat').

He'd kept the
woodpulp-and-rags business closer to home, though, along with the huge vats
that contained the golden foundations of his fortune, because it was the only
part of his business that his wife Effie would talk about. Rumour had it that
she had also been behind the removal of the much-admired sign over the entrance
to his yard, which said: H. King - Taking the Piss Since 1961. Now it read: H.
King - Recycling Nature's Bounty.

A small door
within the large gates was opened by a troll. Harry was very forward-looking
when it came to employing the non-human races, and had been among the first
employers in the city to give a job to a troll. As far as organic substances
were concerned, they had no sense of smell.

'Yus?'

I'd like to speak
to Mr King, please.'

'Whatabaht?'

'I want to buy a
considerable amount of paper from him. Tell him it's Mr de Worde.'

'Right.'

The door slammed
shut. They waited. After a few minutes the door opened again.

'Der King will see
you now,' the troll announced.

And so William and
Goodmountain were led into the yard of a man who, rumour said, was stockpiling
used paper hankies against the day somebody found a way of extracting silver
from bogeys.

On either side of
the door huge black Rottweilers flung themselves against the bars of their day
cages. Everyone knew Harry let them have the run of the yard at night. He made
sure that everyone knew. And any nocturnal miscreant would have to be really
good with dogs unless they wanted to end up as a few pounds of Tanners' Grade 1
(White).

151

The King of the
Golden River had his office in a two-storey shed overlooking the yard, from
where he could survey the steaming mounds and cisterns of his empire.

Even half hidden
by his big desk Harry King was an enormous man, pink and shiny faced, with a
few strands of hair teased across his head; it was hard to imagine him not in
shirtsleeves and braces, even when he wasn't, or not smoking a huge cigar,
which he'd never been seen without. Perhaps it was some kind of defence against
the odours which were, in a way, his stock in trade.

evenin',
lads,' he said amiably. 'What can I do for you? As if I didn't know.'

'Do you remember
me, Mr King?' said William.

Harry nodded.
'You're Lord de Worde's son, right? You put a piece in that letter of yourn
last year when our Daphne got wed, right? My Effie was that impressed, all
those nobs reading about our Daphne.'

'It's a rather
bigger letter now, Mr King.'

'Yes, I did hear
about that,' said the fat man. 'Some of 'em's already turnin' up in our
collections. Useful stuff, I'm getting the lads to store it sep'rate.'

His cigar shifted
from one side of his mouth to the other. Harry could not read or write, a fact
which had never stopped him besting those who could. He employed hundreds of
workers to sort through the garbage; it was cheap enough to employ a few more
who could sort through words.

'Mr King--'
William began.

'I ain't daft,
lads,' said Harry. 'I know why you're here. But business is business. You know
how it is.'

'We won't have a
business without paper!' Goodmountain burst out.

The cigar shifted
again. 'And you'd be--?'

This is Mr
Goodmountain,' said William. 'My printer.'

'Dwarf, eh?' said
Harry, looking Goodmountain up and down. 'Nothing against dwarfs, me, but you
ain't good sorters. Gnolls don't cost much but the grubby little buggers eat
half the rubbish. Trolls are okay. They stop with me 'cos I pays 'em well.
Golems is best - they'll sort stuff all day and all night. Worth their weight
in

152

gold, which is bloody near what they want payin' these
days.' The cigar began another journey back across the mouth. 'Sorry, lads. A
deal's a deal. Wish I could help you. Sold right out of paper. Can't.'

'You're knocking
us back, just like that?' said Goodmountain.

Harry gave him a
narrow-eyed look through the haze.

'You talking to me
about knocking back? Don't know what a tosheroon is, do you?' he said. The
dwarf shrugged.

'Yes. I do,' said
William. There's several meanings, but I think you're referring to a big caked
ball of mud and coins, such as you might find in some crevice in an old drain
where the water forms an eddy. They can be quite valuable.'

'What? You've got
hands on you like a girl,' said Harry, so surprised that the cigar momentarily
drooped. 'How come you know that?'

'I like words, Mr
King.'

'I started out as
a muckraker when I was three,' said Harry, pushing his chair back. 'Found me
first tosheroon on day one. O' course, one of the big kids nicked it off me
right there. And you tell me about being knocked back? But I had a nose for the
job even then. Then I--'

They sat and
listened, William more patiently than Good-mountain. It was fascinating,
anyway, if you had the right kind of mind, although he knew a lot of the story;
Harry King told it at every opportunity.

Young Harry King
had been a mudlark with vision, combing the banks of the river and even the
surface of the turbid Ankh itself for lost coins, bits of metal, useful lumps
of coal, anything that had some value somewhere. By the time he was eight he
was employing other kids. Whole stretches of the river belonged to him. Other
gangs kept away, or were taken over. Harry wasn't a bad fighter, and he could
afford to employ those who were better.

And so it had gone
on, the ascent of the King through horse manure sold by the bucket (guaranteed
well stamped-down) to rags and bones and scrap metal and household dust and the
famous buckets, where the future really was golden. It was a kind of history of
civilization, but seen from the bottom looking up.

153

'You're not a
member of a Guild, Mr King?' said William, during a pause for breath.

The cigar
travelled from one side to the other and back quite fast, a sure sign that
William had hit a nerve.

'Damn Guilds,'
said its owner. They said I should join the Beggars! Me! I never begged for
nothin', not in my whole life! The nervel But I've seen 'em all off. I won't
deal with no Guild. I pay my lads well and they stand by me.'

'It's the Guilds
that are trying to break us, Mr King. You know that. I know you get to hear
about everything. If you can't sell us paper, we've lost.'

'What'd I be if I
broke a deal?' said Harry King. 'This is my tosheroon, Mr King,' said William.
'And the kids who want to take it off me are big.'

Harry was silent
for a while and then lumbered to his feet and crossed to the big window.

'Come and look
here, lads,' he said.

At one end of the
yard was a big treadmill, operated by a couple of golems. It powered a creaking
endless belt which crossed most of the yard. At the other end, several trolls
with broad shovels fed the belt from a heap of trash that was itself constantly
refilled by the occasional cart.

Lining the belt
itself were golems and trolls and even the occasional human. In the flickering
torchlight they watched the moving debris carefully. Occasionally a hand would
dart out and pitch something into a bin behind the worker.

'Fish heads,
bones, rags, paper . . . I got twenty-seven different bins so far, including
one for gold and silver, 'cos you'd be amazed what gets thrown away by mistake.
Tinkle, tinkle, little spoon, wedding ring will follow soon . . . That's what I
used to sing to my little girls. Stuff like your paper of news goes in bin six,
Low Grade Paper Waste. I sells most of that to Bob Holtely up in Five and Seven
Yard.'

'What does he do
with it?' said William, noting the 'Low Grade'.

'Pulps it for
lavatory paper,' said Harry. 'The wife swears by it.

Pers'n'ly I cut
out the middle man.' He sighed, apparently oblivious

of the sudden sag
in William's self-esteem. 'Y'know, sometimes I

154

stand here of an evenin' when the line is rumbling and the
sunset is shinin' on the settlin' tanks and, I don't mind admitting it, a tear
comes to my eye.'

'To tell you the
truth, it comes to mine, too, sir,' said William.

'Now then, lad . .
. when that kid nicked my first tosheroon, I didn't go around complaining, did
I? I knew I'd got an eye for it, see? I carried on, and I found plenty more.
And on my eighth birthday I paid a couple of trolls to seek out the man who'd
pinched my first one and slap seven kinds of snot out of him. Did you know
that?'

'No, Mr King.'

Harry King stared
at William through the smoke. William felt that he was being turned over and
examined, like something found in the trash.

'My youngest
daughter, Hermione . . . she's getting married at the end of next week,' said
Harry. 'Big show. Temple of Offler. Choirs and everything. I'm inviting all the
top nobs. Effie insisted. They won't come, o' course. Not for Piss Harry.'

The Times would
have been there, though,' said William. 'With coloured pictures. Except we go
out of business tomorrow.'

'Coloured, eh? You
get someone to paint 'em in, do you?'

'No. We've . . .
got a special way,' said William, hoping against hope that Otto was serious. He
wasn't just out on a limb here, he was dangerously out of the tree.

That'd be
something to see,' said Harry. He took out his cigar, stared reflectively at
the end and put it back in his mouth. Through the smoke he watched William
carefully.

William felt the
distinct unease of a well-educated man who has to confront the fact that the
illiterate man watching him could probably out-think him three times over.

'Mr King, we
really need that paper,' he said, to break the thoughtful silence.

There's something
about you, Mr de Worde,' said the King. 'I buy and sell clerks when I need
them, and you don't smell like a clerk to me. You've got the air about you of a
man who'd scrabble through a ton o' shit to find a farthin', and I'm wonderin'
why that is.'

155

'Look, Mr King,
will you please sell us some paper at the old price?' said William.

'Couldn't do that.
I told you. A deal's a deal. The Engravers've paid me,' said Harry shortly.

William opened his
mouth but Goodmountain laid a hand on his arm. The King was clearly working his
way to the end of a line of thought.

Harry went over to
the window again and stared pensively at the yard with its steaming piles. Then
. . .

'Oh, will you look
at that,' he said, stepping back from the window in tremendous astonishment.
'See that cart at the other gate down there?'

They saw the cart.

'I must've told
the lads a hundred times, don't leave a cart all laden up and ready to go right
by an open gate like that. Someone'll nick it, I told 'em.'

William wondered
who'd steal anything from the King of the Golden River, a man with all those
red-hot compost heaps.

'That's the last
quarter of the order for the Engravers' Guild,' said Harry, to the world in
general. I'd have to repay 'em if it got half-inched right out of my yard. I'll
have to tell the foreman. He's getting forgetful these days.'

'We should be
leaving, William,' said Goodmountain, grabbing William's arm again.

'Why? We
haven't--'

'However can we
repay you, Mr King?' said the dwarf, dragging William towards the door.

The bridesmaids'll
be wearing oh-de-nill, whatever that is,' said the King of the Golden River.
'Oh, and if I don't get eighty dollars from you by the end of the month you
lads will be in deep' - the cigar did a double length of the mouth - 'trouble.
Head downwards.'

Two minutes later
the cart was creaking out of the yard, under the curiously uninterested eyes of
the troll foreman.

'No, it's not
stealing,' said Goodmountain emphatically, shaking the reins. 'The King pays
the bastards back their money and we pay him the old price. So we're all happy

156

except for the Inquirer, and who cares about them?'

'I didn't like the
bit about the deep pause trouble,' said William. 'Head downwards.'

'I'm shorter'n you
so I lose out either way up,' said the dwarf.

After watching the
cart disappear the King yelled downstairs for one of his clerks and told him to
fetch a copy of the Times from Bin Six. He sat impassively, except for the
oscillating cigar, while the stained and crumpled paper was read to him.

After a while his
smile broadened and he asked the clerk to read a few extracts again.

'Ah,' he said,
when the man had finished. 'I reckoned that was it. The boy's a born muckraker.
Shame for him he was born a long way from honest muck.'

'Shall I do a
credit note for the Engravers, Mr King?'

'Aye.'

'You reckon you'll
get your money back, Mr King?'

Harry King usually
didn't take this sort of thing from clerks. They were there to do the adding-up,
not discuss policy. On the other hand, Harry had made a fortune seeing the
sparkle in the mire, and sometimes you had to recognize expertise when you saw
it.

'What colour's
oh-de-nill?' he said.

'Oh, one of those
difficult colours, Mr King. A sort of light blue with a hint of green.'

'Could you get ink
that colour?'

'I could find out.
It'd be expensive.'

The cigar made its
traverse from one side of Harry King to the other. He was known to dote on his
daughters, who he felt had suffered rather from having a father who needed to
take two baths just to get dirty.

'We shall just
have to keep an eye on our little writing man,' he said. Tip off the lads, will
you? I wouldn't like to see our Effie disappointed.'

The dwarfs were
working on the press again, Sacharissa noticed. It seldom stayed the same shape
for more than a couple of hours. The dwarfs designed as they went along.

It looked to
Sacharissa that the only tools a dwarf needed were

157

his axe and some means of making fire. That'd eventually
get him a forge, and with that he could make simple tools, and with those he
could make complex tools, and with complex tools a dwarf could more or less
make anything.

A couple of them
were rummaging around in the industrial junk that had been piled against the
walls. A couple of metal mangles had been melted down for their iron already,
and the rocking horses were being used to melt lead. One or two of the dwarfs
had left the shed on mysterious errands, too, and had returned carrying small
sacks and furtive expressions. A dwarf is also very good at making use of
things other people have thrown away, even if they haven't actually thrown them
away yet.

She was turning
her attention to a report of the Nap Hill Jolly Pals annual meeting when a
crash and some cursing in Uberwaldean, a good cursing language, made her run
over to the cellar entrance.

'Are you all
right, Mr Chriek? Do you want me to get the dustpan and brush?'

'Bodrozvachski
zhaltziet! . . . oh, sorry, Miss Sacharissa! Zere has been a minor pothole on
zer road to progress.'

Sacharissa made
her way down the ladder.

Otto was at his
makeshift bench. Boxes of demons hung on the wall. Some salamanders dozed in
their cages. In a big dark jar, land eels slithered. But a jar next to it was
broken.

'I vas clumsy and
knocked it over,' said Otto, looking embarrassed. 'And now zer stupid eel 'as
gone behind the bench.'

'Does it bite?'

'Oh no, zey are
very lazy wretches--'

'What is this
you've been working on, Otto?' Sacharissa said, turning to look closer at
something big on the bench.

He tried to dart
in front of her. 'Oh, it is all very experimental--'

The way of making
coloured plates?'

'Yes, but it is
just a crude lash-up--'

Sacharissa caught
sight of a movement out of the corner of her eye. The escaped land eel, having
got bored behind the bench, was making a very sluggish bid for new horizons
where an eel could wriggle proud and horizontal.

158

'Please don't--'
Otto began.

'Oh, it's all
right, I'm not at all squeamish . . .'

Sacharissa's hand
closed on the eel.

She came to with
Otto's black handkerchief being flapped desperately in her face.

'Oh, my goodness.
. .' she said, trying to sit up.

Otto's face was a
picture of such terror that Sacharissa forgot her own splitting headache for a moment.

'What's happened
to you?' she said. 'You look terrible.'

Otto jerked back,
tried to stand up and half collapsed against the bench, clutching at his chest.

'Cheese!' he
moaned. 'Please get me some cheese! Or a big apple! Something to bitel Pleeease!'

There's nothing
like that down here--'

'Keep avay from
me! And do not breathe like zat!' Otto wailed.

'Like what?'

'Zer bosoms going
in and out and up and down like zat! I am a vampirel A fainting young lady,
please understand, zer panting, zer heaving of zer bosoms . . . it calls
somezing terrible from vithin With a lurch he pushed himself upright and
gripped the black twist of ribbon from his lapel. 'But I vill be stronk!' he
screamed. 'I vill not let everyvun down!'

He stood stiffly
to attention, although slightly blurred because of the vibration shaking him
from head to foot, and in a trembling voice sang: 'Oh vill you come to zer
mission, vill you come, come, come, Zere's a nice cup of tea and a bun, and a
bun--'

The ladder was
suddenly alive with tumbling dwarfs.

'Are you all
right, miss?' said Boddony, running forward with his axe. 'Has he tried
anything?'

'No, no! He's--'

'--zer drink zat's
in zer livink vein, Is not zer drink for me--' Sweat was running down Otto's
face. He stood with one hand pressed over his heart.

That's right,
Otto!' shouted Sacharissa. Tight it! Fight it!' She turned to the dwarfs. 'Have
any of you got any raw meat?'

'. . . to life
anew and temperance too. And to pure cold vater ve'll come . . .' Veins were
throbbing on Otto's pale head.

159

'Got some fresh
rat fillets upstairs,' muttered one of the dwarfs. 'Cost me tuppence 'You get
them right now, Gowdie,' snapped Boddony. 'This looks

bad!'

---oh ve can drink
brandy and gin if it's handy, and ve can sup vhisky and rum, but zer drink ve
abhor and ve drink no more, is zer--'

Tuppence is
tuppence, that's all I'm saying!'

'Look, he's
starting to twitchY said Sacharissa.

'And he can't
sing, either,' said Gowdie. 'All right, all right, I'm going, I'm going

Sacharissa patted
Otto's clammy hand.

'You can beat it!'
she said urgently. 'We're all here for you! Aren't we, everyone? Ann't we?
Under her baleful gaze the dwarfs responded with a chorus of half-hearted
'yesses', even though Boddony's expression suggested that he wasn't certain
what Otto was here for.

Gowdie came back
with a small package. Sacharissa snatched it out of his hand and held it out to
Otto, who reared back.

'No, it's just
rat!' said Sacharissa. 'Perfectly okay! You're allowed rat, right?'

Otto froze for a
moment and then snatched up the packet.

He bit into it.

In the sudden
silence Sacharissa wondered if she wasn't hearing a very faint sound, like the
straw at the bottom of a milkshake.

After a few
seconds Otto opened his eyes and then looked sidelong at the dwarfs. He dropped
the packet.

'Oh, vot shame!
Vhere can I put my face? Oh, vot must you think of me

Sacharissa clapped
with desperate enthusiasm. 'No, no! We're all very impressed! Aren't we,
everyone?' Out of Otto's sight, she waved one hand very deliberately at the
dwarfs. There was another ragged chorus of agreement.

'I mean, I haf
been going through cold bat now for more than three months,'
muttered Otto. 'It is such a disgusting thing to break down now and--'

'Oh, raw meat's nothing,'
said Sacharissa. That's allowed, isn't it?'

160

'Yes, but for a
second there I nearly--'

'Yes, but you
didn't,' said Sacharissa. 'That's what's important. You wanted to and didn't.'
She turned to the dwarfs. 'You can all go back to what you were doing,' she
said. 'Otto is perfectly all right now.'

'Are you sure--'
Boddony began, and then nodded. He'd rather have argued with a wild vampire
than Sacharissa at this moment. 'Right you are, miss.'

Otto sat down,
wiping his forehead, as the dwarfs filed out.

Sacharissa patted
his hand. 'Do you want a drink--'

'Oh!'

'--of water,
Otto?' said Sacharissa.

'No, no,
everythink is okay, I think. Uh. Oh dear. My goodness. I am so sorry. You think
you are on top of it, and then suddenly it all comes back to you. Vot a day . .
.'

'Otto?'

'Yes, miss?'

'What actually
happened when I grabbed the eel, Otto?'

He winced. 'I
think zis is maybe not the time--'

'Otto, I saw
things. There were . . . flames. And people. And noise. Just for a moment. It
was like watching a whole day go past in a second! What happened?'

'Veil,' Otto said
reluctantly, 'you know how salamanders absorb light?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Veil, zer eels
absorb dark light. Not darkness, exactly, but zer light vithin darkness. Dark
light. . . you see, dark light. . . veil, it has not been properly studied. It
is heavier than normal light, you see, so most of it is under zer sea or in zer
really deep caves in Uberwald, but zer is always a little of it even in normal
darkness. It really is very fascinating--'

'It's a kind of
magical light. Right. Could we just get more towards the point a bit?'

'I have heard it
said that dark light is zer original light from vhich all other types of light
came--'

'Otto!'

He held up a pale
hand. 'I haf to tell you these things! Haf you

161

heard the theory that there is no such thing as zer
present? Because if it is divisible, then it cannot be zer present, and if it
is not divisible, then it cannot have a beginning which connects to zer past
and an end that connects to zer future? The philosopher Heidehollen tells us
that the universe is just a cold soup of time, all time mixed up together, and
vot we call zer passage of time is merely qvantum fluctuations in zer fabric of
space-time.'

'You have very
long winter evenings in Uberwald, don't you?'

'You see, dark
light is held to be zer proof of this,' Otto went on, ignoring her. 'It is a
light vithout time. Vot it illuminates, you see . . . is not necessarily now.'

He paused, as if
waiting for something.

'Are you saying it
takes pictures of the past?' said Sacharissa.

'Or zer future. Or
somevhere else. Of course, in reality zere is no difference.'

'And all this you
point at people's heads?'

Otto looked
worried. 'I am finding strange side things. Oh, zer dvarfs say that dark light
has odd . . . effects, but zey are very superstitious people so I did not take
that seriously. However

He scrabbled among
the debris on his bench and picked up an iconograph.

'Oh, dear. Zis is
so complicated,' said Otto. 'Look, zer philosopher Kling says zer mind has a
dark side and a light side, you see, and dark light . . . is seen by zer dark
eyes of zer mind

He paused again.

'Yes?' said
Sacharissa politely.

'I vas vaiting for
zer roll of thunder,' said the vampire. 'But, alas, zis is not Uberwald.'

'You've lost me
there,' said Sacharissa.

'Veil, you see, if
I vas to say something portentous like zer dark eyes of zer mind
back home in Uberwald, zer would be a sudden crash of thunder,' said Otto. 'And
if I vas to point at a castle on a towering crag and say Yonder is . . .
zer castle a volf would be bound to howl mournfully.' He sighed. 'In zer
old country, zer scenery is psychotropic and knows vot is expected of it. Here,
alas, people just look at you in a funny vay.'

162

'All right, all
right, it's a magical light that takes uncanny pictures,' said Sacharissa.

'That's a very . .
. newspaper vay of putting it,' said Otto politely. He showed her the
iconograph. 'Look at zis vun. I vanted a picture of a dvarf vorking in the Patrician's
study and I got zis.'

The picture was a
wash of blurs and swirls, and there was a vague outline of a dwarf, lying down
on the floor and examining something. But superimposed on this was quite a
clear picture of Lord Vetinari. Two pictures of Lord Vetinari, each figure
staring at the other.

'Well, it's his
office and he's always in there,' said Sacharissa. 'Does the . . . magic light
pick that up?'

'Maybe,' said
Otto. 'Ve know that vot is physically zere is not alvays vot is really zere.
Look at zis vun.'

He handed her
another picture.

'Oh, that's a good
one of William,' she said. 'In the cellar. And . . . that's Lord de Worde
standing just behind him, isn't it?'

'Is it?' said the
vampire. 'I don't know zer man. I do know that he vas not in zer cellar ven I
took the picture. But . . . you only have to talk to Mr Villiam for any length
of time to see that, in a vay, his father is alvays looking over his
shoulder--'

'That's creepy.'

Sacharissa looked
around the cellar. The stone walls were old and stained, but they certainly
weren't blackened.

'I just saw . . .
people. Men fighting. Flames. And . . . silver rain. How can it rain
underground?'

'I do not know.
That's vy I study dark light.'

Noises above
suggested that William and Goodmountain had returned.

'I wouldn't
mention this to anyone else,' said Sacharissa, heading for the ladder. 'We've
got enough to deal with. That's creepy.'

There was no name
outside the bar, because those who knew what it was didn't need one. Those who
didn't know what it was shouldn't go in. Ankh-Morpork's undead were, on the
whole, a law-abiding bunch, if only because they knew the law paid them a
certain amount of special attention, but if you walked into the

163

place known as Biers on a dark night and had no business
there, who would ever know?

For the vampires*,
it was a place to hang up. For the werewolves, it was where you let your hair
down. For the bogeymen, it was a place to come out of the closet. For the
ghouls, it did a decent meat pasty and chips.

All eyes, and that
was not the same thing as the number of heads multiplied by two, turned to the
door when it creaked open. The newcomers were surveyed from dark corners. They
wore black, but that didn't mean anything. Anyone could wear black.

They walked up to
the bar and Mr Pin rapped on the stained wood.

The barman nodded.
The important thing, he'd found, was to make sure ordinary people paid for
their drinks as they bought them. It wasn't good business to let them run a
tab. That showed an unwarranted optimism about the future.

'What can I--' he
began, before Mr Tulip's hand caught him around the back of the neck and rammed
his head down hard on the bar.

'I am not having a
nice day,' said Mr Pin, turning to the world in general, 'and Mr Tulip here
suffers from unresolved personality conflicts. Has anyone got any questions?'

An indistinct hand
rose in the gloom.

'What cook?' said
a voice.

Mr Pin opened his
mouth to reply and then turned to his colleague, who was examining the bar's
array of very strange drinks. All cocktails are sticky; the ones in Biers
tended to be stickier.

'Says Kill
the Cook!!! ' said the voice.

Mr Tulip rammed
two long kebab skewers into the bar, where they vibrated. 'What cooks've you
got?' he said.

'It's a good
apron,' said the voice in the gloom.

'It is the --ing
envy of all my friends,' Mr Tulip growled.

In the silence Mr
Pin heard the unseen drinkers calculating the

* Those, that is,
who weren't gathered around the harmonium at the Temperance Mission nervously
singing songs about how much they liked cocoa.

164

likely number of friends of Mr Tulip. It was not a
calculation that would involve a simple thinker taking off their shoes.

'Ah. Right,' said
someone.

'Now, we don't
want any trouble with you people,' said Mr Pin. 'Not as such. We simply wish to
meet a werewolf.'

Another voice in
the gloom said: 'Vy?'

'Got a job for
him,' said Mr Pin.

There was some
muffled laughter in the darkness and a figure shuffled forward. It was about
the size of Mr Pin; it had pointy ears; it had a hairstyle that clearly
continued to its ankles, inside its ragged clothes. Tufts of hair stuck out of
holes in its shirt and densely thatched the backs of its hands.

m part
werewolf,' it said.

'Which part?'

That's a funny
joke.'

'Can you talk to
dogs?'

The self-confessed
part-werewolf looked around at its unseen audience, and for the first time Mr
Pin felt a twinge of disquiet. The sight of Mr Tulip's slowly spinning eye and
throbbing forehead were not having their usual effect. There were rustlings in
the dark. He was sure he heard a snigger.

'Yep,' said the
werewolf.

The hell with
this, thought Mr Pin. He pulled out his pistol bow in one practised movement
and held it an inch from the werewolf's face.

This is tipped
with silver,' he said.

He was amazed at
the speed of movement. Suddenly a hand was against his neck and five sharp
points pressed into his skin.

These ain't,' said
the werewolf. 'Let's see who finishes squeezin' first, eh?'

'Yeah, right,'
said Mr Tulip, who was also holding something.

That's just a
barbecue fork,' said the werewolf, giving it barely a glance.

'You want to see
how --ing fast I can throw it?' said Mr Tulip.

Mr Pin tried to
swallow, but got only halfway. Dead people, he knew, didn't squeeze that hard,
but it was at least ten steps to the door and the space seemed to be getting
wider by the heart beat.

165

'Hey,' he said.
'There's no need for this, right? Why don't we all loosen up? And, hey, it
would help me talk to you if you were your normal shape

'No problem, my
friend.'

The werewolf
winced and shuddered, but without at any point letting go of Mr Pin's neck. The
face contorted so much, features flowing together, that even Mr Pin, who in
other circumstances quite enjoyed that sort of thing, had to look away.

This allowed him
to see the shadow on the wall. It was, contrary to expectations, growing. So
were its ears.

'Any qvestions?'
said the werewolf. Now its teeth seriously interfered with its speech. Its
breath smelled even worse than Mr Tulip's suit.

'Ah . . .' said Mr
Pin, standing on tiptoe. 'I think we've come to the wrong place.'

'I think zat
also.'

At the bar Mr
Tulip bit the top off a bottle in a meaningful way.

Once again the
room was filled with the ferocious silence of calculation and the personal
mathematics of profit and loss.

Mr Tulip smashed a
bottle against his forehead. At this point, he did not appear to be paying much
attention to the room. He'd just happened to have a bottle in his hand which he
did not need any more. Putting it on to the bar would have required an
unnecessary expenditure of hand-eye co-ordination.

People
recalculated.

'Is he human?'
said the werewolf.

'Well, of course,
human is just a word,' said Mr Pin.

He felt weight
slowly press down on to his toes as he was lowered to the floor.

'I think perhaps
we'll just be going,' he said carefully.

'Right,' said the
werewolf. Mr Tulip had smashed open a big jar of pickles, or at least things
that were long, chubby and green, and was trying to insert one up his nose.

'If we wanted to
stay, we would,' said Mr Pin.

'Right. But you
want to go. So does your . . . friend,' said the werewolf.

Mr Pin backed
towards the door. 'Mr Tulip, we have business

166

elsewhere,' he said. 'Sheesh, take the damn pickle out of
your nose, will you? We're supposed to be professionals!'

That's not a
pickle,' said a voice in the dark.

Mr Pin was
uncharacteristically thankful when the door slammed behind them. To his
surprise, he also heard the bolts shoot home.

'Well, that could
have gone better,' he said, brushing dust and hair off his coat.

'What now?' said
Mr Tulip.

'Time to think of
a plan B,' said Pin.

'Why don't we just
--ing hit people until someone tells us where the dog is?' said Mr Tulip.

'Tempting,' said
Mr Pin. 'But we'll leave that for plan C--'

'Bugrit.'

They both turned.

'Bent treacle
edges, I told 'em,' said Foul Ole Ron, lurching across the street, a wad of
Timeses under one arm and the string of his nondescript mongrel in his other
hand. He caught sight of the New Firm.

'Harglegarlyurp?'
he said. 'LayamEnipl You gents want a paper?'

It seemed to Mr
Pin that the last sentence, while in pretty much the same voice, had an
intrusive, not-quite-right quality. Apart from anything else, it made sense.

'You got some change?'
he said to Mr Tulip, patting his pockets.

'You're going to
--ing buy one?' said his partner.

'There's a time
and a place, Mr Tulip, a time and a place. Here you are, mister.'

'Millennium hand
and shrimp, bugrit,' said Ron, adding, 'Much obliged, gents.'

Mr Pin opened the
Times. 'This thing has got--' He stopped and looked closer.

' Have You
Seen This Dog? ' he said. 'Sheesh . . .' He stared at Ron.

'You sell lots of
these things?' he said.

'Qeedle the slops,
I told 'em. Yeah, hundreds.'

There it was
again, the slight sensation of two voices.

'Hundreds,' said
Mr Pin. He looked down at the paper seller's

167

dog. It looked pretty much like the one in the paper, but
all terriers looked alike. Anyway, this one was on a string. 'Hundreds,' he
said again, and read the short article again.

He stared. 'I
think we have a plan B,' he said.

At ground level
the newspaper seller's dog watched them carefully as they walked away.

'That was too
close for comfort,' it said, when they'd turned the corner.

Foul Ole Ron put
down his papers in a puddle and pulled a cold sausage from the depths of his
hulking coat.

He broke it into
three equal pieces.

THE TRUTH SHALL MAKE YE FRED •
EXTRA!

HAVE
YOU SEEN THIS DOG?

$25 Reward for Information

William had dithered
over that, but the Watch had supplied quite a good drawing and he felt right
now that a little friendly gesture in that direction would be a good idea. If
he found himself in deep trouble, head downwards, he'd need someone to pull him
out.

He had re-written
the Patrician story, too, adding as much as he was certain of, and there wasn't
much of that. He was, frankly, stuck.

Sacharissa had
penned a story about the opening of the Inquirer. William had hesitated about
this, too. But it was news, after all. They couldn't just ignore it, and it
filled some space.

Besides, he liked
the opening line, which began: 'A would-be rival to Ankh-Morpork's
old-established newspaper, the Times, has opened in Gleam Street

168

'You're getting
good at this,' he said, looking across the desk.

'Yes,' she said.
'I now know that if I see a naked man I should definitely get his name and
address, because--'

William joined in
the chorus: '--names sell newspapers.'

He sat back and
drank the really horrible tea the dwarfs made. Just for a moment there was an
unusual feeling of bliss. Strange word, he thought. It's one of those words
that described something that does not make a noise but if it did make a noise
would sound just like that. Bliss. It's like the sound of a soft meringue
melting gently on a warm plate.

Here, and now, he
was free. The paper was put to bed, tucked up, had its prayers listened to. It
was finished. The crew were already filing back in for more copies, cursing and
spitting; they'd commandeered a variety of old trolleys and prams to cart their
papers out into the streets. Of course, in an hour or so the mouth of the press
would be hungry again and he'd be back pushing the huge rock uphill, just like
that character in mythology . . . what was his name . . . ?

'Who was that hero
who was condemned to push a rock up a hill and every time he got it to the top
it rolled down again?' he said.

Sacharissa didn't
look up. 'Someone who needed a wheelbarrow?' she said, spiking a piece of paper
with some force.

William recognized
the voice of someone who still has an annoying job to do.

'What are you
working on?' he said.

'A report from the
Ankh-Morpork Recovering Accordion Players Society,' she said, scribbling fast.

'Is there
something wrong with it?'

'Yes. The
punctuation. There isn't any. I think we might have to order an extra box of
commas.'

'Why are you
bothering with it, then?'

'Twenty-six people
are mentioned by name.'

'As
accordionists?'

'Yes.'

'Won't they
complain?'

They didn't have
to play the accordion. Oh, and there was a big crash on Broad Way. A cart
overturned and several tons of flour

169

fell on to the road, causing a couple of horses to rear
and upset their cartload of fresh eggs, and that caused another cart to shed
thirty churns of milk . . . So what do you think of this as a headline?'

She held up a
piece of paper on which she'd written:

CITY'S
BIGGEST CAKE MIX-UP!!

William looked at
it. Yes. Somehow it had everything. The sad attempt at humour was exactly
right. It was just the sort of thing that would cause much mirth around Mrs
Arcanum's table.

'Lose the second
exclamation mark,' he said. 'Otherwise I think it's perfect. How did you hear
about it?'

'Oh, Constable
Fiddyment dropped in and told me,' said Sacharissa. She looked down and
shuffled papers unnecessarily. 'I think he's a bit sweet on me, to tell you the
truth.'

A tiny,
hitherto-unregarded bit of William's ego instantly froze solid. An awful lot of
young men seemed happy to tell Sacharissa things. He heard himself say: 'Vimes
doesn't want any of his officers to speak to us.'

'Yes, well, I
don't think telling me about a lot of smashed eggs counts, does it?'

'Yes, but--'

'Anyway, I can't
help it if young men want to tell me things, can I?'

'I suppose not,
but--'

'Anyway, that's it
for tonight.' Sacharissa yawned. I'm going home.'

William got up so
quickly he skinned his knees on the desk. I'll walk you there,' he said.

'Good grief, it's
nearly a quarter to eight,' said Sacharissa, putting on her coat. 'Why do we
keep on working?'

'Because the press
doesn't go to sleep,' said William.

As they stepped
out into the silent street he wondered if Lord Vetinari had been right about
the press. There was something . . .

170

compelling about it. It was like a dog that stared at you
until you fed it. A slightly dangerous dog. Dog bites man, he thought. But
that's not news. That's olds.

Sacharissa let him
walk her to the end of her street, where she made him stop.

'It'll embarrass
grandfather if you're seen with me,' she said. 'I know it's stupid, but. . .
neighbours, you know? And all this Guild stuff

'I know. Um.'

The air hung heavy
for a moment as they looked at each other.

'Er, I don't know
how to put this,' said William, knowing that sooner or later it had to be said,
'but I ought to say that, though you are a very attractive girl, you're not my
type.'

She gave him the
oldest look he had ever seen, and then said: That took a lot of saying, and I
would like to thank you.'

'I just thought
that with me and you working together all the time--'

'No, I'm glad one
of us said it,' she said. 'And with smooth talk like that I bet you have the
girls just lining up, right? See you tomorrow.'

He watched her
walk down the street to her house. After a few seconds a lamp went on in an
upper window.

By running very
fast he arrived back at his lodgings just late enough for a Look from Mrs
Arcanum, but not so late as to be barred from the table for impoliteness;
serious latecomers had to eat their supper at the table in the kitchen.

It was curry
tonight. And one of the strange things about eating at Mrs Arcanum's was that
you got more leftovers than you got original meals. That is, there were far
more meals made up from what were traditionally considered the prudently usable
remains of earlier meals - stews, bubble-and-squeak, curry - than there were
meals at which those remains could have originated.

The curry was
particularly strange, since Mrs Arcanum considered foreign parts only
marginally less unspeakable than private parts and therefore added the curious
yellow curry powder with a very small spoon, lest everyone should suddenly tear
their clothes off and do foreign things. The main ingredients appeared to be

171

swede and gritty rainwater-tasting sultanas and the
remains of some cold mutton, although William couldn't remember when they'd had
the original mutton, at any temperature.

This was not a
problem for the other lodgers. Mrs Arcanum provided big helpings, and they were
men who measured culinary achievement by the amount you got on your plate. It
might not taste astonishing, but you went to bed full and that was what
mattered.

At the moment, the
news of the day was being discussed. Mr Mackleduff had bought the Inquirer and
both editions of the Times, in his role as keeper of the fire of communication.

It was generally
agreed that the news in the Inquirer was more interesting, although Mrs Arcanum
ruled that the whole subject of snakes was not one for the dinner table and
papers ought not to be allowed to disturb people like this. Rains of insects
and so on, though, fully confirmed everyone's view of distant lands.

Olds, thought
William, forensically dissecting a sultana. His lordship was right. Not news
but olds, telling people that what they think they already know is true . . .

The Patrician, it
was agreed, was a shifty one. The meeting concurred that they were all alike,
the lot of them. Mr Windling said the city was in a mess and there ought to be
some changes. Mr Longshaft said that he couldn't speak for the city, but from
what he had heard the gemstone business had been very brisk of late. Mr
Windling said that it was all right for some. Mr Prone put forth the opinion
that the Watch could not find their bottom with both hands, a turn of phrase
that almost earned him a place at the kitchen table to finish his meal. It was
agreed that Vetinari had done it all right and should be put away. The main
course adjourned at 8.45 p.m., and was followed by disintegrating plums in
runny custard, Mr Prone getting slightly fewer plums as an unspoken reprimand.

William went up to
his room early. He had adapted to Mrs Arcanum's cuisine, but nothing except
radical surgery would make him like her coffee.

He lay down on the
narrow bed in the dark (Mrs Arcanum supplied one candle weekly, and what with
one thing and another he had forgotten to buy any extra) and tried to think.

172

Mr Slant walked
across the floor of the empty ballroom, his feet echoing on the wood.

He took his
position in the circle of candlelight with a slight twanging of nerves. As a
zombie, he was always a little edgy about fire.

He coughed.

'Well?' said a
chair.

'They didn't get
the dog,' said Mr Slant. Tn all other respects, I have to say, they did a
masterly job.'

'How bad could it
be if the Watch find it?'

'As I understand
it, J:he dog in question is quite old,' said Mr Slant, into the candlelight. 'I
have instructed Mr Pin to look for it, but I don't believe he will find it easy
to get access to the city's canine underground.'

'There are other
werewolves here, aren't there?'

'Yes,' said Mr
Slant smoothly. 'But they won't help. There are very few of them, and Sergeant
Angua of the Watch is very important in the werewolf community. They won't help
strangers, because she will find out.'

'And bring the
Watch down on them?'

'I believe she
would not bother with the Watch,' said Slant.

The dog is
probably in some dwarf's stewpot by now,' said a chair. There was general
laughter.

'If things go . .
. wrong,' said a chair, 'who do these men know?'

They know me,'
said Mr Slant. 'I would not worry unduly. Vimes works by the rules.'

'I've always
understood him to be a violent and vicious man,' said a chair.

'Quite so. And
because this is what he knows himself to be, he always works by the rules. In
any case, the Guilds will be meeting tomorrow.'

'Who will be the
new Patrician?' said a chair.

That will be a
matter for careful discussion and the consideration of all shades of opinion,'
said Mr Slant. His voice could have oiled watches.

'Mr Slant?' said a
chair.

173

'Yes?'

'Do not try that
on us. It is going to be Scrope, isn't it?'

'Mr Scrope is
certainly well thought of by many of the leading figures in the city,' said the
lawyer.

'Good.'

And the musty air
was loud with unspoken conversation.

Absolutely no one
needed to say: A lot of the most powerful men in the city owe their positions
to Lord Vetinari.

And nobody
replied: Certainly. But to the kind of men who seek power, gratitude has very
poor keeping qualities. The kind of men who seek power tend to deal with matters
as they are. They would never try to depose Vetinari, but if he was gone then
they would be practical.

No one said: Will
anyone speak up for Vetinari?

Silence replied:
Oh, everyone. They'll say things like: 'Poor fellow . . . it was the strain of
office, you know.' They'll say: 'It's the quiet ones that crack.' They'll say:
'Quite so . . . We should put him somewhere where he can do no harm to himself
or others. Don't you think?' They'll say: 'Perhaps a small statue would be in
order, too?' They'll say: The least we can do is call off the Watch, we owe him
that much.' They'll say: 'We must look to the future.' And so, quietly, things
change. No fuss, and very little mess.

No one said:
Character assassination. What a wonderful idea. Ordinary assassination only
works once, but this one works every day.

A chair did say:
'I wondered whether Lord Downey or even Mr Boggis--'

Another chair
said: 'Oh, come now! Why should they? Much better this way.'

'True, true. Mr
Scrope is a man of fine qualities.'

'A good family
man, I understand.'

'Listens to the
common people.'

'Not just to the
common people, I trust?'

'Oh, no. He's very
open to advice. From informed .-. . focus groups.'

'He'll need plenty
of that.'

No one said: He's
a useful idiot.

'Nevertheless . .
. the Watch will have to be brought to heel.'

174

'Vimes will do
what he is told. He must do. Scrope will be at least as legitimate a choice as
Vetinari was. Vimes is the kind of man who must have a boss, because that gives
him legitimacy.'

Slant coughed. 'Is
that all, gentlemen?' he said.

'What about the
Ankh-Morpork Times?' said a chair. 'Bit of a problem shaping up there?'

'People find it
amusing,' said Mr Slant. 'And nobody takes it seriously. The Inquirer outsells
it two to one already, after just one day. And it is underfinanced. And it has,
uh, difficulty with supplies.'

'Good tale in the
Inquirer about that woman and the snake,' said a chair.

'Was there?' said
Mr Slant.

The chair that had
first mentioned the Times had something on its mind.

'I'd feel happier
if a few likely lads smashed up the press,' it said.

That would attract
attention,' said a chair. The Times wants attention. The . . . writer craves to
be noticed.'

'Oh, well, if you
insist.'

'I would not dream
of insisting. But the Times will collapse,' said the chair, and this was the
chair that other chairs listened to. The young man is also an idealist. He has
yet to find out that what's in the public interest is not what the public is
interested in.'

'Say again?'

'I mean,
gentlemen, that people probably think he's doing a good job, but what they are
buying is the Inquirer. The news is more interesting. Did I ever tell you, Mr
Slant, that a lie will go round the world before the truth has got its boots
on?'

'A great many times,
sir,' said Slant, with slightly less than his usual keen diplomacy. He realized
this, and added, 'A valuable insight, I'm sure.'

'Good.' The most
important chair sniffed. 'Keep an eye on our . . . workmen, Mr Slant.'

It was midnight in
the Temple of Om in the Street of Small Gods, and one light burned in the
vestry. It was a candle in a very heavy ornate candlestick and it was, in a
way, sending a prayer to heaven.

175

The prayer, from
the Gospel According to the Miscreants, was: don't let anyone find us pinching
this stuff.

Mr Pin rummaged in
a cupboard.

'I can't find
anything in your size,' he said. 'It looks as though-- Oh, no . . . sheesh,
incense is for burning.'

Tulip sneezed,
pebble-dashing the opposite wall with sandal-wood.

'You could've
--ing told me before,' he muttered. I've got some papers.'

'Have you been
Chasing the Oven Cleaner again?' said Mr Pin accusingly. I want you focused,
understand? Now, the only thing I can find in here that will fit you--'

The door creaked
open and a small elderly priest wandered into the room. Mr Pin instinctively
grasped the big candlestick.

'Hello? Are you
here for the, mm, midnight service?' said the old man, blinking in the light.

This time it was
Tulip who grabbed Mr Pin's arm as he raised the candlestick.

'Are you mad? What
kind of person are you?' he growled.

'What? We can't
let him--'

Mr Tulip snatched
the silver stick out of his partner's hand.

'I mean, look at
the --ing thing, will you?' he said, ignoring the bemused priest. 'That's a genuine
Sellini! Five hundred years old! Look at the chasing work on that snuffer, will
you? Sheesh, to you it's nothing more than five --ing pounds of silver, right?'

'Actually, mm,
it's a Futtock,' said the old priest, who still hadn't yet got up to mental
speed.

'What, the pupil?'
said Mr Tulip, his eyes ceasing their spin out of surprise. He turned the
candlestick over and looked at the base. 'Hey, that's right! There's the
Sellini mark, but it's stamped with a little f , too. First time
I've ever seen his --ing early stuff. He was a better --ing silversmith, too,
it's just a shame he had such a --ing stupid name. You know how much it'd sell
for, reverend?'

'We thought about
seventy dollars,' said the priest, looking hopeful. 'It was in a lot of furniture
that an old lady left to the church. Really, we kept it for sentimental value

'Have you still
got the box it came in?' said Mr Tulip, turning the

176

candlestick over and over in his hands. 'He did wonderful
--ing presentation boxes. Cherrywood.'

'Er . . . no, I
don't think so . . .'

'--ing shame.'

'Er . . . is it
still worth anything? I think we've got another one somewhere.'

To the right
collector, maybe four thousand --ing dollars,' said Mr Tulip. 'But I reckon you
could get twelve thousand if you've got a --ing pair. Futtock is very
collectable at the moment.'

'Twelve thousand!'
burbled the old man. His eyes gleamed with a deadly sin.

'Could be more,'
Mr Tulip nodded. 'It's a --ing delightful piece. I feel quite privileged to
have seen it.' He looked sourly at Mr Pin. 'And you were going to use it as a
--ing blunt instrument.'

He put the
candlestick reverentially on the vestry table and buffed it carefully with his
sleeve. Then he spun round and brought his fist down hard on the head of the priest,
who folded up with a sigh.

'And they were
just keepin' it in a --ing cupboard,' he said. 'Honestly, I could --ing spiti'

'You want to take
it with us?' said Mr Pin, stuffing clothes into a bag.

'Nah, all the
fences round here'd probably just melt it down for the silver,' said Mr Tulip.
'I couldn't have something like that on my --ing conscience. Let's find this
--ing dog and get right out of this dump, shall we? It makes me so --ing
despondent.'

William turned
over, woke up and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling.

Two minutes later
Mrs Arcanum came downstairs and into the kitchen armed with a lamp, a poker and
most importantly with her hair in curlers. The combination would be a winner
against all but the most iron-stomached intruder.

'Mr de Worde! What
are you doing? It's midnight!'

William glanced up
and then went back to opening cupboards. 'Sorry I knocked the saucepans over,
Mrs Arcanum. I'll pay for any damage. Now, where are the scales?'

'Scales?'

177

'Scales! Kitchen
scales! Where are they?'

'Mr de Worde, I--'

'Where are the
damn scales, Mrs Arcanum?' said William desperately.

'Mr de Worde! For
shame!'

The future of the
city hangs in the balance, Mrs Arcanum!'

Perplexity slowly
took the place of stern affront. 'What, in my scales?'

'Yes! Yes! It
could very well be!'

'Well, er . . .
they're in the pantry by the flour bag. The whole city, you say?'

'Quite possibly!'
William felt his jacket sag as he forced the big brass weights into his pocket.

'Use the old
potato sack, do,' said Mrs Arcanum, now quite flustered by events.

William grabbed
the sack, rammed everything in and ran for the door.

'The University
and the river and everything?' said the landlady nervously.

'Yes! Yes indeed!'

Mrs Arcanum set
her jaw. 'You will wash it out thoroughly afterwards, won't you?' she said to
his retreating back.

William's progress
slowed towards the end of the road. Big iron kitchen scales and a full set of
weights aren't carried lightly.

But that was the
point, wasn't it? Weight! He ran and walked and dragged them through the
freezing, foggy night until he reached Gleam Street.

The lights were
still on in the Inquirer building. How late do you need to stay up when you can
make up the news as you go along? thought William. But this is real. Heavy,
even.

He hammered on the
door of the Times shed until a dwarf opened up. The dwarf was amazed to see a
frantic William de Worde rush past and drop the scales and weights on a desk.

'Please get Mr
Goodmountain up. We've got to get out another edition! And can I have ten
dollars, please?'

It took
Goodmountain to sort things out when, night-shirted but still firmly helmeted,
he clambered out of the cellar.

178

'No, ten dollars,'
William was explaining to the bewildered dwarfs. 'Ten dollar coins. Not ten dollars'
worth of money.'

'Why?'

'To see how much
seventy thousand dollars weigh!'

'We haven't got
seventy thousand dollars!'

'Look, even one
dollar coin would do,' said William patiently. Ten dollars would just be more
accurate, that's all. I can work it out from there.'

Ten assorted coins
were eventually procured from the dwarfs' cash box and were duly weighed. Then
William turned to a fresh page in his notebook and bent his head in ferocious
calculation. The dwarfs watched him solemnly, as if he was conducting an
alchemical experiment. Finally he looked up from his figures, the light of
revelation in his eyes.

That's almost a
third of a ton,' he said. That's how much seventy thousand dollar coins weigh.
I suppose a really good horse could carry that and a rider, but . . . Vetinari
walks with a stick, you saw him. It'd take him for ever to load the horse up,
and even if he got away he could hardly travel fast. Vimes must have worked it
out. He said the facts were stupid facts!'

Goodmountain had
stationed himself before the rows of cases. 'Ready when you are, chief,' he
said.

'All right. . .'
William hesitated. He knew the facts, but what did the facts suggest?

'Er . . . make the
heading: Who framed Lord Vetinari? and then the story starts . . .
er . . .' William watched the hand pounce and grab among the little boxes of
type, 'A . . . er . . . Ankh-Morpork City Watch now believe that at least
one other person was involved in the . . . the . . . '

'Fracas?'
suggested Goodmountain.

'No.'

'Rumpus?'

' . . . in
the attack at the palace on Tuesday morning. ' William waited until the
dwarf had caught up. It was getting easier and easier to read the words forming
in Goodmountain's hands as the fingers jumped from box to box: m-i-g-h-t . . .

'You got an m for
an n there,' he said.

179

'Oh, yes. Sorry.
Carry on.'

'Er . . .
Evidence suggests that far from attacking his clerk as believed, Lord
Vetinari may have discovered a crime in progress. '

The hand flew
across the type . . . c-r-i-m-e-space-i-n . . .

It stopped.

'Are you sure
about this?' said Goodmountain.

'No, but it's as
good a theory as any other,' said William. 'That horse hadn't been loaded to
escape, it had been loaded to be discovered. Someone had some plan and it went
wrong. I'm sure of that at least. Right . . . new paragraph. A horse in
the stables had been loaded with a third of a ton of coins, but in his current
state of health the Patrician-- '

One of the dwarfs
had lit the stove. Another was stripping out the formes that contained the last
edition. The room was coming alive again.

'That's about
eight inches plus the heading,' said Goodmountain, when William had finished.
That should rattle people. You want to add any more stuff? Miss Sacharissa did
something about Lady Selachii's ball, and there's a few small things.'

William yawned. He
didn't seem to be getting enough sleep these days.

Tut them in,' he
said.

'And there's this
clacks from Lancre that came in when you'd gone home,' said the dwarf. 'That'll
cost us another 5Op for the messenger. You remember you sent a clacks this
afternoon? About snakes?' he added, in the face of William's blank expression.

William read the
flimsy sheet of paper. The message had been carefully transcribed in the neat
handwriting of the semaphore operator. It was probably the strangest message
yet sent on the new technology.

King Verence of
Lancre had also mastered the idea that the clacks charged by the word.

WOMEN OF LANCRE
NOT RPT NOT IN HABIT BEARING SNAKES STOP CHILDREN BORN THIS MONTH WILLIAM
WEAVER CONSTANCE THATCHER CATASTROPHE CARTER ALL PLUS ARMS LEGS MINUS SCALES
FANGS

180

'Hah! We have
them!' said William. 'Give me five minutes and I'll put together a story on
this. We shall soon see if the sword of truth can't beat the dragon of lies.'

Boddony gave him a
kind look. 'Didn't you say a lie can run round the world before the truth has
got its boots on?' he said.

'But this is the
truth.'

'So? Where's its
boots?'

Goodmountain
nodded to the other dwarfs, who were yawning. 'You get back to bed, lads. I'll
pull it all together.'

He watched them
disappear down the ladder to the cellar. Then he sat down, took out a small
silver box and opened it.

'Snuff?' he said,
offering the box to William. 'Best thing you humans ever invented. Watson's Red
Roasted. Clears the mind a treat. No?'

William shook his
head.

'What are you
doing all this for, Mr de Worde?' said Goodmountain, taking a monstrous suction
of snuff up each nostril.

'What do you
mean?'

'I'm not saying we
don't appreciate it, mark you,' said Goodmountain. 'It's keeping the money
coming in. The jobbing stuff is drying up more every day. Seems like every
engraving shop was poised to go over to printing. All we did was give the young
rips an opening. They'll get us in the end, though. They've got money behind
them. I don't mind saying some of the lads are talking about selling up and
going back to the lead mines.'

'You can't do
that!'

'Ah, well,' said
Goodmountain. 'You mean you don't want us to. I understand that. But we've been
putting money by. We should be all right. I daresay we can flog the press to
someone. We might have a spot of cash to take back home. That's what this was
all about. Money. What were you doing it for?'

'Me? Because--'
William stopped. The truth was that he'd never decided to do anything. He'd
never really made that kind of decision in his whole life. One thing had just
gently led to another, and then the press had to be fed. It was waiting there
now. You worked hard, you fed it, and it was still just as hungry an hour later
and out in

181

the world all your work was heading for Bin Six in Piss
Harry's and that was only the start of its troubles. Suddenly he had a proper
job, with working hours, and yet everything he did was only as real as a
sandcastle, on a beach where the tide only ever came in.

'I don't know,' he
admitted. I suppose it's because I'm no good at anything else. Now I can't
imagine doing anything else.'

'But I heard your
family's got pots of money.'

'Mr Goodmountain,
I'm useless. I was educated to be useless. What we've always been supposed to
do is hang around until there's a war and do something really stupidly brave
and then get killed. What we've mainly done is hang on to things. Ideas,
mostly.'

'You don't get on
with them, then.'

'Look, I don't
need a heart-to-heart about this, can you understand? My father is not a nice
man. Do I have to draw you a picture? He doesn't much like me and I don't like
him. If it comes to that, he doesn't like anyone very much. Especially dwarfs
and trolls.'

'No law says you
have to like dwarfs and trolls,' said Goodmountain.

'Yes, but there
ought to be a law against disliking them the way he does.'

'Ah. Now you've
drawn me a picture.'

'Maybe you've
heard the term lesser races ?'

'And now you've
coloured it in.'

'He won't even
live in Ankh-Morpork any more. Says it's polluted.'

'That's observant
of him.'

'No, I mean--'

'Oh, I know what
you mean,' said Goodmountain. 'I've met humans like him.'

'You said this was
all about money?' said William. 'Is that true?'

The dwarf nodded
at the ingots of lead stacked up neatly by the press. 'We wanted to turn lead
into gold,' he said. 'We'd got a lot of lead. But we need gold.'

William sighed.
'My father used to say that gold is all dwarfs think about.'

'Pretty much.' The
dwarf took another pinch of snuff.  'But

182

where people go wrong is . . . see, if all a human thinks
about is gold, well, he's a miser. If a dwarf thinks about gold, he's just
being a dwarf. It's diffrent. What do you call them black humans that live in
Howondaland?'

'I know what my
father calls them,' said William. 'But I call them people who live in
Howondaland .'

'Do you really?
Well, I hear tell there's one tribe where, before he can get married, a man has
to kill a leopard and give the skin to the woman? It's the same as that. A
dwarf needs gold to get married.'

'What. . . like a
dowry? But I thought dwarfs didn't differentiate between--'

'No, no, the two
dwarfs getting married each buy the other dwarf off their parents.'

'Buy? said William.
'How can you buy people?'

'See? Cultural
misunderstanding once again, lad. It costs a lot of money to raise a young
dwarf to marriageable age. Food, clothes, chain mail. . . it all adds up over
the years. It needs repaying. After all, the other dwarf is getting a valuable
commodity. And it has to be paid for in gold. That's traditional. Or gems.
They're fine, too. You must've heard our saying worth his weight in
gold ? Of course, if a dwarf's been working for his parents that gets taken
into account on the other side of the ledger. Why, a dwarf who's left off
marrying till late in life is probably owed quite a tidy sum in wages - you're
still looking at me in that funny way

'It's just that we
don't do it like that. . .' mumbled William.

Goodmountain gave
him a sharp look. 'Don't you, now?' he said. 'Really? What do you use instead,
then?'

'Er . . .
gratitude, I suppose,' said William. He wanted this conversation to stop, right
now. It was heading out over thin ice.

'And how's that
calculated?'

'Well . . . it
isn't, as such . . .'

'Doesn't that
cause problems?'

'Sometimes.'

'Ah. Well, we know
about gratitude, too. But our way means the couple start their new lives in a
state of . . . g'daraka . . . er, free, unencumbered, new dwarfs. Then their
parents might well give

183

them a huge wedding present, much bigger than the dowry.
But it is between dwarf and dwarf, out of love and respect, not between debtor
and creditor . . . though I have to say these human words are not really the
best way of describing it. It works for us. It's worked for a thousand years.'

'I suppose to a
human it sounds a bit. . . chilly,' said William.

Goodmountain gave
him another studied look.

'You mean by
comparison to the warm and wonderful ways humans conduct their affairs?' he
said. 'You don't have to answer that one. Anyway, me and Boddony want to open
up a mine together, and we're expensive dwarfs. We know how to work lead, so we
thought a year or two of this would see us right.'

'You're getting
married?'

'We want to,' said
Goodmountain.

'Oh . . . well,
congratulations,' said William. He knew enough not to comment on the fact that
both dwarfs looked like small barbarian warriors with long beards. All
traditional dwarfs looked like that.*

Goodmountain
grinned. 'Don't worry too much about your father, lad. People change. My
grandmother used to think humans were sort of hairless bears. She doesn't any
more.'

'What changed her
mind?'

'I reckon it was
the dying that did it.'

Goodmountain stood
up and patted William on the shoulder. 'Come on, let's get the paper finished.
We'll start the run when the lads wake up.'

Breakfast was
cooking when William got back, and Mrs Arcanum was waiting. Her mouth was set
in the firm line of someone hot on the trail of unrespectable behaviour.

'I shall require
an explanation of last night's affair,' she said,

* Most dwarfs were
still referred to as 'he' as well, even when they were getting married. It was
generally assumed that somewhere under all that chain mail one of them was female
and that both of them knew which one this was. But the whole subject of sex was
one that traditionally minded dwarfs did not discuss, perhaps out of modesty,
possibly because it didn't interest them very much and certainly because they
took the view that what two dwarfs decided to do together was entirely their
own business.

184

confronting him in the hallway, 'and a week's notice, if
you please.'

William was too
exhausted to lie. I wanted to see how much seventy thousand dollars weighed,'
he said.

Muscles moved in
various areas of the landlady's face. She knew William's background, being the
kind of woman who finds out about that kind of thing very quickly, and the
twitching was a sign of some internal struggle based around the definite fact
that seventy thousand dollars was a respectable sum.

'I may perhaps
have been a little hasty,' she ventured. 'Did you find out how much the money
weighed?'

'Yes, thank you.'

'Would you like to
keep the scales for a few days in case you want to weigh any more?'

'I think I've
finished the weighing, Mrs Arcanum, but thank you all the same.'

'Breakfast has
already begun, Mr de Worde, but . . . well, perhaps I can make allowances this
time.'

He was given a
second boiled egg, too. This was a rare sign of favour.

The latest news
was already the subject of deep discussion.

'I am frankly
amazed,' said Mr Cartwright. 'It beats me how they find this stuff out.'

'It certainly
makes you wonder what's going on that we aren't told,' said Mr Windling.

William listened
for a while, until he couldn't wait any longer.

'Something
interesting in the paper?' he asked innocently.

'A woman in
Kicklebury Street says her husband has been kidnapped by elves,' said Mr
Mackleduff, holding up the Inquirer. The heading was very clear on the subject:

ELVES STOLE MY
HUSBAND!

'That's made up!'
said William.

'Can't be,' said
Mackleduff. 'There's the lady's name and address, right there. They wouldn't
put that in the paper if they were telling lies, would they?'

William looked at
the name and address. 'I know this lady,' he said.

185

'There you are,
then!'

'She was the one
last month who said her husband had been carried off by a big silver dish that
came out of the sky,' said William, who had a good memory for this sort of
thing. He'd nearly put it in his news letter as an 'On a lighter note' but had
thought better of it. 'And you, Mr Prone, said everyone knew her husband had
carried himself off with a lady called Flo who used to work as a waitress in
Harga's House of Ribs.'

Mrs Arcanum gave
William a sharp look which said that the whole subject of nocturnal kitchenware
theft could be re-opened at any time, extra egg or no.

'I am not partial
to that kind of talk at the table,' she said coldly.

'Well, then, it's
obvious,' said Mr Cartwright. 'He must've come back.'

'From the silver
dish or from Flo?' said William.

'Mr de Worde!'

'I was only
asking,' said William. 'Ah, I see they're revealing the name of the man who
broke into the jeweller's the other day. Shame it's Done It Duncan, poor old
chap.'

'A notorious
criminal, by the sound of it,' said Mr Windling. 'It's shocking that the Watch
won't arrest him.'

'Especially since
he calls on them every day,' said William.

'Whatever for?'

'A hot meal and a
bed for the night,' said William. 'Done It Duncan confesses to everything, you
see. Original sin, murders, minor thefts . . . everything. When he's desperate
he tries to turn himself in for the reward.'

'Then they ought
to do something about him,' said Mrs Arcanum.

'I believe they
generally give him a mug of tea,' said William. He paused and then ventured:
'Is there anything in the other paper?'

'Oh, they're still
trying to say that Vetinari didn't do it,' said Mr Mackleduff. 'And the King of
Lancre says women in Lancre don't give birth to snakes.'

'Well, he would
say that, wouldn't he?' said Mrs Arcanum.

'Vetinari must've
done something,' said Mr Windling. 'Otherwise why would he be helping the Watch
with their inquiries? That's

186

not the action of an innocent man, in my humble opinion.'*

'I believe there's
plenty of evidence that throws doubt on his guilt,' said William.

'Really,' said Mr
Windling, making the word suggest that William's opinion was considerably more
humble than his. 'Anyway, I understand the Guild leaders are meeting today.' He
sniffed. 'It's time for a change. Frankly, we could do with a ruler who is a
little more responsive to the views of ordinary people.'

William glanced at
Mr Longshaft, the dwarf, who was peacefully cutting some toast into soldiers.
Perhaps he hadn't noticed. Perhaps there was nothing to notice and William was
being over sensitive. But years of listening to Lord de Worde's opinions had
given him a certain ear. It told him when phrases like 'the views of ordinary
people', innocent and worthy in themselves, were being used to mean that
someone should be whipped.

'How do you mean?'
he said.

The . . . city is
getting too big,' said Mr Windling. 'In the old days the gates were kept shut,
not left open to all and sundry. And people could leave their doors unlocked.'

'We didn't have
anything worth stealing,' said Mr Cartwright.

That's true.
There's more money around,' said Mr Prone.

'It doesn't all
stay here, though,' said Mr Windling. That was true, at least. 'Sending money
home' was the major export activity of the city, and dwarfs were right at the
front of it. William also knew that most of it came back again, because dwarfs
bought from the best dwarf craftsmen and, mostly, the best dwarf craftsmen
worked in Ankh-Morpork these days. And they sent money back

* The best way to
describe Mr Windling would be like this: you are at a meeting. You'd like to be
away early. So would everyone else. There really isn't very much to discuss,
anyway. And just as everyone can see Any Other Business coming over the horizon
and is already putting their papers neatly together, a voice says 'If I can
raise a minor matter, Mr Chairman . . .' and with a horrible wooden feeling in
your stomach you know, now, that the evening will go on for twice as long with
much referring back to the minutes of earlier meetings. The man who has just
said that, and is now sitting there with a smug smile of dedication to the
committee process, is as near Mr Windling as makes no difference. And something
that distinguishes the Mr Windlings of the universe is the term 'in my humble
opinion', which they think adds weight to their statements rather than
indicating, in reality, 'these are the mean little views of someone with the
social grace of duckweed'.

187

home. A tide of gold coins rolled back and forth and
seldom had a chance to go cold. But it upset the Windlings of the city.

Mr Longshaft
quietly picked up his boiled egg and inserted it into an eggcup.

'There's just too
many people in the city,' Mr Windling repeated. 'I've nothing against . . .
outsiders, heavens know, but Vetinari let it go far too far. Everyone knows we
need someone who is prepared to be a little more firm.'

There was a
metallic noise. Mr Longshaft, still staring fixedly at his egg, had reached
down and drawn a smallish but still impressively axe-like axe from his bag.
Watching the egg carefully, as if it was about to run away, he leaned slowly
back, paused for a moment, then brought the blade round in an arc of silver.

The top of the egg
flew up with hardly a noise, turned over in mid-air several feet above the
plate, and landed beside the eggcup.

Mr Longshaft
nodded to himself and then looked up at the frozen expressions.

'I'm sorry?' he
said. 'I wasn't listening.'

At which point, as
Sacharissa would have put it, the meeting broke up.

William purchased
his own copy of the Inquirer on the way to Gleam Street and wondered, not for
the first time, who was writing this stuff. They were better at it than he
would be, that was certain. He'd wondered once about making up a few innocent
paragraphs, when not much was happening in the city, and found that it was a
lot harder than it looked. Try as he might, he kept letting common sense and
intelligence get the better of him. Besides, telling lies was Wrong.

He noted glumly
that they'd used the talking dog story. Oh, and one he hadn't heard before: a
strange figure had been seen swooping around the rooftops of Unseen University
at night, HALF MAN HALF MOTH? Half invented and half made up, more likely.

The curious thing was,
if the breakfast table jury was anything to go by, that denying stories like
this only proved that they were true. After all, no one would bother to deny
something if it didn't exist, would they?

He took a short
cut through the stables in Creek Alley. Like

188

Gleam Street,
Creek Alley was there to mark the back of places. This part of the city had no
real existence other than as a place you passed through to somewhere more
interesting. The dull street was made up of high-windowed warehouses and broken-down
sheds and, significantly, Hobson's Livery Stable.

It was huge,
especially since Hobson had realized that you could go multi-storey.

Willie Hobson was
another businessman in the mould of the King of the Golden River; he'd found a
niche, occupied it and forced it open so wide that lots of money dropped in.
Many people in the city occasionally needed a horse, and hardly anyone had a
place to park one. You needed a stable, you needed a groom, you needed a
hayloft. . . but to hire a horse from Willie you just needed a few dollars.

Lots of people
kept their own horses there, too. People came and went all the time. The
bandy-legged, goblin-like little men who ran the place never bothered to stop
anyone unless they appeared to have hidden a horse about their person.

William looked
around when a voice out of the gloom of the loose-boxes said, scuse me,
friend.'

He peered into the
shadows. A few horses were watching him. In the distance, around him, other
horses were being moved, people were shouting, there was the general bustle of
the stables. But the voice had come out of a little pool of ominous silence.

'I've still got
two months to go on my last receipt,' he said to the darkness. 'And may I say
that the free canteen of cutlery seemed to be made of an alloy of lead and
horse manure?'

'I'm not a thief,
friend,' said the shadows.

'Who's there?'

'Do you know
what's good for you?'

'Er . . . yes.
Healthy exercise, regular meals, a good night's sleep.' William stared at the
long lines of loose-boxes. 'I think what you meant to ask was: do I know what's
bad for me, in the general context of blunt instruments and sharp edges. Yes?'

'Broadly, yes. No,
don't move, mister. You stand where I can see you and no harm will come to
you.'

William analysed
this. 'Yes, but if I stand where you can't see me,

189

I don't see how
any harm could come to me there, either.'

Something sighed.
'Look, meet me halfway here-- No! Don't move!'

'But you said
to--'

'Just stand still
and shut up and listen, will you?'

'All right.'

'I am hearing
where there's a certain dog that people are lookin' for,' said the mystery
voice.

'Ah. Yes. The
Watch want him, yes. And . . . ?' William thought he could just make out a
slightly darker shape. More importantly, he could smell a Smell, even above the
general background odour of the horses.

'Ron?' he said.

'Do I sound like
Ron?' said the voice.

'Not . . .
exactly. So who am I talking to?'

'You can call me .
. . Deep Bone.'

'Deep Bone?

'Anything wrong
with that?'

'I suppose not. What
can I do for you, Mr Bone?'

'Just supposin'
someone knew where the doggie was but didn't want to get involved with the
Watch?' said the voice of Deep Bone.

'Why not?'

'Let's just say
the Watch can be trouble to a certain kind of person, eh? That's one reason.'

'All right.'

'And let's just
say there's people around who'd much prefer the little doggie didn't tell what
it knew, shall we? The Watch might not take enough care. They're very uncaring
about dogs, the Watch.'

'Are they?'

'Oh yes, the Watch
fink a dog has no human rights at all. That's another reason.'

'Is there a third
reason?'

'Yes. I read in
the paper where there's a reward.'

'Ah. Yes?'

'Only it got
printed wrong, 'cos it said twenty-five dollars instead of a hundred dollars,
see?'

190

'Oh. I see. But a
hundred dollars is a lot of money for a dog, Mr Bone.'

'Not for this dog,
if you know what I mean,' said the shadows. 'This dog's got a story to tell.'

'Oh, yes? It's the
famous talking dog of Ankh-Morpork, is it?'

Deep Bone growled.
'Dogs can't talk, everyone knows that. But there's them as can understand dog
language, if you catch my drift.'

'Werewolves, you
mean?'

'Could be people
of that style of kidney, yes.'

'But the only
werewolf I know is in the Watch,' said William. 'So you're just telling me to
pay you a hundred dollars so that I could hand Wuffles over to the Watch?'

That'd be a
feather in your cap with old Vimes, wouldn't it?' said Deep Bone.

'But you said you
didn't trust the Watch, Mr Bone. I do listen to what people say, you know.'

Deep Bone went
quiet for a while. Then:

'All right, the
dog and an interpreter, one hundred and fifty dollars.'

'And the story
this dog could tell deals with events in the palace a few mornings ago?'

'Could be. Could
be. Could very well be. Could be exactly the kind of fing I'm referrin' to.'

'I want to see who
I'm talking to,' said William.

'Can't do that.'

'Oh, well,' said
William. That's reassuring. I'll just go and get a hundred and fifty dollars,
shall I, and bring it back to this place and hand it over to you, just like
that?'

'Good idea.'

'Not a chance.'

'Oh, so you don't
trust me, eh?' said Deep Bone.

'That's right.'

'Er . . .
supposin' I was to tell you a little piece of free news information for gratis
and nothin'. A lick of the lolly. A little taste, style of fing.'

'Go on . . .'

191

'It wasn't
Vetinari who stabbed the other man. It was another man.'

William wrote this
down, and then looked at it. 'Exactly how helpful is this?' he said.

That's a good bit
of news, that is. Hardly anyone knows it.'

'There's not a lot
to know! Isn't there a description?'

'He's got a dog
bite on his ankle,' said Deep Bone.

'That'll make him
easy to find in the street, won't it? What are you expecting me to do, try a
little surreptitious trouser lifting?'

Deep Bone sounded
hurt. That's kosher news, that is. It'd worry certain people if you put that in
your paper.'

'Yes, they'd worry
that I'd gone mad! You've got to tell me something better than that! Can you
give me a description?'

Deep Bone went
silent for a while, and when the voice spoke again it sounded uncertain. 'You
mean, what he looked like?' it said.

'Well, yes!'

'Ah . . . well, it
dunt work like that with dogs, see? What w-- what your average dog does,
basic'ly, is look up. People are mostly just a wall with-a pair of nostril
holes at the top, is my point.'

'Not a lot of
help, then,' said William. 'Sorry we can't do busin--'

'What he smells
like, now, that's somethin' else,' said the voice of Deep Bone, hurriedly.

'All right, tell
me what he smells like.'

'Do I see a pile
of cash in front of me? I don't think so.'

'Well, Mr Bone,
I'm not even going to think about getting that kind of money together until
I've got some proof that you really know something.'

'All right,' said
the voice from the shadows after a while. 'You know there's a Committee to
Unelect the Patrician? Now that's news.'

'What's new about
that? People have plotted to get rid of him for years.'

There was another
pause.

'Y'know,' said
Deep Bone, 'it'd save a lot of trouble if you just gave me the money and I told
you everything.'

192

'So far you
haven't told me anything. Tell me everything, and then I'll pay you, if it's
the truth.'

'Oh, yes, pull one
of the others, it's got bells on!'

Then it looks like
we can't do business,' said William, putting his notebook away.

'Wait, wait . . .
this'll do. You ask Vimes what Vetinari did just before the attack.'

'Why, what did he
do?'

'See if you can
find out.'

That's not a lot
to go on.'

There was no reply.
William thought he heard a shuffling noise.

'Hello?'

He waited a moment
and then very carefully stepped forward.

In the gloom a few
horses turned to look at him. Of an invisible informant there was no sign.

A lot of thoughts
jostled for space in his mind as he headed out into the daylight, but
surprisingly enough it was a small and theoretically unimportant one that kept
oozing into centre stage. What kind of expression was 'pull one of the others,
it's got bells on'? Now, 'pull the other one, it's got bells on', he'd heard of
- it stemmed from the days of a crueller than usual ruler in Ankh-Morpork who
had had any Morris dancers ritually tortured. But 'one of the others' . . .
where was the sense in that?

Then it struck
him.

Deep Bone must be
a foreigner. It made sense. It was like the way Otto spoke perfectly good
Morporkian but hadn't got the hang of colloquialisms.

He made a note of
this.

He smelled the
smoke at the same time as he heard the pottery clatter of golem feet. Four of
the clay people thudded past him, carrying a long ladder. Without thinking he
fell in behind, automatically turning to a new page in his notebook.

Fire was always
the terror in those parts of the city where wood and thatch predominated. That
was why everyone had been so dead set against any form of fire brigade,
reasoning -with impeccable Ankh-Morpork logic - that any bunch of men who were
paid to put out fires would naturally see to

193

it that there was a plentiful supply of fires to put out.

Golems were
different. They were patient, hard-working, intensely logical, virtually
indestructible and they volunteered. Everyone knew golems couldn't harm people.

There was some
mystery about how the golem fire brigade had got formed. Some said the idea had
come from the Watch, but the generally held theory was that golems simply would
not allow people and property to be destroyed. With eerie discipline and no
apparent communication they would converge on a fire from all sides, rescue any
trapped people, secure and carefully pile up all portable property, form a
bucket chain along which the buckets moved at a blur, trample every last ember
. . . and then hurry back to their abandoned tasks.

These four were
hurrying to a blaze in Treacle Mine Road. Tongues of fire curled out of
first-floor rooms.

'Are you from the
paper?' said a man in the crowd.

'Yes,' said
William.

'Well, I reckon
this is another case of mysterious spontaneous combustion, just like you
reported yesterday,' and he craned his neck to see if William was writing this
down.

William groaned.
Sacharissa had reported a fire in Lobbin Clout, in which one poor soul had
died, and had left it at that. But the Inquirer had called it a Mystery Fire.

I'm not sure that
one was very mysterious,' he said. 'Old Mr Hardy decided to light a cigar and
forgot that he was bathing his feet in turpentine.' Apparently someone had told
him this was a cure for athlete's foot and, in a way, they had been right.

That's what they
say,' said the man, tapping his nose. 'But there's a lot we don't get told.'

'That's true,'
said William. 'I heard only the other day that giant rocks hundreds of miles
across crash into the country every week, but the Patrician hushes it up.'

There you are,
then,' said the man. 'It's amazing the way they treat us as if we're stupid.'

'Yes, it's a
puzzle to me, too,' said William.

'Gangvay, gangvay,
please!'

Otto pushed
through the onlookers, struggling under the weight

194

of a device the size and general shape of an accordion. He
elbowed his way to the front of the crowd, balanced the device on its tripod
and aimed it at a golem who was climbing out of a smoking window holding a
small child.

'All right, boys,
zis is zer big vun!' he said, and raised the flash cage. 'Vun, two, thre--
aarghaarghaarghaargh

The vampire became
a cloud of gently settling dust. For a moment something hovered in the air. It
looked like a small jar on a necklace made of string.

Then it fell and
smashed on the cobbles.

The dust
mushroomed up, took on a shape . . . and Otto stood blinking and running his
hands over himself to check that he was all there. He caught sight of William
and gave him the kind of big broad smile that only a vampire can give.

'Mr Villiam! It
vorked, your idea!'

'Er . . . which
one?' said William. A thin plume of yellow smoke was creeping out from under
the lid of the big iconograph.

'You said carry a
little drop of emergency b-vord,' said Otto. 'Zo I thought: if it is in a
little bottle around my neck, zen if I crumble to dust, hoopla! It vill crash
and smash unt here I am!'

He lifted the lid
of the iconograph and waved the smoke away. There was the sound of very small
coughing from within. 'And if I am not mistaken, ve have a successfully etched
picture! All of vich only goes to show vot ve can achieve ven our brains are
not clouded by thoughts of open vindows and bare necks, vich never cross my
mind at all zese days because I am completely beetotal.'

Otto had made
changes to his clothing. Away had gone the traditional black evening dress
preferred by his species, to be replaced by an armless vest containing more
pockets than William had ever seen on one garment. Many of them were stuffed
with packets of imp food, extra paint, mysterious tools and other essentials of
the iconographer's art.

In deference to
tradition, though, Otto had made it black, with a red silk lining, and had
added tails.

On making gentle
inquiries of a family watching disconsolately as the smoke from the fire was
turned to steam, William ascertained that the blaze had been mysteriously
caused by mysterious

195

spontaneous combustion in an overflowing mysterious chip
pan full of boiling fat.

William left them
picking through the blackened remains of their home.

'And it's just a
story,' he said, putting away the notebook. It does makes me feel a bit of a
vampire-- oh . . . sorry.'

'It is okay,' said
Otto. I understand. And I should like to thank you for givink me zis job. It
means a lot to me, especially since I can see how nervous you are. Vich is
understandable, of course.'

'I'm not nervous!
I'm very much at home with other species!' said William hotly.

Otto's expression
was amicable, but it was also as penetrative as the smile of a vampire can be.

'Yes, I notice how
careful you are to be friendly with the dvarfs and you are kind to me, also. It
is a big effort vich is very commendable--'

William opened his
mouth to protest, and gave up. 'All right, look, it's the way I was brought up,
all right? My father was definitely very . . . in favour of humanity, well, ha,
not humanity in the sense of. . . I mean, it was more that he was against--'

'Yes, yes, I
understand.'

'And that's all
there is to it, okay? We can all decide who we're going to be!'

'Yes, yes, sure.
And if you vant any advice about vimmin, you only have to ask.'

'Why should I want
advice about vi-- women?'

'Oh, no reason. No
reason at all,' said Otto innocently.

'Anyway, you're a
vampire. What advice could a vampire give me about women?'

'Oh, my vord, vake
up and smell zer garlic! Oh, zer stories I could tell you.' Otto paused. 'But I
von't because I don't do zat sort of thing any more, now that I have seen the
daylight.' He nudged William, who was red with embarrassment. 'Let us just say,
zey don't alvays scream.'

'That's a bit
tasteless, isn't it?'

'Oh, that vas in
zer bad old days,' said Otto hurriedly. 'Now I like nothing better than a nice
mug of cocoa and a good sing-song

196

around zer harmonium, I assure you. Oh, yes. My vord.'

Getting into the
office to write up the story turned out to be a problem. In fact, so was
getting into Gleam Street.

Otto caught
William up as he stood and stared.

'Veil, I suppose
ve asked for it,' he shouted. Tventy-five dollars is a lot of money.'

'What?' shouted
William.

'I SAID
TVENTY-FIVE DOLLARS IS A LOT OF MONEY, VILLIAM!'

'WHAT?'

Several people
pushed past them. They were carrying dogs. Everyone in Gleam Street was
carrying a dog, or leading a dog, or being dragged by a dog, or being savaged,
despite the owner's best efforts, by a dog belonging to someone else. The barking
had already gone beyond mere sounds, and was now some kind of perceptible
force, hitting the eardrums like a hurricane made of scrap iron.

William pulled the
vampire into a doorway, where the din was merely unbearable.

'Can't you do
something?' he screamed. 'Otherwise we'll never get through!'

'Like vot?'

'Well, you know .
. . all that children of the night business?'

'Oh, zat,' said
Otto. He looked glum. 'Zat's really very stereotypical, you know. Vy don't you
ask me to turn into a bat vhile you're about it? I told you, I don't do zat
stuff no more!'

'Have you got a
better idea?'

A few feet away a
Rottweiler was doing its best to eat a spaniel.

'Oh, very veil.'
Otto waved his hands vaguely.

The barking ceased
instantly. And then every dog sat on its haunches and howled.

'Not a huge
improvement, but at least they're not fighting,' said William, hurrying
forward.

'Veil, I'm sorry.
Stake me as you pass,' said Otto. 'I shall have a very embarrassing five
minutes explaining this at the next meeting, you understand? I know it's not
zer . . . sucking item, but I mean, vun should care about zer look of zer thing

197

They climbed over
a rotting fence and entered the shed via the back door.

People and dogs
were squeezing in through the other door and were only held at bay by a
barricade of desks and also by Sacharissa, who was looking harassed as she
faced a sea of faces and muzzles. William could just make out her voice above
the din.

'--no, that's a
poodle. It doesn't look a bit like the dog we're after--'

'--no, that's not
it. How do I know? Because it's a cat. All right, then why's it washing itself?
No, I'm sorry, dogs don't do that--'

'--no, madam,
that's a bulldog--'

'--no, that's not
it. No, sir, I know that's not it. Because it's a parrot, that's why. You've
taught it to bark and you've painted DoG on the side of it but it's
still a parrot--'

Sacharissa pushed
her hair out of her eyes and caught sight of William.

'Well, now, who's
been a clever boy?' she said.

'Wh's a cl'r boy?
said the DoG.

'How many more out
there?'

'Hundreds, I'm
afraid,' said William.

'Well, I've just
had the most unpleasant half-hour of-- That's a chicken! It's a chicken, you
stupid woman, it's just laid an egg\ - of my life and I would like to thank you
very much. You'll never guess what happened? No, that's a Shnauswitzer! And you
know what, William?'

'What?' said
William.

'Some complete
muffin offered a reward! In Ankh-Morpork! Can you believe that? They were
queueing three deep when I got here! I mean, what kind of idiot would do a
thing like that? I mean, one man had a cow! A cowl I had a huge argument about
animal physiology before Rocky hit him over the head! The poor troll's out
there now trying to keep order! There's ferrets out there!'

'Look, I'm sorry--'

'I wonder, ah, if
we can be of any assistance?'

They turned.

The speaker was a
priest, dressed in the black, unadorned and unflattering habit of the Omnians.
He had a flat, broad-brimmed

198

hat, the Omnians' turtle symbol around his neck, and an
expression of almost terminal benevolence.

'Mm, I am Brother
Upon-Which-The-Angels-Dance Pin,' said the priest, stepping aside to reveal a
mountain in black, 'and this is Sister Jennifer, who is under a vow of
silence.'

They stared up at
the apparition of Sister Jennifer, while Brother Pin went on: That means she
does not, mm, talk. At all. In any circumstances.'

'Oh dear,' said
Sacharissa weakly. One of Sister Jennifer's eyes was revolving, in a face that
was like a brick wall.

'Yes, mm, and we
happened to be in Ankh-Morpork as part of the Bishop Horn Ministry to Animals
and heard that you were looking for a little doggie who is in trouble,' said
Brother Pin. 'I can see you are, mm, a little overwhelmed, and perhaps we can
help? It would be our duty.'

'The dog's a
little terrier,' said Sacharissa, 'but you'd be amazed at what people are
bringing in--'

'Dear me,' said
Brother Pin. 'But Sister Jennifer is very good at this sort of thing

Sister Jennifer
strode to the front desk. A man hopefully held up what was clearly a badger.

'He's been a bit
ill--'

Sister Jennifer
brought her fist down on the man's head.

William winced.

'Sister Jennifer's
order believes in tough love,' said Brother Pin. 'A little correction at the
right time can prevent a lost soul taking the wrong path.'

'Vich order is
this she belongs to, please?' said Otto, as the lost soul carrying his badger
staggered out, his legs trying to take several paths at once.

Brother Pin gave
him a damp smile. The Little Flowers of Perpetual Annoyance,' he said.

'Really? I had not
heard of zis vun. Very . . . outreaching. Veil, I must go and see if the imps
have done zere job properly . . .'

Certainly the
crowd was thinning rapidly under the stress of seeing the advancing Sister
Jennifer, especially that segment of it that had brought dogs which purred or
ate sunflower seeds. Many

199

of those who had brought an actual living dog were looking
nervous as well.

A sense of unease
crept over William. He knew that some sections of the Omnian church still believed
that the way to send a soul to heaven was to give the body hell. And Sister
Jennifer couldn't be blamed for her looks, or even the size of her hands. And
even if the backs of said hands were rather hairy, well, that was the sort of
thing that happened out in the rural districts.

'What exactly is
she doing?' he said. There were yelps and shouts in the queue as dogs were
grabbed, glared at and thrust back with more than minimum force.

'As I said, we're
trying to find the little dog,' said Brother Pin. 'It may need ministering to.'

'But. . . that
wire-haired terrier there looks pretty much like the picture,' said Sacharissa.
'And she's just ignored it.'

'Sister Jennifer
is very sensitive in these matters,' said Brother Pin.

'Oh well, this is
not getting the next edition filled,' said Sacharissa, heading back to her
desk.

'I expect it would
help if we could print in colour,' said William, when he was left alone with
Brother Pin.

'Probably,' said
the reverend brother. 'It was a kind of greyish brown.'

William knew then
that he was dead. It was only a matter of time.

'You know what
colour you're looking for,' he said quietly.

'You just get on
with sorting out the words, writer boy,' said Brother Pin, for his ears only.
He opened the jacket of his frock coat just enough for William to see the range
of cutlery bolstered there, and closed it again. This isn't anything to do with
you, okay? Shout out and someone gets killed. Try to be a hero and someone gets
killed. Make any kind of sudden move and someone gets killed. In fact, we might
as well kill someone anyway and save some time, eh? You know that stuff about
the pen being mightier than the sword?'

'Yes,' said
William hoarsely.

'Want to try?'

200

'No.'

William caught
sight of Goodmountain, who was staring at him.

'What's that dwarf
doing?' said Brother Pin.

'He's setting
type, sir,' said William. It was always wise to be polite to edged weapons.

'Tell him to get
on with it,' said Pin.

'Er . . . if you
could just get on with it, Mr Goodmountain,' said William, raising his voice
over the growls and yelps. 'Everything is fine.'

Goodmountain
nodded and turned his back. He held up one hand theatrically and then started
to assemble type.

William watched.
It was better than semaphore, as the hand dipped from box to box.

Hes [space] a
[space]fawe ?

W was in the box
next to K . . .

'Yes indeed,' said
William.

Pin glanced at
him. 'Yes indeed what?'

'I, er, it was
just nerves,' said William. 'I'm always nervous in the presence of swords.'

Pin glanced at the
dwarfs. They all had their backs to them.

Goodmountain's
hand moved again, flicking letter after letter from its nest.

Armed?[space]coff[space]4[space]yes

'Something wrong
with your throat?' said Pin, after William coughed.

'Just nerves again
. . . sir.'

OK[space]will[space]get[space]Otto

'Oh no,' William
muttered.

'Where's that
dwarf going?' said Pin, his hand reaching into his coat.

'Just into the
cellar, sir. To . . . fetch some ink.'

'Why? Looks like
you've got lots of ink up here already.'

'Er, the white
ink, sir. For the spaces. And the middle of the Os.' William leaned towards Mr
Pin and shuddered when the hand reached inside the jacket again. 'Look, the
dwarfs are all armed, too. With axes. And they get excited very easily. I'm the
only person anywhere near you who hasn't got a weapon. Please? I

201

don't want to die just yet. Just do whatever you came to
do and go?'

It was a pretty
good impression of an abject coward, he thought, because it was casting for
type.

Pin glanced away.
'How are we doing, Sister Jennifer?' he said.

Sister Jennifer
held a struggling sack. 'Got all the --ing terriers,' he said.

Brother Pin shook
his head sharply.

'Got all the --ing
terriers!' fluted Sister Jennifer, in a much higher register. 'And there's
--ing watchmen at the end of the street!'

Out of the corner
of his eye William saw Sacharissa sit bolt upright. Death was certainly
somewhere on the agenda now.

Otto was climbing
unconcernedly up the cellar steps, one of his iconograph boxes swinging from
his shoulder.

He nodded at
William. Behind him Sacharissa was pushing her chair back.

Back in front of
his case of type Goodmountain was feverishly setting:

Hide[space]your[space]eyes

Mr Pin turned to
William. 'What do you mean, white ink for the spaces?'

Sacharissa was
looking angry and determined, like Mrs Arcanum after an uncalled-for remark.

The vampire raised
his box.

William saw the
hod above it, crammed with Uberwaldean land eels.

Mr Pin thrust back
his coat.

William leapt
towards the advancing girl, rising through the air like a frog through treacle.

Dwarfs started to
jump over the low barrier to the print room with axes in their hands. And . . .

'Boo,' said Otto.

Time stopped.
William felt the universe fold away, the little globe of walls and ceilings
peeling back like the skin of an orange, leaving a chilly, rushing darkness
filled with needles of ice. There were voices, cut off, random syllables of
sound, and again the feeling that he'd felt before, that his body was as thin
and insubstantial as a shadow.

202

Then he landed on
top of Sacharissa, threw his arms around her, and rolled them both behind the
welcome barrier of the desks.

Dogs howled.
People swore. Dwarfs yelled. Furniture smashed. William lay still until the
thunder died away.

It was replaced by
groans and swearing.

Swearing was a
positive indication. It was dwarfish swearing, and it meant that the swearer
was not only alive but angry too.

He raised his head
carefully.

The far door was
open. There was no queue, no dogs. There was the sound of running feet and
furious barking out in the street.

The back door was
swinging on its hinges.

William was aware
of the pneumatic warmth of Sacharissa in his arms. This was an experience of
the sort which, in a life devoted to arranging words in a pleasing order, he
had not dreamed would - well, obviously dreamed, his inner editor corrected
him, better make that expected - would have come his way.

'I'm dreadfully
sorry,' he said. That was technically a white lie, the editor said. Like
thanking your aunt for the lovely handkerchiefs. It's okay. It's okay.

He drew away
carefully and got unsteadily to his feet. The dwarfs were also staggering
upright. One or two of them were being noisily sick.

The body of Otto
Chriek was crumpled on the floor. The departing Brother Pin had got one expert
cut in, at neck height, before leaving.

'Oh, my gods,'
said William. 'What a dreadful thing to happen . . .'

'What, having your
head cut off?' said Boddony, who'd never liked the vampire. 'Yes, I expect you
could say that.'

'We . . . ought to
do something for him

'Really?'

'Yes! I'd have
been killed for sure if he hadn't used those eels!'

'Excuse me? Excuse
me, please?'

The sing-song
voice was coming from under the printers' bench. Goodmountain knelt down.

'Oh, no . . .' he
said.

203

'What is it?' said
William.

'It's . . . er . .
. well, it's Otto.'

'Excuse me,
please? Could somevun get me out of here?' Goodmountain, grimacing, pushed his
hand into the darkness, while the voice continued: 'Oh, crikey, zere is a dead
rat under here, somevun must've dropped zere lunch, how sordid-- Not zer ear
please, not zer ear . . . By the hair, please

The hand came out
again, holding Otto's head by the hair as requested. The eyes swivelled.

'Everyvun all
right?' said the vampire. 'Zat vas a close shave, yes?'

'Are you . . . all
right, Otto?' said William, realizing that this was a winning entrant in the
Really Stupid Things to Say contest.

'Vot? Oh, yes.
Yes, I zink so. Mustn't grumble. Pretty good, really. It's just that I seem to
have had my head cut off, vich you could say is a bit of a drawback--'

'That's not Otto,'
said Sacharissa. She was shaking.

'Of course it is,'
said William. 'I mean, who else could it--'

'Otto's taller
than that,' said Sacharissa and burst out laughing. The dwarfs started to
laugh, too, because at that moment they would laugh at anything. Otto didn't
join in very enthusiastically.

'Oh, yes. Ho ho
ho,' he said. 'Zer famous Ankh-Morpork sense of humour. Vot a funny joke. Talk
about laugh. Do not mind me.'

Sacharissa was
gasping for breath. William grabbed her as gently as he could, because this was
the kind of laughter you died of. And now she was crying, great racking sobs
that bubbled up through the laughs.

'I wish I was
dead!' she sobbed.

'You should try it
some time,' said Otto. 'Mr Goodmountain, take me to my body, please? It is
around here somevhere.'

'Do you . . .
should we . . . do you have to sew--' Goodmountain tried.

'No. Ve heal
easily,' said Otto. 'Ah, zere it is. If you could just put me down by me,
please? And turn round? Zis is a bit, you know, embarrassing? Like the making
of zer vater?' Still wincing in the after-effects of the dark light, the dwarfs
obeyed.

After a moment
they heard: 'Okay, you can look now.'

204

Otto, all in one
piece, was sitting up and dabbing at his neck with a handkerchief.

'Got to be a stake
in zer heart as veil,' he said, as they stared. 'Zo . . . vot vas all zat
about, please? Zer dvarf said to make a distraction--'

'We didn't know
you used dark light!' snapped Goodmountain.

'Excuse me? All I
had ready vas the land eels and you said it looked urgent! Vot did you expect
me to do? I'm reformed*.'

'That's bad luck,
that stuff!' said a dwarf William had come to know as Dozy.

'Oh yes? You zink?
Veil, I'm zer vun who is going to have to have his collar laundered!' snapped
Otto.

William did his
best to comfort Sacharissa, who was still trembling.

'Who were they?'
she said.

Tm . . . not sure,
but they certainly wanted Lord Vetinari's dog . . .'

'I'm sure that she
wasn't a proper virgin, you know!'

'Sister Jennifer
certainly looked very odd,' was the most William was going to concede.

Sacharissa
snorted. 'Oh, no, I was taught by worse than her at school,' she said. 'Sister
Credenza could bite through a door . . . No, it was the language*. I'm sure
ing is a bad word. She certainly used it like one. I mean, you
could tell it was a bad word. And that priest, he had a knifeV

Behind them Otto
was in trouble.

'You use it to
take pictures!' said Goodmountain.

'Vy, yes.'

Several of the
dwarfs slapped their thighs, half turned away and did the usual little
pantomime that people do to indicate that they just can't believe someone else
could be so damn stupid.

'You know it is
dangerous!' said Goodmountain.

'Mere
superstition!' said Otto. 'All zat possibly happens is that a subject's own
morphic signature aligns zer resons, or thing-particles, in phase-space
according to zer Temporal Relevance Theory, creating zer effect of multiple
directionless vindows vich intersect vith the illusion of zer present and
create metaphoric

205

images according to zer dictates of qvasi-historical
extrapolation. You see? Nothing mysterious about it at all!'

'It certainly
frightened off those people,' said William.

'It was the axes
that did that,' said Goodmountain firmly.

'No, it was the
feeling that the top of your head has been opened and icicles have been pounded
into your brain,' said William.

Goodmountain
blinked. 'Yeah, okay, that too,' he said, mopping his forehead. 'You've got a
way with words, right enough . . .'

A shadow appeared
in the doorway. Goodmountain grabbed his axe.

William groaned.
It was Vimes. Worse, he was smiling, in a humourless predatory way.

'Ah, Mr de Worde,'
he said, stepping inside. There are several thousand dogs stampeding through
the city at the moment. This is an interesting fact, isn't it?'

He leaned against
the wall and produced a cigar. 'Well, I say dogs,' he said, striking a match on
Goodmountain's helmet. 'Mostly dogs, perhaps I should say. Some cats. More cats
now, in fact, 'cos, hah, there's nothing like a, yes, a tidal wave of dogs,
fighting and biting and howling, to sort of, how can I put it, give a city a
certain . . . busyness. Especially underfoot, because - did I mention it?
-they're very nervous dogs too. Oh, and did I mention cattle?' he went on,
conversationally. 'You know how it is, market day and so on, people are driving
the cows and, my goodness, around the corner comes a wall of wailing dogs . . .
Oh, and I forgot about the sheep. And the chickens, although I imagine there's
not much left of the chickens now

He stared at
William. 'Anything you feel you want to tell me?' he said.

'Uh . . . we had a
bit of a problem . . .'

'Never! Really? Do
tell!'

'The dogs took
fright when Mr Chriek took a picture of them,' said William. This was
absolutely true. Dark light was frightening enough even if you knew what was
happening.

Vimes glared at
Otto, who looked miserably at his feet.

'Well now,' said
Vimes. 'Shall I tell you something? They're electing a new Patrician today--'

206

'Who?' said
William.

',' don't know,'
said Vimes.

Sacharissa blew
her nose and said: 'It'll be Mr Scrope, of the Shoemakers and Leatherworkers.'

Vimes gave William
a suspicious look. 'How do you know that?' he said.

'Everyone knows,'
said Sacharissa. 'That's what the young man in the bakery said this morning.'

'Oh, where would
we be without rumour?' said Vimes. 'So this is not a day, Mr de Worde, for . .
. things to go wrong. My men are talking to some of the people who brought dogs
along. Not many of them, I have to admit. Most of them don't want to talk to
the Watch. Can't think why, we're very good listeners. Now is there anything
you want to tell me?' Vimes looked around the room and back to William.
'Everyone's staring at you, I notice.'

The Times does not
need any help from the Watch,' said William.

'Helping wasn't
what I had in mind.'

'We haven't done
anything wrong.'

'I'll decide
that.'

'Really? That's an
interesting point of view.'

Vimes glanced
down. William had taken his notebook out of his pocket. 'Oh,' he said. 'I see.'
He reached down to his own belt and pulled out a blunt, dark length of wood.

'You know what
this is?' he said.

'It's a
truncheon,' said William. 'A big stick.'

'Always the last
resort, eh?' said Vimes evenly. 'Rosewood and Llamedos silver, a lovely piece
of work. And it says on this little plate here that I'm supposed to keep the
peace, and you, Mr de Worde, don't look like part of that right now.'

They locked gazes.

'What was the odd
thing Lord Vetinari did just before the . . . accident?' said William, so
quietly that probably only Vimes heard it.

Vimes didn't even
blink. But after a moment he laid the truncheon down on the desk, with a click
that sounded unnaturally loud in the silence.

'Now you put your
notebook down, lad,' he suggested, in a quiet

207

voice. That way, it's just me and you. No . . . clash of
symbols.'

This time, William
could see where the path of wisdom lay. He put down the book.

'Right,' said
Vimes. 'And now you and me are going to go over to the corner there, while your
friends tidy up. Amazing, isn't it, how much furniture can get broken, just by
taking a picture?'

He went and sat
down on an upturned washtub. William made do with a rocking horse.

'All right, Mr de
Worde, we'll do this your way,' said Vimes.

'I didn't know I
had a way.'

'You're not going
to tell me what you know, are you?'

'I'm not sure what
I know,' said William. 'But I . . . think . . . Lord Vetinari did something
remarkable not long before the crime.'

Vimes pulled out
his own notebook and thumbed through it.

'He entered the
palace by the stables some time before seven o'clock and dismissed the guard,'
he said.

'He'd been out all
night?'

Vimes shrugged.
'His lordship comes and goes. The guards don't ask him where and why. Have they
been talking to you?'

William was ready
for the question. He just didn't have an answer. But the palace guard, insofar
as he'd met them, weren't men chosen for imagination or flair but for a kind of
obstructive loyalty. They didn't sound like a potential Deep Bone.

'I don't think
so,' he said.

'Oh, you don't
think so?'

Hold on, hold on .
. . Deep Bone claimed to know the dog Wuffles, and a dog ought to know if his
master was acting oddly, dogs liked routine . . .

'I think it's very
unusual for his lordship to be outside the palace at that time,' said William
carefully. 'Not part of the . . . routine.'

'Nor is stabbing
your clerk and trying to run off with a very heavy sack of cash,' said Vimes.
'Yes, we noticed that, too. We're not stupid. We only look stupid. Oh . . . and
the guard said he smelled spirits on his lordship's breath.'

'Does he drink?'

'Not so's you'd
notice.'

'He's got a drinks
cabinet in his office,'

208

Vimes smiled. 'You
noticed that? He likes other people to drink,'

'But all that
might mean was that he was plucking up the courage to--' William began, and
stopped. 'No, that's not Vetinari. He's not that sort,'

'No. He isn't,'
said Vimes. He sat back. 'Perhaps you'd better . . . think again, Mr de Worde.
Maybe . . . maybe . . . you can find someone to help you think better,'

Something in his
manner suggested that the informal part of the discussion was well and truly
over.

'Do you know much
about Mr Scrope?' said William.

Tuttle
Scrope? Son of old Tuskin Scrope. President of the Guild of Cobblers and
Leatherworkers for the past seven years,' said Vimes. 'Family man.
Old-established shop in Wixon's Alley,'

That's all?'

'Mr de Worde, that's
all the Watch knows about Mr Scrope. You understand? You wouldn't want to know
about some of the people we know a lot about,'

'Ah,' William's
brow wrinkled. 'But there's not a shoe shop in Wixon's Alley.'

'I never mentioned
shoes,'

'In fact the only
shop that is even, er, remotely connected with leather is--'

That's the one,'
said Vimes.

'But that sells--'

'Comes under the
heading of leatherwork,' said Vimes, picking up his truncheon.

'Well, yes . . .
and rubber work, and . . . feathers . . . and whips . . . and . . . little
jiggly things,' said William, blushing. 'But--'

'Never been in
there myself, although I believe Corporal Nobbs gets their catalogue,' said
Vimes. 'I don't think there's a Guild of Makers of Little Jiggly Things, though
it's an interesting thought. Anyway, Mr Scrope is all nice and legal, Mr de
Worde. Nice old family atmosphere, I understand. Makes buying . . . this and
that, and little jiggly things . . . as pleasant as half a pound of humbugs, I
don't doubt. And what rumour is telling me is that the first thing nice Mr
Scrope will do is pardon Lord Vetinari.'

'What? Without a
trial?'

209

'Won't that be
nice?' said Vimes, with horrible cheerfulness. 'A good start to his term of
office, eh? Clean sheet, fresh start, no sense in raking up unpleasantness.
Poor chap. Overwork. Bound to crack. Didn't get enough fresh air. And so on. So
he can be put away in some nice quiet place and we'll be able to stop worrying
about this whole wretched affair. A bit of a relief, eh?'

'But you know he
didn't--'

'Do I?' said
Vimes. This is an official truncheon of office, Mr de Worde. If it was a club
with a nail in it this'd be a different sort of city. I'm off now. You've been
thinking, you tell me. Maybe you ought to think some more.'

William watched
him go.

Sacharissa had
pulled herself together, perhaps because no one was trying to comfort her any
more.

'What are we going
to do now?' she said.

'I don't know. Get
a paper out, I suppose. That's our job.'

'But what happens
if those men come back?'

'I don't think
they will. This place is being watched now.'

Sacharissa started
to pick papers up off the floor. 'I suppose I'll feel better if I do something
. . .'

That's the
spirit.'

'If you can give
me a few paragraphs about that fire

'Otto got a decent
picture,' said William. 'Didn't you, Otto?'

'Oh yes. That vun
is okay. But. . .'

The vampire was
staring down at his iconograph. It was smashed.

'Oh, I'm so
sorry,' said William.

'I have ozzers.'
Otto sighed. 'You know, I thought it vould be easy in zer big city,' he said.
'I thought it would be civilized. Zey told me mobs don't come after you viz
pitchforks in zer big city like zey do back in Schiischien. I mean, I try. Gods
know I try. Three months, four days and seven hours on zer vagon. I give up zer
whole thing! Even zer pale ladies viz the velvet basques vorn on zer outside
and zer fetching black lace dresses and zose little tiny, you know, high-heeled
boots - and zat vas a wrench, I don't mind telling you . . .' He shook his head
miserably, and stared at his ruined shirt. 'And stuff all gets broken and now
my

210

best shirt is all covered viz . . . blood . . . covered
viz red, red blood . . . rich dark blood . . . zer blood . . . covered with zer
blood . . . zer blood. . .'

'Quick!' said
Sacharissa, pushing past William. 'Mr Goodmountain, you hold his arms!' She
waved at the dwarfs. 'I was ready for this! Two of you hold his legs! Dozy,
there's a huge blutwurst in my desk drawer!'

'. . . Let me valk
in sunshine, Living not in vein . . .' Otto crooned.

'Oh, my gods, his
eyes are glowing red!' said William. 'What shall we do?'

'We could try
cutting his head off again?' said Boddony.

That was a very
poor joke, Boddony,' Sacharissa snapped.

'Joke? I was
smiling?'

Otto stood up, the
cursing dwarfs hanging off his sparse frame.

'Through
thunderstorm and dreadful night, ve vill carry on zer fight. . :

'He's as strong as
an ox!' said Goodmountain.

'Hang on, maybe it
would help if we joined in!' said Sacharissa. She fumbled in her bag and
produced a slim blue pamphlet. 'I picked this up this morning from the mission
in Abattoirs Lane. It's their songbook! And,' she started to sniff again, 'it's
so sad, it's called Walking In Sunshine and it's so--'

'You want us to
have a singsong?' said Goodmountain, as the struggling Otto lifted him off the
ground.

'Just to give him
moral support!' Sacharissa dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. 'You can see
he's trying to fight it! And he did lay down his life for us!'

'Yes, but then he
picked it up again!'

William bent down
and took up something from the wreckage of Otto's iconograph. The imp had
escaped, but the picture that it had painted was just visible. Perhaps it'd
show--

It wasn't a good
one of the man who'd called himself Brother Pin; his face was just a white blob
in the glare of the light that humans couldn't see. But the shadows behind him
. . .

He looked closer.

'Oh, my gods . .
.'

The shadows behind
him were alive.

211

It was sleeting.
Brother Pin and Sister Tulip slid and slithered through the freezing drops.
Behind them, whistles were blowing in the murk.

'Come on!' Pin
yelled.

'These --ing sacks
are heavyV

There were
whistles blowing off to one side now, too. Mr Pin wasn't used to this. Watchmen
shouldn't be enthusiastic, or organized. He'd been chased by watchmen before,
when plans hadn't quite worked out. Their job was to give up at the second
corner, out of breath. He felt quite angry about that. The watchmen here were
doing it wrong.

He was aware of an
open space to one side of him, full of damp swirling flakes. Below him there
was a sluggish sucking noise, like a very bad digestion.

This is a bridge!
Chuck 'em in the river!' he commanded.

'I fort we wanted
to find--'

'Doesn't matter!
Get rid of all of 'em! Right now! End of problem!'

Sister Tulip
grunted a reply and skidded to a halt at the parapet. The two whining, yapping
sacks went straight on over.

'Did that sound
like a --ing splash to you?' said Sister Tulip, peering through the sleet.

'Who cares? Now
runV

Mr Pin shivered as
he sped on. He didn't know what had been done to him back there, but he'd felt
like he'd walked over his own grave.

He felt he had
more than just watchmen after him. He speeded up.

In reluctant but
marvellous harmony, because no one could sing like a group of dwarfs, even if
the song was 'May I Suck Of Water Pure',* the dwarfs seemed to be calming Otto
down.

Besides, the
horrible black emergency blutwurst had finally been

* In other
circumstances it would have been as likely as cows singing 'Let Me Be Covered
In Rapturous Gravy'.

212

produced. For a vampire this was the equivalent of a
cardboard cigarette to a terminal nicotine addict, but it was at least
something he could get his teeth into. When William finally tore his gaze away
from the horror of the shadows, Sacharissa was mopping Otto's brow.

'Oh, vunce again I
am so ashamed, vhere can I put my head, it's so--'

William held up
the picture. 'Otto, what's this?'

In the shadows
were mouths, screaming. In the shadows were eyes, wide. They didn't move while
you watched them, but if you looked at the picture a second time you got a
feeling that they weren't quite in the same place.

Otto shuddered.
'Oh, I used all zer eels I had,' he said.

'And--?'

'Oh, they're
awful,' breathed Sacharissa, looking away from the tortured shadows.

'I feel so
wretched,' said Otto. 'Obviously they vere too stronk--'

'Tell us, Otto!'

'Veil. . . the
iconograph does not lie, you have heard zis?'

'Of course.'

'Yes? Veil . . .
under stronk dark light, the picture really does not lie. Dark light reveals
zer truth to the dark eyes of zer mind . . .' He paused and sighed. 'Ah, vunce
again no ominous roll of thunder, vot a vaste. But at least you could look
apprehensively at the shadows.'

All heads turned
towards the shadows, in the corner of the room and under the roof. They were
simply shadows, haunted by nothing more than dust and spiders.

'But there's just
dust and--' Sacharissa began.

Otto held up a
hand. 'Dear lady . . . I have just told you. Philosophically, the truth can be
vot is metaphorically there

William stared at
the picture again.

'I had hoped that
I could use filters and so on to cut down zer, er, unvanted effects,' said Otto
behind him. 'But alas--'

'This gets worse
and worse,' said Sacharissa. 'It gives me the humorous vegetables.'

213

Goodmountain shook
his head. 'This is unholy stuff,' he said. 'No more meddling with it,
understand?'

'I didn't think
dwarfs were religious,' said William.

'We're not,' said
Goodmountain. 'But we know unholy when we see it, and I'm looking at it right
now, I'm telling you. I don't want any more of these, these . . . prints of
darkness!'

William grimaced.
It shows the truth, he thought. But how do we know the truth when we see it?
The Ephebian philosophers think that a hare can never outrun a tortoise, and
they can prove it. Is that the truth? I heard a wizard say that everything is
made of little numbers, whizzing around so fast that they become stuff. Is that
true? I think a lot of things that have been happening over the last few days
are not what they seem, and I don't know why I think that, but I think it's not
the truth . . .

'Yes, no more of
this stuff, Otto,' he said.

'Damn right,' said
Goodmountain.

'Let's just try to
get back to normal and get a paper out, shall we?'

'You mean normal
where mad priests start to collect dogs, or normal where vampires mess around
with evil shadows?' said Gowdie.

'I mean like
normal before that,' said William.

'Oh, I see. You
mean like back in the old days,' said Gowdie.

After a while,
though, silence settled on the press room, although there was an occasional
sniff from the desk opposite.

William wrote a
story about the fire. That was easy. Then he tried to write a coherent account
of the recent events, but found he couldn't get beyond the first word. He'd
written The'. It was a reliable word, the definite article. The trouble was,
all the things he was definite about were bad.

He'd expected to .
. . what? Inform people? Yes. Annoy people? Well, some people, at least. What
he hadn't expected was that it wouldn 't make any difference. The paper came
out, and it didn 't matter.

People just seemed
to accept things. What was the point of writing another story on the Vetinari
business? Well, of course, it had a lot of dogs in it, and there was always a
lot of human interest in a story about animals.

214

'What did you
expect?' said Sacharissa, as if she was reading his thoughts. 'Did you think
people would be marching in the streets? Vetinari isn't a very nice man, from
what I hear. People say he probably deserves to be locked up.'

'Are you saying
people aren't interested in the truth?'

'Listen, what's
true to a lot of people is that they need the money for the rent by the end of
the week. Look at Mr Ron and his friends. What's the truth mean to them? They
live under a bridge!'

She held up a
piece of lined paper, crammed edge to edge with the careful looped handwriting
of someone for whom holding a pen was not a familiar activity.

This is a report
of the annual meeting of the Ankh-Morpork Caged Birds Society,' she said.
They're just ordinary people who breed canaries and things as a hobby. Their
chairman lives next door to me, which is why he gave me this. This stuff is
important to him! My goodness, but it's dull. It's all about Best of Breed and
some changes in the show rules about parrots which they argued about for two
hours. But the people who were arguing were people who mostly spend their day
mincing meat or sawing wood and basically leading little lives that are
controlled by other people, do you see? They've got no say in who runs the city
but they can damn well see to it that cockatoos aren't lumped in with parrots.
It's not their fault. It's just how things are. Why are you sitting there with
your mouth open like that?'

William closed his
mouth. 'All right, I understand--'

'No, I don't think
you do,' she snapped. 'I looked you up in Twurp's Peerage. Your family have
never had to worry about the small stuff, have they? They've been some of the
people who really run things. This . . . paper is a kind of hobby for you,
isn't it? Oh, you believe in it, I'm sure you do, but if it all goes
wahoonie-shaped you'll still have money. I won't. So if the way it can be kept
going is by filling it with what you sneer at as olds, then that's what I'll
do.'

'I don't have
money! I make my own living!'

'Yes, but you were
able to choose! Anyway, aristocrats don't like to see other toffs starving.
They find them silly jobs to do for serious wages--'

215

She stopped, panting,
and pushed some hair out of her eyes. Then she looked at him like someone who
has lit the fuse and is now wondering if the barrel at the other end is bigger
than they thought.

William opened his
mouth, went to shape a word, and stopped. He did it again. Finally, a little
hoarsely, he said: 'You're more or less right--'

The next word's
going to be but , I just know it,' said Sacharissa.

William was aware
that the printers were all watching. 'Yes, it is--'

'Aha!'

'But it's a big
but. Do you mind? It's important! Someone has to care about the . . . the big
truth. What Vetinari mostly does not do is a lot of harm. We've had rulers who
were completely crazy and very, very nasty. And it wasn't that long ago,
either. Vetinari might not be a very nice man , but I had breakfast
today with someone who'd be a lot worse if he ran the city, and there are lots
more like him. And what's happening now is wrong. And as for your damn parrot
fanciers, if they don't care about anything much beyond things that go squawk
in cages then one day there'll be someone in charge of this place who'll make
them choke on their own budgies. You want that to happen? If we don't make an
effort all they'll get is silly . . . stories about talking dogs and Elves Ate
My Gerbil, so don't give me lectures on what's important and what's not,
understand?'

They glared at one
another.

'Don't you talk to
me like that.'

'Don't you talk to
me like that.'

'We're not getting
enough advertising. The Inquirer's getting huge adverts from the big Guilds,'
said Sacharissa. 'That's what'll keep us going, not stories about how much gold
weighs.'

'What am I
supposed to do about it?'

'Find a way of
getting more ads!'

'That's not my
job!' William shouted.

'It's part of
saving your job! We're just getting penny-a-line advertisements from people
wanting to sell surgical supports and backache cures!'

216

'So? The pennies
add up!'

'So you want us to
be known as The Paper You Can Put Your Truss In?'

'Er . . . excuse
me, but are we producing an edition?' said Goodmountain. 'Not that we aren't
enjoying all this, but the colour's going to take a lot of extra time.'

William and
Sacharissa looked round. They were the focus of attention.

'Look, I know this
means a lot to you,' said Sacharissa, lowering her voice, 'but all this . . .
political stuff, this is the Watch's job, not ours. That's all I'm saying.'

They're stuck.
That's what Vimes was telling me.'

Sacharissa stared
at his frozen expression. Then she leaned over and, to his shock, patted his
hand.

'Perhaps you are
having an effect, then.'

'Hah!'

'Well, if they're
going to pardon Vetinari, maybe it's because they're worried about you.'

'Hah! Anyway, who
are they ?'

'Well . . . you
know . . . them. The people who run things. They notice things. They probably
read the paper.'

William gave her a
wan smile. Tomorrow we'll find someone to get more ads,' he said. 'And we'll
definitely need those extra staff. Er . . . I'm going to go for a little walk,'
he added. 'And I'll get you that key.'

'Key?'

'You wanted a
dress for the ball?'

'Oh. Yes. Thank
you.'

'And I don't think
those men will be back,' said William. 'I've got a feeling that there isn't a
shed anywhere in town that's as well guarded as this one right at the moment.'

Because Vimes is
waiting to see who tries to get at us next, he thought. But he decided not to
say so.

'What exactly are
you going to do?' said Sacharissa.

'First, I'm going
to the nearest apothecary,' said William, 'and then I'm going to drop in at my
lodgings for that key, and then . . . I'm going to see a man about a dog.'

217

The New Firm
hurtled through the door of the empty mansion and bolted it behind them.

Mr Tulip ripped
off the bride of innocence outfit and hurled it on to the floor.

'I told you --ing
clever plans never work!' he said.

'A vampire,' said
Mr Pin. 'This is a sick city, Mr Tulip.'

'What was that he
--ing did to us?'

'He took some kind
of picture,' said Mr Pin. He closed his eyes for a moment. His head was aching.

'Well, I was in
disguise,' said Mr Tulip.

Mr Pin shrugged.
Even with a metal bucket over his head, which would probably begin to corrode
after a few minutes, there would be something recognizable about Mr Tulip.

'I don't think
that will do any good,' he said.

'I --ing hates
pictures,' snarled Mr Tulip. 'Remember that time in Mouldavia? All them posters
they did? It's bad for a man's health, seeing his --ing phiz on every wall with
Dead or Alive under it. It's like they can't --ing decide.'

Mr Tulip fished
out a small bag of what he had been assured was primo Smudge, but which would
turn out to be sugar and powdered pigeon guano.

'Anyway, we
must've got the --ing dog,' he said.

'We can't be
sure,' said Mr Pin. He winced again. The headache was getting quite strong.

'Look, we done the
--ing job,' said Mr Tulip. 'I don't recall no one telling us about --ing
werewolves and vampires. That's their --ing problem! I say we scrag the geek,
take the money and head for Pseudopolis or someplace!'

'You mean quit on
a contract?'

'Yeah, when it's
got small print you can't --ing see!'

'Someone'll
recognize Charlie, though. Seems it's hard for the dead to stay dead around
here.'

'I reckon I could
help in that --ing respect,' said Mr Tulip.

Mr Pin chewed his
lip. He knew better than Mr Tulip that men in their business needed a certain .
. . reputation. Things didn't get written down. But the word got about. The New
Firm sometimes

218

dealt with very serious players, and they were people who
took a lot of notice of the word . . .

But Tulip did have
a point. This place was getting to Mr Pin. It jarred his sensibilities.
Vampires and werewolves . . . springing that sort of thing on a body, that
wasn't according to the rules. That was taking liberties. Yes . . .

. . . there was
more than one way to keep a reputation.

'I think we should
go and explain things to our lawyer friend,' he said slowly.

'Right!' said Mr
Tulip. 'And then I'll rip his head off.'

'That doesn't kill
zombies.'

'Good, 'cos then
he'll be able to see where I'm gonna --ing shove it.'

'And then . . .
we'll pay another visit to that newspaper. When it's dark.'

To get that
picture, he thought. That was a good reason. It was a reason that you could
tell the world. But there was another reason. That . . . burst of darkness had
frightened Mr Pin to his shrivelled soul. A lot of memories had come pouring
back, all at once.

Mr Pin had made a
lot of enemies, but that hadn't worried him until now because all his enemies
were dead. But the dark light had fired off bits of his mind and it had seemed
to him that those enemies had not vanished from the universe but had merely
gone a long way away, from which point they were watching him. And it was a
long way away only from his point of view - from their point of view they could
reach out and touch him.

What he wouldn't
say, even to Mr Tulip, was this: they'd need all the money from this job
because, in a flash of dark, he'd seen that it was time to retire.

Theology was not a
field in which Mr Pin had much knowledge, despite accompanying Mr Tulip to a
number of the more well-designed temples and chapels, on one occasion to scrag
a High Priest who'd tried to double-cross Frank 'Nutboy' Nabbs, but the little
he had absorbed was suggesting to him that this might be the very best time to
take a bit of an interest. He could send them some money, maybe, or at least
return some of the stuff he'd taken. Hell, maybe he could start not eating beef
on Tuesdays or whatever it

219

was you had to do. Maybe that would stop this feeling that
the back of his head had just been unscrewed.

He knew that would
have to be later, though. Right now, the code allowed them to do one of two
things: they could follow Slant's instructions to the letter, which would mean
they'd maintain a reputation for efficiency, or they could scrag Slant and
maybe a few bystanders and leave, perhaps setting fire to a few things on the
way out. That was also news that got around. People would understand how upset
they were.

'But first we'll.
. .' Mr Pin stopped, and in a strangled voice said: 'Is someone standing behind
me?'

'No,' said Mr
Tulip.

'I thought I heard
. . . footsteps.'

'No one here but
us.'

'Right. Right.' Mr
Pin shuddered, straightened his jacket and then looked Mr Tulip up and down.

'Clean yourself up
a bit, will you? Sheesh, you're leaking dust!'

'I can handle it,'
said Mr Tulip. 'Keeps me sharp. Keeps me alert.'

Pin sighed. Mr
Tulip had amazing faith in the contents of the next bag, whatever it was. And
it was usually cat flea powder cut with dandruff.

'Force isn't going
to work on Slant,' he said.

Mr Tulip cracked
his knuckles. 'Works on everyone,' he said.

'No. A man like
him will have a lot of muscle to call on,' said Pin. He patted his jacket.
'It's time Mr Slant said hello to my little friend.'

A plank thumped down
on to the crusted surface of the river Ankh. Shifting his weight with care, and
gripping the rope tightly in his teeth, Arnold Sideways swung himself on to it.
It sank a little in the ooze, but stayed - for want of a better word - afloat.

A few feet away
the depression that had been left by the first sack landing in the river was
already filling up with - for want of a better word - water.

He reached the end
of the plank, steadied himself and managed to lasso the remaining sack. It was
moving.

'He's  got
it,'   shouted  the
Duck  Man,   who
was  watching

220

from under the bridge. 'Heave away, everybody!'

The sack came out
of the muck with a sucking sound, and Arnold pulled himself aboard as it was
dragged back to the bank.

'Oh, very well
done, Arnold,' said the Duck Man, helping him off the sodden sack and back on
to his trolley. 'I really doubted if the surface would support you at this
stage of the tide!'

'Bit of luck for
me, eh, when that cart ran over my legs all them years ago!' said Arnold
Sideways. 'I'd have drowned, else!'

Coffin Henry slit
the sacking with his knife and tipped the second lot of little terriers on to
the ground, where they coughed and sneezed.

'One or two of the
little buggers look done for,' he said. I'll give 'em mouth to mouth
respiritoriation, shall I?'

'Certainly not,
Henry,' said the Duck Man. 'Have you no idea of hygiene?'

'Jean who?'

'You can't kiss
dogs!' said the Duck Man. They could catch something dreadful.'

The crew looked at
the dogs that were clustering round their fire. How the dogs had landed in the
river was something they didn't bother to wonder about. All sorts of things
landed in the river. It was the kind of thing that happened all the time. The
crew took a keen interest in floating things. But it was unusual to get this
many all at once.

'Maybe it's been
raining dogs?' said Altogether Andrews, who was being steered by the mind known
as Curly. The crew liked Curly. He was easy to get along with. 'I heard the
other day that's been happening lately.'

'You know what?'
said Arnold Sideways. 'What we ort to do, right, is get some stuff, like . . .
wood and stuff, and make a boat. We could get a lot more stuff if we had a
boat.'

'Ah, yes,' said
the Duck Man. 'I used to mess about in boats when I was a boy.'

'We could boat
about in mess,' said Arnold. 'Same thing.'

'Not . . .
exactly,' said the Duck Man. He looked at the circle of steaming, retching
dogs.

221

'I wish Gaspode
was here,' he said. 'He knows how to think about this sort of thing.'

'Ajar,' said the
apothecary carefully.

'Sealed with wax,'
William repeated.

'And you want an
ounce each of. . .'

'Oil of aniseed,
oil of rampion and oil of scallatine,' said William.

'I can do the
first two,' said the apothecary, looking at the little list he'd been given.
'But there is no such thing as a whole ounce of oil of scallatine in the city,
you realize? It's fifteen dollars for enough to go on a pinhead. We've got
about enough to fill a mustard spoon and we have to keep that in a soldered
lead box under water.'

'I'll take a
pinhead's worth, then,'

'You'll never get
it off your hands, you know. It isn't really for the average--'

'In a bottle,'
said William patiently. 'Sealed with wax,'

'You won't even
smell the other oils! What do you want them for?'

'Insurance,' said
William. 'Oh, and after you've sealed it, wash off the bottle with ether, and
then wash the ether off.'

'Is this going to
be used for some illegal purpose?' said the apothecary. He caught William's
expression. 'Just interesteti,' he added quickly.

When he'd gone to
make up the order William called in at a couple of other shops and bought a
pair of thick gloves. ,

When he returned,
the apothecary was just bringing the oils to the counter. He held a small glass
flask, filled with liquid. Inside floated a much smaller phial.

'The outer
liquid's water,' he said, pulling some plugs out of his nose. 'Take it
carefully, if you don't mind. Drop it and we can kiss our sinuses goodbye.'

'What does it
smell of?' said William.

'Well, if I said
cabbage ,' said the apothecary, 'I wouldn't be saying the half of
it.'

Next, William went
to his lodgings. Mrs Arcanum was averse to boarders coming back to their rooms
during the day, but at the

222

moment William appeared to be outside her frame of
reference and she merely gave him a nod as he went upstairs.

The keys were in
the old trunk at the end of his bed. It was the one he'd taken to Hugglestones;
he'd kept it ever since, so that he could kick it occasionally.

His cheque book
was also in there. He took that, too.

His sword rattled
as his hand brushed against it.

He'd enjoyed
swordsmanship at Hugglestones. It was in the dry, you were allowed to wear
protective clothing and no one attempted to stamp your face into the mud. He'd
actually been the champion of the school. But this wasn't because he was much
good. It was simply that most of the other boys were so bad. They approached
the sport as they approached all others, in a great big keen screaming rush,
using the sword as a sort of club. That meant that if William could avoid the
first wild stroke, then he was going to win.

He left the sword
in the trunk.

After some
reflection he pulled out one of his old socks and pulled it over the
apothecary's bottle. Hurting people with broken glass wasn't part of the plan,
either.

Peppermint! Not a
bad choice, but they hadn't known what else was available, had they . . . ?

Mrs Arcanum was a
great believer in net curtains, so that she could see out while outsiders
couldn't see in. William lurked behind the ones in his room until he was
certain that an indistinct shape among the rooftops opposite was a gargoyle.

This wasn't
natural gargoyle territory, any more than Gleam Street.

The thing about
gargoyles, he reflected as he stepped back and headed down the stairs, was that
they didn't get bored. They were happy to stay and watch anything for days.
But, while they moved faster than people thought, they didn't move faster than
people.

He ran through the
kitchen so quickly that he only heard Mrs Arcanum gasp, and then he was through
the back door and over the wall into the alley beyond.

Someone was
sweeping it. For a moment William wondered if it was a watchman in disguise, or
even Sister Jennifer in disguise, but

223

probably there was no one who'd disguise themselves as a
gnoll. You'd have to strap a compost heap to your back, to begin with. Gnolls
ate almost everything. What they didn't eat they collected obsessively. No one
had ever studied them to find out why. Perhaps a carefully sorted collection of
rotted cabbage stalks was a sign of big status in gnoll society.

ar'tn'n, M'r
W'rd,' croaked the creature, leaning on its shovel.

'Er . . . hello .
. . er . . .'

'Sn'g'k.'

'Ah? Yes. Thank
you. Goodbye.'

He hurried down
another alley, crossed the street and found yet another alley. He wasn't sure
how many gargoyles were watching him, but it took them some time to cross
streets . . .

How was it that
the gnoll had known his name? It wasn't as though they'd met at a party or
something. Besides, the gnolls all worked for . . . Harry King . . .

Well, they did say
that the King of the Golden River never forgot a debtor. . .

William ducked and
dodged across several blocks, making as much use as he could of the alleys and
walkthroughs and noisome courts. He was sure a normal person wouldn't be able
to keep track of him. But then, he'd be amazed if a normal person was following
him. Mister Vimes liked to refer to himself as a simple coppter, just as Harry
King thought of himself as a rough diamond. William suspected that the world
was littered with the remains of those people who had taken them at their word.

He slowed down and
climbed some outside stairs. And then he waited.

You're a fool,
said the internal editor. Some people have tried to kill you. You're concealing
information from the Watch. You're mixing with strange people. You're about to
do something that's going to get so far up Mister Vimes's nose it will raise
his hat. And why?

Because it makes
my blood tingle, he thought. And because I'm not going to be used. By anyone.

There was a faint
sound at the end of the alley, which might not have been heard by anyone who
wasn't expecting it. It was the sound of something sniffing.

224

William looked
down and saw, in the gloom, a four-legged shape break into a trot while keeping
its muzzle close to the ground.

William measured
the distance carefully. Declaring independence was one thing. Assaulting a
member of the Watch was a very different thing.

He lobbed the
fragile bottle so that it would land twenty feet ahead of the werewolf. Then he
dropped from the stairs on to the top of a wall and jumped down on to a privy
roof just as the glass broke with a 'pof!' inside the sock.

There was a yelp,
and the sound of scrabbling claws.

William jumped
from the roof on to another wall, inched along the top of it and climbed down
into another alley. Then he ran.

It took five
minutes, dodging into convenient cover and cutting through buildings, to arrive
at the livery stables. In the general bustle no one took any notice of him. He
was just another man coming to fetch his horse.

The stall that
might or might not have contained Deep Bone was occupied by a horse now. It
looked down its nose at him.

'Don't turn round,
Mister Paper Man,' said a voice behind him.

William tried to
remember what had been behind him. Oh, yes . . . the hay lift. And huge bags of
straw. Plenty of room for someone to hide.

'All right,' he
said.

'Hark, hark, the
dogs do bark,' said Deep Bone. 'You must be ment'l.'

'But I'm on the
right track,' said William. 'I think I've--'

ere, you
sure you weren't followed?'

'Corporal Nobbs
was on my trail,' said William. 'But I shook him off.'

'Hah! Walkin'
round the corner'd shake off Nobby Nobbs!'

'Oh, no, he kept
right up. I knew Vimes would have me tracked,' said William proudly.

'By Nobbs?'

'Yes. Obviously .
. . in his werewolf shape . . .' There. He'd said it. But today was a day for
shadows and secrets.

'A werewolf
shape,' said Deep Bone flatly.

225

'Yes. I'd be
grateful if you didn't tell anyone else.'

'Corporal Nobbs,'
said Deep Bone, still in the same dull monotone.

'Yes. Look, Vimes
told me not to--'

'Vimes told you
Nobby Nobbs was a werewolf?'

'Well. . . no, not
exactly. I worked that out for myself, and Vimes told me not to tell anyone
else

'About Corporal
Nobbs bein' a werewolf. . .'

'Yes.'

'Corporal Nobbs is
not a werewolf, mister. In any way, shape or form. Whether he's human is
another matter, but he ain't a lycr-- a lynco-- a lycantro-- a bloody werewolf,
that's for sure!'

Then whose nose
did I just drop a scent bomb in front of?' said William triumphantly.

There was silence.
And then there was the sound of a thin trickle of water.

'Mr Bone?' said
William.

'What kind of a
scent bomb?' said the voice. It sounded rather strained.

'I think oil of
scallatine was probably the most active ingredient.'

'Right in front of
a werewolf's nose?'

'More or less,
yes.'

'Mister Vimes is
going to go round the twist,' said the' voice of Deep Bone. 'He's going to go
totally Librarian-poo. He's going to invent new ways of being angry just so's
he can try them out on you--'

Then I'd better
get hold of Lord Vetinari's ,dog as soon as possible,' said William. He
produced his chequebook. 'I can give you a cheque for fifty dollars, and that's
all I can afford.'

'What's one of
them, then?'

'It's like a legal
IOU.'

'Oh, great,' said
Deep Bone. 'Not much good to me when you're locked up, though.'

'Right now, Mr
Bone, there's a couple of very nasty men hunting down every terrier in the
city, by the sound of it--'

Terriers?' said
Deep Bone. 'All terriers?'

'Yes, and while I
don't expect you to--'

226

'Like . . .
pedigree terriers, or just people who might happen to look a bit terrier-like?'

They didn't look
like they were inspecting any paperwork. Anyway, what do you mean, people
who look like terriers ?'

Deep Bone went
silent again.

William said,
'Fifty dollars, Mr Bone.'

At length the
sacks of straw said, 'All right. Tonight. On the Misbegot Bridge. Just you. Er
. . . I won't be there but there will be . . . a messenger.'

'Who shall I make
the cheque to?' said William.

There was no
answer. He waited a while and then eased himself into a position where he could
peer around the sacks. There was a rustling from them. Probably rats, he thought,
because certainly none of them could hold a man.

Deep Bone was a
very tricky customer.

Some time after
William had gone, looking surreptitiously into the shadows, one of the grooms
turned up with a trolley and began to load up the sacks.

One of them said:
Tut me down, mister.'

The man dropped
the sack and then opened it cautiously.

A small
terrier-like dog struggled out, shaking itself free of clinging wisps.

Mr Hobson did not
encourage independence of thought and an enquiring mind, and at 50 pence a day
plus all the oats you could steal he didn't get them. The groom looked owlishly
at the dog.

'Did you just say
that?' he said.

course not,'
said the dog. 'Dogs can't talk. Are you stupid or somethin'? Someone's playin'
a trick on you. Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer, vig viano.'

'You mean, like,
throwing their voice? I saw a man do that down at the music hall.'

That's the ticket.
Hold on to that thought.'

The groom looked
around. 'Is that you playin' a trick, Tom?' he said.

That's right, it's
me, Tom,' said the dog. 'I got the trick out of a

227

book. Throwin' my voice into this harmless little dog what
cannot talk at all.'

'What? You never
told me you were learnin' to read!'

'There were
pictures,' said the dog hurriedly. Tongues an' teeth an' that. Dead easy to
understand. Oh, now the little doggie's wanderin' off. . .'

The dog edged its
way to the door.

'Sheesh,' it
appeared to say. 'A couple of thumbs and they're lords of bloody creation

Then it ran for
it.

'How will this
work?' said Sacharissa, trying to look intelligent. It was much better to
concentrate on something like this than think about strange men getting ready
to invade again.

'Slowly,' mumbled
Goodmountain, fiddling with the press. 'You realize that this means it'll take us
much longer to print each paper?'

'You vanted
colour, I gif you colour,' said Otto sulkily. 'You never said qvick.'

Sacharissa looked
at the experimental iconograph. Most pictures were painted in colour these
days. Only really cheap imps painted in black and white, even though Otto
insisted that monochrome 'vas an art form in itself. But printing colour . . .
'

Four imps were
sitting on the edge of it, passing a very small cigarette from hand to hand and
watching with interest the work on the press. Three of them wore goggles of
coloured glass - red, blue and yellow.

'But not green . .
.' she said. 'So . . . if something's green - have I got this right? - Guthrie
there sees the . . . blue in the green and paints that on the plate in blue' -
one of the imps gave her a wave - 'and Anton sees the yellow and paints that,
and when you run it through the press--'

'. . . very, very
slowly,' muttered Goodmountain. 'It'd be quicker to go round to everyone's
house and tell 'em the news.'

Sacharissa looked
at the test sheets that had been done of the recent fire. It was definitely a
fire, with red, yellow and orange flames, and there was some, yes, blue sky,
and the golems

228

were a pretty good reddish-brown, but the flesh tones . .
. well, 'flesh-coloured' was a bit of a tricky one in Ankh-Morpork, where if
you picked your subject it could be any colour except maybe light blue, but the
faces of many of the bystanders did suggest that a particularly virulent plague
had passed through the city. Possibly the Multi-coloured Death, she decided.

'Zis is only the
beginning,' said Otto. 'Ve vill get better.'

'Better maybe, but
we're as fast as we can go,' said Good-mountain. 'We can do maybe two hundred
an hour. Maybe two hundred and fifty, but someone's going to be looking for
their fingers before this day's out. Sorry, but we're doing the best we can. If
we had a day to redesign and rebuild properly--'

'Print a few
hundred and do the rest in black and white, then,' said Sacharissa, and sighed.
'At least it'll catch people's attention.'

'Vunce zey see it,
the Inqvirer vill vork out how it vas done,' said Otto.

'Then at least
we'll go down with our colours flying,' said Sacharissa. She shook her head as
a little dust floated down from the ceiling.

'Hark at that,' said
Boddony. 'Can you feel the floor shake? That's their big presses again.'

They're
undermining us everywhere,' said Sacharissa. 'And we've all worked so hard.
It's so unfair.'

I'm surprised the
floor takes it,' said Goodmountain. 'It's not as though anything's on solid
ground round here.'

'Undermining us,
eh?' said Boddony.

One or two of the
dwarfs looked up when he said this. Boddony said something in dwarfish.
Goodmountain snapped something in reply. A couple of other dwarfs joined in.

'Excuse me,' said
Sacharissa tartly.

The lads were . .
. wondering about going in and having a look,' said Goodmountain.

'I tried going in
the other day,' said Sacharissa. 'But the troll on the door was most impolite.'

'Dwarfs . . .
approach matters differently,' said Goodmountain.

Sacharissa saw a
movement. Boddony had pulled his axe out

229

from under the bench. It was a traditional dwarf axe. One
side was a pickaxe, for the extraction of interesting minerals, and the other
side was a war axe, because the people who own the land with the valuable
minerals in it can be so unreasonable sometimes.

'You're not going
to attack anyone, are you?' she said, shocked.

'Well, someone did
say that if you want a good story you have to dig and dig,' said Boddony.
'We're just going to go for a walk.'

'In the cellar?'
said Sacharissa, as they headed for the steps.

'Yeah, a walk in
the dark,' said Boddony.

Goodmountain
sighed. The rest of us will get on with the paper, shall we?' he said.

After a minute or
two there was the sound of a few axe blows, below them, and then someone swore
in dwarfish, very loudly.

'I'm going to see
what they're doing,' said Sacharissa, unable to resist any more, and hurried
away.

The bricks that
once had filled the old doorway were already down when she got there. Since the
stones of Ankh-Morpork were recycled over the generations no one had ever seen
the point of making strong mortar, and especially not for blocking up an old
doorway. Sand, dirt, water and phlegm would do the trick, they felt. They
always had done up to now, after all. '

The dwarfs were
peering into the darkness beyond. Each one had stuck a candle on his helmet.

'I thought your
man said they filled up the old street,' said Boddony.

'He's not my man,'
said Sacharissa evenly. 'What's in there?'

One of the dwarfs
had stepped through with a lantern.

There's like . . .
tunnels,' he said.

The old
pavements,' said Sacharissa. 'It's like this all round this area, I think.
After the big floods they built up the sides of the road with timber and filled
it in, but they left the pavements on either side because not all the
properties had built up yet and people objected.'

'What?' said
Boddony. 'You mean the roads were higher than the pavements?'

'Oh, yes,' said
Sacharissa, following him into the gap.

230

'What happened if
a horse pi-- if a horse made water on the street?'

'I'm sure I don't
know,' sniffed Sacharissa.

'How did people
cross the street?'

'Ladders.'

'Oh, come on,
miss!'

'No, they used
ladders. And a few tunnels. It wasn't going to be for very long. And then it
was simpler just to put heavy slabs over the old pavements. And so there's
these - well, forgotten spaces.'

There's rats up
here,' said Dozy, who was wandering into the distance.

'Hot damn!' said
Boddony. 'Anyone brought the cutlery? Only joking, miss. Hey, what do we have
here . . . ?'

He hacked at some
planks, which crumbled away under the blows.

'Someone didn't
want to use a ladder,' he said, peering into another hole.

'It goes right
under the street?' said Sacharissa.

'Looks like it.
Must have been allergic to horses.'

'And . . . er . .
. you can find your way?'

'I'm a dwarf. We
are underground. Dwarf. Underground. What was your question again?'

'You're not
proposing to hack through to the cellars of the Inquirer, are you?' said
Sacharissa.

'Who, us?'

'You are, aren't
you.'

'We wouldn't do
anything like that.'

'Yes, but you are,
aren't you.'

That'd be
tantamount to breaking in, wouldn't it?'

'Yes, and that's
what you're planning to do, isn't it?'

Boddony grinned.
'Well. . . a little bit. Just to have a look round. You know.'

'Good.'

'What? You don't
mind?'

'You're not going
to kill anyone, are you?'

'Miss, we don't do
that sort of thing!'

231

Sacharissa looked
a little disappointed. She'd been a respectable young woman for some time. In
certain people, that means there's a lot of dammed-up disreputability just
waiting to burst out.

'Well. . . perhaps
just make them a bit sorry, then?'

'Yes, we can
probably do that.'

The dwarfs were
already creeping along the tunnel at the other side of the buried street. By
the light of their torches she saw old frontages, bricked-up doors, windows
filled with rubble.

This should be
about the right place,' said Boddony, pointing to a faint rectangle filled with
more low-grade brick.

'You're just going
to break in?' said Sacharissa.

'We'll say we were
lost,' said Boddony.

'Lost underground?
Dwarfs?'

'All right, we'll
say we're drunk. People'll believe that. Okay, lads. . .'

The rotten bricks
fell away. Light streamed out. In the cellar beyond a man looked up from his
desk, mouth open.

Sacharissa
squinted through the dust. 'You?' she said.

'Oh, it's you,
miss,' said Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler. 'Hello, boys. Am I glad to see you . .
.'

The crew were just
leaving when Gaspode arrived at the gallop. He took one look at the other dogs
that were huddled around trie fire, then dived under the trailing folds of Foul
Ole Ron's dreadful coat and whined.

It took some time
for the whole of the crew to understand what was going on. These were, after
all, people who ,'could argue and expectorate and creatively misunderstand
their way through a three-hour argument after someone said 'Good morning'.

It was the Duck
Man who finally got the message. 'These men are hunting terriers?' he said.

'Right! It was the
bloody newspaper! You can't bloody trust people who write in newspapers!'

They threw these
doggies in the river?'

'Right!' said
Gaspode. 'It's all gone fruit-shaped!'

'Well, we can
protect you too.'

'Yeah, but I've
got to be out and about! I'm a figure in this town!

232

I can't lie low! I
need a disguise! Look, we could be looking at fifty dollars here, right? But
you need me to get it!'

The crew were
impressed with this. In their cashless economy fifty dollars was a fortune.

'Blewitt,' said
Foul Ole Ron.

'A dog's a dog,'
said Arnold Sideways. 'On account of bein' called a dog.'

'Gaarck!' crowed
Coffin Henry.

That's true,' said
the Duck Man. 'A false beard isn't going to work.'

'Well, your huge
brains had better come up with somethin', 'cos I'm staying put until you do,'
said Gaspode. 'I've seen these men. They are not nice.'

There was a rumble
from Altogether Andrews. His face flickered as the various personalities
reshuffled themselves, and then settled into the waxy bulges of Lady Hermione.

'We could disguise
him,' she said.

'What could you
disguise a dog as?' said the Duck Man. 'A cat?'

'A dog is not just
a dog,' said Lady Hermione. 'Ai think ai have an idea . . .'

The dwarfs were in
a huddle when William got back. The epicentre of the huddle, its huddlee,
turned out to be Mr Dibbler, who looked just like anyone would look if they've
been harangued. William had never seen anyone to whom the word 'harangued'
could be so justifiably applied. It meant someone who had been talked at by
Sacharissa for twenty minutes.

'Is there a
problem?' he said. 'Hello, Mr Dibbler . . .'

Tell me, William,'
said Sacharissa, while pacing slowly around Dibbler's chair. 'If stories were
food, what kind of food would Goldfish Eats Cat be?'

'What?' William
stared at Dibbler. Realization dawned. 'I think it would be a sort of long,
thin kind of food,' he said.

'Filled with
rubbish of suspicious origin?'

'Now, there's no
need for anyone to take that tone--' Dibbler began, and then subsided under
Sacharissa's glare.

'Yes, but rubbish
that's sort of attractive. You'd keep on eating it

233

even though you wished you weren't,' said William. 'What's
going on here?'

'Look, I didn't
want to do it,' Dibbler protested.

'Do what?' said
William.

'Mr Dibbler's been
writing those stories for the Inquirer,' said Sacharissa.

'I mean, no one
believes what they read in the paper, right?' said Dibbler.

William pulled up
a chair and sat straddling it, resting his arms on the back.

'So, Mr Dibbler .
. . when did you start pissing in the fountain of Truth?'

'William!' snapped
Sacharissa.

'Look, times
haven't been good, see?' said Dibbler. 'And I thought, this news business . . .
well, people like to hear about stuff from a long way away, you know, like in
the Almanacke--'

' Plague of
Giant Weasels in Hersheba ?' said William.

'That's the style.
Well, I thought . . . it doesn't sort of matter if they're, you know, really
true . . . I mean . . .' William's glassy grin was beginning to make Dibbler
uncomfortable. 'I mean . . . they're nearly true, aren't they? Everyone knows
that sort of thing happens

'You didn't come
to me' said William.

'Well, of course
not. Everyone knows you're a bit . . . a bit unimaginative about that sort of
thing.'

'You mean I like
to know that things have actually happened?'

'That's it, yes.
Mr Carney says people won't notice the difference anyway. He doesn't like you
very much, Mr de Worde.'

'He's got
wandering hands,' said Sacharissa. 'You can't trust a man like that.'

William pulled the
latest copy of the Inquirer towards him and picked a story at random.

' Man Stolen
by Demons ,' he said. 'This refers to Mr Ronnie Trust Me
Begholder, known to owe Chrysoprase the troll more than two thousand dollars,
last seen buying a very fast horse?'

'Well?'

'Where do the
demons fit in?'

234

'Well, he could'Ve
been stolen by demons,' said Dibbler. 'It could happen to anybody.'

'What you mean,
then, is that there is no evidence that he wasn 't stolen by demons?'

That way people
can make up their own minds,' said Dibbler. 'That's what Mr Carney says. People
should be allowed to choose, he said.'

To choose what's
true?'

'He doesn't clean
his teeth properly, either,' said Sacharissa. 'I mean, I'm not one of those
people who think cleanliness is next to godliness, but there are limits.'*

Dibbler shook his
head sadly. 'I'm losin' my touch,' he said. 'Imagine - me, working for someone?
I must've been mad. It's the cold weather getting to me, that's what it is.
Even . . . wages,' he said the word with a shudder, 'looked attractive. D'you
know,' he added, in a horrified voice, 'he was telling me what to do? Next time
I'll have a quiet lie-down until the feeling goes away.'

'You are an
immoral opportunist, Mr Dibbler,' said William.

'It's worked so
far.'

'Can you sell some
advertising for us?' said Sacharissa.

'I'm not going to
work for anyone ag--'

'On commission,'
snapped Sacharissa.

'What? You want to
employ him?' said William.

'Why not? You can
tell as many lies as you like if it's advertising. That's allowed,' said
Sacharissa. 'Please? We need the money!'

'Commission, eh?'
said Dibbler, rubbing his unshaven chin. 'Like . . . fifty per cent for you two
and fifty per cent for me, too?'

'We'll discuss it,
shall we?' said Goodmountain, patting him on the shoulder. Dibbler winced. When
it came to hard bargaining, dwarfs were diamond-tipped.

'Have I got a
choice?' he mumbled.

Goodmountain
leaned forward.  His  beard was bristling.  He

* Classically,
very few people have considered that cleanliness is next to godliness, apart
from in a very sternly abridged dictionary. A rank loincloth and hair in an
advanced state of matted entanglement have generally been the badges of office
of prophets whose injunction to disdain earthly things starts with soap.

235

wasn't currently holding a weapon but Dibbler could see,
as it were, the great big axe that wasn't there.

'Absolutely,' he
said.

'Oh,' said
Dibbler. 'So . . . what would I be selling, exactly?'

'Space,' said
Sacharissa.

Dibbler beamed
again. 'Just space? Nothing? Oh, I can do that. I can sell nothing like
anything]' He shook his head sadly. 'It's only when I try to sell something
that everything goes wrong.'

'How did you come
to be here, Mr Dibbler?' William asked.

He was not happy
with the answer.

'That sort of
thing could work both ways,' he said. 'You can't just dig into other people's
property!' He glared at the dwarfs. 'Mr Boddony, I want that hole blocked up
right now, understand?'

'We only--'

'Yes, yes, you did
it for the best. And now I want it bricked up, properly. I want the hole to
look as though it has never been there, thank you. I don't want anyone coming
up the cellar ladder that didn't climb down it. Right now, please!

'I think I'm on to
a real story,' said William, as the disgruntled dwarfs filed away. 'I think I'm
going to see Wuffles. I've got--'

As he pulled out
his notebook something dropped on to the floor with a tinkle.

'Oh, yes . . . and
I got the key to our town house,' he said. 'You wanted a dress

'It's a bit late,'
said Sacharissa. 'I'd forgotten all about it, to tell the truth.'

'Why not go and
have a look while everyone else is busy? You could take Rocky, too. You know .
. . to be on the safe side. But the place is empty. My father stays at his club
if he has to come to town. Go on. There's got to be more to life than
correcting copy.'

Sacharissa looked
uncertainly at the key in her hand.

'My sister has
quite a lot of dresses,' said William. 'You want to go to the ball, don't you?'

'I suppose Mrs
Hotbed could alter it for me if I take it to her in the morning,' said
Sacharissa, expressing mildly peeved reluctance while her body language begged
to be persuaded.

236

'That's right,'
said William. 'And I'm sure you can find someone to do your hair properly.'

Sacharissa's eyes
narrowed. 'It's true, you know, you have got an amazing way with words,' she
said. 'What are you going to do?'

'I'm going,' said
William, 'to see a dog about a man.'

Sergeant Angua
peered up at Vimes through the steam from the bowl in front of her.

'Sorry about this,
sir,' she said.

'His feet won't
touch the ground,' said Vimes.

'You can't arrest
him, sir,' said Captain Carrot, putting a fresh towel over Angua's head.

'Oh? Can't arrest
him for assaulting an officer, eh?'

'Well, that's
where it gets tricky, doesn't it, sir?' said Angua.

'You're an
officer, sergeant, whatever shape you happen to be currently in!'

'Yes, but. . .
it's always been a bit convenient to let the werewolf thing stay a rumour,
sir,' said Carrot. 'Don't you think so? Mr de Worde writes things down. Angua
and I aren't particularly keen on that. Those who need to know, know.'

Then I'll ban him
from doing it!'

'How, sir?'

Vimes looked a
little deflated. 'You can't tell me that as commander of police I can't stop
some little ti-- some idiot from writing down anything he likes?'

'Oh, no, sir. Of
course you can. But I'm not sure you can stop him writing down that you stopped
him writing things down,' said Carrot.

'I'm amazed.
Amazed! She's your . . . your--'

'Friend,' said
Angua, taking another deep sniff of the steam. 'But Carrot's right, Mister
Vimes. I don't want this going any further. It was my fault for underestimating
him. I walked right into it. I'll be fine in an hour or two.'

'I saw what you
were like when you came in,' said Vimes. 'You were a mess.'

'It was a shock.
The nose just shuts down. It was like walking around a corner and running into
Foul Ole Ron.'

237

'Ye gods! That
bad?'

'Maybe not quite
as bad as that. Let it lie, sir. Please.'

'He's a quick
learner, our Mr de Worde,' said Vimes, sitting down at his desk. 'He's got a
pen and a printing press and everyone acts like he's suddenly a major player.
Well, he's going to have to learn a bit more. He doesn't want us watching?
Well, we won't, any more. He can reap what he sows for a while. We've got more
than enough other things to do, heavens know.'

'But he is
technically--'

'See this sign on
my desk, captain? See it, sergeant? It says Commander Vimes . That
means the buck starts here. It was a command you just got. Now, what else is
new?'

Carrot nodded.
'Nothing good, sir. No one's found the dog. The Guilds are all battening down.
Mr Scrope has been getting a lot of visitors. Oh, and High Priest Ridcully is
telling everyone that he thinks Lord Vetinari went mad because the day before
he'd been telling him about a plan to make lobsters fly through the air.'

'Lobsters flying
through the air,' said Vimes flatly.

'And something
about sending ships by semaphore, sir.'

'Oh, dear. And
what is Mr Scrope saying?'

'Apparently he
says he's looking forward to a new era in our history and will put Ankh-Morpork
back on the path of responsible citizenship, sir.'

'Is that the same
as the lobsters?'

'It's political,
sir. Apparently he wants a return to the values and traditions that made the
city great, sir.'

'Does he know what
those values and traditions were?' said Vimes, aghast.

'I assume so,
sir,' said Carrot, keeping a straight face.

'Oh my gods. I'd
rather take a chance on the lobsters.'

It was sleeting
again, out of a darkening sky. The Misbegot Bridge was more or less empty;
William lurked in the shadows, his hat pulled down over his eyes.

Eventually a voice
out of nowhere said, 'So . . . you got your bit of paper?'

'Deep Bone?' said
William, startled out of the reverie.

238

I'm sending a . .
. a guide for you to follow,' said the hidden informant. 'Name of. . . name of
. . . Trixiebell. Just you follow him and everything will be okay. Ready?'

'Yes.'

Deep Bone is
watching me, William thought. He must be really close.

Trixiebell trotted
out of the shadows.

It was a poodle.
More or less.

The staff at Le
Foil du Chien, the doggie beauty salon, had done their very best, and a
craftsman will give of his or her all if it means getting Foul Ole Ron out of
the shop any faster. They'd cut, blown, permed, crimped, primped, coloured,
woven, shampooed, and the manicurist had locked herself in the lavatory and
refused to come out.

The result was . .
. pink. The pinkness was only one aspect of the thing, but it was so . . . pink
that it dominated everything else, even the topiary-effect tail with the fluffy
knob on the end. The front of the dog looked as though it had been fired
through a large pink ball and had only got halfway. Then there was also the
matter of the large glittery collar. It glittered altogether too much;
sometimes glass glitters more than diamonds because it has more to prove.

All in all, the
effect was not of a poodle but of malformed poodleosity. That is to say, everything
about it suggested 'poodle' except for the whole thing itself, which suggested
walking away.

'Yip,' it said,
and there was something wrong with this, too. William was aware that dogs like
this yipped, but this one, he was sure, had said 'yip'.

There's a good . .
.' he began, and finished '. . . dog?'

'Yip yipyip sheesh
yip,' said the dog, and walked off.

William wondered
about the 'sheesh', but decided the dog must have sneezed.

It trotted away
through the slush and disappeared down an alley.

A moment later its
muzzle appeared around the corner.

'Yip? Whine?'

'Oh, yes. Sorry,'
said William.

Trixiebell led the
way down greasy steps to the old path that ran

239

along the riverside. It was littered with rubbish, and
anything that stays thrown away in Ankh-Morpork is real rubbish. The sun seldom
got down here, even on a fine day. The shadows contrived to be freezing and
running with water at the same time.

Nevertheless,
there was a fire among the dark timbers under the bridge. William realized, as
his nostrils shut down, that he was visiting the Canting Crew.

The old towpath
had been deserted to start with, but Foul Ole Ron and the rest of them were the
reason that it stayed that way. They had nothing to steal. They had precious
little even to keep. Occasionally the Beggars' Guild considered running them
out of town, but without much enthusiasm. Even beggars need someone to look
down on, and the crew were so far down that in a certain light they sometimes
appeared to be on top. Besides, the Guild recognized craftsmanship when they
saw it; no one could spit and ooze like Coffin Henry, no one could be as
legless as Arnold Sideways and nothing in the world could smell like Foul Ole
Ron. He could have used oil of scallatine as a deodorant.

And, as that
thought tripped through William's brain, he knew where Wuffles was. I

Trixiebell's
ridiculous pink tail disappeared into the mass of old packing cases and
cardboard known variously to the crew as 'What?', 'Bugrit!', Ttooi!' and Home.

William's eyes
were already watering. There wasn't much breeze down here. He made his way to
the pool of firelight.

'Oh . . . good
evening, gentlemen,' he managed, nodding to the figures around the green-edged
flames.

'Let's see the
colour of your bit of paper,' commanded the voice of Deep Bone, from out of the
shadows.

'It's, er,
off-white,' said William, unfolding the cheque. It was taken by the Duck Man,
who scanned it carefully and added noticeably to its off-whiteness.

'It seems to be in
order. Fifty dollars, signed,' he said. 'I have explained the concept to my
associates, Mr de Worde. It was not easy, I have to tell you.'

'Yeah, and if you
don't put up we'll come to your house!' said Coffin Henry.

240

'Er . . . and do
what?' said William.

'Stand outside for
ever and ever and ever!' said Arnold Sideways.

'Lookin' at people
in a funny way,' said the Duck Man.

'Gobbin' on their
boots!' said Coffin Henry.

William tried not
to think about Mrs Arcanum. He said: 'Now can I see the dog?'

'Show him, Ron,'
commanded the voice of Deep Bone.

Ron's heavy coat
fell open, revealing Wuffles blinking in the firelight.

'You had him?'
said William. That was all there was to it?'

'Bugrit!'

'Who's going to
search Foul Ole Ron?' said Deep Bone.

'Good point,' said
William. 'Very good point. Or smell him out.'

'Now, you got to
remember he's old,' said Deep Bone. 'An' he wasn't exactly Mr Brain to start
with. I mean, we're talkin' dogs here - not talking dogs,' said the voice
hurriedly, 'but talking about dogs, I mean - so don't expect a philosophical
treatise, is what I'm sayin'.'

Wuffles begged
geriatrically when he saw William looking at him.

'How did he come
to be with you?' said William as Wuffles sniffed his hand.

'He came running
out of the palace straight under Ron's coat,' said Deep Bone.

'Which is, as you
point out, the last place anyone would look,' said William.

'You'd better
believe it,'

'And not even a
werewolf would find him there.' William took out his notebook, turned to a
fresh page, and wrote: 'Wuffles,' He said, 'How old is he?'

Wuffles barked.

'Sixteen,' said
Deep Bone. 'Is that important?'

'It's a newspaper
thing,' said William. He wrote: 'Wuffles (16), formerly of The Palace,
Ankh-Morpork,'

I'm interviewing a
dog, he thought. Man Interviews Dog. That's nearly news.

'So . . . er,
Wuffles, what happened before you ran out of the palace?' he said.

241

Deep Bone, from
his hiding place, whined and growled. Wuffles cocked an ear and then growled
back.

'He woke up and
experienced a moment of horrible philosophical uncertainty,' said Deep Bone.

'I thought you
said--'

'I'm translating
right? And this was on account of there being two Gods in the room. That's two
Lord Vetinaris, Wuffles being an old-fashioned kind of dog. But he knew one was
wrong because he smelled wrong. And there were two other men. And then--'

William scribbled
furiously.

Twenty seconds
later Wuffles bit him hard on the ankle.

The clerk in Mr
Slant's front office looked down from his high desk at the two visitors,
sniffed and carried on with his laborious copperplate. He did not have a lot of
time for the notion of customer service. The Law could not be hurried--

A moment later his
head was rammed into the desktop and held down by some enormous weight.

Mr Pin's face
appeared in his limited vision.

'I said,' said Mr
Pin, 'that Mr Slant wants to see us . . .'

'Sngh,' said the
clerk. Mr Pin nodded and the pressure was relieved slightly.

'Sorry? You were
saying?' said Mr Pin, watching the man's hand creep along the edge of the desk.

'He's . . . not .
. . seeing . . . anyone . . .' The words ended in a muffled yelp.

Mr Pin leaned
down. 'Sorry about the fingers,' he said, 'but we can't have them naughty
little things creeping to that little lever there, can we? No telling what
might happen if you pulled that lever. Now . . . which one's Mr Slant's
office?'

'Second . . . door
. . . on . . . left. . .' the man groaned.

'See? It's so much
nicer when we're polite. And in a week, two at the outside, you'll be able to
pick up a pen again.' Mr Pin nodded to Mr Tulip, who let the man go. He
slithered to the floor.

'You want I should
--ing scrag him?'

'Leave him,' said
Mr Pin. 'I think I'm going to be nice to people today.'

242

He had to hand it
to Mr Slant. When the New Firm stepped into his office the lawyer looked up and
his expression barely flickered.

'Gentlemen?' he
said.

'Don't press a
--ing thing,' said Mr Tulip.

'There's something
you should know,' said Mr Pin, pulling a box out of his jacket.

'And what is
that?' said Mr Slant.

Mr Pin flicked a
catch on the side of the box.

'Let's hear about
yesterday,' he said.

The imp blinked.

'. . . nyip . . .
nyapnyip . . . nyapdit . . . nyip . . .' it said.

'It's just working
its way backwards,' said Mr Pin.

'What is this?'
said the lawyer.

'. . . nyapnyip .
. . sipnyap . . . nip . . . is valuable, Mr Pin. So I will not spin this out.
What did you do with the dog? Mr Pin's finger touched another lever. '. . .
wheedlewheedle whee . . . My . . . clients have long memories and deep pockets.
Other killers can be hired. Do you understand me?

There was a tiny
'Ouch' as the Off lever hit the imp on the head.

Mr Slant got up
and walked across to an ancient cabinet.

'Would you like a
drink, Mr Pin? I am afraid I have only embalming fluid

'Not yet, Mr
Slant.'

'. . . and I think
I probably have a banana somewhere

Mr Slant turned,
smiling beatifically, at the sound of the smack of Mr Pin catching Mr Tulip's
arm.

'I told you I'm
gonna --ing kill him--'

'Too late, alas,'
said the lawyer, sitting down again. 'Very well, Mr Pin. This is about money,
is it?'

'All we're owed,
plus another fifty thousand.'

'But you haven't
found the dog.'

'Nor have the
Watch. And they've got a werewolf. Everyone's looking for the dog. The dog's
gone. But that doesn't matter. This little box matters.'

'That is very
little in the way of evidence

'Really? You
asking us about the dog? Talking about killers? I reckon that Vimes character
will niggle away at something like

243

that. He doesn't sound like the sort to let things go.' Mr
Pin smiled humourlessly. 'You've got stuff on us but, well, between you and
me,' he leaned closer, 'some of the things we've done might be considered,
well, tantamount to crimes--'

'All them --ing
murders, for a start,' said Mr Tulip, nodding.

'Which, since we
are criminals, could be called typical behaviour. Whereas,' Pin went on,
'you're a respectable citizen. Doesn't look good, respectable citizens getting
involved in this sort of thing. People talk.'

'To save . . .
misunderstandings,' said Mr Slant, 'I will do you a draft of--'

'Jewels,' said Mr
Pin.

'We like jewels,'
said Mr Tulip.

'You have made
copies of that . . . thing?' said Slant.

'I'm not saying
anything,' said Mr Pin, who hadn't and didn't even know how. But he took the
view that Mr Slant was in no position to be other than cautious, and it looked
as though Mr Slant thought so too.

'I wonder if I can
trust you?' said Mr Slant, as if to himself.

'Well, you see,
it's like this,' said Mr Pin, as patiently as he could. His head was feeling
worse. 'If news got around that we'd shopped a client, that wouldn't be good.
People would say, you can't trust a person of that kind of ilk. They do not
know how to behave. But if the people we deal with heard we'd scragged a client
because the client had not played fair, then they would say to themselves,
these are businessmen. They are businesslike. They do business

He stopped and
looked at the shadows in the corner of the room.

'And?' said Mr
Slant.

'And . . . and . .
. the hell with this,' said Mr Pin, blinking and shaking his head. 'Give us the
jewels, Slant, or Mr Tulip'll do the asking, understand? We're getting out of
here, with your damn dwarfs and vampires and trolls and dead men walking. This
city gives me the creeps! So give me the diamonds! Right now!'

'Very well,' said
Mr Slant. 'And the imp?'

'It goes with us.
We get caught, it gets caught. We die mysteriously, then . . . some people find
out about things. When we are

244

safely away . . . you're in no position to argue, Slant.'
Mr Pin shuddered. 1 am not having a good day!'

Mr Slant pulled
open a desk drawer and tossed three small velvet bags on to the leather top. Mr
Pin mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

'Take a look at
'em, Mr Tulip.'

There was a pause
while both men watched Mr Tulip pour the gems into one enormous palm. He
scrutinized several through an eyeglass. He sniffed at them. He gingerly licked
one or two.

Then he picked
four out of the heap and tossed them back to the lawyer.

'You think I'm
some kind of a --ing idiot?' he said.

'Don't even think
of arguing,' said Mr Pin.

'Perhaps the
jewellers made a mistake,' said Mr Slant.

'Yeah?' said Mr
Pin. His hand darted into his jacket again, but this time came out holding a
weapon.

Mr Slant looked
into the muzzle of a spring-gonne. It was technically and legally a crossbow,
in that human strength compressed the spring, but it had been reduced by
patient technology to a point where it was more or less a pipe with a handle
and a trigger. Anyone caught with one by the Assassins' Guild, it was rumoured,
would find its ability to be hidden on the human body tested to extremes; any
city watch that found one used against them would see to it that the offender's
feet did not touch the ground but instead swung gently as the breeze pushed
them around.

There must have
been a switch in this desk, too. A door flew open and two men burst in, one
armed with two long knives, one with a crossbow.

It was quite
horrible, what Mr Tulip did to them.

It was, in its
way, a kind of skill. When an armed man runs into a room in the knowledge that
there is trouble he needs a fraction of a second to assess, to decide, to
calculate, to think. Mr Tulip didn't need a fraction of a second. He didn't
think. His hands moved by themselves.

It required, even
for the calculating eyes of Mr Slant, a mental action replay. And even in the
slow-mo of horror, it was hard to see Mr Tulip grab the nearest chair and swing
it. At the end of the blur

245

two men lay unconscious, one with an arm twisted in a
disconcerting way, and a knife was shuddering in the ceiling.

Mr Pin hadn't
turned round. He kept the gonne pointed at the zombie. But he produced from a
pocket a small cigarette lighter in the shape of a dragon, and then Mr Slant .
. . Mr Slant, who crackled when he walked and smelled of dust . . . Mr Slant
saw, wrapped around the evil little bolt that just projected from the tube, a
wad of cloth.

Without taking his
eyes off the lawyer Mr Pin applied the flame. The cloth flared. And Mr Slant
was very dry indeed.

This is a bad
thing I'm about to do,' Pin said, as if hypnotized. 'But I've done so many bad
things, this one'll hardly count. It's like . . . a killing is a big thing, but
another killing, that's kind of half the size. You know? So it's, like, when
you've done twenty killings, they barely notice, on average. But . . . it's a
nice day today, the birds is singing, there's stuff like . . . kittens and
stuff, and the sun is shining off the snow, bringin' the promise of spring to
come, with flowers, and fresh grass, and more kittens and hot summer days an'
the gentle kiss of the rain and wonderful clean things which you won't ever see
if you don't give us what's in that drawer 'cos you'll burn like a torch you
double-dealing twisty dried-up cheating son of a bitch!'

Mr Slant scrabbled
in the drawer and threw down another velvet bag. Glancing nervously at his
partner, who'd never even mentioned kittens before except in the same sentence
as 'water barrel', Mr Tulip took it and examined the contents.

'Rubies,' he said.
'--ing good ones.'

'Now go away from
here,' rasped Mr Slant. 'Right away. Never come back. I've never heard of you.
I've never seen you.'

He stared at the
spluttering flame.

Mr Slant had faced
many bad things in the last few hundred years, but right now nothing seemed
more menacing than Mr Pin. Or more erratically deranged, either. The man was
swaying, and his gaze kept flickering into the shadowy corners of the room.

Mr Tulip shook his
partner's shoulder. 'Let's --ing scrag him and go?' he suggested.

Pin blinked.
'Right,' he said, appearing to return to his own head. 'Right.' He glanced at
the zombie. 'I think I shall let you live today,'

246

he said, blowing out the flame. 'Tomorrow . . . who
knows?'

It wasn't a bad
threat, but somehow his heart wasn't in it.

Then the New Firm
had gone.

Mr Slant sat down
and stared at the closed door. It was clear to him, and a dead man has
experience in these matters, that his two armed clerks, veterans of many a
legal battle, were beyond help. Mr Tulip was an expert.

He took a sheet of
writing paper from a drawer, wrote a few words in block letters, sealed it in
an envelope and sent for another clerk.

'Have arrangements
made,' he said, when the man stared at his fallen colleagues, 'and then take
this to de Worde.'

'Which one, sir?'

For a moment Mr
Slant had forgotten that point.

'Lord de Worde,'
he said. 'Definitely not the other one.'

William de Worde
turned a page in his notebook and continued to scribble. The crew were watching
him as if he was a public entertainment.

That's a grand
gift you have there, sur,' said Arnold Sideways. 'It does the heart good to see
the pencil waggling like that. I wish I had the knowing of it, but I've never
been mechanical.'

'Would you care
for a cup of tea?' said the Duck Man.

'You drink tea
down here?'

'Of course. Why
not? What kind of people do you think we are?' The Duck Man held up a blackened
teapot and a rusty mug with an inviting smile.

It was probably a
good moment to be polite, thought William. Besides, the water would have been
boiled, wouldn't it?

'. . . no milk,
though,' he said quickly. He could imagine what the milk would be like.

'Ah, I said you
were a gentleman,' said the Duck Man, pouring a tarry brown liquid into the
mug. 'Milk in tea is an abomination.' He picked up, with a dainty gesture, a
plate and pair of tongs. 'Slice of lemon?' he added.

'Lemon? You have
lemon?'

'Oh, even Mr Ron
here would rather wash under his arms than

247

have anything but lemon in his tea,' said the Duck Man,
plopping a slice into William's mug.

'And four sugars,'
said Arnold Sideways.

William took a
deep draught of the tea. It was thick and stewed, but it was also sweet and
hot. And slightly lemony. All in all, he considered, it could have been much
worse.

'Yes, we're very
fortunate when it comes to slices of lemon,' said the Duck Man, busily fussing
over the tea things. 'Why, it is indeed a bad day when we can't find two or
three slices floating down the river.'

William stared
fixedly at the river wall.

Spit or swallow,
he thought, the eternal conundrum.

'Are you all
right, Mr de Worde?'

'Mmf.'

'Too much sugar?'

'Mmf,'

'Not too hot?'

William gratefully
sprayed the tea in the direction of the river.

'Ah!' he said.
'Yes! Too hot! That's what it was! Too hot! Lovely tea but - too hot! I'll just
put the rest down here by my foot to cool down, shall I?'

He snatched up his
pencil and pad.

'So . . . er,
Wuffles, which man was it that you bit on the leg?'

Wuffles barked.

'He bit all of
them,' said the voice of Deep Bone. 'When you're biting, why stop?'

'Would you know
them if you bit them again?'

'He says he would.
He says the big man tasted of . . . you know . . .' Deep Bone paused, 'like a .
. . wossname . . . big, big bowl with hot water and soap in it.'

'A bath?'

Wuffles growled.

'That'd . . . be
the word,' said Deep Bone. 'An' the other one smelled of cheap hair oil. And
the one who looked like G-- like Lord Vetinari, he smelled of wine,'

'Wine?'

'Yes. Wuffles also
says he'd like to apologize for biting you just

248

now, but he got carried away with the recollection. We--
that is to say, dogs have very physical memories, if you see what I mean,'

William nodded and
rubbed his leg. The description of the invasion of the Oblong Office had been
carried out in a succession of yelps, barks and growls, with Wuffles running
around in circles and snapping at his own tail until he bumped into William's
ankle.

'And Ron's been
carrying him around in his coat ever since?'

'No one bothers
Foul Ole Ron,' said Deep Bone.

'I believe you,'
said William. He nodded at Wuffles.

'I want to get an
iconograph of him,' he said. This is . . . amazing stuff. But we must have a
picture to prove I've really talked to Wuffles. Well . . . via an interpreter,
obviously. I wouldn't want people to think this is one of the Inquirer's stupid
talking dog stories . . .'

There was some
muttering amongst the crew. The request was not being favourably received.

This is a select
neighbourhood, you know,' said the Duck Man. 'We don't allow just anybody down
here,'

'But there's a
path running right under the bridge!' said William. 'Anyone could walk right
past!'

'Werll, yerss,'
said Coffin Henry. They could.' He coughed and spat with great expertise into
the fire. 'Only they don't no more.'

'Bugrit,'
explained Foul Ole Ron. 'Choking a tinker? Garn! I told 'em. Millennium hand
and shrimp!'

Then you'd better
come back to the office with me,' said William. 'After all, you've been
carrying him around while you've been selling the papers, haven't you?'

Too dangerous
now,' said Deep Bone.

'Would it be less
dangerous for another fifty dollars?' said William.

'Another fifty
dollars?' said Arnold Sideways. That'll make it fifteen dollars!'

'A hundred
dollars,' said William wearily. 'You do realize, don't you, that this is in the
public interest?'

The crew craned
their necks.

'Don't see anyone
watching,' said Coffin Henry.

William stepped
forward, quite accidentally knocking over his tea.

'Come on, then,'
he said.

249

Mr Tulip was
beginning to worry now. This was unusual. In the area of worry, he had tended
to be the cause rather than the recipient. But Mr Pin was not acting right, and
since Mr Pin was the man who did the thinking this was a matter of some
concern. Mr Tulip was good at thinking in split-seconds, and when it came to
art appreciation he could easily think in centuries, but he was not happy over
middle distances. He needed Mr Pin for that.

But Mr Pin was
talking to himself, and kept staring at shadows.

'We'll be heading
off now?' said Mr Tulip, in the hope of directing matters. 'We've got the --ing
payment with a --ing big bonus, no --ing point in hanging around?'

He was also
worried about the way Mr Pin had acted with the --ing lawyer. It wasn't like
him to point a weapon at someone and then not use it. The New Firm didn't go
round threatening people. They were the threat. All that --ing stuff about
'letting you live for today' . . . that was amateur stuff.

'I said, are we
heading--'

'What do you think
happens to people when they die, Tulip?'

Mr Tulip was taken
aback. 'What kind of --ing question is that? You «owwhat happens!'

'Do I?'

'Certainly.
Remember when we had to leave that guy in that --ing barn and it was a week
before we got to bury him properly? Remember how his--'

'I don't mean
bodies!'

'Ah. Religion
stuff, then?'

'Yes!'

'I never worry
about that --ing stuff.'

'Never?'

'Never --ing give
it a thought. I've got my potato.'

Then Mr Tulip
found that he'd walked a few feet alone, because Mr Pin had stopped dead.

'Potato?'

'Oh, yeah. Keep it
on a string round my neck.' Mr Tulip tapped his huge chest.

250

'And that's
religious?'

'Well, yeah. If
you've got your potato when you die, everything will be okay.'

'What religion is
that?'

'Dunno. Never ran
across it outside our village. I was only a kid. I mean, it's like gods, right?
When you're a kid, they say that's God, that is . Then you grow up
and you find there's --ing millions of 'em. Same with religion.'

'And it's all okay
if you have a potato when you die?'

'Yep. You're
allowed to come back and have another life.'

'Even if. . .' Mr
Pin swallowed, for he was in territory which had never before existed on his
internal atlas, '. . . even if you've done things which people might think were
bad?'

'Like chopping up
people and --ing shovin' 'em off cliffs?'

'Yeah, that kind
of thing

Mr Tulip sniffed,
causing his nose to flash. 'We-ell, it's okay so long as you're really --ing
sorry about it.'

Mr Pin was amazed,
and a little suspicious. But he could feel things. . . catching up. There were
faces in the darkness and voices on the cusp of hearing. He dared not turn his
head now, in case he saw anything behind him.

You could buy a
sack of potatoes for a dollar.

'It works?' he
said.

'Sure. Back home
people'd been doing it for hundreds of --ing years. They wouldn't be doing it
if it didn't --ing work, would they?'

'Where was that?'

Mr Tulip tried to
concentrate on this question, but there were many scabs in his memory.

There was . . .
forests,' he said. 'And . . . bright candles,' he muttered. 'An' . . .
secrets,' he added, staring into nothing.

'And potatoes?'

Mr Tulip came back
to the here and now.

'Yeah, them,' he
said. 'Always lots of --ing potatoes. If you've got your potato, it will be all
right.'

'But . . . I
thought you had to pray in deserts and go to a temple every day, and sing
songs, and give stuff to the poor . . . ?'

251

'Oh, you can do
all that too, sure,' said Mr Tulip. 'Just so long as you've got your --ing
potato.'

'And you come back
alive?' said Mr Pin, still trying to find the small print.

'Sure. No point in
coming back dead. Who'd notice the --ing difference?'

Mr Pin opened his
mouth to reply, and Mr Tulip saw his expression change.

'Someone's got
their hand on my shoulder!' he hissed.

'You feeling all
right, Mr Pin?'

'You can't see
anyone?'

'Nope.'

Clenching his
fists, Mr Pin turned round. There were plenty of people in the street, but no
one gave him a second glance.

He tried to
reorganize the jigsaw that his mind was rapidly becoming.

'Okay. Okay,' he
said. 'What we'll do . . . we'll go back to the house, okay, and . . . and
we'll get the rest of the diamonds, and we'll scrag Charlie, and, and . . .
we'll find a vegetable shop . . . any special kind of potato?'

'Nope.'

'Right. . . but
first. . .' Mr Pin stopped, and his mind's ear heard footsteps stop behind him
a moment later. The damn vampire had done something to him, he knew. The
darkness had been like a tunnel, and there had been things . . .

Mr Pin believed in
threats, and in violence, and at a time like this he believed in revenge. An
inner voice that currently passed for sanity was making a clamour, but it was
overruled by a deeper and more automatic response.

'That bloody
vampire did this,' he said. 'And killing a vampire . . . hey . . . that's
practically good, right?' He brightened. Salvation beckoned through Holy Works.
'Everyone knows they have evil occult powers. Could even count in a man's
favour, eh?'

'Yeah. But . . .
who cares?'

'I do.'

'Okay.' Even Mr
Tulip didn't argue with that tone of voice. Mr ,Pin could be inventively
unpleasant. Besides, part of the code was

252

that you did not leave an insult unavenged. Everyone knew
that.

It was just that
nervousness was beginning to percolate even into the
bath-salt-and-worming-powder-ravaged pathways of his own brain. He'd always
admired the way Mr Pin wasn't frightened of difficult things, like long
sentences.

'What'll we use?'
he said. 'A stake?'

'No,' said Mr Pin.
'With this one I want to be certain.'

He lit a
cigarette, with a hand that shook just a little, and then let the match flare
up.

'Ah. Right,' said
Mr Tulip.

'Let's just do
it,' said Mr Pin.

Rocky's brow
furrowed as he looked at the seals nailed around the doors of the de Worde town
house.

'What's dem
things?' he said.

They're to say the
Guilds will interest themselves in anyone who breaks in,' said Sacharissa,
fumbling with the key. 'It's a sort of curse. Only it works.'

'Dat one's the
Assassins?' said the troll, indicating a crude shield with the cloak-and-dagger
and double-cross.

'Yes. It means
there's an automatic contract out on anyone who breaks in.'

'Wouldn't want dem
interested in me. Good job you got a key . . .'

The lock clicked.
The door opened at a push.

Sacharissa had
been in a number of Ankh-Morpork's great houses, when the owners had thrown
parts of them open to the public in aid of some of the more respectable
charities. She hadn't realized how a building could change when people no
longer wanted to live in it. It felt threatening and out of scale. The doorways
were too big, the ceilings too high. The musty, empty atmosphere descended on
her like a headache.

Behind her Rocky
lit a couple of lanterns. But even their light left her surrounded by shadows.

At least the main
staircase wasn't hard to find, and William's hasty directions led her to a
suite of rooms bigger than her house.

253

The wardrobe, when
she found it, was simply a room full of rails and hangers.

Things glittered
in the gloom. The dresses also smelled strongly of mothballs.

'Dat's
interestin',' said Rocky, behind her.

'Oh, it's just to
keep the moths away,' said Sacharissa.

'I'm lookin' at
all the footprints,' said the troll. 'Dey were in the hall, too.'

She tore her gaze
away from the rows of dresses and looked down. The dust was certainly
disturbed.

'Er . . . cleaning
lady?' she said. 'Someone must come in to keep an eye on things?'

'What she do, kick
der dust to death?'

'I suppose there
must be . . . caretakers and things?' said Sacharissa uncertainly. A blue dress
was saying: wear me, I'm just your type. See me shimmer.

Rocky prodded a
box of mothballs that had spilled out across a dressing table and rolled into
the dust.

'Looks like dem
moths are really keen on dese things,' he said.

'You don't think a
dress like this would be a bit . . . forward, do you?' said Sacharissa, holding
the dress against herself.

Rocky looked
worried. He hadn't been hired for his dress sense, and certainly not for his
grasp of colloquial Middle Class.

'You're quite a
lot forward already,' he opined.

'I meant make me
look like a fast woman!'

'Ah, right,' said
Rocky, getting there. 'No. Def'nitly not.'

'Really?'

'Sure. No one
could run much in a dress like dat.'

Sacharissa gave
up. 'I suppose Mrs Hotbed could let it out a bit,' she said, reflectively. It
was tempting to stay, because some of the racks were quite full, but she felt
like a trespasser here and part of her was certain that a woman with hundreds
of dresses was more likely to miss one than a woman with a dozen or so. In any
case, the empty darkness was getting on her nerves. It was full of other
people's ghosts. 'Let's get back.'

When they were
halfway across the hall someone started to sing. The words were incoherent and
the tune was being modulated by

254

alcohol, but it was singing of a sort and it was under
their feet.

Rocky shrugged
when Sacharissa glanced at him.

'Maybe all dem
moths is having a ball?' he said.

There must be a
caretaker, mustn't there? Maybe we'd better just, you know, mention we've been
here?' Sacharissa agonized. It hardly seems polite, just taking things and
running

She headed for a
green door tucked away beside the staircase and pushed it open. The singing
went louder for a moment but stopped as soon as she said, 'Excuse me?' into the
darkness.

After a few
moments' silence a voice said: 'Hello! How are you? I'm fine!'

'It's only, er,
me? William said it was all right?' She presented the statement like a
question, in the voice of someone who was apologizing to a burglar for
discovering him.

'Mr Mothball Nose?
Whoops!' said the voice in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs.

'Er . . . are you
all right?'

'Can't get . . .
it's a . . . hahaha . . . it's all chains . . . hahaha . . .'

'Are you . . .
ill?'

'No, I'm fine, not
ill at all, jus' had a few too many

'Few too many
what?' said Sacharissa, speaking from a sheltered upbringing.

'. . . wazza . . .
things you put drink in . . . barrels?'

'You're drunk!'

'Tha's right!
Tha's the word! Drunk as a . . . thing . . . smellything . . . ahahaha . . .'

There was a tinkle
of glass.

The lantern's weak
glow showed what looked like a wine cellar, but a man was slumped on a bench
against one wall and a chain ran from his ankle to a ring set in the floor.

'Are you . . . a
prisoner?' said Sacharissa.

'Ahaha

'How long have you
been down here?' She crept down.

'Years . . '

'Years?'

'Got lots of years
. . .' The man picked up a bottle and peered at it. 'Now . . . Year of the
Amending Camel . . . that was

255

bloodigoodyear . . . and this one . . . Year of the
Translated Rat . . . another bloodigoodyear . . . bloodigoodyears, the lot of
them. Could do with a biscuit, though.'

Sacharissa's
knowledge of vintages extended just as far as knowing that Chateau Maison was a
very popular wine. But people didn't have to be chained up to drink wine, even
the stuff from Ephebe that stuck the glass to the table.

She moved a little
closer and the light fell on the man's face. It was locked in the grin of the
seriously drunk, but it was very recognizable. She saw it every day, on coins.

'Er. . . Rocky,'
she said. 'Er. . . can you come down here a minute?'

The door burst
open and the troll came down the steps at speed. Unfortunately, it was because
he was rolling.

Mr Tulip appeared at
the top of the stairs, massaging his fist.

'It's Mr Sneezy!'
said Charlie, raising a bottle. The gang's all here! Whoopee!'

Rocky got up,
weaving slightly. Mr Tulip strolled down the steps, ripping out the doorpost as
he passed. The troll raised his fists in the classic boxer's pose, but Mr Tulip
didn't bother with niceties of that kind and hit him hard with the length of
ancient wood. Rocky went over like a tree.

Only then did the
huge man with the revolving eyes try to focus them on Sacharissa.

'Who the --ing
hell are you?'

'Don't you dare
swear at me!' she said. 'How dare you swear in the presence of a lady!'

This seemed to
nonplus him. 'I don't --ing swear!'

'Here, I've seen
you before, you're that-- I knew you weren't a proper virgin!' said Sacharissa
triumphantly.

There was the
click of a crossbow. Some tiny sounds carry well and have considerable stopping
power.

'There are some
thoughts too dreadful to think,' said the skinny man looking at her from the
top of the steps and down the length of a pistol bow. 'What are you doing here,
lady?'

'And you were
Brother Pin! You haven't got any right here! I've got a key!' Some areas of
Sacharissa's mind that dealt with things like death and terror were signalling
to be heard at this point, but,

256

being part of Sacharissa, they were trying to do it in a
ladylike way, and so she ignored them.

'A key?' said
Brother Pin, advancing down the stairs. The bow stayed pointing at her. Even in
his current state of mind, Mr Pin knew how to aim. 'Who'd give you a key?'

'Don't you come
near me! Don't you dare come near me! If you come near me I'll - I'll write it
down!'

'Yeah? Well, one
thing I know is, words don't hurt,' said Mr Pin. 'I've heard lots of--'

He stopped and
grimaced, and for a moment it looked as if he'd fall to his knees. He righted
himself and focused on her again.

'You are coming
with us,' he said. 'An' don't say you're going to scream, because we're all
alone here and I've . . . heard . . . lots . . . of. . . screams . . .'

Once again he seemed
to run down, and again he recovered. Sacharissa stared in horror at the weaving
crossbow. Those parts of her advocating silence as a survival aid had finally
made themselves heard.

'What about these
two?' said Mr Tulip. 'We're scragging 'em now?'

'Chain them up and
leave them.'

'But we always--'

'Leave them!'

'You sure you feel
all right?' said Mr Tulip.

'No! I don't! Just
leave them, okay? We haven't got time!'

'We've got lots
of--'

'I haven't!' Mr
Pin strode up to Sacharissa. 'Who gave you that key?'

'I'm not going
to--'

'Do you want Mr
Tulip here to say goodbye to our drunken friends?' In his buzzing head, and
with his shaky grasp of how things were supposed to work in a moral universe,
Mr Pin reckoned that this was all right. After all, their shadows would follow
Mr Tulip, not him . . .

'This house
belongs to Lord de Worde and his son gave me the key!' said Sacharissa
triumphantly. 'There! He was the one you met at the newspaper! Now you know
what you've got yourself into, eh?'

Mr Pin stared at
her.

257

Then he said, 'I'm
going to find out. Don't run. Really don't scream. Walk normally and
everything--' He paused. I was going to say it will be all right,' he said.
'But that would be silly, wouldn't it. . . ?'

It wasn't fast,
going through the streets with the crew. To them the world was a permanent
theatre, art gallery, music hall, restaurant and spittoon, and in any case no
member of the crew would dream of going anywhere in a straight line.

The poodle
Trixiebell accompanied them, keeping as close to the centre of the group as
possible. Of Deep Bone there was no sign. William had offered to carry Wuffles,
because in a way he felt he owned him. A hundred dollars' worth of him, at
least. It was a hundred dollars he hadn't got but, well, surely tomorrow's
edition would pay for that. And anyone after the dog now surely wouldn't try
anything out here on the street, in broad daylight, especially since it was
barely narrow daylight now. Clouds filled the sky like old eiderdowns, the fog
that was descending was meeting the river mist coming up, and the light was
draining out of everything.

He tried to think
of the headline. He couldn't quite get a grip on it yet. There was too much to
say, and he wasn't good at getting the huge complexities of the world into
fewer than half a dozen words. Sacharissa was better at it, because she treated
words as lumps of letters that could be hammered together any old how. Her best
one had been on some tedious inter-Guild squabble and, in single column, read:

PROBE

INTO

SHOCK

GUILD

RUMPUS

258

William just
wasn't used to the idea of evaluating words purely in terms of their length,
whereas she'd picked up the habit in two days. He'd already had to stop her
calling Lord Vetinari CITY BOSS. It was technically correct that if you spent
some time with a thesaurus you could arrive at that description, and it did fit
in a single column, but the sight of the words had made William feel extremely
exposed.

It was
self-absorption like this that allowed him to walk into the printing shed, with
the crew tagging along, and not notice anything wrong until he saw the
expression on the faces of the dwarfs.

'Ah, our writer
man,' said Mr Pin, stepping forward. 'Shut the door, Mr Tulip.'

Mr Tulip slammed
the door with one hand. The other was clamped over Sacharissa's mouth. She
rolled her eyes at William.

'And you've
brought me the little doggie,' said Mr Pin. Wuffles started to growl as he
approached. William backed away.

'The Watch will be
here soon,' said William. Wuffles still growled, on a rising note.

'Doesn't worry me
now,' said Mr Pin. 'Not with what I know. Not with who I know. Where's the damn
vampire?'

'I don't know!
He's not always with us!' snapped William.

'Really? In that
case let me retort!' said Mr Pin, his pistol bow inches from William's face.
'If it doesn't arrive within two minutes I will--'

Wuffles leapt out
of William's arms. His bark was the frantic whurwhur of a small dog mad with
fury. Pin reared back, one arm raised to protect his face. The bow fired. The
arrow hit one of the lamps over the press. The lamp exploded.

A cloud of burning
oil rained down. It splattered across type metal and old rocking horses and
dwarfs.

Mr Tulip let go of
Sacharissa to help his colleague, and in the slow dance of rushing events
Sacharissa spun round and planted her knee hard and firmly in the place that
made a parsnip a very funny thing indeed.

William grabbed
her on the way past and rushed her out into the freezing air. When he fought
his way back in through the

259

stampeding crew, who had the same instinctive reaction to
fire as they did to soap and water, it was into a room full of burning debris.
Dwarfs were fighting fires in the rubbish. Dwarfs were fighting fires in their
beards. Several were advancing on Mr Tulip, who was on his hands and knees and
throwing up. And Mr Pin was spinning around, flailing at an enraged Wuffles,
who was managing to growl while sinking his teeth into Pin's arm all the way to
the bone.

William cupped his
hands. 'Get out right now!' he yelled. 'The tins!'

One or two dwarfs
heard him, and looked around at the shelves of old paint tins just as the first
one blew off its lid.

The tins were
ancient, no more now than rust held together with chemical sludge. Several
others were starting to burn.

Mr Pin danced
across the floor, trying to shake the enraged dog from his arm.

'Get the damn
thing off'f me!' he yelled.

'Forget the --ing
dog, my --ing suit's on fire!' shouted Mr Tulip, flailing at his own sleeve.

A tin of what had
once been enamel paint took off from the blazing mess, spinning with a wzipwzip
noise, and exploded on the press.

William grabbed
Goodmountain's shoulder. 'I said come on!'

'My press! It's on
fire!'

'Better it than
us! Come on\'

It was said of the
dwarfs that they cared more about things like iron and gold than they did about
people, because there was only a limited supply of iron and gold in the world
whereas there seemed to be more and more people everywhere you looked. It was
said mostly by people like Mr Windling.

But they did care
fiercely about things. Without things, people were just bright animals.

The printers
clustered around the doorway, axes at the ready. Choking brown smoke billowed
out. Flames licked out among the roof eaves. Several sections of tin roof
buckled and collapsed.

As they did so a
smouldering ball rocketed out through the door

260

and three dwarfs who took a swipe only just missed hitting
one another.

It was Wuffles.
Patches of fur were still smoking, but his eyes gleamed and he was still
whining and growling.

He let William
pick him up. He had a triumphant air about him, and turned to watch the burning
doorway with his ears cocked.

'That must be it,
then,' said Sacharissa.

'They might have
got out of the back door,' said Goodmountain. 'Boddony, some of you go round
and check, will you?'

'Plucky dog,
this,' said William.

'
Brave would be better,' said Sacharissa distantly. 'It's only five
letters. It would look better in a single-column sidebar. No . . .
Plucky would work, because then we'd get:

PLUCKY DOG PUTS

BITE ON VILLAINS

. . . although
that first line is a bit shy.' 'I wish I could think in headlines,' said
William, shivering.

It was cool and
damp down here in the cellar.

Mr Pin dragged
himself to a corner and slapped at the burns on his suit.

'We're --ing
trapped,' moaned Tulip.

'Yeah? This is
stone,' said Pin. 'Stone floor, stone walls, stone ceiling! Stone doesn't bum,
okay? We just stay nice and calm down here and wait it out.'

Mr Tulip listened
to the sound of the fire above them. Red and yellow light danced on the floor
under the cellar hatchway.

'I don't --ing
like it,' he said.

'We've seen
worse.'

261

'I don't --ing
like it!'

'Just keep cool.
We're going to get out of this. I wasn't born to fry!'

The flames roared
around the press. A few late paint tins pin-wheeled through the heat, spraying
burning droplets.

The fire was
yellow-white at the heart, and now it crackled around the metal formes that
held the type.

Silver beads
appeared around the leaden, inky slugs. Letters shifted, settled, ran together.
For a moment the words themselves floated on the melting metal, innocent words
like 'the' and 'truth' and 'shall make ye fere', and then they were lost. From
the red-hot press, and the wooden boxes, and amongst the racks and racks of
type, and even out of the piles of carefully stockpiled metal, thin streams
began to flow. They met and merged and spread. Soon the floor Was a moving,
rippling mirror in which the orange and yellow flames danced upside down.

On Otto's
workbench the salamanders detected the heat. They liked heat. Their ancestors
had evolved in volcanoes. They woke up and began to purr.

Mr Tulip, walking
up and down the cellar like a trapped animal, picked up one of the cages and
glared at the creatures.

'What're these
--ing things?' he said, and dropped it back on the bench. Then he noticed the
dark jar next to it. 'And why's it --ing got Handle viz Care!!! on
this one?'

The eels were
already edgy. They could detect heat too, and they were creatures of deep caves
and buried, icy streams.

There was a flash
of dark as they protested.

Most of it went
straight through the brain of Mr Tulip. But such as was left of that ragged
organ had survived his every attempt at scrambling and in any case Mr Tulip
didn't use it much, because it hurt such a lot.

But there was a
brief remembrance of snow, and fir woods, and burning buildings, and the
church. They'd sheltered there. He'd been small. He remembered big shining
paintings, more colours than he'd ever seen before . . .

262

He blinked and
dropped the jar.

It shattered on
the floor. There was another burst of dark from the eels. They wriggled
desperately out of the wreckage and slithered along the edge of the wall,
squeezing into the cracks between the stones.

Mr Tulip turned at
a sound behind him. His colleague had collapsed to his knees and was clutching
at his head.

'You all right?'

They're right
behind me!' Pin whispered.

'Nah, just you and
me down here, old friend.'

Mr Tulip patted
Pin on the shoulder. The veins on his forehead stood out with the effort of
thinking of something to do next. The memory had gone. Young Tulip had learned
how to edit memories. What Mr Pin needed, he decided, was to remember the good
times.

'Hey, remember
when Gerhardt the Boot and his lads had us cornered in that --ing cellar in
Quirm?' he said. 'Remember what we did to him afterwards?'

'Yes,' said Mr
Pin, staring at the blank wall. I remember.'

'And that time
with that old man who was in that house in Genua and we didn't --ing know? So
we nailed up the door and--'

'Shut up! Shut
up!'

'Just trying to
look on the --ing bright side.'

'We shouldn't have
killed all those people . . .' Mr Pin whispered, almost to himself.

'Why not?' said Mr
Tulip, but Pin's nervousness had got through to him again. He pulled at the
leather cord around his neck and felt the reassuring lump on the end. A potato
can be a great help in times of trial.

A pattering behind
him made him turn round, and he brightened up.

'Anyway, we're okay
now,' he said. 'Looks like it's --ing raining.'

Silver droplets
were pouring through the cellar hatch.

'That's not
water!' screamed Pin, standing up.

The drops ran
together, became a steady stream. It splashed oddly and mounded up under the
hatch, but more liquid poured on top of it and spread out across the floor.

263

Pin and Tulip
backed against the far wall.

'That's hot lead,'
said Pin. They print their paper with it!'

'How --ing much is
there going to be?'

'Down here? Can't
end up more than a couple of inches, can it?'

At the other side
of the cellar Otto's bench started to smoulder as the pool touched it.

'We need something
to stand on,' said Pin. 'Just while it cools! It won't take long in this
chill!'

'Yeah, but there's
nothing here but us! We're --ing trapped*.'

Mr Pin put his
hand over his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath of air that was already
getting very warm in the soft silver rain.

He opened his eyes
again. Mr Tulip was watching him obediently. Mr Pin was the thinker.

'I've . . . got a
plan,' he said.

'Yeah, good.
Right.'

'My plans are
pretty good, right?'

'Yeah, you come up
with some --ing wonders, I've always said. Like when you said we should twist
the--'

'And I'm always
thinking about the good of the Firm, right?'

'Yeah, sure,
right.'

'So . . . this
plan . . . it's not, like, a perfect plan, but . . . oh, the hell with it. Give
me your potato.'

'What?'

Suddenly Mr Pin's
arm was stretched out, his crossbow an inch from Mr Tulip's neck.

'No time to argue!
Gimme the damn potato right now! This is no time for you to thinkV

Uncertain, but
trusting as ever in Mr Pin's survival abilities in a tight corner, Mr Tulip
pulled the thong of the potato over his head and handed it to Mr Pin.

'Right,' said Mr
Pin, one side of his face beginning to twitch. The way I see it--'

'You better
hurry!' said Mr Tulip. 'It's only a coupla inches away!' '--the way I see it,
I'm a small man, Mr Tulip. You couldn't stand on me. I wouldn't do. You're a
big man, Mr Tulip. I wouldn't want to see you suffer.'

264

And he pulled the
trigger. It was a good shot. 'Sorry,' he whispered, as the lead splashed.
'Sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry. But I wasn't born to fry . . .'

Mr Tulip opened
his eyes.

There was darkness
around him, but with a suggestion of stars overhead behind an overcast sky. The
air was still, but there was distant soughing, as of wind in dead trees.

He waited a while
to see if anything would happen, and then said: 'Anyone --ing there?'

JUST ME, MR TULIP.

Some of the
darkness opened its eyes, and two blue glows looked down at him.

'The --ing bastard
stole my potato. Are you --ing Death?'

JUST DEATH WILL
SUFFICE, I THINK. WHO WERE YOU EXPECTING?

'Eh? For what?'

TO CLAIM YOU AS
ONE OF THEIRS.

'Dunno, really. I
never --ing thought. . .'

YOU NEVER
SPECULATED?

'All I know is,
you got to have your potato, and then it will be all right.' Mr Tulip parroted
the sentence without thinking, but it was coming back now in the total recall
of the dead, from a vantage point of two feet off the ground and three years of
age. Old men mumbling. Old women weeping. Shafts of light through holy windows.
The sound of wind under the doors, and every ear straining to hear the
soldiers. Us or theirs didn't matter, when a war had gone on this long . . .

Death gave the
shade of Mr Tulip a long, cool stare.

AND THAT'S IT?

'Right.'

You DON'T THINK
THERE WERE ANY BITS YOU MIGHT HAVE MISSED?

. . . the sound of
wind under the doors, the smell of the oil lamps, the fresh acid smell of snow,
blowing in through the . . .

'And . . . if I'm
sorry for everything . . .' he mumbled. He was lost in a world of darkness,
without a potato to his name.

. . . candlesticks
. . . they'd been made of gold, hundreds of years ago . . . there were only
ever potatoes to eat, grubbed up from

265

under the snow, but the candlesticks were of gold . . .
and some old woman, she'd said: 'It'll all turn out right if you've got a
potato

WAS ANY GOD OF
SOME SORT MENTIONED TO YOU AT ANY POINT? 'NO . . .'

DAMN. I WISH THEY
DIDN'T LEAVE ME TO DEAL WITH THIS SORT OF THING, Death sighed. You BELIEVE, BUT
YOU DON'T BELIEVE IN ANYTHING.

Mr Tulip stood
with his head bowed. More memories were trickling back now, like blood under a
closed door. And the knob was rattling, and the lock had failed.

Death nodded at
him.

AT LEAST YOU STILL
HAVE YOUR POTATO, I SEE.

Mr Tulip's hand
flew to his neck. There was something wizened and hard there, on the end of a
string. It had a ghostly shimmer to it.

'I thought he got
it!' he said, his face alight with hope.

AH, WELL. YOU
NEVER KNOW WHEN A POTATO MIGHT TURN UP.

'So it's all going
to be all right?'

WHAT DO YOU THINK?

Mr Tulip
swallowed. Lies did not survive long out here. And more recent memories were
squeezing under the door now, bloody and vengeful.

'I think it's
gonna take more than a potato,' he said.

ARE YOU SORRY FOR
EVERYTHING?

More unused bits
of Mr Tulip's brain, which had shut down long ago or had never even opened up,
came into play.

'How will I know?'
he said.

Death waved a hand
through the air. Along the arc described by the bony fingers appeared a line of
hourglasses.

I UNDERSTAND YOU
ARE A CONNOISSEUR, MR TULIP. IN A SMALL WAY, SO

AM I. Death
selected one of the glasses and held it up. Images appeared around it, bright
but insubstantial as shadow.

'What are they?'
said Tulip.

LIVES, MR TULIP.
JUST LIVES.- NOT ALL MASTERPIECES, OBVIOUSLY, OFTEN RATHER NAIF IN THEIR USE OF
EMOTION AND ACTION, BUT NEVERTHELESS FULL OF INTEREST AND SURPRISE AND, EACH IN
THEIR OWN WAY, A WORK OF SOME GENIUS. AND CERTAINLY VERY . . . COLLECTABLE.
Death picked up an

266

hourglass as Mr Tulip tried to back away. YES.
COLLECTABLE. BECAUSE, IF I HAD TO FIND A WAY TO DESCRIBE THESE LIVES, MR TULIP,
THAT WORD WOULD BE 'SHORTER'.

Death selected
another hourglass. AH. NUGGA VELSKI. You WILL

NOT REMEMBER HIM,
OF COURSE. HE WAS SIMPLY A MAN WHO WALKED INTO HIS RATHER SIMPLE LITTLE HUT AT
THE WRONG TIME, AND YOU ARE A BUSY MAN AND CANNOT BE EXPECTED TO REMEMBER
EVERYONE. NOTE THE MIND, A BRILLIANT MIND THAT MIGHT IN OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES
HAVE CHANGED THE WORLD, DOOMED TO BE BORN INTO A TIME AND PLACE WHERE LIFE WAS
NOTHING BUT A DAILY, HOPELESS STRUGGLE. NEVERTHELESS, IN HIS TINY VILLAGE,
RIGHT UP UNTIL THE DAY HE FOUND YOU STEALING HIS COAT, HE DID HIS BEST TO----

Mr Tulip raised a
trembling hand. 'Is this the bit where my whole life passes in front of my
eyes?' he said.

NO, THAT WAS THE
BIT JUST NOW.

'Which bit?'

THE BIT, said
Death, BETWEEN YOUR BEING BORN AND YOUR DYING. No, THIS . . . MR TULIP, THIS IS
YOUR WHOLE LIFE AS IT PASSED BEFORE OTHER PEOPLE'S EYES . . .

By the time the
golems arrived it was all over. The fire had been fierce but short-lived. It
had stopped because there wasn't anything left to burn. The crowd that always
turns up to watch a fire then dispersed until the next one, reckoning that this
one had not scored very highly, what with no one dying.

The walls were
still standing. Half the tin roof had fallen in. Sleet had begun to fall, too,
and now it hissed on the hot stone as William picked his way cautiously through
the debris.

The press was
visible in the light of the few fires still smouldering. William heard it
sizzling under the sleet.

'Repairable?' he
said to Goodmountain, who was following him.

'Not a chance. The
frame, maybe. We'll salvage what we can.'

'Look, I'm so
sorry--'

'Not your fault,'
said the dwarf, kicking at a smoking can. 'And look on the bright side . . . we
still owe Harry King a lot of money.'

'Don't remind me .
. .'

'I don't need to.
He'll remind you. Us, rather.'

267

William wrapped
his jacket around his sleeve and pushed aside some of the roof.

'The desks are
still here!'

'Fire can be funny
like that,' said Goodmountain gloomily. 'And the roof probably kept the worst
of it away.'

'I mean, they're
half charred but they're still usable!'

'Oh, well, we're
home and dry, then,' said the dwarf, now sliding towards 'glumly'. 'How soon do
you want the next edition?'

'Look, even the
spike . . . there's even bits of paper that are hardly charred!'

'Life is full of
unexpected treasure,' said Goodmountain. 'I don't think you should come in
here, miss!'

This was to
Sacharissa, who was picking her way across the smouldering ruins.

'It's where I
work,' she said. 'Can you repair the press?'

'No! It's . . .
done for! It's scrap! We've got no press and no type and no metal! Can you both
hear me?'

'Okay, so we've
got to get another press,' said Sacharissa evenly.

'Even an old scrap
one would cost a thousand dollars!' said Goodmountain. 'Look, it's over. There
is nothing leftY

'I've got some
savings,' said Sacharissa, pushing the rubble off her desk. 'Perhaps we can get
one of those little hand presses to be going on with.'

'I'm in debt,'
said William, 'but I could probably go into debt another few hundred dollars.'

'Do you think we
could go on working if we put a tarpaulin over the roof, or should we move to
somewhere else?' said Sacharissa.

'I don't want to
move. A few days' work should get this place in shape,' said William.

Goodmountain
cupped his hands around his mouth. 'Hel-looo! This is sanity calling! We have
no money.'

'There's not much
room to expand, though,' said Sacharissa.

'In what way?'

'Magazines,' said
Sacharissa, as the sleet settled in her hair. Around her the other dwarfs
spread out on a hopeless salvage operation. 'Yes, I know the paper's important,
but there's a lot of dead time on the press and, well, I'm sure there'd be a
market

268

for something like, well, a magazine for ladies

'Dead time on the
press?' said Goodmountain. The press is deadV

'What about?' said
William, completely ignoring him.

'Oh . . . fashion.
Pictures of women wearing new clothes. Knitting. That sort of thing. And don't
you go telling me it's too dull. People will buy it,'

'Clothes?
Knitting?'

'People are
interested in that sort of thing.'

'I don't like that
idea much,' said William. 'You might as well say we should have a magazine just
for men.'

'Why not? What
would you put in it?'

'Oh, I don't know.
Articles about drink. Pictures of women not wearing . . . Anyway, we'd need
more people to write for them,'

'Excuse me?' said
Goodmountain.

'Lots of people
can write well enough for that sort of thing,' said Sacharissa. 'If it was
clever, we wouldn't be able to do it.'

That's true.'

'And there's
another magazine that would sell, too,' said Sacharissa. Behind her a piece of
the press collapsed.

'Hello? Hello? I
know my mouth is opening and shutting,' said Goodmountain. 'Is any sound
getting out?'

'Cats,' said
Sacharissa. 'Lots of people like cats. Pictures of cats. Stories about cats.
I've been thinking about it. It could be called . . . Completely Cats.'

To go with
Completely Women, and Completely Men? Completely Knitting? Completely Cake?'

'I had thought of
calling it something like The Ladies' Home Companion,' said Sacharissa, 'but
your title has got a certain ring, I must admit. Ring . . . yes. Now, that's
another thing. There's all the dwarfs in the city. We could produce a magazine
for them. I mean . . . what's the modern dwarf wearing this season?'

'Chain mail and
leather,' said Goodmountain, suddenly perplexed. 'What are you talking about?
It's always chain mail and leather!'

Sacharissa ignored
him. The two of them were in a world of their own, Goodmountain realized. It
had nothing to do with the real one any more.

269

'Seems a bit of a
waste, though,' said William. 'A waste of words, I mean.'

'Why? There's
always more of them.' Sacharissa patted him gently on the cheek. 'You think
you're writing words that'll last for ever? It's not like that. This newspaper
stuff . . . that's words that last for a day. Maybe a week.'

'And then they get
thrown away,' said William.

'Perhaps a few
hang on. In people's heads.'

'That's not where
the paper ends up,' said William. 'Quite the reverse.'

'What did you
expect? These aren't books, they're . . . words that come and go. Cheer up.'

'There's a
problem,' said William.

'Yes?'

'We haven't got
enough money for a new press. Our shed has been burned down. We are out of
business. It's all over. Do you understand?'

Sacharissa looked
down. 'Yes,' she said meekly. 'I just hoped you didn't.'

'And we were so
close. So close.' William pulled out his notebook. 'We could have run with
this. I've got nearly the whole thing. All I can do with it now is give it to
Vimes--'

'Where's the
lead?'

William looked
across the wreckage. Boddony was crouching by the smoking press, trying to see
under it.

'There's not a
sign of the lead!' he said.

'It's got to be
somewhere,' said Goodmountain. 'In my experience twenty tons of lead does not
just get up and walk away.'

It must've
melted,' said Boddony. There's a few blobs on the floor

The cellar,' said
Goodmountain. 'Give me a hand here, will you?' He grabbed a blackened beam.

'Here, I'll help,'
said William, coming round the stricken desk. 'It's not as though I've got
anything better to do . .-.'

He got a grip on a
tangle of charred wood and pulled--

Mr Pin arose from
the pit like a demon king. Smoke poured off him and he was screaming one long,
incoherent scream. He rose

270

and rose and knocked Goodmountain aside with a round-arm
sweep and then his hands clamped around William's neck and still his leap
propelled him up.

William fell
backwards. He landed on the desk and felt a stab of pain as some piece of
debris went through the flesh of his arm. But there was no time to think about
pain that had happened. It was imminent pain that occupied all his future. The
face of the creature was inches away, eyes wide and staring through him at
something horrible, but his hands were tight around William's neck.

William would
never have dreamed of using a cliche as tired as 'vice-like grip' but, as
consciousness became a red-walled tunnel, the editor inside him said, yes,
that's what it would be like, the sheer mechanical pressures that. . .

The eyes crossed.
The scream stopped. The man staggered sideways, half crouched.

As William raised
his head he saw Sacharissa stepping backwards.

The editor
chittered away in his head, watching him watching her. She'd kicked the man in
the . . . Er, You Know. It had to be the influence of those humorous
vegetables. It had to be.

And he had to get
the Story.

William rose to
his feet and waved frantically at the dwarfs, who were advancing with their
axes at the ready.

'Wait! Wait! Look
. . . you . . . er . . . Brother Pin . . .' He winced at the pain in his arm,
looked down and saw, with horror, the evil length of the spike poking through
the cloth of his jacket.

Mr Pin tried to
focus on the boy grappling with his arm, but the shadows wouldn't let him. He
wasn't certain, now, that he was still alive. Yes! That was it! He must be
dead! All this smoke, people shouting, all the voices whispering in his ear,
this was some kind of hell but, aha, he had a return ticket . . .

He managed to
straighten up. He fished the potato of the late Mr Tulip out of his shirt. He
held it aloft.

'G't m' 'tato,' he
said proudly, m all right, okay?'

William stared at
the smoke-stained, red-eyed face, with its horrible expression of triumph, and
then at the shrunken vegetable on the end of its string. His grip on reality
was at the moment

271

almost as slippery as Mr Pin's, and people showing him a
potato seemed to mean only one thing.

'Er . . . it's not
a very funny one, is it?' he said, wincing as he tugged at the spike.

Mr Pin's last
train of thought jumped the rails. He let go of the potato and with a movement
that owed nothing to thought and everything to instinct pulled a long dagger
from inside his jacket. The figure in front of him was fading into just another
shadow among many now, and he lunged madly.

William pulled the
metal free, and his hand flew out in front of him--

And that, for the
moment, was everything that Mr Pin ever knew.

The sleet hissed
on a few remaining embers.

William stared
into the puzzled face as the light in the eyes went out and the attacker sagged
slowly to the ground, one hand fiercely hanging on to the potato.

'Oh,' said
Sacharissa distantly. 'You spiked him . . .'

Blood dripped down
William's sleeve.

'I . . . er . . .
I think I could do with a bandage,' he said. Ice shouldn't be hot, he knew, but
shock was filling his veins with a burning chill. He was sweating ice.

Sacharissa ran
forward, tearing at the sleeve of her blouse.

1 don't think it's
bad,' said William, trying to back away. 'I just think it's one of those . . .
enthusiastic wounds.'

'Vot has been
happening here?'

William looked at
the blood on his hand and then at Otto, standing on top of a pile of rubble
with an amazed look on his face and a couple of packages in his hands.

'I just go avay
for five minutes to buy some more acids and suddenly zer whole place . . . Oh
dear . . . oh dear

Goodmountain
pulled a tuning fork out of his pocket and twanged it on his helmet.

'Quick, lads!' He
waved the fork in the air. ' Oh will you come to the mission-- '

Otto waved his
hand gently as the dwarfs began to sing.

'No, I am veil on
top of it, thank you all the same,' he said. Ve

272

know vot all this is about, don't ve? It vas a mob, yes?
Zere is alvays a mob, sooner or later. Zey got my friend Boris. He showed them
zer black ribbon but zey just laughed and--'

'I think they were
after all of us,' said William. 'I wish I'd had a chance to ask him a few
questions, even so . . .'

'You mean like
Is this the first time you've strangled anyone? ' said Boddony. 'Or
How old are you, Mr Killer? '

Something started
to cough.

It seemed to be
coming from the pocket of the man's jacket.

William looked
around at the stunned dwarfs to see if anyone else had a clue about what he
should do next. Then he reluctantly patted the greasy suit with extreme care
and pulled out a slim, polished box.

He opened it. A
small green imp peered out of its slot.

m?' it said.

'What? A personal
Dis-organizer?' said William. 'A killer with a personal Dis-organizer?'

The Things To Do
Today section is going to be interesting, then,' said Boddony.

The imp blinked at
him. 'Do you want me to reply or not?' it said. 'Insert Name Here requested
silence, despite my range of sounds to suit any mood or occasion.'

'Um . . . your
previous owner is. . . previous,' said William, looking down at the cooling Mr
Pin.

'You're a new
owner?' said the imp.

'Well . . .
possibly,'

'Congratulations!'
said the imp. 'Warranty not applicable if said device is sold, hired,
transferred, gifted or stolen unless in original packaging and extraneous
materials which by then you will have thrown away and Part Two of the warranty
card which you have lost has been filled in and sent to Thttv ggj, thhtfjhsssjk
the Scors and quoting

the reference
number which you did not in fact make a note of. DO yOU W3nt Hie tO WipC the

contents of my
memory?' It produced a cotton-wool bud and prepared to insert it into one very
large ear. 'Erase Memory Y,'N?'

'Your . . . memory
. . . ?'

'Yes. Erase Memory
Y,'N?'

'N!' said William.
'And now tell me what exactly it is you are remembering,' he added.

273

'You have to press
the Recall button,' said the imp impatiently.

'And that will do
what?'

'A small hammer
hits me on the head and I look to see what button you pressed.'

'Why don't you
just, well, recall?'

'Look, I don't
make the rules. You've got to press the button. It's in the manual--'

William carefully
pushed the box to one side. There were several velvet bags in the dead man's
pocket. He put these on the desk, too.

Some of the dwarfs
had gone a little way down the iron ladder into the cellar. Boddony climbed
back out again, looking thoughtful.

There's a man down
there,' he said. 'Lying in . . . lead.'

'Dead?' said
William, looking carefully at the bags.

'I hope so. I
really hope so. You could say he made a bit of an impression. He's a bit on the
. . . cooked side. And there's an arrow through his head.'

'William, you
realize that you are robbing a corpse?' said Sacharissa.

'Good,' said
William distantly. 'Best time.' He upended a bag and jewels spilled across the
charred wood.

There was a
strangled noise from Goodmountain. Next to gold, jewels were a dwarf's best
friend.

William emptied
the other bags.

'How much do you
think this lot is worth?' he said, when the gems stopped rolling and twinkling.

Goodmountain had
already whipped an eye glass from an inside pocket and was inspecting a few of
the larger stones. 'What? Hey? Oh, tens of thousands. Could be a hundred
thousand. Could be a lot more. This one here is worth fifteen hundred, I
reckon, and it's not the best of 'em,'

'He must've stolen
them!' said Sacharissa.

'No,' said William
calmly. 'We'd have heard about a theft this big. We hear about things. A young
man would certainly have told you. Check to see if he has a wallet, will you?'

'The very idea!
And what--'

'Check for a damn
wallet, will you?' said William. 'This is a story.

274

I'm going to check
his legs, and I'm not looking forward to that, either. But this is a story. We
can have hysterics later. Do it. Please?'

There was a
half-healed bite on the dead man's leg. William rolled up his own trouser leg
for comparison while Sacharissa, her eyes averted, pulled a brown leather
wallet out of the jacket.

'Any clue to who
he is?' said William, carefully measuring tooth-marks with his pencil. His mind
felt strangely calm. He wondered if he was actually thinking at all. It all
seemed like some dream, happening in another world.

'Er . . . there's
something done on the leather in pokerwork,' said Sacharissa.

'What does it
say?'

' Not A Very
Nice Person At All ,' she read. 'I wonder what kind of person would put
that on a wallet?'

'Someone who
wasn't a very nice person,' said William. 'Anything else in there?'

There's a piece of
paper with an address,' said Sacharissa. 'Er . . . I didn't have time to tell
you this, er, William. Um

'What does it
say?'

'It's 50 Nonesuch
Street. Er. Which is where those men caught me. They had a key and everything.
Er . . . that's your family's house, isn't it?'

'What do you want
me to do with these jewels?' said Goodmountain.

'I mean, you gave
me a key and everything,' said Sacharissa nervously. 'But there was this man in
the cellar, highly inebriated, and he looked just like Lord Vetinari, and then
these men turned up and knocked out Rocky and then--'

'I'm not
suggesting anything,' said Goodmountain, 'but if these aren't stolen, then I
know plenty of places that'd give us top dollar, even at this time of night--'

'--and of course
they were most impolite but really there was nothing I could do--'

'--we could do
with a bit of immediate cash, is the point I'm trying to make--'

It dawned on the
girl and the dwarf that William was no longer listening. He seemed locked,
blank-faced, in a little bubble of silence.

275

Slowly, he pulled
the Dis-organizer towards him and pressed the button marked 'Recall'. There was
a muffled 'Ouch'.

'. . . nyip-nyap
mapnyap nyee-wheedlewheedlewheee

'What's that
noise?' said Sacharissa.

'It's how an imp
remembers,' said William distantly. 'It . . . sort of plays its life backwards.
I used to have an early version of this,' he added.

The noise stopped.
The imp said, very apprehensively, 'What happened to it?'

'I took it back to
the shop because it wasn't working properly,' said William.

'That's a relief,'
said the imp. 'You'd be amazed at some of the terrible things people did to the
Mk I. What went wrong with it?'

'It got flung
through a third-floor window,' said William, 'for being unhelpful.'

This imp was a
little brighter than most of the species. It saluted smartly.

'. . .
wheeeewheedlewheedle nyap-nyark . . . Testing, testing . . . seems okay--'

That's Brother
Pin!' said Sacharissa.

'--say something,
Mr Tulip,' and the voice became the damp growl of Sister Jennifer, 'What'III
say? It's not natural, talkin' to a --ing box. This box, Mr Tulip, may be a
passport to better times. I thought we were getting the --ing money. Yes, and
this 'II help us keep it . . . nyip-nyip . . .'

'Go forward a
bit,' William commanded.

'--whee . . . nyip
dog has got personality. Personality counts for a lot. And the legal
precedents--'

That's Slant!'
said Boddony. That lawyer!'

'What shall I do
with the jewels!' said Goodmountain.

'. . . nyipnyip .
. . 7 can add another five thousand dollars in jewels to your fee . . . nyip .
. . I want to know who's giving me these orders . . . nyip . . . not be stupid,
either. My . . . clients have long memories and deep pockets . . .'In its
terror the imp was skipping.

William pressed
the Pause button.

'Slant gave him
the money,' he said. 'Slant was paying him. Did you hear him mention clients?
You understand? This is one of the

276

men who attacked Vetinari! And they had a key to our
house?'

'But we can't just
keep the money!' said Sacharissa.

William pressed
the button again.

'. . . nyip . . .
they say a lie can run round the world before the truth has got its boots on .
. .'

'Obviously, we--'
Sacharissa began.

He pressed the
button.

'Wheeewheedlewheedle lie can run round the world before the truth
has got its boots on.'

He pressed the
button again.

'Wheeewheedlewheedle can run round the world before the truth has
got its boots on.'

'Wheeewheedlewheedle round the world before the truth has got its
boots on.'

'Wheeewheedle the
truth has got its boots on.'

'Are you all
right, William?' said Sacharissa, as he stood motionless.

'Delayed shock,'
Goodmountain whispered. 'It can take people that way.'

'Mr Goodmountain,'
said William sharply, still with his back to them. 'Did you say you could get
me another press?'

'I said they cost
a--'

'--handful of
rubies, perhaps?'

Goodmountain
opened his hand. 'Are these ours, then?'

'Yes!'

'Well . . . in the
morning I could buy a dozen presses, but it's not like buying sweets--'

'I want to go to press
in half an hour,' said William. 'Otto, I want pictures of Brother Pin's leg. I
want quotes from everyone, even Foul Ole Ron. And a picture of Wuffles, Otto.
And I want a printing press!'

'I told you, where
could we get a printing press at this time of ni--'

The floor shook.
The heaps of rubble shifted.

All eyes turned to
the high lighted windows of the Inquirer.

Sacharissa, who
had been watching William wide-eyed, breathed so heavily that Otto groaned and
averted his face and started to hum frantically.

277

There's your
press!' she shouted. 'All you have to do is get it!' 'Yeah, but just stealing
a--' the dwarf began. 'Borrowing,' said William. 'And half the jewels are
yours.' Goodmountain's nostrils flared. 'Let's just--' he began to yell, and then
said, 'You did say half, did you?' 'Yes!' 'Let's just do it, lads!'

One of the
Inquirer's overseers knocked politely on Mr Carney's door.

'Yes, Causley? Has
Dibbler turned up yet?' said the Inquirer's proprietor.

'No, sir, but
there's a young lady to see you. It's that Miss Cripslock,' said the overseer,
wiping his hands on a rag.

Carney brightened
up. 'Really?'

'Yes, sir. She's
in a bit of a state. And that de Worde fellow is with her.'

Carney's smile
faded a little. He'd watched the fire from his window with great glee, but he
had been bright enough not to step out into the street. Those dwarfs were
pretty vicious, from what he'd heard, and would be bound to blame him. In fact,
he hadn't the faintest idea why the place had caught fire, but it was hardly
unexpected, was it?

'So . . . it's
time for the humble pie, is it?' he said, half to himself.

'Is it, sir?'

'Send them up,
will you?'

He sat back and
looked at the paper spread out on his desk. Damn that Dibbler! The odd thing
was, though, that those things he wrote were like the wretched sausages he sold
- you knew them for what they were, but nevertheless you kept on going to the
end, and coming back for more. Making them up wasn't as easy as it looked,
either. Dibbler had the knack. He'd make up some story about some huge monster
being seen in the lake in Hide Park and five readers would turn up swearing
that they'd seen it, too. Ordinary, everyday people, such as you might buy a
loaf off. How did he do it? Carney's desk was covered with his own failed
attempts.-You needed a special kind of imagi--

278

'Why, Sacharissa,'
he said, standing up as she crept into the room. 'Do take the chair. I'm afraid
I don't have one for your . . . friend.' He nodded at William. 'May I say how
sad I was to hear about the fire?'

'It's your
office,' said William coldly. 'You can say anything you like.' Beyond the
window he could see the torches of the Watch, arriving at the ruins of the old
shed. He took a step back.

'Don't be like
that, William,' said Sacharissa. 'It's because of that, you see, Ronnie, that
we've come to you.'

'Really?' Carney
smiled. 'You have been a bit of a silly girl, haven't you . . . ?'

'Yes, er . . .
well, all our money was . . .' Sacharissa sniffed. 'The fact is . . . well,
we've just got nothing now. We . . . worked so hard, so hard, and now it's all
gone . . .' She started to sob.

Ronnie Carney
leaned over the desk and patted her hand.

'Is there anything
I can do?' he said.

'Well, I did hope
. . . I wondered if . . . I mean, d'you think you could see your way clear to .
. . letting us use one of your presses tonight?'

Carney rocked
back. 'You what? Are you mad?'

Sacharissa blew
her nose. 'Yes, I thought you'd probably say that,' she said sadly.

Carney, slightly
mollified, leaned forward and patted her hand again. 'I know we used to play
together when we were children--' he began.

'I don't think we
actually played,' said Sacharissa, fishing in her handbag. 'You used to chase
me and I used to hit you over the head with a wooden cow. Ah, here it is . . .'
She dropped the bag, stood up and aimed one of the late Mr Pin's pistol bows
straight at the editor.

'Let us use your
ing presses or I'll ing shoot your ing head
ing off!' she screamed. 'I think that's how you're supposed to say
it, isn't it?'

'You wouldn't dare
pull that trigger!' said Carney, trying to crouch in his chair.

'It was a lovely
cow, and one day I hit you so hard one of the legs broke off,' said Sacharissa
dreamily.

Carney looked
imploringly at William. 'Can't you talk some sense into her?' he said.

279

'We just need the
loan of one of your presses for an hour or so, Mr Carney,' said William, while
Sacharissa kept the barrel of the bow aimed at the man's nose with what he
judged to be a very strange smile on her face. 'And then we'll be gone.'

'What are you
going to do?' said Carney hoarsely.

'Well, firstly I'm
going to tie you up,' said William.

'No! I'll call the
overseers!'

'I think they're .
. . busy at the moment,' said Sacharissa.

Carney listened.
It seemed unusually quiet downstairs.

He sagged.

The printing staff
of the Inquirer were in a ring around Goodmountain.

'Right, lads,'
said the dwarf, 'here's how it works. Every man who goes home early tonight
'cos of a headache gets a hundred dollars, all right? It's an old Klatchian
custom.'

'And what happens
if we don't go?' said the foreman, picking up a mallet.

'Veil,' said a
voice by his ear, 'that's ven you get a . . . headache,'

There was a flash
of lightning and a roll of thunder. Otto punched the air triumphantly.

'Yes!' he shouted,
as the printers ran madly towards the doors. 'Ven you really, really need it,
zere it is! Let's try vunce more . . . Castle!' The thunder rolled again. The
vampire jumped up and down excitedly, vest tails flying. 'Vow! Now ve are
cooking! Vunce more mit feelink! Vot a big . . . castle . . .' The thunder was
even louder this time.

Otto did a little
jig, beside himself with joy, tears running down his grey face.

'Music viz Rocks
In!' he yelled.

In the silence
after the thunder roll William pulled a velvet bag from his pocket and tipped
it out on to the desk blotter.

Carney stared
goggle-eyed at the jewels.

'Two thousand
dollars' worth,' said William. 'At least. Our admission to the Guild. I'll just
leave them here, shall I? No need for a receipt. We trust you.'

280

Carney said
nothing, because of the gag. He had been tied to his chair.

At this point
Sacharissa pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

'I must've
forgotten to put the pointy arrow bit in,' she said, as Carney fainted away.
'What a silly girl I am. Ing . I feel so much better for saying
that, you know? Ing . Inginginginging . I wonder what it
means?'

Gunilla
Goodmountain looked expectantly at William, who swayed as he tried to think.

'All right,' he
said, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Triple-decker
heading, as wide as you can. First line: Conspiracy Revealed! Got
that? Next line: Lord Vetinari is Innocent! ' He hesitated at that
one, but let it go. People could argue about its general application later on.
That wasn't the important thing at the moment.

'Yes?' said
Goodmountain. 'And the next line?'

'I've written it
down,' said William, passing him a page torn from the notebook. 'Caps, please.
Big caps. Big as you can. The sort the Inquirer used for elves and exploding
people,'

This?' said the
dwarf, reaching for a case of huge black letters. 'Is this news?'

'It is now,' said
William. He flicked back through the pages of his notebook.

'Are you going to
write the story down first?' said the dwarf.

'No time. Ready?
A plot to illegally seize control of Ankh-Morpork was exposed last night
after days of patient detective work by the Watch. Paragraph. The
Times understands that two assassins, both now dead, were hired from outside
the city to blacken the character of Lord Vetinari and depose him as
Patrician. Paragraph. They used an innocent man with a remarkable
resemblance to Lord Vetinari in order to trick their way into the palace. Once
inside --'

'Hold on, hold on,'
said Goodmountain. 'The Watch didn't get to the bottom of this, did they? You
did!'

'I just said
they've been working for days,' said William. That's true. I don't have to say
they weren't getting anywhere.' He saw

281

the look in the dwarf's eye. 'Listen, very soon I'm going
to have a lot more unpleasant enemies than anyone really needs. I'd like Vimes
to be angry at me for making him look good rather than for making him look bad.
Okay?'

'Even so--'

'Don't argue with
me!'

Goodmountain
didn't dare. There was a look in William's face. The boy had frozen when he was
listening to the box, and now he'd unfrozen into . . . someone else.

Someone a lot more
touchy and a lot less patient. He looked as though he was running a fever.

'Now . . . where
was I?'

' Once
inside . . .' said the dwarf.

'Okay . . .
Once inside . . . no . . . Make it: The Times understands
that Lord Vetinari was - Sacharissa, you said the man in the cellar
looked just like Vetinari?'

'Yes. Haircut and
everything.'

'Right. The
Times understands that Lord Vetinari was overwhelmed in the moment of shock on
seeing himself entering his office --'

'Do we understand
that?' said Sacharissa.

'Yes. It makes
sense. Who's going to argue? Where was I . . . Their plan was foiled by
Lord Vetinari's dog, Wuffles (16), who attacked both men. Paragraph.
The noise of this attracted the attention of Lord Vetinari's clerk, Rufus
Drumknott - damn, I forgot to ask him how old he was - who was then
knocked unconscious. Paragraph. The attackers tried to put the
interruption to good use in their - what's the good word? Oh, yes -
their dastardly plan and stabbed Drumknott with one of Lord Vetinari's
own daggers in an attempt to make it look as if he was insane or
murderous. Paragraph. Acting with vicious cunning --'

'You're getting
really good at this,' said Sacharissa.

'Don't interrupt
him,' hissed Boddony. 'I want to find out what the dastards did next!'

'-- with
vicious cunning they forced the bogus Lord Vetinari --'

'Good word, good
word,' said Goodmountain, setting furiously.

'Are you-certain
about forced ?' said Sacharissa.

282

They aren't-- they
weren't the kind of men who ask nicely,' said William brusquely. 'Er . . .
forced the bogus Lord Vetinari . . . to make a false confession to some
servants who were attracted by the noise. Then all three, carrying the
unconscious Lord Vetinari and harried by the dog, Wuffles (16), took the stairs
to the stables. Paragraph. There they had set up a scene to suggest
that Lord Vetinari had been trying to rob the city, as already reported
in --'

'
Exclusively in ,' Sacharissa said.

'Right,
exclusively in the Times. Paragraph. However, the dog Wuffles
escaped dash and began a city-wide search by Watch and criminals alike. He was
found by a group of public-spirited citizens, who --'

A piece of type
dropped from Goodmountain's fingers. 'You mean Foul Ole Ron and that bunch?'

'-- public-spirited citizens ,' William repeated,
nodding furiously, ' who kept him hidden, while --'

Cold winter storms
had the whole of the Sto Plains in which to build up speed. By the time they
hit Ankh-Morpork they were fast and heavy and laden with malice.

This time it took
the form of hail. Fist-sized balls of ice smashed into tiles. They blocked
gutters and filled the streets with shrapnel.

They hammered on
the roof of the warehouse in Gleam Street. One or two windows smashed.

William paced up
and down, shouting out his words above the force of the storm, occasionally
flicking back and forth through the pages of his notebook. Otto came out and
handed the dwarfs a couple of iconograph plates. The crew limped and sidled in,
ready for the edition.

William stopped.
The last letters clicked into place.

'Let's see what it
looks like so far,' said William.

Goodmountain inked
the type, put a piece of paper over the story and ran a hand-roller over it.
Wordlessly, he handed it to Sacharissa.

'Are you sure of
all this, William?' she said.

'Yes.'

283

'I mean, some bits
- are you sure it's all true?'

'I'm sure it's all
journalism,' said William.

'And what is that
supposed to mean?'

'It means it's
true enough for now.'

'But do you know
the names of these people?'

William hesitated.
Then he said:

'Mr Goodmountain,
you can insert an extra paragraph anywhere in the story, can't you?'

'That's not a
problem.'

'Right. Then set
this: The Times can reveal that the assassins were hired by a group of
prominent citizens led by . . . The Times can reveal that . .
.' He took a deep breath. 'Start again: The plotters, the Times can
reveal, were headed by . . .' William shook his head.' Evidence
points to . . . uh . . . Evidence, the Times can reveal . . .
All the evidence, the Times can reveal . . . can reveal. . . ' His
voice trailed off.

'This is going to
be a long paragraph?' said Goodmountain.

William stared
miserably at the damp proof.

'No,' he said
wretchedly. 'I think that's it. Let it go at that. Put in a line saying that
the Times will be helping the Watch with its inquiries.'

'Why? We're not
guilty of anything, are we?' said Goodmountain.

'Just do it,
please.' William screwed the proof into a ball, tossed it on to a bench and
wandered off towards the press.

Sacharissa found
him a few minutes later. A print room offers a mass of holes and corners,
mostly used by those whose duties require the occasional bunk-off for a quiet
smoke. William was sitting on a pile of paper, staring at nothing.

'Is there
something you want to talk about?' she said.

'No.'

'Do you know who
the conspirators are?'

'No.'

'Then would it be
true to say that you suspect you know who the conspirators are?'

He gave her an
angry look. 'Are you trying journalism on me?'

'I'm just supposed
to try it on everyone else,  then,  am I?

284

Not you, then?'
she said, sitting down beside him.

William
absent-mindedly pressed a button on the Dis-organizer.

'Wheeewheedle the
truth has got its boots on . . .'

'You don't get on
very well with your father, is tha--' Sacharissa began.

'What am I
supposed to do?' said William. That's his favourite saying. He says it proves
how gullible people are. Those men had the run of our house. He's in this up to
his neck!'

'Yes, but perhaps
he just did it as a favour to some other--'

'If my father is
involved in anything, he'll be the leader,' said William flatly. 'If you don't
know that you don't know the de Wordes. We don't join any team if we can't be
captain.'

'But it'd be a bit
silly, wouldn't it, to let them use your own house--'

'No, just very,
very arrogant,' said William. 'We've always been privileged, you see. Privilege
just means private law . That's exactly what it means. He just
doesn't believe the ordinary laws apply to him. He doesn't really believe they
can touch him, and if they do he'll just shout until they go away. That's the
de Worde tradition, and we're good at it. Shout at people, get your own way,
ignore the rules. It's the de Worde way. Up until me, obviously.'

Sacharissa was
careful not to let her expression change.

'And I didn't
expect this,' William finished, turning the box over and over in his hands.

'You said you
wanted to get at the truth, didn't you?'

'Yes, but not
this! I . . . must have got something wrong. I must have. I must have. Even my
father couldn't be this . . . this stupid. I've got to find out what's really been
happening.'

'You're not going
to see him, are you?' said Sacharissa.

'Yes. By now he'll
know it's over.'

'Then you ought to
take someone with you!'

'No!' snapped
William. 'Look, you don't know what my father's friends are like. They are
brought up to give orders, they know that they're on the right side because if
they are on it then it must be the right side, by definition, and when they
feel threatened they are bare-knuckle fighters, except that they never take
their gloves off. They are thugs. Thugs and bullies, bullies, and the worst
kind of

285

bully, because they aren 't cowards and if you stand up to
them they only hit you harder. They grew up in a world where, if you were
enough trouble, they could have you . . . disappeared. You think places like
the Shades are bad? Then you don't know what goes on in Park Lane! And my
father is one of the worst. But I'm family. We . . . care about family. So I'll
be all right. You stay here and help them get the paper out, will you? Half a
truth is better than nothing,' he added bitterly.

'Vot vas all zat
about?' said Otto, coming up as William strode out of the room.

'Oh, he's . . .
he's off to see his father,' said Sacharissa, still taken aback. 'Who is not a
nice man, apparently. He was very . . . heated about him. Very upset.'

scuse me,'
said a voice. The girl turned, but there was no one behind her.

Now the invisible
speaker sighed. 'No, down here,' it said. She looked down at the malformed pink
poodle.

'Let's not mess
around, eh?' it said. 'Yeah, yeah, dogs can't talk. Got it in one, well done.
So maybe you've got some strange ment'l power. That's that sorted out, then. I
couldn't help overhearin', 'cos I was listenin'. The lad's heading into
trouble, right? I can smell trouble--'

'Are you some kind
of verevolf?' said Otto.

'Yeah, right, I
get very hairy every full moon,' said the dog dis-missively. 'Imagine how much
that interferes with my social life. Now, look--'

'But surely dogs
can't talk--' Sacharissa began.

'Oh dear oh dear
oh dear,' said Gaspode. 'Did I say I was talking?'

'Well, not in so
many words--'

'Right. Wonderful
thing, phenomenology. Now, I just seen a hundred dollars walk out the door and
I want to see it walk back, right? Lord de Worde is as nasty a piece of work as
you'll find in this town.'

'You know
nobility?' said Sacharissa.

'A cat can look at
a king, right? That's legal.'

'I suppose so--'

'So it works for
dogs, too. Got to work for dogs if it works for

286

ratbag moggies. I know everyone, I do. Lord de Worde used
to get his butler to put down poisoned meat for the street dogs.'

'But he wouldn't
hurt William, would he?'

'I'm not a betting
man,' said Gaspode. 'But if he does, right, we still get the hundred dollars,
yes?'

'Ve cannot stand
by and let him do zis,' said Otto. 'I like Villiam. He was not brought up nice
but he tries to be a nice person, vithout even cocoa and a singsong to help
him. It is hard to go against your nature. Ve must. . . help him.'

Death placed the
final hourglass back on to the air, where it faded away. THERE, he said, WASN'T
THAT INTERESTING? WHAT NEXT, MR TULIP? ARE

YOU READY TO GO?

The figure sat on
the cold sand, staring at nothing. MR TULIP? Death repeated. The wind flapped
his robe, so that it streamed out a long ribbon of darkness. 'I . . . got to be
really sorry . . . ?' OH YES. IT is SUCH A SIMPLE WORD. BUT HERE . . . IT HAS
MEANING. IT

HAS . . .
SUBSTANCE.

'Yeah. I know.' Mr
Tulip looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, his face puffy. 'I reckon . . . to be
that sorry, you got to take a --ing good run at it.'

YES.

'So . . . how long
have I got?'

Death looked up at
the strange stars.

ALL THE TIME IN
THE WORLD.

'Yeah . . . well,
maybe that'll --ing do it. Maybe there won't be no more world to go back to by
then.'

I BELIEVE IT DOES
NOT WORK LIKE THAT. I UNDERSTAND REINCARNATION CAN TAKE PLACE ANYWHEN. WHO SAYS
LIVES ARE SERIAL?

'You savin' . . .
I could be alive before I was born?' YES.

'Maybe I can find
me and kill myself,' said Mr Tulip, staring at the sand.

NO, BECAUSE YOU
WILL NEVER KNOW. AND YOU MAY BE LEADING QUITE A DIFFERENT LIFE.

287

'Good . . .'

Death patted Mr
Tulip on the shoulder, which flinched under his

touch.

I SHALL LEAVE YOU
NOW----

Th't's a good
scythe you got there,' said Mr Tulip, slowly and laboriously. That silverwork's
craftsmanship if ever I saw it.'

THANK YOU, said
Death. AND NOW, I REALLY MUST BE GOING. BUT I WILL PASS THROUGH' HERE
SOMETIMES. MY DOOR, he added, is ALWAYS OPEN.

He strode off. The
hunched figure fell behind into the darkness, but a new one appeared, running
madly across the not-exactly-sand.

It was waving a
potato on a string. It stopped when it saw Death and then, to Death's
amazement, turned to look behind it. This had never happened before. Most
people, upon coming face to face with Death, ceased worrying about anything
behind them.

Is there anyone
after me? Can you see anyone?'

ER . . . NO. WERE
YOU EXPECTING ANYONE?

'Oh, right. No
one, eh? Right!' said Mr Pin, squaring his shoulders. 'Yeah! Hah! Hey, look,
I've got my potato!'

Death blinked and
then took an hourglass out of his robe. .
MR PIN? AH. THE OTHER ONE. I HAVE BEEN EXPECTING YOU.

'That's me! And
I've got my potato, look, and I'm very sorry about everything!' Mr Pin was
feeling quite calm now. The mountains of madness have many little plateaux of
sanity.

Death stared into
the madly smiling face. You ARE VERY SORRY?

'Oh, yes!'

ABOUT EVERYTHING?

'Yep!'

AT THIS TIME? IN
THIS PLACE? YOU DECLARE YOU ARE SORRY?'

'That's right. You
got it. You're bright. So if you'll just show me how to get back--'

YOU WOULD NOT LIKE
TO RECONSIDER?

'No arguing, I
want what's due,' said Mr Pin. 'I've got my potato. Look.'

AND I SEE. Death
reached into his robe and pulled out what looked to Mr Pin, at first sight,
like a miniature model of himself.

288

But there was a
rat skull looking out from under the tiny cowl. Death grinned. SAY HELLO TO MY
LITTLE FRIEND, he said. The Death of Rats reached out and snatched the string.
'Hey--'

DO NOT PUT ALL
YOUR TRUST IN ROOT VEGETABLES. WHAT THINGS SEEM MAY NOT BE WHAT THEY ARE, Said
Death. YET LET NO ONE SAY I DON'T

HONOUR THE LAW. He
snapped his fingers. RETURN, THEN, TO WHERE YOU

SHOULD GO . . .

Blue light
flickered for a moment around the astonished Pin, and then he vanished. Death
sighed and shook his head.

THE OTHER ONE . .
. HAD SOMETHING IN HIM THAT COULD BE BETTER, he

said. BUT THAT ONE
. . . He sighed deeply. WHO KNOWS WHAT EVIL LURKS

IN THE HEART OF
MEN?

The Death of Rats
looked up from the feast of potato.

SQUEAK, he said.

Death waved a hand
dismissively. WELL, YES, OBVIOUSLY ME, he

Said. I JUST
WONDERED IF THERE WAS ANYONE ELSE.

William, ducking
from doorway to doorway, realized that he was taking the long way round. Otto
would have said that it was because he didn't want to arrive.

The storm had
abated slightly, although stinging hail still bounced off his hat. The much
bigger balls from the initial onslaught filled the gutters and covered the
roads. Carts had skidded, pedestrians were hanging on to the walls.

Despite the fire
in his head, he took out his notebook and wrote: hlstns bggr than golf blls?
and made a mental note to check one against a golf ball, just in case. Part of
him was beginning to understand that his readers might have a very relaxed
attitude about the guilt of politicians but were red hot on things like the
size of the weather.

He stopped on the
Brass Bridge and sheltered in the lee of one of the giant hippos. Hail peppered
the surface of the river with a thousand tiny sucking noises.

The rage was
cooling now.

For most of
William's life Lord de Worde had been a distant

289

figure staring out of his study window, in a room lined
with books that never got read, while William stood meekly in the middle of
acres of good but threadbare carpet and listened to . . . well, viciousness
mostly, now that he thought about it, the opinions of Mr Windling dressed up in
more expensive words.

The worst part,
the worst part, was that Lord de Worde was never wrong. It was not a position
he understood in relation to his personal geography. People who took an
opposing view were insane, or dangerous, or possibly even not really people.
You couldn't have an argument with Lord de Worde. Not a proper argument. An
argument, from arguer, meant to debate and discuss and persuade by reason. What
you could have with William's father was a flaming row.

Icy water dripped
off one of the statues and ran down William's neck.

Lord de Worde used
words with a tone and a volume that made them as good as fists, but he'd never
used actual violence.

He had people for
that.

Another drop of
thawed hail coursed down William's spine.

Surely even his
father couldn't be this stupid?

He wondered if he
should turn over everything to the Watch right now. But whatever they said
about Vimes, in the end the man had a handful of men and a lot of influential
enemies who had families going back a thousand years and the same amount of
honour that you'd find in a dog fight.

No. He was a de
Worde. The Watch was for other people, who couldn't sort out their problems
their own way. And what was the worst that could happen?

So many things, he
thought as he set out again, that it would be hard to decide which one was the
worst.

A galaxy of
candles burned in the middle of the floor. In the corroded mirrors around the
room they looked like the lights of a shoal of deep-sea fishes.

William walked
past overturned chairs. There was one upright, though, behind the candles.

He stopped.

290

'Ah . . .
William,' said the chair. Then Lord de Worde slowly unfolded his lanky form
from the embracing leather and stood up in the light.

'Father,' said
William.

'I thought you'd
come here. Your mother always liked the place, too. Of course, it was . . .
different in those days.'

William said
nothing. It had been.

'I think this nonsense
has got to stop now, don't you?' said Lord de Worde.

'I think it is
stopping, father.'

'But I don't think
you mean what I mean,' said Lord de Worde.

'I don't know what
you think you mean,' said William. 'I just want to hear the truth from you.'

Lord de Worde
sighed. 'The truth? I had the best interests of the city at heart, you know.
You'll understand, one day. Vetinari is ruining the place.'

'Yes . . . well .
. that's where it all becomes difficult, doesn't it?' said William, amazed that
his voice hadn't even begun to shake yet. 'I mean, everyone says that sort of
thing, don't they? I did it for the best , the end justifies
the means - the same words, every time.'

'Don't you agree,
then, that it's time for a ruler who listens to the people?'

'Maybe. Which
people did you have in mind?'

Lord de Worde's
mild expression changed. William was surprised it had survived this long.

'You are going to
put this in your rag of a newspaper, aren't you?'

William said
nothing.

'You can't prove
anything. You know that.'

William stepped
into the light and Lord de Worde saw the notebook.

'I can prove
enough. That's all that matters, really. The rest will become a matter of . . .
inquiry. Do you know they call Vimes Vetinari's terrier ? Terriers
dig and dig and don't let go.'

Lord de Worde put
his hand on the hilt of his sword.

And William heard
himself think: Thank you. Thank you. Up until now, I couldn 't believe it. . .

'You have no
honour, do you?' said his father, still in the voice

291

of infuriating calm. 'Well, publish and be damned to you.
And to the Watch. We gave no order to--'

'I expect you
didn't,' said William. 'I expect you said make it so and left the
details to people like Pin and Tulip. Bloody hands at arm's length.'

'As your father I
order you to cease this . . . this

'You used to order
me to tell the truth,' said William.

Lord de Worde drew
himself up. 'Oh, William, Williaml Don't be so naive.'

William shut his
notebook. The words came easier now. He'd leapt from the building and found
that he could fly.

'And which one is
this?' he said. The truth that is so precious it must be surrounded by a
bodyguard of lies? The truth that is stranger than fiction? Or the truth that
is still putting on its boots when a lie is running round the world?' He
stepped forward. 'That's your little phrase, isn't it? It doesn't matter any
more. I think Mr Pin was going to try blackmail and, you know, so am I, naive
as I am. You're going to leave the city, right now. That shouldn't be too hard
for you. And you had better hope that nothing happens to me, or anyone I work
with, or anyone I know.'

'Really?'

'Right now!'
screamed William, so loud that Lord de Worde rocked backwards. 'Have you gone
deaf as well as insane? Right now and don't come back, because if you do I'll
publish every damn word you've just said!' William pulled the Dis-organizer out
of his pocket. 'Every damn word! D'you hear me? And not even Mr Slant will be
able to grease your way out of that! You even had the arrogance, the stupid arrogance,
to use our house! How dare you! Get out of the city! And either draw that sword
or take . , . your . . . hand . . . off . . . it!'

He stopped,
red-faced and panting.

The truth has got
its boots on,' he said. 'It's going to start kicking.' His eyes narrowed. 'I
told you to take your hand off that sword!'

'So silly, so
silly. And I believed you were my son

'Ah, yes. I nearly
forgot that,' said William, now rocketing on rage. 'You'know one of the customs
of the dwarfs? No, of course

292

you don't, because they're not really people, are they?
But I know one or two of them, you see, and so . . .' He pulled a velvet bag
out of his pocket and threw it down in front of his father.

'And this is . . .
?' said Lord de Worde.

There's more than
twenty thousand dollars in there, as close as a couple of experts could
estimate,' said William. 'I didn't have a lot of time to work it out and I
didn't want you to think I was being unfair, so I've erred on the generous
side. That must cover everything I've cost you over the years. School fees,
clothes, everything. I have to confess you didn't make such a good job of it,
given that I'm the end result. I'm buying myself off you, you see.'

'Oh, I see. The
dramatic gesture. Do you really think that family is a matter of money?' said
Lord de Worde.

'We-ell, yes,
according to history. Money, land and titles,' said William. 'It's amazing how
often we failed to marry anyone who didn't have at least two out of three.'

'Cheap jibe. You
know what I mean.'

'I don't know if I
do,' said William. 'But I do know I got that money a few hours ago off a man
who tried to kill me.'

'Tried to kill
you?' For the first time there was a note of uncertainty.

'Why, yes. You're
surprised?' said William. 'If you throw something into the air, don't you have
to worry about where it bounces?'

'Indeed you do,'
said Lord de Worde. He sighed, made a little hand signal, and William saw
shadows detach themselves from deeper shadows. And he remembered that you
couldn't run the de Worde estates without a lot of hired help, in every
department of life. Hard men in little round hats, who knew how to evict and
distrain and set mantraps . . .

'You have been
overdoing it, I can see,' said his father, as they advanced. 'I think you need
. . . yes, a long sea voyage. The Isles of Fog, perhaps, or possibly Fourecks.
Or Bhangbhangduc. There's fortunes to be made there, I understand, by young men
prepared to get their hands dirty. Certainly there's nothing for you here . . .
nothing good.'

William made out four
figures now. He'd seen them around on

293

the estates. They tended to have one-word names, like
Jenks or Clamper, and no visible pasts at all.

One of them said,
'Now, if you'll just see a bit o' sense, Mr William, we can all do this nice
and quiet

'Small sums of
money will be sent to you periodically,' said Lord de Worde. 'You will be able
to live in a style which--'

A few wisps of
dust spiralled down from the shadowy ceiling, twirling like sycamore leaves.

They landed next
to the velvet bag.

Overhead, a
shrouded chandelier jingled gently.

William looked up.
'Oh, no,' he said. 'Please . . . don't kill anyone!'

'What?' said Lord
de Worde.

Otto Chriek
dropped to the floor, hands raised like talons.

'Good evening!' he
said to a shocked bailiff. He looked at his hands. 'Oh, vot am I thinking of!'
He bunched his fists and danced from foot to foot. Tut zem up in the
traditional Ankh-Morpork pugilism!'

'Put them up?'
said the man, raising a cudgel. 'Blow that!'

A jab from Otto
lifted him off his feet. He landed on his back, spinning, and slid away across
the polished floor. Otto spun round so fast that he blurred, and there was a
smack as another man went down.

'Vot's this? Vot's
this? I'm using your civilized fisticuffs, and you don't vant to fight?' he
said, springing back and forth like an amateur boxer. 'Ah, you, sir, you show
fight--' The fists blurred into invisibility and pummelled a man like a
punchbag. Otto straightened up as the man fell, and absent-mindedly punched
sideways to catch the charging fourth man on the chin. The man actually spun in
the air.

This happened in a
few seconds. And then William got enough of a grip to shout a warning. He was
too late.

Otto looked down
at the length of sword blade sticking too far into his chest.

'Oh, vill you look
at zis,' he said. 'You know, in zis job I just cannot make a shirt last two
days?'

He turned to Lord
de Worde, who was backing away, and cracked his knuckles.

294

'Keep it away from
me!' shouted his lordship.

William shook his
head.

'Oh, yes?' said
Otto, still advancing. 'You think I am an it? Veil, let me act like an it.'

He grabbed Lord de
Worde's jacket and held him up in the air, with one hand, at arm's length.

'Ve have people
like you back home,' he said. 'Zey are the vuns that tell the mob vot to do. I
come here to Ankh-Morpork, zey tell me things are different, but really it is
alvays the same. Alvays zere are damn people like you! And now, vot shall I do
viz you?'

He wrenched at his
own jacket and tossed the black ribbon aside.

'I never liked zer
damn cocoa anyvay,' he said.

'Otto!'

The vampire
turned. 'Yes, Villiam? Vot is it you vish?'

That's going too
far.' Lord de Worde had gone pale. William had never seen him so obviously
frightened before.

'Oh? You say? You
think I bite him? Shall I bite you, Mister Lordship? Veil, maybe not, because
Villiam here thinks I am a good person.' He pulled Lord de Worde close, so
their faces were a few inches apart. 'Now, maybe I have to ask myself, how good
am I? Or maybe I just have to ask myself . . . am I better zan you?' He
hesitated for a second or two and then in a sudden movement jerked the man
towards him.

With great
delicacy, he planted a kiss on Lord de Worde's forehead. Then he put the
trembling man back down on the floor and patted him on the head.

'Actually, maybe
zer cocoa is not too bad and zer young lady who plays zer harmonium, sometimes
she vinks at me,' he said, stepping aside.

Lord de Worde
opened his eyes, and looked at William.

'How dare you--'

'Shut up,' said
William. 'Now, I'm going to tell you what's going to happen. I'm not going to
name names. That's my decision. I don't want my mother to have been married to
a traitor, you see. Then there's Rupert. And my sisters. And me, too. I'm
protecting the name. That's probably very wrong of me, and I'm going to do it
anyway. I'm going to disobey you one more time, in fact. I won't

295

tell the truth. Not the whole truth. Besides, I am sure
that those who want to know these things will find out soon enough. And I
daresay they'll sort it out quietly. You know . . . just like you do,'

'Traitor?'
whispered Lord de Worde.

'That is what
people would say.'

Lord de Worde
nodded, like a man caught in an unpleasant dream.

'I could not
possibly take the money,' he said. 'I wish you joy of it, my son. Because . . .
you are most certainly a de Worde. Good day to you.' He turned and walked away.
After a few seconds the distant door creaked open and shut quietly.

William staggered
to a pillar. He was shaking. He replayed the meeting in his head. His brain
hadn't touched the ground the whole time.

'Are you okay,
Villiam?' said Otto.

'I feel sick, but
. . . yeah, I'm all right. Of all the bone-headed, stubborn, self-centred,
arrogant--'

'But you make up
for it in other vays,' said Otto.

'I meant my
father.'

'Oh.'

'He's just so
certain he's in the right all the time--'

'Sorry, this is
still your father ve're talking about?'

'Are you saying
I'm like him?'

'Oh, no. Qvite
different. Absolutely qvite different. No similarities votsoever.'

'You didn't need
to go that far!' He stopped. 'Did I say thank you ?'

'No, you did not.'

'Oh, dear.'

'No, you noticed
that you didn't, so zat is okay,' said Otto. 'Every day, in every vay, ve get
better and better. By the vay, vould you mind pulling this sword out of me? Vot
kind of idiot just sticks it in a vampire? All it does is mess up zer linen.'

'Let me help--'
William gingerly withdrew the blade.

'Can I put zis
shirt on my expenses?'

'Yes, I think so.'

296

'Good. And now it
is all over and time for revards and medals,' said the vampire cheerfully,
adjusting his jacket. 'So vhere are your troubles now?'

'Just starting,'
said William. 'I think I'm going to be seeing the inside of the Watch House in
less than an hour,'

In fact it was forty-three
minutes later that William de Worde was Helping the Watch, as they say, with
Their Inquiries.

On the other side
of the table Commander Vimes was carefully re-reading the Times. He was,
William knew, taking longer than necessary in order to make him nervous.

'I can help you
with any long words you don't recognize,' he volunteered.

'It's very good,'
said Vimes, ignoring this. 'But I need to know more. I need to know the names.
I think you know the names. Where did they meet? Things like that. I need to
know them,'

'Some things are a
mystery to me,' said William. 'You've got more than enough evidence to release
Lord Vetinari,'

'I want to know
more,'

'Not from me,'

'Come on, Mr de
Worde. We're on the same side here!'

'No. We're just on
two different sides that happen to be side by side,'

'Mr de Worde,
earlier today you assaulted one of my officers. Do you know how much trouble
you are in already?'

'I expected better
of you than that, Mister Vimes,' said William. 'Are you saying I assaulted an officer
in uniform? An officer who identified themself to me?'

'Be careful, Mr de
Worde,'

'I was being
followed by a werewolf, commander. I took steps to . . . inconvenience it so
that I could get away. Would you like to debate this publicly?'

I'm being an
arrogant, lying, supercilious bastard, thought William. And I'm good at it.

'Then you give me
no choice but to arrest you for concealing--'

'I demand a
lawyer,' said William.

'Really? And who
did you have in mind at this time of night?'

297

'Mr Slant.'

'Slant? You think
he'll come out for you?'

'No. I know he'll
come out. Believe me.'

'Oh, he will, will
he?'

Trust me.'

'Come now,' said
Vimes, smiling. 'Do we need this? It's the duty of every citizen to help the
Watch, isn't it?'

I don't know. I
know the Watch think it is. I've never seen it written down,' said William.
'There again, I never knew it was the right of the Watch to spy on innocent
people.'

He saw the smile
freeze.

'It was for your
own good,' Vimes growled.

'I didn't know it
was your job to decide what was good for me.'

This time Vimes
won a small prize. 'I'm not going to be led, either,' he said. 'But I have
reason to believe that you are withholding information about a major crime, and
that is an offence. That's against the law.'

'Mr Slant will
come up with something. There's some precedent, I'll bet. He'll go back
hundreds of years. The Patricians have always set great store by precedent. Mr
Slant will dig and dig. For years if necessary. That's how he got where he is
today, by digging.'

Vimes leaned
forward. 'Between you and me, and without your notebook,' he muttered, 'Mr
Slant is a devious dead bastard who can bend such law as we have into a puzzle
ring.'

'Yep,' said
William. 'And he's my lawyer. I guarantee it.'

'Why would Mr
Slant speak up on your behalf?' said Vimes, staring at William.

William matched
him eyeball for eyeball. It's true, he thought. I'm my father's son. All I have
to do is use it.

'Because he's a
very fair man?' he said. 'Now, are you going to send a runner to fetch him?
Because if you're not you've got to let me go.'

Without taking his
gaze off William, Vimes reached down and unhooked the speaking tube from the
side of his desk. He whistled into it and then put it to his ear. There was a
sound like a mouse pleading for mercy at the other end of a drainpipe.

'Yata whipsie
poitl swup?'

298

Vimes put the tube
to his mouth. 'Sergeant, send someone up to take Mr de Worde down to the cells,
will you?'

'Swyddle
yumyumpwipwipwip?'

Vimes sighed and
replaced the pipe. He got up and opened the door.

'Fred, send
someone to take Mr de Worde down to the cells, will you?' he yelled. 'I'm
calling it protective custody for now,' he added, turning to William.

'Protecting me
from whom?'

'Well, I
personally have an overwhelming urge to give you a ding alongside the ear,'
said Vimes. 'And I suspect there are others out there without my self-control.'

It was in fact
quite peaceful in the cells. The bunk was comfortable. The walls were covered
with graffiti, and William passed the time correcting the spelling.

The door was
unlocked again. A stony-faced constable escorted William back up to Vimes's
office.

Mr Slant was
there. He gave William an impassive nod. Commander Vimes was sitting in front
of a small yet significant pile of paper and had the look of a beaten man.

'I believe Mr de
Worde can go free,' said Mr Slant.

Vimes shrugged.
'I'm only amazed you aren't asking me to give him a gold medal and an
illuminated scroll of thanks. But I'm setting bail at one thou--'

'Ah?' said Mr
Slant, raising a grey finger.

Vimes glowered.
'One hun--'

'Ah?'

Vimes grunted and
reached into his pocket. He tossed William a dollar. 'Here,' he said, with
extensive sarcasm. 'And if you aren't in front of the Patrician at ten o'clock
tomorrow you've got to give it back. Satisfied?' he said to Slant.

'Which Patrician?'
said William.

'Thank you for
that smart answer,' said Vimes. 'Just you be there.'

Mr Slant was
silent as he walked out into the night air with his new client, but after a
while he said: 'I have presented a writ of exeo carco cum nihil pretii on the
basis of olfacere violarum and sini plenis

299

pistis. Tomorrow I shall move that you are ab hamo, and in
the event of this not working I--'

'Smelling of
violets?' said William, who had been translating in his head, 'and pockets full
of fish?'

'Based on a case
some six hundred years ago when the defendant successfully pleaded that,
although he had indeed pushed the victim into a lake, the man came out with his
pockets full of fish, to his net benefit,' said Mr Slant crisply. 'In any case,
I shall argue that if withholding information from the Watch is a crime, every
person in the city is guilty.'

'Mr Slant, I do
not wish to have to say how and where I got my information,' said William. 'If
I have to, I shall have to reveal all of it.'

The light from the
distant lamp over the Watch House door, behind its blue glass, illuminated the
lawyer's face. He looked ill.

'You really
believe those two men had . . . accomplices?' he said.

'I'm sure of it,'
said William. 'I'd say it's a matter of. . . record.'

At that point he
almost felt sorry for the lawyer. But only almost.

'That might not be
in the public interest,' said Mr Slant slowly. 'This ought to be a time for . .
. reconciliation.'

'Absolutely. So
I'm sure you will see to it that I don't have to pour all those words into
Commander Vimes's ear.'

'Strangely enough,
there was a precedent in 1497 when a cat successfully--'

'Good. And you
will have one of your special quiet words with the Engravers' Guild. You are
good at quiet words.'

'Well, of course I
will do my best. The bill, however--'

'--won't exist,'
said William.

Only then did Mr
Slant's parchment features really crease up in pain.

'Pro bono
publico?' he croaked.

'Oh, yes. You will
certainly be working for the public good,' said William. 'And what is good for
the public, of course, is good for you. Isn't that nice?'

'On the other
hand,' said Mr Slant, 'perhaps it would be in the interests of everyone to put
this sorry affair behind us, and I will be, uh, happy to donate my services.'

300

Thank you. Mr
Scrope is now Lo-- is now the Patrician?'

'Yes.'

'By the vote of
the Guilds?'

'Yes. Of course.'

The unanimous
vote?'

'I don't have to
tell--'

William raised a
finger. 'Ah?' he said.

Mr Slant squirmed.
The Beggars and the Seamstresses voted to adjourn,' he said. 'So did the
Launderers and the Guild of Exotic Dancers.'

'So . . . that
would be Queen Molly, Mrs Palm, Mrs Manger and Miss Dixie Voom,' said William.
'What an interesting life Lord Vetinari must have led.'

'No comment.'

'And would you say
Mr Scrope is looking forward to getting to grips with the manifold problems of
running the city?'

Mr Slant
considered this one. 'I think that may be the case,' he conceded.

'Not least of
which is the fact that Lord Vetinari is, in fact, completely innocent? And that
therefore there is a very large question mark over the appointment? Would you
advise that he takes up his duties with several spare pairs of underpants? You
don't have to answer that last one.'

'It is not my job
to instruct the assembly of Guilds to reverse a legitimate decision, even if it
turns out to have been based on . . . erroneous information. Nor is it my
responsibility to advise Mr Scrope on his choice of undergarments.'

'See you tomorrow,
Mr Slant,' said William.

William barely had
time to undress and lie down before it was time to get up again. He washed as
best he could, changed his shirt and went cautiously down to breakfast. He was
in fact the first at the table.

There was the
usual stolid silence as the other guests gathered. Most of Mrs Arcanum's
boarders didn't bother to talk unless they had something to say. But when Mr
Mackleduff sat down he pulled out a copy of the Times from his pocket.

301

'Couldn't get the
paper,' said Mr Mackleduff, shaking it open. 'So I got the other one,'

William coughed.
'Anything much in it?' he said. He could see his headline from where he sat, in
huge bold caps:

DOG BITES MAN!

He'd made it news.

'Oh . . . Lord
Vetinari got away with it,' said Mr Mackleduff.

'Well, of course
he would,' said Mr Prone. 'Very clever man, whatever they say,'

'And his dog's all
right,' said Mr Mackleduff. William wanted to shake the man for reading so
slowly.

'That's nice,'
said Mrs Arcanum, pouring out the tea.

'Is that it?' said
William.

'Oh, there's a lot
of political stuff,' said Mr Mackleduff. 'It's all a bit far-fetched.'

'Any good
vegetables today?' said Mr Cartwright.

Mr Mackleduff
carefully inspected the other pages.

'No,' he said.

'My firm are
thinking of approaching that man to see if he'd let us sell his seeds for him,'
Mr Cartwright went on. 'It's just the sort of thing people like,' He caught Mrs
Arcanum's eye. 'Only those vegetables suitable for a family environment, of
course,' he added quickly.

'Aye, it does you
good to laugh,' said Mr Mackleduff solemnly.

It crossed
William's mind to wonder if Mr Wintler could grow an obscene pea. But of course
he could.

'I would have
thought it's quite important,' he said, 'if Lord Vetinari isn't guilty,'

'Oh, yes, I
daresay, to them as has to deal with these things,' said Mr Mackleduff. 'I
don't quite see where we come into it, though.'

'But surely--'
William began.

Mrs Arcanum patted
her hair. 'I've always thought Lord Vetinari was a most handsome man,' she
said, and then looked flustered when they all stared at her. 'I meant, I'm just
a little surprised there isn't a Lady Vetinari. As it were. Ahem.'

302

'Oh well, you know
what they say,' said Mr Windling.

A pair of arms
shot out across the table, grabbed the surprised man by the lapels and pulled
him up so that his face was a few inches from William's.

7 don't know what
they say, Mr Windling!' he shouted. 'But you know what they say, Mr Windling!
Why don't you tell us what they say, Mr Windling! Why don't you tell us who
told you, Mr Windling?'

'Mr de Worde!
Really!' said Mrs Arcanum. Mr Prone pulled the toast out of the way.

I'm very sorry
about this, Mrs Arcanum,' said William, still holding the struggling man, 'but
I want to know what everyone knows and I want to know how they know it. Mr
Windling?'

They say he's got
some sort of a lady friend who's very important in Uberwald,' said Mr Windling.
'And I'll thank you to let go of me!'

'And that's it?
What's so sinister about that? It's a friendly country!'

'Yes, but, yes,
but they say--'

William let go.
Windling rocked back into his chair, but William stayed standing, breathing
heavily.

'Well, I wrote the
article in the TimesV he snapped. 'And what's in there is what ,' say! Me!
Because I found things out, and checked things, and people who say
ing a lot tried to kill me! I'm not the man that's the brother of
some man you met in the pub! I'm not some stupid rumour put about to make
trouble! So just remember that, before you try any of that everyone
knows stuff! And in an hour or so I've got to go up to the palace and see
Commander Vimes and whoever is the Patrician and a lot of other people, to get
this whole thing sorted out! And it's not going to be very nice, but I'm going
to have to do it, because I wanted you to know things that are important. Sorry
about the teapot, Mrs Arcanum, I'm sure it can be mended.'

In the ensuing
silence Mr Prone picked up the paper and said: 'You write this?'

'Yes!'

'I . . . er . . .
I thought they had special people . . .'

303

All heads turned
back to William.

There isn't a
they. There's just me and a young lady. We write it all!' 'But . . . who tells
you what to put in?' The heads turned back to William. 'We just. . . decide.'

'Er . . . is it
true about big silver discs kidnapping people?' 'No!'

To William's
surprise Mr Cartwright actually raised his hand. 'Yes, Mr Cartwright?'

I've got quite an
important question, Mr de Worde, what with you knowing all this stuff 'Yes?'
'Have you got the address of the funny vegetable man?'

William and Otto
arrived at the palace at five minutes to ten. There was a small crowd around
the gates.

Commander Vimes
was standing in the courtyard, talking to Slant and some of the Guild leaders.
He smiled in a humourless way when he saw William.

'You're rather
late, Mr de Worde,' he said.

'I'm early!'

'I meant that
things have been happening.'

Mr Slant cleared
his throat. 'Mr Scrope has sent a note,' he said. 'It appears that he is ill.'

William pulled out
his notebook.

The civic leaders
focused on it. He hesitated. And then uncertainty evaporated. I'm a de Worde,
he thought, don't you dare look down your noses at me! You 've got to move with
the Times. Oh well . . . here goes. . .

'Was it signed by
his mother?' he said.

'I don't follow
your meaning,' said the lawyer, but several of the Guild leaders turned their
heads away.

'What's happening
now, then?' said William. 'We don't have a ruler?'

'Happily,' said Mr
Slant, who looked like a man in a private hell, 'Lord Vetinari is feeling very
much better and expects to resume his duties tomorrow.'

'Excuse me, is he
allowed to write that down?' said Lord Downey, head of the Assassins' Guild, as
William made a note.

'Allowed by who?'
said Vimes.

'Whom,' said
William, under his breath.

'Well, he can't
just write down anything, can he?' said Lord Downey. 'Supposing he writes down
something we don't want him to write down?'

Vimes looked
William firmly in the eye.

There's no law
against it,' he said.

'Lord Vetinari is
not going to go on trial, then, Lord Downey?' said William, holding Vimes's
gaze for a second.

Downey, baffled,
turned to Slant.

'Can he ask me
that?' he said. 'Just come out with a question, just like that?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Do I have to
answer it?'

'It is a
reasonable question in the circumstances, my lord, but you don't have to.'

'Do you have a
message for the people of Ankh-Morpork?' said William sweetly.

'Do we, Mr Slant?'
said Lord Downey.

Mr Slant sighed. 'It
may be advisable, my lord, yes.'

'Oh, well, then -
no, there won't be a trial. Obviously.'

'And he's not
going to be pardoned?' said William.

Lord Downey turned
to Mr Slant, who gave a little sigh.

'Again, my lord,
it is--'

'All right, all
right . . . No, he's not going to be pardoned because it is quite clear that he
is quite guiltless,' said Downey testily.

'Would you say
that this has become clear because of the excellent work done by Commander
Vimes and his dedicated band of officers, aided in a small way by the Times!'
said William.

Lord Downey looked
blank. 'Would I say that?' he said.

'I think you
possibly would, yes, my lord,' said Slant, sinking further in gloom.

'Oh. Then I
would,' said Downey. 'Yes.' He craned his neck to see what William was writing
down. Out of the corner of his eye

304

305

William saw
Vimes's expression; it was a strange mixture of amusement and anger.

'And would you
say, as spokesman for the Guild Council, that you are commending Commander
Vimes?' said William.

'Now see here--'
Vimes began.

'I suppose we
would, yes.'

'I expect there's
a Watch Medal or a commendation in the offing?'

'Now look--' Vimes
said.

'Yes, very
probably. Very probably,' said Lord Downey, now thoroughly buffeted by the
winds of change.

William
painstakingly wrote this down, too, and closed his notebook. This caused a
general air of relief among the others.

'Thank you very
much, my lord, and ladies and gentlemen,' he said cheerfully. 'Oh, Mister Vimes
. . . do you and I have anything to discuss?'

'Not right at this
moment,' growled Vimes.

'Oh, that's good.
Well, I must go and get this written up, so thank you once--'

'You will of
course show this . . . article to us before you put it in the paper,' said Lord
Downey, rallying a little.

William wore his
haughtiness like an overcoat. 'Um, no, I don't think I will, my lord. It's my
paper, you see.'

'Can he--?'

'Yes, my lord, he
can,' said Mr Slant. 'I'm afraid he can. The right to free speech is a fine old
Ankh-Morpork tradition.'

'Good heavens, is
it?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'How did that one
survive?'

'I couldn't say,
my lord,' said Slant. 'But Mr de Worde,' he added, staring at William, 'is, I
believe, a young man who would not go out of his way to upset the smooth
running of the city.'

William smiled at
him politely, nodded to the rest of the company and walked back across the
courtyard and out into the street. He waited until he was some distance away
before he burst out laughing.

A week went past.
It was notable because of the things that didn 't happen. There was no protest
from Mr Carney or the Engravers' Guild. William wondered if he had been
carefully moved into the 'to be left alone' file. After all, people might be
thinking, Vetinari probably owed the Times a favour, and no one would want to
be that favour, would they? There was no visit from the Watch, either. There
had been rather more street cleaners around than usual, but after William sent
a hundred dollars to Harry King, plus a bouquet for Mrs King, Gleam Street was
no longer gleaming.

They'd moved to
another shed while the old one was being rebuilt. Mr Cheese had been easy to
deal with. He just wanted money. You know where you stand with simple people
like that, even if it is with your hand in your wallet.

A new press had been
rolled in, and once again money had made the effort almost frictionless. It had
already been substantially redesigned by the dwarfs.

This shed was
smaller than the old one, but Sacharissa had contrived to partition off a tiny
editorial space. She'd put a potted plant and a coat rack in it, and talked
excitedly of the space they'd have when the new building was finished, but
William reckoned that however big it was it would never be neat. Newspaper
people thought the floor was a big flat filing cabinet.

He had a new desk,
too. In fact it was better than a new desk; it was a genuine antique one, made
of genuine walnut, inlaid with leather, and with two inkwells, lots of drawers
and genuine woodworm. At a desk like that a man could write.

They hadn't brought
the spike.

William was
pondering over a letter from the Ankh-Morpork League of Decency when the sense
that someone was standing nearby made him look up.

Sacharissa had
ushered in a small group of strangers, although after a second or two he
recognized one of them as the late Mr Bendy, who was merely strange.

'You remember you
said we ought to get more writers?' she said. 'You know Mr Bendy, and this is
Mrs Tilly' - a small white-haired woman bobbed a curtsey to William - 'who
likes cats and really nasty murders, and Mr O'Biscuit' - a rangy young man -
'who's all

306

307

the way from Fourecks and looking for a job before he goes
home.'

'Really? What did
you do in Fourecks, Mr O'Biscuit?'

I was at Bugarup
University, mate.'

'You're a wizard?'

'No, mate. They
threw me out, 'cos of what I wrote in the student magazine.'

'What was that?'

'Everything,
really.'

'Oh. And . . . Mrs
Tilly, I think you wrote a lovely well-spelled and grammatical letter to us
suggesting that everyone under the age of eighteen should be flogged once a
week to stop them being so noisy?'

'Once a day, Mr de
Worde,' said Mrs Tilly. 'That'll teach 'em to go around being young!'

William hesitated.
But the press needed feeding, and he and Sacharissa needed time off. Rocky was
supplying some sports news, and while it was unreadable to William he put it in
on the basis that anyone keen on sport probably couldn't read. There had to be
more staff. It was worth a try.

'Very well, then,'
he said. 'We'll give you all a trial, starting right-- Oh.'

He stood up.
Everyone turned round to see why.

'Please don't
bother,' said Lord Vetinari from the doorway. 'This is meant to be an informal
visit. Taking on new staff, I see?'

The Patrician
walked across the floor, followed by Drumknott.

'Er, yes,' said
William. 'Are you all right, sir?'

'Oh, yes. Busy, of
course. Such a lot of reading to catch up on. But I thought I should take a
moment to come and see this free press Commander Vimes has told me
about at considerable length.' He tapped one of the iron pillars of the press
with his cane. 'However, it appears to be firmly bolted down.'

'Er, no, sir. I
mean free in the sense of what is printed, sir,' said William.

'But surely you
charge money?'

'Yes, but--'

'Oh, I see. You
meant you should be free to print what you like?'

There was no
escape. 'Well . . . broadly, yes, sir.'

'Because that's in
the, what was the other interesting term? Ah, yes . . . the public interest?'
Lord Vetinari picked up a piece of type and inspected it carefully.

'I think so, sir.'

'These stories
about man-eating goldfish and people's husbands disappearing in big silver
dishes?'

'No, sir. That's
what the public is interested in. We do the other stuff, sir.'

'Amusingly shaped
vegetables?'

'Well, a bit of
that, sir. Sacharissa calls them human interest stories.'

'About vegetables
and animals?'

'Yes, sir. But at
least they're real vegetables and animals.'

'So . . . we have
what the people are interested in, and human interest stories, which is what
humans are interested in, and the public interest, which no one is interested
in.'

'Except the
public, sir,' said William, trying to keep up.

'Which isn't the
same as people and humans?'

'I think it's more
complicated than that, sir.'

'Obviously. Do you
mean that the public is a different thing from the people you just see walking
about the place? The public thinks big, sensible, measured thoughts while
people run around doing silly things?'

'I think so. I may
have to work on that idea too, I admit.'

'Hmm. Interesting.
7 have certainly noticed that groups of clever and intelligent people are
capable of really stupid ideas,' said Lord Vetinari. He gave William a look
which said 'I can read your mind, even the small print', and then gazed around
the press room again. 'Well, I can see you have an eventful future ahead of
you, and I wouldn't wish to make it any more difficult than it is clearly going
to be. I notice you have work going on . . . ?'

'We're putting up
a semaphore post,' said Sacharissa proudly. 'We'll be able to get a clacks
straight from the big trunk tower. And we're opening offices in Sto Lat and
Pseudopolis!'

Lord Vetinari
raised his eyebrows. 'My word,' he said. 'Many new deformed vegetables will
become available. I shall look forward with interest to seeing them.'

308

309

William decided
not to rise to this one.

'It amazes me how
the news you have so neatly fits the space available,' Lord Vetinari went on,
staring down at the page Boddony was working on. 'No little gaps anywhere. And
every day something happens that is important enough to be at the top of the
first page, too. How strange-- Oh, receive takes an e after the c .
. .'

Boddony looked up.
Lord Vetinari's cane swung around with a hiss and hovered in the middle of a
densely packed column. The dwarf looked closer and nodded, and took out a small
tool.

It's upside down
to him, and back to front, thought William. And the word's in the middle of the
text. And he spotted it.

Things that are
back to front are often easier to comprehend if they are upside down as well,'
said Lord Vetinari, tapping his chin with the silver knob of his cane in an
absent-minded way. 'In life as in politics.'

'What have you
done with Charlie?' said William.

Lord Vetinari
looked at him in nothing but innocent surprise. 'Why, nothing. Should I have
done something?'

'Have you locked
him up,' said Sacharissa suspiciously, 'in a deep cell, and made him wear a
mask all the time and have all his meals brought by a deaf and dumb jailer?'

'Er . . . no, I
don't think so,' said Lord Vetinari, giving her a smile. 'Although it would
make a very good story, I've no doubt. No, I understand he's enrolled in the
Guild of Actors, though of course I realize that there are those who would
consider a deep dungeon a preferred alternative. I foresee a happy career for
him, nevertheless. Children's parties, and so on.'

'What. . . as
being you?'

'Indeed. Very
risible.'

'And perhaps when
you have some boring duty to perform, or have to sit for an oil painting,
you'll have a little job for him?' said William.

'Hmm?' said
Vetinari. William had thought that Vimes had a blank look, but he'd been
wreathed in smiles compared to his lordship when Lord Vetinari wanted to look
blank. 'Do you have any more questions, Mr de Worde?'

'I will have a
lot,' said William, pulling himself together. The Times will be taking a very
close interest in civic affairs.'

'How commendable,'
said the Patrician. 'If you contact Drumknott here I'm sure I will find time to
grant you an interview.'

The Right Word in
the Right Place, William thought. Unpleasant though the knowledge was, his
ancestors had always been amongst the first to get to grips in any conflict. In
every siege, every ambush, every stricken dash against fortified emplacements,
some de Worde had galloped towards death or glory and sometimes both. No enemy
was too strong, no wound was too deep, no sword was too heavy for a de Worde.
No grave was too deep, either. As his instincts wrestled with his tongue, he
could feel his ancestors behind him, pushing him into the fray. Vetinari was
too obviously playing with him. Oh well, at least let's die for something
decent. . . Onward to death or glory or both!

'I am sure, my
lord, that whenever you wish for an interview, the Times will be quite prepared
to grant you one,' he said. 'If space allows.'

He hadn't realized
how much background noise there was until it stopped. Drumknott had closed his
eyes. Sacharissa was staring straight ahead. The dwarfs stood like statues.

Finally, Lord
Vetinari broke the silence.

The Times? You
mean you, and this young lady here?' he said, raising his eyebrows. 'Oh, I see.
It's like the Public. Well, if I can be of any help to the Times--'

'We won't be
bribed, either,' said William. He knew he was galloping in among the sharpened
stakes here, but he'd be damned before he'd be patronized.

'Bribed?' said
Vetinari. 'My dear sir, seeing what you're capable of for nothing, I'd hesitate
to press even a penny in your hand. No, I have nothing to offer you except
thanks, which of course are notorious for their evaporative tendencies. Ah, a
little idea occurs. I shall be having a small dinner on Saturday. Some of the
Guild leaders, a few ambassadors . . . all rather dull, but perhaps you and
your very bold young lady . . . I do beg your pardon, I meant of course the
Times . . . would like to attend?'

'I don't--'
William began, and stopped suddenly. A shoe scraping down your shin can do
that.

310

311

'The Times would
be delighted,' said Sacharissa, beaming.

'Capital. In that
case--'

There is a favour
I need to ask, to tell the truth,' said William.

Vetinari smiled.
'Of course. If I can do anything for the Ti--'

'Will you be going
to Harry King's daughter's wedding on Saturday?'

To his secret
delight, the look that Vetinari gave him seemed to be blank because the man
hadn't got anything to fill it with. But Drumknott leaned towards him and there
were a few whispered words.

'Ah?' said the
Patrician. 'Harry King. Ah, yes. A positive incarnation of the spirit that has
made our city what it is today. Haven't I always said that, Drumknott?'

'Yes indeed, sir.'

'I shall certainly
attend. I expect a lot of other civic leaders will be there?'

The question was
left delicately spinning in the air.

'As many as
possible,' said William.

'Fine carriages,
tiaras, stately robes?' said Lord Vetinari, to the knob of his cane.

'Lots.'

'Yes, I'm sure
they will be there,' said Lord Vetinari, and William knew that Harry King would
walk his daughter past more top nobs than he could count, and while the world
of Mr King did not have a lot of space for letters he could count very
carefully indeed. Mrs King was going to have joyful hysterics out of sheer
passive snobbery.

'In return,
however,' said the Patrician, 'I must ask you not to upset Commander Vimes.' He
gave a little cough. 'More than necessary.'

'I'm sure we can
pull together, sir.'

Lord Vetinari
raised his eyebrows. 'Oh, I do hope not, I really do hope not. Pulling together
is the aim of despotism and tyranny. Free men pull in all kinds of directions.'
He smiled. 'It's the only way to make progress. That and, of course, moving
with the times. Good day to you.'

He nodded to them
and walked out of the building.

312

1

'Why is everyone
still here?' William demanded, when the spell had broken.

'Er . . . we still
don't know what we should be doing,' said Mrs Tilly hopelessly.

'Go and find out
things that people want to put in the paper,' said Sacharissa.

'And things that
people don't want put in the paper,' William added.

'And interesting
things,' said Sacharissa.

'Like that rain of
dogs there was a few months ago?' said O'Biscuit.

There was no rain
of dogs two months ago!' William snapped.

'But--'

'One puppy is not
a rain. It fell out of a window. Look, we are not interested in pet precipitation,
spontaneous combustion, or people being carried off by weird things from out of
the sky--'

'Unless it
happens,' said Sacharissa.

'Well, obviously
we are if it does happen,' said William. 'But when it doesn't, we're not. Okay?
News is unusual things happening--'

'And usual things
happening,' said Sacharissa, screwing up a report from the Ankh-Morpork Funny
Vegetable Society.

'And usual things,
yes,' said William. 'But news is mainly what someone somewhere doesn't want you
to put in the paper--'

'Except that
sometimes it isn't,' said Sacharissa again.

'News is--' said
William, and stopped. They watched him politely as he stood with his mouth open
and one finger raised.

'News,' he said,
'all depends. But you'll know it when you see it. Clear? Right. Now go and find
some.'

That was a bit
abrupt,' said Sacharissa after they'd filed out.

'Well, I was
thinking,' said William. 'I mean, it's been a . . . a funny old time all round,
what with one thing and another--'

'--people trying
to kill us, your being imprisoned, a plague of dogs, the place catching on
fire, your being cheeky to Lord Vetinari--' said Sacharissa.

'Yes, well. . . so
would it really matter if you and I, you know . . . you and I . . . took the
afternoon off? I mean,' he added

313

desperately, 'it doesn't say anywhere that we have to
publish every day, does it?'

'Except at the top
of the newspaper,' said Sacharissa.

'Yes, but you
can't believe everything you read in the newspapers.'

'Well . . . all
right. I'll just finish this report--'

'Messages for you,
Mr William,' said one of the dwarfs, dropping a pile of paper on his desk.
William grunted and glanced through them. There were a few test clackses from
Lancre and Sto Lat, and already he could see that pretty soon he'd have to go out
into the country to train some real, yes, reporters of news, because he could
see there was only a limited future in these earnest missives from village
grocers and publicans who'd be paid a penny a line. There were a couple of
carrier pigeon messages, too, from those people who couldn't get a grip on the
new technology.

'Ye gods,' he
said, under his breath. The Mayor of Quirm has been struck by a meteorite . . .
again.'

'Can that happen?'
said Sacharissa.

'Apparently. This
is from Mr Pune at the council offices there. Sensible chap, not much
imagination. He says that this time it was waiting for the mayor in an alley,'

'Really? The woman
we get our linen from has got a son who is the lecturer in Vindictive Astronomy
at the University.'

'Would he give us
a quote?'

'He smiles at me
when he sees me in the shop,' said Sacharissa firmly. 'So he will.'

'O-kay. If you
can--'

'Afternoon,
folks!'

Mr Wintler was
standing at the counter. He was holding a cardboard box.

'Oh, dear . . .'
murmured William.

'Just you take a
look at this one,' said Mr Wintler, a man who would not take a hint if it was
wrapped around a lead pipe.

'I think we've had
enough funny ve--' William began.

And stopped.

It was a big
potato that the rubicund man was lifting from his box. It was knobbly, too.
William had seen knobbly potatoes before. They could look like faces, if that
was the way you wanted

314

to amuse yourself. But with this one you didn't have to
imagine a face. It had a face. It was made up of dents and knobs and potato
eyes, but it looked very much like a face that had been staring madly into his
and trying to kill him very recently. He remembered it quite well, because he
still occasionally woke up around 3 a.m. with it in front of him.

'It's . . . not. .
. exactly . . .funny,' said Sacharissa, glancing sideways at William.

'Amazing, isn't
it?' said Mr Wintler. 'I wouldn't have brought it round, but you've always been
very interested in them,'

'A day without a
bifurcated parsnip,' said Sacharissa sweetly, 'is a day without sunshine, Mr
Wintler. William?'

'Huh?' said
William, tearing his eyes away from the potato head. 'Is it me, or does it look
. . . surprised?'

'It does rather,'
said Sacharissa.

'Did you just dig
this up?' said William.

'Oh, no. It's been
in one of my sacks for months,' said Wintler.

. . . which upset
an occult train of thought that had started to trundle through William's head.
But . . . the universe was a funny place. Cause and effect, effect and cause .
. . He'd rip off his right arm rather than write that down, though.

'What are you
going to do with it?' he said. 'Boil it?'

'Bless you, no.
The variety's far too floury. No, this one's going to be chips.'

'Chips, eh?' said
William. And it seemed, strangely, exactly the right thing to do.

'Yes. Yes, that's
a good idea. Let it fry, Mr Wintler. Let it fry.'

The clock moved
on.

One of the
reporters came in to say that the Alchemists' Guild had exploded, and did this
count as news? Otto was summoned from his crypt and sent out to get a picture.
William finished his piece about yesterday's events and passed it over to the
dwarfs. Someone came in and said there was a big crowd in Sator Square because
the Bursar (71) was sitting on a roof seven floors up, looking puzzled.
Sacharissa, wielding her pencil with care, crossed out every adjective in a
report of the Ankh-Morpork Floral Arranging Society, reducing its length by
half.

315

William went out
to find out about the Bursar (71), then wrote a few short paragraphs. Wizards
doing odd things wasn't news. Wizards doing odd things was wizards.

He threw the piece
into the Out tray, and looked at the press.

It was black, and
big, and complex. Without eyes, without a face, without life . . . It looked
back at him.

He thought: you
don't need old sacrificial stones. Lord Vetinari was wrong about that. He
touched his forehead. The bruise had long ago faded.

You put your mark
on me. Well, I'm wise to you.

'Let's go,' he
said.

Sacharissa looked
up, still preoccupied. 'What?'

'Let's go. Out.
Now. For a walk, or tea, or shopping,' said William. 'Let's not be here. Don't
argue, please. Coat on. Now. Before it realizes. Before it finds a way to stop
us.'

'What are you
talking about?'

He pulled her coat
off the peg and grabbed her arm. 'No time to explain!'

She allowed
herself to be dragged out into the street, where William took a deep breath and
relaxed.

'Now would you
mind telling me what that was all about?' said Sacharissa. 'I've got a pile of
work in there, you know.'

'I know. Come on.
We're probably not far enough away. There's a new noodle place opened in Elm
Street. Everyone says it's pretty good. How about it?'

'But there's all
that work to do!'

'So? It'll still
be there tomorrow, won't it?'

She hesitated.
'Well, an hour or two won't hurt, probably,' she admitted.

'Good. Let's go.'

They'd reached the
junction of Treacle Mine Road and Elm Street when it caught up with them.

There were cries
further along the street. William swivelled his head, saw the four-horse
brewer's dray thundering out of control. He saw the people diving and scuttling
out of the way. He saw the soup-plate hooves throw up mud and ice. He saw the
brasses on the harness, the gleam, the steam . . .

316

His head swivelled
the other way. He saw the old woman with two sticks crossing the street, quite
oblivious of the onrushing death. He saw the shawl, the white hair . . .

A blur went past
him. The man twisted in the air, landed on his shoulder in the centre of the
street, rolled upright, grabbed the woman, and leapt--

The wayward wagon
went by in a rush of steam and slush. The team tried to corner at the
crossroads. The dray behind them did not. A melee of hooves and horses and
wheels and sleet and screams whirled onwards and took the windows out of
several shops before the cart rammed up against a stone pillar and stopped
dead.

In obedience to
the laws of physics and the narrative of such things, its load did not. The
barrels burst their bonds, crashed down on to the street and rolled onwards. A
few smashed, filling the gutter with suds. The others, thumping and banging
into one another, became the focus of attention of every upright citizen who
could recognize a hundred gallons of beer which suddenly didn't belong to
anyone any more and was heading for freedom.

William and
Sacharissa looked at one another.

'Okay - I'll get
the story, you go and find Otto!'

They said that at
the same time, and then stared defiantly at each other.

'All right, all
right,' said William. 'Find some kid, bribe him to get Otto, I'll talk to that
Plucky Watchman who grabbed the old lady in A Mercy Dash, you cover the Big
Smash, okay?'

'I'll find the
kid,' said Sacharissa, pulling out her own notebook, 'but you cover the
accident and the Beer Barrel Bonanza and I'll talk to the White-Haired Granny.
Human interest, right?'

'All right!'
William conceded. That was Captain Carrot who did the rescue. Make sure Otto
gets a picture, and get his age!'

'Of course!'

William headed
towards the crowd around the smashed wagon. Many people were in distant pursuit
of the barrels, and the odd scream suggested that thirsty people seldom realize
how hard it is to stop a hundred gallons of beer in a big oak cask when it's on
a roll.

317

He dutifully noted
down the name on the side of the dray. A couple of men were helping the horses
up, but they did not appear to have much to do with beer delivery. They
appeared to be men who simply wanted to help lost horses, and take them home
and make them better. If this had to mean dyeing areas of their coats and
swearing blind they'd owned them for the past two years, then so be it.

He approached a
bystander not obviously engaged in any felonious activity.

'Exc--' he began.
But the citizen's eyes had already detected the notebook.

'I saw it all,' he
said.

'Did you?'

'It was a
ter-ri-ble scene,' said the man, at dictation speed. 'But the watch-man made a
death-defying plunge to res-cue the old lady and he de-serves a med-al.'

'Really?' said
William, scribbling fast. 'And you are--'

'Sa-muel Arblaster
(43), stone-mason, of lib The Scours,' said the man.

'I saw it too,'
said a woman next to him, urgently. 'Mrs Florrie Perry, blonde mother of three,
from Dolly Sisters. It was a scene of car-nage.'

William risked a
glance at his pencil. It was a kind of magic wand.

'Where's the
iconographer?' said Mrs Perry, looking around hopefully.

'Er . . . not here
yet,' said William.

'Oh.' She looked
disappointed. 'Shame about the poor woman with the snake, wasn't it? I expect
he's off taking pictures of her.'

'Er . . . I hope
not,' said William.

It was a long
afternoon. One barrel had rolled into a barber shop and exploded. Some of the
brewer's men turned up, and there was a fight with several of the barrels' new
owners, who claimed rights of salvage. One enterprising man tapped a barrel by
the roadside and set up a temporary pub. Otto arrived. He took pictures of
barrel rescuers. He took a picture of the fight. He took pictures of the Watch
arriving to arrest everyone still standing. He took pictures of the
white-haired old lady and the proud Captain Carrot and, in his excitement, of
his thumb!

318

It was a good
story all round. And William was halfway through writing his part of it back at
the Times when he remembered.

He'd watched it
happening. And he'd reached for his notebook. That was a worrying thought, he
told Sacharissa.

'So?' she said,
from her side of the desk. How many Is in gallant ?'

'Two,' said
William. 'I mean, I didn't try to do anything. I thought: this is a Story, and
I have to tell it.'

'Yep,' said
Sacharissa, still bowed over her writing. 'We've been press-ganged.'

'But it's not--'

'Look at it like
this,' said Sacharissa, starting a fresh page. 'Some people are heroes. And
some people jot down notes.'

'Yes, but that's
not very--'

Sacharissa glanced
up and flashed him a smile. 'Sometimes they're the same person,' she said.

This time it was
William who looked down, modestly.

'You think that's
really true?' he said.

She shrugged.
'Really true? Who knows? This is a newspaper, isn't it? It just has to be true
until tomorrow.'

William felt the
temperature rise. Her smile had really been attractive. 'Are you . . . sure?'

'Oh, yes. True
until tomorrow is good enough for me.'

And behind her the
big black vampire of a printing press waited to be fed, and to be brought alive
in the dark of the night for the light of the morning. It chopped the
complexities of the world into little stories, and it was always hungry.

And it needed a
double-column story for page two, William remembered.

And, a few inches
under his hand, a woodworm chewed its way contentedly through the ancient
timber. Reincarnation enjoys a joke as much as the next philosophical
hypothesis. As it chewed, the woodworm thought: 'This is —ing good wood!'

Because nothing
has to be true for ever. Just for long enough, to tell you the truth.

eBook Info

Identifier:

XMKJFLNNIJ

Title:

The Truth

Creator:

Terry Pratchett

Date:

7/2/01