The Truth

by Terry Pratchett

  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 around 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?”

  “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? Tch, tch…that sort of thing only causes trouble.”

  Vimes stopped walking around 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” —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 iconographer 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 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 way, please—”

  Click.

  WHOOMPH

  “—oh, shee-yut!”

  Dust floated to the floor. In the midst of it, a twist of black ribbon spiraled down.

  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 gray 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 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 place 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, from 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 that wasn’t the right moment,” he added nervously, as she fled shrieking.

  “’Ere, what did you say to our Mary?” 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?”

  “I can see what it looks like,” said William. There was another look, but this time there was ju
st 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 so easily turned into 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 thirty-nine, Eleven 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 Eleven Long Hogmeat, open every day from six 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 dogsmeat 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.”

  William found a quiet alcove hidden from the general excitement, and gingerly let the piece of meat dribble one drop of blood onto the little gray pile.

  The dust mushroomed up into the air, became a mass of colored flecks, became Otto Chriek.

  “How was 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 color and 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!”

  “Vell, yes, fine, zank you anyvay,” the vampire mumbled, trailing behind him. “Dog food, dog food, oh dear me…vere are we 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 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 newspaper?”

  “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 thirty-four, 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 thirty-four?”

  “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…”

  “I am smilin’.”

  “Stop smiling, please.”

  Click. WHOOMPH.

  “Aaarghaarghaargh…”

  A screaming vampire is always the center of attention. William slipped into the Oblong Office.

  Just inside the door was a chalk outline. In colored 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.

  “Ohhbuggerrrrr…”

  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 it from a grubby piece of newspaper and gingerly dropped it onto the heap.

  The ash fountained and Otto arose, blinking.

  “How vas that? Vun more? This time wizt 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 him do his job. Give him a chance, eh? He’s a Black Ribboner, after all…” Behind the watchman, Otto took an ugly, newtlike 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 nighttime’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 Ubervald—” 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 William. “She seemed extremely angry when you took that second picture.”

  “Vell, 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—”