The Truth

by Terry Pratchett

  “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 had 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 trying to embezzle 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 some kind of 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 pressroom.

  “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…”

  “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 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 queuing 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.

  “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?”

  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 A’s. “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 honors 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?”

  “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 is 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 human by tradition. He had the pale gray pallor of a zombie and 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-ax.

  “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…”

  “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 clearly 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 lowercase, 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,’ 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 are ready, Otto?” said William, turning around.

  “If the dwarfs vould just close up a bit more,” said Otto, squinting into the iconograph. “Oh, zat’s good, 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 fell 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.

  “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 raise. 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.”

  “Has anyvon mentioned garlic zo far?”

  “No.”

  “Can I have one 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 ziz is a different kind of job.”

  “All right. All right, then…” William looked around the pressroom. 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 newsletter. 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.

  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.