The Truth

by Terry Pratchett

  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.”

  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 onto 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 was 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 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 shriveled 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 up 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 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 that damn vampire and maybe a couple of 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 always 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 onto the crusted surface of the river Ankh. Shifting his weight with care, and gripping the rope tightly in his teeth, Arnold Sideways swung himself onto it. It sunk 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 from under the bridge. “Heave away, everybody!”

  The sack came out of the muck with a sucking sound, and Arnold pushed 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 onto 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 onto 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 sort 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 at the moment. 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.

  “I wish Gaspode was here,” he said. “He knows how to think about this sort of thing.”

  “A jar,” 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—”

  “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 interested,” 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 in here 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 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 checkbook 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 like 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 box.

  After some reflection, he pulled out one of his old socks and put 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 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’t’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 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 copper, 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.

  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 landed about twenty feet ahead of the werewolf, dropped from the stairs onto the top of a wall, and jumped down onto a privy roof 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 onto 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 may or may not have contained Deep Bone was occupied by a horse now. It looked down its nose at him.

  “Don’t turn around, Mr. Paper Man,” said a voice behind him.

  William tried to remember what had been behind him. Oh, yes…the hay loft. 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.

  “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. “I can give you a check for fifty dollars, and that’s all I can afford.”

  “What’s one of them, then?”