The Truth

by Terry Pratchett

  He stood up. Everyone turned around 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 people are 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. I 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 pressroom again. “Well, I can see you have an eventful future ahead of you, and I would not wish to make it any more difficult than it is clearly going to be. I notice you have work going on…?”

  “We’re putting a semaphore post up,” 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.”

  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, although 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 dire, 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? Oh, 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.

  “The Times would be delighted,” said Sacharissa, beaming.

  “Capital. In that case—”

  “There is a favor 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,” said Lord Vetinari. “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.

  “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 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, you being imprisoned, a plague of dogs, the place catching on fire, you 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 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 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.”

  “Okay. 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 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 three 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.

  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 w
as 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 swiveled 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…

  His head swiveled the other way. He saw the old woman with two sticks, crossing the street, quite oblivious to 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 center of the street, rolled upright, grabbed the woman, and leapt—

  The wayward wagon went by in a rush of mud and ice crystals. 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.