Truth

by Pratchett, Terry

  ‘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.F. 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 Io 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 Ge
nua 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.’

  ‘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?’

  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 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 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.