‘What’s all this?’ he said to the seller, who was socially above Ron’s group by several layers of grime.
‘All this what?’
‘All this this!’ The stupid interview with Drumknott had left William very annoyed.
‘Don’t ask me, guv. I get a penny for every one I sell, that’s all I know.’
‘“Rain of Soup in Genua”? “Hen Lays Egg Three Times In Hurricane”? Where’d all this come from?’
‘Look, guv, if I was a readin’ man I wouldn’t be flogging papers, right?’
‘Someone else has started a paper!’ said William. He cast his eyes down to the small print at the bottom of the single page and, in this paper, even the small print wasn’t very small. ‘In Gleam Street?’
He recalled the workmen bustling around outside the old warehouse. How could— But the Engravers’ Guild could, couldn’t they? They already had presses, and they certainly had the money. Tuppence was ridiculous, though, even for this single sheet of … of rubbish. If the seller got a penny, then how in the world could the printer make any money?
Then he realized: that wouldn’t be the point, would it … the point was to put the Times out of business.
A big red and white sign for the Inquirer was already in place across the street from the Bucket. More carts were queueing outside.
One of Goodmountain’s dwarfs was peering around from behind the wall.
‘There’s three presses in there already,’ he said. ‘You saw what they’ve done? They got it out in half an hour!’
‘Yes, but it’s only one sheet. And it’s made-up stuff.’
‘Is it? Even the one about the snake?’
‘I’d bet a thousand dollars.’ William remembered that the smaller print had said this had happened in Lancre. He revised his estimate. ‘I’d bet at least a hundred dollars.’
‘That’s not the worst of it,’ said the dwarf. ‘You’d better come in.’
Inside the press was creaking away, but most of the dwarfs were idle.
‘Shall I give you the headlines?’ said Sacharissa, as he entered.
‘You’d better,’ said William, sitting down at his crowded desk.
‘Engravers Offer Dwarfs One Thousand Dollars For Press.’
‘Oh, no …’
‘Vampire Iconographer and Hard-Working Writer Tempted with Five-Hundred Dollar Salaries,’ Sacharissa went on.
‘Oh, really …’
‘Dwarfs Buggered For Paper.’
‘What?’
‘That’s a direct quote from Mr Goodmountain,’ said Sacharissa. ‘I don’t pretend to know exactly what it means, but I understand they’ve got enough for only one more edition.’
‘And if we want any more it’s five times the old price,’ said Goodmountain, coming up. ‘The Engravers are buying it up. Supply and demand, King says.’
‘King?’ William’s brow wrinkled. ‘You mean Mr King?’
‘Yeah, King of the Golden River,’ said the dwarf. ‘And, yeah, we could just about pay that but if them across the road are going to sell their sheet for 2p we’ll be working for practically nothing.’
‘Otto told the man from the Guild that he’d break his pledge if he saw him here again,’ said Sacharissa. ‘He was very angry because the man was angling to find out how he was taking printable iconographs.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m staying. I don’t trust them, especially when they’re so sneaky. They seemed very … low-class people,’ said Sacharissa. ‘But what are we going to do?’
William bit his thumbnail and stared at his desk. When he moved his feet a boot fetched up against the money chest with a reassuring thud.
‘We could cut down a bit, I daresay,’ said Goodmountain.
‘Yes, but then people won’t buy the paper,’ said Sacharissa. ‘And they ought to buy our paper, because it’s got real news in it.’
‘The news in the Inquirer looks more interesting, I have to admit,’ said Goodmountain.
‘That’s because it doesn’t actually have to have any facts in it!’ she snapped. ‘Now, I don’t mind going back to a dollar a day and Otto says he’d work for half a dollar if he can go on living in the cellar.’
William was still staring at nothing. ‘Apart from the truth,’ he said in a distant voice, ‘what have we got that the Guild hasn’t got? Can we print faster?’
‘One press against three? No,’ said Goodmountain. ‘But I bet we can set type faster.’
‘And that means …?’
‘We can probably beat them in getting the first paper on to the street.’
‘Okay. That might help. Sacharissa, do you know anyone who wants a job?’
‘Know? Haven’t you been looking at the letters?’
‘Not as such …’
‘Lots of people want a job! This is Ankh-Morpork!’
‘All right, find the three letters with the fewest spelling mistakes and send Rocky round to hire the writers.’
‘One of them was Mr Bendy,’ Sacharissa warned. ‘He wants more work. Not many interesting people are dying. Did you know he attends meetings for fun and very carefully writes down everything that’s said?’
‘Does he do it accurately?’
‘I’m sure he does. He’s exactly that sort of person. But I don’t think we’ve got the space—’
‘Tomorrow morning we’ll go to four pages. Don’t look like that. I’ve got more stuff about Vetinari, and we’ve got, oh, twelve hours to get some paper.’
‘I told you, King won’t sell us any more paper at a decent price,’ said Goodmountain.
‘There’s a story right there, then,’ said William.
‘I mean—’
‘Yes, I know. I’ve got some stuff to write, and then you and I will go to see him. Oh, and send someone to the semaphore tower, will you? I want to send a clacks to the King of Lancre. I think I met him once.’
‘Clacks cost money. Lots of money.’
‘Do it anyway. We’ll find the money somehow.’ William leaned over towards the cellar ladder. ‘Otto?’
The vampire emerged to waist height. He was holding a half-dismantled iconograph in his hand.
‘Vot can I do for you?’
‘Can you think of anything extra we can do to sell more papers?’
‘Vot do you vant now? Pictures that jump out of zer page? Pictures zat talk? Pictures vhere zer eyes follow you around zer room?’
‘There’s no need to take offence,’ said William. ‘It wasn’t as if I asked for colour or anything—’
‘Colour?’ said the vampire. ‘Is that all? Colour iss easy-peasy. How soon do you vant it?’
‘Can’t be done,’ said Goodmountain firmly.
‘Oh, zo you say? Is there somevhere here that makes coloured glass?’
‘Yeah, I know the dwarf who runs the stained-glass works in Phedre Road,’ said Goodmountain. ‘They do hundreds of shades, but—’
‘I vish to see samples right now. And of inks, too. You can get coloured inks alzo?’
‘That’s easy,’ said the dwarf, ‘but you’d need hundreds of different ones … wouldn’t you?’
‘No, ziss is not so. I vill make you a list of vot I reqvire. I cannot promise a Burleigh & Ztronginzerarm job first cat out of zer bag, off course. I mean you should not ask me for zer subtle play of light on autumn leafs or anyzing like zat. But zomething with stronk shades should be fine. Zis vill be okay?’
‘It’d be amazing.’
‘Zank you.’
William stood up. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘let’s go and see the King of the Golden River.’
‘I’ve always been puzzled why people call him that,’ said Sacharissa. ‘I mean, there’s no river of gold around here, is there?’
‘Gentlemen.’
Mr Slant was waiting in the hall of the empty house. He stood up when the New Firm entered and clutched his briefcase. He looked as if he was in an unusually bad temper.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Getting a bite, Mr Slant. You didn’t turn up this morning, and Mr Tulip gets hungry.’
‘I told you to maintain a very low profile.’
‘Mr Tulip isn’t good at low profiles. Anyway, it all went off well. You must have heard. Oh, we nearly got killed because you didn’t tell us a lot of stuff, and that’s going to cost you but, hey, who cares about us? What’s the problem?’
Mr Slant glared at them. ‘My time is valuable, Mr Pin. So I will not spin this out. What did you do with the dog?’
‘No one said anything to us about that dog,’ said Mr Tulip, and Mr Pin knew he’d got the tone wrong.
‘Ah, so you encountered the dog,’ said Mr Slant. ‘Where is it?’
‘Gone. Ran off. Bit our —ing legs and ran off.’
Mr Slant sighed. It was like the wind from an ancient tomb.
‘I did tell you that the Watch has a werewolf on the staff,’ he said.
‘Well? So what?’ said Mr Pin.
‘A werewolf would have no difficulty in talking to a dog.’
‘What? You’re telling us people will listen to a dog?’ said Mr Pin.
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ said Mr Slant. ‘A dog has got personality. Personality counts for a lot. And the legal precedents are clear. In the history of this city, gentlemen, we have put on trial at various times seven pigs, a tribe of rats, four horses, one flea and a swarm of bees. Last year a parrot was allowed as a prosecution witness in a serious murder case, and I had to arrange a witness protection scheme for it. I believe it is now pretending to be a very large budgerigar a long way away.’ Mr Slant shook his head. ‘Animals, alas, have their place in a court of law. There are all kinds of objections that could be made but the point is, Mr Pin, that Commander Vimes will build a case on it. He will start questioning … people. He already knows things are not right, but he has to work within the bounds of proof and evidence, and he has neither. If he finds the dog, I think things will unravel.’
‘Slip him a few thousand dollars,’ said Mr Pin. ‘That always works with watchmen.’
‘I believe that the last person who tried to bribe Vimes still doesn’t have full use of one of his fingers,’ said Mr Slant.
‘We did everything you —ing told us!’ shouted Mr Tulip, pointing a sausage-thick finger.
Mr Slant looked him up and down, as if seeing him for the first time.
‘“Kill the Cook!!!”’ he said. ‘How amusing. However, I understood that we were employing professionals.’
Mr Pin had seen this one coming and once again caught Mr Tulip’s fist in mid-air, being momentarily lifted off his feet.
‘The envelopes, Mr Tulip,’ he sang. ‘This man knows things …’
‘Hard to know any —ing thing when you’re dead,’ snarled Mr Tulip.
‘Actually the mind becomes crystal clear,’ said Mr Slant. He stood up and Mr Pin noticed how a zombie rises, using pairs of muscles in turn, not so much standing as unfolding upwards.
‘Your … other assistant is still safe?’ Slant said.
‘Back down in the cellar, drunk as a skunk,’ said Mr Pin. ‘I don’t see why we don’t just scrag him right now. He nearly turned and ran when he saw Vetinari. If the man hadn’t been so surprised we’d have been in big trouble. Who’d notice one more corpse in a city like this?’
‘The Watch, Mr Pin. How many times must I tell you this? They are uncannily good at noticing things.’
‘Mr Tulip here won’t leave ’em much to notice—’ Mr Pin stopped. ‘The Watch frighten you that much, do they?’
‘This is Ankh-Morpork,’ snapped the lawyer. ‘We are a very cosmopolitan city. Being dead in Ankh-Morpork is sometimes only an inconvenience, do you understand? We have wizards, we have mediums of all sizes. And bodies do have a habit of turning up. We want nothing that is going to give the Watch a clue, do you understand?’
‘They’d listen to a —ing dead man?’ said Mr Tulip.
‘I don’t see why not. You are,’ said the zombie. He relaxed a little. ‘Anyway, it is always possible that there may be further use for your … colleague. Some further little outing to convince the unconvinced. He is too valuable an asset to … retire just yet.’
‘Yeah, okay. We’ll keep him in a bottle. But we want extra for the dog,’ said Mr Pin.
‘It’s only a dog, Mr Pin,’ said Slant, raising his eyebrows. ‘Even Mr Tulip could out-think a dog, I expect.’
‘Got to find the dog first,’ said Mr Pin, stepping smartly in front of his colleague. ‘Lots of dogs in this town.’
The zombie sighed again. ‘I can add another five thousand dollars in jewels to your fee,’ he said. He held up a hand. ‘And please don’t insult both of us by saying “ten” automatically. The task is not hard. Lost dogs in this town either end up running with one of the feral packs or begin a new life as a pair of gloves.’
‘I want to know who’s giving me these orders,’ said Mr Pin. He could feel the weight of the Dis-organizer inside his jacket.
Mr Slant looked surprised. ‘Me, Mr Pin.’
‘Your clients, I meant.’
‘Oh, really!’
‘This is going to get political,’ Mr Pin persisted. ‘You can’t fight politics. I’m going to need to know how far we’ve got to run when people find out what happened. And who’s going to protect us if we’re caught.’
‘In this city, gentlemen,’ said Mr Slant, ‘the facts are never what they seem. Take care of the dog, and … others will look after you. There are plans afoot. Who can say what really happened? People are easily confused, and here I speak as one who has spent centuries in court rooms. Apparently, they say, a lie can run round the world before the truth has got its boots on. What an obnoxious little phrase, don’t you think? So … do not panic, and all will be well. And do not be stupid, either. My … clients have long memories and deep pockets. Other killers can be hired. Do you understand me?’ He snapped the catches on his case. ‘Good day to you.’
The door swung to behind him.
There was a rattling behind Mr Pin as Mr Tulip pulled out his set of stylish executive barbecue tools.
‘What are you doing?’
‘That —ing zombie is going to end up on the end of a couple of —ing handy and versatile kebab skewers,’ said Mr Tulip. ‘An’ then I’m gonna put an edge on this —ing spatula. An’ then … then I’m gonna get medieval on his arse.’
There were more pressing problems, but this one intrigued Mr Pin.
‘How, exactly?’ he said.
‘I thought maybe a maypole,’ said Mr Tulip reflectively. ‘An’ then a display of country dancing, land tillage under the three-field system, several plagues and, if my —ing hand ain’t too tired, the invention of the —ing horse collar.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Mr Pin. ‘Now let’s find that damn dog.’
‘How we gonna do that?’
‘Intelligently,’ said Mr Pin.
‘I hate that —ing way.’
He was called King of the Golden River. This was a recognition of his wealth and achievements and the source of his advance on his former success, which was not quite the classical river of gold. It was a considerable advance on his former nickname, which was Piss Harry.
Harry King had made his fortune by the careful application of the old adage: where there’s muck there’s brass. There was money to be made out of things that people threw away. Especially the very human things that people threw away.
The real foundations of his fortune came when he started leaving empty buckets at various hostelries around the city centre, especially those that were more than a gutter’s length from the river. He charged a very modest fee to take them away when they were full. It became part of the life of every pub landlord; they’d hear a clank in the middle of the night and turn over in their sleep content in the knowledge that one of Piss Harry’s men was, in a small way, making the world a better-smelling place.
They didn’t wonder what happened to the full buckets, but Harr
y King had learned something that can be the key to great riches: there is very little, however disgusting, that isn’t used somewhere in some industry. There are people out there who want large quantities of ammonia and saltpetre. If you can’t sell it to the alchemists then the farmers probably want it. If even the farmers don’t want it then there is nothing, nothing, however gross, that you can’t sell to the tanners.
Harry felt like the only man in a mining camp who knows what gold looks like.
He started taking on whole streets at a time, and branched out. In the well-to-do areas the householders paid him, paid him, to take away night soil, the by now established buckets, the horse manure, the dustbins and even the dog muck. Dog muck? Did they have any idea how much the tanners paid for the finest white dog muck? It was like being paid to take away squishy diamonds.
Harry couldn’t help it. The world fell over itself to give him money. Someone, somewhere, would pay him for a dead horse or two tons of prawns so far beyond their best-before date it couldn’t be seen with a telescope, and the most wonderful part of all was that someone had already paid him to take them away. If anything absolutely failed to find a buyer, not even from the catmeat men, not even from the tanners, not even from Mr Dibbler himself, there were his mighty compost heaps downstream of the city, where the volcanic heat of decomposition made fertile soil (‘10p a bag, bring your own bag …’) out of everything that was left including, according to rumour, various shadowy businessmen who had come second in a takeover battle (‘… brings up your dahlias a treat’).
He’d kept the woodpulp-and-rags business closer to home, though, along with the huge vats that contained the golden foundations of his fortune, because it was the only part of his business that his wife Effie would talk about. Rumour had it that she had also been behind the removal of the much-admired sign over the entrance to his yard, which said: H. King – Taking the Piss Since 1961. Now it read: H. King – Recycling Nature’s Bounty.
A small door within the large gates was opened by a troll. Harry was very forward-looking when it came to employing the non-human races, and had been among the first employers in the city to give a job to a troll. As far as organic substances were concerned, they had no sense of smell.
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