The Truth (15 page)

It sometimes seemed to William that the whole population of Ankh-Morpork was simply a mob waiting to happen. It was mostly spread thin, like some kind of great amoeba, all across the city. But when something happened somewhere, it contracted around that point, like a cell around a piece of food, filling the streets with people.

It was growing around the main gates to the Palace. It came together apparently at random. A knot of people would attract other people and become a bigger, more complicated knot. Carts and sedan chairs would stop to find out what was going on. The invisible beast grew bigger.

There were watchmen on the gate, instead of the Palace Guard. This was a problem. “Let me in, I’m nosy” was not a request likely to achieve success. It lacked a certain authority.

“Vy are ve stoppink?” said Otto.

“That’s Sergeant Detritus on the gate,” said William.

“Ah. A troll. Very stupid,” opined Otto.

“But hard to fool. I’m afraid I shall have to try the truth.”

“Vy vill that vork?”

“He’s a policeman. The truth usually confuses them. They don’t often hear it.”

The big troll sergeant watched William impassively as he approached. It was a proper policeman’s stare. It gave nothing away. It said: I can see you, now I’m waiting to see what you’re going to do that’s wrong.

“Good morning, sergeant,” said William.

A nod from the troll indicated that he was prepared to accept, on available evidence, that it was morning and, in certain circumstances, by some people, might be considered good.

“I urgently need to see Commander Vimes.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes. Indeed.”

“And does he urgently need to see you?” The troll leaned closer. “You’re Mr. de Worde, right?”

“Yes. I work for the
Times
.”

“I don’t read dat,” said the troll.

“Really? We’ll bring out a large-print edition,” said William.

“Dat was a very funny joke,” said Detritus. “Fing is, fick though I am, I am der one that’s sayin’ you can stay outside, so—what’s dat vampire doing?”

“Hold it just vun second!” said Otto.

WHOOMPH.

“—damndamndamn!”

Detritus watched Otto roll around on the cobbles, screaming.

“What was dat about?” he said, eventually.

“He’s taken a picture of you not letting me into the Palace,” said William.

Detritus, although born above the snow line on some distant mountain, a troll who had never seen a human until he was five years old, nevertheless was a policeman to his craggy, dragging fingertips and reacted accordingly.

“He can’t do dat,” he said.

William pulled out his notebook and poised his pencil.

“Could you explain to my readers exactly why not?” he said.

Detritus looked around, a little worried.

“Where are dey?”

“No, I mean I’m going to write down what you say.”

Basic policing rushed to Detritus’s aid once again.

“You can’t do dat,” he said.

“Then can I write down why I can’t write anything down?” William said, smiling brightly.

Detritus reached up and moved a little lever on the side of his helmet. A barely audible whirring noise became fractionally louder. The troll had a helmet with a clockwork fan, to blow air across his silicon brain when overheating threatened to reduce its operating efficiency. Right now he obviously needed a cooler head.

“Ah. Dis is some kind of politics, right?” he said.

“Um…maybe. Sorry.”

Otto had staggered to his feet and was fiddling with the iconograph again.

Detritus reached a decision. He nodded to a constable.

“Fiddyment, you take dese…two to Mister Vimes. Dey are not to fall down any steps on der way or any stuff like dat.”

Mister
Vimes, thought William, as they hurried after the constable. All the watchmen called him that. The man had been a knight and was now a duke and a commander, but they called him
Mister
. And it was
Mister,
too, the full two syllables, not the everyday unheeded “Mr.”; it was the “mister” you used when you wanted to say things like “put down that crossbow and turn around real slow, mister.” He wondered why.

William had not been brought up to respect the Watch. They weren’t our kind of people. It was conceded that they were useful, like sheepdogs, because clearly someone had to keep people in order, heavens knew, but only a fool would let a sheepdog sleep in the parlor. The Watch, in other words, were a regrettably necessary subset of the criminal classes, a section of the population informally defined by Lord de Worde as anyone with less than a thousand dollars a year.

William’s family and everyone they knew also had a mental map of the city that was divided into parts where you found upstanding citizens, and other parts where you found criminals. It had come as a shock to them…no, he corrected himself, it had come as an
affront
to learn that Vimes operated on a different map. Apparently he’d
instructed
his men to use the front door when calling on any building, even in broad daylight, when sheer common sense said that they should use the back, just like any other servant.
*
The man simply had no
idea
.

That Vetinari had made him a duke was just another example of the Patrician’s lack of grip.

William therefore felt predisposed to like Vimes, if only because of the type of enemies he made, but as far as he could see, everything about the man could be prefaced by the word “badly”—as in -spoken, -educated, and -in need of a drink.

Fiddyment stopped in the big hall of the Palace.

“Don’t you go anywhere and don’t you do anything,” he said. “I’ll go and—”

But Vimes was already coming down the wide stairs, trailed by a giant of a man William recognized as Captain Carrot.

You could add “-dressed” to Vimes’s list. It wasn’t that he wore bad clothes. He just seemed to generate an internal scruffiness field. The man could rumple a helmet.

Fiddyment met them halfway. There was a muttered conversation, out of which the unmistakable words “He’s
what?
” arose, in Vimes’s voice. He glared darkly at William. The expression was clear. It said: it’s been a bad day, and now there’s
you
.

Vimes walked the rest of the way down the stairs and looked William up and down.

“What is it you’re wanting?” he demanded.

“I want to know what’s happened here, please,” said William.

“Why?”

“Because people will want to know.”

“Hah! They’ll find out soon enough!”

“But who from, sir?”

Vimes walked around William as if he was examining some strange new thing.

“You’re Lord de Worde’s boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Commander will do,” said Vimes sharply. “And you write that little gossipy thing, right?”

“Broadly, sir.”

“What was it you did to Sergeant Detritus?”

“I only wrote down what he said, sir.”

“Aha, pulled a pen on him, eh?”

“Sir?”

“Writing things down at people? Tch, tch…that sort of thing only causes trouble.”

Vimes stopped walking around William, but having him glare from a few inches away was no improvement.

“This has not been a nice day,” he said. “And it’s going to get a lot worse. Why should I waste my time talking to you?”

“I can tell you one good reason,” said William.

“Well, go on then.”

“You should talk to me so that I can write it down, sir. All neat and correct. The actual words you say, right down there on the paper. And you know who I am, and if I get them wrong you know where to find me.”

“So? You’re telling me that if I do what you want, you’ll do what you want?”

“I’m saying, sir, that a lie can run round the world before the truth has got its boots on.”

“Ha! Did you just make that up?”

“No, sir. But you know it’s true.”

Vimes sucked on his cigar.

“And you’ll let me see what you’ve written?”

“Of course. I’ll make sure you get one of the first papers off the press, sir.”

“I meant
before
it gets published, and you know it.”

“To tell you the truth, no, I don’t think I should do that, sir.”

“I
am
the commander of the Watch, lad.”

“Yes, sir. And I’m not. I think that’s my point, really, although I’ll work on it some more.”

Vimes stared at him a little too long. Then, in a slightly different tone of voice, he said:

“Lord Vetinari was seen by three cleaning maids of the household staff, all respectable ladies, after they were alerted by the barking of His Lordship’s dog at about seven o’clock this morning. He said” —here Vimes consulted his own notebook—“‘I’ve killed him, I’ve killed him, I’m sorry.’ They saw what looked very much like a body on the floor. Lord Vetinari was holding a knife. They ran downstairs to fetch someone. On their return, they found His Lordship missing. The body was that of Rufus Drumknott, the Patrician’s personal secretary. He had been stabbed and is seriously ill. A search of the buildings located Lord Vetinari in the stables. He was unconscious on the floor. A horse was saddled. The saddlebags contained…seventy thousand dollars…Captain, this is damn
stupid
.”

“I know, sir,” said Carrot. “They are the facts, sir.”

“But they’re not the right facts! They’re
stupid
facts!”

“I know, sir. I can’t imagine His Lordship trying to kill anyone.”

“Are you mad?” said Vimes. “I can’t imagine him saying sorry!”

Vimes turned and glared at William, as if surprised to find him still there.

“Yes?” he demanded.

“Why was His Lordship unconscious, sir?”

Vimes shrugged. “It looks as though he was trying to get on the horse. He’s got a game leg. Maybe he slipped—I can’t believe I’m saying this. Anyway, that’s your lot, understand?”

“I’d like to get an iconograph of you, please,” William persisted.

“Why?”

William thought fast. “It will reassure the citizens that you are on the case and handling this personally, Commander. My iconographer is just downstairs. Otto!”

“Good gods, a damn vamp—” Vimes began.

“He’s a Black Ribboner, sir,” Carrot whispered. Vimes rolled his eyes.

“Good mornink,” said Otto. “Do not movink, please, you are making a good pattern of light and shade.” He kicked out the legs of the tripod, peered into the iconograph, and raised a salamander in its cage.

“Looking this way, please—”

Click.

WHOOMPH

“—oh, shee-yut!”

Dust floated to the floor. In the midst of it, a twist of black ribbon spiraled down.

There was a moment of shocked silence. Then Vimes said, “What the hell happened just then?”

“Too much flash, I think,” said William. He reached down with a trembling hand and retrieved a small square of card that was sticking out of the little gray cone of the late Otto Chriek.

“DO NOT BE ALARMED,” he read. “The former bearer of this card has suffered a minor accident. You vill need a drop of blood from any species, and a dustpan and brush.”

“Well, the kitchens are that way,” said Vimes. “Sort him out. I don’t want my men treading him in all over the damn place.”

“One last thing, sir. Would you like me to say that if anyone saw anything suspicious they should tell you, sir?” said William.

“In this town? We’d need every man on the Watch just to control the queue. Just you be careful what you write, that’s all.”

The two watchmen strode away, Carrot giving William a wan smile as he passed.

William busied himself in carefully scraping up Otto with two pages from his notebook and depositing the dust in the bag the vampire used to carry his equipment.

Then it dawned on him that he was alone—Otto probably didn’t count at the moment—in the place with Commander Vimes’s
permission
to be there, if “the kitchens are over that way” could be parlayed into “permission.” And William was good with words. Truth was what he told. Honesty was sometimes not the same thing.

He picked up the bag and found his way to the back stairs and the kitchen, from whence came a hubbub.

Staff were wandering around with the bewildered air of people with nothing to do who were nevertheless still being paid to do it. William sidled over to a maid who was sobbing into a grubby handkerchief.

“Excuse me, miss, but could you let me have a drop of blood—Yes, perhaps that wasn’t the right moment,” he added nervously, as she fled shrieking.

“’Ere, what did you say to our Mary?” said a thickset man, putting down a tray of hot loaves.

“Are you the baker?” said William.

The man gave him a look.

“What does it look like?”

“I can see what it
looks
like,” said William. There was another look, but this time there was just a measure of respect in it. “I’m still asking the question,” he went on.

“I’m the butcher, as it happens,” said the man. “Well done. The baker’s off sick. And who are you, askin’ me questions?”

“Commander Vimes sent me down here,” said William. He was appalled at the ease with which the truth so easily turned into something that was almost a lie, just by being positioned correctly. He opened his notebook. “I’m from the
Times
. Did you—”

“What, the paper?” said the butcher.

“That’s right. Did you—”

“Hah! You got it completely up your bum about the winter, y’know. You should’ve said it was the Year of the Ant, that was the worst. You should’ve arsked me. I could’ve put you right.”

“And you are—?”

“Sidney Clancy and Son, aged thirty-nine, Eleven Long Hogmeat, Purveyors of Finest Cat and Dog Meats to the Gentry…why aren’t you writing it down?”

“Lord Vetinari eats pet food?”

“He doesn’t eat much of anything from what I hear. No, I delivers for his dog. Finest stuff. Prime. We sell only the best at Eleven Long Hogmeat, open every day from six
A.M.
to mid—”