The Truth (20 page)

“You mean…you’re legal?” said Mr. Pin.

“What —ing friends?” said Mr. Tulip.

“Yes, sir. Lord Vetinari feels that since there’ll always be
some
crime in the city, it might as well be organized.”

Mr. Tulip and Mr. Pin looked at one another.

“Well, ‘Legal’ is my middle name,” said Mr. Pin, shrugging. “Over to you, Mr. Tulip.”

“And since you are newcomers, I can offer you an introductory hundred-dollar theft which will give you subsequent immunity for a full twenty-six months plus this booklet of restaurant, livery hire, clothing, and entertainment vouchers worth a full twenty-five dollars at today’s prices. Your neighbors will admire—”

Mr. Tulip’s arm moved in a blur. One banana-bunch hand caught the thief around the neck and slammed his head against the wall.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Tulip’s middle name is ‘Bastard,’” said Mr. Pin, lighting a cigarette. The meaty sounds of his colleague’s permanent anger continued behind him as he picked up the wineglasses and examined them critically.

“Tch…cheap paste, not crystal at all,” he said. “Who can you trust these days? It makes you despair.”

The body of the thief slumped to the ground.

“I think I will go for the —ing barbecue set,” said Mr. Tulip, stepping over it. “I see here where it contains a number of oh-so-useful skewers and spatulas that will add a —ing new dimension of enjoyment to those Al Fresco patio meals.”

He ripped open the box and dragged out a blue and white apron, which he examined critically.

“‘Kill the Cook!!!’” he said, slipping it over his head. “Hey, this is classy stuff. I’ll have to get some —ing friends, so’s they can envy me when I’m having meals with —ing Al Fresco. How about them —ing vouchers?”

“There’s never any good stuff in these things,” said Mr. Pin. “It’s just a way of shifting stuff no one can sell. See here…‘Twenty-five Percent Off Happy Hour Prices at Furby’s Castle of Cabbage’…” He tossed it aside.

“Not bad, though,” said Mr. Tulip. “And he only had twenty dollars on him, so it’s a —ing bargain.”

“I’ll be glad when we leave this place,” said Mr. Pin. “It’s too strange. Let’s just frighten the dead man and get out of here.”

“Eyinnngg…GUT!”

The cry of the wild newspaper seller rang out across the twilight square as William set off back to Gleam Street. They were still selling well, he could see.

It was only by accident, as a citizen hurried past him, that he saw the headline:

WOMAN GIVES BIRTH TO COBRA

Surely Sacharissa hadn’t got out another edition by herself, had she? He ran back to the seller.

It wasn’t the
Times
. The title, in big bold type that was rather better than the stuff the dwarfs made, was:

“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 queuing 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.”

At least 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 tuppence 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 onto 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 around 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 me 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 vere zer eyes follow you around zer room?”

“There’s no need to take offense,” said William. “It wasn’t as if I asked for color or anything—”

“Color?” said the vampire. “Is that all? Color iss eazypeazy. How soon do you vant it?”

“Can’t be done,” said Goodmountain firmly.

“Oh, zo you say? Is there somevhere here that makes colored 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 colored inks alzo?”

“That’s easy,” said the dwarf, “but you’d need hundreds of different ones…wouldn’t you?”

“No, ziz is not so. I vill make you a list of vot I require. I cannot promise an absolutely vunderful job first cat out of zer bag, off course. I mean you should not ask me for zer subtle play of light of autumn leafs or anyzing like zat. But zomething with stronk shades should be fine. Zis vill be fine?”

“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.