The Truth (34 page)

“I’m amazed. Amazed! She’s your…your—”

“Friend,” said Angua, taking another deep sniff of the steam. “But Carrot’s right, Mister Vimes. I don’t want this going any further. It was my fault for underestimating him. I walked right into it. I’ll be fine in an hour or two.”

“I saw what you were like when you came in,” said Vimes. “You were a mess.”

“It was a shock. The nose just shuts down. It was like walking around a corner and running into Foul Ole Ron.”

“Ye gods!
That
bad?”

“Maybe not quite as bad as that. Let it lie, sir. Please.”

“He’s a quick learner, our Mr. de Worde,” said Vimes, sitting down at his desk. “He’s got a pen and a printing press and everyone acts like he’s suddenly a major player. Well, he’s going to have to learn a bit more. He doesn’t want us watching? Well, we won’t anymore. He can reap what he sows for a while. We’ve got more than enough other things to do, heavens know.”

“But he is technically—”

“See this sign on my desk, Captain? See it, Sergeant? It says ‘Commander Vimes.’ That means the buck starts here. It was a command you just got. Now, what else is new?”

Carrot nodded. “Nothing good, sir. No one’s found the dog. The Guilds are all battening down. Mr. Scrope has been getting a lot of visitors. Oh, and High Priest Ridcully is telling everyone that he thinks Lord Vetinari went mad, because the day before he’d been telling him about a plan to make lobsters fly through the air.”

“Lobsters flying through the air,” said Vimes flatly.

“And something about sending ships by semaphore, sir.”

“Oh dear. And what is Mr. Scrope saying?”

“Apparently he says he’s looking forward to a new era in our history and will put Ankh-Morpork back on the path of responsible citizenship, sir.”

“Is that the same as the lobsters?”

“It’s political, sir. Apparently he wants a return to the values and traditions that made the city great, sir.”

“Does he
know
what those values and traditions
were?
” said Vimes, aghast.

“I assume so, sir,” said Carrot, keeping a straight face.

“Oh my gods. I’d rather take a chance on the lobsters.”

It was sleeting again, out of a darkening sky. The Misbegot Bridge was more or less empty; William lurked in the shadows, his hat pulled down over his eyes.

Eventually a voice out of nowhere said, “So…you got your bit of paper?”

“Deep Bone?” said William, startled out of the reverie.

“I’m sending a…a guide for you to follow,” said the hidden informant. “Name of…name of…Trixiebell. Just you follow him and everything will be okay. Ready?”

“Yes.”

Deep Bone is watching me, William thought. He must be really close.

Trixiebell trotted out of the shadows.

It was a poodle. More or less.

The staff at Le Poil du Chien,
the
doggie beauty salon, had done their very best, and a craftsman will give of his or her
all
if it means getting Foul Ole Ron out of the shop any faster. They’d cut, blown, permed, crimped, primped, colored, woven, shampooed, and the manicurist had locked herself in the lavatory and refused to come out.

The result was…pink. The pinkness was only one aspect of the thing, but it was so…
pink
that it dominated everything else, even the topiary-effect tail with the fluffy knob on the end. The front of the dog looked as though it had been fired through a large pink ball, and had only got halfway. Then there was also the matter of the large glittery collar. It glittered altogether too much; sometimes glass glitters more than diamonds because it has more to prove.

All in all, the effect was not of a poodle, but of malformed poodlosity. That is to say, everything about it suggested “poodle” except for the whole thing itself, which suggested walking away.

“Yip,” it said, and there was something wrong with this, too. William was aware that dogs like this yipped, but this one, he was sure, had
said
“yip.”

“There’s a good…” he began, and finished, “…dog?”

“Yip yipyip sheesh yip,” said the dog, and walked off.

William wondered about the “sheesh,” but decided the dog must have sneezed.

It trotted away through the slush, and disappeared down an alley.

A moment later its muzzle appeared around the corner.

“Yip? Whine?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry,” said William.

Trixiebell led the way down greasy steps to the old path that ran along the riverside. It was littered with rubbish, and anything that stays thrown away in Ankh-Morpork is
real
rubbish. The sun seldom got down here, even on a fine day. The shadows contrived to be freezing
and
running with water at the same time.

Nevertheless, there was a fire among the dark timbers under the bridge. William realized, as his nostrils shut down, that he was visiting the canting crew.

The old towpath had been deserted to start with, but Foul Ole Ron and the rest of them were the reason that it stayed that way. They had nothing to steal. They had precious little even to keep. Occasionally the Beggars’ Guild considered running them out of town, but without much enthusiasm. Even beggars need someone to look down on, and the crew were so far down that in a certain light they sometimes appeared to be on top. Besides, the Guild recognized craftsmanship when they saw it; no one could spit and ooze like Coffin Henry, no one could be as legless as Arnold Sideways, and nothing in the
world
could smell like Foul Ole Ron. He could have used oil of scallatine as a deodorant.

And, as that thought tripped through William’s brain, he knew where Wuffles was.

Trixiebell’s ridiculous pink tail disappeared into the mass of old packing cases and cardboard known variously to the crew as “What?,” “Bugrit!,” “Ptooi!,” and Home.

William’s eyes were already watering. There wasn’t much breeze down here. He made his way to the pool of firelight.

“Oh…good evening, gentlemen,” he managed, nodding to the figures around the green-edged flames.

“Let’s see the color of your bit of paper,” commanded the voice of Deep Bone, from out of the shadows.

“It’s, er, off-white,” said William, unfolding the check. It was taken by the Duck Man, who scanned it carefully and added noticeably to its off-whiteness.

“It seems to be in order. Fifty dollars, signed,” he said. “I have explained the concept to my associates, Mr. de Worde. It was not easy, I have to tell you.”

“Yeah, and if you don’t put up we’ll come to your house!” said Coffin Henry.

“Er…and do what?” said William.

“Stand outside forever and ever and ever!” said Arnold Sideways.

“Lookin’ at people in a funny way,” said the Duck Man.

“Gobbin’ on their boots!” said Coffin Henry.

William tried not to think about Mrs. Arcanum. He said: “Now can I see the dog?”

“Show him, Ron,” commanded the voice of Deep Bone.

Ron’s heavy coat fell open, revealing Wuffles blinking in the firelight.

“
You
had him?” said William. “That was all there was to it?”

“Bugrit!”

“Who’s going to search Foul Ole Ron?” said Deep Bone.

“Good point,” said William. “Very good point. Or smell him out.”

“Now, you got to remember he’s old,” said Deep Bone. “An’ he wasn’t exactly Mr. Brain to start with. I mean, we’re talkin’ dogs here—not
talking dogs,
” said the voice hurriedly, “but talking
about
dogs, I mean—so don’t expect a philosophical treatise, is what I’m sayin’.”

Wuffles begged, geriatrically, when he saw William looking at him.

“How did he come to be with you?” said William, as Wuffles sniffed his hand.

“He came running out of the Palace straight under Ron’s coat,” said Deep Throat.

“Which is, as you point out, the last place anyone would look,” said William.

“You’d better believe it.”

“And not even a werewolf would find him there.” William took out his notebook, turned to a fresh page, and wrote: “Wuffles.” He said, “How old is he?”

Wuffles barked.

“Sixteen,” said Deep Bone. “Is that important?”

“It’s a newspaper thing,” said William. He wrote: “Wuffles (16), formerly of The Palace, Ankh-Morpork.”

I’m interviewing a dog, he thought. Man Interviews Dog. That’s nearly
news
.

“So…er, Wuffles, what happened before you ran out of the Palace?” he said.

Deep Bone, from his hiding place, whined and growled. Wuffles cocked an ear, and then growled back.

“He woke up and experienced a moment of horrible philosophical uncertainty,” said Deep Bone.

“I thought you said—”

“I’m
translatin’,
right? And this was on account of there being two Gods in the room. That’s two Lord Vetinaris, Wuffles being an old-fashioned kind of dog. But he knew one was wrong because he smelled wrong. And there were two other men. And then—”

William scribbled furiously.

Twenty seconds later, Wuffles bit him hard on the ankle.

The clerk in Mr. Slant’s front office looked down from his high desk at the two visitors, sniffed, and carried on with his laborious copperplate. He did not have a lot of time for the notion of customer service. The Law could not be hurried…

A moment later his head was rammed into the desktop, and held down by some enormous weight.

Mr. Pin’s face appeared in his limited vision.

“I
said,
” said Mr. Pin, “that Mr. Slant wants to see us…”

“Sngh,” said the clerk. Mr. Pin nodded, and the pressure was relieved slightly.

“Sorry? You were saying?” said Mr. Pin, watching the man’s hand creep along the edge of the desk.

“He’s…not…seeing…anyone…” The words ended in a muffled yelp.

Mr. Pin leaned down. “Sorry about the fingers,” he said, “but we can’t have them naughty little fingers creeping to that little lever there, can we? No telling
what
might happen if you pulled that lever. Now…which one’s Mr. Slant’s office?” “Second…door…on…left…” the man groaned.

“See? It’s so much nicer when we’re polite. And in a week, two at the outside, you’ll be able to pick up a pen again.” Mr. Pin nodded to Mr. Tulip, who let the man go. He slithered to the floor.

“You want I should —ing scrag him?”

“Leave him,” said Mr. Pin. “I think I’m going to be nice to people today.”

He had to hand it to Mr. Slant. When the New Firm stepped into his office the lawyer looked up and his expression barely flickered.

“Gentlemen?” he said.

“Don’t press a —ing
thing,
” said Mr. Tulip.

“There’s something you should know,” said Mr. Pin, pulling a box out of his jacket.

“And what is that?” said Mr. Slant.

Mr. Pin flicked a catch on the side of the box.

“Let’s hear about yesterday,” he said.

The imp blinked.

“…nyip…nyapnyip…nyapdit…nyip…” it said.

“It’s just working its way backwards,” said Mr. Pin.

“What is this?” said the lawyer.

“…nyapnyip…sipnyap…nip…
is valuable, Mr. Pin. So I will not spin this out. What did you do with the dog?
” Mr. Pin’s finger touched another lever. “…wheedle-wheedle whee…
My…clients have long memories and deep pockets. Other killers can be hired. Do you understand me?
”

There was a tiny “ouch” as the “Off” lever hit the imp on the head.

Mr. Slant got up and walked across to an ancient cabinet.

“Would you like a drink, Mr. Pin? I am afraid I have only embalming fluid…”

“Not yet, Mr. Slant.”

“…and I think I probably have a banana somewhere…”

Mr. Slant turned, smiling beatifically, at the sound of the smack of Mr. Pin catching Mr. Tulip’s arm.

“I
told
you I’m gonna —ing
kill
him—”

“Too late, alas,” said the lawyer, sitting down again. “Very well, Mr. Pin. This is about money, is it?”

“All we’re owed, plus another fifty thousand.”

“But you haven’t found the dog.”

“Nor have the Watch. And
they’ve
got a werewolf.
Everyone’s
looking for the dog. The dog’s gone. But that doesn’t matter. This little box matters.”

“That is very little in the way of evidence…”

“Really? You asking us about the dog? Talking about killers? I reckon that Vimes character will niggle away at something like that. He doesn’t sound like the sort to let things go.” Mr. Pin smiled humorlessly. “You’ve got stuff on us but, well, between you and me”—he leaned closer—“some of the things we’ve done might be considered, well, tantamount to crimes—”

“All them —ing murders, for a start,” said Mr. Tulip, nodding.

“Which, since we
are
criminals, could be called typical behavior. Whereas,” Pin went on, “you’re a respectable citizen. Doesn’t look good, respectable citizens getting involved in this sort of thing. People talk.”

“To save…misunderstandings,” said Mr. Slant, “I will do you a draft of—”

“Jewels,” said Mr. Pin.

“We
like
jewels,” said Mr. Tulip.

“You have made copies of that…thing?” said Slant.

“I’m not saying anything,” said Mr. Pin, who hadn’t and didn’t even know how. But he took the view that Mr. Slant was in no position to be other than cautious, and it looked as though Mr. Slant thought so, too.

“I wonder if I can trust you?” said Mr. Slant, as if to himself.

“Well, you see, it’s like this,” said Mr. Pin, as patiently as he could. His head was feeling worse. “If news got around that we’d betrayed a client, that wouldn’t be good. People would say, you can’t trust a person of that kind of ilk. They do not know how to behave. But if the people
we
deal with heard we’d scragged a client because the client had not played fair, then they would say to themselves, these are businessmen. They are businesslike. They do business…”