The Truth (45 page)

“There was
no
rain of dogs two months ago!” William snapped.

“But—”

“One puppy is
not
a rain. It fell out of a window. Look, we are
not
interested in pet precipitation, spontaneous combustion, or people being carried off by weird things from out of the sky—”

“Unless it happens,” said Sacharissa.

“Well,
obviously
we are if it
does
happen,” said William. “But when it doesn’t, we’re not. Okay? News is unusual things happening—”

“And usual things happening,” said Sacharissa, screwing up a report from the Ankh-Morpork Funny Vegetable Society.

“And usual things, yes,” said William. “But news is mainly what someone somewhere doesn’t want you to put in the paper—”

“Except that sometimes it isn’t,” said Sacharissa again.

“News is—” said William, and stopped. They watched him politely as he stood with his mouth open and one finger raised.

“News,” he said, “
all depends
. But you’ll know it when you see it. Clear? Right. Now go and find some.”

“That was a bit abrupt,” said Sacharissa, after they’d filed out.

“Well, I was thinking,” said William. “I mean, it’s been a…a funny old time all round, what with one thing and another—”

“—people trying to kill us, you being imprisoned, a plague of dogs, the place catching on fire, you being cheeky to Lord Vetinari—” said Sacharissa.

“Yes, well…so would it really matter if you and I, you know…you and I…took the afternoon off? I mean,” he added desperately, “it doesn’t
say
anywhere that we have to publish every day, does it?”

“Except at the top of the newspaper,” said Sacharissa.

“Yes, but you can’t believe
everything
you read in the newspapers.”

“Well…all right. I’ll just finish this report—”

“Messages for you, Mr. William,” said one of the dwarfs, dropping a pile of paper on his desk. William grunted, and glanced through them. There were a few test clackses from Lancre and Sto Lat, and already he could see that pretty soon he’d have to go out into the country to train some real, yes,
reporters
of news, because he could see there was only a limited future in these earnest missives from village grocers and publicans who’d be paid a penny a line. There were a couple of carrier pigeon messages, too, from those people who couldn’t get a grip on the new technology.

“Ye gods,” he said, under his breath. “The Mayor of Quirm has been struck by a meteorite…
again
.”

“Can that happen?” said Sacharissa.

“Apparently. This from Mr. Pune at the council offices there. Sensible chap, not much imagination. He says that
this
time it was waiting for the mayor in an alley.”

“Really? The woman we get our linen from has got a son who is the lecturer in Vindictive Astronomy at the university.”

“Would he give us a quote?”

“He smiles at me when he sees me in the shop,” said Sacharissa firmly. “So he will.”

“Okay. If you can—”

“Afternoon, folks!”

Mr. Wintler was standing at the counter. He was holding a cardboard box.

“Oh dear…” murmured William.

“Just you take a look at
this
one,” said Mr. Wintler, a man who would not take a hint if it was wrapped around a lead pipe.

“I think we’ve had enough funny ve—” William began.

And stopped.

It was a big potato that the rubicund man was lifting from his box. It was knobbly, too. William had seen knobbly potatoes before. They could look like faces, if that was the way you wanted to amuse yourself. But with this one, you didn’t have to imagine a face. It had a face. It was made up of dents and knobs and potato eyes, but it looked very much like a face that had been staring madly into his and trying to kill him very recently. He remembered it quite well, because he still occasionally woke up around three
A.M
. with it in front of him.

“It’s…not…exactly…
funny,
” said Sacharissa, glancing sideways at William.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” said Mr. Wintler. “I wouldn’t have brought it round, but you’ve always been very interested in them.”

“A day without a bifurcated parsnip,” said Sacharissa sweetly, “is a day without sunshine, Mr. Wintler. William?”

“Huh?” said William, tearing his eyes away from the potato head. “Is it me, or does it look…surprised?”

“It does rather,” said Sacharissa.

“Did you just dig this up?” said William.

“Oh, no. It’s been in one of my sacks for months,” said Wintler.

…which upset an occult train of thought that had started to trundle through William’s head. But…the universe was a funny place. Cause and effect, effect and cause…

He’d rip off his right arm rather than write that down, though.

“What are you going to do with it?” he said. “Boil it?”

“Bless you, no. The variety’s far too floury. No, this one’s going to be chips.”

“Chips, eh?” said William. And it seemed, strangely, exactly the right thing to do. “Yes. Yes, that’s a good idea. Let it fry, Mr. Wintler.
Let it fry
.”

The clock moved on.

One of the reporters came in to say that the Alchemists’ Guild had exploded, and did this count as news? Otto was summoned from his crypt and sent out to get a picture.

William finished his piece about yesterday’s events, and passed it over to the dwarfs. Someone came in and said there was a big crowd in Sator Square because the Bursar (71) was sitting on a roof seven floors up, looking puzzled. Sacharissa, wielding her pencil with care, crossed out every adjective in a report of the Ankh-Morpork Floral Arranging Society, reducing its length by half.

William went out to find out about the Bursar (71), then wrote a few short paragraphs. Wizards doing odd things wasn’t news. Wizards doing odd things was
wizards.

He threw the piece into the Out tray, and looked at the press.

It was black, and big, and complex. Without eyes, without a face, without life…it looked back at him.

He thought: you don’t need old sacrificial stones. Lord Vetinari was wrong about that. He touched his forehead. The bruise had long ago faded.

You put your mark on me. Well, I’m wise to you.

“Let’s go,” he said. Sacharissa looked up, still preoccupied.

“What?”

“Let’s go. Out. Now. For a walk, or tea, or shopping,” said William. “Let’s not be here. Don’t argue, please. Coat on. Now. Before it realizes. Before it finds a way to stop us.”

“What
are
you talking about?”

He pulled her coat off the peg and grabbed her arm.

“No
time
to explain!”

She allowed herself to be dragged out into the street, where William took a deep breath and relaxed.

“Now would you mind telling me what that was all about?” said Sacharissa. “I’ve got a pile of work in there, you know.”

“I know. Come on. We’re probably not far enough away. There’s a new noodle place opened in Elm Street. Everyone says it’s pretty good. How about it?”

“But there’s all that work to do!”

“So? It’ll still be there tomorrow, won’t it?”

She hesitated.

“Well, an hour or two won’t hurt, probably,” she admitted.

“Good. Let’s go.”

They’d reached the junction of Treacle Mine Road and Elm Street when it caught up with them.

There were cries further along the street. William swiveled his head, saw the four-horse brewer’s dray thundering out of control. He saw the people diving and scuttling out of the way. He saw the soup-plate hooves throw up mud and ice. He saw the brasses on the harness, the gleam, the steam…

His head swiveled the other way. He saw the old woman with two sticks, crossing the street, quite oblivious to the onrushing death. He saw the shawl, the white hair…

A blur went past him. The man twisted in the air, landed on his shoulder in the center of the street, rolled upright, grabbed the woman, and leapt—

The wayward wagon went by in a rush of mud and ice crystals. The team tried to corner at the crossroads. The dray behind them did not. A melee of hooves and horses and wheels and sleet and screams whirled onwards and took the windows out of several shops before the cart rammed up against a stone pillar and stopped dead.

In obedience to the laws of physics and the narrative of such things, its load did not. The barrels burst their bonds, crashed down onto the street, and rolled onwards.

A few smashed, filling the gutter with suds. The others, thumping and banging into one another, became the focus of attention of every upright citizen who could recognize a hundred gallons of beer which suddenly didn’t belong to anyone anymore and was heading for freedom.

William and Sacharissa looked at one another.

“Okay—I’ll get the story, you go and find Otto!”

They said that at the same time, and then stared defiantly at each other.

“All right, all right,” said William. “Find some kid, bribe him to get Otto, I’ll talk to that Plucky Watchman who grabbed the old lady in A Mercy Dash, you cover the Big Smash, okay?”

“I’ll find the kid,” said Sacharissa, pulling out her own notebook, “but
you
cover the accident and the Beer Barrel Bonanza and I’ll talk to the White-Haired Granny. Human interest, right?”

“All right!” William conceded. “That was Captain Carrot who did the rescue. Make sure Otto gets a picture and get his age!”

“Of course!”

William headed towards the crowd around the smashed wagon. Many people were in distant pursuit of the barrels, and the odd scream suggested that thirsty people seldom realize how hard it is to stop a hundred gallons of beer in a big oak cask when it’s on a roll.

He dutifully noted down the name on the side of the dray. A couple of men were helping the horses up, but they did not appear to have much to do with beer delivery. They simply appeared to be men who wanted to help lost horses, and take them home and make them better. If this meant dyeing areas of their coat and swearing blind they’d owned them for the past two years, then so be it.

He approached a bystander not obviously engaged in any felonious activity.

“Exc—” he began. But the citizen’s eyes had already detected the notebook.

“I saw it all,” he said.

“Did you?”

“It was a ter-ri-ble scene,” said the man, at dictation speed. “But the watch-man made a death-defying plunge to res-cue the old lady and he de-serves a med-al.”

“Really?” said William, scribbling fast. “And you are—”

“Sa-muel Arblaster (forty-three) stone-mason, of eleven-b The Scours,” said the man.

“I saw it too,” said a woman next to him, urgently, “Mrs. Florrie Perry, blond mother of three, from Dolly Sisters. It was a scene of car-nage.”

William risked a glance at his pencil. It
was
a kind of magic wand.

“Where’s the iconographer?” said Mrs. Perry, looking around hopefully.

“Er…not here yet,” said William.

“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “Shame about the poor woman with the snake, wasn’t it? I expect he’s off taking pictures of her.”

“Er…I hope not,” said William.

It was a long afternoon. One barrel had rolled into a barber shop and exploded. Some of the brewer’s men turned up, and there was a fight with several of the barrels’ new owners, who claimed rights of salvage. One enterprising man tapped a barrel by the roadside and set up a temporary pub. Otto arrived. He took pictures of barrel rescuers. He took a picture of the fight. He took pictures of the Watch arriving to arrest everyone still standing. He took pictures of the white-haired old lady and the proud Captain Carrot and, in his excitement, of his thumb.

It was a good story all round. And William was halfway through writing his part of it back at the
Times
when he remembered.

He’d watched it happening. And he’d
reached for his notebook
. That was a worrying thought, he said.

“So?” said Sacharissa, from her side of the desk. “How many
L
’s in ‘gallant’?”

“Two,” said William. “I mean, I didn’t try to
do
anything. I thought: This is a Story, and I have to tell it.”

“Yep,” said Sacharissa, still bowed over her writing. “We’ve been press-ganged.”

“But it’s not—”

“Look at it like this,” said Sacharissa, starting a fresh page. “Some people are heroes. And some people jot down notes.”

“Yes, but that’s not very—”

Sacharissa glanced up, and flashed him a smile.

“Sometimes they’re the same person,” she said.

This time it was William who looked down modestly.

“You think that’s really true?” he said.

She shrugged. “Really true? Who knows? This is a newspaper, isn’t it? It just has to be true until tomorrow.”

William felt the temperature rise. Her smile had really been attractive.

“Are you…sure?”

“Oh, yes. True until tomorrow is good enough for me.”

And behind her the big black vampire of a printing press waited to be fed, and to be brought alive in the dark of the night for the light of the morning. It chopped the complexities of the world into little stories, and it was always hungry.

And it needed a double-column story for page 2, William remembered.

And, a few inches under his hand, a woodworm chewed its way contentedly through the ancient timber. Reincarnation enjoys a joke as much as the next philosophical hypothesis. As it chewed, the woodworm thought: This is —ing good wood!

Because nothing has to be true forever. Just for long enough, to tell you the truth.