The Truth
Page 31
“Yes?” said Goodmountain. “And the next line?”
“I’ve written it down,” said William, passing him a page torn from the notebook. “Caps, please. Big caps. Big as you can. The sort the Inquirer used for elves and exploding people.”
“This?” said the dwarf, reaching for a case of huge black letters. “Is this news?”
“It is now,” said William. He flicked back through the pages of his notebook.
“Are you going to write the story down first?” said the dwarf.
“No time. Ready? ‘A plot to illegally seize control of Ankh-Morpork was exposed last night after days of patient detective work by the Watch. Paragraph. The Times understands that two assassins, both now dead, were hired from outside the city to blacken the character of Lord Vetinari and depose him as Patrician. Paragraph. They used an innocent man with a remarkable resemblance to Lord Vetinari in order to trick their way into the Palace. Once inside…’”
“Hold on, hold on,” said Goodmountain. “The Watch didn’t get to the bottom of this, did they? You did!”
“I just said they had been working for days,” said William. “That’s true. I don’t have to say they weren’t getting anywhere.” He saw the look in the dwarf’s eye. “Look, very soon I’m going to have a lot more unpleasant enemies than anyone really needs. I’d like Vimes to be angry at me for making him look good rather than for making him look bad. Okay?”
“Even so—”
“Don’t argue with me!”
Goodmountain didn’t dare. There was a look in William’s face. The boy had frozen when he was listening to the box, and now he’d unfrozen into…someone else.
Someone a lot more touchy and a lot less patient. He looked as though he was running a fever.
“Now…where was I?”
“‘Once inside…’” said the dwarf.
“Okay…once inside…no…make it: The Times understands that Lord Vetinari was…Sacharissa, you said the man in the cellar looked just like Vetinari?”
“Yes. Haircut and everything.”
“Right. The Times understands that Lord Vetinari was overwhelmed in the moment of shock on seeing himself entering his office—”
“Do we understand that?” said Sacharissa.
“Yes. It makes sense. Who’s going to argue? Where was I…Their plan was foiled by Lord Vetinari’s dog, Wuffles(16), who attacked both men. Paragraph. The noise of this attracted the attention of Lord Vetinari’s clerk, Rufus Drumknott…damn, I forgot to ask him how old he was…who was then knocked unconscious. Paragraph. The attackers tried to put the interruption to good use in their…what’s the good word? Oh, yes…their dastardly plan and stabbed Drumknott with one of Lord Vetinari’s own daggers in an attempt to make it look as if he was insane or murderous. Paragraph. Acting with vicious cunning—”
“You’re getting really good at this,” said Sacharissa.
“Don’t interrupt him,” hissed Boddony. “I want to find out what the dastards did next!”
“—with vicious cunning, they forced the bogus Lord Vetinari—”
“Good word, good word,” said Goodmountain, setting furiously.
“Are you certain about ‘forced’?” said Sacharissa.
“They aren’t—they weren’t the kind of men who ask nicely,” said William brusquely. “Er…forced the bogus Lord Vetinari…to make a false confession to some servants who were attracted by the noise. Then all three, carrying the unconscious Lord Vetinari and harried by the dog, Wuffles (16), took the stairs to the stables. Paragraph. There they had set up a scene to suggest that Lord Vetinari had been trying to rob the city, as already reported in—”
“Exclusively in,” Sacharissa said.
“Right, exclusively in the Times. Paragraph. However, the dog Wuffles escaped, dash, and caused a citywide search by the Watch and criminals alike. He was found by a group of public-spirited citizens. They—”
A piece of type dropped from Goodmountain’s fingers.
“You mean Foul Ole Ron and that bunch?”
“—public-spirited citizens,” William repeated, nodding furiously. “They kept him hidden, while—”
Cold winter storms had the whole of the Sto Plains in which to build up speed. By the time they hit Ankh-Morpork they were fast and heavy and laden with malice.
This time it took the form of hail. Fist-sized balls of ice smashed into tiles. They blocked gutters and filled the streets with shrapnel.
They hammered on the roof of the warehouse in Gleam Street. One or two windows smashed.
William paced up and down, shouting out his words above the force of the storm, occasionally flicking back and forth through the pages of his notebook. Otto came out and handed the dwarfs a couple of iconograph plates. The crew limped and sidled in, ready for the edition.
William stopped. The last letters clicked into place.
“Let’s see what it looks like so far,” said William.
Goodmountain inked the type, put a piece of paper over the story, and ran a hand-roller over it. Wordlessly, he handed it to Sacharissa.
“Are you sure of all this, William?” she said.
“Yes.”
“I mean, some bits—are you sure it’s all true?”
“I’m sure it’s all journalism,” said William.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means it’s true enough for now.”
“But do you know the names of these people?”
William hesitated. Then he said:
“Mr. Goodmountain, you can insert an extra paragraph anywhere in the story, can’t you?”
“That’s not a problem.”
“Right. Then set this: The Times can reveal that the assassins were hired by a group of prominent citizens led by…The Times can reveal that…” He took a deep breath. “Start again…The plotters, the Times can reveal, were headed by…” William shook his head. “Evidence points to…uh…Evidence, the Times can reveal…All the evidence, the Times can reveal…can reveal…” His voice trailed off.
“This is going to be a long paragraph?” said Goodmountain.
William stared miserably at the damp proof.
“No,” he said wretchedly. “I think that’s it. Let it go at that. Put in a line saying that the Times will be helping the Watch with its enquiries.”
“Why? We’re not guilty of anything, are we?” said Goodmountain.
“Just do it, please.” William screwed the proof into a ball, tossed it onto a bench, and wandered off towards the press.
Sacharissa found him a few minutes later. A print room offers a mass of holes and corners, mostly used by those whose duties require the occasional bunk-off for a quiet smoke. William was sitting on a pile of paper, staring at nothing.
“Is there something you want to talk about?” she said.
“No.”
“Do you know who the conspirators are?”
“No.”
“Then would it be true to say that you suspect you know who the conspirators are?”
He gave her an angry look. “Are you trying journalism on me?”
“I’m just supposed to try it on everyone else, then, am I? Not you, then?” she said, sitting down beside him.
William absentmindedly pressed a button of the Dis-organizer.
“Wheeewheedle the truth has got its boots on…”
“You don’t get on very well with your father, is tha—” Sacharissa began.
“What am I supposed to do?” said William. “That’s his favorite saying. He says it proves how gullible people are. Those men had the run of our house. He’s in this up to his neck!” “Yes, but perhaps he just did it as a favor to some other—”
“If my father is involved in anything, he’ll be the leader,” said William flatly. “If you don’t know that, you don’t know the de Wordes. We don’t join any team if we can’t be captain.”
“But it’d be a bit silly, wouldn’t it, to let them use your own house—”
Sacharissa was careful not to let her expression change.
“And I didn’t expect this,” William finished, turning the box over and over in his hands.
“You said you want to get at the truth, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but not this! I…must have got something wrong. I must have. I must have. Even my father couldn’t be this…this stupid. I’ve got to find out what’s really been happening.”
“You’re not going to see him, are you?” said Sacharissa.
“Yes. By now he’ll know it’s over.”
“Then you ought to take someone with you!”
“No!” snapped William. “Look, you don’t know what my father’s friends are like. They are brought up to give orders, they know that they’re on the right side because if they are on it then it must be the right side, by definition, and when they feel threatened they are bare-knuckle fighters, except that they never take their gloves off. They are thugs. Thugs and bullies, bullies, and the worst kind of bully, because they aren’t cowards and if you stand up to them they only hit you harder. They grew up in a world where, if you were enough trouble, they could have you…disappeared. You think places like the Shades are bad? Then you don’t know what goes on in Park Lane! And my father is one of the worst. But I’m family. We…care about family. So I’ll be all right. You stay here and help them get the paper out, will you? Half a truth is better than nothing,” he added bitterly.
“Vot vas all zat about?” said Otto, coming up as William strode out of the room.
“Oh, he’s…he’s off to see his father,” said Sacharissa, still taken aback. “Who is not a nice man, apparently. He was very…heated about him. Very upset.”
“’Scuse me,” said a voice. The girl turned, but there was no one behind her.
Now the invisible speaker sighed.
“No, down here,” it said. She looked down at the malformed pink poodle.
“Let’s not mess around, eh?” it said. “Yeah, yeah, dogs can’t talk. Got it in one, well done. So maybe you’ve got some strange ment’l power. That’s that sorted out, then. I couldn’t help overhearin’, ’cos I was listenin’. The lad’s heading into trouble, right? I can smell trouble—”
“Are you some kind of verevolf?” said Otto.
“Yeah, right, I get very hairy every full moon,” said the dog dismissively. “Imagine how much that interferes with my social life. Now, look—”
“But surely dogs can’t talk—” Sacharissa began.
“Oh dear oh dear oh dear,” said Gaspode. “Did I say I was talking?”
“Well, not in so many words—”
“Right. Wonderful thing, phenomenology. Now, I just seen a hundred dollars walk out the door and I want to see it walk back, right? Lord de Worde is as nasty a piece of work as you find in this town.”
“You know nobility?” said Sacharissa.
“A cat can look at a king, right? That’s legal.”
“I suppose so—”
“So it works for dogs, too. Got to work for dogs if it works for ratbag moggies. I know everyone, I do. Lord de Worde used to get his butler to put down poisoned meat for the street dogs.”
“But he wouldn’t hurt William, would he?”
“I’m not a betting man,” said Gaspode. “But if he does, right, we still get the hundred dollars, yes?”
“We cannot stand by and let him do zis,” said Otto. “I like Villiam. He was not brought up nice but he tries to be a nice person, vithout even cocoa and a singsong to help him. It is hard to go against your nature. Ve must…help him.”
Death placed the final hourglass back onto the air, where it faded away.
THERE, he said. WASN’T THAT INTERESTING? WHAT NEXT, MR. TULIP? ARE YOU READY TO GO?
The figure sat on the cold sand, staring at nothing.
MR. TULIP? Death repeated. The wind flapped his robe, so that it streamed out a long ribbon of darkness.
“I…got to be really sorry…?”
OH YES. IT IS SUCH A SIMPLE WORD. BUT HERE…IT HAS MEANING. IT HAS…SUBSTANCE.
“Yeah. I know.” Mr. Tulip looked up, his eyes redrimmed, his face puffy. “I reckon…to be that sorry, you got to take a —ing good run at it.”
YES.
“So…how long have I got?”
Death looked up at the strange stars.
ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD.
“Yeah…well, maybe that’ll —ing do it. Maybe there won’t be no more world to go back to by then.”
I BELIEVE IT DOES NOT WORK LIKE THAT. I UNDERSTAND REINCARNATION CAN TAKE PLACE ANYWHEN. WHO SAYS LIVES ARE SERIAL
“You sayin’…I could be alive before I was born?”
YES.
“Maybe I can find me and kill myself,” said Mr. Tulip, staring at the sand.
NO, BECAUSE YOU WILL NEVER KNOW.. AND YOU MAY BE LEADING QUITE A DIFFERENT LIFE.
Death patted Mr. Tulip on the shoulder, which flinched under the touch.
I SHALL LEAVE YOU NOW—
“That’s a good scythe you got there,” said Mr. Tulip, slowly and laboriously. “That silver work’s craftsmanship if ever I saw it.”
THANK YOU, said Death. AND NOW, I REALLY MUST BE GOING. BUT I WILL PASS THROUGH HERE, SOMETIMES. MY DOOR, he added, IS ALWAYS OPEN.
He strode off. The hunched figure disappeared into the darkness, but a new one appeared, running madly across the not-exactly-sand.
It was waving a potato on a string. It stopped when it saw Death and then, to Death’s amazement, turned to look behind it. This had never happened before. Most people, upon coming face-to-face with Death, ceased worrying about anything behind them.
“Is there anyone after me? Can you see anyone?”
ER…NO. WHERE YOU EXPECTING ANYONE?
“Oh, right. No one, eh? Right!” said Mr. Pin, squaring his shoulders. “Yeah! Hah! Hey, look, I’ve got my potato!”
Death blinked, and then took an hourglass out of his robe.
MR. PIN? AH. THE OTHER ONE. I HAVE BEEN EXPECTING YOU.
“That’s me! And I’ve got my potato, look, and I’m very sorry about everything!” Mr. Pin was feeling quite calm now. The mountains of madness have many little plateaus of sanity.
Death stared into the madly smiling face.
YOU ARE VERY SORRY?
“Oh, yes!”
ABOUT EVERYTHING?
“Yep!”
AT THIS TIME? IN THIS PLACE? YOU DECLARE YOU ARE SORRY?
“That’s right. You got it. You’re bright. So if you’ll just show me how to get back—”
YOU WOULD NOT LIKE TO RECONSIDER?
“No arguing, I want what’s due,” said Mr. Pin. “I’ve got my potato. Look.”
AND I SEE. Death reached into his robe and pulled out what looked to Mr. Pin, at first sight, like a miniature model of himself. But there was a rat skull looking out from under the tiny cowl.
Death grinned.
SSY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND, he said.
The Death of Rats reached out and snatched the string.
“Hey—”
DO NOT PUT ALL YOUR TRUST IN ROOT VEGETABLES. WHAT THINGS SEEM MAY NOT BE WHAT THEY ARE, said Death. YET LET NO ONE SAY I DON’T HONOR THE LAW. He snapped his fingers. RETURN, THEN, TO WHERE YOU SHOULD GO…
Blue light flicked for a moment around the astonished Pin, and then he vanished.
Death sighed and shook his head.
THE OTHER ONE…HAD SOMETHING IN HIM THAT COULD BE BETTER, he said. BUT THE ONE…He sighed deeply. WHO KNOWS WHAT EVIL LURKS IN THE HEART OF MEN?
>
The Death of Rats looked up from the feast of the potato.
SQUEAK, he said.
Death waved a hand dismissively.
WELL, YES, OBVIOUSLY ME, he said. I JUST WONDERED IF THERE WAS ANYONE ELSE.
William, ducking from doorway to doorway, realized that he was taking the long way round. Otto would have said that it was because he didn’t want to arrive.
The storm had abated slightly, although stinging hail still bounced off his hat. The much bigger balls from the initial onslaught filled the gutters and covered the roads. Carts had skidded, pedestrians were hanging onto the walls.
Despite the fire in his head, he took out his notebook and wrote: hlstns bggr than golf blls? and made a mental note to check one against a golf ball, just in case. Part of him was beginning to understand that his readers might have a very relaxed attitude about the guilt of politicians, but were red-hot on the things like the size of weather.
He stopped on the Brass Bridge and sheltered in the lee of one of the giant hippos. Hail peppered the surface of the river with a thousand tiny sucking noises.
The rage was cooling now.
For most of William’s life Lord de Worde had been a distant figure staring out of his study window, in a room lined with books that never got read, while William stood meekly in the middle of acres of good but threadbare carpet and listened to…well, viciousness mostly, now that he thought about it, the opinions of Mr. Windling dressed up in more expensive words.
The worst part, the worst part, was that Lord de Worde was never wrong. It was not a position he understood in relation to his personal geography. People who took an opposing view were insane, or dangerous, or possibly even not really people. You couldn’t have an argument with Lord de Worde. Not a proper argument. An argument, from arguer, meant to debate and discuss and persuade by reason. What you could have with William’s father was a flaming row.
Icy water dripped off one of the statues and ran down William’s neck.
Lord de Worde used words with a tone and a volume that made them as good as fists, but he’d never used actual violence.