‘We are not running the city,’ said a chair.
‘But we care about the way it is going,’ said another.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Pin. ‘Right. I remember. You are concerned citizens.’ He knew about concerned citizens. Wherever they were, they all spoke the same private language, where ‘traditional values’ meant ‘hang someone’. He did not have a problem with this, broadly speaking, but it never hurt to understand your employer.
‘You could have got someone else,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a guild of Assassins here.’
A chair made a sucking sound between its teeth.
‘The trouble with the city at present,’ it said, ‘is that a number of otherwise intelligent people find the status quo … convenient, even though it will undoubtedly ruin the city.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Pin. ‘They are unconcerned citizens.’
‘Precisely, gentlemen.’
‘There’s a lot of them?’
The chair ignored this.
‘We look forward to seeing you again, gentlemen. Tomorrow night. When, I trust, you will announce your readiness. Good evening.’
The circle of chairs was silent for a while after the New Firm had left. Then a black-clad figure entered soundlessly through the big doors, approached the light, nodded and hurried away.
‘They’re well outside the building,’ said a chair.
‘What ghastly people.’
‘We should have used the Assassins’ Guild, though.’
‘Hah! They’ve done rather well out of Vetinari. In any case, we do not want him dead. However, it occurs to me that we may eventually have a job for the Guild, later on.’
‘Quite so. When our friends have safely left the city … the roads can be so dangerous at this time of year.’
‘No, gentlemen. We will stick to our plan. The one called Charlie will be kept around until everything is entirely settled, in case he can be of further use, and then our gentlemen will take him a long, long way away to, hah, pay him off. Perhaps later we will call the Assassins in, just in case Mr Pin has any clever ideas.’
‘Good point. Although it does seem such a waste. The things one could do with Charlie …’
‘I told you, it would not work. The man is a clown.’
‘I suppose you are right. Better something once-and-for-all, then.’
‘I’m sure we understand one another. And now … this meeting of the Committee to Unelect the Patrician is declared closed. And hasn’t happened.’
Lord Vetinari by habit rose so early that bedtime was merely an excuse to change his clothes.
He liked the time just before a winter’s dawn. It was generally foggy, which made it hard to see the city, and for a few hours there was no sound but the occasional brief scream.
But the tranquillity was broken this morning by a cry just outside the palace gates.
‘Hoinarylup!’
He went to the window.
‘Squidaped-oyt!’
The Patrician walked back to his desk and rang the bell for his clerk Drumknott, who was despatched to the walls to investigate.
‘It is the beggar known as Foul Ole Ron, sir,’ Drumknott reported five minutes later. ‘Selling this … paper full of things.’ He held it between two fingers as though expecting it to explode.
Lord Vetinari took it and read through it. Then he read through it again.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘“The Ankh-Morpork Times”. Was anyone else buying this?’
‘A number of people, my lord. People coming off the night shifts, market people and so on.’
‘I see no mention of Hoinarylup or Squidaped-oyt.’
‘No, my lord.’
‘How very strange.’ Lord Vetinari read for a moment and said, ‘Hm-hm. Clear my appointments this morning, will you? I will see the Guild of Towncriers at nine o’clock and the Guild of Engravers at ten past.’
‘I wasn’t aware they had appointments, sir.’
‘They will have,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘When they see this, they will have. Well, well … I see fifty-six people were hurt in a tavern brawl.’
‘That seems rather a lot, my lord.’
‘It must be true, Drumknott,’ said the Patrician. ‘It’s in the paper. Oh, and send a message to that nice Mr de Worde, too. I will see him at nine thirty.’
He ran his eye down the grey type again. ‘And please also put out the word that I wish to see no harm coming to Mr de Worde, will you?’
Drumknott, usually so adept in his understanding of his master’s requirements, hesitated a moment.
‘My lord, do you mean that you want no harm to come to Mr de Worde, or that you want no harm to come to Mr de Worde?’
‘Did you wink at me, Drumknott?’
‘No, sir!’
‘Drumknott, I believe it is the right of every citizen of Ankh-Morpork to walk the streets unmolested.’
‘Good gods, sir! Is it?’
‘Indeed.’
‘But I thought you were very much against movable type, sir. You said that it would make printing too cheap, and people would—’
‘Sheearna-plp!’ shouted the newspaper seller, down by the gates.
‘Are you poised for the exciting new millennium that lies before us, Drumknott? Are you ready to grasp the future with a willing hand?’
‘I don’t know, my lord. Is special clothing required?’
The other lodgers were already at the breakfast table when William hurried down. He was hurrying because Mrs Arcanum had Views about people who were late for meals.
Mrs Arcanum, proprietress of Mrs Eucrasia Arcanum’s Lodging House for Respectable Working Men, was what Sacharissa was unconsciously training to be. She wasn’t just respectable, she was Respectable; it was a lifestyle, religion and hobby combined. She liked respectable people who were Clean and Decent; she used the phrase as if it was impossible to be one without being the other. She kept respectable beds and cooked cheap but respectable meals for her respectable lodgers, who apart from William were mostly middle-aged, unmarried and extremely sober. They were mainly craftsmen in small trades, and were almost all heavily built, well-scrubbed, owned serious boots and were clumsily polite at the dining table.
Oddly enough – or, at least, oddly enough to William’s expectations of people like Mrs Arcanum – she wasn’t averse to dwarfs and trolls. At least, the clean and decent ones. Mrs Arcanum rated Decency above species.
‘It says here fifty-six people were hurt in a brawl,’ said Mr Mackleduff, who by dint of being the longest-surviving lodger acted as a kind of president at mealtimes. He had bought a copy of the Times on his way home from the bakery, where he was night-shift foreman.
‘Fancy,’ said Mrs Arcanum.
‘I think it must have been five or six,’ said William.
‘Says fifty-six here,’ said Mr Mackleduff sternly. ‘In black and white.’
‘It must be right,’ said Mrs Arcanum, to general agreement, ‘otherwise they wouldn’t let them put it in.’
‘I wonder who’s doing it?’ said Mr Prone, who travelled in wholesale boots and shoes.
‘Oh, they’d be special people for doing this,’ said Mr Mackleduff.
‘Really?’ said William.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Mackleduff, who was one of those large men who were instantly expert on anything. ‘They wouldn’t allow just anyone to write what they like. That stands to reason.’
So it was in a thoughtful mood that William made his way to the shed behind the Bucket.
Goodmountain looked up from the stone where he was carefully setting the type for a playbill.
‘There’s a spot of cash for you over there,’ he said, nodding to a bench.
It was mostly in coppers. It was almost thirty dollars.
William stared at it. ‘This can’t be right,’ he whispered.
‘Mr Ron and his friends kept coming back for more,’ said Goodmountain.
‘But … but it was only usual stuff,’ said William. ‘It wasn’t even
anything very important. Just … stuff that happened.’
‘Ah, well, people like to know about stuff that happened,’ said the dwarf. ‘And I reckon we can sell three times as many tomorrow if we halve the price.’
‘Halve the price?’
‘People like to be in the know. Just a thought.’ The dwarf grinned again. ‘There’s a young lady in the back room.’
In the days when this place had been a laundry, back in the pre-rocking-horse age, one area had been partitioned off with some cheap panelling to waist height, to segregate the clerks and the person whose job it was to explain to customers where their socks had gone. Sacharissa was sitting primly on a stool, clutching her handbag to her with her elbows close to her sides in order to expose herself to as little of the grime as possible.
She gave him a nod.
Now, why had he asked her to come along? Oh, yes … she was sensible, more or less, and did her grandfather’s books and, frankly, William didn’t meet many literate people. He met the sort to whom a pen was a piece of difficult machinery. If she knew what an apostrophe was, he could put up with the fact that she acted as if she was living in a previous century.
‘Is this your office now?’ she whispered.
‘I suppose so.’
‘You didn’t tell me about the dwarfs!’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Oh, no. Dwarfs are very law-abiding and respectable, in my experience.’
William now realized that he was talking to a girl who had never been in certain streets when the bars were closing.
‘I’ve already got two good items for you,’ Sacharissa went on, as if imparting state secrets.
‘Er … yes?’
‘My grandfather says this is the longest, coldest winter he can remember.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, he’s eighty. That’s a long time.’
‘Oh.’
‘And the meeting of the Dolly Sisters’ Baking and Flower Circle Annual Competition had to be abandoned last night because the cake table got knocked over. I found out all about it from the secretary, and I’ve written it all down neatly.’
‘Oh? Um. Is that really interesting, do you think?’
She handed him a page torn from a cheap exercise book.
He read: ‘“The Dolly Sisters’ Baking and Flower Circle Annual Competition was held in the Reading Room in Lobbin Clout Street, Dolly Sisters. Mrs H. Rivers was the President. She welcomed all members and commented on the Sumptuous Offerings. Prizes were awarded as follows …”’
William ran his eye down the meticulous list of names and awards.
‘“Specimen in Jar”?’ he queried.
‘That was the competition for dahlias,’ said Sacharissa.
William carefully inserted the word ‘dahlia’ after the word ‘specimen’, and read on.
‘“A fine display of Loose Stool Covers”?’
‘Well?’
‘Oh … nothing.’ William carefully changed this to ‘Loose Covers for stools’, which was barely an improvement, and continued to read with the air of a jungle explorer who might expect any kind of exotic beast to spring out of the peaceful undergrowth. The story concluded:
‘However, everyone’s Spirits were Dampened when a naked man, hotly pursued by Members of the Watch, burst through the Window and ran around the Room, causing much Disarray of the Tarts before being Apprehended by the Trifles. The meeting closed at 9 p.m. Mrs Rivers thanked all Members.’
‘What do you think?’ said Sacharissa, with just a hint of nervousness.
‘You know,’ said William, in a sort of distant voice, ‘I think it is quite likely that it would be impossible to improve this piece in any way. Um … what would you say was the most important thing that happened at the meeting?’
Her hand flew to her mouth in dismay. ‘Oh, yes! I forgot to put that in! Mrs Flatter won first prize for her sponge! She’s been runner-up for six years, too.’
William stared at the wall. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘I should put that in, if I was you. But you could drop in at the Watch House in Dolly Sisters and ask about the naked man—’
‘I shall do no such thing! Respectable women don’t have anything to do with the Watch!’
‘I meant, ask why he was being chased, of course.’
‘But why should I do that?’
William tried to put words around a vague idea. ‘People will want to know,’ he said.
‘But won’t the Watch mind me asking?’
‘Well, they’re our Watch. I don’t see why they should. And perhaps you could find some more really old people to ask about the weather? Who is the oldest inhabitant in the city?’
‘I don’t know. One of the wizards, I expect.’
‘Could you go to the University and ask him if he remembers it ever being colder than this?’
‘Is this where you put things in the paper?’ said a voice at the doorway.
It belonged to a small man with a beaming red face, one of those people blessed with the permanent expression of someone who has just heard a rather saucy joke.
‘Only I grew this carrot,’ he went on, ‘and I reckon it’s grown into a very interesting shape. Eh? What d’you think, eh? Talk about a giggle, eh? I took it down the pub and everyone was killin’ ’emselves! They said I should put it in your paper!’
He held it aloft. It was a very interesting shape. And William went a very interesting shade.
‘That’s a very strange carrot,’ said Sacharissa, eyeing it critically. ‘What do you think, Mr de Worde?’
‘Er … er … you go along to the University, why don’t you? And I’ll see to this … gentleman,’ said William, when he felt he could speak again.
‘My wife couldn’t stop laughin’!’
‘What a lucky man you are, sir,’ said William solemnly.
‘It’s a shame you can’t put pictures in your paper, eh?’
‘Yes, but I think I may be in enough trouble already,’ said William, opening his notebook.
When the man and his hilarious vegetable had been dealt with, William wandered out into the printing shop. The dwarfs were talking in a group, around a trapdoor in the floor.
‘Pump’s frozen again,’ said Goodmountain. ‘Can’t mix up any more ink. Old man Cheese says there used to be a well somewhere round here …’
There was a shout from below. A couple of dwarfs descended the ladder.
‘Mr Goodmountain, can you think of any reason I should put this in the paper?’ said William, handing him Sacharissa’s report of the Flowers and Cookery meeting. ‘It’s a bit … dull …’
The dwarf read the copy. ‘There’s seventy-three reasons,’ he said. ‘That’s ’cos there’s seventy-three names. I expect people like to see their names in the paper.’
‘But what about the naked man?’
‘Yeah … shame she didn’t get his name.’
There was another shout from below.
‘Shall we have a look?’ said Goodmountain.
To William’s complete lack of surprise, the little cellar under the shed was much better built than the shed itself. But then, practically everywhere in Ankh-Morpork had cellars that were once the first or even second or third floors of ancient buildings, built at the time of one of the city’s empires when men thought that the future was going to last for ever. And then the river had flooded and brought mud with it, and walls had gone higher and, now, what Ankh-Morpork was built on was mostly Ankh-Morpork. People said that anyone with a good sense of direction and a pickaxe could cross the city underground by simply knocking holes in walls.
Rusted tins and piles of timber rotted to tissue strength were piled up against one wall. And in the middle of the wall was a bricked-up doorway, the more recent bricks already looking worn and tatty compared to the ancient stone surrounding them.
‘What’s through there?’ said Boddony.
‘The old street, probably,’ said William.
‘The street has a cellar? What doe
s it keep there?’
‘Oh, when parts of the city get badly flooded people just keep building on up,’ said William. ‘This was probably a ground-floor room once, you see. People just bricked up the doors and windows and built on another storey. In some parts of the city, they say, there’s six or seven levels underground. Mostly full of mud. And that’s choosing my words with care—’
‘I am looking for Mister William der Worde,’ rumbled a voice above them.
An enormous troll was blocking out the light from the cellar trapdoor.
‘That’s me,’ said William.
‘Der Patrician will see you now,’ said the troll.
‘I don’t have an appointment with Lord Vetinari!’
‘Ah, well,’ said the troll, ‘you’d be amazed at how many people has appointments wid der Patrician an’ dey don’t know it. So you’d better hurry. I would hurry, if I was you.’
* * *
There was no sound but the ticking of the clock. William watched in apprehension as, apparently forgetting his presence, Lord Vetinari read his way through the Times again.
‘What a very … interesting document,’ said the Patrician, suddenly laying it aside. ‘But I’m forced to ask … Why?’
‘It’s just my news sheet,’ said William, ‘but bigger. Er … people like to know things.’
‘Which people?’
‘Well … everyone, really.’
‘Do they? Did they tell you this?’
William swallowed. ‘Well … no. But you know I’ve been writing my news letter for some time now—’
‘For various foreign notables and similar people.’ Lord Vetinari nodded. ‘People who need to know. Knowing things is part of their profession. But you are selling this to anyone in the street, is that correct?’
‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘Interesting. Then you wouldn’t entertain the idea, would you, that a state is, say, rather like one of those old rowing galleys? The ones which had banks of oarsmen down below, and a helmsman and so on above? It is certainly in everyone’s interest that the ship does not founder but, I put it to you, it is perhaps not in the interest of the rowers that they know of every shoal avoided, every collision fended off. It would only serve to worry them and put them off their stroke. What the rowers need to know is how to row, hmm?’
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