‘And that the helmsman is a good one,’ said William. He couldn’t stop the sentence. It said itself. It was out there, hanging in the air.
Lord Vetinari gave him a stare that went on for several seconds beyond the necessary time. Then his face instantly broke into a broad smile.
‘To be sure. And so they should, so they should. This is the age of words, after all. Fifty-six hurt in tavern brawl, eh? Astounding. What further news do you have for us, sir?’
‘Well, er … it’s been very cold …’
‘Has it? Has it, indeed? My word!’ On his desk the tiny iceberg bumped against the side of Lord Vetinari’s inkwell.
‘Yes, and there was a bit of a … fracas … at some cookery meeting last night …’
‘A fracas, eh?’
‘Well, probably more of a rumpus, really.4 And someone has grown a funny-shaped vegetable.’
‘That’s the stuff. What shape?’
‘A … an amusing shape, sir.’
‘Could I give you a little bit of advice, Mr de Worde?’
‘Please do, sir.’
‘Be careful. People like to be told what they already know. Remember that. They get uncomfortable when you tell them new things. New things … well, new things aren’t what they expect. They like to know that, say, a dog will bite a man. That is what dogs do. They don’t want to know that a man bites a dog, because the world is not supposed to happen like that. In short, what people think they want is news, but what they really crave is olds. I can see you’ve got the hang of it already.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said William, not at all sure he fully understood this but certain that he didn’t like the bit he did understand.
‘I believe the Guild of Engravers has some things it wishes to discuss with Mr Goodmountain, William, but I have always thought that we should go forward to the future.’
‘Yes, sir. Quite hard to go any other way.’
Once again, there was the too-long stare and then the sudden unfreezing of the face.
‘Indeed. Good day, Mr de Worde. Oh … and do tread carefully. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to become news … would you?’
William turned over the Patrician’s words as he walked back to Gleam Street, and it is not wise to be thinking too deeply when walking the streets of Ankh-Morpork.
He walked past Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler with barely a nod, but in any case Mr Dibbler was otherwise engaged. He had two customers. Two at once, unless one was daring another, was a great rarity. But these two were worrying him. They were inspecting the merchandise.
C.M.O.T. Dibbler sold his buns and pies all around the city, even outside the Assassins’ Guild. He was a good judge of people, especially when it involved judging when to step innocently round a corner and then run like hell, and he had just decided that he was really unlucky to be standing here and also that it was too late.
He didn’t often meet killers. Murderers, yes, but murderers usually had some strange reason and in any case generally murdered friends and relations. And he’d met plenty of assassins, but assassination had a certain style and even certain rules.
These men were killers. The big one with the powdery streaks down his jacket and the smell of mothballs was just a vicious thug, no problem there, but the small one with the lank hair had the smell of violent and spiteful death about him. You didn’t often look into the eyes of someone who’d kill because it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Moving his hands carefully, Dibbler opened the special section of his tray, the high-class one that contained sausages whose contents were 1) meat, 2) from a known four-footed creature, 3) probably land-dwelling.
‘Or may I recommend these, gentlemen,’ he said, and because old habits died hard he couldn’t stop himself from adding, ‘Finest pork.’
‘Good, are they?’
‘You’ll never want to eat another, sir.’
The other man said, ‘How about the other sort?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Hooves and pig snot and rats what fell in the —ing mincer.’
‘What Mr Tulip here means,’ said Mr Pin, ‘is a more organic sausage.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mr Tulip. ‘I’m very —ing environmental like that.’
‘Are you sure? No, no, fine!’ Dibbler raised a hand. The manner of the two men had changed. They were clearly very sure of everything. ‘We-ell, you want a bad— a less good sausage, then … er?’
‘With —ing fingernails in it,’ said Mr Tulip.
‘Well, er … I do … I could …’ Dibbler gave up. He was a salesman. You sold what you sold. ‘Let me tell you about these sausages,’ he went on, smoothly shifting an internal motor into reverse. ‘When someone chopped off his thumb in the abattoir, they didn’t even stop the grinder. You prob’ly won’t find any rat in them ’cos rats don’t go near the place. There’s animals in there that … well, you know how they say life began in some kind of big soup? Same with these sausages. If you want a bad sausage, you won’t get better than these.’
‘You keep ’em for your special customers, do you?’ said Mr Pin.
‘To me, sir, every customer is special.’
‘And you got mustard?’
‘People call it mustard,’ Dibbler began, getting carried away, ‘but I call it—’
‘I like —ing mustard,’ said Mr Tulip.
‘—really great mustard,’ said Dibbler, not missing a beat.
‘We’ll take two,’ said Mr Pin. He did not reach for his wallet.
‘On the house!’ said Dibbler. He stunned two sausages, enbunned them and thrust them forward. Mr Tulip took both of them, and the mustard pot.
‘Do you know what they called a sausage-in-a-bun in Quirm?’ said Mr Pin, as the two walked away.
‘No?’ said Mr Tulip.
‘They called it le sausage-in-le-bun.’
‘What, in a —ing foreign language? You’re —ing kidding!’
‘I’m not a —ing kidder, Mr Tulip.’
‘I mean, they ought to call it a … a … sausage dans lar derrière,’ said Mr Tulip. He took a bite of his Dibbler delight. ‘Hey, that’s what this —ing thing tastes of,’ he added, with his mouth full.
‘In a bun, Mr Tulip.’
‘I know what I meant. This is a —ing awful sausage.’
Dibbler watched them go. It wasn’t often you heard language like that in Ankh-Morpork. Most people talked without leaving gaps in their sentences, and he wondered what the word ‘ing’ meant.
A crowd was gathered outside a large building in Welcome Soap, and the cart traffic was already backed up all the way to Broad Way. And, thought William, wherever a large crowd is gathered, someone ought to write down why.
The reason in this case was clear. A man was standing on the flat parapet just outside the fourth-storey window, back against the wall, staring downwards with a frozen expression.
Far below, the crowd were trying to be helpful. It was not in the robust Ankh-Morpork nature to dissuade anyone in this position. It was a free city, after all. So was the advice.
‘Much better to try the Thieves’ Guild!’ a man yelled. ‘Six floors, and then you’re on good solid cobbles! Crack your skull first go!’
‘There’s proper flagstones around the palace,’ advised the man next to him.
‘Well, certainly,’ said his immediate neighbour. ‘But the Patrician’ll kill him if he tries to jump from up there, am I right?’
‘Well?’
‘Well, it’s a question of style, isn’t it?’
‘Tower of Art’s good,’ said a woman confidently. ‘Nine hundred feet, almost. And you get a good view.’
‘Granted, granted. But you also get a long time to think about things. On the way down, I mean. Not a good time for introspection, in my view.’
‘Look, I’ve got a load of prawns on my wagon and if I’m held up any longer they’re gonna be walking home,’ moaned a carter. ‘Why doesn’t he just jump?’
‘He’s thinking about it. It’s a
big step, after all.’
The man on the edge turned his head when he heard a shuffling noise. William was sidling along the ledge, trying hard not to look down.
‘’Morning. Come to try and talk me out of it, ’ave yer?’
‘I … I …’ William really tried not to look down. The ledge had looked a lot wider from below. He was regretting the whole thing. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it …’
‘I’m always open to being talked out of it.’
‘Yes, yes … er … would you care to give me your name and address?’ said William. There was a hitherto unsuspected nasty breeze up here, gusting treacherously around the rooftops. It fluttered the pages of his notebook.
‘Why?’
‘Er … because from this height on to solid ground it’s often hard to find out that sort of thing afterwards,’ said William, trying not to breathe out too much. ‘And if I’m going to put this in the paper, it’d look much better if I say who you were.’
‘What paper?’
William pulled a copy of the Times out of his pocket. It rattled in the wind as he wordlessly handed it over.
The man sat down and read it, his lips moving, his legs dangling over the drop.
‘So this is, like, things that happen?’ he said. ‘Like a towncrier, but written down?’
‘That’s right. So, what was your name?’
‘What do you mean, was?’
‘Well, you know … obviously …’ said William wretchedly. He waved his hand towards the void, and almost lost his balance. ‘If you …’
‘Arthur Crank.’
‘And where did you live, Arthur?’
‘Prattle Alley.’
‘And what was your job?’
‘There you go with the was again. The Watch usually give me a cup of tea, you know.’
A warning bell went off in William’s head. ‘You … jump a lot, do you?’
‘Only the difficult bits.’
‘And they are?’
‘The climbing-up bits. I don’t do the actual jumping, obviously. That’s not a skilled job. I’m more into the “cry for help” aspect.’
William tried to grip sheer wall. ‘And the help you want is …?’
‘Could you make it twenty dollars?’
‘Or you jump?’
‘Ah, well, not exactly jump, obviously. Not the whole jump. Not as per such. But I shall continue to threaten to jump, if you get my drift.’
The building seemed a lot higher to William than it had done when he climbed the stairs. The people below were a lot smaller. He could make out faces looking up. Foul Ole Ron was there, with his scabby dog and the rest of the crew, because they had an uncanny gravitational attraction to impromptu street theatre. He could even make out Coffin Henry’s ‘Will Threaten For Food’ sign. And he could see the queues of wagons, by now paralysing half the city. He could feel his knees buckling …
Arthur grabbed him. ‘Oi, this is my patch,’ he said. ‘Find your own spot.’
‘You said the jumping-off wasn’t a skilled job,’ said William, trying to concentrate on his notes as the world spun gently around him. ‘What was your job, Mr Crank?’
‘Steeplejack.’
‘Arthur Crank, you come down here right this minute!’
Arthur looked down.
‘Oh gawds, they’ve gone and fetched the wife,’ he said.
‘Constable Fiddyment here says you’re …’ the distant pink face of Mrs Crank paused to listen again to the watchman standing next to her, ‘interferin’ with the merc-ant-ile well-bein’ of the city, you ole fool!’
‘Can’t argue with the wife,’ said Arthur, giving William a sheepish look.
‘I’ll hide your trousers another time, you silly ole man! You come down here or I’ll give you what for!’
‘Three happy married years,’ said Arthur cheerfully, waving at the distant figure. ‘The other thirty-two haven’t been too bad, either. But she can’t cook cabbage worth a damn.’
‘Really?’ said William, and dreamily fell forward.
He woke up lying on the ground, which was what he’d expected, but still in a three-dimensional shape, which he hadn’t. He realized that he was not dead. One reason for this was the face of Corporal Nobbs of the Watch looking down at him. William considered that he had lived a relatively blameless life and, if he died, did not expect to encounter anything with a face like Corporal Nobbs, the worst thing ever to hit a uniform if you didn’t count seagulls.
‘Ah, you’re all right,’ said Nobbs, looking slightly disappointed.
‘Feel … faint,’ William murmured.
‘I could give you the kiss of life if you like,’ said Nobbs.
Unbidden by William, various muscles spasmed and jerked him vertical so fast that his feet momentarily left the ground.
‘Much better now!’ he shouted.
‘Only we learned it down the Watch House and I haven’t had a chance to try it yet …’
‘Fit as a fiddle!’ William wailed.
‘… I’ve been practising on my hand and everything …’
‘Never felt better!’
‘Old Arthur Crank’s always doing that,’ said the watchman. ‘He’s just after tobacco money. Still, everyone clapped when he carried you down. It’s amazing how he can still climb drainpipes like that.’
‘Is it really … ?’ William felt oddly empty.
‘It was great when you were sick. I mean, from four storeys up it looked quite pretty. Someone ought to have taken a picture—’
‘Got to be going!’ William screamed.
I must be going mad, he thought, as he hurried towards Gleam Street. Why the hell did I do it? It wasn’t as if it was my business.
Except, come to think of it, it is now.
Mr Tulip burped. ‘What’re we going to do now?’ he said.
Mr Pin had acquired a map of the city and was examining it closely.
‘We are not your old-style bother boys, Mr Tulip. We are thinking men. We learn. We learn fast.’
‘What’re we going to do now?’ Mr Tulip repeated. Sooner or later he’d be able to catch up.
‘We’re going to buy ourselves a little insurance, that’s what we’re going to do. I don’t like no lawyer having all that muck on us. Ah … here we are. It’s the other side of the University.’
‘We’re going to buy some magic?’ said Mr Tulip.
‘Not exactly magic.’
‘I fort you said this city was a —ing pushover?’
‘It has its good points, Mr Tulip.’
Mr Tulip grinned. ‘—ing right,’ he said. ‘I want to go back to the Museum of Antiquities!’
‘Now, now, Mr Tulip. Business first, pleasure later,’ said Mr Pin.
‘I want to —ing see all of ’em!’
‘Later on. Later on. Can you wait twenty minutes without exploding?’
The map led them to the Thaumatological Park, just hubwards of Unseen University. It was still so new that the modern flat-roofed buildings, winners of several awards from the Guild of Architects, hadn’t even begun to let in water and shed window panes in a breeze.
An attempt had been made to pretty up the immediate area with grass and trees, but since the site had been built partly on the old ground known as the ‘unreal estate’ this had not worked as planned. The area had been a dump for Unseen University for thousands of years. There was a lot more below that turf than old mutton bones, and magic leaks. On any map of thaumic pollution the unreal estate would be the centre of some extremely concentric circles.
Already the grass was multicoloured and some of the trees had walked away.
Nevertheless, several businesses were thriving there, products of what the Archchancellor, or at least his speech writer, had called ‘a marriage between magic and modern business; after all, the modern world doesn’t need very many magic rings and magic swords, but it does need some way to keep its appointments in order. Lot of garbage, really, but I suppose it makes everyone happy. Is it time f
or that lunch yet?’
One of the results of this joyful union was now on the counter in front of Mr Pin.
‘It’s the Mk II,’ said the wizard, who was glad there was a counter between him and Mr Tulip. ‘Er … cutting edge.’
‘That’s good,’ said Mr Tulip. ‘We —ing love cutting edges.’
‘How does it work?’ said Mr Pin.
‘It’s got contextual help,’ said the wizard. ‘All you have to do is, er, open the lid.’
To the wizard’s horror a very thin knife appeared magically in his customer’s hand and was used to release the catch.
The lid sprang back. A small green imp sprang up.
‘Bingely-bingely-bee—’
It froze. Even a creation of biothaumic particles will hesitate when a knife is pressed to its throat.
‘What the hell’s this?’ said Mr Pin. ‘I said I want something that listens!’
‘It does listen, it does listen!’ said the wizard hurriedly. ‘But it can say things too!’
‘Like what? Bingely-bingely?’
The imp gave a nervous cough. ‘Good for you!’ it said. ‘You have wisely purchased the Dis-organizer Mk II, the latest in biothaumaturgic design, with a host of useful features and no resemblance whatsoever to the Mk I which you may have inadvertently destroyed by stamping on it heavily!’ it said, adding,
‘This device is provided without warranty of any kind as to reliability, accuracy, existence or otherwise or fitness for any particular purpose and Bioalchemic Products specifically does not warrant, guarantee, imply or make any representations as to its merchantability for any particular purpose and furthermore shall have no liability for or responsibility to you or any other person, entity or deity with respect of any loss or damage whatsoever caused by this device or object or by any attempts to destroy it by hammering it against a wall or dropping it into a deep well or any other means whatsoever and moreover asserts that you indicate your acceptance of this agreement or any other agreement that may be substituted at any time by coming within five miles of the product or observing it through large telescopes or by any other means because you are such an easily cowed moron who will happily accept arrogant and unilateral conditions on a piece of highly priced garbage that you would not dream of accepting on a bag of dog biscuits and is used solely at your own risk.’
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