Truth
Page 10
The imp took a deep breath. ‘May I introduce to you the rest of my wide range of interesting and amusing sounds, Insert Name Here?’
Mr Pin glanced at Mr Tulip. ‘All right.’
‘For example, I can go “tra-la!”’
‘No.’
‘An amusing bugle call?’
‘No.’
‘“Ding!”?’
‘No.’
‘Or I can be instructed to make droll and diverting comments when performing various actions.’
‘Why?’
‘Er … some people like us to say things like “I’ll be back when you open the box again”, or something like that …’
‘Why do you do noises?’ said Mr Pin.
‘People like noises.’
‘We don’t,’ said Mr Pin.
‘We —ing hate noises,’ said Mr Tulip.
‘Good for you! I can do lots of silence,’ the imp volunteered. But suicidal programming forced it to continue: ‘And would you like a different colour scheme?’
‘What?’
‘What colour would you like me to be?’ As it spoke, one of the imp’s long ears slowly turned purple and its nose became a vaguely disquieting shade of blue.
‘We don’t want any colours,’ said Mr Pin. ‘We don’t want noises. We don’t want cheerfulness. We just want you to do what you’re told.’
‘Perhaps you would like to take a moment to fill in your registration card?’ said the imp desperately, holding it up.
A knife thrown at snake speed snapped the card out of its hand and nailed it to the desk.
‘Or perhaps you would like to leave it until later …’
‘Your man here—’ Mr Pin began. ‘Where did he go?’
Mr Tulip reached behind the counter and hauled up the wizard.
‘Your man here says you’re one of those imps that can repeat everything you hear,’ said Pin.
‘Yes, Insert Name Here, sir,’ said the imp.
‘And you don’t make stuff up?’
‘They can’t,’ the wizard panted. ‘They have no imagination at all.’
‘So if someone heard it, they’d know it was real?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Sounds just the thing we’re looking for,’ said Mr Pin.
‘And how will you be paying?’ said the wizard.
Mr Pin snapped his fingers. Mr Tulip drew himself up and out, squared his shoulders and cracked knuckles that were like two bags of pink walnuts.
‘Before we —ing talk about paying,’ said Mr Tulip, ‘we want to talk to the bloke that wrote that —ing warranty.’
What William now had to think of as his office had changed quite a lot. The old laundry fixings, dismembered rocking horses and other rubbish had been spirited away and two desks stood back to back in the middle of the floor.
They were ancient and battered and to stop them wobbling they needed, against all common sense, bits of folded cardboard under all four legs.
‘I got them from the secondhand shop along the road,’ said Sacharissa nervously. ‘They weren’t very expensive.’
‘Yes, I can see that. Er … Miss Cripslock … I’ve been thinking … your grandfather can engrave a picture, can he?’
‘Yes, of course. Why have you got mud all over you?’
‘And if we got an iconograph and learned how to use it to take pictures,’ William went on, ignoring this, ‘could he engrave the picture that the imp paints?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And do you know any good iconographers in the city?’
‘I could ask around. What happened to you?’
‘Oh, there was a threatened suicide in Welcome Soap.’
‘Any good?’ Sacharissa looked startled at the sound of her own voice. ‘I mean, obviously I wouldn’t wish anyone to die, but, er, we’ve got quite a lot of space …’
‘I might be able to make something of it. He, er, saved the life of the man who climbed up to talk him down.’
‘How brave. Did you get the name of the man who climbed up after him?’
‘Um, no. Er, he was a Mystery Man,’ said William.
‘Oh, well, that’s something. There’s some people waiting to see you outside,’ said Sacharissa. She glanced at her notes. ‘There’s a man who’s lost his watch, a zombie who … well, I can’t make out what he wants. There’s a troll who wants a job, and there’s someone who’s got a complaint about the story of the fight at the Mended Drum and wants to behead you.’
‘Oh, dear. All right, one at a time …’
The watch-loser was easy.
‘It was one of the new clockwork ones my father gave to me,’ said the man. ‘I’ve been looking for it all week!’
‘It’s not exactly—’
‘If you can put in the paper that I’ve lost it, maybe someone who has found it will turn it in?’ said the man, with unwarranted hopefulness. ‘And I’ll give you sixpence for your trouble.’
Sixpence was sixpence. William made a few notes.
The zombie was more difficult. For a start he was grey, shading to green in places, and smelled very strongly of artificial hyacinth aftershave, some of the more recent zombies having realized that their chance of making friends in their new life would be greatly improved if they smelled of flowers rather than just smelled.
‘People like to know about people who are dead,’ he said. His name was Mr Bendy, and he pronounced it in a way that made it clear that the ‘Mr’ was very much a part of the name.
‘They do?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Bendy emphatically. ‘Dead people can be very interesting. I expect people would be very interested in reading about dead people.’
‘Do you mean obituaries?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose they would be. I could write them in an interesting way.’
‘All right. Twenty pence each, then.’
Mr Bendy nodded. It was clear that he would have done it for nothing. He handed William a wad of yellow, crackling paper.
‘Here’s an interesting one to start you off,’ he said.
‘Oh? Whose is it?’
‘Mine. It’s very interesting. Especially the bit where I died.’
The next man to come in was in fact a troll. Unusually for trolls, who usually wore just enough to satisfy humanity’s mysterious demands for decency, this one actually wore a suit. At least, it was largely tubes of cloth that covered his body, and ‘suit’ was about the only word.
‘’m Rocky,’ he mumbled, looking down. ‘I’ll take any job, guv.’
‘What was your last job?’ said William.
‘Boxer, guv. But I wasn’t happy wiv it. Kept getting knocked down.’
‘Can you write or take pictures?’ said William, wincing.
‘No, guv. I can do heavy liftin’. ’n’ I can whistle tunes, guv.’
‘That’s … a good talent, but I don’t think we—’
The door flew open and a thick-shouldered, leather-clad man burst in, flourishing an axe.
‘You got no right putting that about me in the paper!’ he said, waving the blade under William’s nose.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Brezock the Barbarian, and I—’
The brain works fast when it thinks it is about to be cut in half.
‘Oh, if it’s a complaint you have, you have to take it up with the Complaints, Beheadings and Horsewhippings Editor,’ said William. ‘Mr Rocky here.’
‘Dat’s me,’ boomed Rocky cheerfully, laying a hand on the man’s shoulder. There was only room for three of his fingers. Brezock sagged.
‘I … just … want to say,’ said Brezock, slowly, ‘that you put in I hit someone with a table. I never done that. What’d people think of me if they heard I go around hitting people with tables? What’d that do to my reputation?’
‘I see.’
‘I knifed him. A table’s a cissy weapon.’
‘We shall certainly print a correction,’ said William, picking up his pencil.
When they had all gone, Rocky to sit on a chair outside the door, William and Sacharissa stared at one another.
‘It’s been a very strange morning,’ he said.
‘I’ve found out about the winter,’ said Sacharissa. ‘And there was an unlicensed theft from a jewellery shop in the Artificers Street. They got quite a lot of silver.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘One of the journeyman jewellers told me.’ Sacharissa gave a little cough. ‘He, um, always comes to have a little chat with me when he sees me walking past.’
‘Really? Well done!’
‘And while I was waiting for you I had an idea. I got Gunilla to set this in type.’ She shyly pushed a piece of paper across the desk.
‘It looks more impressive at the top of the page,’ she said nervously. ‘What do you think?’
‘What are all the fruit salads and leaves and things?’ said William.
Sacharissa blushed. ‘I did that. A bit of unofficial engraving. I thought it might make it look … you know, high class and impressive. Er … do you like it?’
‘It’s very good,’ said William hurriedly. ‘Very nice … er, cherries—’
‘—grapes—’
‘Yes, of course, I meant grapes. What’s the quote from? It’s very meaningful without, er, meaning anything very much.’
‘I think it’s just a quote,’ said Sacharissa.
Mr Pin lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into the still damp air of the wine cellar.
‘Now, it seems to me what we got here is a failure to communicate,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s not like we’re asking you to memorize a book or anything. You just got to look at Mr Tulip here. Is this hard? Lots of people do it without any kinda special training.’
‘I sort of … l-lose my bottle,’ said Charlie. His feet clanked against several empty ones.
‘Mr Tulip is not a scary man,’ said Mr Pin. This was flying in the face of the current evidence, he had to admit. His partner had bought a twist of what the dealer had sworn was Devil Dust but which looked to Mr Pin very much like powdered copper sulphate, and this had apparently reacted with the chemicals from the Slab which had been Mr Tulip’s afternoon snack and turned one of his sinuses into a small bag of electricity. His right eye was spinning slowly, and sparks twinkled on his nasal hairs.
‘I mean, does he look scary?’ Mr Pin went on. ‘Remember, you are Lord Vetinari. Understand? You’re not going to take anything from some guard. If he talks back to you, just look at him.’
‘Like this,’ said Mr Tulip, half of his face flashing on and off.
Charlie leapt back.
‘Not quite like that, perhaps,’ said Mr Pin. ‘But close.’
‘I don’t want to do this any more!’ Charlie wailed.
‘Ten thousand dollars, Charlie,’ said Mr Pin. ‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘I’ve heard of this Vetinari,’ said Charlie. ‘If this goes wrong he’ll have me thrown into the scorpion pit!’
Mr Pin spread his hands expansively. ‘Well, the scorpion pit isn’t as bad as it’s cracked up to be, you know?’
‘It’s a —ing picnic compared to me,’ rumbled Mr Tulip, his nose lighting up.
Charlie’s eyes sought a way out. Unfortunately, one of them was cleverness. Mr Pin hated the sight of Charlie trying to be clever. It was like watching a dog try to play the trombone.
‘I’m not doing it for ten thousand dollars,’ he said. ‘I mean … you need me …’
He let it hang in the air, which was very much what Mr Pin was considering doing with Charlie.
‘We had a deal, Charlie,’ he said mildly.
‘Yeah, well, I reckon there’s more money in this now,’ said Charlie.
‘What do you think, Mr Tulip?’
Tulip opened his mouth to reply but sneezed instead. A thin bolt of lightning earthed itself on Charlie’s chain.
‘Maybe we could go to fifteen thousand,’ said Mr Pin. ‘And that’s coming out of our share, Charlie.’
‘Yeah, well …’ said Charlie. He was as far away from Mr Tulip as possible now, because the man’s dry hair was standing out from his head.
‘But we want to see some extra effort, right?’ said Mr Pin. ‘Starting right now. All you have to do is say … What do you have to say?’
‘“You are relieved of your post, my man. Go away,”’ said Charlie.
‘Except we don’t say it like that, do we, Charlie?’ said Mr Pin. ‘It’s an order. You are his boss. And you have to give him a haughty stare … Look, how can I put it? You’re a shopkeeper. Imagine that he’s asked for credit.’
It was six in the morning. Freezing fog held the city in its breathless grip.
Through the mists they came, and into the press room behind the Bucket they lurched, and out into the mists they went again, on a variety of legs, crutches and wheels.
‘Mrpikeerah-tis!’
Lord Vetinari heard the cry and sent the overnight clerk down to the gate again.
He noted the title. He smiled at the motto.
He read the words:
And Lord Vetinari smiled.
And someone knocked softly at the door.
And he glanced at the clock.
‘Come,’ he said.
Nothing happened. After a few seconds, the soft knock came again.
‘Come in.’
And there was the pregnant silence again.
And Lord Vetinari touched an apparently ordinary part of his desktop.
And a long drawer appeared out of what had seemed to be the solid walnut of the desk, sliding forward as though on oil. It contained a number of slim devices on a bed of black velvet, and a description of any one of them would certainly involve the word ‘sharp’.
And he chose one, held it casually by his side, crossed soundlessly towards the door and turned the handle, stepping back quickly in case of a sudden rush.
No one pushed.
And the door, yielding to an unevenness in the hinges, swung inwards.
* * *
Mr Mackleduff smoothed out the paper. It was already accepted by all around the breakfast table that, as the man who bought the paper, he was not simply its owner but, as it were, its priest, relaying its contents to the appreciative masses.
‘It says here a man in Martlebury Street has grown a vegetable that’s a funny shape,’ he said.
‘I should very much like to see that,’ said Mrs Arcanum. There was a choking noise from further down the table. ‘Are you all right, Mr de Worde?’ she added, as Mr Prone thumped him on the back.
‘Yes, yes, really,’ gasped William. ‘S-sorry. Some tea went down the wrong way.’
‘There’s good soil in that part of the city,’ opined Mr Cartwright, travelling seed salesman.
William concentrated desperately on his toast, while over his head every news item was presented with the care and veneration of a blessed relic.
‘Someone held up a shopkeeper at knifepoint,’ Mr Mackleduff went on.
‘Soon we will not be safe in our beds,’ said Mrs Arcanum.
‘I don’t think this is the coldest winter for more than a hundred years, though,’ said Mr Cartwright. ‘I’m sure that one we had ten years ago was worse. Hit my sales something cruel.’
‘It’s in the paper,’ said Mr Mackleduff, in the quiet voice of someone laying down an ace.
‘It was a very strange obituary that you read out, too,’ said Mrs Arcanum. William nodded silently over his boiled egg. ‘I’m sure it’s not usual to talk about the things someone’s done since they died.’
Mr Longshaft, who was a dwarf and something in the jewellery business, helped himself to another slice of toast.
‘I suppose it takes all sorts,’ he said calmly.
‘The city is getting rather crowded, though,’ said Mr Windling, who had
some unspecified clerical job. ‘Still, at least zombies are human. No offence meant, of course.’
Mr Longshaft smiled faintly as he buttered the toast, and William wondered why he always disliked people who said ‘no offence meant’. Maybe it was because they found it easier to say ‘no offence meant’ than actually refrain from giving offence.
‘Well, I suppose we have to move with the times,’ said Mrs Arcanum. ‘And I hope that other poor man finds his watch.’
In fact Mr Harry was waiting outside the office when William arrived. He grabbed William’s hand and shook it.
‘Amazing, sir, amazing!’ he said. ‘How did you do it? It must be magic! You put that notice in your paper and when I got home, blow me down if the watch wasn’t in my other jacket! Gods bless your paper, say I!’
Inside, Goodmountain gave William the news. The Times had sold eight hundred copies so far today. At five pence each, William’s share came to sixteen dollars. In pennies, it came to quite a large heap on the desk.
‘This is insane,’ said William. ‘All we did was write things down!’
‘There is a bit of a problem, lad,’ said Goodmountain. ‘Are you going to want to do another one for tomorrow?’
‘Good gods, I hope not!’
‘Well, I’ve got a story for you,’ said the dwarf glumly. ‘I hear the Guild of Engravers are already setting up their own press. They’ve got a lot of money behind ’em, too. They could put us right out of business when it comes to general printing.’
‘Can they do that?’
‘Of course. They use presses anyway. Type isn’t hard to make, especially when you’ve got a lot of engravers. They can do really good work. To be honest, we didn’t reckon they’d cotton on this soon.’
‘I’m amazed!’
‘Well, younger members of the Guild have seen the work coming out of Omnia and the Agatean Empire. Turns out they’ve been looking for a chance like this. I hear there was a special meeting last night. A few changes of officers.’
‘That must have been worth seeing.’
‘So if you could keep your paper going …’ said the dwarf.
‘I don’t want all this money!’ William wailed. ‘Money causes problems!’
‘We could sell the Times cheaper,’ said Sacharissa, giving him an odd look.