Truth

by Pratchett, Terry

  ‘We’d only make more money,’ said William gloomily.

  ‘We could … we could pay the street vendors more,’ said Sacharissa.

  ‘Tricky,’ said Goodmountain. ‘A body can only take so much turpentine.’

  ‘Then we could at least make sure they get a good breakfast,’ said Sacharissa. ‘A big stew with named meat, perhaps.’

  ‘But I’m not even sure there is enough news to fill a—’ William began, and stopped. That wasn’t the way it worked, was it? If it was in the paper, it was news. If it was news it went in the paper, and if it was in the paper it was news. And it was the truth.

  He remembered the breakfast table. ‘They’ wouldn’t let ‘them’ put it in the paper if it wasn’t true, would they?

  William wasn’t a very political person. But he found himself using unfamiliar mental muscles when he thought about ‘they’. Some of them had to do with memory.

  ‘We could employ more people to help us get the news,’ said Sacharissa. ‘And what about news from other places? Pseudopolis and Quirm? We just have to talk to passengers getting off the coaches—’

  ‘Dwarfs would like to hear what’s been happening in Uberwald and Copperhead,’ said Goodmountain, stroking his beard.

  ‘It takes nearly a week for a coach to get there from here!’ said William.

  ‘So? It’s still news.’

  ‘I suppose we couldn’t use the clacks, could we?’ said Sacharissa.

  ‘The semaphore towers? Are you mad?’ said William. ‘That’s really expensive!’

  ‘Well? You were the one who was worried we had too much money!’

  There was a flash of light. William spun around.

  A … thing occupied the doorway. There was a tripod. There was a pair of skinny, black-clad legs behind it and a large black box on top of it. One black-clad arm extended out from behind the box and was holding a sort of small hod, which was smoking.

  ‘Nice vun,’ said a voice from behind the box. ‘The light vas shinink so good off the dvarf’s helmet, I could not resist it. You vanted an iconographer? My name is Otto Chriek.’

  ‘Oh. Yes?’ said Sacharissa. ‘Are you any good?’

  ‘I am a vizard in zer darkroom. I am experimenting all the time,’ said Otto Chriek. ‘And I have all my own eqvipment and also a keen and positive attitude!’

  ‘Sacharissa!’ hissed William urgently.

  ‘We could probably start you at a dollar a day—’

  ‘Sacharissa!’

  ‘Yes? What?’

  ‘He’s a vampire!’

  ‘I object most stronkly,’ said the hidden Otto. ‘It iss such an easy assumption to believe that everyvun with an Uberwald accent is a vampire, is it not? There are many thousands of people from Uberwald who are not vampires!’

  William waved his hand aimlessly, trying to shrug off the embarrassment. ‘All right, I’m sorry, but—’

  ‘I am a vampire, as it happens,’ Otto went on. ‘But if I had said “Hello my cheeky cock sparrow mate old boy by crikey” vot vould you have said zen, eh?’

  ‘We’d have been completely taken in,’ said William.

  ‘Anyway, your notice did say “vanted”, so I thought it vas, you know, affirmative action,’ said Otto. ‘Alzo, I have zis …’ A thin, blue-veined hand was held up, gripping a small twist of shiny black ribbon.

  ‘Oh? You’ve signed the pledge?’ said Sacharissa.

  ‘At the Meeting Rooms in Abattoirs Lane,’ said Otto triumphantly, ‘vhere I attend every veek for our big singsong and tea and a bun and wholesome conversation on themes of positive reinforcement keeping off the whole subject of bodily fluids by strict instruction. I am not any longer any stupid sucker!’

  ‘What do you think, Mr Goodmountain?’ said William.

  Goodmountain scratched his nose. ‘It’s up to you,’ he said. ‘If he tries anything with my lads he’ll be looking for his legs. What’s this pledge?’

  ‘It’s the Uberwald Temperance Movement,’ said Sacharissa. ‘A vampire signs up and forswears any human blood—’

  Otto shuddered. ‘Ve prefer “zer b-vord”,’ he said.

  ‘The b-word,’ Sacharissa corrected herself. ‘The movement is becoming very popular. They know it’s the only chance they’ve got.’

  ‘Well … okay,’ said William. He was uneasy about vampires himself, but turning the newcomer down after all this would be like kicking a puppy. ‘Do you mind setting up your stuff in the cellar?’

  ‘A cellar?’ said Otto. ‘Top hole!’

  First the dwarfs had come, William thought as he went back to his desk. They’d been insulted because of their diligence and because of their height, but they had kept their heads down5 and prospered. Then the trolls had come, and they got on a little better, because people don’t throw as many stones at creatures seven feet tall who could throw rocks back. Then the zombies had come out of the casket. One or two werewolves had crept in under the door. The gnomes had integrated quickly, despite a bad start, because they were tough and even more dangerous to cross than a troll; at least a troll couldn’t run up your trouser leg. There weren’t that many species left.

  The vampires had never made it. They weren’t sociable, even amongst themselves, they didn’t think as a species, they were unpleasantly weird and they sure as hell didn’t have their own food shops.

  So now it was dawning on some of the brighter ones that the only way people would accept vampires was if they stopped being vampires. That was a large price to pay for social acceptability, but perhaps not so large as the one that involved having your head cut off and your ashes scattered on the river. A life of steak tartare wasn’t too bad if you compared it with a death of stake au naturelle.6

  ‘Er, I think we’d like to see who we’re employing, though,’ William said aloud.

  Otto emerged, very slowly and nervously, from behind the lens. He was thin, pale and wore little oval dark glasses. He still clutched the twist of black ribbon as if it was a talisman, which it more or less was.

  ‘It’s all right, we won’t bite you,’ said Sacharissa.

  ‘And one good turn deserves another, eh?’ said Goodmountain.

  ‘That was a bit tasteless, Mr Goodmountain,’ said Sacharissa.

  ‘So am I,’ said the dwarf, turning back to the stone. ‘Just so long as people know where I stand, that’s all.’

  ‘You vill not be sorry,’ said Otto. ‘I am completely reformed, I assure you. Vot is it you vant me to take pictures of, please?’

  ‘News,’ said William.

  ‘Vot is news, please?’

  ‘News is …’ William began. ‘News … is what we put in the paper—’

  ‘What d’you think of this, eh?’ said a cheerful voice.

  William turned. There was a horribly familiar face looking at him over the top of a cardboard box.

  ‘Hello, Mr Wintler,’ he said. ‘Er, Sacharissa, I wonder if you could go and—’

  He wasn’t quick enough. Mr Wintler, a man of the variety that thinks a whoopee cushion is the last word in repartee, was not the kind to let a mere freezing reception stand in his way. ‘I was digging my garden this morning and up came this parsnip, and I thought: that young man at the paper will laugh himself silly when he sees it, ’cos my lady wife couldn’t keep a straight face, and—’

  To William’s horror he was already reaching into the box. ‘Mr Wintler, I really don’t think—’

  But the hand was already rising, and there was the sound of something scraping on the side of the box. ‘I bet the young lady here would like a good chuckle too, eh?’

  William shut his eyes.

  He heard Sacharissa gasp. Then she said, ‘Golly, it’s amazingly lifelike!’

  William opened his eyes. ‘Oh, it’s a nose,’ he said. ‘A parsnip with a sort of knobbly face and a huge nose!’

  ‘You vant I should take a picture?’ said Otto.

  ‘Yes!’ said William, drunk with relief. ‘Take a big picture of Mr Wintler and hi
s wonderfully nasal parsnip, Otto! Your first job! Yes, indeed!’

  Mr Wintler beamed. ‘And shall I run back home and fetch my carrot?’ he said.

  ‘No!’ said William and Goodmountain in whiplash unison.

  ‘You vant the picture right now?’ said Otto.

  ‘We certainly do!’ said William. ‘The sooner we can let him go home, the sooner our Mr Wintler can find another wonderfully humorous vegetable, eh, Mr Wintler? What will it be next time? A bean with ears? A beetroot shaped like a potato? A sprout with an enormous hairy tongue?’

  ‘Right here and now is ven you vant the picture?’ said Otto, anxiety hanging off every syllable.

  ‘Right now, yes!’

  ‘As a matter of fact, there is a swede coming along that I’ve got great hopes of—’ Mr Wintler began.

  ‘Oh, vell … if you vill look zis vay, Mr Vintler,’ said Otto. He got behind the iconograph and uncovered the lens. William got a glimpse of the imp peering out, brush poised. In his spare hand Otto slowly held up, on a stick, a cage containing a fat and drowsing salamander, finger poised on the trigger that would bring a small hammer down on its head just hard enough to annoy it.

  ‘Be smiling, please!’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Sacharissa. ‘Should a vampire really—?’

  Click.

  The salamander flared, etching the room with searing white light and dark shadows.

  Otto screamed. He fell to the floor, clutching at his throat. He sprang to his feet, goggle-eyed and gasping, and staggered, knock-kneed and wobbly-legged, the length of the room and back again. He sank down behind a desk, scattering paperwork with a wildly flailing hand.

  ‘Aarghaarghaaargh …’

  And then there was a shocked silence.

  Otto stood up, adjusted his cravat and dusted himself off. Only then did he look up at the row of shocked faces.

  ‘Vell?’ he said sternly. ‘Vot are you all looking at? It is just a normal reaction, zat is all. I am vorking on it. Light in all its forms is mine passion. Light is my canvas, shadows are my brush.’

  ‘But strong light hurts you!’ said Sacharissa. ‘It hurts vampires!’

  ‘Yes. It iss a bit of a bugger, but zere you go.’

  ‘And, er, that happens every time you take a picture, does it?’ said William.

  ‘No, sometimes it iss a lot vorse.’

  ‘Worse?’

  ‘I sometimes crumble to dust. But zat vich does not kill us makes us stronk.’

  ‘Stronk?’

  ‘Indeed!’

  William caught Sacharissa’s gaze. Her look said it all: we’ve hired him. Have we got the heart to fire him now? And don’t make fun of his accent unless your Uberwaldean is really good, okay?

  Otto adjusted the iconograph and inserted a fresh sheet.

  ‘And now, shall ve try vun more?’ he said brightly. ‘And zis time – everybody smile!’

  Mail was arriving. William was used to a certain amount, usually from clients of his news letter complaining that he hadn’t told them about the double-headed giants, plagues and rains of domestic animals that they had heard had been happening in Ankh-Morpork; his father had been right about one thing, at least, when he’d asserted that lies could run round the world before the truth could get its boots on. And it was amazing how people wanted to believe them.

  These were … well, it was as if he’d shaken a tree and all the nuts had fallen out. Several letters were complaining that there had been much colder winters than this, although no two of them could agree when it was. One said vegetables were not as funny as they used to be, especially leeks. Another asked what the Guild of Thieves was doing about unlicensed crime in the city. There was one saying that all these robberies were down to dwarfs who shouldn’t be allowed into the city to steal the work out of honest humans’ mouths.

  ‘Put a title like “Letters” on the top and put them in,’ said William. ‘Except the one about the dwarfs. That sounds like Mr Windling. It sounds like my father, too, except that at least he can spell “undesirable” and wouldn’t use crayon.’

  ‘Why not that letter?’

  ‘Because it’s offensive.’

  ‘Some people think it’s true, though,’ said Sacharissa. ‘There’s been a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Yes, but we shouldn’t print it.’

  William called Goodmountain over and showed him the letter. The dwarf read it.

  ‘Put it in,’ he suggested. ‘It’ll fill a few inches.’

  ‘But people will object,’ said William.

  ‘Good. Put their letters in, too.’

  Sacharissa sighed. ‘We’ll probably need them,’ she said. ‘William, grandfather says no one in the Guild will engrave the iconographs for us.’

  ‘Why not? We can afford the rates.’

  ‘We’re not Guild members. It’s all getting unpleasant. Will you tell Otto?’

  William sighed and walked over to the ladder.

  The dwarfs used the cellar as a bedroom, being naturally happier with a floor over their heads. Otto had been allowed to use a dank corner, which he’d made his own by hanging an old sheet across on a rope.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Villiam,’ he said, pouring something noxious from one bottle into another.

  ‘I’m afraid it looks as if we won’t get anyone to engrave your pictures,’ said William.

  The vampire seemed unmoved by this. ‘Yes, I vundered about zat.’

  ‘So I’m sorry to say that—’

  ‘No problem, Mr Villiam. Zere is alvays a vay.’

  ‘How? You can’t engrave, can you?’

  ‘No, but … all ve are printing is black and vite, yes? And zer paper is vite zo all ve are really printink is black, okay? I looked at how zer dvarfs do zer letters, and zey haf all zese bits of metal lying around and … you know how zer engravers can engrave metal viz acid?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Zo, all I haf to do is teach zer imps to paint viz acid. End of problem. Getting grey took a bit of thought, but I zink I haf—’

  ‘You mean you can get the imps to etch the picture straight on to a plate?’

  ‘Yes. It is vun of those ideas that are obvious ven you zink about it.’ Otto looked wistful. ‘And I zink about light all zer time. All zer … time.’

  William vaguely remembered something someone had once said: the only thing more dangerous than a vampire crazed with blood lust was a vampire crazed with anything else. All the meticulous single-mindedness that went into finding young women who slept with their bedroom window open was channelled into some other interest, with merciless and painstaking efficiency.

  ‘Er, why do you need to work in a dark room, though?’ he said. ‘The imps don’t need it, do they?’

  ‘Ah, zis is for my experiment,’ said Otto proudly. ‘You know zat another term for an iconographer would be “photographer”? From the old word photus in Latation, vhich means—’

  ‘“To prance around like a pillock ordering everyone about as if you owned the place”,’ said William.

  ‘Ah, you know it!’

  William nodded. He’d always wondered about that word.

  ‘Vell, I am vorking on an obscurograph.’

  William’s forehead wrinkled. It was turning into a long day. ‘Taking pictures with darkness?’ he ventured.

  ‘Viz true darkness, to be precise,’ said Otto, excitement entering his voice. ‘Not just absence of light. Zer light on zer ozzer side of darkness. You could call it … living darkness. Ve can’t see it, but imps can. Did you know zer Uberwaldean Deep Cave land eel emits a burst of dark light ven startled?’

  William glanced at a large glass jar on the bench. A couple of ugly things were coiled up in the bottom.

  ‘And that will work, will it?’

  ‘I zink so. Hold it vun minute.’

  ‘I really ought to be getting back—’

  ‘Zis vill not take a second …’

  Otto gently lifted one of the eels out of its jar and put it into the hod usual
ly occupied by a salamander. He carefully aimed one of his iconographs at William and nodded.

  ‘Vun … two … three … BOO!’

  There was—

  —there was a soft noiseless implosion, a very brief sensation of the world being screwed up small, frozen, smashed into tiny little sharp pins and hammered through every cell of William’s body.7 Then the gloom of the cellar flowed back.

  ‘That was … very strange,’ said William, blinking. ‘It was like something very cold walking through me.’

  ‘Much may be learnt about dark light now ve have left our disgusting past behind us and haf emerged into zer bright new future vhere ve do not zink about zer b-vord all day in any vay at all,’ said Otto, fiddling with the iconograph. He looked hard at the picture the imp had painted and then glanced up at William. ‘Oh vell, back to zer drawink board,’ he said.

  ‘Can I see?’

  ‘It vould embarrass me,’ said Otto, putting the square of cardboard down on his makeshift bench. ‘All zer time I am doing things wronk.’

  ‘Oh, but I’d—’

  ‘Mister de Worde, dere’s something happening!’

  The bellow came from Rocky, whose head eclipsed the hole.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something at der palace. Someone’s been killed!’

  William sprang up the ladder. Sacharissa was sitting at her desk, looking pale.

  ‘Someone’s assassinated Vetinari?’ said William.

  ‘Er, no,’ said Sacharissa. ‘Not … exactly.’

  Down in the cellar Otto Chriek picked up the dark light iconograph and looked at it again. Then he scratched it with a long pale finger, as if trying to remove something.

  ‘Strange …’ he said.

  The imp hadn’t imagined it, he knew. Imps had no imagination whatsoever. They didn’t know how to lie.

  He looked around the bare cellar suspiciously.

  ‘Is zere anyvun zere?’ he said. ‘Is anyvun playink zer silly buggers?’

  Thankfully there was no answer.

  Dark light. Oh dear. There were lots of theories about dark light …

  ‘Otto!’

  He glanced up, shoving the picture into his pocket.

  ‘Yes, Mr Villiam?’

  ‘Get your stuff together and come with me! Lord Vetinari’s murdered someone! Er, it is alleged,’ William added. ‘And it can’t possibly be true.’