Truth

by Pratchett, Terry

  ‘Like vot?’

  ‘Well, you know … all that children of the night business?’

  ‘Oh, zat,’ said Otto. He looked glum. ‘Zat’s really very stereotypical, you know. Vy don’t you ask me to turn into a bat vhile you’re about it? I told you, I don’t do zat stuff no more!’

  ‘Have you got a better idea?’

  A few feet away a Rottweiler was doing its best to eat a spaniel.

  ‘Oh, very vell.’ Otto waved his hands vaguely.

  The barking ceased instantly. And then every dog sat on its haunches and howled.

  ‘Not a huge improvement, but at least they’re not fighting,’ said William, hurrying forward.

  ‘Vell, I’m sorry. Stake me as you pass,’ said Otto. ‘I shall have a very embarrassing five minutes explaining this at the next meeting, you understand? I know it’s not zer … sucking item, but I mean, vun should care about zer look of zer thing …’

  They climbed over a rotting fence and entered the shed via the back door.

  People and dogs were squeezing in through the other door and were only held at bay by a barricade of desks and also by Sacharissa, who was looking harassed as she faced a sea of faces and muzzles. William could just make out her voice above the din.

  ‘—no, that’s a poodle. It doesn’t look a bit like the dog we’re after—’

  ‘—no, that’s not it. How do I know? Because it’s a cat. All right, then why’s it washing itself? No, I’m sorry, dogs don’t do that—’

  ‘—no, madam, that’s a bulldog—’

  ‘—no, that’s not it. No, sir, I know that’s not it. Because it’s a parrot, that’s why. You’ve taught it to bark and you’ve painted “DoG” on the side of it but it’s still a parrot—’

  Sacharissa pushed her hair out of her eyes and caught sight of William.

  ‘Well, now, who’s been a clever boy?’ she said.

  ‘Wh’s a cl’r boy?’ said the DoG.

  ‘How many more out there?’

  ‘Hundreds, I’m afraid,’ said William.

  ‘Well, I’ve just had the most unpleasant half-hour of— That’s a chicken! It’s a chicken, you stupid woman, it’s just laid an egg! – of my life and I would like to thank you very much. You’ll never guess what happened! No, that’s a Shnauswitzer! And you know what, William?’

  ‘What?’ said William.

  ‘Some complete muffin offered a reward! In Ankh-Morpork! Can you believe that? They were queueing three deep when I got here! I mean, what kind of idiot would do a thing like that? I mean, one man had a cow! A cow! I had a huge argument about animal physiology before Rocky hit him over the head! The poor troll’s out there now trying to keep order! There’s ferrets out there!’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry—’

  ‘I wonder, ah, if we can be of any assistance?’

  They turned.

  The speaker was a priest, dressed in the black, unadorned and unflattering habit of the Omnians. He had a flat, broad-brimmed hat, the Omnians’ turtle symbol around his neck, and an expression of almost terminal benevolence.

  ‘Mm, I am Brother Upon-Which-The-Angels-Dance Pin,’ said the priest, stepping aside to reveal a mountain in black, ‘and this is Sister Jennifer, who is under a vow of silence.’

  They stared up at the apparition of Sister Jennifer, while Brother Pin went on: ‘That means she does not, mm, talk. At all. In any circumstances.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Sacharissa weakly. One of Sister Jennifer’s eyes was revolving, in a face that was like a brick wall.

  ‘Yes, mm, and we happened to be in Ankh-Morpork as part of the Bishop Horn Ministry to Animals and heard that you were looking for a little doggie who is in trouble,’ said Brother Pin. ‘I can see you are, mm, a little overwhelmed, and perhaps we can help? It would be our duty.’

  ‘The dog’s a little terrier,’ said Sacharissa, ‘but you’d be amazed at what people are bringing in—’

  ‘Dear me,’ said Brother Pin. ‘But Sister Jennifer is very good at this sort of thing …’

  Sister Jennifer strode to the front desk. A man hopefully held up what was clearly a badger.

  ‘He’s been a bit ill—’

  Sister Jennifer brought her fist down on the man’s head.

  William winced.

  ‘Sister Jennifer’s order believes in tough love,’ said Brother Pin. ‘A little correction at the right time can prevent a lost soul taking the wrong path.’

  ‘Vich order is this she belongs to, please?’ said Otto, as the lost soul carrying his badger staggered out, his legs trying to take several paths at once.

  Brother Pin gave him a damp smile. ‘The Little Flowers of Perpetual Annoyance,’ he said.

  ‘Really? I had not heard of zis vun. Very … out-reaching. Vell, I must go and see if the imps have done zere job properly …’

  Certainly the crowd was thinning rapidly under the stress of seeing the advancing Sister Jennifer, especially that segment of it that had brought dogs which purred or ate sunflower seeds. Many of those who had brought an actual living dog were looking nervous as well.

  A sense of unease crept over William. He knew that some sections of the Omnian church still believed that the way to send a soul to heaven was to give the body hell. And Sister Jennifer couldn’t be blamed for her looks, or even the size of her hands. And even if the backs of said hands were rather hairy, well, that was the sort of thing that happened out in the rural districts.

  ‘What exactly is she doing?’ he said. There were yelps and shouts in the queue as dogs were grabbed, glared at and thrust back with more than minimum force.

  ‘As I said, we’re trying to find the little dog,’ said Brother Pin. ‘It may need ministering to.’

  ‘But … that wire-haired terrier there looks pretty much like the picture,’ said Sacharissa. ‘And she’s just ignored it.’

  ‘Sister Jennifer is very sensitive in these matters,’ said Brother Pin.

  ‘Oh well, this is not getting the next edition filled,’ said Sacharissa, heading back to her desk.

  ‘I expect it would help if we could print in colour,’ said William, when he was left alone with Brother Pin.

  ‘Probably,’ said the reverend brother. ‘It was a kind of greyish brown.’

  William knew then that he was dead. It was only a matter of time.

  ‘You know what colour you’re looking for,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You just get on with sorting out the words, writer boy,’ said Brother Pin, for his ears only. He opened the jacket of his frock coat just enough for William to see the range of cutlery holstered there, and closed it again. ‘This isn’t anything to do with you, okay? Shout out and someone gets killed. Try to be a hero and someone gets killed. Make any kind of sudden move and someone gets killed. In fact, we might as well kill someone anyway and save some time, eh? You know that stuff about the pen being mightier than the sword?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William hoarsely.

  ‘Want to try?’

  ‘No.’

  William caught sight of Goodmountain, who was staring at him.

  ‘What’s that dwarf doing?’ said Brother Pin.

  ‘He’s setting type, sir,’ said William. It was always wise to be polite to edged weapons.

  ‘Tell him to get on with it,’ said Pin.

  ‘Er … if you could just get on with it, Mr Goodmountain,’ said William, raising his voice over the growls and yelps. ‘Everything is fine.’

  Goodmountain nodded and turned his back. He held up one hand theatrically and then started to assemble type.

  William watched. It was better than semaphore, as the hand dipped from box to box.

  Hes[space]a[space]fawe?

  W was in the box next to K …

  ‘Yes indeed,’ said William.

  Pin glanced at him. ‘Yes indeed what?’

  ‘I, er, it was just nerves,’ said William. ‘I’m always nervous in the presence of swords.’

  Pin glanced at the dwarfs. They
all had their backs to them.

  Goodmountain’s hand moved again, flicking letter after letter from its nest.

  Armed?[space]coff[space]4[space]yes

  ‘Something wrong with your throat?’ said Pin, after William coughed.

  ‘Just nerves again … sir.’

  OK[space]will[space]get[space]Otto

  ‘Oh no,’ William muttered.

  ‘Where’s that dwarf going?’ said Pin, his hand reaching into his coat.

  ‘Just into the cellar, sir. To … fetch some ink.’

  ‘Why? Looks like you’ve got lots of ink up here already.’

  ‘Er, the white ink, sir. For the spaces. And the middle of the Os.’ William leaned towards Mr Pin and shuddered when the hand reached inside the jacket again. ‘Look, the dwarfs are all armed, too. With axes. And they get excited very easily. I’m the only person anywhere near you who hasn’t got a weapon. Please? I don’t want to die just yet. Just do whatever you came to do and go?’

  It was a pretty good impression of an abject coward, he thought, because it was casting for type.

  Pin glanced away. ‘How are we doing, Sister Jennifer?’ he said.

  Sister Jennifer held a struggling sack. ‘Got all the —ing terriers,’ he said.

  Brother Pin shook his head sharply.

  ‘Got all the —ing terriers!’ fluted Sister Jennifer, in a much higher register. ‘And there’s —ing watchmen at the end of the street!’

  Out of the corner of his eye William saw Sacharissa sit bolt upright. Death was certainly somewhere on the agenda now.

  Otto was climbing unconcernedly up the cellar steps, one of his iconograph boxes swinging from his shoulder.

  He nodded at William. Behind him Sacharissa was pushing her chair back.

  Back in front of his case of type Goodmountain was feverishly setting:

  Hide[space]your[space]eyes

  Mr Pin turned to William. ‘What do you mean, white ink for the spaces?’

  Sacharissa was looking angry and determined, like Mrs Arcanum after an uncalled-for remark.

  The vampire raised his box.

  William saw the hod above it, crammed with Uberwaldean land eels.

  Mr Pin thrust back his coat.

  William leapt towards the advancing girl, rising through the air like a frog through treacle.

  Dwarfs started to jump over the low barrier to the print room with axes in their hands. And …

  ‘Boo,’ said Otto.

  Time stopped. William felt the universe fold away, the little globe of walls and ceilings peeling back like the skin of an orange, leaving a chilly, rushing darkness filled with needles of ice. There were voices, cut off, random syllables of sound, and again the feeling that he’d felt before, that his body was as thin and insubstantial as a shadow.

  Then he landed on top of Sacharissa, threw his arms around her, and rolled them both behind the welcome barrier of the desks.

  Dogs howled. People swore. Dwarfs yelled. Furniture smashed. William lay still until the thunder died away.

  It was replaced by groans and swearing.

  Swearing was a positive indication. It was dwarfish swearing, and it meant that the swearer was not only alive but angry too.

  He raised his head carefully.

  The far door was open. There was no queue, no dogs. There was the sound of running feet and furious barking out in the street.

  The back door was swinging on its hinges.

  William was aware of the pneumatic warmth of Sacharissa in his arms. This was an experience of the sort which, in a life devoted to arranging words in a pleasing order, he had not dreamed would – well, obviously dreamed, his inner editor corrected him, better make that expected – would have come his way.

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ he said. That was technically a white lie, the editor said. Like thanking your aunt for the lovely handkerchiefs. It’s okay. It’s okay.

  He drew away carefully and got unsteadily to his feet. The dwarfs were also staggering upright. One or two of them were being noisily sick.

  The body of Otto Chriek was crumpled on the floor. The departing Brother Pin had got one expert cut in, at neck height, before leaving.

  ‘Oh, my gods,’ said William. ‘What a dreadful thing to happen …’

  ‘What, having your head cut off?’ said Boddony, who’d never liked the vampire. ‘Yes, I expect you could say that.’

  ‘We … ought to do something for him …’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes! I’d have been killed for sure if he hadn’t used those eels!’

  ‘Excuse me? Excuse me, please?’

  The sing-song voice was coming from under the printers’ bench. Goodmountain knelt down.

  ‘Oh, no …’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ said William.

  ‘It’s … er … well, it’s Otto.’

  ‘Excuse me, please? Could somevun get me out of here?’ Goodmountain, grimacing, pushed his hand into the darkness, while the voice continued: ‘Oh, crikey, zere is a dead rat under here, somevun must’ve dropped zere lunch, how sordid— Not zer ear please, not zer ear … By the hair, please …’

  The hand came out again, holding Otto’s head by the hair as requested. The eyes swivelled.

  ‘Everyvun all right?’ said the vampire. ‘Zat vas a close shave, yes?’

  ‘Are you … all right, Otto?’ said William, realizing that this was a winning entrant in the Really Stupid Things to Say contest.

  ‘Vot? Oh, yes. Yes, I zink so. Mustn’t grumble. Pretty good, really. It’s just that I seem to have had my head cut off, vich you could say is a bit of a drawback—’

  ‘That’s not Otto,’ said Sacharissa. She was shaking.

  ‘Of course it is,’ said William. ‘I mean, who else could it—’

  ‘Otto’s taller than that,’ said Sacharissa and burst out laughing. The dwarfs started to laugh, too, because at that moment they would laugh at anything. Otto didn’t join in very enthusiastically.

  ‘Oh, yes. Ho ho ho,’ he said. ‘Zer famous Ankh-Morpork sense of humour. Vot a funny joke. Talk about laugh. Do not mind me.’

  Sacharissa was gasping for breath. William grabbed her as gently as he could, because this was the kind of laughter you died of. And now she was crying, great racking sobs that bubbled up through the laughs.

  ‘I wish I was dead!’ she sobbed.

  ‘You should try it some time,’ said Otto. ‘Mr Goodmountain, take me to my body, please? It is around here somevhere.’

  ‘Do you … should we … do you have to sew—’ Goodmountain tried.

  ‘No. Ve heal easily,’ said Otto. ‘Ah, zere it is. If you could just put me down by me, please? And turn round? Zis is a bit, you know, embarrassing? Like the making of zer vater?’ Still wincing in the after-effects of the dark light, the dwarfs obeyed.

  After a moment they heard: ‘Okay, you can look now.’

  Otto, all in one piece, was sitting up and dabbing at his neck with a handkerchief.

  ‘Got to be a stake in zer heart as vell,’ he said, as they stared. ‘Zo … vot vas all zat about, please? Zer dvarf said to make a distraction—’

  ‘We didn’t know you used dark light!’ snapped Goodmountain.

  ‘Excuse me? All I had ready vas the land eels and you said it looked urgent! Vot did you expect me to do? I’m reformed!’

  ‘That’s bad luck, that stuff!’ said a dwarf William had come to know as Dozy.

  ‘Oh yes? You zink? Vell, I’m zer von who is going to have to have his collar laundered!’ snapped Otto.

  William did his best to comfort Sacharissa, who was still trembling.

  ‘Who were they?’ she said.

  ‘I’m … not sure, but they certainly wanted Lord Vetinari’s dog …’

  ‘I’m sure that she wasn’t a proper virgin, you know!’

  ‘Sister Jennifer certainly looked very odd,’ was the most William was going to concede.

  Sacharissa snorted. ‘Oh, no, I was taught b
y worse than her at school,’ she said. ‘Sister Credenza could bite through a door … No, it was the language! I’m sure “ing” is a bad word. She certainly used it like one. I mean, you could tell it was a bad word. And that priest, he had a knife!’

  Behind them Otto was in trouble.

  ‘You use it to take pictures?’ said Goodmountain.

  ‘Vy, yes.’

  Several of the dwarfs slapped their thighs, half turned away and did the usual little pantomime that people do to indicate that they just can’t believe someone else could be so damn stupid.

  ‘You know it is dangerous!’ said Goodmountain.

  ‘Mere superstition!’ said Otto. ‘All zat possibly happens is that a subject’s own morphic signature aligns zer resons, or thing-particles, in phase-space according to zer Temporal Relevance Theory, creating zer effect of multiple directionless vindows vich intersect vith the illusion of zer present and create metaphoric images according to zer dictates of qvasi-historical extrapolation. You see? Nothing mysterious about it at all!’

  ‘It certainly frightened off those people,’ said William.

  ‘It was the axes that did that,’ said Goodmountain firmly.

  ‘No, it was the feeling that the top of your head has been opened and icicles have been pounded into your brain,’ said William.

  Goodmountain blinked. ‘Yeah, okay, that too,’ he said, mopping his forehead. ‘You’ve got a way with words, right enough …’

  A shadow appeared in the doorway. Goodmountain grabbed his axe.

  William groaned. It was Vimes. Worse, he was smiling, in a humourless predatory way.

  ‘Ah, Mr de Worde,’ he said, stepping inside. ‘There are several thousand dogs stampeding through the city at the moment. This is an interesting fact, isn’t it?’

  He leaned against the wall and produced a cigar. ‘Well, I say dogs,’ he said, striking a match on Goodmountain’s helmet. ‘Mostly dogs, perhaps I should say. Some cats. More cats now, in fact, ’cos, hah, there’s nothing like a, yes, a tidal wave of dogs, fighting and biting and howling, to sort of, how can I put it, give a city a certain … busyness. Especially underfoot, because – did I mention it? – they’re very nervous dogs too. Oh, and did I mention cattle?’ he went on, conversationally. ‘You know how it is, market day and so on, people are driving the cows and, my goodness, around the corner comes a wall of wailing dogs … Oh, and I forgot about the sheep. And the chickens, although I imagine there’s not much left of the chickens now …’