‘Filled with rubbish of suspicious origin?’
‘Now, there’s no need for anyone to take that tone—’ Dibbler began, and then subsided under Sacharissa’s glare.
‘Yes, but rubbish that’s sort of attractive. You’d keep on eating it even though you wished you weren’t,’ said William. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Look, I didn’t want to do it,’ Dibbler protested.
‘Do what?’ said William.
‘Mr Dibbler’s been writing those stories for the Inquirer,’ said Sacharissa.
‘I mean, no one believes what they read in the paper, right?’ said Dibbler.
William pulled up a chair and sat straddling it, resting his arms on the back.
‘So, Mr Dibbler … when did you start pissing in the fountain of Truth?’
‘William!’ snapped Sacharissa.
‘Look, times haven’t been good, see?’ said Dibbler. ‘And I thought, this news business … well, people like to hear about stuff from a long way away, you know, like in the Almanacke—’
‘“Plague of Giant Weasels in Hersheba”?’ said William.
‘That’s the style. Well, I thought … it doesn’t sort of matter if they’re, you know, really true … I mean …’ William’s glassy grin was beginning to make Dibbler uncomfortable. ‘I mean … they’re nearly true, aren’t they? Everyone knows that sort of thing happens …’
‘You didn’t come to me,’ said William.
‘Well, of course not. Everyone knows you’re a bit … a bit unimaginative about that sort of thing.’
‘You mean I like to know that things have actually happened?’
‘That’s it, yes. Mr Carney says people won’t notice the difference anyway. He doesn’t like you very much, Mr de Worde.’
‘He’s got wandering hands,’ said Sacharissa. ‘You can’t trust a man like that.’
William pulled the latest copy of the Inquirer towards him and picked a story at random.
‘“Man Stolen by Demons”,’ he said. ‘This refers to Mr Ronnie “Trust Me” Begholder, known to owe Chrysoprase the troll more than two thousand dollars, last seen buying a very fast horse?’
‘Well?’
‘Where do the demons fit in?’
‘Well, he could’ve been stolen by demons,’ said Dibbler. ‘It could happen to anybody.’
‘What you mean, then, is that there is no evidence that he wasn’t stolen by demons?’
‘That way people can make up their own minds,’ said Dibbler. ‘That’s what Mr Carney says. People should be allowed to choose, he said.’
‘To choose what’s true?’
‘He doesn’t clean his teeth properly, either,’ said Sacharissa. ‘I mean, I’m not one of those people who think cleanliness is next to godliness, but there are limits.’14
Dibbler shook his head sadly. ‘I’m losin’ my touch,’ he said. ‘Imagine – me, working for someone? I must’ve been mad. It’s the cold weather getting to me, that’s what it is. Even … wages,’ he said the word with a shudder, ‘looked attractive. D’you know,’ he added, in a horrified voice, ‘he was telling me what to do? Next time I’ll have a quiet lie-down until the feeling goes away.’
‘You are an immoral opportunist, Mr Dibbler,’ said William.
‘It’s worked so far.’
‘Can you sell some advertising for us?’ said Sacharissa.
‘I’m not going to work for anyone ag—’
‘On commission,’ snapped Sacharissa.
‘What? You want to employ him?’ said William.
‘Why not? You can tell as many lies as you like if it’s advertising. That’s allowed,’ said Sacharissa. ‘Please? We need the money!’
‘Commission, eh?’ said Dibbler, rubbing his unshaven chin. ‘Like … fifty per cent for you two and fifty per cent for me, too?’
‘We’ll discuss it, shall we?’ said Goodmountain, patting him on the shoulder. Dibbler winced. When it came to hard bargaining, dwarfs were diamond-tipped.
‘Have I got a choice?’ he mumbled.
Goodmountain leaned forward. His beard was bristling. He wasn’t currently holding a weapon but Dibbler could see, as it were, the great big axe that wasn’t there.
‘Absolutely,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ said Dibbler. ‘So … what would I be selling, exactly?’
‘Space,’ said Sacharissa.
Dibbler beamed again. ‘Just space? Nothing? Oh, I can do that. I can sell nothing like anything!’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It’s only when I try to sell something that everything goes wrong.’
‘How did you come to be here, Mr Dibbler?’ William asked.
He was not happy with the answer.
‘That sort of thing could work both ways,’ he said. ‘You can’t just dig into other people’s property!’ He glared at the dwarfs. ‘Mr Boddony, I want that hole blocked up right now, understand?’
‘We only—’
‘Yes, yes, you did it for the best. And now I want it bricked up, properly. I want the hole to look as though it has never been there, thank you. I don’t want anyone coming up the cellar ladder that didn’t climb down it. Right now, please!’
‘I think I’m on to a real story,’ said William, as the disgruntled dwarfs filed away. ‘I think I’m going to see Wuffles. I’ve got—’
As he pulled out his notebook something dropped on to the floor with a tinkle.
‘Oh, yes … and I got the key to our town house,’ he said. ‘You wanted a dress …’
‘It’s a bit late,’ said Sacharissa. ‘I’d forgotten all about it, to tell the truth.’
‘Why not go and have a look while everyone else is busy? You could take Rocky, too. You know … to be on the safe side. But the place is empty. My father stays at his club if he has to come to town. Go on. There’s got to be more to life than correcting copy.’
Sacharissa looked uncertainly at the key in her hand.
‘My sister has quite a lot of dresses,’ said William. ‘You want to go to the ball, don’t you?’
‘I suppose Mrs Hotbed could alter it for me if I take it to her in the morning,’ said Sacharissa, expressing mildly peeved reluctance while her body language begged to be persuaded.
‘That’s right,’ said William. ‘And I’m sure you can find someone to do your hair properly.’
Sacharissa’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s true, you know, you have got an amazing way with words,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going,’ said William, ‘to see a dog about a man.’
Sergeant Angua peered up at Vimes through the steam from the bowl in front of her.
‘Sorry about this, sir,’ she said.
‘His feet won’t touch the ground,’ said Vimes.
‘You can’t arrest him, sir,’ said Captain Carrot, putting a fresh towel over Angua’s head.
‘Oh? Can’t arrest him for assaulting an officer, eh?’
‘Well, that’s where it gets tricky, doesn’t it, sir?’ said Angua.
‘You’re an officer, Sergeant, whatever shape you happen to be currently in!’
‘Yes, but … it’s always been a bit convenient to let the werewolf thing stay a rumour, sir,’ said Carrot. ‘Don’t you think so? Mr de Worde writes things down. Angua and I aren’t particularly keen on that. Those who need to know, know.’
‘Then I’ll ban him from doing it!’
‘How, sir?’
Vimes looked a little deflated. ‘You can’t tell me that as Commander of Police I can’t stop some little ti— some idiot from writing down anything he likes?’
‘Oh, no, sir. Of course you can. But I’m not sure you can stop him writing down that you stopped him writing things down,’ said Carrot.
‘I’m amazed. Amazed! She’s your … your—’
‘Friend,’ said Angua, taking another deep sniff of the steam. ‘But Carrot’s right, Mister Vimes. I don’t want this going any further. It was my fault for underestimating him. I walked right i
nto it. I’ll be fine in an hour or two.’
‘I saw what you were like when you came in,’ said Vimes. ‘You were a mess.’
‘It was a shock. The nose just shuts down. It was like walking around a corner and running into Foul Ole Ron.’
‘Ye gods! That bad?’
‘Maybe not quite as bad as that. Let it lie, sir. Please.’
‘He’s a quick learner, our Mr de Worde,’ said Vimes, sitting down at his desk. ‘He’s got a pen and a printing press and everyone acts like he’s suddenly a major player. Well, he’s going to have to learn a bit more. He doesn’t want us watching? Well, we won’t, any more. He can reap what he sows for a while. We’ve got more than enough other things to do, heavens know.’
‘But he is technically—’
‘See this sign on my desk, Captain? See it, Sergeant? It says “Commander Vimes”. That means the buck starts here. It was a command you just got. Now, what else is new?’
Carrot nodded. ‘Nothing good, sir. No one’s found the dog. The Guilds are all battening down. Mr Scrope has been getting a lot of visitors. Oh, and High Priest Ridcully is telling everyone that he thinks Lord Vetinari went mad because the day before he’d been telling him about a plan to make lobsters fly through the air.’
‘Lobsters flying through the air,’ said Vimes flatly.
‘And something about sending ships by semaphore, sir.’
‘Oh, dear. And what is Mr Scrope saying?’
‘Apparently he says he’s looking forward to a new era in our history and will put Ankh-Morpork back on the path of responsible citizenship, sir.’
‘Is that the same as the lobsters?’
‘It’s political, sir. Apparently he wants a return to the values and traditions that made the city great, sir.’
‘Does he know what those values and traditions were?’ said Vimes, aghast.
‘I assume so, sir,’ said Carrot, keeping a straight face.
‘Oh my gods. I’d rather take a chance on the lobsters.’
It was sleeting again, out of a darkening sky. The Misbegot Bridge was more or less empty; William lurked in the shadows, his hat pulled down over his eyes.
Eventually a voice out of nowhere said, ‘So … you got your bit of paper?’
‘Deep Bone?’ said William, startled out of the reverie.
‘I’m sending a … a guide for you to follow,’ said the hidden informant. ‘Name of … name of … Trixiebell. Just you follow him and everything will be okay. Ready?’
‘Yes.’
Deep Bone is watching me, William thought. He must be really close.
Trixiebell trotted out of the shadows.
It was a poodle. More or less.
The staff at Le Poil du Chien, the doggie beauty salon, had done their very best, and a craftsman will give of his or her all if it means getting Foul Ole Ron out of the shop any faster. They’d cut, blown, permed, crimped, primped, coloured, woven, shampooed, and the manicurist had locked herself in the lavatory and refused to come out.
The result was … pink. The pinkness was only one aspect of the thing, but it was so … pink that it dominated everything else, even the topiary-effect tail with the fluffy knob on the end. The front of the dog looked as though it had been fired through a large pink ball and had only got halfway. Then there was also the matter of the large glittery collar. It glittered altogether too much; sometimes glass glitters more than diamonds because it has more to prove.
All in all, the effect was not of a poodle but of malformed poodleosity. That is to say, everything about it suggested ‘poodle’ except for the whole thing itself, which suggested walking away.
‘Yip,’ it said, and there was something wrong with this, too. William was aware that dogs like this yipped, but this one, he was sure, had said ‘yip’.
‘There’s a good …’ he began, and finished ‘… dog?’
‘Yip yipyip sheesh yip,’ said the dog, and walked off.
William wondered about the ‘sheesh’, but decided the dog must have sneezed.
It trotted away through the slush and disappeared down an alley.
A moment later its muzzle appeared around the corner.
‘Yip? Whine?’
‘Oh, yes. Sorry,’ said William.
Trixiebell led the way down greasy steps to the old path that ran along the riverside. It was littered with rubbish, and anything that stays thrown away in Ankh-Morpork is real rubbish. The sun seldom got down here, even on a fine day. The shadows contrived to be freezing and running with water at the same time.
Nevertheless, there was a fire among the dark timbers under the bridge. William realized, as his nostrils shut down, that he was visiting the Canting Crew.
The old towpath had been deserted to start with, but Foul Ole Ron and the rest of them were the reason that it stayed that way. They had nothing to steal. They had precious little even to keep. Occasionally the Beggars’ Guild considered running them out of town, but without much enthusiasm. Even beggars need someone to look down on, and the crew were so far down that in a certain light they sometimes appeared to be on top. Besides, the Guild recognized craftsmanship when they saw it; no one could spit and ooze like Coffin Henry, no one could be as legless as Arnold Sideways and nothing in the world could smell like Foul Ole Ron. He could have used oil of scallatine as a deodorant.
And, as that thought tripped through William’s brain, he knew where Wuffles was.
Trixiebell’s ridiculous pink tail disappeared into the mass of old packing cases and cardboard known variously to the crew as ‘What?’, ‘Bugrit!’, ‘Ptooi!’ and Home.
William’s eyes were already watering. There wasn’t much breeze down here. He made his way to the pool of firelight.
‘Oh … good evening, gentlemen,’ he managed, nodding to the figures around the green-edged flames.
‘Let’s see the colour of your bit of paper,’ commanded the voice of Deep Bone, from out of the shadows.
‘It’s, er, off-white,’ said William, unfolding the cheque. It was taken by the Duck Man, who scanned it carefully and added noticeably to its off-whiteness.
‘It seems to be in order. Fifty dollars, signed,’ he said. ‘I have explained the concept to my associates, Mr de Worde. It was not easy, I have to tell you.’
‘Yeah, and if you don’t put up we’ll come to your house!’ said Coffin Henry.
‘Er … and do what?’ said William.
‘Stand outside for ever and ever and ever!’ said Arnold Sideways.
‘Lookin’ at people in a funny way,’ said the Duck Man.
‘Gobbin’ on their boots!’ said Coffin Henry.
William tried not to think about Mrs Arcanum. He said: ‘Now can I see the dog?’
‘Show him, Ron,’ commanded the voice of Deep Bone.
Ron’s heavy coat fell open, revealing Wuffles blinking in the firelight.
‘You had him?’ said William. ‘That was all there was to it?’
‘Bugrit!’
‘Who’s going to search Foul Ole Ron?’ said Deep Bone.
‘Good point,’ said William. ‘Very good point. Or smell him out.’
‘Now, you got to remember he’s old,’ said Deep Bone. ‘An’ he wasn’t exactly Mr Brain to start with. I mean, we’re talkin’ dogs here – not talking dogs,’ said the voice hurriedly, ‘but talking about dogs, I mean – so don’t expect a philosophical treatise, is what I’m sayin’.’
Wuffles begged geriatrically when he saw William looking at him.
‘How did he come to be with you?’ said William as Wuffles sniffed his hand.
‘He came running out of the palace straight under Ron’s coat,’ said Deep Bone.
‘Which is, as you point out, the last place anyone would look,’ said William.
‘You’d better believe it.’
‘And not even a werewolf would find him there.’ William took out his notebook, turned to a fresh page, and wrote: ‘Wuffles.’ He said, ‘How old is he?’
Wuffles barked.
‘Sixteen,’ said Deep Bone. ‘Is that important?’
‘It’s a newspaper thing,’ said William. He wrote: ‘Wuffles (16), formerly of The Palace, Ankh-Morpork.’
I’m interviewing a dog, he thought. Man Interviews Dog. That’s nearly news.
‘So … er, Wuffles, what happened before you ran out of the palace?’ he said.
Deep Bone, from his hiding place, whined and growled. Wuffles cocked an ear and then growled back.
‘He woke up and experienced a moment of horrible philosophical uncertainty,’ said Deep Bone.
‘I thought you said—’
‘I’m translatin’, right? And this was on account of there being two Gods in the room. That’s two Lord Vetinaris, Wuffles being an old-fashioned kind of dog. But he knew one was wrong because he smelled wrong. And there were two other men. And then—’
William scribbled furiously.
Twenty seconds later Wuffles bit him hard on the ankle.
The clerk in Mr Slant’s front office looked down from his high desk at the two visitors, sniffed and carried on with his laborious copperplate. He did not have a lot of time for the notion of customer service. The Law could not be hurried—
A moment later his head was rammed into the desktop and held down by some enormous weight.
Mr Pin’s face appeared in his limited vision.
‘I said,’ said Mr Pin, ‘that Mr Slant wants to see us …’
‘Sngh,’ said the clerk. Mr Pin nodded and the pressure was relieved slightly.
‘Sorry? You were saying?’ said Mr Pin, watching the man’s hand creep along the edge of the desk.
‘He’s … not … seeing … anyone …’ The words ended in a muffled yelp.
Mr Pin leaned down. ‘Sorry about the fingers,’ he said, ‘but we can’t have them naughty little things creeping to that little lever there, can we? No telling what might happen if you pulled that lever. Now … which one’s Mr Slant’s office?’
‘Second … door … on … left …’ the man groaned.
‘See? It’s so much nicer when we’re polite. And in a week, two at the outside, you’ll be able to pick up a pen again.’ Mr Pin nodded to Mr Tulip, who let the man go. He slithered to the floor.
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