The Truth

'I'm sure we understand one another. And now... this meeting of the Committee to Unelect the Patrician is declared closed. And hasn't happened.'

~blk~

Lord Vetinari by habit rose so early that bedtime was merely an excuse to change his clothes.

He liked the time just before a winter's dawn. It was generally foggy, which made it hard to see the city, and for a few hours there was no sound but the occasional brief scream.

But the tranquillity was broken this morning by a cry just outside the palace gates.

'Hoinarylup!'

He went to the window.

'Squidaped-oyt!'

The Patrician walked back to his desk and rang the bell for his clerk Drumknott, who was despatched to the walls to investigate.

'It is the beggar known as Foul Ole Ron, sir,' Drumknott reported five minutes later. 'Selling this... paper full of things.' He held it between two fingers as though expecting it to explode.

Lord Vetinari took it and read through it. Then he read through it again.

'Well, well,' he said.' "The Ankh-Morpork Times". Was anyone else buying this?'

'A number of people, my lord. People coming off the night shifts, market people and so on.'

68

'I see no mention of Hoinarylup or Squidaped-oyt.'

'No, my lord.'

'How very strange.' Lord Vetinari read for a moment and said, 'Hm-,'mz. Clear my appointments this morning, will you? I will see the Guild of Towncriers at nine o'clock and the Guild of Engravers at ten past.'

'I wasn't aware they had appointments, sir.'

'They will have,' said Lord Vetinari. 'When they see this, they will have. Well, well... I see fifty-six people were hurt in a tavern brawl.'

'That seems rather a lot, my lord.'

'It must be true, Drumknott,' said the Patrician. 'It's in the paper. Oh, and send a message to that nice Mr de Worde, too. I will see him at nine thirty.'

He ran his eye down the grey type again. 'And please also put out the word that I wish to see no harm coming to Mr de Worde, will you?'

Drumknott, usually so adept in his understanding of his master's requirements, hesitated a moment.

'My lord, do you mean that you want no harm to come to Mr de Worde, or that you want no harm to come to Mr de Worde?'

'Did you wink at me, Drumknott?'

'No, sir!'

'Drumknott, I believe it is the right of every citizen of Ankh-Morpork to walk the streets unmolested.'

'Good gods, sir! Is it?'

'Indeed.'

'But I thought you were very much against movable type, sir. You said that it would make printing too cheap, and people would--'

'Sheearna-plp!' shouted the newspaper seller, down by the gates.

'Are you poised for the exciting new millennium that lies before us, Drumknott? Are you ready to grasp the future with a willing hand?'

'I don't know, my lord. Is special clothing required?'

~blk~

The other lodgers were already at the breakfast table when William hurried down. He was hurrying because Mrs Arcanum had Views about people who were late for meals.

69

Mrs Arcanum, proprietress of Mrs Eucrasia Arcanum's Lodging House for Respectable Working Men, was what Sacharissa was unconsciously training to be. She wasn't just respectable, she was Respectable; it was a lifestyle, religion and hobby combined. She liked respectable people who were Clean and Decent; she used the phrase as if it was impossible to be one without being the other. She kept respectable beds and cooked cheap but respectable meals for her respectable lodgers, who apart from William were mostly middle-aged, unmarried and extremely sober. They were mainly craftsmen in small trades, and were almost all heavily built, well-scrubbed, owned serious boots and were clumsily polite at the dining table.

Oddly enough - or, at least, oddly enough to William's expectations of people like Mrs Arcanum - she wasn't averse to dwarfs and trolls. At least, the clean and decent ones. Mrs Arcanum rated Decency above species.

'It says here fifty-six people were hurt in a brawl,' said Mr Mackleduff, who by dint of being the longest-surviving lodger acted as a kind of president at mealtimes. He had bought a copy of the Times on his way home from the bakery, where he was night-shift foreman.

'Fancy,' said Mrs Arcanum.

'I think it must have been five or six,' said William.

'Says fifty-six here,' said Mr Mackleduff sternly. 'In black and white.'

'It must be right,' said Mrs Arcanum, to general agreement, 'otherwise they wouldn't let them put it in.'

'I wonder who's doing it?' said Mr Prone, who travelled in wholesale boots and shoes.

'Oh, they'd be special people for doing this,' said Mr Mackleduff.

'Really?' said William.

'Oh, yes,' said Mr Mackleduff, who was one of those large men who were instantly expert on anything. They wouldn't allow just anyone to write what they like. That stands to reason.'

So it was in a thoughtful mood that William made his way to the shed behind the Bucket.

70

Goodmountain looked up from the stone where he was carefully setting the type for a playbill.

'There's a spot of cash for you over there,' he said, nodding to a bench.

It was mostly in coppers. It was almost thirty dollars.