‘Good point. Although it does seem such a waste. The things one could do with Charlie . . .’
‘I told you, it would not work. The man is a clown.’
‘I suppose you are right. Better something once-and-for-all, then.’
‘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.’
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‘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.
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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.
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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.
William stared at it. This can’t be right,’ he whispered.
‘Mr Ron and his friends kept coming back for more,’ said Goodmountain.
‘But . . . but it was only usual stuff,’ said William. ‘It wasn’t even anything very important. Just . . . stuff that happened.’
‘Ah, well, people like to know about stuff that happened,’ said the dwarf. ‘And I reckon we can sell three times as many tomorrow if we halve the price.’
‘Halve the price?’
‘People like to be in the know. Just a thought.’ The dwarf grinned again. There’s a young lady in the back room.’
In the days when this place had been a laundry, back in the pre-rocking-horse age, one area had been partitioned off with some cheap panelling to waist height, to segregate the clerks and the person whose job it was to explain to customers where their socks had gone. Sacharissa was sitting primly on a stool, clutching her handbag to her with her elbows close to her sides in order to expose herself to as little of the grime as possible.
She gave him a nod.
Now, why had he asked her to come along? Oh, yes . . . she was sensible, more or less, and did her grandfather’s books and, frankly, William didn’t meet many literate people. He met the sort to whom a pen was a piece of difficult machinery. If she knew what an apostrophe was, he could put up with the fact that she acted as if she was living in a previous century.
‘Is this your office now?’ she whispered.
‘I suppose so.’
‘You didn’t tell me about the dwarfs!’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Oh, no. Dwarfs are very law-abiding and respectable, in my experience.’
William now realized that he was talking to a girl who had
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never been in certain streets when the bars were closing.
‘I’ve already got two good items for you,’ Sacharissa went on, as if imparting state secrets.
‘Er . . . yes?’
‘My grandfather says this is the longest, coldest winter he can remember.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, he’s eighty. That’s a long time.’
‘Oh.’
‘And the meeting of the Dolly Sisters’ Baking and Flower Circle Annual Competition had to be abandoned last night because the cake table got knocked over. I found out all about it from the secretary, and I’ve written it all down neatly.’
‘Oh? Um. Is that really interesting, do you think?’
She handed him a page torn from a cheap exercise book.
He read: ‘ “The Dolly Sisters’ Baking and Flower Circle Annual Competition was held in the Reading Room in Lobbin Clout Street, Dolly Sisters. Mrs H. Rivers was the President. She welcomed all members and commented on the Sumptuous Offerings. Prizes were awarded as follows
William ran his eye down the meticulous list of names and awards.
‘ “Specimen in Jar”?’ he queried.
‘That was the competition for dahlias,’ said Sacharissa.
William carefully inserted the word ‘dahlia’ after the word ‘specimen’, and read on.
‘ “A fine display of Loose Stool Covers”?’
‘Well?’
‘Oh . . . nothing.’ William carefully changed this to ‘Loose Covers for stools’, which was barely an improvement, and continued to read with the air of a jungle explorer who might expect any kind of exotic beast to spring out of the peaceful undergrowth. The story concluded:
‘ “However, everyone’s Spirits were Dampened when a naked man, hotly pursued by Members of the Watch, burst through the Window and ran around the Room, causing much Disarray of the Tarts before being Apprehended by the Trifles. The meeting