‘Yes, sir,’ said William, not at all sure he fully understood this but certain that he didn’t like the bit he did understand.
‘I believe the Guild of Engravers has some things it wishes to discuss with Mr Goodmountain, William, but I have always thought that we should go forward to the future.’
‘Yes, sir. Quite hard to go any other way.’
Once again, there was the too-long stare and then the sudden unfreezing of the face.
‘Indeed. Good day, Mr de Worde. Oh . . . and do tread carefully. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to become news . . . would you?’
~blk~
William turned over the Patrician’s words as he walked back to Gleam Street, and it is not wise to be thinking too deeply when walking the streets of Ankh-Morpork.
He walked past Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler with barely a nod, but in any case Mr Dibbler was otherwise engaged. He had two customers. Two at once, unless one was daring another, was a great rarity. But these two were worrying him. They were inspecting the merchandise.
C.M.O.T. Dibbler sold his buns and pies all around the city, even outside the Assassins’ Guild. He was a good judge of people, especially when it involved judging when to step innocently round a corner and then run like hell, and he had just decided that he was really unlucky to be standing here and also that it was too late.
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He didn’t often meet killers. Murderers, yes, but murderers usually had some strange reason and in any case generally murdered friends and relations. And he’d met plenty of assassins, but assassination had a certain style and even certain rules.
These men were killers. The big one with the powdery streaks down his jacket and the smell of mothballs was just a vicious thug, no problem there, but the small one with the lank hair had the smell of violent and spiteful death about him. You didn’t often look into the eyes of someone who’d kill because it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Moving his hands carefully, Dibbler opened the special section of his tray, the high-class one that contained sausages whose contents were 1) meat, 2) from a known four-footed creature, 3) probably land-dwelling.
‘Or may I recommend these, gentlemen,’ he said, and because old habits died hard he couldn’t stop himself from adding, ‘Finest pork.’
‘Good, are they?’
‘You’ll never want to eat another, sir.’
The other man said, ‘How about the other sort?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Hooves and pig snot and rats what fell in the –ing mincer.’
‘What Mr Tulip here means,’ said Mr Pin, ‘is a more organic sausage.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mr Tulip. I’m very –ing environmental like that.’
‘Are you sure? No, no, fine!’ Dibbler raised a hand. The manner of the two men had changed. They were clearly very sure of everything. ‘We-ell, you want a bad– a less good sausage, then . . . er?’
‘With –ing fingernails in it,’ said Mr Tulip.
‘Well, er . . . I do . . . I could . . .’ Dibbler gave up. He was a salesman. You sold what you sold. ‘Let me tell you about these sausages,’ he went on, smoothly shifting an internal motor into reverse. ‘When someone chopped off his thumb in the abattoir, they didn’t even stop the grinder. You prob’ly won’t find any rat in them ‘cos rats don’t go near the place. There’s animals in there that . . . well,
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you know how they say life began in some kind of big soup? Same with these sausages. If you want a bad sausage, you won’t get better than these.’
‘You keep ’em for your special customers, do .you?’ said Mr Pin.
‘To me, sir, every customer is special.’
‘And you got mustard?’
‘People call it mustard,’ Dibbler began, getting carried away, ‘but I call it–‘
‘I like –ing mustard,’ said Mr Tulip.
‘–really great mustard,’ said Dibbler, not missing a beat.
‘We’ll take two,’ said Mr Pin. He did not reach for his wallet.
‘On the house!’ said Dibbler. He stunned two sausages, enbunned them and thrust them forward. Mr Tulip took both of them, and the mustard pot.
‘Do you know what they called a sausage-in-a-bun in Quirm?’ said Mr Pin, as the two walked away.
‘No?’ said Mr Tulip.
They called it le sausage-in-le-bun,’
‘What, in a –ing foreign language? You’re –ing kidding!’
‘I’m not a –ing kidder, Mr Tulip.’
‘I mean, they ought to call it a . . . a . . . sausage dans lar derriere,’ said Mr Tulip. He took a bite of his Dibbler delight. ‘Hey, that’s what this –ing thing tastes of,’ he added, with his mouth full.
‘In a bun, Mr Tulip.’
‘I know what I meant. This is a –ing awful sausage.’
Dibbler watched them go. It wasn’t often you heard language like that in Ankh-Morpork. Most people talked without leaving gaps in their sentences, and he wondered what the word ‘ing’ meant.
~blk~
A crowd was gathered outside a large building in Welcome Soap, and the cart traffic was already backed up all the way to Broad Way. And, thought William, wherever a large crowd is gathered, someone ought to write down why.
The reason in this case was clear. A man was standing on the flat
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parapet just outside the fourth-storey window, back against the wall, staring downwards with a frozen expression.
Far below, the crowd were trying to be helpful. It was not in the robust Ankh-Morpork nature to dissuade anyone in this position. It was a free city, after all. So was the advice.
‘Much better to try the Thieves’ Guild!’ a man yelled. ‘Six floors, and then you’re on good solid cobbles! Crack your skull first go!’
‘There’s proper flagstones around the palace,’ advised the man next to him.
‘Well, certainly,’ said his immediate neighbour. ‘But the Patrician’ll kill him if he tries to jump from up there, am I right?’
‘Well?’
‘Well, it’s a question of style, isn’t it?’
‘Tower of Art’s good,’ said a woman confidently. ‘Nine hundred feet, almost. And you get a good view.’
‘Granted, granted. But you also get a long time to think about things. On the way down, I mean. Not a good time for introspection, in my view.’
‘Look, I’ve got a load of prawns on my wagon and if I’m held up any longer they’re gonna be walking home,’ moaned a carter. ‘Why doesn’t he just jump?’
‘He’s thinking about it. It’s a big step, after all.’
The man on the edge turned his head when he heard a shuffling noise. William was sidling along the ledge, trying hard not to look down.
‘ ‘Morning. Come to try and talk me out of it, ‘ave yer?’
‘I . . . I. . .’ William really tried not to look down. The ledge had looked a lot wider from below. He was regretting the whole thing. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. . .’
‘I’m always open to being talked out of it.’
‘Yes, yes . . . er . . . would you care to give me your name and address?’ said William. There was a hitherto unsuspected nasty breeze up here, gusting treacherously around the rooftops. It fluttered the pages of his notebook.
‘Why?’
‘Er . . . because from this height on to solid ground it’s often hard
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to find out that sort of thing afterwards,’ said William, trying not to breathe out too much. ‘And if I’m going to put this in the paper, it’d look much better if I say who you were.’
‘What paper?’
William pulled a copy of the Times out of his pocket. It rattled in the wind as he wordlessly handed it over.
The man sat down and read it, his lips moving, his legs dangling over the drop.
‘So this is, like, things that happen?’ he said. ‘Like a towncrier, but written down?’
That’s right. So, what was your name?’
‘What do you mean, was?’
‘Well, you know . . . obviously . . .’ said William wretchedly. He waved his hand towards the void, and almost lost his balance. ‘If you . . .’
‘Arthur Crank.’
‘And where did you live, Arthur?’
‘Prattle Alley.’
‘And what was your job?’
‘There you go with the was again. The Watch usually give me a cup of tea, you know.’
A warning bell went off in William’s head. ‘You . . . jump a lot, do you?’
‘Only the difficult bits.’
‘And they are?’
‘The climbing-up bits. I don’t do the actual jumping, obviously. That’s not a skilled job. I’m more into the “cry for help” aspect.’
William tried to grip sheer wall. ‘And the help you want is . . . ?’
‘Could you make it twenty dollars?’
‘Or you jump?’
‘Ah, well, not exactly jump, obviously. Not the whole jump. Not as per such. But I shall continue to threaten to jump, if you get my drift.’