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‘That must have been worth seeing.’
‘So if you could keep your paper going . . .’ said the dwarf.
‘I don’t want all this money!’ William wailed. ‘Money causes problems!’
‘We could sell the Times cheaper,’ said Sacharissa, giving him an odd look.
‘We’d only make more money,’ said William gloomily.
‘We could . . . we could pay the street vendors more,’ said Sacharissa.
‘Tricky,’ said Goodmountain. ‘A body can only take so much turpentine.’
‘Then we could at least make sure they get a good breakfast,’ said Sacharissa. ‘A big stew with named meat, perhaps.’
‘But I’m not even sure there is enough news to fill a–‘ William began, and stopped. That wasn’t the way it worked, was it? If it was in the paper, it was news. If it was news it went in the paper, and if it was in the paper it was news. And it was the truth.
He remembered the breakfast table. They’ wouldn’t let ‘them’ put it in the paper if it wasn’t true, would they?
William wasn’t a very political person. But he found himself using unfamiliar mental muscles when he thought about ‘they’. Some of them had to do with memory.
‘We could employ more people to help us get the news,’ said Sacharissa. ‘And what about news from other places? Pseudopolis and Quirm? We just have to talk to passengers getting off the coaches–‘
‘Dwarfs would like to hear what’s been happening in Uberwald and Copperhead,’ said Goodmountain, stroking his beard.
‘It takes nearly a week for a coach to get there from here!’ said William.
‘So? It’s still news.’
‘I suppose we couldn’t use the clacks, could we?’ said Sacharissa.
‘The semaphore towers? Are you mad?’ said William. ‘That’s really expensive!’
‘Well? You were the one who was worried we had too much money!’
There was a flash of light. William spun around.
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A . . . . thing occupied the doorway. There was a tripod. There was a pair of skinny, black-clad legs behind it and a large black box on top of it. One black-clad arm extended out from behind the box and was holding a sort of small hod, which was smoking.
‘Nice vun,’ said a voice from behind the box. The light vas shinink so good off the dvarf’s helmet, I could not resist it. You vanted an iconographer? My name is Otto Chriek.’
‘Oh. Yes?’ said Sacharissa. ‘Are you any good?’
‘I am a vizard in zer darkroom. I am experimenting all the time,’ said Otto Chriek. ‘And I have all my own eqvipment and also a keen and positive attitude!’
‘Sacharissa!’ hissed William urgently.
‘We could probably start you at a dollar a day–‘
‘Sacharissa!’
‘Yes? What?’
‘He’s a vampire!’
‘I object most stronkly,’ said the hidden Otto. ‘It iss such an easy assumption to believe that everyvun with an Uberwald accent is a vampire, is it not? There are many thousands of people from Uberwald who are not vampires!’
William waved his hand aimlessly, trying to shrug off the embarrassment. ‘All right, I’m sorry, but–‘
‘I am a vampire, as it happens,’ Otto went on. ‘But if I had said “Hello my cheeky cock sparrow mate old boy by crikey” vot vould you have said zen, eh?’
‘We’d have been completely taken in,’ said William.
‘Anyvay, your notice did say “vanted”, so I thought it vas, you know, affirmative action,’ said Otto. ‘Alzo, I have zis . . .’ A thin, blue-veined hand was held up, gripping a small twist of shiny black ribbon.
‘Oh? You’ve signed the pledge?’ said Sacharissa.
‘At the Meeting Rooms in Abattoirs Lane,’ said Otto triumphantly, ‘vhere I attend every veek for our big singsong and tea and a bun and wholesome conversation on themes of positive reinforcement keeping off the whole subject of bodily fluids by strict instruction. I am not any longer any stupid sucker!’
‘What do you think, Mr Goodmountain?’ said William.
Goodmountain scratched his nose. ‘It’s up to you,’ he said. ‘If he
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tries anything with my lads he’ll be looking for his legs. What’s this pledge?’
‘It’s the Uberwald Temperance Movement,’ said Sacharissa. ‘A vampire signs up and forswears any human blood–‘
Otto shuddered. ‘Ve prefer “zer b-vord”,’ he said.
‘The b-word,’ Sacharissa corrected herself. The movement is becoming very popular. They know it’s the only chance they’ve got.’
‘Well . . . okay,’ said William. He was uneasy about vampires himself, but turning the newcomer down after all this would be like kicking a puppy. ‘Do you mind setting up your stuff in the cellar?’
‘A cellar?’ said Otto. Top hole!’
First the dwarfs had come, William thought as he went back to his desk. They’d been insulted because of their diligence and because of their height, but they had kept their heads down* and prospered. Then the trolls had come, and they got on a little better, because people don’t throw as many stones at creatures seven feet tall who could throw rocks back. Then the zombies had come out of.the casket. One or two werewolves had crept in under the door. The gnomes had integrated quickly, despite a bad start, because they were tough and even more dangerous to cross than a troll; at least a troll couldn’t run up your trouser leg. There weren’t that many species left.
The vampires had never made it. They weren’t sociable, even amongst themselves, they didn’t think as a species, they were unpleasantly weird and they sure as hell didn’t have their own food shops.
So now it was dawning on some of the brighter ones that the only way people would accept vampires was if they stopped being vampires. That was a large price to pay for social acceptability, but perhaps not so large as the one that involved having your head cut off and your ashes scattered on the river. A life of steak tartare wasn’t too bad if you compared it with a death of stake au naturelle.+
~blk~~foot~
* Which was not hard, as unkind people pointed out. .
t In any case, anyone eating raw steak from an Ankh-Morpork slaughterhouse was embarking on a life of danger and excitement that should satisfy anyone.
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‘Er, I think we’d like to see who we’re employing, though,’ William said aloud.
Otto emerged, very slowly and nervously, from behind the lens. He was thin, pale and wore little oval dark glasses. He still clutched the twist of black ribbon as if it was a talisman, which it more or less was.
‘It’s all right, we won’t bite you,’ said Sacharissa.
‘And one good turn deserves another, eh?’ said Goodmountain.
‘That was a bit tasteless, Mr Goodmountain,’ said Sacharissa.
‘So am I,’ said the dwarf, turning back to the stone. ‘Just so long as people know where I stand, that’s all,’
‘You vill not be sorry,’ said Otto. ‘I am completely reformed, I assure you. Vot is it you vant me to take pictures of, please?’
‘News,’ said William.
‘Vot is news, please?’
‘News is . . .’ William began. ‘News . . . is what we put in the paper–‘
‘What d’you think of this, eh?’ said a cheerful voice.
William turned. There was a horribly familiar face looking at him over the top of a cardboard box.
‘Hello, Mr Wintler,’ he said. ‘Er, Sacharissa, I wonder if you could go and–‘
He wasn’t quick enough. Mr Wintler, a man of the variety that thinks a whoopee cushion is the last word in repartee, was not the kind to let a mere freezing reception stand in his way. ‘I was digging my garden this morning and up came this parsnip, and I thought: that young man at the paper will laugh himself silly when he sees it, ‘cos my lady wife couldn’t keep a straight face, and–‘
To William’s horror he was already reaching into the box. ‘Mr Wintler, I really don’t think–‘
But the hand was already rising, and there was the sound of something scraping on the side of the box. ‘I bet the young lady here would like a good chuckle too, eh?’
William shut his eyes.
He heard Sacharissa gasp. Then she said, ‘Golly, it’s amazingly lifelike!’
William opened his eyes. ‘Oh, it’s a nose,’ he said. ‘A parsnip with a sort of knobbly face and a huge noseV
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‘You vant I should take a picture?’ said Otto.
‘Yes!’ said William, drunk with relief. ‘Take a big picture of Mr Wintler and his wonderfully nasal parsnip, Otto! Your first job! Yes, indeed!’
Mr Wintler beamed. ‘And shall I run back home and fetch my carrot?’ he said.
‘No!’ said William and Goodmountain in whiplash unison.
‘You vant the picture right now?’ said Otto.
‘We certainly do!’ said William. The sooner we can let him go home, the sooner our Mr Wintler can find another wonderfully humorous vegetable, eh, Mr Wintler? What will it be next time? A bean with ears? A beetroot shaped like a potato? A sprout with an enormous hairy tongue?’