‘You can’t put that in your newspaper!’ barked Slant. ‘Set that directly, please, Mr Goodmountain.’ ‘Setting it already,’ said the dwarf, the leaden slugs clicking into place. Out of the corner of his eye William saw Otto emerging from the cellar and looking puzzled at the noise.
‘ “Mr Slant went on to say . . .?”‘ said William, glaring at the lawyer. ‘You will find it very hard to print that,’ said Mr Carney, ignoring the lawyer’s frantic hand signals, ‘with no damn press!’
‘”. . . was the view of Mr Carney of the Guild of Engravers,”
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spelled with an e before the y,’ said William, ‘”who earlier today tried to put the Times out of business by means of an illegal document.’ William realized that although his mouth felt full of acid he was enjoying this immensely. ‘ “Asked for his opinion of this flagrant abuse of the city laws, Mr Slant said . . .”?’
‘STOP TAKING DOWN EVERYTHING WE SAY!’ yelled Slant.
‘Full caps for the whole sentence, please, Mr Goodmountain.’
The trolls and the dwarfs were staring at William and the lawyer. They understood that a fight was going on, but they couldn’t see any blood.
‘And when you’re ready, Otto?’ said William, turning round.
‘If the dvarfs vould just close up a bit more,’ said Otto, squinting into the iconograph. ‘Oh, zat’sgood, let’s see the light gleam on zose big choppers . . . trolls, please vave your fists, zat’s right . . . big smile, everyvun
It is amazing how people will obey a man pointing a lens at them. They’ll come to their senses in a fraction of a second, but that’s all he needs.
Click.
WHOOMPH.
‘. . . aaarghaaarghaaarghaaaaaagh
William reached the falling iconograph just ahead of Mr Slant, who could move very fast for a man with no apparent knees.
‘It’s ours,’ he said, holding it firmly, while the dust of Otto Chriek settled around them.
‘What are you intending to do with this picture?’
‘I don’t have to tell you. This is our workshop. We didn’t ask you to come here.’
‘But I am here on legal business!’
‘Then it can’t be wrong to take a picture of you, can it?’ said William. ‘But if you think differently, then I will of course be happy to quote you!’
Slant glared at him and then marched back to the group by the door. William heard him say, ‘It is my considered legal opinion that we leave at this juncture.’
‘But you said you could–‘ Carney began, glaring at William.
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‘My very considered opinion,’ said Mr Slant again, ‘is that we go right now, in silence.’
‘But you said–‘
‘In silence, I suggest!’
They left.
There was a group sigh of relief from the dwarfs, and a replacement of axes.
‘You want me to set this properly?’ said Goodmountain.
‘There’ll be trouble over it,’ said Sacharissa.
‘Yes, but how much trouble are we in already?’ said William. ‘On a scale of one to ten?’
‘At the moment . . . about eight,’ said Sacharissa. ‘But when the next edition is on the streets . . .’ she shut her eyes a moment and her lips moved in calculation ‘. . . about two thousand, three hundred and seventeen?’
‘Then we’ll put it in,’ said William.
Goodmountain turned to his workers. ‘Leave the axes where you can see ’em, boys,’ he said.
‘Look, I don’t want anyone else to get into trouble,’ said William. ‘I’ll even set the rest of the type myself, and I can run some copies off on the press.’
‘Needs three to operate and you won’t get much speed,’ said Goodmountain. He saw William’s expression, grinned and slapped him as high up the back as a dwarf could manage. ‘Don’t worry, lad. We want to protect our investment.’
‘And I’m not leaving,’ said Sacharissa. ‘I need that dollar!’
‘Two dollars,’ said William absently. ‘It’s time for a rise. What about you, Ott– Oh, can someone sweep up Otto, please?’
A few minutes later the restored vampire pulled himself upright against his tripod and lifted out a copper plate with trembling fingers.
‘Vot is happenink next, please?’
‘Are you staying with us? It could be dangerous,’ said William, realizing that he was saying this to a vampire iconographer who undied every time he took a picture.
‘Vot kind of danger?’ said Otto, tilting the plate this way and that in order to examine it better. ‘Well, legal, to start with.’
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‘Has anyvun mentioned garlic zo far?’
‘No.’
‘Can I have vun hundred and eighty dollars for the Akina TR-10 dual-imp iconograph viz the telescopic seat and big shiny lever?’
‘Er . . . not yet,’
‘Okay,’ said Otto philosophically. ‘Zen I shall require five dollars for repairs and improvements. I can see zis is a different kind of job.’
‘All right. All right, then,’ William looked around the press room. Everyone was silent, and everyone was watching him.
A few days ago he’d have expected today to be . . . well, dull. It usually was, just after he’d sent out his news letter. He generally spent the time wandering around the city or reading in his tiny office while waiting for the next client with a letter to be written or, sometimes, read out.
Often both kinds were difficult. People prepared to trust a postal system that largely depended on handing an envelope to some trustworthy-looking person who was heading in the right direction generally had something important to say. But the point was that they weren’t his difficulties. It wasn’t him making a last-minute plea to the Patrician, or hearing the terrible news about the collapse of shaft #3, although of course he did his best to make things easier for the customer. It had worked very well. If stress were food, he’d succeeded in turning his life into porridge.
The press waited. It looked, now, like a great big beast. Soon he’d throw a lot of words into it. And in a few hours it would be hungry again, as if those words had never happened. You could feed it, but you could never fill it up.
He shuddered. What had he got them all into?
But he felt on fire. There was a truth somewhere, and he hadn’t found it yet. He was going to, because he knew, he knew that once this edition hit the streets–
‘Bugrit!’
‘Hawrrak . . . pwit!’
‘Quack!’
He glanced at the crowd coming in. Of course, the truth hid in some unlikely places and had some strange handmaidens.
‘Let’s go to press,’ he said.
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It was an hour later. The sellers were already coming back for more. The rumbling of the press made the tin roof shake. The piles of copper mounting up in front of Goodmountain leapt into the air at every thump.
William examined his reflection in a piece of polished brass. Somehow he’d got ink all over himself. He did the best he could with his handkerchief.
He’d sent Altogether Andrews to sell the papers near Pseudopolis Yard, reckoning him to be the most consistently sane of the fraternity. At least five of his personalities could hold a coherent conversation.
By now, surely, the Watch would have had time to read the story, even if they’d had to send out for help with the longer words.
He. was aware of someone staring at him. He turned and saw Sacharissa’s head bend down over her work again. Someone sniggered, behind him.
There was no one there who was paying him any attention. There was a three-way argument over a matter of sixpence going on between Goodmountain, Foul Ole Ron and Foul Ole Ron, Ron being capable of keeping a pretty good row going all by himself. The dwarfs were hard at work around the press. Otto had retired to his darkroom, where he was once again mysteriously also hard at work.
Only Ron’s dog was watching William. He considered that it had, for a dog, a very offensive and knowing look.
A couple of months ago someone had tried to hand William the old story about there being a dog in the city that could talk. It was the third time this year. William had explained that it was an urban myth. It was always a friend of a friend who had heard it talk, and it was never anyone who had seen the dog. The dog in front of William didn’t look as if it could talk, but it did look as if it could swear.
There seemed to be no stopping that kind of story. People swore that there was some long-lost heir to the throne of Ankh living incognito in the town. William certainly recognized wishful
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thinking when he heard it. There was the other old chestnut about a werewolf being employed in the Watch, too. Until recently he’d dismissed that one, but he was having some doubts lately. After all, the Times employed a vampire . . .