Olds, thought William, forensically dissecting a sultana. His lordship was right. Not news but olds, telling people that what they think they already know is true . . .
The Patrician, it was agreed, was a shifty one. The meeting concurred that they were all alike, the lot of them. Mr Windling said the city was in a mess and there ought to be some changes. Mr Longshaft said that he couldn’t speak for the city, but from what he had heard the gemstone business had been very brisk of late. Mr Windling said that it was all right for some. Mr Prone put forth the opinion that the Watch could not find their bottom with both hands, a turn of phrase that almost earned him a place at the kitchen table to finish his meal. It was agreed that Vetinari had done it all right and should be put away. The main course adjourned at 8.45 p.m., and was followed by disintegrating plums in runny custard, Mr Prone getting slightly fewer plums as an unspoken reprimand.
William went up to his room early. He had adapted to Mrs Arcanum’s cuisine, but nothing except radical surgery would make him like her coffee.
He lay down on the narrow bed in the dark (Mrs Arcanum supplied one candle weekly, and what with one thing and another he had forgotten to buy any extra) and tried to think.
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Mr Slant walked across the floor of the empty ballroom, his feet echoing on the wood.
He took his position in the circle of candlelight with a slight twanging of nerves. As a zombie, he was always a little edgy about fire.
He coughed.
‘Well?’ said a chair.
‘They didn’t get the dog,’ said Mr Slant. Tn all other respects, I have to say, they did a masterly job.’
‘How bad could it be if the Watch find it?’
‘As I understand it, J:he dog in question is quite old,’ said Mr Slant, into the candlelight. ‘I have instructed Mr Pin to look for it, but I don’t believe he will find it easy to get access to the city’s canine underground.’
‘There are other werewolves here, aren’t there?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Slant smoothly. ‘But they won’t help. There are very few of them, and Sergeant Angua of the Watch is very important in the werewolf community. They won’t help strangers, because she will find out.’
‘And bring the Watch down on them?’
‘I believe she would not bother with the Watch,’ said Slant.
The dog is probably in some dwarf’s stewpot by now,’ said a chair. There was general laughter.
‘If things go . . . wrong,’ said a chair, ‘who do these men know?’
They know me,’ said Mr Slant. ‘I would not worry unduly. Vimes works by the rules.’
‘I’ve always understood him to be a violent and vicious man,’ said a chair.
‘Quite so. And because this is what he knows himself to be, he always works by the rules. In any case, the Guilds will be meeting tomorrow.’
‘Who will be the new Patrician?’ said a chair.
That will be a matter for careful discussion and the consideration of all shades of opinion,’ said Mr Slant. His voice could have oiled watches.
‘Mr Slant?’ said a chair.
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‘Yes?’
‘Do not try that on us. It is going to be Scrope, isn’t it?’
‘Mr Scrope is certainly well thought of by many of the leading figures in the city,’ said the lawyer.
‘Good.’
And the musty air was loud with unspoken conversation.
Absolutely no one needed to say: A lot of the most powerful men in the city owe their positions to Lord Vetinari.
And nobody replied: Certainly. But to the kind of men who seek power, gratitude has very poor keeping qualities. The kind of men who seek power tend to deal with matters as they are. They would never try to depose Vetinari, but if he was gone then they would be practical.
No one said: Will anyone speak up for Vetinari?
Silence replied: Oh, everyone. They’ll say things like: ‘Poor fellow . . . it was the strain of office, you know.’ They’ll say: ‘It’s the quiet ones that crack.’ They’ll say: ‘Quite so . . . We should put him somewhere where he can do no harm to himself or others. Don’t you think?’ They’ll say: ‘Perhaps a small statue would be in order, too?’ They’ll say: The least we can do is call off the Watch, we owe him that much.’ They’ll say: ‘We must look to the future.’ And so, quietly, things change. No fuss, and very little mess.
No one said: Character assassination. What a wonderful idea. Ordinary assassination only works once, but this one works every day.
A chair did say: ‘I wondered whether Lord Downey or even Mr Boggis–‘
Another chair said: ‘Oh, come now! Why should they? Much better this way.’
‘True, true. Mr Scrope is a man of fine qualities.’
‘A good family man, I understand.’
‘Listens to the common people.’
‘Not just to the common people, I trust?’
‘Oh, no. He’s very open to advice. From informed .-. . focus groups.’
‘He’ll need plenty of that.’
No one said: He’s a useful idiot.
‘Nevertheless . . . the Watch will have to be brought to heel.’
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‘Vimes will do what he is told. He must do. Scrope will be at least as legitimate a choice as Vetinari was. Vimes is the kind of man who must have a boss, because that gives him legitimacy.’
Slant coughed. ‘Is that all, gentlemen?’ he said.
‘What about the Ankh-Morpork Times?’ said a chair. ‘Bit of a problem shaping up there?’
‘People find it amusing,’ said Mr Slant. ‘And nobody takes it seriously. The Inquirer outsells it two to one already, after just one day. And it is underfinanced. And it has, uh, difficulty with supplies.’
‘Good tale in the Inquirer about that woman and the snake,’ said a chair.
‘Was there?’ said Mr Slant.
The chair that had first mentioned the Times had something on its mind.
‘I’d feel happier if a few likely lads smashed up the press,’ it said.
That would attract attention,’ said a chair. The Times wants attention. The . . . writer craves to be noticed.’
‘Oh, well, if you insist.’
‘I would not dream of insisting. But the Times will collapse,’ said the chair, and this was the chair that other chairs listened to. The young man is also an idealist. He has yet to find out that what’s in the public interest is not what the public is interested in.’
‘Say again?’
‘I mean, gentlemen, that people probably think he’s doing a good job, but what they are buying is the Inquirer. The news is more interesting. Did I ever tell you, Mr Slant, that a lie will go round the world before the truth has got its boots on?’
‘A great many times, sir,’ said Slant, with slightly less than his usual keen diplomacy. He realized this, and added, ‘A valuable insight, I’m sure.’
‘Good.’ The most important chair sniffed. ‘Keep an eye on our . . . workmen, Mr Slant.’
It was midnight in the Temple of Om in the Street of Small Gods, and one light burned in the vestry. It was a candle in a very heavy ornate candlestick and it was, in a way, sending a prayer to heaven.
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The prayer, from the Gospel According to the Miscreants, was: don’t let anyone find us pinching this stuff.
Mr Pin rummaged in a cupboard.
‘I can’t find anything in your size,’ he said. ‘It looks as though– Oh, no . . . sheesh, incense is for burning.’
Tulip sneezed, pebble-dashing the opposite wall with sandal-wood.
‘You could’ve –ing told me before,’ he muttered. I’ve got some papers.’
‘Have you been Chasing the Oven Cleaner again?’ said Mr Pin accusingly. I want you focused, understand? Now, the only thing I can find in here that will fit you–‘
The door creaked open and a small elderly priest wandered into the room. Mr Pin instinctively grasped the big candlestick.
‘Hello? Are you here for the, mm, midnight service?’ said the old man, blinking in the light.
This time it was Tulip who grabbed Mr Pin’s arm as he raised the candlestick.
‘Are you mad? What kind of person are you?’ he growled.
‘What? We can’t let him–‘
Mr Tulip snatched the silver stick out of his partner’s hand.
‘I mean, look at the –ing thing, will you?’ he said, ignoring the bemused priest. ‘That’s a genuine Sellini! Five hundred years old! Look at the chasing work on that snuffer, will you? Sheesh, to you it’s nothing more than five –ing pounds of silver, right?’
‘Actually, mm, it’s a Futtock,’ said the old priest, who still hadn’t yet got up to mental speed.
‘What, the pupil?’ said Mr Tulip, his eyes ceasing their spin out of surprise. He turned the candlestick over and looked at the base. ‘Hey, that’s right! There’s the Sellini mark, but it’s stamped with a little “f”, too. First time I’ve ever seen his –ing early stuff. He was a better –ing silversmith, too, it’s just a shame he had such a –ing stupid name. You know how much it’d sell for, reverend?’