‘What?’ said William.
‘Some complete muffin offered a reward! In Ankh-Morpork! Can you believe that? They were queueing three deep when I got here! I mean, what kind of idiot would do a thing like that? I mean, one man had a cow! A cowl I had a huge argument about animal physiology before Rocky hit him over the head! The poor troll’s out there now trying to keep order! There’s ferrets out there!’
‘Look, I’m sorry–‘
‘I wonder, ah, if we can be of any assistance?’
They turned.
The speaker was a priest, dressed in the black, unadorned and unflattering habit of the Omnians. He had a flat, broad-brimmed
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hat, the Omnians’ turtle symbol around his neck, and an expression of almost terminal benevolence.
‘Mm, I am Brother Upon-Which-The-Angels-Dance Pin,’ said the priest, stepping aside to reveal a mountain in black, ‘and this is Sister Jennifer, who is under a vow of silence.’
They stared up at the apparition of Sister Jennifer, while Brother Pin went on: That means she does not, mm, talk. At all. In any circumstances.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Sacharissa weakly. One of Sister Jennifer’s eyes was revolving, in a face that was like a brick wall.
‘Yes, mm, and we happened to be in Ankh-Morpork as part of the Bishop Horn Ministry to Animals and heard that you were looking for a little doggie who is in trouble,’ said Brother Pin. ‘I can see you are, mm, a little overwhelmed, and perhaps we can help? It would be our duty.’
‘The dog’s a little terrier,’ said Sacharissa, ‘but you’d be amazed at what people are bringing in–‘
‘Dear me,’ said Brother Pin. ‘But Sister Jennifer is very good at this sort of thing
Sister Jennifer strode to the front desk. A man hopefully held up what was clearly a badger.
‘He’s been a bit ill–‘
Sister Jennifer brought her fist down on the man’s head.
William winced.
‘Sister Jennifer’s order believes in tough love,’ said Brother Pin. ‘A little correction at the right time can prevent a lost soul taking the wrong path.’
‘Vich order is this she belongs to, please?’ said Otto, as the lost soul carrying his badger staggered out, his legs trying to take several paths at once.
Brother Pin gave him a damp smile. The Little Flowers of Perpetual Annoyance,’ he said.
‘Really? I had not heard of zis vun. Very . . . outreaching. Veil, I must go and see if the imps have done zere job properly . . .’
Certainly the crowd was thinning rapidly under the stress of seeing the advancing Sister Jennifer, especially that segment of it that had brought dogs which purred or ate sunflower seeds. Many
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of those who had brought an actual living dog were looking nervous as well.
A sense of unease crept over William. He knew that some sections of the Omnian church still believed that the way to send a soul to heaven was to give the body hell. And Sister Jennifer couldn’t be blamed for her looks, or even the size of her hands. And even if the backs of said hands were rather hairy, well, that was the sort of thing that happened out in the rural districts.
‘What exactly is she doing?’ he said. There were yelps and shouts in the queue as dogs were grabbed, glared at and thrust back with more than minimum force.
‘As I said, we’re trying to find the little dog,’ said Brother Pin. ‘It may need ministering to.’
‘But. . . that wire-haired terrier there looks pretty much like the picture,’ said Sacharissa. ‘And she’s just ignored it.’
‘Sister Jennifer is very sensitive in these matters,’ said Brother Pin.
‘Oh well, this is not getting the next edition filled,’ said Sacharissa, heading back to her desk.
‘I expect it would help if we could print in colour,’ said William, when he was left alone with Brother Pin.
‘Probably,’ said the reverend brother. ‘It was a kind of greyish brown.’
William knew then that he was dead. It was only a matter of time.
‘You know what colour you’re looking for,’ he said quietly.
‘You just get on with sorting out the words, writer boy,’ said Brother Pin, for his ears only. He opened the jacket of his frock coat just enough for William to see the range of cutlery bolstered there, and closed it again. This isn’t anything to do with you, okay? Shout out and someone gets killed. Try to be a hero and someone gets killed. Make any kind of sudden move and someone gets killed. In fact, we might as well kill someone anyway and save some time, eh? You know that stuff about the pen being mightier than the sword?’
‘Yes,’ said William hoarsely.
‘Want to try?’
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‘No.’
William caught sight of Goodmountain, who was staring at him.
‘What’s that dwarf doing?’ said Brother Pin.
‘He’s setting type, sir,’ said William. It was always wise to be polite to edged weapons.
‘Tell him to get on with it,’ said Pin.
‘Er . . . if you could just get on with it, Mr Goodmountain,’ said William, raising his voice over the growls and yelps. ‘Everything is fine.’
Goodmountain nodded and turned his back. He held up one hand theatrically and then started to assemble type.
William watched. It was better than semaphore, as the hand dipped from box to box.
Hes [space] a [space]fawe ?
W was in the box next to K . . .
‘Yes indeed,’ said William.
Pin glanced at him. ‘Yes indeed what?’
‘I, er, it was just nerves,’ said William. ‘I’m always nervous in the presence of swords.’
Pin glanced at the dwarfs. They all had their backs to them.
Goodmountain’s hand moved again, flicking letter after letter from its nest.
Armed?[space]coff[space]4[space]yes
‘Something wrong with your throat?’ said Pin, after William coughed.
‘Just nerves again . . . sir.’
OK[space]will[space]get[space]Otto
‘Oh no,’ William muttered.
‘Where’s that dwarf going?’ said Pin, his hand reaching into his coat.
‘Just into the cellar, sir. To . . . fetch some ink.’
‘Why? Looks like you’ve got lots of ink up here already.’
‘Er, the white ink, sir. For the spaces. And the middle of the Os.’ William leaned towards Mr Pin and shuddered when the hand reached inside the jacket again. ‘Look, the dwarfs are all armed, too. With axes. And they get excited very easily. I’m the only person anywhere near you who hasn’t got a weapon. Please? I
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don’t want to die just yet. Just do whatever you came to do and go?’
It was a pretty good impression of an abject coward, he thought, because it was casting for type.
Pin glanced away. ‘How are we doing, Sister Jennifer?’ he said.
Sister Jennifer held a struggling sack. ‘Got all the –ing terriers,’ he said.
Brother Pin shook his head sharply.
‘Got all the –ing terriers!’ fluted Sister Jennifer, in a much higher register. ‘And there’s –ing watchmen at the end of the street!’
Out of the corner of his eye William saw Sacharissa sit bolt upright. Death was certainly somewhere on the agenda now.
Otto was climbing unconcernedly up the cellar steps, one of his iconograph boxes swinging from his shoulder.
He nodded at William. Behind him Sacharissa was pushing her chair back.
Back in front of his case of type Goodmountain was feverishly setting:
Hide[space]your[space]eyes
Mr Pin turned to William. ‘What do you mean, white ink for the spaces?’
Sacharissa was looking angry and determined, like Mrs Arcanum after an uncalled-for remark.
The vampire raised his box.
William saw the hod above it, crammed with Uberwaldean land eels.
Mr Pin thrust back his coat.
William leapt towards the advancing girl, rising through the air like a frog through treacle.
Dwarfs started to jump over the low barrier to the print room with axes in their hands. And . . .
‘Boo,’ said Otto.
Time stopped. William felt the universe fold away, the little globe of walls and ceilings peeling back like the skin of an orange, leaving a chilly, rushing darkness filled with needles of ice. There were voices, cut off, random syllables of sound, and again the feeling that he’d felt before, that his body was as thin and insubstantial as a shadow.
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Then he landed on top of Sacharissa, threw his arms around her, and rolled them both behind the welcome barrier of the desks.
Dogs howled. People swore. Dwarfs yelled. Furniture smashed. William lay still until the thunder died away.
It was replaced by groans and swearing.
Swearing was a positive indication. It was dwarfish swearing, and it meant that the swearer was not only alive but angry too.
He raised his head carefully.
The far door was open. There was no queue, no dogs. There was the sound of running feet and furious barking out in the street.
The back door was swinging on its hinges.
William was aware of the pneumatic warmth of Sacharissa in his arms. This was an experience of the sort which, in a life devoted to arranging words in a pleasing order, he had not dreamed would – well, obviously dreamed, his inner editor corrected him, better make that expected – would have come his way.