‘You didn’t come to me’ said William.
‘Well, of course not. Everyone knows you’re a bit . . . a bit unimaginative about that sort of thing.’
‘You mean I like to know that things have actually happened?’
‘That’s it, yes. Mr Carney says people won’t notice the difference anyway. He doesn’t like you very much, Mr de Worde.’
‘He’s got wandering hands,’ said Sacharissa. ‘You can’t trust a man like that.’
William pulled the latest copy of the Inquirer towards him and picked a story at random.
‘”Man Stolen by Demons”,’ he said. ‘This refers to Mr Ronnie “Trust Me” Begholder, known to owe Chrysoprase the troll more than two thousand dollars, last seen buying a very fast horse?’
‘Well?’
‘Where do the demons fit in?’
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‘Well, he could’Ve been stolen by demons,’ said Dibbler. ‘It could happen to anybody.’
‘What you mean, then, is that there is no evidence that he wasn ‘t stolen by demons?’
That way people can make up their own minds,’ said Dibbler. ‘That’s what Mr Carney says. People should be allowed to choose, he said.’
To choose what’s true?’
‘He doesn’t clean his teeth properly, either,’ said Sacharissa. ‘I mean, I’m not one of those people who think cleanliness is next to godliness, but there are limits.’*
Dibbler shook his head sadly. ‘I’m losin’ my touch,’ he said. ‘Imagine – me, working for someone? I must’ve been mad. It’s the cold weather getting to me, that’s what it is. Even . . . wages,’ he said the word with a shudder, ‘looked attractive. D’you know,’ he added, in a horrified voice, ‘he was telling me what to do? Next time I’ll have a quiet lie-down until the feeling goes away.’
‘You are an immoral opportunist, Mr Dibbler,’ said William.
‘It’s worked so far.’
‘Can you sell some advertising for us?’ said Sacharissa.
‘I’m not going to work for anyone ag–‘
‘On commission,’ snapped Sacharissa.
‘What? You want to employ him?’ said William.
‘Why not? You can tell as many lies as you like if it’s advertising. That’s allowed,’ said Sacharissa. ‘Please? We need the money!’
‘Commission, eh?’ said Dibbler, rubbing his unshaven chin. ‘Like . . . fifty per cent for you two and fifty per cent for me, too?’
‘We’ll discuss it, shall we?’ said Goodmountain, patting him on the shoulder. Dibbler winced. When it came to hard bargaining, dwarfs were diamond-tipped.
‘Have I got a choice?’ he mumbled.
Goodmountain leaned forward. His beard was bristling. He
* Classically, very few people have considered that cleanliness is next to godliness, apart from in a very sternly abridged dictionary. A rank loincloth and hair in an advanced state of matted entanglement have generally been the badges of office of prophets whose injunction to disdain earthly things starts with soap.
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wasn’t currently holding a weapon but Dibbler could see, as it were, the great big axe that wasn’t there.
‘Absolutely,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ said Dibbler. ‘So . . . what would I be selling, exactly?’
‘Space,’ said Sacharissa.
Dibbler beamed again. ‘Just space? Nothing? Oh, I can do that. I can sell nothing like anything]’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It’s only when I try to sell something that everything goes wrong.’
‘How did you come to be here, Mr Dibbler?’ William asked.
He was not happy with the answer.
‘That sort of thing could work both ways,’ he said. ‘You can’t just dig into other people’s property!’ He glared at the dwarfs. ‘Mr Boddony, I want that hole blocked up right now, understand?’
‘We only–‘
‘Yes, yes, you did it for the best. And now I want it bricked up, properly. I want the hole to look as though it has never been there, thank you. I don’t want anyone coming up the cellar ladder that didn’t climb down it. Right now, please!
‘I think I’m on to a real story,’ said William, as the disgruntled dwarfs filed away. ‘I think I’m going to see Wuffles. I’ve got–‘
As he pulled out his notebook something dropped on to the floor with a tinkle.
‘Oh, yes . . . and I got the key to our town house,’ he said. ‘You wanted a dress
‘It’s a bit late,’ said Sacharissa. ‘I’d forgotten all about it, to tell the truth.’
‘Why not go and have a look while everyone else is busy? You could take Rocky, too. You know . . . to be on the safe side. But the place is empty. My father stays at his club if he has to come to town. Go on. There’s got to be more to life than correcting copy.’
Sacharissa looked uncertainly at the key in her hand.
‘My sister has quite a lot of dresses,’ said William. ‘You want to go to the ball, don’t you?’
‘I suppose Mrs Hotbed could alter it for me if I take it to her in the morning,’ said Sacharissa, expressing mildly peeved reluctance while her body language begged to be persuaded.
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‘That’s right,’ said William. ‘And I’m sure you can find someone to do your hair properly.’
Sacharissa’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s true, you know, you have got an amazing way with words,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going,’ said William, ‘to see a dog about a man.’
Sergeant Angua peered up at Vimes through the steam from the bowl in front of her.
‘Sorry about this, sir,’ she said.
‘His feet won’t touch the ground,’ said Vimes.
‘You can’t arrest him, sir,’ said Captain Carrot, putting a fresh towel over Angua’s head.
‘Oh? Can’t arrest him for assaulting an officer, eh?’
‘Well, that’s where it gets tricky, doesn’t it, sir?’ said Angua.
‘You’re an officer, sergeant, whatever shape you happen to be currently in!’
‘Yes, but. . . it’s always been a bit convenient to let the werewolf thing stay a rumour, sir,’ said Carrot. ‘Don’t you think so? Mr de Worde writes things down. Angua and I aren’t particularly keen on that. Those who need to know, know.’
Then I’ll ban him from doing it!’
‘How, sir?’
Vimes looked a little deflated. ‘You can’t tell me that as commander of police I can’t stop some little ti– some idiot from writing down anything he likes?’
‘Oh, no, sir. Of course you can. But I’m not sure you can stop him writing down that you stopped him writing things down,’ said Carrot.
‘I’m amazed. Amazed! She’s your . . . your–‘
‘Friend,’ said Angua, taking another deep sniff of the steam. ‘But Carrot’s right, Mister Vimes. I don’t want this going any further. It was my fault for underestimating him. I walked right into it. I’ll be fine in an hour or two.’
‘I saw what you were like when you came in,’ said Vimes. ‘You were a mess.’
‘It was a shock. The nose just shuts down. It was like walking around a corner and running into Foul Ole Ron.’
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‘Ye gods! That bad?’
‘Maybe not quite as bad as that. Let it lie, sir. Please.’
‘He’s a quick learner, our Mr de Worde,’ said Vimes, sitting down at his desk. ‘He’s got a pen and a printing press and everyone acts like he’s suddenly a major player. Well, he’s going to have to learn a bit more. He doesn’t want us watching? Well, we won’t, any more. He can reap what he sows for a while. We’ve got more than enough other things to do, heavens know.’
‘But he is technically–‘
‘See this sign on my desk, captain? See it, sergeant? It says “Commander Vimes”. That means the buck starts here. It was a command you just got. Now, what else is new?’
Carrot nodded. ‘Nothing good, sir. No one’s found the dog. The Guilds are all battening down. Mr Scrope has been getting a lot of visitors. Oh, and High Priest Ridcully is telling everyone that he thinks Lord Vetinari went mad because the day before he’d been telling him about a plan to make lobsters fly through the air.’
‘Lobsters flying through the air,’ said Vimes flatly.
‘And something about sending ships by semaphore, sir.’
‘Oh, dear. And what is Mr Scrope saying?’
‘Apparently he says he’s looking forward to a new era in our history and will put Ankh-Morpork back on the path of responsible citizenship, sir.’
‘Is that the same as the lobsters?’
‘It’s political, sir. Apparently he wants a return to the values and traditions that made the city great, sir.’
‘Does he know what those values and traditions were?’ said Vimes, aghast.
‘I assume so, sir,’ said Carrot, keeping a straight face.
‘Oh my gods. I’d rather take a chance on the lobsters.’
It was sleeting again, out of a darkening sky. The Misbegot Bridge was more or less empty; William lurked in the shadows, his hat pulled down over his eyes.
Eventually a voice out of nowhere said, ‘So . . . you got your bit of paper?’
‘Deep Bone?’ said William, startled out of the reverie.