‘Of course they’re not properly justified,’ said Goodmountain.
‘Now just a moment–‘ the Bursar began.
William left them to it. The stone he could work out – even the engravers used a big flat stone as a workbench. And he’d seen dwarfs pulling paper sheets off the metal letters, so that made sense, too. And what the Bursar said had been unjustified. It wasn’t as if metal had a soul.
He looked over the head of a dwarf who was busily assembling letters in a little metal hod, the stubby fingers darting from box to box in the big tray of type in front of him. Capital letters all in the top, small letters all in the bottom. It was even possible to get an idea of what the dwarf was assembling, just by watching the movements of his hands across the tray.
‘M-a-k-e-$-$-$-I-n-n-Y-o-u-r-e-S-p-a-r-e-T-y-m–‘ he murmured.
A certainty formed. He glanced down at the sheets of grubby paper beside the tray.
They were covered with the dense spiky handwriting that identified its owner as an anal-retentive with a poor grip.
There were no flies on C.M.O.T. Dibbler. He would have charged them rent.
With barely a conscious thought, William pulled out his notebook, licked his pencil and wrote, very carefully, in his private shorthand:
‘Amzg scenes hv ocrd in the Ct with the Openg o t Prntg Engn at the Sgn o t Bucket by G. Goodmountain, Dwf, which hs causd mch intereƒt amng all prts inc. chfs of commerƒe.’
He paused. The conversation at the other end of the room was definitely taking a more conciliatory turn.
‘How much a thousand?’ said the Bursar.
‘Even cheaper for bulk rates,’ said Goodmountain. ‘Small runs no problem.’
The Bursar’s face had that warm glaze of someone who deals in numbers and can see one huge and inconvenient number getting smaller in the very near future, and in those circumstances philosophy doesn’t stand much of a chance. And what was visible of Goodmountain’s face had the cheerful scowl of someone who’s worked out how to turn lead into still more gold.
‘Well, of course, a contract of this size would have to be ratified by the Archchancellor himself,’ said the Bursar, ‘but I can assure you that he listens very carefully to everything I say.’
I’m sure he does, your lordship,’ said Goodmountain cheerfully.
‘Uh, by the way,’ said the Bursar, ‘do you people have an Annual Dinner?’
‘Oh, yes. Definitely,’ said the dwarf.
‘When is it?’
‘When would you like it?’
William scribbled: ‘Mch businƒs sms likly wth a Certain Educational Body in t Ct,’ and then, because he had a truly honest nature, he added, ‘we hear.’
Well, that was pretty good going. He’d got one letter away only this morning and already he had an important note for the next–
–except, of course, the customers weren’t expecting another one for almost a month. He had a certain feeling that by then no one would be very interested. On the other hand, if he didn ‘t tell them about it, someone would be bound to complain. There had been all that trouble with the rain of dogs in Treacle Mine Road last year, and it wasn’t as if that had even happened.
But even if he got the dwarfs to make the type really big, one item of gossip wasn’t going to go very far.
Blast.
He’d have to scuttle around a bit and find some more.
On an impulse he wandered over to the departing Bursar.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said.
The Bursar, who was feeling in a very cheerful mood, raised an eyebrow in a good-humoured way.
‘Hmm?’ he said. ‘It’s Mr de Worde, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. I–‘
I’m afraid we do all our own writing down at the University,’ said the Bursar.
‘I wonder if I could just ask you what you think of Mr Good-mountain’s new printing engine, sir?’ said William.
‘Why?’
‘Er . . . Because I’d quite like to know? And I’d like to write it down for my news letter. You know? Views of a leading member of Ankh-Morpork’s thaumaturgical establishment?’
‘Oh?’ The Bursar hesitated. ‘This is the little thing you send out to the Duchess of Quirm and the Duke of Sto Helit and people like that, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said William. Wizards were terrible snobs.
‘Er. Well, then . . . you can say that I said it is a step in the right direction that will . . . er . . . be welcomed by all forward-thinking people and will drag the city kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat.’ He watched eagle-eyed as William wrote this down. ‘And my name is Dr A.A. Dinwiddie, D.M.(7th), D.Thau., B.Occ., M.Coll., B.R That’s Dinwiddie with an o.’
‘Yes, Dr Dinwiddie. Er . . . the Century of the Fruitbat is nearly over, sir. Would you like the city to be dragged kicking and screaming out of the Century of the Fruitbat?’
‘Indeed.’
William wrote this down. It was a puzzle why things were always dragged kicking and screaming. No one ever seemed to want to, for example, lead them gently by the hand.
‘And I’m sure you will send me a copy when it comes out, of course,’ said the Bursar.
‘Yes, Dr Dinwiddie.’
‘And if you want anything from me at any other time, don’t hesitate to ask.’
‘Thank you, sir. But I’d always understood, sir, that Unseen University was against the use of movable type?’
‘Oh, I think it’s time to embrace the exciting challenges presented to us by the Century of the Fruitbat,’ said the Bursar.
‘We . . . That’s the one we’re just about to leave, sir.’
Then it’s high time we embraced them, don’t you think?’
‘Good point, sir.’
‘And now I must fly,’ said the Bursar. ‘Except that I mustn’t.’
Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, poked at the ink in his inkwell. There was ice in it.
‘Don’t you even have a proper fire?’ said Hughnon Ridcully, Chief Priest of Blind lo and unofficial spokesman for the city’s religious establishment. I mean, I’m not one for stuffy rooms, but it’s freezing in here!’
‘Brisk, certainly,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘It’s odd, but the ice isn’t as dark as the rest of the ink. What causes that, do you think?’
‘Science, probably,’ said Hughnon vaguely. Like his wizardly brother, Archchancellor Mustrum, he didn’t like to bother himself with patently silly questions. Both gods and magic required solid, sensible men, and the brothers Ridcully were solid as rocks. And, in some respects, as sensible.
‘Ah. Anyway . . . you were saying?’
‘You must put a stop to this, Havelock. You know the . . . understanding.’
Vetinari seemed engrossed in the ink. ‘Must, your reverence?’ he said calmly, without looking up.
‘You know why we’re all against this movable type nonsense!’
‘Remind me again . . . Look, it bobs up and down
Hughnon sighed. ‘Words are too important to be left to machinery. We’ve got nothing against engraving, you know that. We’ve nothing against words being nailed down properly. But words that can be taken apart and used to make other words . . . well, that’s downright dangerous. And I thought you weren’t in favour, either?’
‘Broadly, yes,’ said the Patrician. ‘But many years of ruling this city, your reverence, have taught me that you cannot apply brakes to a volcano. Sometimes it is best to let these things run their course. They generally die down again after a while.’
‘You have not always taken such a relaxed approach, Havelock,’ said Hughnon.
The Patrician gave him a cool stare that went on for a couple of seconds beyond the comfort barrier.
‘Flexibility and understanding have always been my watchwords,’ he said.
‘My god, have they?’
‘Indeed. And what I would like you and your brother to understand now, your reverence, in a flexible way, is that this enterprise is being undertaken by dwarfs. And do you know where the largest dwarf city is, your reverence?’
‘What? Oh . . . let’s see . . . there’s that place in–‘
‘Yes, everyone starts by saying that. But it’s Ankh-Morpork, in fact. There are more than fifty thousand dwarfs here now.’
‘Surely not?’
‘I assure you. We have currently very good relationships with the dwarf communities in Copperhead and Uberwald. In dealings with the dwarfs I have seen to it that the city’s hand of friendship is permanently outstretched in a slightly downward direction. And in this current cold snap I am sure we are all very glad that bargeloads of coal and lamp oil are coming down from the dwarf mines every day. Do you catch my meaning?’
Hughnon glanced at the fireplace. Against all probability, one lump of coal was smouldering all by itself.
‘And of course,’ the Patrician went on, ‘it is increasingly hard to ignore this new type, aha, of printing when vast printeries now exist in the Agatean Empire and, as I am sure you are aware, in Omnia. And from Omnia, as you no doubt know, the Omnians export huge amounts of their holy Book of Om and these pamphlets they’re so keen on,’