‘Well . . . all right. I’ll just finish this report–‘
‘Messages for you, Mr William,’ said one of the dwarfs, dropping a pile of paper on his desk. William grunted and glanced through them. There were a few test clackses from Lancre and Sto Lat, and already he could see that pretty soon he’d have to go out into the country to train some real, yes, reporters of news, because he could see there was only a limited future in these earnest missives from village grocers and publicans who’d be paid a penny a line. There were a couple of carrier pigeon messages, too, from those people who couldn’t get a grip on the new technology.
‘Ye gods,’ he said, under his breath. The Mayor of Quirm has been struck by a meteorite . . . again.’
‘Can that happen?’ said Sacharissa.
‘Apparently. This is from Mr Pune at the council offices there. Sensible chap, not much imagination. He says that this time it was waiting for the mayor in an alley,’
‘Really? The woman we get our linen from has got a son who is the lecturer in Vindictive Astronomy at the University.’
‘Would he give us a quote?’
‘He smiles at me when he sees me in the shop,’ said Sacharissa firmly. ‘So he will.’
‘O-kay. If you can–‘
‘Afternoon, folks!’
Mr Wintler was standing at the counter. He was holding a cardboard box.
‘Oh, dear . . .’ murmured William.
‘Just you take a look at this one,’ said Mr Wintler, a man who would not take a hint if it was wrapped around a lead pipe.
‘I think we’ve had enough funny ve–‘ William began.
And stopped.
It was a big potato that the rubicund man was lifting from his box. It was knobbly, too. William had seen knobbly potatoes before. They could look like faces, if that was the way you wanted
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to amuse yourself. But with this one you didn’t have to imagine a face. It had a face. It was made up of dents and knobs and potato eyes, but it looked very much like a face that had been staring madly into his and trying to kill him very recently. He remembered it quite well, because he still occasionally woke up around 3 a.m. with it in front of him.
‘It’s . . . not. . . exactly . . .funny,’ said Sacharissa, glancing sideways at William.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ said Mr Wintler. ‘I wouldn’t have brought it round, but you’ve always been very interested in them,’
‘A day without a bifurcated parsnip,’ said Sacharissa sweetly, ‘is a day without sunshine, Mr Wintler. William?’
‘Huh?’ said William, tearing his eyes away from the potato head. ‘Is it me, or does it look . . . surprised?’
‘It does rather,’ said Sacharissa.
‘Did you just dig this up?’ said William.
‘Oh, no. It’s been in one of my sacks for months,’ said Wintler.
. . . which upset an occult train of thought that had started to trundle through William’s head. But . . . the universe was a funny place. Cause and effect, effect and cause . . . He’d rip off his right arm rather than write that down, though.
‘What are you going to do with it?’ he said. ‘Boil it?’
‘Bless you, no. The variety’s far too floury. No, this one’s going to be chips.’
‘Chips, eh?’ said William. And it seemed, strangely, exactly the right thing to do.
‘Yes. Yes, that’s a good idea. Let it fry, Mr Wintler. Let it fry.’
The clock moved on.
One of the reporters came in to say that the Alchemists’ Guild had exploded, and did this count as news? Otto was summoned from his crypt and sent out to get a picture. William finished his piece about yesterday’s events and passed it over to the dwarfs. Someone came in and said there was a big crowd in Sator Square because the Bursar (71) was sitting on a roof seven floors up, looking puzzled. Sacharissa, wielding her pencil with care, crossed out every adjective in a report of the Ankh-Morpork Floral Arranging Society, reducing its length by half.
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William went out to find out about the Bursar (71), then wrote a few short paragraphs. Wizards doing odd things wasn’t news. Wizards doing odd things was wizards.
He threw the piece into the Out tray, and looked at the press.
It was black, and big, and complex. Without eyes, without a face, without life . . . It looked back at him.
He thought: you don’t need old sacrificial stones. Lord Vetinari was wrong about that. He touched his forehead. The bruise had long ago faded.
You put your mark on me. Well, I’m wise to you.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Sacharissa looked up, still preoccupied. ‘What?’
‘Let’s go. Out. Now. For a walk, or tea, or shopping,’ said William. ‘Let’s not be here. Don’t argue, please. Coat on. Now. Before it realizes. Before it finds a way to stop us.’
‘What are you talking about?’
He pulled her coat off the peg and grabbed her arm. ‘No time to explain!’
She allowed herself to be dragged out into the street, where William took a deep breath and relaxed.
‘Now would you mind telling me what that was all about?’ said Sacharissa. ‘I’ve got a pile of work in there, you know.’
‘I know. Come on. We’re probably not far enough away. There’s a new noodle place opened in Elm Street. Everyone says it’s pretty good. How about it?’
‘But there’s all that work to do!’
‘So? It’ll still be there tomorrow, won’t it?’
She hesitated. ‘Well, an hour or two won’t hurt, probably,’ she admitted.
‘Good. Let’s go.’
They’d reached the junction of Treacle Mine Road and Elm Street when it caught up with them.
There were cries further along the street. William swivelled his head, saw the four-horse brewer’s dray thundering out of control. He saw the people diving and scuttling out of the way. He saw the soup-plate hooves throw up mud and ice. He saw the brasses on the harness, the gleam, the steam . . .
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His head swivelled the other way. He saw the old woman with two sticks crossing the street, quite oblivious of the onrushing death. He saw the shawl, the white hair . . .
A blur went past him. The man twisted in the air, landed on his shoulder in the centre of the street, rolled upright, grabbed the woman, and leapt–
The wayward wagon went by in a rush of steam and slush. The team tried to corner at the crossroads. The dray behind them did not. A melee of hooves and horses and wheels and sleet and screams whirled onwards and took the windows out of several shops before the cart rammed up against a stone pillar and stopped dead.
In obedience to the laws of physics and the narrative of such things, its load did not. The barrels burst their bonds, crashed down on to the street and rolled onwards. A few smashed, filling the gutter with suds. The others, thumping and banging into one another, became the focus of attention of every upright citizen who could recognize a hundred gallons of beer which suddenly didn’t belong to anyone any more and was heading for freedom.
William and Sacharissa looked at one another.
‘Okay – I’ll get the story, you go and find Otto!’
They said that at the same time, and then stared defiantly at each other.
‘All right, all right,’ said William. ‘Find some kid, bribe him to get Otto, I’ll talk to that Plucky Watchman who grabbed the old lady in A Mercy Dash, you cover the Big Smash, okay?’
‘I’ll find the kid,’ said Sacharissa, pulling out her own notebook, ‘but you cover the accident and the Beer Barrel Bonanza and I’ll talk to the White-Haired Granny. Human interest, right?’
‘All right!’ William conceded. That was Captain Carrot who did the rescue. Make sure Otto gets a picture, and get his age!’
‘Of course!’
William headed towards the crowd around the smashed wagon. Many people were in distant pursuit of the barrels, and the odd scream suggested that thirsty people seldom realize how hard it is to stop a hundred gallons of beer in a big oak cask when it’s on a roll.
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He dutifully noted down the name on the side of the dray. A couple of men were helping the horses up, but they did not appear to have much to do with beer delivery. They appeared to be men who simply wanted to help lost horses, and take them home and make them better. If this had to mean dyeing areas of their coats and swearing blind they’d owned them for the past two years, then so be it.
He approached a bystander not obviously engaged in any felonious activity.
‘Exc–‘ he began. But the citizen’s eyes had already detected the notebook.