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  It was generally agreed that the news in the Inquirer was more interesting, although Mrs. Arcanum ruled that the whole subject of snakes was not one for the dinner table and papers ought not to be allowed to disturb people like this. Rains of insects and so on, though, fully confirmed everyone’s view of distant lands.

  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 8:35 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.

  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. “In 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, the 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.

  “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 someplace 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.”

  “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 can get 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. 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 sandalwood.

  “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 Mr. Tulip that 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?”

  “We thought about seventy dollars,” said the priest, looking hopeful. “It was in a lot of furniture that an old lady left to the church. Really, we kept it for sentimental value…”

  “Have you still got the box it came in?” said Mr. Tulip, turning the candlestick over and over in his hands. “He did wonderful —ing presentation boxes. Cherrywood.”

  “Er…no, I don’t think so…”

  “—ing shame.”

  “Er…is it still worth anything? I think we’ve got another one somewhere.”

  “To the right collector, maybe four thousand —ing dollars,” said Mr. Tulip. “But I reckon you could get twelve thousand if you’ve got a —ing pair. Futtock is very collectable at the moment.”

  “Twelve thousand!” burbled the old man. His eyes gleamed with a deadly sin.

  “Could be more,” Mr. Tulip nodded. “It’s a —ing delightful piece. I feel quite privileged to have seen it.” He looked sourly at Mr. Pin. “And you were going to use it as a —ing blunt instrument.”

  He put the candlestick reverentially on the vestry table, and buffed it carefully with his sleeve. Then he spun around and brought his fist down hard on the head of the priest, who folded up with a sigh.

  “And they were just keepin’ it in a —ing cupboard,” he said. “Honestly, I could —ing spit!”

  “You want to take it with us?” said Mr. Pin, stuffing clothes into a bag.

  “Nah, all the fences round here’d probably just melt it down for the silver,” said Mr. Tulip. “I couldn’t have something like that on my —ing conscience. Let’s find this —ing dog and get right out of this dump, shall we? It makes me so —ing despondent.”

  William turned over, woke up, and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling.

  Two minutes later Mrs. Arcanum came downstairs and into the kitchen armed with a lamp, a poker, and, most important, with her hair in curlers. The combination would be a winner against all but the most iron-stomached intruder.

  “Mr. de Worde! What are you doing? It’s midnight!”

  William glanced up, and then went back to opening cupboards. “Sorry I knocked the saucepans over, Mrs. Arcanum. I’ll pay for any damage. Now, where are the scales?”

  “Scales?”

  “Scales! Kitchen scales! Where are they!”

  “Mr. de Worde, I—”

  “Where are the damn scales, Mrs. Arcanum?” said William desperately.

  “Mr. de Worde! For shame!”

  “The future of the city hangs in the balance, Mrs. Arcanum!”

  Perplexity slowly took the place of stern affront. “What, in my scales?”

  “Yes! Yes! It could very well be!”

  “Well, er…they’re in the pantry by the flour bag…the whole city, you say?”

  “Quite possibly!” William felt his jacket sag as he forced the big brass weights into his pocket.

  “Use the old potato sack, do,” said Mrs. Arcanum, now quite flustered by events.

  William grabbed the sack, rammed everything in, and ran for the door.

  “The university and the river and everything?” said the landlady, nervously.

  “Yes! Yes indeed!”

  Mrs. Arcanum set her jaw. “You will wash it out thoroughly afterwards, won’t you,” she said to his retreating back.

  William’s progress slowed towards the end of the road. Big iron kitchen scales and a full set of weights aren’t carried lightly.

  But that was the point, wasn’t it? Weight! He ran and walked and dragged them through the freezing, foggy night until he reached Gleam Street.

  The lights were still on in the Inquirer building. How late do you need to stay up when you can make up the news as you go along? thought William. But this is real. Heavy, even.

  He hammered on the door of the Times shed until a dwarf opened up. The dwarf was amazed to see a frantic William de Worde rushing past and dropping the scales and weights on a desk.

  “Please get Mr. Goodmountain up. We’ve got to get out another edition! And can I have ten dollars, please?”

  It took Goodmountain to sort things out as, nightshirted but still firmly helmeted, he clambered out of the cellar.

  “No, ten dollars,” William explained to the bewildered dwarfs. “Ten dollar coins. Not ten dollars worth of money.”

  “Why?”

  “To see how much seventy thousand dollars weighs!”

  “We haven’t got seventy thousand dollars!”

  “Look, even one dollar coin would do,” said William patiently. “Ten dollars would just be more accurate, that’s all. I can work it out from there.”

  Ten assorted coins were eventually procured from the dwarfs’ cash box and were duly weighed. Then William turned to a fresh page in his notebook, and bent his head in ferocious calculation. The dwarfs watched him solemnly, as if he were conducting an alchemical experiment. Finally he looked up from his figures, the light of revelation in his eyes.

  “That’s almost a third of a ton,” he said. “That’s how much seventy thousand dollar coins weigh. I suppose a really good horse could carry that and a rider, but…Vetinari walks with a stick, you saw him. It’d take him forever to load the horse up, and even if he got away he could hardly travel fast. Vimes must have worked it out…he said the facts were stupid facts!”

  Goodmountain had stationed himself before the rows of cases.

  “Ready when you are, chief,” he said.

  “All right…” William hesitated. He knew the facts, but what did the facts suggest?

  “Er…make the heading ‘Who Framed Lord Vetinari?’ and then the story starts…er…” William watched the hand pounce and grab among the little boxes of type. “A…er…Ankh-Morpork City Watch now believe that at least one other person was involved in the…the…”

  “Fracas?” suggested Goodmountain.

  “No…”

  “Rumpus?”

  “…in the attack at the Palace on Monday night.” William waited until the dwarf had caught up. It was getting easier and easier to read the words forming in Goodmountain’s hands as the fingers jumped from box to box…m-ig-h-t…“You got an M for an N there,” he said.

  “Oh, yes. Sorry. Carry on.”

  “Er…Evidence suggests that far from attacking his clerk as believed, Lord Vetinari may have discovered a crime in progress.”

  The hand flew across the type. C-r-i-m-e-space-i-n…

  It stopped.

  “Are you sure about this?” said Goodmountain.

  “No, but it’s as good a theory as any other,” said William. “That horse hadn’t been loaded to es
cape, it had been loaded to be discovered. Someone had some plan and it went wrong. I’m sure of that at least. Right…new paragraph. A horse in the stables had been loaded with a third of a ton of coins, but in his current state of health the Patrician—”

  One of the dwarfs had lit the stove. Another was stripping out the forms that contained the last edition. The room was coming alive again.

  “That’s about eight inches plus the heading,” said Goodmountain, when William had finished. “That should rattle people. You want to add any more stuff? Miss Sacharissa did something about Lady Selachii’s ball, and there’s a few small things.”

  William yawned. He didn’t seem to be getting enough sleep these days.

  “Put them in,” he said.

  “And there’s this clacks from Lancre that came in when you’d gone home,” said the dwarf. “That’ll cost us another fifty pence for the messenger. You remember you sent a clacks this afternoon? About snakes?” he added, in the face of William’s blank expression.

  William read the flimsy sheet of paper. The message had been carefully transcribed in the neat handwriting of the semaphore operator. It was probably the strangest message yet sent on the new technology.

  King Verence of Lancre had also mastered the idea that the clacks charged by the word.

  WOMEN OF LANCRE NOT RPT NOT IN HABIT

  BEARING SNAKES STOP CHILDREN BORN THIS

  MONTH WILLIAM WEAVER CONSTANCE THATCHER

  CATASTROPHE CARTER ALL PLUS ARMS LEGS

  MINUS SCALES FANGS

  “Hah! We have them!” said William. “Give me five minutes and I’ll put together a story on this. We shall soon see if the sword of truth can’t beat the dragon of lies.”

  Boddony gave him a kind look. “Didn’t you say a lie can run around the world before the truth has got its boots on?” he said.

  “But this is the truth.”

  “So? Where’s its boots?”

  Goodmountain nodded to the other dwarfs, who were yawning.

  “You get back to bed, lads. I’ll pull it all together.”

  He watched them disappear down the ladder to the cellar. Then he sat down, took out a small silver box, and opened it.