The Truth (4 page)

And now a great frigid silence had descended between the de Wordes, which made the winter chill seem like a sauna.

In this gloomy frame of mind, it was positively cheering to wander into the print room to find the Bursar arguing the theory of words with Goodmountain.

“Hold on, hold on,” said the Bursar. “Yes, indeed,
figuratively
a word is made up of individual letters but they have only a—” he waved his long fingers gracefully
“
—
theoretical
existence, if I may put it that way. They are, as it were, words
partis in potentia,
and it is, I am afraid, unsophisticated in the extreme to imagine that they have any
real
existence
unis et separato.
Indeed, the very concept of letters having their own physical existence is, philosophically, extremely worrying. Indeed, it would be like noses and fingers running around the world all by themselves—”

That’s three “indeeds,” thought William, who noticed things like this. Three “indeeds” used by a person in one brief speech generally meant an internal spring was about to break.

“We got whole boxes of letters,” said Goodmountain flatly. “We can make any words you want.”

“That’s the trouble, you see,” said the Bursar. “Supposing the metal remembers the words it has printed? At least engravers melt down their plates, and the cleansing effect of fire will—”

“’Scuse me, Your Reverence,” said Goodmountain. One of the dwarfs had tapped him gently on the shoulder and handed him a square of paper. He passed it up to the Bursar.

“Young Caslong here thought you might like this as a souvenir,” he said. “He took it down directly from the case and pulled it off on the stone. He’s very quick like that.”

The Bursar tried to look the young dwarf sternly up and down, although this was a pretty pointless intimidatory tactic to use on dwarfs, since they had very little up to look down from.

“Really?” he said. “How very…” His eyes scanned the paper.

And then bulged.

“But these are…when I said…I only just said…how did you know I was going to say…I mean, my actual words…” he stuttered.

“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 comerƒe.”

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 one—

—except, of course, the customers weren’t expecting another one for almost a month. He had another 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 really 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-humored 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. Goodmountain’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 newsletter. 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.F. 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, High Priest of Blind Io 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 favor, 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 smoldering 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 import vast amounts of their holy Book of Om and these pamphlets they’re so keen on.”

“Evangelical nonsense,” said Hughnon. “You should have banned them long ago.”

Once again the stare went on a good deal too long.

“
Ban
a
religion,
Your Reverence?”

“Well, when I say
ban,
I mean—”

“I’m
sure
no one could call me a despot, Your Reverence,” said Lord Vetinari severely.

Hughnon Ridcully made a misjudged attempt to lighten the mood. “Not twice at any any rate, ahaha.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said…not twice at any rate…ahaha.”

“I do apologize, but you seem to have lost me there.”

“It was, uh, a minor witticism, Hav—my lord.”

“Oh. Yes. Ahah,” said Vetinari, and the words withered in the air. “No, I’m afraid you will find that the Omnians are quite free to distribute their good news about Om. But take heart! Surely you have some good news about Io.”

“What? Oh. Yes, of course. He had a bit of a cold last month, but he’s up and about again.”

“Capital. That
is
good news. No doubt these printers will happily spread the word on your behalf. I’m sure they will work to your exacting requirements.”

“And these are your reasons, my lord?”

“Do you think I have others?” said Lord Vetinari. “My motives, as ever, are entirely transparent.”

Hughnon reflected that “entirely transparent” meant either that you could see right through them or that you couldn’t see them at all.

Lord Vetinari shuffled through a file of paper. “
However,
the Guild of Engravers has put its rates up three times in the past year.”

“Ah. I see,” said Hughnon.

“A civilization runs on words, Your Reverence. Civilization
is
words. Which, on the whole, should not be too expensive. The world turns, Your Reverence, and we must spin with it.” He smiled. “Once upon a time nations fought like great grunting beasts in a swamp. Ankh-Morpork ruled a large part of that swamp because it had the best claws. But today gold has taken the place of steel and, my goodness, the Ankh-Morpork dollar seems to be the currency of choice. Tomorrow…perhaps the weaponry will be just words. The most words, the quickest words, the last words. Look out of the window. Tell me what you see.”

“Fog,” said the High Priest.

Vetinari sighed. Sometimes the weather had no sense of narrative convenience.

“If it was a fine day,”
he said sharply, “you would see the big semaphore tower on the other side of the river. Words flying out and back from every corner of the continent. Not long ago it would take me the better part of a month to exchange letters with our ambassador in Genua. Now I can have a reply tomorrow. Certain things become easier, but this makes them harder in other ways. We have to change the way we think. We have to move with the times. Have you heard of c-commerce?”