The door was unlocked again. A stony-faced constable escorted William back up to Vimes’s office.
Mr. Slant was there. He gave William an impassive nod. Commander Vimes was sitting in front of a small yet significant pile of paper, and had the look of a beaten man.
“I believe Mr. de Worde can go free,” said Mr. Slant.
Vimes shrugged. “I’m only amazed you aren’t asking me to give him a gold medal and an illuminated scroll of thanks. But I’m setting bail at one thou—”
“Ah?” said Mr. Slant, raising a gray finger. Vimes glowered.
“One hun—”
“Ah?”
Vimes grunted, and reached into his pocket. He tossed William a dollar.
“Here,” he said, with extensive sarcasm. “And if you aren’t in front of the Patrician tomorrow you’ve got to give it back. Satisfied?” he said to Slant.
“Which Patrician?” said William.
“Thank you for that smart answer,” said Vimes. “Just you be there.”
Mr. Slant was silent as he walked out into the night air with his new client, but after a while he said: “I have presented a writ of Exeo Carco Cum Nihil Pretii on the basis of Olfacere Violarum and Sini Plenus Piscis. Tomorrow I shall move that you are Ab Hamo, and in the event of this not working I—”
“Smelling of Violets,” said William, who had been translating in his head, “and Pockets Full of Fish?”
“Based on a case some six hundred years ago when the defendant successfully pleaded that, although he had indeed pushed the victim into a lake, the man came out with his pockets full of fish, to his net benefit,” said Mr. Slant crisply. “In any case, I shall argue that if withholding information from the Watch is a crime, every person in the city is guilty.”
“Mr. Slant, I do not wish to have to say how and where I got my information,” said William. “If I have to, I shall have to reveal all of it.”
The light from the distant lamp over the Watch House door, behind its blue glass, illuminated the lawyer’s face. He looked ill.
“You really believe those two men had…accomplices?” he said.
“I’m sure of it,” said William. “I’d say it’s a matter of…record.”
At that point he almost felt sorry for the lawyer. But only almost.
“That might not be in the public interest,” said Mr. Slant, slowly. “This ought to be a time for…reconciliation.”
“Absolutely. So I’m sure you will see to it that I don’t have to pour all those words into Commander Vimes’s ear.”
“Strangely enough, there was a precedent in 1497 when a cat successfully—”
“Good. And you will have one of your special quiet words with the Engravers’ Guild. You are good at quiet words.”
“Well, of course, I will do my best. The bill, however—”
“—won’t exist,” said William.
Only then did Mr. Slant’s parchment features really crease up in pain.
“Pro bono publico?” he croaked.
“Oh, yes. You will certainly be working for the public good,” said William. “And what is good for the public, of course, is good for you. Isn’t that nice?”
“On the other hand,” said Mr. Slant, “perhaps it would be in the interests of everyone to put this sorry affair behind us, and I will be, uh, happy to donate my services.”
“Thank you. Mr. Scrope is now Lo—is now the Patrician?”
“Yes.”
“By the vote of the Guilds.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“The unanimous vote?”
“I don’t have to tell—”
William raised a finger.
“Ah?” he said.
Mr. Slant squirmed.
“The Beggars and the Seamstresses voted to adjourn,” he said. “So did the Launderers and the Guild of Exotic Dancers.”
“So…that would be Queen Molly, Mrs. Palm, Mrs. Manger, and Miss Dixie Voom,” said William. “What an interesting, life Lord Vetinari must have led.”
“No comment.”
“And would you say Mr. Scrope is looking forward to getting to grips with the manifold problems of running the city?”
Mr. Slant considered this one.
“I think that may be the case,” he conceded.
“Not least of which is the fact that Lord Vetinari is, in fact, completely innocent? And that therefore there is a very large question mark over the appointment? Would you advise that he take up his duties with several spare pairs of underpants? You don’t have to answer that last one.”
“It is not my job to instruct the assembly of Guilds to reverse a legitimate decision, even if it turns out to have been based on…erroneous information. Nor is it my responsibility to advise Mr. Scrope on his choice of undergarments.”
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Slant.”
William barely had time to undress and lie down before it was time to get up again. He washed as best he could, changed his shirt, and went cautiously down to breakfast. He was in fact the first at the table.
There was the usual stolid silence as the other guests gathered. Most of Mrs. Arcanum’s boarders didn’t bother to talk unless they had something to say. But when Mr. Mackleduff sat down, he pulled out a copy of the Times from his pocket.
“Couldn’t get the paper,” said Mr. Mackleduff, shaking it open. “So I got the other one.”
William coughed. “Anything much in it?” he said. He could see his headline from here, in huge bold caps:
DOG BITES MAN!
He’d made it news.
“Oh…Lord Vetinari got away with it,” said Mr. Mackleduff.
“Well, of course he would,” said Mr. Prone. “Very clever man, whatever they say.”
“And his dog’s all right,” said Mr. Mackleduff. William wanted to shake the man for reading so slowly.
“That’s nice,” said Mrs. Arcanum, pouring out the tea.
“Is that it?” said William.
“Oh, there’s a lot of political stuff,” said Mr. Mackleduff. “It’s all a bit far-fetched.”
“Any good vegetables today?” said Mr. Cartwright.
Mr. Mackleduff carefully inspected the other pages.
“No,” he said.
“My firm are thinking of approaching that man to see if he’d let us sell his seeds for him,” Mr. Cartwright went on. “It’s just the sort of thing people like.” He caught Mrs. Arcanum’s eye. “Only those vegetables suitable for a family environment, of course,” he added quickly.
“Aye, it does you good to laugh,” said Mr. Mackleduff solemnly.
It crossed William’s mind to wonder if Mr. Wintler could grow an obscene pea. But of course he could.
“I would have thought it’s quite important,” he said, “if Lord Vetinari isn’t guilty.”
“Oh, yes, I daresay, to them as has to deal with these things,” said Mr. Mackleduff. “I don’t quite see where we come into it, though.”
“But surely—” William began.
Mrs. Arcanum patted her hair. “I’ve always thought Lord Vetinari was a most handsome man,” she said, and then looked flustered when they all stared at her. “I meant, I’m just a little surprised there isn’t a Lady Vetinari. As it were. Ahem.”
“Oh well, you know what they say,” said Mr. Windling.
A pair of arms shot out across the table, grabbed the surprised man by the lapels, and pulled him up so that his face was a few inches from William’s.
“I don’t know what they say, Mr. Windling!” he shouted. “But you know what they say, Mr. Windling! Why don’t you tell us what they say, Mr. Windling! Why don’t you tell us who told you, Mr. Windling?”
“Mr. de Worde! Really!” said Mrs. Arcanum. Mr. Prone pulled the toast out of the way.
“I’m very sorry about this, Mrs. Arcanum,” said William, still holding the struggling man, “but I want to know what everyone knows and I want to know how they know it. Mr. Windling?”
“They say he’s got some sort
of a lady friend who’s very important in Uberwald,” said Mr. Windling. “And I’ll thank you to let go of me!”
“And that’s it? What’s so sinister about that? It’s a friendly country!”
“Yes, but, yes, but they say—”
William let go. Windling rocked back into his chair, but William stayed standing, breathing heavily.
“Well, I wrote the article in the Times!” he snapped. “And what’s in there is what I say! Me! Because I found things out, and checked things, and people who say ‘ing’ a lot tried to kill me! I’m not the man that’s the brother of some man you met in the pub! I’m not some stupid rumor put about to make trouble! So just remember that, before you try any of that ‘everyone knows’ stuff! And in an hour or so I’ve got to go up to the Palace and see Commander Vimes and whoever is the Patrician and a lot of other people, to get this whole thing sorted out! And it’s not going to be very nice, but I’m going to have to do it, because I wanted you to know things that are important! Sorry about the teapot, Mrs. Arcanum, I’m sure it can be mended.”
In the ensuing silence Mr. Prone picked up the paper and said: “You write this?”
“Yes!”
“I…er…I thought they had special people…”
All heads turned back to William.
“There isn’t a they. There’s just me and a young lady. We write it all!”
“But…who tells you what to put in?”
The heads turned back to William again.
“We just…decide.”
“Er…is it true about big silver discs kidnapping people?”
“No!”
To William’s surprise, Mr. Cartwright actually raised his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Cartwright?”
“I’ve got quite an important question, Mr. de Worde. What with you knowing all this stuff…”
“Yes?”
“Have you got the address of the funny vegetable man?”
William arrived at the Palace at five minutes to ten, with Otto. There was a small crowd around the gates.
Commander Vimes was standing in the courtyard, talking to Slant and some of the Guild leaders. He smiled in a humorless way when he saw William.
“You’re rather late, Mr. de Worde,” he said.
“I’m early!”
“I meant that things have been happening.”
Mr. Slant cleared his throat. “Mr. Scrope has sent a note,” he said. “It appears that he is ill.”
William pulled out his notebook.
The city’s leaders focused on it. He hesitated. And then uncertainty evaporated. I’m a de Worde, he thought, don’t you dare look down your nose at me! You’ve got to move with the Times. Oh well…here goes…
“Was it signed by his mother?” he said.
“I don’t follow your meaning,” said the lawyer, but several of the Guild leaders turned their heads away.
“What’s happening now, then?” said William. “We don’t have a ruler?”
“Happily,” said Mr. Slant, who looked like a man in a private hell, “Lord Vetinari is feeling very much better and expects to resume his duties tomorrow.”
“Excuse me, is he allowed to write that down?” said Lord Downey, head of the Assassins’ Guild, as William made a note.
“Allowed by who?” said Vimes.
“Whom,” said William, under his breath.
“Well, he can’t just write down anything, can he?” said Lord Downey. “Supposing he writes down something we don’t want him to write down?”
Vimes looked William firmly in the eye.
“There’s no law against it,” he said.
“Lord Vetinari is not going to go on trial, then, Lord Downey?” said William, holding Vimes’s gaze for a second.
Downey, baffled, turned to Slant.
“Can he ask me that?” he said. “Just come out with a question, just like that?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Do I have to answer it?”
“It is a reasonable question in the circumstances, my lord, but you don’t have to.”
“Do you have a message for the people of Ankh-Morpork?” said William sweetly.
“Do we, Mr. Slant?” said Lord Downey.
Mr. Slant sighed. “It may be advisable, my lord, yes.”
“Oh well, then—no, there won’t be a trial. Obviously.”
“And he’s not going to be pardoned?” said William.
Lord Downey turned to Mr. Slant, who gave a little sigh.
“Again, my lord, it is—”
“All right, all right…no, he’s not going to be pardoned because it is quite clear that he is quite guiltless,” said Downey testily.
“Would you say that this has become clear because of the excellent work done by Commander Vimes and his dedicated band of officers, aided in a small way by the Times?” said William.
Lord Downey looked blank. “Would I say that?” he said.
“I think you possibly would, yes, my lord,” said Slant, sinking further in gloom.
“Oh. Then I would,” said Downey. “Yes.” He craned his neck to see what William was writing down. Out of the corner of his eye William saw Vimes’s expression; it was a strange mixture of amusement and anger.
“And would you say, as spokesman for the Guild council, that you are commending Commander Vimes?” said William.
“Now see here—” Vimes began.
“I suppose we would, yes.”
“I expect there’s a Watch Medal or a commendation in the offing?”
“Now look—” Vimes said.
“Yes, very probably. Very probably,” said Lord Downey, now thoroughly buffeted by the winds of change.
William painstakingly noted this down, too, and closed his notebook. This caused a general air of relief among the others.
“Thank you very much, my lord, and ladies and gentlemen,” he said cheerfully. “Oh, Mister Vimes…do you and I have anything to discuss?”
“Not right at this moment,” growled Vimes.
“Oh, that’s good. Well, I must go and get this written up, so thank you once—”
“You will of course show this…article to us before you put it in the paper,” said Lord Downey, rallying a little.
William wore his haughtiness like an overcoat.
“Um, no, I don’t think I will, my lord. It’s my paper, you see.”
“Can he—”
“Yes, my lord, he can,” said Mr. Slant. “I’m afraid he can. The right to free speech is a fine old Ankh-Morpork tradition.”
“Good heavens, is it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How did that one survive?”
“I couldn’t say, my lord,” said Slant. “But Mr. de Worde,” he added, staring at William, “is, I believe, a young man who would not go out of his way to upset the smooth running of the city.”
William smiled at him, politely, nodded to the rest of the company, and walked back across the courtyard and out into the street. He waited until he was some distance away before he burst out laughing.
A week went past. It was notable because of the things that didn’t happen. There was no protest from Mr. Carney or the Engravers’ Guild. William wondered if he had been carefully moved into the “to be left alone” file. After all, people may be thinking, Vetinari probably owed the Times a favor, and no one would want to be that favor, would they? There was no visit from the Watch, either. There had been rather more street cleaners around than usual, but after William sent a hundred dollars to Harry King, plus a bouquet for Mrs. King, Gleam Street was no longer gleaming.
They’d moved to another shed while the old one was being rebuilt. Mr. Cheese had been easy to deal with. He just wanted money. You know where you stand with simple people like that, even if it is with your hand in your wallet.
A new press had been rolled in, and once again money had made the effort almost frictionless. It had already been substantially redesigned by the dwarfs.
This shed was sma
ller than the old one, but Sacharissa had contrived to partition off a tiny editorial space. She’d put a potted plant and a coatrack in it, and talked excitedly of the space they’d have when the new building was finished, but William reckoned that however big it was it would never be neat. Newspaper people thought the floor was a big flat filing cabinet.
He had a new desk, too. In fact it was better than a new desk; it was a genuine antique one, made of genuine walnut, inlaid with leather, and with two inkwells, lots of drawers, and genuine woodworm. At a desk like that, a man could write.
They hadn’t brought the spike.
William was pondering over a letter from the Ankh-Morpork League of Decency when the sense that someone was standing nearby made him look up.
Sacharissa had ushered in a small group of strangers, although after a second or two he recognized one of them as the late Mr. Bendy, who was merely strange.
“You remember you said we ought to get more writers?” she said. “You know Mr. Bendy, and this is Mrs. Tilly”—a small white-haired woman bobbed a curtsy to William—“who likes cats and really nasty murders, and Mr. O’Biscuit”—a rangy young man—“who’s all the way from Fourecks and looking for a job before he goes home.”
“Really? What did you do in Fourecks, Mr. O’Biscuit?”
“I was at Bugarup University, mate.”
“You’re a wizard?”
“No, mate. They threw me out, ’cos of what I wrote in the student magazine.”
“What was that?”
“Everything, really.”
“Oh. And…Mrs. Tilly, I think you wrote a lovely well-spelled and grammatical letter to us suggesting that everyone under the age of eighteen should be flogged once a week to stop them being so noisy?”
“Once a day, Mr. de Worde,” said Mrs. Tilly. “That’ll teach ’em to go around being young!”
William hesitated. But the press needed feeding, and he and Sacharissa needed time off. Rocky was supplying some sports news, and while it was unreadable to William, he put it in on the basis that anyone keen on sport probably couldn’t read.
There had to be more staff. It was worth a try.
“Very well, then,” he said. “We’ll give you all a trial, starting right—oh.”