The Truth (Discworld 25)

'I suppose so, sir.'

'Interesting. Then you wouldn't entertain the idea, would you, that a state is, say, rather like one of those old rowing galleys? The ones which had banks of oarsmen down below, and a helmsman and so on above? It is certainly in everyone's interest that the ship does not founder but, I put it to you, it is perhaps not in the interest of the rowers that they know of every shoal avoided, every collision fended off. It would only serve to worry them and put them off their stroke. What the rowers need to know is how to row, hmm?'

'And that the helmsman is a good one,' said William. He couldn't stop the sentence. It said itself. It was out there, hanging in the air.

Lord Vetinari gave him a stare that went on for several seconds beyond the necessary time. Then his face instantly broke into a broad smile.

'To be sure. And so they should, so they should. This is the age of words, after all. Fifty-six hurt in tavern brawl, eh? Astounding. What further news do you have for us, sir?'

'Well, er... it's been very cold

'Has it? Has it, indeed? My word!' On his desk the tiny iceberg bumped against the side of Lord Vetinari's inkwell.

'Yes, and there was a bit of a... fracas... at some cookery meeting last night...'

'A fracas, eh?'

'Well, probably more of a rumpus, really.* And someone has grown a funny-shaped vegetable.'

Words resemble fish in that some specialist ones can survive only in a kind of reef, where their curious shapes and usages are protected from the hurly-burly of the open sea. 'Rumpus' and 'fracas' are found only in certain newspapers (in much the same way that 'beverages' are found only in certain menus). They are never used in normal conversation.

That's the stuff. What shape?'

'A... an amusing shape, sir.'

'Could I give you a little bit of advice, Mr de Worde?'

'Please do, sir.'

'Be careful. People like to be told what they already know. Remember that. They get uncomfortable when you tell them new things. New things... well, new things aren't what they expect. They like to know that, say, a dog will bite a man. That is what dogs do. They don't want to know that a man bites a dog, because the world is not supposed to happen like that. In short, what people think they want is news, but what they really crave is olds. I can see you've got the hang of it already.'

'Yes, sir,' said William, not at all sure he fully understood this but certain that he didn't like the bit he did understand.

'I believe the Guild of Engravers has some things it wishes to discuss with Mr Goodmountain, William, but I have always thought that we should go forward to the future.'

'Yes, sir. Quite hard to go any other way.'

Once again, there was the too-long stare and then the sudden unfreezing of the face.

'Indeed. Good day, Mr de Worde. Oh... and do tread carefully. I'm sure you wouldn't want to become news... would you?'

William turned over the Patrician's words as he walked back to Gleam Street, and it is not wise to be thinking too deeply when walking the streets of Ankh-Morpork.

He walked past Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler with barely a nod, but in any case Mr Dibbler was otherwise engaged. He had two customers. Two at once, unless one was daring another, was a great rarity. But these two were worrying him. They were inspecting the merchandise.

C.M.O.T. Dibbler sold his buns and pies all around the city, even outside the Assassins' Guild. He was a good judge of people, especially when it involved judging when to step innocently round a corner and then run like hell, and he had just decided that he was really unlucky to be standing here and also that it was too late.

He didn't often meet killers. Murderers, yes, but murderers usually had some strange reason and in any case generally murdered friends and relations. And he'd met plenty of assassins, but assassination had a certain style and even certain rules.

These men were killers. The big one with the powdery streaks down his jacket and the smell of mothballs was just a vicious thug, no problem there, but the small one with the lank hair had the smell of violent and spiteful death about him. You didn't often look into the eyes of someone who'd kill because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Moving his hands carefully, Dibbler opened the special section of his tray, the high-class one that contained sausages whose contents were 1) meat, 2) from a known four-footed creature, 3) probably land-dwelling.

'Or may I recommend these, gentlemen,' he said, and because old habits died hard he couldn't stop himself from adding, 'Finest pork.'

'Good, are they?'

'You'll never want to eat another, sir.'