A few days ago he'd have expected today to be... well, dull. It usually was, just after he'd sent out his news letter. He generally spent the time wandering around the city or reading in his tiny office while waiting for the next client with a letter to be written or, sometimes, read out.
Often both kinds were difficult. People prepared to trust a postal system that largely depended on handing an envelope to some trustworthy-looking person who was heading in the right direction generally had something important to say. But the point was that they weren't his difficulties. It wasn't him making a last-minute plea to the Patrician, or hearing the terrible news about the collapse of shaft #3, although of course he did his best to make things easier for the customer. It had worked very well. If stress were food, he'd succeeded in turning his life into porridge.
The press waited. It looked, now, like a great big beast. Soon he'd throw a lot of words into it. And in a few hours it would be hungry again, as if those words had never happened. You could feed it, but you could never fill it up.
He shuddered. What had he got them all into?
But he felt on fire. There was a truth somewhere, and he hadn't found it yet. He was going to, because he knew, he knew that once this edition hit the streets--
'Bugrit!'
'Hawrrak... pwit!'
'Quack!'
He glanced at the crowd coming in. Of course, the truth hid in some unlikely places and had some strange handmaidens.
'Let's go to press,' he said.
It was an hour later. The sellers were already coming back for more. The rumbling of the press made the tin roof shake. The piles of copper mounting up in front of Goodmountain leapt into the air at every thump.
William examined his reflection in a piece of polished brass. Somehow he'd got ink all over himself. He did the best he could with his handkerchief.
He'd sent Altogether Andrews to sell the papers near Pseudopolis Yard, reckoning him to be the most consistently sane of the fraternity. At least five of his personalities could hold a coherent conversation.
By now, surely, the Watch would have had time to read the story, even if they'd had to send out for help with the longer words.
He. was aware of someone staring at him. He turned and saw Sacharissa's head bend down over her work again. Someone sniggered, behind him.
There was no one there who was paying him any attention. There was a three-way argument over a matter of sixpence going on between Goodmountain, Foul Ole Ron and Foul Ole Ron, Ron being capable of keeping a pretty good row going all by himself. The dwarfs were hard at work around the press. Otto had retired to his darkroom, where he was once again mysteriously also hard at work.
Only Ron's dog was watching William. He considered that it had, for a dog, a very offensive and knowing look.
A couple of months ago someone had tried to hand William the old story about there being a dog in the city that could talk. It was the third time this year. William had explained that it was an urban myth. It was always a friend of a friend who had heard it talk, and it was never anyone who had seen the dog. The dog in front of William didn't look as if it could talk, but it did look as if it could swear.
There seemed to be no stopping that kind of story. People swore that there was some long-lost heir to the throne of Ankh living incognito in the town. William certainly recognized wishful
thinking when he heard it. There was the other old chestnut about a werewolf being employed in the Watch, too. Until recently he'd dismissed that one, but he was having some doubts lately. After all, the Times employed a vampire...
He stared at the wall, tapping his teeth with his pencil.
'I'm going to see Commander Vimes,' he said at last. 'It's better than hiding.'
'We're being invited to all sorts of things,' said Sacharissa, looking up from her paperwork. 'Well, I say invited... Lady Selachii has ordered us to attend her ball on Thursday next week and write at least 500 words which we will of course let her see before publication.'
'Good idea,' Goodmountain called over his shoulder. 'Lots of names at balls, and--'
'--names sell newspapers,' said William. 'Yes. I know. Do you want to go?'
'Me? I haven't got anything to wear!' said Sacharissa. 'It'd cost forty dollars for the kind of dress you wear to that sort of thing. And we can't afford that kind of money.'
William hesitated. Then he said: 'Stand up and twirl around, could you?'
She actually blushed. 'Whatever for?'
'I want to see what size you are... you know, all over.'
She stood up and turned around nervously. There was a chorus of whistles from the crew and a number of untranslatable comments in dwarfish.