The Truth

on the path of responsible citizenship, sir.”
    “Is that the same as the lobsters?”
    “It’s political, sir. Apparently he wants a return to the values and traditions that made the city great, sir.”
    “Does he know what those values and traditions were? ” said Vimes, aghast.
    “I assume so, sir,” said Carrot, keeping a straight face.
    “Oh my gods. I’d rather take a chance on the lobsters.”

    It was sleeting again, out of a darkening sky. The Misbegot Bridge was more or less empty; William lurked in the shadows, his hat pulled down over his eyes.
    Eventually a voice out of nowhere said, “So…you got your bit of paper?”
    “Deep Bone?” said William, startled out of the reverie.
    “I’m sending a…a guide for you to follow,” said the hidden informant. “Name of…name of…Trixiebell. Just you follow him and everything will be okay. Ready?”
    “Yes.”
    Deep Bone is watching me, William thought. He must be really close.
    Trixiebell trotted out of the shadows.
    It was a poodle. More or less.
    The staff at Le Poil du Chien, the doggie beauty salon, had done their very best, and a craftsman will give of his or her all if it means getting Foul Ole Ron out of the shop any faster. They’d cut, blown, permed, crimped, primped, colored, woven, shampooed, and the manicurist had locked herself in the lavatory and refused to come out.
    The result was…pink. The pinkness was only one aspect of the thing, but it was so… pink that it dominated everything else, even the topiary-effect tail with the fluffy knob on the end. The front of the dog looked as though it had been fired through a large pink ball, and had only got halfway. Then there was also the matter of the large glittery collar. It glittered altogether too much; sometimes glass glitters more than diamonds because it has more to prove.
    All in all, the effect was not of a poodle, but of malformed poodlosity. That is to say, everything about it suggested “poodle” except for the whole thing itself, which suggested walking away.
    “Yip,” it said, and there was something wrong with this, too. William was aware that dogs like this yipped, but this one, he was sure, had said “yip.”
    “There’s a good…” he began, and finished, “…dog?”
    “Yip yipyip sheesh yip,” said the dog, and walked off.
    William wondered about the “sheesh,” but decided the dog must have sneezed.
    It trotted away through the slush, and disappeared down an alley.
    A moment later its muzzle appeared around the corner.
    “Yip? Whine?”
    “Oh, yes. Sorry,” said William.
    Trixiebell led the way down greasy steps to the old path that ran along the riverside. It was littered with rubbish, and anything that stays thrown away in Ankh-Morpork is real rubbish. The sun seldom got down here, even on a fine day. The shadows contrived to be freezing and running with water at the same time.
    Nevertheless, there was a fire among the dark timbers under the bridge. William realized, as his nostrils shut down, that he was visiting the canting crew.
    The old towpath had been deserted to start with, but Foul Ole Ron and the rest of them were the reason that it stayed that way. They had nothing to steal. They had precious little even to keep. Occasionally the Beggars’ Guild considered running them out of town, but without much enthusiasm. Even beggars need someone to look down on, and the crew were so far down that in a certain light they sometimes appeared to be on top. Besides, the Guild recognized craftsmanship when they saw it; no one could spit and ooze like Coffin Henry, no one could be as legless as Arnold Sideways, and nothing in the world could smell like Foul Ole Ron. He could have used oil of scallatine as a deodorant.
    And, as that thought tripped through William’s brain, he knew where Wuffles was.
    Trixiebell’s ridiculous pink tail disappeared into the mass of old packing cases and cardboard known variously to the crew as “What?,” “Bugrit!,” “Ptooi!,” and Home.
    William’s eyes were already watering. There wasn’t much breeze down here. He made his way to the pool of firelight.
    “Oh…good evening, gentlemen,” he managed, nodding to the figures around the green-edged flames.
    “Let’s see the color of your bit of paper,” commanded the voice of Deep Bone, from out of the shadows.
    “It’s, er, off-white,” said William, unfolding the check. It was taken by the Duck Man, who scanned it carefully and added noticeably to