The Truth

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