The Truth

said Sacharissa.
    “Yes. It makes sense. Who’s going to argue? Where was I…Their plan was foiled by Lord Vetinari’s dog, Wuffles(16), who attacked both men. Paragraph. The noise of this attracted the attention of Lord Vetinari’s clerk, Rufus Drumknott…damn, I forgot to ask him how old he was…who was then knocked unconscious. Paragraph. The attackers tried to put the interruption to good use in their…what’s the good word? Oh, yes…their dastardly plan and stabbed Drumknott with one of Lord Vetinari’s own daggers in an attempt to make it look as if he was insane or murderous. Paragraph. Acting with vicious cunning—”
    “You’re getting really good at this,” said Sacharissa.
    “Don’t interrupt him,” hissed Boddony. “I want to find out what the dastards did next!”
    “—with vicious cunning, they forced the bogus Lord Vetinari—”
    “Good word, good word,” said Goodmountain, setting furiously.
    “Are you certain about ‘forced’?” said Sacharissa.
    “They aren’t—they weren’t the kind of men who ask nicely,” said William brusquely. “Er…forced the bogus Lord Vetinari…to make a false confession to some servants who were attracted by the noise. Then all three, carrying the unconscious Lord Vetinari and harried by the dog, Wuffles (16), took the stairs to the stables. Paragraph. There they had set up a scene to suggest that Lord Vetinari had been trying to rob the city, as already reported in—”
    “ Exclusively in,” Sacharissa said.
    “Right, exclusively in the Times . Paragraph. However, the dog Wuffles escaped, dash, and caused a citywide search by the Watch and criminals alike. He was found by a group of public-spirited citizens. They—”
    A piece of type dropped from Goodmountain’s fingers.
    “You mean Foul Ole Ron and that bunch?”
    “—public-spirited citizens,” William repeated, nodding furiously. “They kept him hidden, while—”

    Cold winter storms had the whole of the Sto Plains in which to build up speed. By the time they hit Ankh-Morpork they were fast and heavy and laden with malice.
    This time it took the form of hail. Fist-sized balls of ice smashed into tiles. They blocked gutters and filled the streets with shrapnel.
    They hammered on the roof of the warehouse in Gleam Street. One or two windows smashed.
    William paced up and down, shouting out his words above the force of the storm, occasionally flicking back and forth through the pages of his notebook. Otto came out and handed the dwarfs a couple of iconograph plates. The crew limped and sidled in, ready for the edition.
    William stopped. The last letters clicked into place.
    “Let’s see what it looks like so far,” said William.
    Goodmountain inked the type, put a piece of paper over the story, and ran a hand-roller over it. Wordlessly, he handed it to Sacharissa.
    “Are you sure of all this, William?” she said.
    “Yes.”
    “I mean, some bits—are you sure it’s all true?”
    “I’m sure it’s all journalism,” said William.
    “And what is that supposed to mean?”
    “It means it’s true enough for now.”
    “But do you know the names of these people?”
    William hesitated. Then he said:
    “Mr. Goodmountain, you can insert an extra paragraph anywhere in the story, can’t you?”
    “That’s not a problem.”
    “Right. Then set this: The Times can reveal that the assassins were hired by a group of prominent citizens led by…The Times can reveal that…” He took a deep breath. “Start again…The plotters, the Times can reveal, were headed by…” William shook his head. “Evidence points to…uh…Evidence, the Times can reveal…All the evidence, the Times can reveal…can reveal…” His voice trailed off.
    “This is going to be a long paragraph?” said Goodmountain.
    William stared miserably at the damp proof.
    “No,” he said wretchedly. “I think that’s it. Let it go at that. Put in a line saying that the Times will be helping the Watch with its enquiries.”
    “Why? We’re not guilty of anything, are we?” said Goodmountain.
    “Just do it, please.” William screwed the proof into a ball, tossed it onto a bench, and wandered off towards the press.
    Sacharissa found him a few minutes later. A print room offers a mass of holes and corners, mostly used by those whose duties require the occasional bunk-off for a quiet smoke. William was sitting on a pile of paper, staring at nothing.
    “Is there something you want to talk about?”