The Truth

dig. For years if necessary. That’s how he got where he is today, by digging.”
    Vimes leaned forward. “Between you and me, and without your notebook,” he muttered, “Mr. Slant is a devious dead bastard who can bend such law as we have into a puzzle ring.”
    “Yep,” said William. “And he’s my lawyer. I guarantee it.”
    “Why would Mr. Slant speak up on your behalf?” said Vimes, staring at William.
    William matched him eyeball for eyeball. It’s true, he thought. I’m my father’s son. All I have to do is use it.
    “Because he’s a very fair man?” he said. “Now, are you going to send a runner to fetch him? Because if you’re not, you’ve got to let me go.”
    Without taking his gaze off William, Vimes reached down and unhooked a speaking tube from the side of his desk. He whistled into it, and then put it to his ear. There was a sound like a mouse pleading for mercy at the other end of a drainpipe.
    “Yata whipsie poitl swup?”
    Vimes put the tube to his mouth. “Sergeant, send someone up to take Mr. de Worde down to the cells, will you?”
    “Swyddle yumyumpwipwipwip?”
    Vimes sighed, and hooked up the pipe again. He got up and opened the door.
    “Fred, send someone to take Mr. de Worde down to the cells, will you?” he yelled. “I’m calling it protective custody for now,” he added, turning to William.
    “Protecting me from whom?”
    “Well, I personally have an overwhelming urge to give you a ding alongside the ear,” said Vimes. “But I suspect there are others out there without my self-control.”
    It was in fact quite peaceful in the cells. The bunk was comfortable. The walls were covered with graffiti, and William passed the time correcting the spelling.
    The door was unlocked again. A stony-faced constable escorted William back up to Vimes’s office.
    Mr. Slant was there. He gave William an impassive nod. Commander Vimes was sitting in front of a small yet significant pile of paper, and had the look of a beaten man.
    “I believe Mr. de Worde can go free,” said Mr. Slant.
    Vimes shrugged. “I’m only amazed you aren’t asking me to give him a gold medal and an illuminated scroll of thanks. But I’m setting bail at one thou—”
    “Ah?” said Mr. Slant, raising a gray finger. Vimes glowered.
    “One hun—”
    “Ah?”
    Vimes grunted, and reached into his pocket. He tossed William a dollar.
    “Here,” he said, with extensive sarcasm. “And if you aren’t in front of the Patrician tomorrow you’ve got to give it back. Satisfied?” he said to Slant.
    “Which Patrician?” said William.
    “Thank you for that smart answer,” said Vimes. “Just you be there.”
    Mr. Slant was silent as he walked out into the night air with his new client, but after a while he said: “I have presented a writ of Exeo Carco Cum Nihil Pretii on the basis of Olfacere Violarum and Sini Plenus Piscis . Tomorrow I shall move that you are Ab Hamo , and in the event of this not working I—”
    “Smelling of Violets,” said William, who had been translating in his head, “and Pockets Full of Fish?”
    “Based on a case some six hundred years ago when the defendant successfully pleaded that, although he had indeed pushed the victim into a lake, the man came out with his pockets full of fish, to his net benefit,” said Mr. Slant crisply. “In any case, I shall argue that if withholding information from the Watch is a crime, every person in the city is guilty.”
    “Mr. Slant, I do not wish to have to say how and where I got my information,” said William. “If I have to, I shall have to reveal all of it.”
    The light from the distant lamp over the Watch House door, behind its blue glass, illuminated the lawyer’s face. He looked ill.
    “You really believe those two men had…accomplices?” he said.
    “I’m sure of it,” said William. “I’d say it’s a matter of…record.”
    At that point he almost felt sorry for the lawyer. But only almost.
    “That might not be in the public interest,” said Mr. Slant, slowly. “This ought to be a time for…reconciliation.”
    “Absolutely. So I’m sure you will see to it that I don’t have to pour all those words into Commander Vimes’s ear.”
    “Strangely enough, there was a precedent in 1497 when a cat successfully—”
    “Good. And you will have one of your special quiet words with the Engravers’ Guild. You are good at quiet words.”
    “Well, of course, I will do my best. The bill,