The Truth

anything else, the dwarfs are a very hardworking and valuable ethnic grouping in the city,” said the Patrician. “On the whole, I wish to avoid any low-level difficulties at this time, what with the unsettled situation in Uberwald and the whole Muntab question.”
    “Where’s Muntab?” said William.
    “Exactly. How is Lord de Worde, by the way? You should write to him more often, you know.”
    William said nothing.
    “I always think it is a very sad thing when families fall out,” said Lord Vetinari. “There is far too much mutton-headed ill feeling in the world.” He gave William a companionable pat. “I’m sure you will see to it that the printing enterprise stays firmly in the realms of the cult, the canny, and the scrutable. Do I make myself clear?”
    “But I don’t have any control ov—”
    “Hmm?”
    “Yes, Lord Vetinari,” said William.
    “Good. Good!” The Patrician straightened up, turned, and beamed at the dwarfs.
    “Jolly good,” he said. “My word. Lots of little letters, all screwed together. Possibly an idea whose time has come. I may even have an occasional job for you myself.”
    William waved frantically at Gunilla from behind the Patrician’s back.
    “Special rate for government jobs,” the dwarf muttered.
    “Oh, but I wouldn’t dream of paying any less than other customers,” said the Patrician.
    “I wasn’t going to charge you less than—”
    “Well, I’m sure we’ve all been very pleased to see you here, Your Lordship,” said William brightly, swiveling the Patrician in the direction of the door. “We look forward to the pleasure of your custom.”
    “Are you quite sure Mr. Dibbler isn’t involved in this concern?”
    “I think he’s having some things printed, but that’s all,” said William.
    “Astonishing. Astonishing,” said Lord Vetinari, getting into his coach. “I do hope he isn’t ill.”
    Two figures watched his departure from the rooftop opposite.
    One of them said, very, very quietly, “—!”
    The other said, “You have a point of view, Mr. Tulip?”
    “And he’s the man who runs the city?”
    “Yeah.”
    “So where’s his —ing bodyguards?”
    “If we wanted to scrag him, here and now, how useful would, say, four bodyguards be?”
    “As a —ing chocolate kettle, Mr. Pin.”
    “There you are, then.”
    “But I could knock him over from here with a —ing brick!”
    “I gather there are many organizations who hold Views on that, Mr. Tulip. People tell me this dump is thriving. The man at the top has a lot of friends when everything is going well. You would soon run out of bricks.”
    Mr. Tulip looked down at the departing coach.
    “From what I hear he mostly doesn’t do a —ing thing!” he complained.
    “Yeah,” said Mr. Pin smoothly. “One of the hardest things to do properly, in politics.”
    Both Mr. Tulip and Mr. Pin brought different things to their partnership, and in this instance what Mr. Pin brought was political savvy. Mr. Tulip respected this, even if he didn’t understand it. He contented himself with muttering, “It’d be simpler to —ing kill him.”
    “Oh, for a —ing simple world,” said Mr. Pin. “Look, lay off the Honk, eh? That stuff’s for trolls . It’s worse than Slab. And they cut it with ground glass.”
    “’s chemical,” said Mr. Tulip sullenly.
    Mr. Pin sighed.
    “Shall I try again?” he said. “Listen carefully . Drugs equals chemicals, but, and please listen to this part, sheesh, chemicals do not equal drugs. Remember all that trouble with the calcium carbonate? When you paid the man five dollars?”
    “Made me feel good,” muttered Mr. Tulip.
    “Calcium carbonate?” said Mr. Pin. “Even for you, I mean…look, you put up your actual nose enough chalk that someone could probably cut your head off and write on a blackboard with your neck.”
    That was the major problem with Mr. Tulip, he thought as they made their way to the ground. It wasn’t that he had a drug habit. He wanted to have a drug habit. What he had was a stupidity habit, which cut in whenever he found anything being sold in little bags, and this had resulted in Mr. Tulip seeking heaven in flour, salt, baking powder, and pickled beef sandwiches. In a street where furtive people were selling Clang, Slip, Chop, Rhino, Skunk, Triplin, Floats, Honk, Double Honk, Gongers, and Slack, Mr. Tulip had an unerring way of finding the man who was retailing curry powder at what worked out as six hundred dollars a