The Truth

this now,” said Charlie.
    “What do you think, Mr. Tulip?”
    Tulip opened his mouth to reply, but sneezed instead. A thin bolt of lightning earthed itself on Charlie’s chain.
    “Maybe we could go to fifteen thousand,” said Mr. Pin. “And that’s coming out of our share, Charlie.”
    “Yeah, well…” said Charlie. He was as far away from Mr. Tulip as possible now, because the man’s dry hair was standing out from his head.
    “But we want to see some extra effort, right?” said Mr. Pin. “Starting right now. All you have to do is say…what do you have to say?”
    “‘You are relieved of your post, my man. Go away,’” said Charlie.
    “Except we don’t say it like that, do we, Charlie?” said Mr. Pin. “It’s an order . You are his boss. And you have to give him a haughty stare…look, how can I put it? You’re a shopkeeper. Imagine that he’s asked for credit.”

    It was six in the morning. Freezing fog held the city in its breathless grip.
    Through the mists they came, and into the press room behind the Bucket they lurched, and out into the mists they went again, on a variety of legs, crutches, and wheels.
    “Mrpikeerah-Tis!”
    Lord Vetinari heard the cry and sent the overnight clerk down to the gate again.
    He noted the title. He smiled at the motto.
    He read the words:

    And Lord Vetinari smiled.
    And someone knocked softly at the door.
    And he glanced at the clock.
    “Come,” he said.
    Nothing happened. After a few seconds, the soft knock came again.
    “Come in .”
    And there was the pregnant silence again.
    And Lord Vetinari touched an apparently ordinary part of his desktop.
    And a long drawer appeared out of what had seemed to be the solid walnut of the desk, sliding forward as though on oil. It contained a number of slim devices on a bed of black velvet, and a description of any one of them would certainly involve the word “sharp.”
    And he chose one, held it casually by his side, crossed soundlessly towards the door and turned the handle, stepping back quickly in case of a sudden rush.
    No one pushed.
    And the door, yielding to an unevenness in the hinges, swung inwards.

    Mr. Mackleduff smoothed out the paper. It was already accepted by all around the breakfast table that, as the man who bought the paper, he was not simply its owner but, as it were, its priest, replaying its contents to the appreciative masses.
    “It says here a man in Martlebury Street has grown a vegetable that’s a funny shape,” he said.
    “I should very much like to see that,” said Mrs. Arcanum. There was a choking noise from further down the table. “Are you all right, Mister de Worde?” she added, as Mr. Prone thumped him on the back.
    “Yes…yes, really,” gasped William. “S…sorry. Some tea went down the wrong way.”
    “There’s good soil over that way,” opined Mr. Cartwright, traveling seed salesman.
    William concentrated desperately on his toast, while over his head every item was presented with the care and veneration of a blessed relic.
    “Someone held up a shopkeeper at knifepoint,” Mr. Mackleduff went on.
    “Soon we will not be safe in our beds,” said Mrs. Arcanum.
    “I don’t think this is the coldest winter for more than a hundred years, though,” said Mr. Cartwright. “I’m sure that one we had ten years ago was worse. Hit my sales something cruel.”
    “It’s in the paper,” said Mr. Mackleduff, in the quiet voice of someone laying down an ace.
    “It was a very strange obituary that you read out, too,” said Mrs. Arcanum. William nodded silently over his boiled egg. “I’m sure it’s not usual to talk about the things someone’s done since they died.”
    Mr. Longshaft, who was a dwarf and something in the jewelry business, helped himself to another slice of toast.
    “I suppose it takes all sorts,” he said, calmly.
    “The city is getting rather crowded, though,” said Mr. Windling, who had some unspecified clerical job. “Still, at least zombies are human. No offense meant, of course.”
    Mr. Longshaft smiled faintly as he buttered the toast, and William wondered why he always disliked people who said “no offense meant.” Maybe it was because they found it easier to say “no offense meant” than actually to refrain from giving offense.
    “Well, I suppose we have to move with the times,” said Mrs. Arcanum. “And I hope that other poor man finds his watch.”
    In fact Mr. Harry was waiting outside the office when William arrived. He