The Truth
worked out what you are yet, okay? Just be careful, that’s all.”
“And you have worked out what I am, have you?” said William.
“Let’s just say I don’t rely on first impressions, shall we? Mind the step.”
She led the way down into the cells. William noted, without being so crass as to write it down, that there were two watchmen on duty at the bottom.
“Are there usually guards down here? I mean, the cells have locks on, don’t they?”
“I hear you’ve got a vampire working for you,” said Sergeant Angua.
“Otto? Oh, yes. Well, we’re not prejudiced about that sort of thing…”
The sergeant did not answer. Instead, she opened a door off the main cell corridor and called out: “Visitor for the patients, Igor.”
“Right with you, Thargent.”
The room within was brightly lit by an uncanny, flickering blue light. Jars lined shelves on one wall. Some had strange things moving in them—very strange things. Other things just floated. Blue sparks sizzled on some complex machine, all copper balls and glass rods, in the corner. But what mainly drew William’s attention was the great big eye.
Before he could actually scream, a hand reached up and what he’d thought was a huge eyeball was revealed as the largest magnifying glass he’d ever seen, swiveling up on a metal bracket attached to the forehead of its owner. But the face it revealed was barely an improvement, when it came to mouth-desiccating horror.
The eyes were on different levels. One ear was larger than the other. The face was a network of scars. But that was nothing compared to the deformed hairstyle; Igor’s greasy black hair had been brushed forward into an overhanging quiff in the manner of some of the city’s noisier young musicians, but to a length that could take out the eye of any innocent pedestrian. By the looks of the… organic nature of Igor’s work area, he could then help put it back.
There was a fish tank bubbling on one bench. Inside it, some potatoes were idly swimming backwards and forwards.
“Young Igor here is part of our forensic department,” said Sergeant Angua. “Igor, this is Mr. de Worde. He wants to see the patients.”
William saw the quick glance Igor gave the sergeant, who added, “Mister Vimes says it’s okay.”
“Right this way, then,” said Igor, lurching past William and into the corridor. “Always nice to get visitors down here, Mr. de Worde. You will find we keep a very relaxed thell down here. I’ll just go and get the keyth.”
“Why does he only lisp the occasional S ?” said William, as Igor limped towards a cupboard.
“He’s trying to be modern. You never met an Igor before?”
“Not one like that, no! He’s got two thumbs on his right hand!”
“He’s from Uberwald,” said the sergeant. “Igors are very much into self-improvement. Fine surgeons, though. Just don’t shake hands with one in a thunderstorm—”
“Here we are, then,” said Igor, lurching back. “Who first?”
“Lord Vetinari?” said William.
“He’s still athleep,” said Igor.
“What, after all this time?”
“Not surprithing. It was a nasty blow he had—”
Sergeant Angua coughed loudly.
“I thought he fell off a horse,” said William.
“Well, yes…and caught himthelf a blow when he hit the floor, I’ve no doubt,” said Igor, glancing at Angua.
He turned the key again.
Lord Vetinari lay on a narrow bed. His face looked pale, but he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.
“He’s not woken up at all ?” said William.
“No. I look in on him every fifteen minutes or tho. It can be like that. Sometimeth the body just says: thleep.”
“I heard he hardly ever sleeps,” said William.
“Maybe he’s taking the opportunity,” said Igor, gently closing the door. He unlocked the next cell.
Drumknott was sitting up in bed, his head bandaged. He was drinking some soup. He looked startled when he saw them, and nearly spilled it.
“And how are we?” said Igor, as cheerfully as a face full of stitches can allow.
“Er… I’m feeling much better…” The young man looked from one face to another, uncertain.
“Mr. de Worde here would like to talk to you,” said Sergeant Angua. “I’ll go and help Igor sort out his eyeballs. Or something.”
William was left in an awkward silence. Drumknott was one of those people with no discernible character. “You’re Lord de Worde’s son, aren’t you,” said Drumknott. “You write that news sheet.”
“Yes,”
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