The Truth

off a pile by the press and handed it to William, who read:

    “What do you think?” said the dwarf shyly.
    “Are you Gunilla Goodmountain?”
    “Yes. What do you think?”
    “We—ell…you’ve got the letters nice and regular, I must say,” said William. “But I can’t see what’s so new about it. And you’ve spelled hitherto’ wrong. There should be another H after the first T . You’ll have to cut it all out again unless you want people to laugh at you.”
    “Really?” said Goodmountain. He nudged one of his colleagues.
    “Just give me a ninety-six-point uppercase H, will you, Caslong? Thank you.” Goodmountain bent over the press, picked up a spanner, and busied himself somewhere in the mechanical gloom.
    “You must have a really steady hand to get the letters so neat,” said William. He felt a bit sorry that he’d pointed out the mistake. Probably no one would have noticed in any case. Ankh-Morpork people considered that spelling was a sort of optional extra. They believed in it in the same way they believed in punctuation; it didn’t matter where you put it, so long as it was there.
    The dwarf finished whatever arcane activity he had been engaged in, dabbed with an inked pad at something inside the press, and got down.
    “I’m sure it won’t”— thump —“matter about the spelling,” said William.
    Goodmountain opened the press again and wordlessly handed William a damp sheet of paper.
    William read it.
    The extra H was in place.
    “How—?” he began.
    “This is a very nearly magical way of getting lots of copies quickly,” said Goodmountain. Another dwarf appeared at his elbow, holding a big metal rectangle. It was full of little metal letters, back to front. Goodmountain took it and gave William a big grin.
    “Want to make any changes before we go to press?” he said. “Just say the word. A couple of dozen prints be enough?”
    “Oh dear,” said William. “This is printing, isn’t it…”

    The Bucket was a tavern, of sorts. There was no passing trade. The street was, if not a dead end, then seriously wounded by the area’s change in fortunes. Few businesses fronted onto it. It consisted mainly of the back ends of yards and warehouses. No one even remembered why it was called Gleam Street. There was nothing very sparkling about it.
    Besides, calling a tavern the Bucket was not a decision destined to feature in Great Marketing Decisions of History. Its owner was Mr. Cheese, who was thin, dry, and only smiled when he heard news of some serious murder. Traditionally he had sold short measure but, to make up for it, had shortchanged as well. However, the pub had been taken over by the City Watch as the unofficial policemen’s pub, because policemen like to drink in places where no one else goes and they don’t have to be reminded that they are policemen.
    This had been a benefit in some ways. Not even licensed thieves tried to rob the Bucket now. Policemen didn’t like their drinking disturbed. On the other hand, Mr. Cheese had never found a bigger bunch of petty criminals than those wearing the Watch uniform. He saw more dud dollars and strange pieces of foreign currency cross his bar in the first month than he’d found in ten years in the business. It made you depressed, it really did. But some of the murder descriptions were quite funny.
    He made part of his living by renting out the rat’s nest of old sheds and cellars that backed onto the pub. They tended to be occupied very temporarily by the kind of enthusiastic manufacturer who believed that what the world really, really needed today was an inflatable dartboard.
    But there was a crowd outside the Bucket now, reading one of the slightly misprinted posters that Goodmountain had nailed up on the door. He followed William out and nailed up the corrected version.
    “Sorry about your head,” he said. “Looks like we made a bit of an impression on you. Have this one on the house.”
    William skulked home, keeping in the shadows in case he met Mr. Cripslock. But he folded his printed sheets into their envelopes and took them down to Hub Gate and gave them to the messengers, reflecting as he did so that he was doing this several days before he had expected to.
    The messengers gave him some very odd looks.
    He went back to his lodgings and had a look at himself in the mirror over the washbasin.
    A large R, printed in bruise colors, occupied a lot of his forehead.
    He stuck a bandage over it.
    And he still had