The Truth

finding strange side things. Oh, zer dwarfs say that dark light had odd…effects, but zey are very superstitious people so I did not take that seriously. However…”
    He scrabbled among the debris on his bench, and picked up an iconograph.
    “Oh, dear. Zis is so complicated,” said Otto. “Look, zer philosopher Kling says zer mind has a dark side and a light side, you see, and dark light…is seen by zer dark eyes of zer mind…”
    He paused again.
    “Yes?” said Sacharissa politely.
    “I vas vaiting for zer roll of thunder,” said the vampire. “But, alas, zis is not Ubervald.”
    “You’ve lost me there,” said Sacharissa.
    “Vell, you see, if I vas to say something portentous like ‘zer dark eyes of zer mind’ back home in Ubervald, zere would be a sudden crash of thunder,” said Otto. “And if I vas to point at a castle on a towering crag and say ‘Yonder is… zer castle, ’ a volf would be bound to howl mournfully.” He sighed. “In zer old country, zer scenery is psychotropic and knows vot is expected of it. Here, alas, people just look at you in a funny vay.”
    “All right, all right, it’s a magical light that takes uncanny pictures,” said Sacharissa.
    “That’s a very… newspaper vay of putting it,” said Otto politely. He showed her the iconograph. “Look at zis one. I vanted a picture of a dwarf vorking in the Patrician’s study and I got zis.”
    The picture was a wash of blurs and swirls, and there was a vague outline of a dwarf, lying down on the floor and examining something. But superimposed on this was quite a clear picture of Lord Vetinari. Two pictures of Lord Vetinari, each figure staring at the other.
    “Well, it’s his office and he’s always in there,” said Sacharissa. “Does the…magic light pick that up?”
    “Maybe,” said Otto. “Ve know that vot is physically zere is not alvays vot is really zere. Look at zis vun.”
    He handed her another picture.
    “Oh, that’s a good one of William,” she said. “In the cellar. And…that’s Lord de Worde standing just behind him, isn’t it?”
    “Is it?” said the vampire. “I don’t know zer man. I do know that he vas not in zer cellar ven I took the picture. But…you only have to talk to Villiam for any length of time to see that, in a vay, his father is alvays looking over his shoulder—”
    “That’s creepy .”
    Sacharissa looked around the cellar. The stone walls were old and stained, but they certainly weren’t blackened.
    “I just saw…people. Men fighting. Flames. And…silver rain. How can it rain underground?”
    “I do not know. That’s vhy I study dark light.”
    Noises above suggested that William and Goodmountain had returned.
    “I wouldn’t mention this to anyone else,” said Sacharissa, heading for the ladder. “We’ve got enough to deal with. That’s creepy. ”

    There was no name outside the bar, because those who knew what it was didn’t need one. Those who didn’t know what it was shouldn’t go in. Ankh-Morpork’s undead were, on the whole, a law-abiding bunch, if only because they knew the law paid them a certain amount of special attention, but if you walked into the place known as Biers on a dark night and had no business there, who would ever know?
    For the vampires (those, that is, that weren’t gathered around a harmonium at the Temperance Mission nervously singing songs about how much they liked cocoa) it was a place to hang up. For the werewolves, it was where you let your hair down. For the bogeymen, it was a place to come out of the closet. For the ghouls, it did a decent meat pasty and chips.
    All eyes, and that was not the same thing as the number of heads multiplied by two, turned to the door when it creaked open. The newcomers were surveyed from dark corners. They wore black, but that didn’t mean anything. Anyone could wear black.
    They walked up to the bar, and Mr. Pin rapped on the stained wood.
    The barman nodded. The important thing, he’d found, was to make sure ordinary people paid for their drinks as they bought them. It wasn’t good business to let them run a tab. That showed an unwarranted optimism about the future.
    “What can I—” he began, before Mr. Tulip’s hand caught him around the back of the neck and rammed his head down hard on the bar.
    “I am not having a nice day,” said Mr. Pin, turning to the world in general, “and Mr. Tulip here suffers from unresolved personality conflicts. Has anyone got any