The Truth

appeared to be turnip and gritty rainwater-tasting sultanas and the remains of some cold mutton, although William couldn’t remember when they’d had the original mutton, at any temperature.
    This was not a problem for the other lodgers. Mrs. Arcanum provided big helpings, and they were men who measured culinary achievement by the amount you got on your plate. It might not taste astonishing, but you went to bed full and that was what mattered.
    At the moment the news of the day was being discussed. Mr. Mackleduff had bought both the Inquirer and the two editions of the Times , in his role as keeper of the fire of communication.
    It was generally agreed that the news in the Inquirer was more interesting, although Mrs. Arcanum ruled that the whole subject of snakes was not one for the dinner table and papers ought not to be allowed to disturb people like this. Rains of insects and so on, though, fully confirmed everyone’s view of distant lands.
    Olds, thought William, forensically dissecting a sultana. His Lordship was right. Not news but olds, telling people that what they think they already know is true…
    The Patrician, it was agreed, was a shifty one. The meeting concurred that they were all alike, the lot of them. Mr. Windling said the city was in a mess and there ought to be some changes. Mr. Longshaft said that he couldn’t speak for the city, but from what he had heard the gemstone business had been very brisk of late. Mr. Windling said that it was all right for some. Mr. Prone put forth the opinion that the Watch could not find their bottom with both hands, a turn of phrase that almost earned him a place at the kitchen table to finish his meal. It was agreed that Vetinari had done it all right and should be put away. The main course adjourned at 8:35 P.M. , and was followed by disintegrating plums in runny custard, Mr. Prone getting slightly fewer plums as an unspoken reprimand.
    William went up to his room early. He had adapted to Mrs. Arcanum’s cuisine, but nothing except radical surgery would make him like her coffee.
    He lay down on the narrow bed in the dark (Mrs. Arcanum supplied one candle weekly, and what with one thing and another he had forgotten to buy any extra) and tried to think.

    Mr. Slant walked across the floor of the empty ballroom, his feet echoing on the wood.
    He took his position in the circle of candlelight with a slight twanging of nerves. As a zombie, he was always a little edgy about fire.
    He coughed.
    “Well?” said a chair.
    “They didn’t get the dog,” said Mr. Slant. “In all other respects, I have to say, they did a masterly job.”
    “How bad could it be if the Watch find it?”
    “As I understand it, the dog in question is quite old,” said Mr. Slant into the candlelight. “I have instructed Mr. Pin to look for it, but I don’t believe he will find it easy to get access to the city’s canine underground.”
    “There are other werewolves here, aren’t there?”
    “Yes,” said Mr. Slant smoothly. “But they won’t help. There are very few of them, and Sergeant Angua of the Watch is very important in the werewolf community. They won’t help strangers, because she will find out.”
    “And bring the Watch down on them?”
    “I believe she would not bother with the Watch,” said Slant.
    “The dog is probably in some dwarf’s stewpot by now,” said a chair. There was general laughter.
    “If things go…wrong,” said a chair, “who do these men know?” “They know me,” said Mr. Slant. “I would not worry unduly. Vimes works by the rules.”
    “I’ve always understood him to be a violent and vicious man,” said a chair.
    “Quite so. And because this is what he knows himself to be, he always works by the rules. In any case, the Guilds will be meeting tomorrow.”
    “Who will be the new Patrician?” said a chair.
    “That will be a matter for careful discussion and the consideration of all shades of opinion,” said Mr. Slant. His voice could have oiled watches.
    “Mr. Slant?” said a chair.
    “Yes?”
    “Do not try that on us. It is going to be Scrope, isn’t it?”
    “Mr. Scrope is certainly well thought of by many of the leading figures in the city,” said the lawyer.
    “Good.”
    And the musty air was loud with unspoken conversation.
    Absolutely no one needed to say: A lot of the most powerful men in the city owe their positions to Lord Vetinari.
    And nobody replied: Certainly. But to the kind of men who seek power, gratitude