The Truth

has very poor keeping qualities. The kind of men who seek power tend to deal with matters as they are . They would never try to depose Vetinari, but if he was gone, then they would be practical .
    No one said: Will anyone speak up for Vetinari?
    Silence replied: Oh, everyone . They’ll say things like “Poor fellow…it was the strain of office, you know.” They’ll say: “It’s the quiet ones that crack.” They’ll say: “Quite so…we should put him someplace where he can do no harm to himself or others. Don’t you think?” They’ll say: “Perhaps a small statue would be in order, too?”
    They’ll say: “The least we can do is call off the Watch, we owe him that much.” They’ll say: “We must look to the future.” And so, quietly, things change. No fuss, and very little mess.
    No one said: Character assassination. What a wonderful idea. Ordinary assassination only works once, but this one works every day.
    A chair did say: “I wondered whether Lord Downey or even Mr. Boggis—”
    Another chair said: “Oh, come now! Why should they? Much better this way.”
    “True, true. Mr. Scrope is a man of fine qualities.”
    “A good family man, I understand.”
    “Listens to the common people.”
    “Not just to the common people, I trust?”
    “Oh, no. He’s very open to advice. From informed…focus groups.”
    “He’ll need plenty of that.”
    No one said: He’s a useful idiot.
    “Nevertheless…the Watch will have to be brought to heel.”
    “Vimes will do what he is told. He must do. Scrope will be at least as legitimate a choice as Vetinari was. Vimes is the kind of man who must have a boss, because that gives him legitimacy.”
    Slant coughed.
    “Is that all, gentlemen?” he said.
    “What about the Ankh-Morpork Times ?” said a chair. “Bit of a problem shaping up there?”
    “People find it amusing,” said Mr. Slant. “And nobody takes it seriously. The Inquirer outsells it two to one already, after just one day. And it is underfinanced. And it has, uh, difficulty with supplies.”
    “Good tale in the Inquirer about that woman and the snake,” said a chair.
    “Was there?” said Mr. Slant.
    The chair that had first mentioned the Times had something on its mind.
    “I’d feel happier if a few likely lads smashed up the press,” it said.
    “That would attract attention,” said a chair. “The Times wants attention. The…writer craves to be noticed.”
    “Oh, well, if you insist.”
    “I would not dream of insisting. But the Times will collapse,” said the chair, and this was the chair that other chairs listened to. “The young man is also an idealist. He has yet to find out that what’s in the public interest is not what the public is interested in.”
    “Say again?”
    “I mean, gentlemen, that people probably think he’s doing a good job, but what they are buying is the Inquirer . The news is more interesting. Did I ever tell you, Mr. Slant, that a lie will go round the world before the truth can get its boots on?”
    “A great many times, sir,” said Slant, with slightly less than his usual keen diplomacy. He realized this, and added, “A valuable insight, I’m sure.”
    “Good.” The most important chair sniffed. “Keep an eye on our…workmen, Mr. Slant.”

    It was midnight in the Temple of Om in the Street of Small Gods, and one light burned in the vestry. It was a candle in a very heavy ornate candlestick and it was, in a way, sending a prayer to heaven. The prayer, from the Gospel According to The Miscreants, was: don’t let anyone find us pinching this stuff.
    Mr. Pin rummaged in a cupboard.
    “I can’t find anything in your size,” he said. “It looks as though—oh, no…sheesh, incense is for burning .”
    Tulip sneezed, pebble-dashing the opposite wall with sandalwood.
    “You could’ve —ing told me before,” he muttered. “I’ve got some papers.”
    “Have you been Chasing the Oven Cleaner again?” said Mr. Pin accusingly. “I want you focused, understand? Now, the only thing I can find in here that will fit you—”
    The door creaked open, and a small elderly priest wandered into the room. Mr. Pin instinctively grasped the big candlestick.
    “Hello? Are you here for the, mm, midnight service?” said the old man, blinking in the light.
    This time it was Mr. Tulip that grabbed Mr. Pin’s arm, as he raised the candlestick.
    “Are you mad? What kind of person are you?” he growled.
    “What? We can’t let him—”
    Mr.