They were ancient and battered and to stop them wobbling they needed, against all common sense, bits of folded cardboard under all four legs.
'I got them from the secondhand shop along the road,' said Sacharissa nervously. They weren't very expensive.'
'Yes, I can see that. Er... Miss Cripslock... I've been thinking... your grandfather can engrave a picture, can he?'
'Yes, of course. Why have you got mud all over you?'
'And if we got an iconograph and learned how to use it to take pictures,' William went on, ignoring this, 'could he engrave the picture that the imp paints?'
'I suppose so.'
'And do you know any good iconographers in the city?'
'I could ask around. What happened to you?'
'Oh, there was a threatened suicide in Welcome Soap.'
'Any good?' Sacharissa looked startled at the sound of her own voice. 'I mean, obviously I wouldn't wish anyone to die, but, er, we've got quite a lot of space
'I might be able to make something of it. He, er, saved the life of the man who climbed up to talk him down.'
'How brave. Did you get the name of the man who climbed up after him?'
'Urn, no. Er, he was a Mystery Man,' said William.
'Oh, well, that's something. There's some people waiting to see you outside,' said Sacharissa. She glanced at her notes. 'There's a man who's lost his watch, a zombie who... well, I can't make out what he wants. There's a troll who wants a job, and there's someone who's got a complaint about the story of the fight at the Mended Drum and wants to behead you.'
'Oh, dear. All right, one at a time
The watch-loser was easy.
'It was one of the new clockwork ones my father gave to me,' said the man. 'I've been looking for it all week!'
'It's not exactly--'
'If you can put in the paper that I've lost it, maybe someone
who has found it will turn it in?' said the man, with unwarranted hopefulness. 'And I'll give you sixpence for your trouble.'
Sixpence was sixpence. William made a few notes.
The zombie was more difficult. For a start he was grey, shading to green in places, and smelled very strongly of artificial hyacinth aftershave, some of the more recent zombies having realized that their chance of making friends in their new life would be greatly improved if they smelled of flowers rather than just smelled.
'People like to know about people who are dead,' he said. His name was Mr Bendy, and he pronounced it in a way that made it clear that the 'Mr' was very much a part of the name.
'They do?'
'Yes,' said Mr Bendy emphatically. 'Dead people can be very interesting. I expect people would be very interested in reading about dead people.'
'Do you mean obituaries?'
'Well, yes, I suppose they would be. I could write them in an interesting way.'
'All right. Twenty pence each, then.'
Mr Bendy nodded. It was clear that he would have done it for nothing. He handed William a wad of yellow, crackling paper.
'Here's an interesting one to start you off,' he said.
'Oh? Whose is it?'
'Mine. It's very interesting. Especially the bit where I died.'
The next man to come in was in fact a troll. Unusually for trolls, who usually wore just enough to satisfy humanity's mysterious demands for decency, this one actually wore a suit. At least, it was largely tubes of cloth that covered his body, and 'suit' was about the only word.
' 'm Rocky,' he mumbled, looking down. Til take any job, guv.'
'What was your last job?' said William.
'Boxer, guv. But I wasn't happy wiv it. Kept getting knocked down.'
'Can you write or take pictures?' said William, wincing.
'No, guv. I can do heavy liftin'. 'n' I can'whistle tunes, guv.'
'That's... a good talent, but I don't think we--'
The door flew open and a thick-shouldered, leather-clad man burst in, flourishing an axe.
'You got no right putting that about me in the paper!' he said, waving the blade under William's nose.
'Who are you?'
'I'm Brezock the Barbarian, and I--'
The brain works fast when it thinks it is about to be cut in half.
'Oh, if it's a complaint you have, you have to take it up with the Complaints, Beheadings and Horsewhippings Editor,' said William. 'Mr Rocky here.'
'Dat's me,' boomed Rocky cheerfully, laying a hand on the man's shoulder. There was only room for three of his fingers. Brezock sagged.
'I... just... want to say,' said Brezock, slowly, 'that you put in I hit someone with a table. I never done that. What'd people think of me if they heard I go around hitting people with tables? What'd that do to my reputation?'
'I see.'
'I knifed him. A table's a cissy weapon.'
'We shall certainly print a correction,' said William, picking up his pencil.
'You couldn't add that I tore Slicer Gadley's ear off with my teeth, could you? That'd make people sit up. Ears aren't easy to do.'
When they had all gone, Rocky to sit on a chair outside the door, William and Sacharissa stared at one another.
'It's been a very strange morning,' he said.
'I've found out about the winter,' said Sacharissa. 'And there was an unlicensed theft from a jewellery shop in the Artificers Street. They got quite a lot of silver.'
'How did you find that out?'
'One of the journeyman jewellers told me.' Sacharissa gave a little cough. 'He, um, always comes to have a little chat with me when he sees me walking past.'
'Really? Well done!'
'And while I was waiting for you I had an idea. I got Gunilla to set this in type.' She shyly pushed a piece of paper across the desk.
'It looks more impressive at the top of the page,' she said nervously. 'What do you think?'
'What are all the fruit salads and leaves and things?' said William.
Sacharissa blushed. 'I did that. A bit of unofficial engraving. I thought it might make it look... you know, high class and impressive. Er... do you like it?'
'It's very good,' said William hurriedly. 'Very nice... er, cherries--'
'--grapes--'
'Yes, of course, I meant grapes. What's the quote from? It's very meaningful without, er, meaning anything very much.'
'I think it's just a quote,' said Sacharissa.
Mr Pin lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into the still damp air of the wine cellar.
'Now, it seems to me what we got here is a failure to communicate,' he said. 'I mean, it's not like we're asking you to memorize a book or anything. You just got to look at Mr Tulip here. Is this hard? Lots of people do it without any kinda special training.'
'I sort of... I-lose my bottle,' said Charlie. His feet clanked against several empty ones.
'Mr Tulip is not a scary man,' said Mr Pin. This was flying in the face of the current evidence, he had to admit. His partner had bought a twist of what the dealer had sworn was devil dust but which looked to Mr Pin very much like powdered copper sulphate, and this had apparently reacted with the chemicals from the Slab which had been Mr Tulip's afternoon snack and turned one of his sinuses into a small bag of electricity. His
right eye was spinning slowly, and sparks twinkled on his nasal hairs.
'I mean, does he look scary?' Mr Pin went on. 'Remember, you are Lord Vetinari. Understand? You're not going to take anything from some guard. If he talks back to you, just look at him.'
'Like this,' said Mr Tulip, half of his face flashing on and off.
Charlie leapt back.
'Not quite like that, perhaps,' said Mr Pin. 'But close.'
'I don't want to do this any more!' Charlie wailed.
'Ten thousand dollars, Charlie,' said Mr Pin. That's a lot of money.'
'I've heard of this Vetinari,' said Charlie. 'If this goes wrong he'll have me thrown into the scorpion pit!'
Mr Pin spread his hands expansively. 'Well, the scorpion pit isn't as bad as it's cracked up to be, you know?'
'It's a --ing picnic compared to me,' rumbled Mr Tulip, his nose lighting up.
Charlie's eyes sought a way out. Unfortunately, one of them was cleverness. Mr Pin hated the sight of Charlie trying to be clever. It was like watching a dog try to play the trombone.
'I'm not doing it for ten thousand dollars,' he said. 'I mean... you need me...'
He let it hang in the air, which was very much what Mr Pin was considering doing with Charlie.
'We had a deal, Charlie,' he said mildly.
'Yeah, well, I reckon there's more money in this now,' said Charlie.
'What do you think, Mr Tulip?'
Tulip opened his mouth to reply but sneezed instead. A thin bolt of lightning earthed itself on Charlie's chain.
'Maybe we could go to fifteen thousand,' said Mr Pin. 'And that's coming out of our share, Charlie.'
'Yeah, well...' said Charlie. He was as far away from Mr Tulip as possible now, because the man's dry hair was standing out from his head.
'But we want to see some extra effort, right?' said Mr Pin. 'Starting right now. All you have to do is say... What do you have to say?'
' "You are relieved of your post, my man. Go away," ' said Charlie.
'Except we don't say it like that, do we, Charlie?' said Mr Pin. It's an order. You are his boss. And you have to give him a haughty stare... Look, how can I put it? You're a shopkeeper. Imagine that he's asked for credit.'
It was six in the morning. Freezing fog held the city in its breathless grip.
Through the mists they came, and into the press room behind the Bucket they lurched, and out into the mists they went again, on a variety of legs, crutches and wheels.
'Mrpikeerah-tis!'
Lord Vetinari heard the cry and sent the overnight clerk down to the gate again.
He noted the title. He smiled at the motto.
He read the words:
IT IS THE COLDEST WINTER
IN LIVING MEMORY, AND
THAT IS OFFICIAL.
Dr Fettle Dodgast (132) of Unfeen University, told the Times: 'It if as cold as I can remember. Mind you, we don't get the winter thefe days that we had when I was ,'^young.'
Isicles as long as a man's arm have been seen on gutters about the city and many pumps have frozen.
Dr Dodgast (132) says the winter is worse than the one in 1902 when wolves invaded te acity. He added 'and we were glad of that, because we hadn't seen fresh meat for a fortnight'
Mr Josia Winder (45) of 12b Martlebury Street has %a Humerous Vegetable that he will exhibit to all comers upon payment of a small sum. It is most droll.
Mr Clarence Harry (39) begs to inform the public that he has lost a valuable watch, probably in the area of Dolly Sisters. Reward to finder. Please report to Times office.
A icongrapher with thier own equipptment vanted by this publication. Apply at the Times office. The sign of the Bucket.
A miscreatn stole $200 worth of silver from H. Hogland and Son, Jewllrs., of Nonsuch Street yesterday p.m. Mr Hogland, (32) who was threatened at knifepoint, told the Times: 'I shall recognise the man if I should see him again because not many people have a ftocking on their head.'
And Lord Vetinari smiled.
And someone knocked softly at the door.
And he glanced at the clock.
'Come,' he said.
Nothing happened. After a few seconds, the soft knock came again.
'Come in.'
And there was the pregnant silence again.
And Lord Vetinari touched an apparently ordinary part of his desktop.
And a long drawer appeared out of what had seemed to be the solid walnut of the desk, sliding forward as though on oil. It contained a number of slim devices on a bed of black velvet, and a description of any one of them would certainly involve the word 'sharp'.
And he chose one, held it casually by his side, crossed soundlessly towards the door and turned the handle, stepping back quickly in case of a sudden rush.
No one pushed.
And the door, yielding to an unevenness in the hinges, swung inwards.
Mr Mackleduff smoothed out the paper. It was already accepted by all around the breakfast table that, as the man who bought the paper, he was not simply its owner but, as it were, its priest, relaying its contents to the appreciative masses.
'It says here a man in Martlebury Street has grown a vegetable that's a funny shape,' he said.
'I should very much like to see that,' said Mrs Arcanum. There was a choking noise from further down the table. 'Are you all right, Mr de Worde?' she added, as Mr Prone thumped him on the back.
'Yes, yes, really,' gasped William. 'S-sorry. Some tea went down the wrong way.'
'There's good soil in that part of the city,' opined Mr Cartwright, travelling seed salesman.
William concentrated desperately on his toast, while over his head every news item was presented with the care and veneration of a blessed relic.
'Someone held up a shopkeeper at knifepoint,' Mr Mackleduff went on.
'Soon we will not be safe in our beds,' said Mrs Arcanum.
'I don't think this is the coldest winter for more than a hundred years, though,' said Mr Cartwright. I'm sure that one we had ten years ago was worse. Hit my sales something cruel.'
'It's in the paper,' said Mr Mackleduff, in the quiet voice of someone laying down an ace.
'It was a very strange obituary that you read out, too,' said Mrs Arcanum. William nodded silently over his boiled egg. I'm sure it's not usual to talk about the things someone's done since they died.'
Mr Longshaft, who was a dwarf and something in the jewellery business, helped himself to another slice of toast.
'I suppose it takes all sorts,' he said calmly.
The city is getting rather crowded, though,' said Mr Windling, who had some unspecified clerical job. 'Still, at least zombies are human. No offence meant, of course.'
Mr Longshaft smiled faintly as he buttered the toast, and William wondered why he always disliked people who said 'no offence meant'. Maybe it was because they found it easier to say 'no offence meant' than actually refrain from giving offence.
'Well, I suppose we have to move with the times,' said Mrs Arcanum. 'And I hope that other poor man finds his watch.'
In fact Mr Harry was waiting outside the office when William arrived. He grabbed William's hand and shook it.
'Amazing, sir, amazing!' he said. 'How did you do it? It must be magic! You put that notice in your paper and when I got home, blow me down if the watch wasn't in my other jacket! Gods bless your paper, say I!'
Inside, Goodmountain gave William the news. The Times had sold eight hundred copies so far today. At five pence each, William's share came to sixteen dollars. In pennies, it came to quite a large heap on the desk.
This is insane,' said William. 'All we did was write things down!'
'There is a bit of a problem, lad,' said Goodmountain. 'Are you going to want to do another one for tomorrow?'
'Good gods, I hope not!'
'Well, I've got a story for you,' said the dwarf glumly. 'I hear the Guild of Engravers are already setting up their own press. They've got a lot of money behind 'em, too. They could put us right out of business when it comes to general printing,'
'Can they do that?'
'Of course. They use presses anyway. Type isn't hard to make, especially when you've got a lot of engravers. They can do really good work. To be honest, we didn't reckon they'd cotton on this soon,'
'I'm amazed!'
'Well, younger members of the Guild have seen the work coming out of Omnia and the Agatean Empire. Turns out they've been looking for a chance like this. I hear there was a special meeting last night. A few changes of officers.'
'That must have been worth seeing.'
'So if you could keep your paper going...' said the dwarf.
'I don't want all this money!' William wailed. 'Money causes problems!'
'We could sell the Times cheaper,' said Sacharissa, giving him an odd look.
'We'd only make more money,' said William gloomily.
'We could... we could pay the street vendors more,' said Sacharissa.
'Tricky,' said Goodmountain. 'A body can only take so much turpentine.'
'Then we could at least make sure they get a good breakfast,' said Sacharissa. 'A big stew with named meat, perhaps.'
'But I'm not even sure there is enough news to fill a--' William began, and stopped. That wasn't the way it worked, was it? If it was in the paper, it was news. If it was news it went in the paper, and if it was in the paper it was news. And it was the truth.
He remembered the breakfast table. They' wouldn't let 'them' put it in the paper if it wasn't true, would they?
William wasn't a very political person. But he found himself using unfamiliar mental muscles when he thought about 'they'. Some of them had to do with memory.
'We could employ more people to help us get the news,' said Sacharissa. 'And what about news from other places? Pseudopolis and Quirm? We just have to talk to passengers getting off the coaches--'
'Dwarfs would like to hear what's been happening in Uberwald and Copperhead,' said Goodmountain, stroking his beard.
'It takes nearly a week for a coach to get there from here!' said William.
'So? It's still news.'
'I suppose we couldn't use the clacks, could we?' said Sacharissa.
'The semaphore towers? Are you mad?' said William. 'That's really expensive!'
'Well? You were the one who was worried we had too much money!'
There was a flash of light. William spun around.
A... . thing occupied the doorway. There was a tripod. There was a pair of skinny, black-clad legs behind it and a large black box on top of it. One black-clad arm extended out from behind the box and was holding a sort of small hod, which was smoking.
'Nice vun,' said a voice from behind the box. The light vas shinink so good off the dvarf's helmet, I could not resist it. You vanted an iconographer? My name is Otto Chriek.'
'Oh. Yes?' said Sacharissa. 'Are you any good?'
'I am a vizard in zer darkroom. I am experimenting all the time,' said Otto Chriek. 'And I have all my own eqvipment and also a keen and positive attitude!'
'Sacharissa!' hissed William urgently.
'We could probably start you at a dollar a day--'
'Sacharissa!'
'Yes? What?'
'He's a vampire!'
'I object most stronkly,' said the hidden Otto. 'It iss such an easy assumption to believe that everyvun with an Uberwald accent is a vampire, is it not? There are many thousands of people from Uberwald who are not vampires!'
William waved his hand aimlessly, trying to shrug off the embarrassment. 'All right, I'm sorry, but--'
'I am a vampire, as it happens,' Otto went on. 'But if I had said "Hello my cheeky cock sparrow mate old boy by crikey" vot vould you have said zen, eh?'
'We'd have been completely taken in,' said William.
'Anyvay, your notice did say "vanted", so I thought it vas, you know, affirmative action,' said Otto. 'Alzo, I have zis...' A thin, blue-veined hand was held up, gripping a small twist of shiny black ribbon.
'Oh? You've signed the pledge?' said Sacharissa.
'At the Meeting Rooms in Abattoirs Lane,' said Otto triumphantly, 'vhere I attend every veek for our big singsong and tea and a bun and wholesome conversation on themes of positive reinforcement keeping off the whole subject of bodily fluids by strict instruction. I am not any longer any stupid sucker!'
'What do you think, Mr Goodmountain?' said William.
Goodmountain scratched his nose. 'It's up to you,' he said. 'If he
tries anything with my lads he'll be looking for his legs. What's this pledge?'
'It's the Uberwald Temperance Movement,' said Sacharissa. 'A vampire signs up and forswears any human blood--'
Otto shuddered. 'Ve prefer "zer b-vord",' he said.
'The b-word,' Sacharissa corrected herself. The movement is becoming very popular. They know it's the only chance they've got.'
'Well... okay,' said William. He was uneasy about vampires himself, but turning the newcomer down after all this would be like kicking a puppy. 'Do you mind setting up your stuff in the cellar?'
'A cellar?' said Otto. Top hole!'
First the dwarfs had come, William thought as he went back to his desk. They'd been insulted because of their diligence and because of their height, but they had kept their heads down* and prospered. Then the trolls had come, and they got on a little better, because people don't throw as many stones at creatures seven feet tall who could throw rocks back. Then the zombies had come out of.the casket. One or two werewolves had crept in under the door. The gnomes had integrated quickly, despite a bad start, because they were tough and even more dangerous to cross than a troll; at least a troll couldn't run up your trouser leg. There weren't that many species left.
The vampires had never made it. They weren't sociable, even amongst themselves, they didn't think as a species, they were unpleasantly weird and they sure as hell didn't have their own food shops.
So now it was dawning on some of the brighter ones that the only way people would accept vampires was if they stopped being vampires. That was a large price to pay for social acceptability, but perhaps not so large as the one that involved having your head cut off and your ashes scattered on the river. A life of steak tartare wasn't too bad if you compared it with a death of stake au naturelle.+
Which was not hard, as unkind people pointed out. .
In any case, anyone eating raw steak from an Ankh-Morpork slaughterhouse was embarking on a life of danger and excitement that should satisfy anyone.
'Er, I think we'd like to see who we're employing, though,' William said aloud.
Otto emerged, very slowly and nervously, from behind the lens. He was thin, pale and wore little oval dark glasses. He still clutched the twist of black ribbon as if it was a talisman, which it more or less was.
'It's all right, we won't bite you,' said Sacharissa.
'And one good turn deserves another, eh?' said Goodmountain.
'That was a bit tasteless, Mr Goodmountain,' said Sacharissa.
'So am I,' said the dwarf, turning back to the stone. 'Just so long as people know where I stand, that's all,'
'You vill not be sorry,' said Otto. 'I am completely reformed, I assure you. Vot is it you vant me to take pictures of, please?'
'News,' said William.
'Vot is news, please?'
'News is...' William began. 'News... is what we put in the paper--'
'What d'you think of this, eh?' said a cheerful voice.
William turned. There was a horribly familiar face looking at him over the top of a cardboard box.
'Hello, Mr Wintler,' he said. 'Er, Sacharissa, I wonder if you could go and--'
He wasn't quick enough. Mr Wintler, a man of the variety that thinks a whoopee cushion is the last word in repartee, was not the kind to let a mere freezing reception stand in his way. 'I was digging my garden this morning and up came this parsnip, and I thought: that young man at the paper will laugh himself silly when he sees it, 'cos my lady wife couldn't keep a straight face, and--'
To William's horror he was already reaching into the box. 'Mr Wintler, I really don't think--'
But the hand was already rising, and there was the sound of something scraping on the side of the box. 'I bet the young lady here would like a good chuckle too, eh?'
William shut his eyes.
He heard Sacharissa gasp. Then she said, 'Golly, it's amazingly lifelike!'
William opened his eyes. 'Oh, it's a nose,' he said. 'A parsnip with a sort of knobbly face and a huge noseV
'You vant I should take a picture?' said Otto.
'Yes!' said William, drunk with relief. 'Take a big picture of Mr Wintler and his wonderfully nasal parsnip, Otto! Your first job! Yes, indeed!'
Mr Wintler beamed. 'And shall I run back home and fetch my carrot?' he said.
'No!' said William and Goodmountain in whiplash unison.
'You vant the picture right now?' said Otto.
'We certainly do!' said William. The sooner we can let him go home, the sooner our Mr Wintler can find another wonderfully humorous vegetable, eh, Mr Wintler? What will it be next time? A bean with ears? A beetroot shaped like a potato? A sprout with an enormous hairy tongue?'
'Right here and now is ven you vant the picture?' said Otto, anxiety hanging off every syllable.
'Right now, yes!'
'As a matter of fact, there is a swede coming along that I've got great hopes of--' Mr Wintler began.
'Oh, veil... if you vill look zis vay, Mr Vintler,' said Otto. He got behind the iconograph and uncovered the lens. William got a glimpse of the imp peering out, brush poised. In his spare hand Otto slowly held up, on a stick, a cage containing a fat and drowsing salamander, finger poised on the trigger that would bring a small hammer down on its head just hard enough to annoy it.
'Be smiling, please!'
'Hold on,' said Sacharissa. 'Should a vampire really--?'
Click.
The salamander flared, etching the room with searing white light and dark shadows.
Otto screamed. He fell to the floor, clutching at his throat. He sprang to his feet, goggle-eyed and gasping, and staggered, knock-kneed and wobbly-legged, the length of the room and back again. He sank down behind a desk, scattering paperwork with a wildly flailing hand.
'Aarghaarghaaargh...'
And then there was a shocked silence.
Otto stood up, adjusted his cravat and dusted himself off. Only then did he look up at the row of shocked faces.
'Veil?' he said sternly. 'Vot are you all looking at? It is just a normal reaction, zat is all. I am vorking on it. Light in all its forms is mine passion. Light is my canvas, shadows are my brush.'
'But strong light hurts you!' said Sacharissa. 'It hurts vampires!'
'Yes. It iss a bit of a bugger, but zere you go.'
'And, er, that happens every time you take a picture, does it?' said William.
'No, sometimes it iss a lot vorse.'
'Worse?'
'I sometimes crumble to dust. But zat vich does not kill us makes us stronk.'
'Stronk?'
'Indeed!'
William caught Sacharissa's gaze. Her look said it all: we've hired him. Have we got the heart to fire him now? And don't make fun of his accent unless your Uberwaldean is really good, okay?
Otto adjusted the iconograph and inserted a fresh sheet.
'And now, shall ve try vun more?' he said brightly. 'And zis time - everybody smile!'
Mail was arriving. William was used to a certain amount, usually from clients of his news letter complaining that he hadn't told them about the double-headed giants, plagues and rains of domestic animals that they had heard had been happening in Ankh-Morpork; his father had been right about one thing, at least, when he'd asserted that lies could run round the world before the truth could get its boots on. And it was amazing how people wanted to believe them.
These were... well, it was as if he'd shaken a tree and all the nuts had fallen out. Several letters were complaining that there had been much colder winters than this, although no two of them could agree when it was. One said vegetables were not as funny as they used to be, especially leeks. Another asked what the Guild of Thieves was doing about unlicensed crime in the city. There was one saying that all these robberies were down to dwarfs who shouldn't be allowed into the city to steal the work out of honest humans' mouths.
