‘What?’ said Gunilla.
The Patrician sighed. ‘When one has been ruler of this city as long as I have,’ he said, ‘one gets to know with a sad certainty that whenever some well-meaning soul begins a novel enterprise they always, with some kind of uncanny foresight, site it at the point where it will do maximum harm to the fabric of reality. There was that Holy Wood moving picture fiasco a few years ago, yes?{12} And that Music with Rocks In business not long after,{13} we never got to the bottom of that. And of course the wizards seem to break into the Dungeon Dimensions so often they might as well install a revolving door. And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you what happened when the late Mr Hong chose to open his Three Jolly Luck Take-Away Fish Bar in Dagon Street during the lunar eclipse.{14} Yes? You see, gentlemen, it would be nice to think that someone, somewhere in this city, is engaged in some simple enterprise that is not going to end up causing tentacled monsters and dread apparitions to stalk the streets eating people. So …?’
‘What?’ said Goodmountain.
‘We haven’t noticed any cracks,’ said William.
‘Ah, but possibly on this very site a strange cult once engaged in eldritch rites, the very essence of which permeated the neighbourhood, and which seeks only the rite, ahah, circumstances to once again arise and walk around eating people?’
‘What?’ said Gunilla. He looked helplessly at William, who could only add:
‘They made rocking horses here.’
‘Really? I’ve always thought there was something slightly sinister about rocking horses,’ said Lord Vetinari, but he looked subtly disappointed. Then he brightened up. He pointed to the big stone on which the type was arranged.
‘Aha,’ he said. ‘Innocently taken from the overgrown ruins of a megalithic stone circle, this stone is redolent with the blood of thousands, I have no doubt, who will emerge to seek revenge, you may depend upon it.’
‘It was cut specially for me by my brother,’ said Gunilla. ‘And I don’t have to take that kind of talk, mister. Who do you think you are, coming in here and talking daft like that?’
William stepped forward at a healthy fraction of the speed of terror.
‘I wonder if I might just take Mr Goodmountain aside and explain one or two things to him?’ he said quickly.
The Patrician’s bright, enquiring smile did not so much as flicker.
‘What a good idea,’ he said, as William frogmarched the dwarf to a corner. ‘He will be sure to thank you for it later.’
Lord Vetinari stood leaning on his stick and looking at the press with an air of benevolent interest, while behind him William de Worde explained the political realities of Ankh-Morpork, especially those relating to sudden death. With gestures.
After thirty seconds of this, Goodmountain came back and stood foursquare in front of the Patrician, with his thumbs in his belt.
‘I speak as I find, me,’ he said. ‘Always have done, always will—’
‘And what is it that you call a spade?’ said Lord Vetinari.
‘What? Never use spades,’ said the glowering dwarf. ‘Farmers use spades. But I call a shovel a shovel.’
‘Yes, I thought you would,’ said Lord Vetinari.
‘Young William here says you’re a ruthless despot who doesn’t like printing. But I say you’re a fair-minded man who won’t stand in the way of an honest dwarf making a bit of a living, am I right?’
Once again Lord Vetinari’s smile remained in place.
‘Mr de Worde, a moment, please …’
The Patrician put his arm companionably around William’s shoulders and walked him gently away from the watching dwarfs.
‘I only said that some people call you—’ William began.
‘Now, sir,’ said the Patrician, waving this away. ‘I think I might just be persuaded, against all experience, that we have here a little endeavour that might just be pursued without filling my streets with inconvenient occult rubbish. It is hard to imagine such a thing in Ankh-Morpork, but I could just about accept it as a possibility. And it so happens that I feel the question of “printing” is one that might, with care, be re-opened.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. So I am minded to allow your friends to proceed with their folly.’
‘Er, they’re not exactly—’ William began.
‘Of course, I should add that, in the event of there being any problems of a tentacular nature, you would be held personally responsible.’
‘Me? But I—’
‘Ah. You feel that I am being unfair? Ruthlessly despotic, perhaps?’
‘Well, I, er—’
‘Apart from anything else, the dwarfs are a very hard-working and valuable ethnic grouping in the city,’ said the Patrician. ‘On the whole, I wish to avoid any low-level difficulties at this time, what with the unsettled situation in Uberwald and the whole Muntab question.’
‘Where’s Muntab?’ said William.
‘Exactly. How is Lord de Worde, by the way? You should write to him more often, you know.’
William said nothing.
‘I always think it is a very sad thing when families fall out,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘There is far too much mutton-headed ill-feeling in the world.’ He gave William a companionable pat. ‘I’m sure you will see to it that the printing enterprise stays firmly in the realms of the cult, the canny and the scrutable. Do I make myself clear?’
‘But I don’t have any control ov—’
‘Hmm?’
‘Yes, Lord Vetinari,’ said William.
‘Good. Good!’ The Patrician straightened up, turned, and beamed at the dwarfs.
‘Jolly good,’ he said. ‘My word. Lots of little letters, all screwed together. Possibly an idea whose time has come. I may even have an occasional job for you myself.’
William waved frantically at Gunilla from behind the Patrician’s back.
‘Special rate for government jobs,’ the dwarf muttered.
‘Oh, but I wouldn’t dream of paying any less than other customers,’ said the Patrician.
‘I wasn’t going to charge you less than—’
‘Well, I’m sure we’ve all been very pleased to see you here, your lordship,’ said William brightly, swivelling the Patrician in the direction of the door. ‘We look forward to the pleasure of your custom.’
‘Are you quite sure Mr Dibbler isn’t involved in this concern?’
‘I think he’s having some things printed, but that’s all,’ said William.
‘Astonishing. Astonishing,’ said Lord Vetinari, getting into his coach. ‘I do hope he isn’t ill.’
Two figures watched his departure from the rooftop opposite.
One of them said, very, very quietly, ‘—!’
The other said, ‘You have a point of view, Mr Tulip?’
‘And he’s the man who runs the city?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So where’s his — ing bodyguards?’
‘If we wanted to scrag him, here and now, how useful would, say, four bodyguards be?’
‘As a — ing chocolate kettle, Mr Pin.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘But I could knock him over from here with a — ing brick!’
‘I gather there are many organizations who hold Views on that, Mr Tulip. People tell me this dump is thriving. The man at the top has a lot of friends when everything is going well. You would soon run out of bricks.’
Mr Tulip looked down at the departing coach. ‘From what I hear he mostly doesn’t do a — ing thing!’ he complained.
‘Yeah,’ said Mr Pin smoothly. ‘One of the hardest things to do properly, in politics.’