Dibbler cocked an ear. ‘Sort of like a rumbling?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
They stared into the slowly rolling clouds that filled Broad Way.
Which became, quite suddenly, a huge tarpaulin-covered cart, moving unstoppably and very fast …
And the last thing William remembered, before something flew out of the night and smacked him between the eyes, was someone shouting, ‘Stop the press!’
The rumour, having been pinned to the page by William’s pen like a butterfly to a cork, didn’t come to the ears of some people, because they had other, darker things on their mind.
Their rowboat slid through the hissing waters of the river Ankh, which closed behind it slowly.
Two men were bent over the oars.{3} The third sat in the pointy end. Occasionally he spoke.
He said things like ‘My nose itches.’
‘You’ll just have to wait till we get there,’ said one of the rowers.
‘You could let me out again. It really itches.’
‘We let you out when we stopped for supper.’
‘It didn’t itch then.’
The other rower said, ‘Shall I hit him up alongside the — ing head with the — ing oar again, Mr Pin?’
‘Good idea, Mr Tulip.’
There was a dull thump in the darkness.
‘Ow.’
‘Now no more fuss, friend, otherwise Mr Tulip will lose his temper.’
‘Too — ing right.’ Then there was a sound like an industrial pump.
‘Hey, go easy on that stuff, why don’t you?’
‘Ain’t — ing killed me yet, Mr Pin.’
The boat oozed to a halt alongside a tiny, little-used landing stage. The tall figure who had so recently been the focus of Mr Pin’s attention was bundled ashore and hustled down an alley.
A moment later there was the sound of a carriage rolling away into the night.
It would seem quite impossible, on such a mucky night, that there could have been anyone to witness this scene.
But there was. The universe requires everything to be observed, lest it cease to exist.
A figure shuffled out from the shadows of the alley, close by. There was a smaller shape wobbling uncertainly by its side.
Both of them watched the departing coach as it disappeared into the snow.
The smaller of the two figures said, ‘Well, well, well. There’s a fing. Man all bundled up and hooded. An interesting fing, eh?’
The taller figure nodded. It wore a huge old great-coat several sizes too big, and a felt hat that had been reshaped by time and weather into a soft cone that overhung the wearer’s head.
‘Scraplit,’ it said. ‘Thatch and trouser, a blewit the grawney man. I told ’im. I told ’im. Millennium hand and shrimp. Bugrit.’
After a pause it reached into its pocket and produced a sausage, which it broke into two pieces. One bit disappeared under the hat, and the other was tossed to the smaller figure, who was doing most of the talking or, at least, most of the coherent talking.
‘Looks like a dirty deed to me,’ said the smaller figure, which had four legs.
The sausage was consumed in silence. Then the pair set off into the night again.
In the same way that a pigeon can’t walk without bobbing its head, the taller figure appeared unable to move without a sort of low-key, random mumbling:
‘I told ’em, I told ’em. Millennium hand and shrimp. I said, I said, I said. Oh, no. But they only run out, I told ’em. Sod ’em. Doorsteps. I said, I said, I said. Teeth. Wassa name of age, I said I told ’em, not my fault, matterofact, matterofact, stands to reason …’
The rumour did come to his ears later on, but by then he was part of it.
As for Mr Pin and Mr Tulip, all that need be known about them at this point is that they are the kind of people who call you ‘friend’. People like that aren’t friendly.
William opened his eyes. I’ve gone blind, he thought.
Then he moved the blanket.
And then the pain hit him.
It was a sharp and insistent sort of pain, centred right over the eyes. He reached up gingerly. There seemed to be some bruising and what felt like a dent in the flesh, if not the bone.
He sat up. He was in a sloping-ceilinged room. A bit of grubby snow crusted the bottom of a small window. Apart from the bed, which was just a mattress and blanket, the room was unfurnished.
A thump shook the building. Dust drifted down from the ceiling. He got up, clutching at his forehead, and staggered to the door. It opened into a much larger room or, more accurately, a workshop.
Another thump rattled his teeth.
William tried to focus.
The room was full of dwarfs, toiling over a couple of long benches. But at the far end several of them were clustered around something like a complex piece of weaving machinery.
It went thump again.
William rubbed his head. ‘What’s happening?’ he said.
The nearest dwarf looked up at him and nudged a colleague urgently. The nudge passed itself along the rows, and the room was suddenly filled wall to wall with a cautious silence. A dozen solemn dwarf faces looked hard at William.
No one can look harder than a dwarf. Perhaps it’s because there is only quite a small amount of face between the statutory round iron helmet and the beard. Dwarf expressions are more concentrated.
‘Um,’ he said. ‘Hello?’
One of the dwarfs in front of the big machine was the first to unfreeze.
‘Back to work, lads,’ he said, and came and looked William sternly in the groin.
‘You all right, your lordship?’ he said.
William winced. ‘Um … what happened?’ he said. ‘I, uh, remember seeing a cart, and then something hit …’
‘It ran away from us,’ said the dwarf. ‘Load slipped, too. Sorry about that.’
‘What happened to Mr Dibbler?’
The dwarf put his head on one side. ‘The skinny man with the sausages?’ he said.
‘That’s right. Was he hurt?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said the dwarf carefully. ‘He sold young Thunderaxe a sausage in a bun, I do know that.’
William thought about this. Ankh-Morpork had many traps for the unwary newcomer.
‘Well, then, is Mr Thunderaxe all right?’ he said.
‘Probably. He shouted under the door just now that he was feeling a lot better but would stay where he was for the time being,’ said the dwarf. He reached under a bench and solemnly handed William a rectangle wrapped in grubby paper.
‘Yours, I think.’
William unwrapped his wooden block. It was split right across where a wheel of the cart had run over it, and the writing had been smudged. He sighed.
‘’scuse me,’ said the dwarf, ‘but what was it meant to be?’
‘It’s a block prepared for a woodcut,’ said William. He wondered how he could possibly explain the idea to a dwarf from outside the city. ‘You know? Engraving? A … a sort of very nearly magical way of getting lots of copies of writing? I’m afraid I shall have to go and make another one now.’
The dwarf gave him an odd look, and then took the block from him and turned it over and over in his hands.
‘You see,’ said William, ‘the engraver cuts away bits of—’
‘Have you still got the original?’ said the dwarf.
‘Pardon?’
‘The original,’ said the dwarf patiently.
‘Oh, yes.’ William reached inside his jacket and produced it.
‘Can I borrow it for a moment?’
‘Well, all right, but I shall need it again to—’
The dwarf scanned the letter a while, and then turned and hit the nearest dwarf a resounding boing on the helmet.