‘I don’t see that it’s up to us to decide—’
William thumped the desk, to his own amazement and Sacharissa’s shock.
‘Something is happening, do you understand? Something really real is happening! And it’s not an amusing shape! It’s really serious! And I’ve got to write it down as soon as possible! Can you just let me do that?’
He realized Sacharissa was staring not at him but at his fist. He followed her gaze.
‘Oh, no … what the hell is this?’
A long sharp nail projected straight upwards from the desk, an inch from his hand. It must have been at least six inches long. Pieces of paper had been impaled on it. When he picked it up he saw that it remained upright because it had been hammered through a wooden block.
‘It’s a spike,’ said Sacharissa quietly. ‘I, I, er, brought it in to keep our papers tidy. M-my grandfather always uses one. All … all the engravers do. It’s … it’s sort of a cross between a filing cabinet and a waste-paper basket. I thought it would be useful. Er, it’ll save you using the floor.’
‘Er, right, yes, good idea,’ said William, looking at her reddening face. ‘Er …’
He couldn’t think straight. ‘Mr Goodmountain?’ he yelled.
The dwarf looked up from a playbill he was setting.
‘Can you put stuff in type if I dictate to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sacharissa, please go and find Ron and his … friends. I want to get a small paper out as soon as possible. Not tomorrow morning. Right now. Please?’
She was about to protest, and then she saw the look in his eye. ‘Are you sure you’re allowed to do this?’ she said.
‘No! I’m not! I won’t know until after I’ve done it! That’s why I’ve got to do it! Then I’ll know! And I’m sorry I’m shouting!’
He pushed his chair aside and went over to Goodmountain, who was standing patiently by a case of type.
‘All right … we need a line at the top …’ William shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose while he thought. ‘Er … “Amazing Scenes In Ankh-Morpork” … got that? In very big type. Then in smaller type, underneath … “Patrician Attacks Clerk With Knife” … er …’ That didn’t sound right, he knew. It was grammatically inexact. It was the Patrician who had the knife, not the clerk. ‘We can sort that out later … er … in smaller type again … “Mysterious Events In Stables” … go down another size of type … “Watch Baffled”. Okay? And now we’ll start the story …’
‘Start it?’ said Goodmountain, his hand dancing across the boxes of type. ‘Aren’t we nearly finished?’
William flicked back and forth through his notes. How to begin, how to begin … Something interesting … No, something amazing … Some amazing things … no … no … The story was surely the strangeness of it all …
‘“Suspicious circumstances surround the attack” … make that “alleged attack” …’
‘I thought you said he admitted it,’ said Sacharissa, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘I know, I know, it’s just that I think that if Lord Vetinari wanted to kill someone they’d be dead … look him up in Twurp’s Peerage, will you, I’m sure he was educated in the Assassins’ Guild—’
‘Alleged or not?’ said Goodmountain, his hand hovering over the As. ‘Just say the word.’
‘Make it “the apparent attack”,’ said William, ‘“by Lord Vetinari on Rufus Drumknott, his clerk, in the palace today. Er … er … Palace staff heard—”’
‘Do you want me to work on this or do you want me to find the beggars?’ Sacharissa demanded. ‘I can’t do both.’
William gave her a blank stare. Then he nodded.
‘Rocky?’
The troll by the door awoke with a snort. ‘Yessir?’
‘Go and find Foul Ole Ron and the others and get them up here as soon as possible. Tell them there’ll be a bonus. Now, where was I?’
‘“Palace staff heard,”’ Goodmountain prompted.
‘“—heard his lordship—”’
‘“—who graduated with full honours from the Guild of Assassins in 1968,”’ Sacharissa called out.
‘Put that in,’ said William urgently. ‘And then go on with … “say ‘I killed him, I killed him, I’m sorry’” … Good grief, Vimes is right, this is insane, he’d have to be mad to talk like this.’
‘Mr de Worde, is it?’ said a voice.
‘Oh, what the hell is it this time?’
William turned. He saw the trolls first, because even when they’re standing at the back a group of four big trolls are metaphorically to the fore of any picture. The two humans in front of them were a mere detail, and in any case one of them was only human by tradition. He had the grey pallor of a zombie and wore the expression of one who, while not seeking to be unpleasant in himself, was the cause of much unpleasantness in other people.
‘Mr de Worde? I believe you know me. I am Mr Slant of the Guild of Lawyers,’ said Mr Slant, bowing stiffly. ‘This,’ he indicated the slight young man next to him, ‘is Mr Ronald Carney, the new chairman of the Guild of Engravers and Printers. The four gentlemen behind me do not belong to any guild, as far as I am aware—’
‘Engravers and Printers?’ said Goodmountain.
‘Yes,’ said Carney. ‘We have expanded our charter. Guild membership is two hundred dollars a year—’
‘I’m not—’ William began, but Goodmountain laid a hand on his arm.
‘This is the shakedown, but it isn’t as bad as I thought it might be,’ he whispered. ‘We haven’t got time to argue and at this rate we’ll make it back in a few days. End of problem!’
‘However,’ said Mr Slant, in his special lawyer’s voice that sucked in money at every pore, ‘in this instance, in view of the special circumstances, there will also be a one-off payment of, say, two thousand dollars.’
The dwarfs went quiet. Then there was a metallic chorus. Each dwarf had laid down his type, reached under the stone and pulled out a battle axe.
‘That’s agreed, then, is it?’ said Mr Slant, stepping aside. The trolls were straightening up. It didn’t take a major excuse for trolls and dwarfs to fight; sometimes, being on the same world was enough.
This time it was William who restrained Goodmountain. ‘Hold on, hold on, there must be a law against killing lawyers.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘There’re still some around, aren’t there? Besides, he’s a zombie. If you cut him in half both bits will sue you.’ William raised his voice. ‘We can’t pay, Mr Slant.’
‘In that case, accepted law and practice allows me—’
‘I want to see your charter!’ Sacharissa snapped. ‘I’ve known you since we were kids, Ronnie Carney, and you’re always up to something.’
‘Good afternoon, Miss Cripslock,’ said Mr Slant. ‘As a matter of fact we thought someone might ask, so I brought the new charter with me. I hope we are all law-abiding here.’
Sacharissa snatched the impressive-looking scroll, with its large dangling seal, and glared at it as if trying to burn the words off the parchment by the mere friction of reading.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It … seems to be in order.’
‘Quite so.’
‘Except for the Patrician’s signature,’ Sacharissa added, handing back the scroll.
‘That is a mere formality, my dear.’
‘I’m not your dear and it’s not on there, formal or not. So this isn’t legal, is it?’
Mr Slant twitched. ‘Clearly we cannot get a signature from a man in prison on a very serious charge,’ he said.