‘Zis is only the beginning,’ said Otto. ‘Ve vill get better.’
‘Better maybe, but we’re as fast as we can go,’ said Goodmountain. ‘We can do maybe two hundred an hour. Maybe two hundred and fifty, but someone’s going to be looking for their fingers before this day’s out. Sorry, but we’re doing the best we can. If we had a day to redesign and rebuild properly—’
‘Print a few hundred and do the rest in black and white, then,’ said Sacharissa, and sighed. ‘At least it’ll catch people’s attention.’
‘Vunce zey see it, the Inqvirer vill vork out how it vas done,’ said Otto.
‘Then at least we’ll go down with our colours flying,’ said Sacharissa. She shook her head as a little dust floated down from the ceiling.
‘Hark at that,’ said Boddony. ‘Can you feel the floor shake? That’s their big presses again.’
‘They’re undermining us everywhere,’ said Sacharissa. ‘And we’ve all worked so hard. It’s so unfair.’
‘I’m surprised the floor takes it,’ said Goodmountain. ‘It’s not as though anything’s on solid ground round here.’
‘Undermining us, eh?’ said Boddony.
One or two of the dwarfs looked up when he said this. Boddony said something in dwarfish. Goodmountain snapped something in reply. A couple of other dwarfs joined in.
‘Excuse me,’ said Sacharissa tartly.
‘The lads were … wondering about going in and having a look,’ said Goodmountain.
‘I tried going in the other day,’ said Sacharissa. ‘But the troll on the door was most impolite.’
‘Dwarfs … approach matters differently,’ said Goodmountain.
Sacharissa saw a movement. Boddony had pulled his axe out from under the bench. It was a traditional dwarf axe. One side was a pickaxe, for the extraction of interesting minerals, and the other side was a war axe, because the people who own the land with the valuable minerals in it can be so unreasonable sometimes.
‘You’re not going to attack anyone, are you?’ she said, shocked.
‘Well, someone did say that if you want a good story you have to dig and dig,’ said Boddony. ‘We’re just going to go for a walk.’
‘In the cellar?’ said Sacharissa, as they headed for the steps.
‘Yeah, a walk in the dark,’ said Boddony.
Goodmountain sighed. ‘The rest of us will get on with the paper, shall we?’ he said.
After a minute or two there was the sound of a few axe blows, below them, and then someone swore in dwarfish, very loudly.
‘I’m going to see what they’re doing,’ said Sacharissa, unable to resist any more, and hurried away.
The bricks that once had filled the old doorway were already down when she got there. Since the stones of Ankh-Morpork were recycled over the generations no one had ever seen the point of making strong mortar, and especially not for blocking up an old doorway. Sand, dirt, water and phlegm would do the trick, they felt. They always had done up to now, after all.
The dwarfs were peering into the darkness beyond. Each one had stuck a candle on his helmet.
‘I thought your man said they filled up the old street,’ said Boddony.
‘He’s not my man,’ said Sacharissa evenly. ‘What’s in there?’
One of the dwarfs had stepped through with a lantern.
‘There’s like … tunnels,’ he said.
‘The old pavements,’ said Sacharissa. ‘It’s like this all round this area, I think. After the big floods they built up the sides of the road with timber and filled it in, but they left the pavements on either side because not all the properties had built up yet and people objected.’
‘What?’ said Boddony. ‘You mean the roads were higher than the pavements?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Sacharissa, following him into the gap.
‘What happened if a horse pi— if a horse made water on the street?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ sniffed Sacharissa.
‘How did people cross the street?’
‘Ladders.’
‘Oh, come on, miss!’
‘No, they used ladders. And a few tunnels. It wasn’t going to be for very long. And then it was simpler just to put heavy slabs over the old pavements. And so there’s these — well, forgotten spaces.’
‘There’s rats up here,’ said Dozy, who was wandering into the distance.
‘Hot damn!’ said Boddony. ‘Anyone brought the cutlery? Only joking, miss. Hey, what do we have here …?’
He hacked at some planks, which crumbled away under the blows.
‘Someone didn’t want to use a ladder,’ he said, peering into another hole.
‘It goes right under the street?’ said Sacharissa.
‘Looks like it. Must have been allergic to horses.’
‘And … er … you can find your way?’
‘I’m a dwarf. We are underground. Dwarf. Underground. What was your question again?’
‘You’re not proposing to hack through to the cellars of the Inquirer, are you?’ said Sacharissa.
‘Who, us?’
‘You are, aren’t you?’
‘We wouldn’t do anything like that.’
‘Yes, but you are, aren’t you?’
‘That’d be tantamount to breaking in, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, and that’s what you’re planning to do, isn’t it?’
Boddony grinned. ‘Well … a little bit. Just to have a look round. You know.’
‘Good.’
‘What? You don’t mind?’
‘You’re not going to kill anyone, are you?’
‘Miss, we don’t do that sort of thing!’
Sacharissa looked a little disappointed. She’d been a respectable young woman for some time. In certain people, that means there’s a lot of dammed-up disreputability just waiting to burst out.
‘Well … perhaps just make them a bit sorry, then?’
‘Yes, we can probably do that.’
The dwarfs were already creeping along the tunnel at the other side of the buried street. By the light of their torches she saw old frontages, bricked-up doors, windows filled with rubble.
‘This should be about the right place,’ said Boddony, pointing to a faint rectangle filled with more low-grade brick.
‘You’re just going to break in?’ said Sacharissa.
‘We’ll say we were lost,’ said Boddony.
‘Lost underground? Dwarfs?’
‘All right, we’ll say we’re drunk. People’ll believe that. Okay, lads …’
The rotten bricks fell away. Light streamed out. In the cellar beyond a man looked up from his desk, mouth open.
Sacharissa squinted through the dust. ‘You?’ she said.
‘Oh, it’s you, miss,’ said Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler. ‘Hello, boys. Am I glad to see you …’
The crew were just leaving when Gaspode arrived at the gallop. He took one look at the other dogs that were huddled around the fire, then dived under the trailing folds of Foul Ole Ron’s dreadful coat and whined.
It took some time for the whole of the crew to understand what was going on. These were, after all, people who could argue and expectorate and creatively misunderstand their way through a three-hour argument after someone said ‘Good morning’.
It was the Duck Man who finally got the message. ‘These men are hunting terriers?’ he said.
‘Right! It was the bloody newspaper! You can’t bloody trust people who write in newspapers!’
‘They threw these doggies in the river?’
‘Right!’ said Gaspode. ‘It’s all gone fruit-shaped!’