‘I don’t—’ William began, and stopped suddenly. A shoe scraping down your shin can do that.
‘The Times would be delighted,’ said Sacharissa, beaming.
‘Capital. In that case—’
‘There is a favour I need to ask, to tell the truth,’ said William.
Vetinari smiled. ‘Of course. If I can do anything for the Ti—’
‘Will you be going to Harry King’s daughter’s wedding on Saturday?’
To his secret delight, the look that Vetinari gave him seemed to be blank because the man hadn’t got anything to fill it with. But Drumknott leaned towards him and there were a few whispered words.
‘Ah?’ said the Patrician. ‘Harry King. Ah, yes. A positive incarnation of the spirit that has made our city what it is today. Haven’t I always said that, Drumknott?’
‘Yes indeed, sir.’
‘I shall certainly attend. I expect a lot of other civic leaders will be there?’
The question was left delicately spinning in the air.
‘As many as possible,’ said William.
‘Fine carriages, tiaras, stately robes?’ said Lord Vetinari, to the knob of his cane.
‘Lots.’
‘Yes, I’m sure they will be there,’ said Lord Vetinari, and William knew that Harry King would walk his daughter past more top nobs than he could count, and while the world of Mr King did not have a lot of space for letters he could count very carefully indeed. Mrs King was going to have joyful hysterics out of sheer passive snobbery.
‘In return, however,’ said the Patrician, ‘I must ask you not to upset Commander Vimes.’ He gave a little cough. ‘More than necessary.’
‘I’m sure we can pull together, sir.’
Lord Vetinari raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, I do hope not, I really do hope not. Pulling together is the aim of despotism and tyranny. Free men pull in all kinds of directions.’ He smiled. ‘It’s the only way to make progress. That and, of course, moving with the times. Good day to you.’
He nodded to them and walked out of the building.
‘Why is everyone still here?’ William demanded, when the spell had broken.
‘Er … we still don’t know what we should be doing,’ said Mrs Tilly hopelessly.
‘Go and find out things that people want to put in the paper,’ said Sacharissa.
‘And things that people don’t want put in the paper,’ William added.
‘And interesting things,’ said Sacharissa.
‘Like that rain of dogs there was a few months ago?’ said O’Biscuit.
‘There was no rain of dogs two months ago!’ William snapped.
‘But—’
‘One puppy is not a rain. It fell out of a window. Look, we are not interested in pet precipitation, spontaneous combustion, or people being carried off by weird things from out of the sky—’
‘Unless it happens,’ said Sacharissa.
‘Well, obviously we are if it does happen,’ said William. ‘But when it doesn’t, we’re not. Okay? News is unusual things happening—’
‘And usual things happening,’ said Sacharissa, screwing up a report from the Ankh-Morpork Funny Vegetable Society.
‘And usual things, yes,’ said William. ‘But news is mainly what someone somewhere doesn’t want you to put in the paper—’
‘Except that sometimes it isn’t,’ said Sacharissa again.
‘News is—’ said William, and stopped. They watched him politely as he stood with his mouth open and one finger raised.
‘News,’ he said, ‘all depends. But you’ll know it when you see it. Clear? Right. Now go and find some.’
‘That was a bit abrupt,’ said Sacharissa after they’d filed out.
‘Well, I was thinking,’ said William. ‘I mean, it’s been a … a funny old time all round, what with one thing and another—’
‘—people trying to kill us, your being imprisoned, a plague of dogs, the place catching on fire, your being cheeky to Lord Vetinari—’ said Sacharissa.
‘Yes, well … so would it really matter if you and I, you know … you and I … took the afternoon off? I mean,’ he added desperately, ‘it doesn’t say anywhere that we have to publish every day, does it?’
‘Except at the top of the newspaper,’ said Sacharissa.
‘Yes, but you can’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.’
‘Well … all right. I’ll just finish this report—’
‘Messages for you, Mr William,’ said one of the dwarfs, dropping a pile of paper on his desk. William grunted and glanced through them. There were a few test clackses from Lancre and Sto Lat, and already he could see that pretty soon he’d have to go out into the country to train some real, yes, reporters of news, because he could see there was only a limited future in these earnest missives from village grocers and publicans who’d be paid a penny a line. There were a couple of carrier pigeon messages, too, from those people who couldn’t get a grip on the new technology.
‘Ye gods,’ he said, under his breath. ‘The Mayor of Quirm has been struck by a meteorite … again.’
‘Can that happen?’ said Sacharissa.
‘Apparently. This is from Mr Pune at the council offices there. Sensible chap, not much imagination. He says that this time it was waiting for the mayor in an alley.’
‘Really? The woman we get our linen from has got a son who is the lecturer in Vindictive Astronomy at the University.’
‘Would he give us a quote?’
‘He smiles at me when he sees me in the shop,’ said Sacharissa firmly. ‘So he will.’
‘O-kay. If you can—’
‘Afternoon, folks!’
Mr Wintler was standing at the counter. He was holding a cardboard box.
‘Oh, dear …’ murmured William.
‘Just you take a look at this one,’ said Mr Wintler, a man who would not take a hint if it was wrapped around a lead pipe.
‘I think we’ve had enough funny ve—’ William began.
And stopped.
It was a big potato that the rubicund man was lifting from his box. It was knobbly, too. William had seen knobbly potatoes before. They could look like faces, if that was the way you wanted to amuse yourself. But with this one you didn’t have to imagine a face. It had a face. It was made up of dents and knobs and potato eyes, but it looked very much like a face that had been staring madly into his and trying to kill him very recently. He remembered it quite well, because he still occasionally woke up around 3 a.m. with it in front of him.
‘It’s … not … exactly … funny,’ said Sacharissa, glancing sideways at William.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ said Mr Wintler. ‘I wouldn’t have brought it round, but you’ve always been very interested in them.’
‘A day without a bifurcated parsnip,’ said Sacharissa sweetly, ‘is a day without sunshine, Mr Wintler. William?’
‘Huh?’ said William, tearing his eyes away from the potato head. ‘Is it me, or does it look … surprised?’
‘It does rather,’ said Sacharissa.
‘Did you just dig this up?’ said William.
‘Oh, no. It’s been in one of my sacks for months,’ said Wintler.
… which upset an occult train of thought that had started to trundle through William’s head. But … the universe was a funny place. Cause and effect, effect and cause … He’d rip off his right arm rather than write that down, though.
‘What are you going to do with it?’ he said. ‘Boil it?’
‘Bless you, no. The variety’s far too floury. No, this one’s going to be chips.’