Terry Pratchett - The Truth

'We could disguise him,' she said.

'What could you disguise a dog as?' said the Duck Man. 'A cat?'

'A dog is not just a dog,' said Lady Hermione. 'Ai think ai have an idea...'

The dwarfs were in a huddle when William got back. The epicentre of the huddle, its huddlee, turned out to be Mr Dibbler, who looked just like anyone would look if they've been harangued. William had never seen anyone to whom the word 'harangued' could be so justifiably applied. It meant someone who had been talked at by Sacharissa for twenty minutes.

'Is there a problem?' he said. 'Hello, Mr Dibbler...'

Tell me, William,' said Sacharissa, while pacing slowly around Dibbler's chair. 'If stories were food, what kind of food would Goldfish Eats Cat be?'

'What?' William stared at Dibbler. Realization dawned. 'I think it would be a sort of long, thin kind of food,' he said.

'Filled with rubbish of suspicious origin?'

'Now, there's no need for anyone to take that tone--' Dibbler began, and then subsided under Sacharissa's glare.

'Yes, but rubbish that's sort of attractive. You'd keep on eating it

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even though you wished you weren't,' said William. 'What's going on here?'

'Look, I didn't want to do it,' Dibbler protested.

'Do what?' said William.

'Mr Dibbler's been writing those stories for the Inquirer,' said Sacharissa.

'I mean, no one believes what they read in the paper, right?' said Dibbler.

William pulled up a chair and sat straddling it, resting his arms on the back.

'So, Mr Dibbler... when did you start pissing in the fountain of Truth?'

'William!' snapped Sacharissa.

'Look, times haven't been good, see?' said Dibbler. 'And I thought, this news business... well, people like to hear about stuff from a long way away, you know, like in the Almanacke--'

' "Plague of Giant Weasels in Hersheba"?' said William.

'That's the style. Well, I thought... it doesn't sort of matter if they're, you know, really true... I mean...' William's glassy grin was beginning to make Dibbler uncomfortable. 'I mean... they're nearly true, aren't they? Everyone knows that sort of thing happens

'You didn't come to me' said William.

'Well, of course not. Everyone knows you're a bit... a bit unimaginative about that sort of thing.'

'You mean I like to know that things have actually happened?'

'That's it, yes. Mr Carney says people won't notice the difference anyway. He doesn't like you very much, Mr de Worde.'

'He's got wandering hands,' said Sacharissa. 'You can't trust a man like that.'

William pulled the latest copy of the Inquirer towards him and picked a story at random.

'"Man Stolen by Demons",' he said. 'This refers to Mr Ronnie "Trust Me" Begholder, known to owe Chrysoprase the troll more than two thousand dollars, last seen buying a very fast horse?'

'Well?'

'Where do the demons fit in?'

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'Well, he could'Ve been stolen by demons,' said Dibbler. 'It could happen to anybody.'

'What you mean, then, is that there is no evidence that he wasn 't stolen by demons?'

That way people can make up their own minds,' said Dibbler. 'That's what Mr Carney says. People should be allowed to choose, he said.'

To choose what's true?'

'He doesn't clean his teeth properly, either,' said Sacharissa. 'I mean, I'm not one of those people who think cleanliness is next to godliness, but there are limits.'*

Dibbler shook his head sadly. 'I'm losin' my touch,' he said. 'Imagine - me, working for someone? I must've been mad. It's the cold weather getting to me, that's what it is. Even... wages,' he said the word with a shudder, 'looked attractive. D'you know,' he added, in a horrified voice, 'he was telling me what to do? Next time I'll have a quiet lie-down until the feeling goes away.'

'You are an immoral opportunist, Mr Dibbler,' said William.

'It's worked so far.'

'Can you sell some advertising for us?' said Sacharissa.

'I'm not going to work for anyone ag--'

'On commission,' snapped Sacharissa.

'What? You want to employ him?' said William.

'Why not? You can tell as many lies as you like if it's advertising. That's allowed,' said Sacharissa. 'Please? We need the money!'

'Commission, eh?' said Dibbler, rubbing his unshaven chin. 'Like... fifty per cent for you two and fifty per cent for me, too?'

'We'll discuss it, shall we?' said Goodmountain, patting him on the shoulder. Dibbler winced. When it came to hard bargaining, dwarfs were diamond-tipped.

'Have I got a choice?' he mumbled.

Goodmountain leaned forward. His beard was bristling. He

* Classically, very few people have considered that cleanliness is next to godliness, apart from in a very sternly abridged dictionary. A rank loincloth and hair in an advanced state of matted entanglement have generally been the badges of office of prophets whose injunction to disdain earthly things starts with soap.

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wasn't currently holding a weapon but Dibbler could see, as it were, the great big axe that wasn't there.

'Absolutely,' he said.

'Oh,' said Dibbler. 'So... what would I be selling, exactly?'

'Space,' said Sacharissa.

Dibbler beamed again. 'Just space? Nothing? Oh, I can do that. I can sell nothing like anything]' He shook his head sadly. 'It's only when I try to sell something that everything goes wrong.'

'How did you come to be here, Mr Dibbler?' William asked.

He was not happy with the answer.

'That sort of thing could work both ways,' he said. 'You can't just dig into other people's property!' He glared at the dwarfs. 'Mr Boddony, I want that hole blocked up right now, understand?'

'We only--'

'Yes, yes, you did it for the best. And now I want it bricked up, properly. I want the hole to look as though it has never been there, thank you. I don't want anyone coming up the cellar ladder that didn't climb down it. Right now, please!

'I think I'm on to a real story,' said William, as the disgruntled dwarfs filed away. 'I think I'm going to see Wuffles. I've got--'

As he pulled out his notebook something dropped on to the floor with a tinkle.

'Oh, yes... and I got the key to our town house,' he said. 'You wanted a dress

'It's a bit late,' said Sacharissa. 'I'd forgotten all about it, to tell the truth.'

'Why not go and have a look while everyone else is busy? You could take Rocky, too. You know... to be on the safe side. But the place is empty. My father stays at his club if he has to come to town. Go on. There's got to be more to life than correcting copy.'

Sacharissa looked uncertainly at the key in her hand.

'My sister has quite a lot of dresses,' said William. 'You want to go to the ball, don't you?'

'I suppose Mrs Hotbed could alter it for me if I take it to her in the morning,' said Sacharissa, expressing mildly peeved reluctance while her body language begged to be persuaded.

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'That's right,' said William. 'And I'm sure you can find someone to do your hair properly.'

Sacharissa's eyes narrowed. 'It's true, you know, you have got an amazing way with words,' she said. 'What are you going to do?'

'I'm going,' said William, 'to see a dog about a man.'

Sergeant Angua peered up at Vimes through the steam from the bowl in front of her.

'Sorry about this, sir,' she said.

'His feet won't touch the ground,' said Vimes.

'You can't arrest him, sir,' said Captain Carrot, putting a fresh towel over Angua's head.

'Oh? Can't arrest him for assaulting an officer, eh?'

'Well, that's where it gets tricky, doesn't it, sir?' said Angua.

'You're an officer, sergeant, whatever shape you happen to be currently in!'

'Yes, but... it's always been a bit convenient to let the werewolf thing stay a rumour, sir,' said Carrot. 'Don't you think so? Mr de Worde writes things down. Angua and I aren't particularly keen on that. Those who need to know, know.'