Terry Pratchett: The Truth

Goodmountain was working in front of several of the large sloped boxes, each one of which was divided into several dozen compartments.

William watched the dwarf's hand fly over the little boxes of leaden letters.

'Why's there a bigger box for the Es?'

' 'cos that's the letter we use most of.'

'Is that why it's in the middle of the box?'

'Right. Es then Ts then As...'

'I mean, people would expect to see A in the middle.'

'We put E.'

'But you've got more Ns than Us. And U is a vowel.'

'People use more Ns than you think.'

On the other side of the room Caslong's stubby dwarf fingers danced across his own boxes of letters.

'You can almost read what he's working on--' William began.

Goodmountain glanced up. His eyes narrowed for a moment.

' "... Make... more... money... inn... youre... Spare... Time..." ' he said. 'Sounds like Mr Dibbler has been back.'

William stared down at the box of letters again. Of course, a quill pen potentially contained anything you wrote with it. He could understand that. But it did so in a clearly theoretical way, a safe way. Whereas these dull grey blocks looked threatening. He could understand why they worried people. Put us together in the right way, they seemed to say, and we can be anything you want. We could even be something you don't want. We can spell anything. We can certainly spell trouble.

The ban on movable type wasn't exactly a law. But he knew the

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engravers didn't like it, because they had the world operating just as they wanted it, thank you very much. And Lord Vetinari was said not to like it, because too many words only upset people. And the wizards and the priests didn't like it because words were important.

An engraved page was an engraved page, complete and unique. But if you took the leaden letters that had previously been used to set the words of a god, and then used them to set a cookery book, what did that do to the holy wisdom? For that matter, what would it do to the pie? As for printing a book of spells, and then using the same type for a book of navigation - well, the voyage might go anywhere.

On cue, because history likes neatness, he heard the sound of a carriage drawing up in the street outside. A few moments later Lord Vetinari stepped inside and stood leaning heavily on his stick and surveying the room with mild interest.

'Why... Lord de Worde,' he said, looking surprised. I had no idea that you were involved in this enterprise

William coloured as he hurried over to the city's supreme ruler. 'It's Mister de Worde, my lord.'

'Ah, yes. Of course. Indeed.' Lord Vetinari's gaze traversed the inky room, paused a moment on the pile of madly smiling rocking horses, and then took in the toiling dwarfs. 'Yes. Of course. And are you in charge?'

'No one is, my lord,' said William. 'But Mr Goodmountain over there seems to do most of the talking.'

'So what exactly is your purpose here?'

'Er...' William paused, which he knew was never a good tactic with the Patrician. 'Frankly, sir, it's warm, my office is freezing, and... well, it's fascinating. Look, I know it's not really--'

Lord Vetinari nodded and raised a hand. 'Be so good as to ask Mr Goodmountain to come over here, will you?'

William tried to whisper a few instructions into Gunilla's ear as he hustled him over to the tall figure of the Patrician.

'Ah, good,' said the Patrician. 'Now, I would just like to ask one or two questions, if I may?'

Goodmountain nodded.

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'Firstly, is Mr Cut-My-Own-Throat Dibbler involved in this enterprise in any significant managerial capacity?'

'What?' said William. He hadn't been expecting this.

'Shifty fellow, sells sausages--'

'Oh, him. No. Just the dwarfs.'

'I see. And is this building built on a crack in space-time?'

'What?' said Gunilla.

The Patrician sighed. 'When one has been ruler of this city as long as I have,' he said, 'one gets to know with a sad certainty that whenever some well-meaning soul begins a novel enterprise they always, with some kind of uncanny foresight, site it at the point where it will do maximum harm to the fabric of reality. There was that Holy Wood moving picture fiasco a few years ago, yes? And that Music with Rocks In business not long after, we never got to the bottom of that. And of course the wizards seem to break into the Dungeon Dimensions so often they might as well install a revolving door. And I'm sure I don't have to remind you what happened when the late Mr Hong chose to open his Three Jolly Luck Take-Away Fish Bar in Dagon Street during the lunar eclipse. Yes? You see, gentlemen, it would be nice to think that someone, somewhere in this city, is engaged in some simple enterprise that is hot going to end up causing tentacled monsters and dread apparitions to stalk the streets eating people. So... ?'

'What?' said Goodmountain.

'We haven't noticed any cracks,' said William.

'Ah, but possibly on this very site a strange cult once engaged in eldritch rites, the very essence of which permeated the neighbourhood, and which seeks only the rite, ahah, circumstances to once again arise and walk around eating people?'

'What?' said Gunilla. He looked helplessly at William, who could only add:

They made rocking horses here.'

'Really? I've always thought there was something slightly sinister about rocking horses,' said Lord Vetinari, but he looked subtly disappointed. Then he brightened up. He pointed to the big stone on which the type was arranged.

'Aha,' he said. 'Innocently taken from the overgrown ruins of a

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megalithic stone circle, this stone is redolent with the blood of thousands, I have no doubt, who will emerge to seek revenge, you may depend upon it.'

'It was cut specially for me by my brother,' said Gunilla. 'And I don't have to take that kind of talk, mister. Who do you think you are, coming in here and talking daft like that?'

William stepped forward at a healthy fraction of the speed of terror.

'I wonder if I might just take Mr Goodmountain aside and explain one or two things to him?' he said quickly.

The Patrician's bright, enquiring smile did not so much as flicker.

'What a good idea,' he said, as William frogmarched the dwarf to a corner. 'He will be sure to thank you for it later.'

Lord Vetinari stood leaning on his stick and looking at the press with an air of benevolent interest, while behind him William de Worde explained the political realities of Ankh-Morpork, especially those relating to sudden death. With gestures.

After thirty seconds of this, Goodmountain came back and stood foursquare in front of the Patrician, with his thumbs in his belt.

'I speak as I find, me,' he said. 'Always have done, always will--'

'And what is it that you call a spade?' said Lord Vetinari.

'What? Never use spades,' said the glowering dwarf. 'Farmers use spades. But I call a shovel a shovel.'

'Yes, I thought you would,' said Lord Vetinari.

'Young William here says you're a ruthless despot who doesn't like printing. But I say you're a fair-minded man who won't stand in the way of an honest dwarf making a bit of a living, am I right?'

Once again Lord Vetinari's smile remained in place.

'Mr de Worde, a moment, please...'

The Patrician put his arm companionably around William's shoulders and walked him gently away from the watching dwarfs.

'I only said that some people call you--' William began.

'Now, sir,' said the Patrician, waving this away. 'I think I might just be persuaded, against all experience, that we have here a little endeavour that might just be pursued without filling my streets with inconvenient occult rubbish. It is hard to imagine such a thing

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in Ankh-Morpork, but I could just about accept it as a possibility. And it so happens that I feel the question of "printing" is one that might, with care, be re-opened.'