The Truth by Terry Pratchett Read Free Book Online Page A

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 not 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 neighborhood, and which seeks only the rite, ahaha, 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 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 frog-marched 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 his shoulders and walked William 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 endeavor that might just be pursued without filling my streets with inconvenient occult rubbish. It is hard to imagine such a thing 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 reopened.”
    “You do? ”
    “Yes. So I am minded to allow your friends to proceed with their folly.”
    “Er, they’re not exactly—” William began.
    “ Of course, I should add that, in the event of there being any problems of a tentacular nature, you would be held personally responsible.”
    “Me? But I—”
    “Ah. You feel that I am being