The Truth

Behind them Otto was in trouble.



'You use it to take pictures!' said Goodmountain.



'Vy, yes.'



Several of the dwarfs slapped their thighs, half turned away and did the usual little pantomime that people do to indicate that they just can't believe someone else could be so damn stupid.



'You know it is dangerous!' said Goodmountain.



'Mere superstition!' said Otto. 'All zat possibly happens is that a subject's own morphic signature aligns zer resons, or thing-particles, in phase-space according to zer Temporal Relevance Theory, creating zer effect of multiple directionless vindows vich intersect vith the illusion of zer present and create metaphoric images according to zer dictates of qvasi-historical extrapolation. You see? Nothing mysterious about it at all!'



'It certainly frightened off those people,' said William.



'It was the axes that did that,' said Goodmountain firmly.



'No, it was the feeling that the top of your head has been opened and icicles have been pounded into your brain,' said William.



Goodmountain blinked. 'Yeah, okay, that too,' he said, mopping his forehead. 'You've got a way with words, right enough...'



A shadow appeared in the doorway. Goodmountain grabbed his axe.



William groaned. It was Vimes. Worse, he was smiling, in a humourless predatory way.



'Ah, Mr de Worde,' he said, stepping inside. There are several thousand dogs stampeding through the city at the moment. This is an interesting fact, isn't it?'



He leaned against the wall and produced a cigar. 'Well, I say dogs,' he said, striking a match on Goodmountain's helmet. 'Mostly dogs, perhaps I should say. Some cats. More cats now, in fact, 'cos, hah, there's nothing like a, yes, a tidal wave of dogs, fighting and biting and howling, to sort of, how can I put it, give a city a certain... busyness. Especially underfoot, because - did I mention it? -they're very nervous dogs too. Oh, and did I mention cattle?' he went on, conversationally. 'You know how it is, market day and so on, people are driving the cows and, my goodness, around the corner comes a wall of wailing dogs... Oh, and I forgot about the sheep. And the chickens, although I imagine there's not much left of the chickens now



He stared at William. 'Anything you feel you want to tell me?' he said.



'Uh... we had a bit of a problem...'



'Never! Really? Do tell!'



'The dogs took fright when Mr Chriek took a picture of them,' said William. This was absolutely true. Dark light was frightening enough even if you knew what was happening.



Vimes glared at Otto, who looked miserably at his feet.



'Well now,' said Vimes. 'Shall I tell you something? They're electing a new Patrician today--'



'Who?' said William.



',' don't know,' said Vimes.



Sacharissa blew her nose and said: 'It'll be Mr Scrope, of the Shoemakers and Leatherworkers.'



Vimes gave William a suspicious look. 'How do you know that?' he said.



'Everyone knows,' said Sacharissa. 'That's what the young man in the bakery said this morning.'



'Oh, where would we be without rumour?' said Vimes. 'So this is not a day, Mr de Worde, for... things to go wrong. My men are talking to some of the people who brought dogs along. Not many of them, I have to admit. Most of them don't want to talk to the Watch. Can't think why, we're very good listeners. Now is there anything you want to tell me?' Vimes looked around the room and back to William. 'Everyone's staring at you, I notice.'



The Times does not need any help from the Watch,' said William.



'Helping wasn't what I had in mind.'



'We haven't done anything wrong.'



'I'll decide that.'



'Really? That's an interesting point of view.'



Vimes glanced down. William had taken his notebook out of his pocket. 'Oh,' he said. 'I see.' He reached down to his own belt and pulled out a blunt, dark length of wood.



'You know what this is?' he said.



'It's a truncheon,' said William. 'A big stick.'



'Always the last resort, eh?' said Vimes evenly. 'Rosewood and Llamedos silver, a lovely piece of work. And it says on this little plate here that I'm supposed to keep the peace, and you, Mr de Worde, don't look like part of that right now.'



They locked gazes.



'What was the odd thing Lord Vetinari did just before the... accident?' said William, so quietly that probably only Vimes heard it.



Vimes didn't even blink. But after a moment he laid the truncheon down on the desk, with a click that sounded unnaturally loud in the silence.



'Now you put your notebook down, lad,' he suggested, in a quiet voice. That way, it's just me and you. No... clash of symbols.'



This time, William could see where the path of wisdom lay. He put down the book.



'Right,' said Vimes. 'And now you and me are going to go over to the corner there, while your friends tidy up. Amazing, isn't it, how much furniture can get broken, just by taking a picture?'



He went and sat down on an upturned washtub. William made do with a rocking horse.



'All right, Mr de Worde, we'll do this your way,' said Vimes.



'I didn't know I had a way.'



'You're not going to tell me what you know, are you?'



'I'm not sure what I know,' said William. 'But I... think... Lord Vetinari did something remarkable not long before the crime.'



Vimes pulled out his own notebook and thumbed through it.



'He entered the palace by the stables some time before seven o'clock and dismissed the guard,' he said.



'He'd been out all night?'



Vimes shrugged. 'His lordship comes and goes. The guards don't ask him where and why. Have they been talking to you?'



William was ready for the question. He just didn't have an answer. But the palace guard, insofar as he'd met them, weren't men chosen for imagination or flair but for a kind of obstructive loyalty. They didn't sound like a potential Deep Bone.



'I don't think so,' he said.



'Oh, you don't think so?'



Hold on, hold on... Deep Bone claimed to know the dog Wuffles, and a dog ought to know if his master was acting oddly, dogs liked routine...



'I think it's very unusual for his lordship to be outside the palace at that time,' said William carefully. 'Not part of the... routine.'



'Nor is stabbing your clerk and trying to run off with a very heavy sack of cash,' said Vimes. 'Yes, we noticed that, too. We're not stupid. We only look stupid. Oh... and the guard said he smelled spirits on his lordship's breath.'



'Does he drink?'



'Not so's you'd notice.'



'He's got a drinks cabinet in his office,'



Vimes smiled. 'You noticed that? He likes other people to drink,'



'But all that might mean was that he was plucking up the courage to--' William began, and stopped. 'No, that's not Vetinari. He's not that sort,'



'No. He isn't,' said Vimes. He sat back. 'Perhaps you'd better... think again, Mr de Worde. Maybe... maybe... you can find someone to help you think better,'



Something in his manner suggested that the informal part of the discussion was well and truly over.



'Do you know much about Mr Scrope?' said William.



"Tuttle Scrope? Son of old Tuskin Scrope. President of the Guild of Cobblers and Leatherworkers for the past seven years,' said Vimes. 'Family man. Old-established shop in Wixon's Alley,'



That's all?'



'Mr de Worde, that's all the Watch knows about Mr Scrope. You understand? You wouldn't want to know about some of the people we know a lot about,'



'Ah,' William's brow wrinkled. 'But there's not a shoe shop in Wixon's Alley.'



'I never mentioned shoes,'



'In fact the only shop that is even, er, remotely connected with leather is--'



That's the one,' said Vimes.



'But that sells--'



'Comes under the heading of leatherwork,' said Vimes, picking up his truncheon.



'Well, yes... and rubber work, and... feathers... and whips... and... little jiggly things,' said William, blushing. 'But--'



'Never been in there myself, although I believe Corporal Nobbs gets their catalogue,' said Vimes. 'I don't think there's a Guild of Makers of Little Jiggly Things, though it's an interesting thought. Anyway, Mr Scrope is all nice and legal, Mr de Worde. Nice old family atmosphere, I understand. Makes buying... this and that, and little jiggly things... as pleasant as half a pound of humbugs, I don't doubt. And what rumour is telling me is that the first thing nice Mr Scrope will do is pardon Lord Vetinari.'



'What? Without a trial?'



'Won't that be nice?' said Vimes, with horrible cheerfulness. 'A good start to his term of office, eh? Clean sheet, fresh start, no sense in raking up unpleasantness. Poor chap. Overwork. Bound to crack. Didn't get enough fresh air. And so on. So he can be put away in some nice quiet place and we'll be able to stop worrying about this whole wretched affair. A bit of a relief, eh?'



'But you know he didn't--'



'Do I?' said Vimes. This is an official truncheon of office, Mr de Worde. If it was a club with a nail in it this'd be a different sort of city. I'm off now. You've been thinking, you tell me. Maybe you ought to think some more.'



William watched him go.



Sacharissa had pulled herself together, perhaps because no one was trying to comfort her any more.



'What are we going to do now?' she said.



'I don't know. Get a paper out, I suppose. That's our job.'



'But what happens if those men come back?'



'I don't think they will. This place is being watched now.'



Sacharissa started to pick papers up off the floor. 'I suppose I'll feel better if I do something...'



That's the spirit.'



'If you can give me a few paragraphs about that fire



'Otto got a decent picture,' said William. 'Didn't you, Otto?'



'Oh yes. That vun is okay. But...'



The vampire was staring down at his iconograph. It was smashed.



'Oh, I'm so sorry,' said William.



'I have ozzers.' Otto sighed. 'You know, I thought it vould be easy in zer big city,' he said. 'I thought it would be civilized. Zey told me mobs don't come after you viz pitchforks in zer big city like zey do back in Schiischien. I mean, I try. Gods know I try. Three months, four days and seven hours on zer vagon. I give up zer whole thing! Even zer pale ladies viz the velvet basques vorn on zer outside and zer fetching black lace dresses and zose little tiny, you know, high-heeled boots - and zat vas a wrench, I don't mind telling you...' He shook his head miserably, and stared at his ruined shirt. 'And stuff all gets broken and now my



best shirt is all covered viz... blood... covered viz red, red blood... rich dark blood... zer blood... covered with zer blood... zer blood...'



'Quick!' said Sacharissa, pushing past William. 'Mr Goodmountain, you hold his arms!' She waved at the dwarfs. 'I was ready for this! Two of you hold his legs! Dozy, there's a huge blutwurst in my desk drawer!'



'... Let me valk in sunshine, Living not in vein...' Otto crooned.



'Oh, my gods, his eyes are glowing red!' said William. 'What shall we do?'



'We could try cutting his head off again?' said Boddony.



That was a very poor joke, Boddony,' Sacharissa snapped.



'Joke? I was smiling?'



Otto stood up, the cursing dwarfs hanging off his sparse frame.



'Through thunderstorm and dreadful night, ve vill carry on zer fight...



'He's as strong as an ox!' said Goodmountain.



'Hang on, maybe it would help if we joined in!' said Sacharissa. She fumbled in her bag and produced a slim blue pamphlet. 'I picked this up this morning from the mission in Abattoirs Lane. It's their songbook! And,' she started to sniff again, 'it's so sad, it's called "Walking In Sunshine" and it's so--'



'You want us to have a singsong?' said Goodmountain, as the struggling Otto lifted him off the ground.



'Just to give him moral support!' Sacharissa dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. 'You can see he's trying to fight it! And he did lay down his life for us!'



'Yes, but then he picked it up again!'



William bent down and took up something from the wreckage of Otto's iconograph. The imp had escaped, but the picture that it had painted was just visible. Perhaps it'd show--



It wasn't a good one of the man who'd called himself Brother Pin; his face was just a white blob in the glare of the light that humans couldn't see. But the shadows behind him...



He looked closer.



'Oh, my gods...'



The shadows behind him were alive.



It was sleeting. Brother Pin and Sister Tulip slid and slithered through the freezing drops. Behind them, whistles were blowing in the murk.



'Come on!' Pin yelled.



'These --ing sacks are heavyV



There were whistles blowing off to one side now, too. Mr Pin wasn't used to this. Watchmen shouldn't be enthusiastic, or organized. He'd been chased by watchmen before, when plans hadn't quite worked out. Their job was to give up at the second corner, out of breath. He felt quite angry about that. The watchmen here were doing it wrong.



He was aware of an open space to one side of him, full of damp swirling flakes. Below him there was a sluggish sucking noise, like a very bad digestion.



This is a bridge! Chuck 'em in the river!' he commanded.



'I fort we wanted to find--'



'Doesn't matter! Get rid of all of 'em! Right now! End of problem!'



Sister Tulip grunted a reply and skidded to a halt at the parapet. The two whining, yapping sacks went straight on over.



'Did that sound like a --ing splash to you?' said Sister Tulip, peering through the sleet.



'Who cares? Now runV



Mr Pin shivered as he sped on. He didn't know what had been done to him back there, but he'd felt like he'd walked over his own grave.



He felt he had more than just watchmen after him. He speeded up.



In reluctant but marvellous harmony, because no one could sing like a group of dwarfs, even if the song was 'May I Suck Of Water Pure',* the dwarfs seemed to be calming Otto down.



Besides, the horrible black emergency blutwurst had finally been



* In other circumstances it would have been as likely as cows singing 'Let Me Be Covered In Rapturous Gravy'.



produced. For a vampire this was the equivalent of a cardboard cigarette to a terminal nicotine addict, but it was at least something he could get his teeth into. When William finally tore his gaze away from the horror of the shadows, Sacharissa was mopping Otto's brow.



'Oh, vunce again I am so ashamed, vhere can I put my head, it's so--'



William held up the picture. 'Otto, what's this?'



In the shadows were mouths, screaming. In the shadows were eyes, wide. They didn't move while you watched them, but if you looked at the picture a second time you got a feeling that they weren't quite in the same place.



Otto shuddered. 'Oh, I used all zer eels I had,' he said.



'And--?'



'Oh, they're awful,' breathed Sacharissa, looking away from the tortured shadows.



'I feel so wretched,' said Otto. 'Obviously they vere too stronk--'



'Tell us, Otto!'



'Veil... the iconograph does not lie, you have heard zis?'



'Of course.'



'Yes? Veil... under stronk dark light, the picture really does not lie. Dark light reveals zer truth to the dark eyes of zer mind...' He paused and sighed. 'Ah, vunce again no ominous roll of thunder, vot a vaste. But at least you could look apprehensively at the shadows.'



All heads turned towards the shadows, in the corner of the room and under the roof. They were simply shadows, haunted by nothing more than dust and spiders.



'But there's just dust and--' Sacharissa began.



Otto held up a hand. 'Dear lady... I have just told you. Philosophically, the truth can be vot is metaphorically there



William stared at the picture again.



'I had hoped that I could use filters and so on to cut down zer, er, unvanted effects,' said Otto behind him. 'But alas--'



'This gets worse and worse,' said Sacharissa. 'It gives me the humorous vegetables.'



Goodmountain shook his head. 'This is unholy stuff,' he said. 'No more meddling with it, understand?'



'I didn't think dwarfs were religious,' said William.



'We're not,' said Goodmountain. 'But we know unholy when we see it, and I'm looking at it right now, I'm telling you. I don't want any more of these, these... prints of darkness!'



William grimaced. It shows the truth, he thought. But how do we know the truth when we see it? The Ephebian philosophers think that a hare can never outrun a tortoise, and they can prove it. Is that the truth? I heard a wizard say that everything is made of little numbers, whizzing around so fast that they become stuff. Is that true? I think a lot of things that have been happening over the last few days are not what they seem, and I don't know why I think that, but I think it's not the truth...



'Yes, no more of this stuff, Otto,' he said.



'Damn right,' said Goodmountain.



'Let's just try to get back to normal and get a paper out, shall we?'



'You mean normal where mad priests start to collect dogs, or normal where vampires mess around with evil shadows?' said Gowdie.



'I mean like normal before that,' said William.



'Oh, I see. You mean like back in the old days,' said Gowdie.



After a while, though, silence settled on the press room, although there was an occasional sniff from the desk opposite.



William wrote a story about the fire. That was easy. Then he tried to write a coherent account of the recent events, but found he couldn't get beyond the first word. He'd written The'. It was a reliable word, the definite article. The trouble was, all the things he was definite about were bad.



He'd expected to... what? Inform people? Yes. Annoy people? Well, some people, at least. What he hadn't expected was that it wouldn 't make any difference. The paper came out, and it didn 't matter.



People just seemed to accept things. What was the point of writing another story on the Vetinari business? Well, of course, it had a lot of dogs in it, and there was always a lot of human interest in a story about animals.



'What did you expect?' said Sacharissa, as if she was reading his thoughts. 'Did you think people would be marching in the streets? Vetinari isn't a very nice man, from what I hear. People say he probably deserves to be locked up.'



'Are you saying people aren't interested in the truth?'



'Listen, what's true to a lot of people is that they need the money for the rent by the end of the week. Look at Mr Ron and his friends. What's the truth mean to them? They live under a bridge!'



She held up a piece of lined paper, crammed edge to edge with the careful looped handwriting of someone for whom holding a pen was not a familiar activity.



This is a report of the annual meeting of the Ankh-Morpork Caged Birds Society,' she said. They're just ordinary people who breed canaries and things as a hobby. Their chairman lives next door to me, which is why he gave me this. This stuff is important to him! My goodness, but it's dull. It's all about Best of Breed and some changes in the show rules about parrots which they argued about for two hours. But the people who were arguing were people who mostly spend their day mincing meat or sawing wood and basically leading little lives that are controlled by other people, do you see? They've got no say in who runs the city but they can damn well see to it that cockatoos aren't lumped in with parrots. It's not their fault. It's just how things are. Why are you sitting there with your mouth open like that?'



William closed his mouth. 'All right, I understand--'



'No, I don't think you do,' she snapped. 'I looked you up in Twurp's Peerage. Your family have never had to worry about the small stuff, have they? They've been some of the people who really run things. This... paper is a kind of hobby for you, isn't it? Oh, you believe in it, I'm sure you do, but if it all goes wahoonie-shaped you'll still have money. I won't. So if the way it can be kept going is by filling it with what you sneer at as olds, then that's what I'll do.'



'I don't have money! I make my own living!'



'Yes, but you were able to choose! Anyway, aristocrats don't like to see other toffs starving. They find them silly jobs to do for serious wages--'



She stopped, panting, and pushed some hair out of her eyes. Then she looked at him like someone who has lit the fuse and is now wondering if the barrel at the other end is bigger than they thought.



William opened his mouth, went to shape a word, and stopped. He did it again. Finally, a little hoarsely, he said: 'You're more or less right--'



The next word's going to be "but", I just know it,' said Sacharissa.



William was aware that the printers were all watching. 'Yes, it is--'



'Aha!'



'But it's a big but. Do you mind? It's important! Someone has to care about the... the big truth. What Vetinari mostly does not do is a lot of harm. We've had rulers who were completely crazy and very, very nasty. And it wasn't that long ago, either. Vetinari might not be "a very nice man", but I had breakfast today with someone who'd be a lot worse if he ran the city, and there are lots more like him. And what's happening now is wrong. And as for your damn parrot fanciers, if they don't care about anything much beyond things that go squawk in cages then one day there'll be someone in charge of this place who'll make them choke on their own budgies. You want that to happen? If we don't make an effort all they'll get is silly... stories about talking dogs and Elves Ate My Gerbil, so don't give me lectures on what's important and what's not, understand?'



They glared at one another.



'Don't you talk to me like that.'



'Don't you talk to me like that.'



'We're not getting enough advertising. The Inquirer's getting huge adverts from the big Guilds,' said Sacharissa. 'That's what'll keep us going, not stories about how much gold weighs.'



'What am I supposed to do about it?'



'Find a way of getting more ads!'



'That's not my job!' William shouted.



'It's part of saving your job! We're just getting penny-a-line advertisements from people wanting to sell surgical supports and backache cures!'



'So? The pennies add up!'



'So you want us to be known as The Paper You Can Put Your Truss In?'



'Er... excuse me, but are we producing an edition?' said Goodmountain. 'Not that we aren't enjoying all this, but the colour's going to take a lot of extra time.'



William and Sacharissa looked round. They were the focus of attention.



'Look, I know this means a lot to you,' said Sacharissa, lowering her voice, 'but all this... political stuff, this is the Watch's job, not ours. That's all I'm saying.'



They're stuck. That's what Vimes was telling me.'



Sacharissa stared at his frozen expression. Then she leaned over and, to his shock, patted his hand.



'Perhaps you are having an effect, then.'



'Hah!'



'Well, if they're going to pardon Vetinari, maybe it's because they're worried about you.'



'Hah! Anyway, who are "they"?'



'Well... you know... them. The people who run things. They notice things. They probably read the paper.'



William gave her a wan smile. Tomorrow we'll find someone to get more ads,' he said. 'And we'll definitely need those extra staff. Er... I'm going to go for a little walk,' he added. 'And I'll get you that key.'



'Key?'



'You wanted a dress for the ball?'



'Oh. Yes. Thank you.'



'And I don't think those men will be back,' said William. 'I've got a feeling that there isn't a shed anywhere in town that's as well guarded as this one right at the moment.'



Because Vimes is waiting to see who tries to get at us next, he thought. But he decided not to say so.



'What exactly are you going to do?' said Sacharissa.



'First, I'm going to the nearest apothecary,' said William, 'and then I'm going to drop in at my lodgings for that key, and then... I'm going to see a man about a dog.'



The New Firm hurtled through the door of the empty mansion and bolted it behind them.



Mr Tulip ripped off the bride of innocence outfit and hurled it on to the floor.



'I told you --ing clever plans never work!' he said.



'A vampire,' said Mr Pin. 'This is a sick city, Mr Tulip.'



'What was that he --ing did to us?'



'He took some kind of picture,' said Mr Pin. He closed his eyes for a moment. His head was aching.



'Well, I was in disguise,' said Mr Tulip.



Mr Pin shrugged. Even with a metal bucket over his head, which would probably begin to corrode after a few minutes, there would be something recognizable about Mr Tulip.



'I don't think that will do any good,' he said.



'I --ing hates pictures,' snarled Mr Tulip. 'Remember that time in Mouldavia? All them posters they did? It's bad for a man's health, seeing his --ing phiz on every wall with "Dead or Alive" under it. It's like they can't --ing decide.'



Mr Tulip fished out a small bag of what he had been assured was primo Smudge, but which would turn out to be sugar and powdered pigeon guano.



'Anyway, we must've got the --ing dog,' he said.



'We can't be sure,' said Mr Pin. He winced again. The headache was getting quite strong.



'Look, we done the --ing job,' said Mr Tulip. 'I don't recall no one telling us about --ing werewolves and vampires. That's their --ing problem! I say we scrag the geek, take the money and head for Pseudopolis or someplace!'



'You mean quit on a contract?'



'Yeah, when it's got small print you can't --ing see!'



'Someone'll recognize Charlie, though. Seems it's hard for the dead to stay dead around here.'



'I reckon I could help in that --ing respect,' said Mr Tulip.



Mr Pin chewed his lip. He knew better than Mr Tulip that men in their business needed a certain... reputation. Things didn't get written down. But the word got about. The New Firm sometimes dealt with very serious players, and they were people who took a lot of notice of the word...



But Tulip did have a point. This place was getting to Mr Pin. It jarred his sensibilities. Vampires and werewolves... springing that sort of thing on a body, that wasn't according to the rules. That was taking liberties. Yes...



... there was more than one way to keep a reputation.



'I think we should go and explain things to our lawyer friend,' he said slowly.



'Right!' said Mr Tulip. 'And then I'll rip his head off.'



'That doesn't kill zombies.'



'Good, 'cos then he'll be able to see where I'm gonna --ing shove it.'



'And then... we'll pay another visit to that newspaper. When it's dark.'



To get that picture, he thought. That was a good reason. It was a reason that you could tell the world. But there was another reason. That... burst of darkness had frightened Mr Pin to his shrivelled soul. A lot of memories had come pouring back, all at once.



Mr Pin had made a lot of enemies, but that hadn't worried him until now because all his enemies were dead. But the dark light had fired off bits of his mind and it had seemed to him that those enemies had not vanished from the universe but had merely gone a long way away, from which point they were watching him. And it was a long way away only from his point of view - from their point of view they could reach out and touch him.



What he wouldn't say, even to Mr Tulip, was this: they'd need all the money from this job because, in a flash of dark, he'd seen that it was time to retire.



Theology was not a field in which Mr Pin had much knowledge, despite accompanying Mr Tulip to a number of the more well-designed temples and chapels, on one occasion to scrag a High Priest who'd tried to double-cross Frank 'Nutboy' Nabbs, but the little he had absorbed was suggesting to him that this might be the very best time to take a bit of an interest. He could send them some money, maybe, or at least return some of the stuff he'd taken. Hell, maybe he could start not eating beef on Tuesdays or whatever it was you had to do. Maybe that would stop this feeling that the back of his head had just been unscrewed.



He knew that would have to be later, though. Right now, the code allowed them to do one of two things: they could follow Slant's instructions to the letter, which would mean they'd maintain a reputation for efficiency, or they could scrag Slant and maybe a few bystanders and leave, perhaps setting fire to a few things on the way out. That was also news that got around. People would understand how upset they were.



'But first we'll...' Mr Pin stopped, and in a strangled voice said: 'Is someone standing behind me?'



'No,' said Mr Tulip.



'I thought I heard... footsteps.'



'No one here but us.'



'Right. Right.' Mr Pin shuddered, straightened his jacket and then looked Mr Tulip up and down.



'Clean yourself up a bit, will you? Sheesh, you're leaking dust!'



'I can handle it,' said Mr Tulip. 'Keeps me sharp. Keeps me alert.'



Pin sighed. Mr Tulip had amazing faith in the contents of the next bag, whatever it was. And it was usually cat flea powder cut with dandruff.



'Force isn't going to work on Slant,' he said.



Mr Tulip cracked his knuckles. 'Works on everyone,' he said.



'No. A man like him will have a lot of muscle to call on,' said Pin. He patted his jacket. 'It's time Mr Slant said hello to my little friend.'



A plank thumped down on to the crusted surface of the river Ankh. Shifting his weight with care, and gripping the rope tightly in his teeth, Arnold Sideways swung himself on to it. It sank a little in the ooze, but stayed - for want of a better word - afloat.



A few feet away the depression that had been left by the first sack landing in the river was already filling up with - for want of a better word - water.



He reached the end of the plank, steadied himself and managed to lasso the remaining sack. It was moving.



'He's got it,' shouted the Duck Man, who was watching from under the bridge. 'Heave away, everybody!'