The Truth

Silence replied: Oh, everyone. They'll say things like: 'Poor fellow... it was the strain of office, you know.' They'll say: 'It's the quiet ones that crack.' They'll say: 'Quite so... We should put him somewhere where he can do no harm to himself or others. Don't you think?' They'll say: 'Perhaps a small statue would be in order, too?' They'll say: The least we can do is call off the Watch, we owe him that much.' They'll say: 'We must look to the future.' And so, quietly, things change. No fuss, and very little mess.

No one said: Character assassination. What a wonderful idea. Ordinary assassination only works once, but this one works every day.

A chair did say: 'I wondered whether Lord Downey or even Mr Boggis--'

Another chair said: 'Oh, come now! Why should they? Much better this way.'

'True, true. Mr Scrope is a man of fine qualities.'

'A good family man, I understand.'

'Listens to the common people.'

'Not just to the common people, I trust?'

'Oh, no. He's very open to advice. From informed .-...ocus groups.'

'He'll need plenty of that.'

No one said: He's a useful idiot.

'Nevertheless... the Watch will have to be brought to heel.'

174

'Vimes will do what he is told. He must do. Scrope will be at least as legitimate a choice as Vetinari was. Vimes is the kind of man who must have a boss, because that gives him legitimacy.'

Slant coughed. 'Is that all, gentlemen?' he said.

'What about the Ankh-Morpork Times?' said a chair. 'Bit of a problem shaping up there?'

'People find it amusing,' said Mr Slant. 'And nobody takes it seriously. The Inquirer outsells it two to one already, after just one day. And it is underfinanced. And it has, uh, difficulty with supplies.'

'Good tale in the Inquirer about that woman and the snake,' said a chair.

'Was there?' said Mr Slant.

The chair that had first mentioned the Times had something on its mind.

'I'd feel happier if a few likely lads smashed up the press,' it said.

That would attract attention,' said a chair. The Times wants attention. The... writer craves to be noticed.'

'Oh, well, if you insist.'

'I would not dream of insisting. But the Times will collapse,' said the chair, and this was the chair that other chairs listened to. The young man is also an idealist. He has yet to find out that what's in the public interest is not what the public is interested in.'

'Say again?'

'I mean, gentlemen, that people probably think he's doing a good job, but what they are buying is the Inquirer. The news is more interesting. Did I ever tell you, Mr Slant, that a lie will go round the world before the truth has got its boots on?'

'A great many times, sir,' said Slant, with slightly less than his usual keen diplomacy. He realized this, and added, 'A valuable insight, I'm sure.'

'Good.' The most important chair sniffed. 'Keep an eye on our... workmen, Mr Slant.'

It was midnight in the Temple of Om in the Street of Small Gods, and one light burned in the vestry. It was a candle in a very heavy ornate candlestick and it was, in a way, sending a prayer to heaven.

175

The prayer, from the Gospel According to the Miscreants, was: don't let anyone find us pinching this stuff.

Mr Pin rummaged in a cupboard.

'I can't find anything in your size,' he said. 'It looks as though-- Oh, no... sheesh, incense is for burning.'

Tulip sneezed, pebble-dashing the opposite wall with sandal-wood.

'You could've --ing told me before,' he muttered. I've got some papers.'

'Have you been Chasing the Oven Cleaner again?' said Mr Pin accusingly. I want you focused, understand? Now, the only thing I can find in here that will fit you--'

The door creaked open and a small elderly priest wandered into the room. Mr Pin instinctively grasped the big candlestick.

'Hello? Are you here for the, mm, midnight service?' said the old man, blinking in the light.

This time it was Tulip who grabbed Mr Pin's arm as he raised the candlestick.

'Are you mad? What kind of person are you?' he growled.

'What? We can't let him--'

Mr Tulip snatched the silver stick out of his partner's hand.

'I mean, look at the --ing thing, will you?' he said, ignoring the bemused priest. 'That's a genuine Sellini! Five hundred years old! Look at the chasing work on that snuffer, will you? Sheesh, to you it's nothing more than five --ing pounds of silver, right?'

'Actually, mm, it's a Futtock,' said the old priest, who still hadn't yet got up to mental speed.

'What, the pupil?' said Mr Tulip, his eyes ceasing their spin out of surprise. He turned the candlestick over and looked at the base. 'Hey, that's right! There's the Sellini mark, but it's stamped with a little "f", too. First time I've ever seen his --ing early stuff. He was a better --ing silversmith, too, it's just a shame he had such a --ing stupid name. You know how much it'd sell for, reverend?'

'We thought about seventy dollars,' said the priest, looking hopeful. 'It was in a lot of furniture that an old lady left to the church. Really, we kept it for sentimental value

'Have you still got the box it came in?' said Mr Tulip, turning the