25_The Truth by Terry Pratchett

Author:Terry Pratchett
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
Published: 2007-09-17T23:00:00+00:00

He’d rewritten the Patrician story, too, adding as much as he was certain of, and there wasn’t much of that. He was, frankly, stuck.

Sacharissa had penned a story about the opening of the Inquirer. William had hesitated about this, too. But it was news, after all. They couldn’t just ignore it, and it filled some space.

Besides, he liked the opening line, which began: “A would-be rival to Ankh-Morpork’s old established newspaper, the Times, has opened in Gleam Street…”

“You’re getting good at this,” he said, looking across the desk.

“Yes,” she said, “I now know that if I see a naked man I should definitely get his name and address, because—”

William joined in the chorus: “—names sell newspapers.”

He sat back and drank the really horrible tea the dwarfs made. Just for a moment there was an unusual feeling of bliss. Strange word, he thought. It’s one of those words that describe something that does not make a noise but, if it did make a noise, would sound just like that. Bliss. It’s like the sound of a soft meringue melting gently on a warm plate.

Here and now, he was free. The paper was put to bed, tucked up, had its prayers listened to. It was finished. The crew were already filing back in for more copies, cursing and spitting; they’d commandeered a variety of old trolleys and prams to cart their papers out into the streets. Of course, in an hour or so, the mouth of the press would be hungry again and he’d be back pushing the huge rock uphill, just like that character in mythology…what was his name…

“Who was that hero who was condemned to push a rock up a hill and every time he got it to the top it rolled down again?” he said.

Sacharissa didn’t look up.

“Someone who needed a wheelbarrow?” she said, spiking a piece of paper with some force.

William recognized the voice of someone who still has an annoying job to do.

“What are you working on?” he said.

“A report from the Ankh-Morpork Recovering Accordion Players Society,” she said, scribbling fast.

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“Yes. The punctuation. There isn’t any. I think we might have to order an extra box of commas.”

“Why are you bothering with it, then?”

“Twenty-six people are mentioned by name.”

“As accordionists?”

“Yes.”

“Won’t they complain?”

“They didn’t have to play the accordion. Oh, and there was a big crash on Broad Way. A cart overturned and several tons of flour fell onto the road, causing a couple of horses to rear and upset their cartload of fresh eggs, and that caused another cart to shed thirty churns of milk…so what do you think of this as a headline?”

She held up a piece of paper on which she’d written:

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