The Truth

Terry Pratchett

William de Worde is the accidental editor of the Discworld's first newspaper. New printing technology means that words just won't obediently stay nailed down like usual. There's a very real threat of news getting out there.

‘And these are your reasons, my lord?’
‘Do you think I have others?’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘My motives, as ever, are entirely transparent.’
Hughnon reflected that ‘entirely transparent’ meant either that you could see right through them or that you couldn’t see them at all.

WHO KNOWS WHAT EVIL LURKS IN THE HEART OF MEN?
The Death of Rats looked up from the feast of the potato. SQUEAK, he said.
Death waved a hand dismissively. WELL, YES, OBVIOUSLY ME, he said. I JUST WONDERED IF THERE WAS ANYONE ELSE.

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.