Page 13 of 13
Chapter XXXIII
Sacharissa had been walking the streets again, not in the way that seamstresses did, of course, that was too much like hard work, and work she didn't have the stomach for. She'd made friends with a number of seamstresses over the years and it turned that the stomach wasn't the only part she didn't have for the job. They were usually the best source of information on any subject in the whole city, however, even they were almost dry on this one. And not just this one. It seemed that some of their clients would sometimes start talking about things –the ones who could do more than grunt, that is- and then suddenly mussel up for no obvious reason. She hated when people did that when she was just looking for a quote, even off-the-record by an unnamed source. Who in gods' names did they think was listening!?
She was doing more at the moment than chasing stories, though: she was looking for Honeysuckle, because she hadn't seen or heard from her in ages. She'd been round all the places they were used to haunting but no one there had seen her ether. To Sacharissa she wasn't Katy anymore but a beautiful yellow flower and she couldn't get her face out of her head, even in her dreams. She didn't think that was true for many other people, which was why she carried the photograph.
Pieces had begun to appear in The Post under her byline and accompanied by her picture. Of course it was not her real photograph anymore than they were her real words; she was incapable of being so horrible, but the iconograph did look a lot like her. There was an imp who worked for Otto called Gorge who could take any iconograph and make it a great deal larger without losing any detail. It was this engorgement that she was currently carrying around and asking 'have you seen this woman'? The answers were four, and one of them was more than a little strange.
She generally got 'no', of course but she also sometimes got 'yes, and she's talking for the people'; more frequently there was 'that bitch, I'd string her up'… However, what she thought very odd was that, apart from 'no', the most common answer was no answer at all. It was a sort vague recognition followed by a blank look and then an air of whimsical forgetfulness.
It was no better down The Duck. Sacharissa was valued most at The Guardian for her 'source within The Watch' pieces, but in truth it was really more sources than she could count, let alone name. Every Watchman had stories they wanted to share and virtually none of them wanted to share them with The Banner, The Post, The Tribune or The Chronicle. Luckily they could all tell her down The Duck. If everyone was dishing the beans then no one was.
This time though no one seemed to know anything, not even Kate. Mind you, no one in The Duck actually read The Post –not even the hopeless drunks- so the iconograph wasn't really going to help much, and of course the pieces by The Queen of Spleen kept appearing in The Post, but then they hardly needed Honeysuckle for that, did they?
This was by far the longest time they'd gone without seeing each other since the first time they'd met and she was starting to get worried. With good reason, as it turned out.
Unlike most people, Katy hated having her name in the paper and hated having her picture in it even more. To begin with it wasn't her real name1, secondly, it wasn't her real picture –The Post couldn't do photographs like The Guardian could- it looked a bit like her, quite a bit in fact, though it did make her look rather gaunt… Anyway, thirdmost, both the name and picture were attached to some of the vilest words Katy had ever read; words that her mother would disown her for if she ever found out she'd written them. Not that she had written them of course. For some time, she hadn't even been aware that she was supposed to have done so. When you worked for the Bothermore Organisation you learned very quickly that what you did was none of your business. It was hardly slavery –she was paid rather well- but it was made very clear that she was no more entitled to consideration than the cleaners, or indeed the floors they cleaned. Lord Bothermore would occasionally ask her opinion, just to see if he liked the sound of it, not because he valued it in any way, and he was fond of making that clear.
This then was her situation: she was becoming increasingly famous for doing something that she wasn't actually doing and would have been too ashamed to do even if she'd been asked to. It wasn't as if she was being paid anything for the pieces that she wasn't writing for The Post, after all. Not that that would have made her feel any less ashamed of them, of course, but it might have taken the edge off it. And now she was headed for Bothermore Hall again with Rose and no prospect of escape this time, unless The Guardian could come up with some gigantic scandal about Lord Bothermore to further infuriate her employer.
He'd been in a foul mood that morning when they'd left but it was always easy to further enfoul it. Generally, when he wasn't trying to smarm his way into more money or influence, his moods ran from foul through fouler and more fouler to foulest, more foulest and finally most foulest and then some. If the scale ran from one to eight then at breakfast he'd been a one or possibly a two. After his conversation with Kelvin Side, the editor of The Tribune he'd jumped to a four and was pushing a five. The list of things that annoyed Lord Bothermore was long: longer than a troll's arm, longer than a dragon's tail, actually longer even than long, Katy thought. It could simply be the mildly irritating: an insufficiently low bow from a servant, her not curtseying sufficiently curtly or meeting his gaze because she'd failed to lower her eyes quickly enough. More serious would be asking him questions –other than 'what can I do to increase, you pleasure, my lord?'- as they really irritated him. As if he had to answer for anything. More serious still were offences such as treating him as if he were no better than your equal, making jokes at his expense and, most serious of all: making money at his expense. Serious offences had been committed that very morning and, once again, The Guardian was to blame.
Of course Lord Bothermore didn't like rivals, no businessman does, a monopoly is good for everyone, after all, but there were some rivals he was prepared to tolerate, at least for a while. Arthur Hearsay's Daily Press had tried to take on The Post and Lord Acre's The Dispatch had set itself up as a rival to The Tribune. He'd seen them both off in the end but it had always been a friendly rivalry in any case, and they'd certainly never have accused each other of being liars. Unlike The Guardian, scurrilous little rag that it was.
"This is outrageous!" Lord Bothermore had raged when Kelvin Side had informed him that, according to their best estimates, The Guardian was now selling more each day than The Tribune and The Chronicle combined.
"I'm afraid it's true, my lord," said Kelvin Side2
"Whose fault is that?" Bothermore demanded to know, "what have you done?" What was certain was that if there was blame to be attached then none of it was going to be attached to him.
"We have changed nothing, my lord," said Side, "neither I nor Ozzy Charles at The Chronicle."
"Then why have we lost readers?"
"According to many of the ex-readers," said Side, with a due sense of foreboding, "it is that it makes fun of you and calls you a liar."
"WHAT?!" Lord Bothermore yelled, "how DARE they!? How can they get away with that!?"
"Well, we do tell lies, my lord," said Side, matter-of-factly.
Sitting in the corner, with hands demurely in her lap, Katy had to pinch her own knees really hard to stop herself from laughing. Not that either of them would have noticed.
"We do NOT tell lies," said Bothermore, very coldly, "anything that we may invent we do only in the service the greater truth. People must be made aware of that."
"We do say that, my lord," said Side, though not in those words, he thought, "but, unfortunately, people who read The Guardian won't hear."
"Then I want it smashed up," said Bothermore, flatly.
"Ah," said Side, "we did that with The Times and it didn't really work."
"What do mean that it 'didn't really work', it's gone, isn't it?"
"Yes and no, my lord."
"Don't try that with me, Kelvin," Bothermore cautioned.
"It is true, my lord," Side began carefully, "that The Times itself no longer exists, nor does its building, but Otto Chreik and the woman Selene now both work for The Guardian."
"Then smash it up!" Bothermore demanded, "let's see where they go to work then."
"We can't, my lord, we can't find it."
"Then smash up the people who sell it."
"Again, we can't, my lord, they're Fools."
"Of course they are," snorted Lord Bothermore.
"No, my lord, I mean they're members of the Fool's Guild."
"So what?" Bothermore snorted, "I'm not afraid of a few fools."
"Nor is anyone else, my lord," Side tried to explain, "but as far as the Guilds are concerned, to disrespect one is to disrespect all, and there are some guilds who are rather more frightening than the Fools."
"Hrrmmm," Bothermore growled.
The Thieves were frightening, The Assassins were scarier still, but even he would never contemplate being looked at out of the wrong eye by The Guild of Lenders.
"Then I want to know who's behind it, find out," Bothermore demanded.
"Yes, my lord," said Side, "but we already have our suspicions."
"Well?"
"We think it's being run by de Worde, the same man who started-up The Times..."
"What!?" Bothermore exploded, "that little weasel again? I'll have his head."
"Also, we believe the dwarves are providing the printing services gratis."
"Really, why? When have the shortarses ever turned their stubby noses up at a profit?"
It was the sort of casually racist remark that Side wished he could persuade his boss to curb. It wasn't the sentiment that bothered him so much as its crudeness.
"Well," he explained, for what felt like the nteenth time, "there was that hate campaign you did."
It had been before Side's time so even Bothermore wasn't going to get away with pinning that one on him.
"And if you stir-up hatred, then people might hate you for it."
"But we stopped that," Bothermore protested.
Yes, because other people made you do so, thought Side.
"Anyway," he continued, "that was a long time ago."
"Dwarfs have long memories," Side pointed out.
"Longer than their legs, at least," Bothermore snorted.
Side sighed, but thanked the gods that he wasn't responsible for his employer's PR. He looked over at Katy and smiled, pityingly. She smiled wanly in return.
"Right," Bothermore decided, "I'm going to the Hall."
Killing a lot of defenceless animals might not help, but it couldn't hurt.
Oh, good, thought Side. Oh, no, thought Katy, and Frau
Strohdachdeckerin will be waiting.
The journey this time had been, unfortunately, uneventful and The Guardian hadn't managed to produce anything sufficiently scandalous to turn them round. On the other hand, Katy had to admit, it was good to get out of the city and into the fresh air. The heat in Ankh-Morpork was becoming almost unbearable and there never seemed to be the least breath of a breeze. There wasn't any wind out here on the plain either, but at least there was open space, because back in the streets it was suffocating. In the distance she heard faint thunder but she was almost certain that the storm would be passing them by. For weeks now everyone had been praying for rain, to any and every god they could think of, a good storm was what they needed; to clear the air and cleanse the streets, but, though the skies would often rumble and the clouds would gather and darken, for some reason the storm never broke. It was as if the weather gods were toying with them.
"Sounds like there's a storm coming," said Rose.
"Umm?" said Katy, "oh, yes, no, I don't think so."
"I wish it would come," said Rose, "I like a good storm. I love lightening."
So did Katy. Rose had been chatting to her for ages now while Katy's mind had been off playing in the clouds; it wasn't as if she generally had to reply or anything like that. It was a peculiar talent that the maid had: she could talk, almost endlessly, without really saying anything –she called it chattering- and it gave people the impression that there was nothing happening inside her head, ever. It had even fooled Katy for a while, in fact right up until they'd first shared a bed together. The person Rose became when she was talking to someone she trusted, and when she was sure no one could overhear them, was a Disc away from the silly little girl everyone thought she was.
"If you're a woman it's best that people don't think you're too clever," she'd confided in a whisper on that first night and Katy had, from then on, been astonished at how well Rose hid the fact that she was at least as intelligent as Katy –possibly even as clever as Sacharissa- and a lot more intelligent than any of the men around her. And as Rose began chattering again, about willows or windowpanes or something, Katy's thoughts returned to Sacharissa: was she worried about her missing their rendezvous? Did she believe that she was really The Queen of Spleen? Was there a place in her heart for Honeysuckle Hoppkins that was anything like as big as the one in hers for Sacharissa Cripslock? So, as the coach rattled and Rose prattled, did Katy pass the hours to Bothermore Hall.
At The Guardian offices Sacharissa found an editorial meeting was taking place: on the one side, as always, were William, Selene and Otto while on the other –instead of her- was Gudrun, who looked rather different from the last time she'd seen her. Instead of the pretty little girl in the print room there was a dwarf, a proper dwarf. Gone were the summer dress and the ballet-pumps; instead there was chain-mail and stout, steel-toecap boots –all the better to kick you with- and the curly mop and bright smile had been replaced by fiercely-tied braids and an even fiercer frown.
"Gudrun, has volunteered for The Watch," said William, a note of exasperation in his voice.
"Good for her," said Sacharissa. Gudrun managed to give her a tight smile in return.
"But not good for the paper," said Selene.
"I have not, nor will I, neglect my duty to The Guardian, but my first duty is to the city," Gudrun made clear.
"Quite right," said Sacharissa, "there are more important things than a bloody newspaper, after all." Honeysuckle, for one.
"Not for me there aren't," said William.
"Well, that just shows what a sad and pathetic life you lead," said Sacharissa, snootily.
"William's problem is with what Gudrun wants him to put in his editorial," Selene continued.
"What?" Sacharissa asked.
"Mr. de Worde doesn't want to say that the Bothermore papers have a policy of inciting violence against defenceless Omnians," said Gudrun.
"Why not?" Sacharissa wanted to know.
"Because it isn't true," said William.
"But it is true," said Sacharissa as if she could barely believe her ears.
"No, they don't say: OMINIANS STEAL BABIES TO SACRIFICE!" he said.
"Yes, they do!" Sacharissa was indignant.
"No," he corrected, "what they say is: OMINIANS STEAL BABIES TO SACRIFICE! Mrs. Somebodyorother told The Post," there's a difference.
"They just make that up, you know that."
"Do you have a source," William asked
"What!?" she almost yelled, "you can read, can't you? And no one is going to go on the record about this, they're too scared."
"In which case," Selene explained, "they can just claim that they are not responsible for how people interpret their words."
"As if anyone would be stupid enough to believe that," Sacharissa snorted.
"Vell," said Otto, "if zhey are stupid enough to read zee zings in zee first place…"
"-ing technicality," she said, dismissively3, "so what are we going to do?"
"What we always do," said William, "report the truth."
"Nothing, in other words," she sniffed.
"We follow the rules," he said simply.
"Why should we? They don't."
"And that's the difference between them and us," said William, loftily.
"Oh, for gods' sakes," she haaarrumphed. "I'm with you Gudrun," she said, turning to the dwarf, "what do you make of that explanation?"
"-ing rubbish!4" Gudrun affirmed.
"Would you like to go for a drink some time?"
"I don't drink," said Gudrun, "I only quaff."
"In that case would you care to quaff some wine with me, Ms. Gustaffsdottir?"
"I think I would very much enjoy that, Ms. Cripslock," said Gudrun with a smile, and there was nothing sweet about this one.
"Perhaps we could gossip about setting-up our own paper," said Sacharissa, archly.
"The Women's Own?" Gudrun suggested.
"Mmmm, we'll have to work on that, I think. El Tinto at eight?" she suggested.
"It's a date."
"Your dwarf's in the mail," Sacharissa said to William as she headed up the stairs.
"You've left your flounce behind," he called after her, but he'd lost this particular round, and he knew it.
1 Sacharissa said that she loved Honeysuckle Hoppkins. Katy realised that this was probably because of her love of alliteration, but she loved hearing it all the same.
2 Kelvin Side was the brother of Kelvin Bridge, the editor of The Post. They came from the Baffled Island of Glaikit, where things were done backwards.
3 In the tradition Sacharissa had been raised in women never swore.
4 She and Gudrun had been brought up in similar traditions, at least in this respect.