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Chapter XIX
If Katy had hated her job as a Personal Assistant, she found that she was really beginning to enjoy her job as a spy. Of course she was still surrounded by horrible, nasty people but that was always going tobe the case when you were living among the enemy, and it was dangerous. OK, it wasn't like wartime, if she were caught it wasn't like she'd be hanged or anything, but she'd be sacked, and with no reference it'd be hard for her to get another job. With four mouths to feed that was a pretty scary prospect. Also, given the nature of some of Lord Bothermore's associates, she might be in for something rather more unpleasant than mere unemployment. It was the excitement and fear that got her through the dull days, but they didn't help her sleep at night.
And then there was Sacharissa. Katy found herself looking forward more and more to their meetings, or their assignations as Sacharissa liked to call them. Part of the tingle was their surreptitious nature. Meeting in different, often out-of-the-way places, sometimes in disguise, leant them a certain cachet, though on occasion the disguise amounted to no more than wearing a scarf or dark glasses. Still, the forms had to be observed, even though they couldn't be. It was for the look of the thing, even though they should never be seen. It was a funny old world, this spying game.
But partly, for Katy at least, the tingle came from just meeting, so much so that she was starting to take bigger and more frequent risks: listening in to secret conversations, sneaking looks at diaries, even pinching documents; all to impress her contact in the press. In truth it was more than that now, though how much more Katy wasn't sure.
Sometimes their business consisted of little more than the transfer of a few papers from Katy's handbag to Sacharissa's satchel but they would then spend a couple of hours over lunch, laughing and chatting like the girlfriends they were rapidly becoming, at least to Katy's mind, and Sacharissa never seemed to be in any hurry to get away from her source.
They were currently in Il Pasto, a Quirmian restaurant on the Right Bank having spaghetti a la vongole with a chilled white wine. It always amazed Katy that Quirmian restaurants seemed able to supply endless quantities of cold wine even at the height of summer, when most of the boats bringing ice from the hubward mountains were delivering little more than freezing water. There were rumours of a fiendishly clever Leonardo device called a Keepcoldirator but then there were always rumours of something or other. She worked for someone who had built a career around them.
"So, who chose Sacharissa for you?"
"My dad, he said I was hundreds of times sweeter than sugar. Embarrassing, isn't it?"
"Awww, no, I think it's, well, sweet," laughed Katy.
"Ha," said Sacharissa, "at least I'm not as bad as the goddess Aspartame, she's supposedly 18,000 times sweeter than sugar."
"Oh, I know all about embarrassing names," said Katy, ruefully.
"Really?" wondered Sacharissa, "I can't see anything embarrassing about Katy."
"That's my pseudonym."
"Oh, what's your real name?" asked Sacharissa, suddenly intrigued.
"Honeysuckle," replied Katy, blushing.
"Awww, such a pretty flower," Sacharissa giggled.
"But a very silly name," said Katy, "still, it could have been worse."
"Really, could it?"
"Oh yes, I have two sisters."
"And what are their names," asked Sacharissa now on tenterhooks.
"Belladonna and Kniphofia."
"Oh," she sounded rather disappointed, "those are rather pretty."
"Well, yes, certainly prettier than Deadly Nightshade and Red Hot Poker."
"Ah, your mother was a bit of a horticulturist "
"Yip, and I think she smoked a lot of weeds."
Sacharissa nearly choked.
"Here," said Katy, "have some more wine, and then clam-up."
"Ok," she said, taking a gulp, "I promise I won't tell any of our friends that you're called Honeysuckle. But as we have no friends in common, that shouldn't be too difficult..."
Ouch, thought Honeysuckle, that hurt
"…now I really have to leave,"
"But we haven't got the bill yet," Katy protested.
"It's alright, darling, I've already paid."
Katy felt her heart give a little skip that she didn't know how to interpret, but she recovered well:
"As long as you let me pay next time then I won't tell anyone that you're really called Cowslip."
Sacharissa took her hand and squeezed it.
"That's a deal girlfriend," she said, "see you soon."
Then she leant over and kissed Katy on the lips. It was fleeting but soft and Honeysuckle felt a jolt in her chest that she had never felt before.
William awoke with the smell of ammonia in his nose and the sight of Drumknott's face in his eyes; he didn't know which of them was the more astringent. He sat up and gingerly felt the lump on the back of his head while the rest of the room swam into focus, including the face of the Patrician.
"Good morning, Mr. de Worde," said Vetinari, "I apologise for the bump. Some of my staff has not yet fully embraced my new customer friendly approach."
The scent of Vetinari feigning concern was sharper even than the smelling salts.
"Good morning, my lord," said William, "to what do what do I owe the honour of this gracious invitation?"
The bang on the head must have really scrambled his senses, he thought, if he was prepared to use sarcasm on the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork.
"Would you care for some tea? Or perhaps something stronger?"
It seemed that he was going to get away with it.
"Um…" was all William could manage.
"Splendid," said Vetinari, "sherry and biscuits, I think, Drumknott."
The valet then withdrew almost silently.
"How's the head?" the Patrician asked.
"Better, my lord," said William though, in truth, his head was all over the place.
"And how's business?"
"It burned down."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
Now, these days William wasn't always sure what counted as news and what didn't, but he was certain that this wasn't an example of it. After what seemed like only a few seconds Drumknott returned with the refreshments. Vetinari motioned him towards a small table where the valet poured them both a sherry. William gobbled down a biscuit –it was light and sugary and really rather nice- and then swallowed his sherry in one swig. Drumknott refilled his glass.
"Now to business," said Vetinari, interlocking his fingers and placing his thumbs under his chin, "I have asked you here to discuss a proposition."
William mentally ticked off the things that were wrong with that sentence: firstly, he hadn't been asked and secondly, The Patrician didn't discuss propositions he told you what to do. The only variable was the terms in which he old you. He could tell you in favourable terms or… you really didn't want to know what the unfavourable terms were.
"I am mostly ears, my lord."
"But not all?"
"No, that would be silly."
Vetinari smiled, indulgently. William felt hairs on the back of his neck stand up and made a note not to try and be flippant again.
"As you know, I am a great believer in the free press…"
The Patrician believed in the free press in the same way that William believed in fairies at the bottom of his garden, only because they were there.
"…now, with the destruction of The Times the number of newspapers has been reduced to…"
"One!" said William, with far more vehemence than he'd intended.
"Are you sure? I felt certain there were four."
"No, there are four titles, but they're all Bothermore News. Same rubbish, just aimed at people with different reading ages."
"I stand corrected," said Vetinari, "but all the more reason to have another, different, viewpoint."
In spite of his natural, understandable, suspicion, William had to confess to being intrigued.
"A rival newspaper, do you mean?"
"Quite so."
"Re-open The Times, do you mean?"
"I think not."
"Oh," was all he could manage, though he felt as though he had dropped all the way from the crest.
"For two reasons," Vetinari continued, "first, The Times had acquired a reputation for being somewhat staid…"
"And you'd like something more sensationalist?"
"Heavens no," said The Patrician, feigning shock, "I was simply suggesting that you might follow Lord Bothermore's example…"
"Same shit, different name?"
"Precisely, and perhaps just a tad more dramatic, shall we say? Just a little re-branding exercise."
"I can live with that," said William.
"I'm so pleased."
"And the second reason?"
"You, yourself."
"Me?"
"Your name had become almost synonymous with The Times. It is reasonable to assume that the people who burned it down think they burned you down with it, and I fear that if they were to realise they are wrong they might take steps to rectify the situation. A temporary change of name perhaps?"
"As if William de Worde doesn't already sound like a pseudonym."
"I was merely suggesting that, for a short period, you might affect a nom de plume."
"What about William Penn?"
"Now you're being facetious."
And standing on a very wobbly stool with a short rope around my neck if I'm not careful, thought William.
"But I don't have a staff, or a printing press or…"
"As I understand it the staff at The Times was not particularly large…" William would be the first to concede the point "…but I feel sure that Selene will know by the end of the day and will then inform Herr von Chriek and Miss Cripslock. As for a press, that has already been arranged."
"Really!?" William was astonished.
"You are familiar with the dwarf Mr Lars Larssonson?"
"Of course he comes from a family of great repute."
"But sadly of little imagination. In any case, you may recall that some years ago there was an attempt by the Bothermore press to besmirch the business ethics of the dwarf community…"
William could clearly remember a headline in The Post: "Are We Being Sold Short?"
"…the dwarfs have not forgotten and Mr Larssonson specifically remembers The Times was the only paper to stand up for dwarf integrity. He has built a press and offers it to you for free for as long as you may need it. What is your answer?"
"Of course," William said, without hesitation, "I'm honoured. I shall do all I can to reward his faith in me, and yours."
"I have professed no faith in you," Vetinari corrected, "I simply believe in fair play."
Luckily, William had already swallowed his sherry or he would have choked on it.
"What about editorial policy?" he wanted to know.
"Entirely in your hands."
"And distribution?"
"I have negotiated a contract with the Fools' Guild. The paper shall be sold for one penny per copy wherever street theatre or mime1 is performed."
"The Fools? Do you think that's wise?"
"The Beggars refused paid work on principle, while the Fools think the whole thing is a joke."
"Then it appears to be all settled," said William, refilling his glass. He noted that The Patrician had not touched his.
"Now all that remains is the title."
"And not The Times?" William tried one last time.
"No," the Patrician affirmed, "I was thinking that as the mission-statement of the paper is to be The Guardian of the public interest, and that it shall be completely Independent we might call it…"
"The Defender!" said William, triumphantly.
"So be it," said Vetinari raising his glass, "to The Defender."
"The Defender!" said William.
They clinked glasses and William drained his. Vetinari even took a sip.
"Edited by good, old Guillermo Palabra," he went on.
"Mr de Worde, please."
Maybe, thought William, he should perhaps change his name to Death Wish.
"One final question, my lord," said William. He'd already pushed his luck so far he thought he might as well shove it out of the window.
"Go on, Mr. de Worde," said Vetinari.
"There seem to be an awful lot of flies around everywhere this summer…"
"So I've noticed."
"But there aren't any in the palace, at least I haven't noticed one…"
"Ah," said The Patrician, "I have a Leonardo device."
"Of course," said William. Ask a stupid question; get a sensible answer.
"If only all pests were so easy to dispose of."
William really hoped that Lord Vetinari wasn't including him.
1 Vetinari had made mime illegal but The Watch was incapable of fully wiping it from the streets.