The Truth: A Novel of Discworld
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A war of words and a battle for the truth in Terry Pratchett's bestselling Discworld® series
The denizens of Ankh-Morpork fancy they've seen just about everything. But then comes the Ankh-Morpork Times, struggling scribe William de Worde's upper-crust newsletter turned Discworld's first paper of record.
An ethical journalist, de Worde has a proclivity for investigating stories—a nasty habit that soon creates powerful enemies eager to stop his presses. And what better way than to start the Inquirer, a titillating (well, what else would it be?) tabloid that conveniently interchanges what's real for what sells.
But de Worde's got an inside line on the hot story concerning Ankh-Morpork's leading patrician, Lord Vetinari. The facts say Vetinari is guilty. But as William de Worde learns, facts don't always tell the whole story. There's that pesky little thing called . . . the truth.
once engaged in eldritch rites, the very essence of which permeated the neighborhood, and which seeks only the rite, ahaha, circumstances to once again arise and walk around eating people?” “What?” said Gunilla. He looked helplessly at William, who could only add: “They made rocking horses here.” “Really? I’ve always thought there was something slightly sinister about rocking horses,” said Lord Vetinari, but he looked subtly disappointed. Then he brightened up. He pointed to the big stone on
three-way argument over a matter of sixpence going on between Goodmountain, Foul Ole Ron, and Foul Ole Ron, Ron being capable of keeping a pretty good row going all by himself. The dwarfs were hard at work around the press. Otto had retired to his darkroom, where he was once again mysteriously at work. Only Ron’s dog was watching William. He considered that it had, for a dog, a very offensive and knowing look. A couple of months ago someone had tried to hand William the old story about there
Salaries,” Sacharissa went on. “Oh, really…” “Dwarfs Buggered for Paper.” “What?” “That’s a direct quote from Mr. Goodmountain,” said Sacharissa. “I don’t pretend to know exactly what it means, but I understand they’ve got enough for only one more edition.” “And if we want any more it’s five times the old price,” said Goodmountain, coming up. “The Engravers are buying it up. Supply and demand, King says.” “King?” William’s brow wrinkled. “You mean Mr. King?” “Yeah, King of the Golden
Lobbin Clout, in which one poor soul had died, and left it at that. But the Inquirer had called it a Mystery Fire. “I’m not sure that one was very mysterious,” he said. “Old Mr. Hardy decided to light a cigar and forgot that he was bathing his feet in turpentine.” Apparently someone had told him this was a cure for athlete’s foot and, in a way, they had been right. “That’s what they say,” said the man, tapping his nose. “But there’s a lot we don’t get told.” “That’s true,” said William. I
she felt like a trespasser here and part of her was certain that a woman with hundreds of dresses was more likely to miss one than a woman with a dozen or so. In any case, the empty darkness was getting on her nerves. It was full of other people’s ghosts. “Let’s get back.” When they were halfway across the hall, someone started to sing. The words were incoherent, and the tune was being modulated by alcohol, but it was singing of a sort and it was under their feet. Rocky shrugged when Sacharissa