Chapter 1 – Davy’s Day (In Which Davy Looks for a Story)

“Ah, are dragons supposed to do that?” Davy asked from behind the smoking remains of the tea table.

“It seems to be a normal phenomenon among the more unstable ones,” Lady Sybil replied, standing up and righting the table, then hunting around for the teapot, or at least what was left of it.

“Ah ha,” Davy jotted this down on the small notepad he was carrying, “Why?”

Lady Sybil proceeded to explain about the digestive processes of the common swamp dragon, and Davy took down as much of it as he could. Suddenly, there was a muffled thud and some shouting outside. Sybil stopped her explanation and went to the door, only to find Vimes standing outside with a crossbow, glaring into the bushes. Davy tried to follow the gaze but couldn’t find what Vimes was looking at.

“Sam, what are you doing?” Sybil asked, concerned.

Vimes lowered the crossbow and flicked the ashes off his cigar. “Nothing, dear,” he replied slowly. “You’ve got that look, Sam,” Sybil persisted, walking over and trying to follow Vimes’s gaze, as well, “You’re up to something.”

“Oh, just another Assassin,” Vimes waved his hand as if to dismiss the problem. Sybil watched him for a moment, wondering what it was her husband had done to avoid getting killed this time. Davy wondered if he should pursue this as a story, but decided against it. There was a silent, husband/wife thing going on between Vimes and Sybil, and Davy figured he’d better not interrupt whatever it was.

“I’d better be going,” he said after a minute, “Thank you for the tea.”

“It was my pleasure,” Sybil smiled like a true lady. Davy smiled in return and walked off, trying to get the soot out of his hair.

He entered the offices of the Ankh-Morpork Times ten minutes later to find complete pandemonium. Goodmountain was running around looking for more “T” tiles, Sacharissa was trying to usher the owner of the latest humorous vegetable out the door, William was fishing through a mountain of papers, and there were random flashes of light coming from Otto’s cellar workshop.

“Davy!” William shouted when he caught sight of Davy, “Thank gods you’re here! We need another story for today’s edition, and we’re two short for tomorrow’s. Have you got anything?”

Davy held up his notepad. “I got a bit on dragon breeding from my tea with Lady Sybil,” he reported. “Good, good,” William nodded, “Write it up, will you?”

“No problem.” Davy cleared off the nearest table and sat down on an available crate. Things were usually hectic at the Times, but he enjoyed working there nonetheless. And since he was around nobles most of the time, finding a story wasn’t particularly hard.

Davy hadn’t been born a noble, nor had he been born a reporter. He had become both over the years, hanging around parties that his parents were invited to, getting noticed by the wives of lords, and learning more than he ever wanted to know from the conversations he ended up in. So now, although he had lived most of his life in a modest house on Short Street and now owned an upstairs flat on Treacle Mine Road, Davy was generally accepted by the city’s elite as one of their own. It certainly kept his social calendar full.

“There,” he said as he finished his article, “Can I get someone to proofread this?”

A dwarf came up and took the paper from Davy. After scanning it quickly, he nodded and scurried over to the press. Davy smiled. Things happened so fast at the paper that you really had to keep on your toes. He barely noticed the pace anymore; he had gotten used to it. In fact, he could almost predict the basic course of things. Next up would be…

“Good morning, Ron,” William’s greeting corresponded with the entrance of Foul Ole Ron and his sophisticated smell. Ron was accompanied by a small, ratty terrier on a string, as usual.

“Morning,” Ron appeared to say, “Where’s the papers?”

“They’re coming off the press now,” William replied, giving Ron a bit of a puzzled look. Ron walked around the press and waited patiently until the first stack of papers was done and handed to him. He was standing relatively close behind Davy, and suddenly Davy found himself thinking, “Give a treat to the little doggie.” He patted his pocket and came up with a bit of biscuit from his tea with Lady Sybil. He tossed it to the dog, who caught it and chewed gratefully. Davy could have sworn he heard muttering, but that could have just been Ron.

“Come back when you run out,” William instructed.

“Buggrit!” shouted Ron, then said, “Right, mister.”

“I hope he doesn’t take one to line his dog’s bed again,” William commented as Ron ambled out the door, led more by the dog than the other way around.

“So what if he does? It’s just one,” Sacharissa pointed out, “Good morning, Davy.”

“Hello, Sacharissa,” Davy replied, “So we’re two stories short for tomorrow morning’s edition?” William nodded. “I’m working on one, but it’s too busy here to have both Sacharissa and I out. I was hoping you could handle the other one.”

“No problem. I’ve got plenty of appointments today; I’m sure I could get something out of one of them,” Davy agreed just as a cheerful voice from his pocket said, “Bingley, bingley, beep!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black box.

“This is your eleven ay em reminder!” the imp inside exclaimed, “Luncheon with Lord Rust in one hour. Memo: get a new tie.”

Davy flipped the device shut and put it back in his pocket. “Great, I hate wearing a tie.”

William raised an eyebrow. “Lord Rust, eh? Isn’t he a bit, er, a bit of a…”

“Bastard?” Goodmountain supplied. He had found the tiles he was looking for and was re-loading his tray.

William glanced at Sacharissa, who didn’t seem to be paying attention. “Er, yes, one of those.”

Davy laughed. “Yeah, kind of,” he replied, “But still, I can live with it if I can get a story.”

“Anything for a story,” William grinned.

“Be ducking, please!” came a shout from Otto’s workshop. Everyone instinctively dove for cover as there was a loud pop and the floorboards jumped. Otto emerged from the cellar amidst dense black smoke, carrying one of his iconographs.

“I am afraid I cannot do the color pictures for tomorrow’s issue, Villiam,” he said apologetically.

William peeked over the top of Davy’s desk. “That’s all right, Otto. Black and white will do for now.”

“I vas so close!” Otto sighed, “But alas, the chemicals did not cooperate.”

“That’s an understatement,” commented Goodmountain, looking at the soot-rimmed cellar entrance.

Davy hauled himself out from behind a table stacked with papers and stood up.

“Well, I’d better go see about that tie,” he muttered, “I’ll try to be back with a story before dark, William.”

“Thanks,” William said absently. Davy left the bustle of the newspaper office and walked out into the equally busy bustle of the street.

A tie, good grief! He’d have to go to High Street. At least he had an outfit all set for the gig that night, and it was suitable to wear to dinner with the Patrician, so he wouldn’t have to rush to change. Davy figured that, if he was lucky, his schedule would work out perfectly and he wouldn’t be late for anything. He might even end up with a bit of spare time.

Forty-five minutes and one hideously maroon new tie later, Davy was sitting in the middle of a room full of shadowy chairs, each containing one high-society person or another. Smoke curled out from the recesses of some, and a tall, thin butler kept offering people sandwiches with the crusts cut off and refills on their brandy. “Cigar, David?” said the chair to Davy’s right.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Davy took the proffered cigar and lit it, inhaling slowly and looking around. The only problem with an atmosphere like this was that you had to keep your head above water. It was too easy to sink into the haze of good food, aged drink, and fine cigars. If he did that every time he was somewhere with the upper classes, he’d be out of it all the time.

“The Fools were at it again yesterday,” said a chair that sounded remarkably like Lord Selachii.

“Ugh, horrible,” agreed another that sounded like Mr. Boggis.

“If I get hit with one more custard pie…” said a third chair. This one had an air of self-important sophistication that could only belong to Lord Rust.

“Oh Ronnie,” Davy laughed, acting rather convincingly as though he’d had too much brandy, “When was the last time you even went past the Fool’s Guild?”

Lord Rust seemed taken aback, but he rallied magnificently. “Why, just the other day, in fact! On business!”

“With the Assassins, no doubt,” said a chair in the corner. There was a titter of nervous laugher. When Davy was sure that most of the occupants of the chairs were looking at Lord Rust and not at him, he eased his notebook out of his back pocket and took up his pen. It seemed probable that things were about to get interesting. However, the funny thing about a notebook was that, if anybody noticed it, it stopped most interesting proceedings in their tracks. Davy hadn’t yet figured out if people didn’t understand the power of the press, or if they understood it all too well.

“Probably to keep them away from our parties,” the chair in the corner continued, “More brandy, James.”

The butler complied with this request as Davy tried to see Lord Rust’s face through the smoke and shadows. Was he angry? Annoyed? Or was that grimace really a grin? Davy quietly made a few notes as the others continued to talk about what they thought was wrong with the city. Usually, he didn’t get involved. He didn’t come to high-society parties to discuss things; he came to find out what things other people discussed, write them down, and somehow get a story out of them. Once he’d caught the Committee to Unelect the Patrician in a “secret” meeting and prevented what could possibly have been a disastrous overthrowing of the city’s higher offices. Of course, when the story printed it had been credited as “anonymous”; Davy wasn’t stupid.

“Oh, David,” said the chair that sounded like Lord Selachii, “I’m curious about something.”

Davy quickly sat on his notepad. “What’s that?”

“What part of the Disc are you from, exactly? I can’t place your accent.” An arm emerged from the recesses of the chair and flicked the ashes off the end of its cigar.

Davy relaxed. “I grew up in Ankh-Morpork, but my mother is from the Hub and my father is part Ecksian.”

“Ah, that explains it then,” said the chair, seeming satisfied.

“Bingley, bingley, beep!”

Davy rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket. “Yes?”

“One pee em reminder! Check in at the Times in ten minutes!” exclaimed the imp. Davy shut the cover on it and shoved the Dis-Organizer back into his pocket. Hopefully no one had heard. However, when he looked up, Davy found that the chairs in the room had suddenly revealed their occupants, and nearly all of them were looking at him.

“Uh, haha,” he laughed nervously, waving his glass, “More brandy, anyone?”

Thirty seconds later, he found himself being thrown out the back door. He landed in the middle of the courtyard, ripping his tie on the edge of one of the flagstones. After sitting up and rubbing his head for a moment, Davy got his bearings and headed back to the Times office. He had a feeling that he wouldn’t be getting any more invitations from Lord Rust anytime soon. Oh well, it never really was any fun, the people were boring, and the brandy wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

William practically pounced on Davy when he walked in the door.

“Did you get a story yet?” he demanded.

Davy shook his head. “No, I was too busy busting myself up in the courtyard.”

“Oh,” William blinked and seemed to see the dirt and the rips in Davy’s shirt for the first time. He didn’t say any more, but walked over to the press and watched several dwarfs running off more copies of that morning’s issue, his foot tapping impatiently.

“Woof, woof, biscuit,” Davy thought. He turned around to see Foul Ole Ron and his dog standing in the corner. Again he patted his pocket and this time came up with a bit of crust, which he tossed to the dog. Then he absently removed his tie and set it on the table he had cleared that morning. So much for Rust…where else could he look? His second tea wasn’t for almost two hours, so he had plenty of time to walk around. Maybe there’d be some of the classic Ankh-Morpork street theatre. Suddenly, he remembered something and stuck his head down into Otto’s workshop.

“Oh Otto?”

“Yes, vat is it?” Otto asked, looking up from his bench.

“You’re not up to anything tonight, are you?” Davy realized that this was a bit of a ridiculous question to ask a vampire, but he figured it was worth a shot.

“No, I am not,” Otto came over and stood at the foot of the ladder, “Vy do you ask?” “I was just wondering if you’d bring a couple of your iconographs to the band’s gig tonight. We could use the publicity. Only no dark light, okay?”

“If you say so, Davy,” Otto grinned, a rare thing for him, “I shall get them ready by the evening, yes?”

“Gig starts at eight,” Davy grinned as well, then left the office in pursuit of story material. Amazingly, the city was pretty quiet. There was the usual bustle of merchants and every unlucky entrepreneur trying to get his goods sold purely by shouting, but there didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. Even the Shades seemed relatively tame, but Davy didn’t get close enough to find out for sure.

“What a day. I need a story and the city decides to be normal for once,” he shook his head. Suddenly, there was a shout from the docks. Thinking it might possibly be a break in the monotony, Davy followed the sounds of argument down to the river.

Two boat captains seemed to be having a squabble, which Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs of the Watch seemed reluctant to break up. They were sharing a dog-end and watching, occasionally commenting to each other, apparently trying to decide whether or not to write the argument off as street theatre. Davy pushed through the crowd that had gathered and pulled out his notepad.

“What’s going on here?” he asked the nearest person.

“That Klatchian merchant insulted Benning!” the observer replied.

“Uh huh, I see,” Davy jotted the name down, “Why?”

“Does it matter? He’s Klatchian!” the man exclaimed.

“Ah, one of those fights,” Davy said, although he was thinking, Ah, one of those people. Given the fact that most of the city’s population thought roughly along the same lines, Davy decided to get closer and listen to what the fight was actually about. Even if it was totally irrational, it might amount to something.

“Son of pigs!” the Klatchian was shouting. Davy wished someone had caught the man’s name.

“Desert rat!” Benning retorted.

“Purveyor of filth!”

“Murderous thief!” Benning punctuated this statement by shoving the Klatchian. The Klatchian retaliated, and soon the two were shoving each other violently. Apparently neither of them had weapons on them other than their hands. Davy was trying to jot down their various movements without missing anything, and the crowd behind him was closing in quickly. One thing that could be said for the citizens of Ankh-Morpork was that they loved a good fight.

Davy suddenly became aware of the fact that the people behind him were jostling each other for prime position. The person directly in back of him pushed forward, knocking Davy several feet to the right and into the midst of the captains’ fight.

“Out of the way!” shrieked Benning, directing his next shove at Davy. Davy tried to dodge, but things were happening too fast. He felt Benning rocket into him, and then he flew off the pier and into the river Ankh. He landed with a rather wet squelching noise accompanied by a group gasp from the spectators. Grumbling, he stood up and brushed the weeds from his pants before sprinting to shore. It was that time of year, when the Ankh was just wet enough to suck at the bottoms of boots and allow small canoes and other things to slog along the surface.

By the time Davy got to shore, the crowd had dispersed. He looked in dismay at his ruined outfit, then grumbled to himself and set off for Treacle Mine Road.

“I should just do an article on the gig,” he muttered once he was home. He rooted around in his closet, trying to find something suitable to wear to tea with Lady Margolotta. What did you wear to tea with a vampire, or did it even matter? Then there was dinner with the Patrician. Davy figured he’d kill time at the newspaper office until that rolled around.

And, of course, there was the gig. What a way to end the day! As long as there weren’t any drunken dwarfs, it ought to be a good show. The only problem with being in the forefront in Ankh-Morpork was that it not only got you adoring fans, but also put you in the best position to be an axe target. But Davy didn’t mind. He enjoyed the gigs, and looked forward to them more than he ever looked forward to tea or a meal with any lord or lady. Mike sometimes got annoyed because he thought Davy didn’t take the gigs as seriously as he should, but the way Davy saw it was if people liked it and the band came out of it unscathed, it was a good performance. Even if they made a few mistakes or left out a verse, what did it matter? It was still a lot of fun.

Amazingly, tea was uneventful. Lady Margolotta wasn’t a typical vampire, and, despite the rather batty décor of her house, she tended to come across as more of a witty, intelligent person than a creature of the night. However, Davy hadn’t been able to get a story from her, either. It was looking more and more like he’d have to do a story about the gig and try his best not to promote the band too much. Although William never actually said that the Times reporters shouldn’t be biased, it seemed to be an unwritten rule of the press. But, if Otto was taking pictures anyway…ah well, Davy figured he’d just have to wait and see what dinner with the Patrician brought up.

He entered the Times office just as Foul Ole Ron was coming out with another bundle of papers. This time Davy gave the dog a critical look as it went past, and couldn’t help but find himself thinking, “Woof, whine, got a treat mister?” Once again, his hand went to his pocket and he was able to find a tidbit of food leftover from tea. This he gave to the dog before going inside.

Once there, he removed his second new tie of the day, laid it beside the first one, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. Then he sat back and flipped through his notepad. There were the notes on Sybil’s dragons, a couple snatches of conversation from lunch, a rather muddy and damp description of the captains’ fight on the pier, and a small sketch of Lady Margolotta’s sofa. A perfect hodgepodge of absolutely nothing. “No luck, huh?” Sacharissa asked, looking over Davy’s shoulder.

Davy shook his head. “Not yet.”

“I’m sure you’ll get something. This city has no shortage of things to write about,” Sacharissa smiled and picked up a stack of papers, which she handed to Goodmountain. The dwarfs had been around the press constantly, putting out copy after copy of that day’s issue. Occasionally one of them would stop to grab a can of oil or restock paper, but other than that they were all setting type, inking pages, and stacking finished copies. Davy liked working with dwarfs. They were focused, determined, and usually pretty good guys, except when they got drunk. Overall, though, Davy got on quite well with the dwarfs at the Times.

Bored with watching the bustle go on around him, Davy got up and walked over to William’s desk. “Is there anything I could do to help?” he inquired.

William looked up from his notes. “I think Otto needs more chemicals and another salamander, but you’d have to ask him.”

“He just left a second ago,” reported a passing dwarf, “Muttering about color ink and promotional photos. He’s batty, if you ask me.”

“That was tasteless,” Davy chided. The dwarf shrugged.

“I guess you haven’t had any luck with a story,” William said after a minute.

“Nope, nothing. You’d think that the Alchemists would at least have the decency to blow up their Guild building again or something,” Davy sighed.

“Well, keep looking. There’s always a story lurking somewhere in the city. You’ve just got to find it is all.”

Dinnertime came, and it was with apprehension that Davy approached the Patrician’s palace. He felt comfortable with every noble in the city, so why did he always get so anxious around Lord Vetinari? It had something to do with the quiet way the man always looked at you, no matter what you were telling him. You could inform the Patrician that a herd of wildly trumpeting pink elephants was attacking the city and he’d probably just look at you calmly and say, “Really, is that so?”

Davy was ushered in by the Patrician’s clerk, Drumknott. Vetinari himself met Davy outside the palace’s elaborate dining hall, although Davy had the sneaking suspicion that the Patrician didn’t use the hall unless he was having company. The vaulted ceiling was so high that the very top was lost in shadow. The walls were lined with ornate holders that had probably contained torches at one time, but now had lamps hanging from them. The light danced on the walls and gave the whole place a rather unsettling atmosphere. After being in it for a while, you started to expect things to jump out of the corners and perform exotic dances in loincloths.

“Sit down, sit down,” the Patrician waved Davy into a chair as he sat down himself, “I trust things are going smoothly at the Times?”

Davy didn’t bother to ask how Vetinari knew he worked for the paper. Vetinari always knew things about people, sometimes things they didn’t know about themselves.

“Yes sir.”

“And how is young William de Worde getting on these days?” Vetinari leaned back. Davy hated it when the man seemed at ease. It was hard to read his expression.

“He’s overworked, like the rest of us.”

“Ah, yes, the city will do that to you if you try to keep up with it,” Vetinari half-smiled as if he was reflecting on something. Davy laughed nervously. Fortunately the meal was brought in at that point and both he and the Patrician were silent for a few moments as they ate. Davy noticed that the Patrician didn’t eat much, and it made him feel a bit self-conscious as he ate a rather large portion of roast duck and potatoes. Technically, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He hadn’t been at Lord Rust’s long enough to get much more down than a few sips of brandy, and at both teas he’d only had a biscuit.

The Patrician watched Davy calmly for a moment over the tops of his fingers.

“And what of your friends?” he asked suddenly.

Davy was caught off-guard and nearly choked on a piece of potato. “Pardon?”

“Your friends, the band. How are they getting on?”

“Oh, you know,” Davy coughed and had to take a sip of wine before continuing, “The usual. Long days, gigs, that sort of thing.”

“Mmhmm,” Vetinari nodded, “You dropped this when you came in, by the way.” He reached under his chair and produced something round and nondescript. It appeared to have some sort of bells around the edge. Davy hurriedly looked in the bag he’d had to bring along because of his cramped schedule. Sure enough, his tambourine was not among the assorted percussive instruments he carried to every gig. He took the round object rather sheepishly.

“Thanks,” he sighed as he put it in the bag between two pairs of maracas, “You know, this just doesn’t seem to be my day.”

“What makes you say that?” Vetinari asked with mild interest. Dessert was being brought in.

“Well,” Davy hesitated, then plunged on, “That dragon exploded in Lady Sybil’s dragon house while we were having tea, I got thrown out of Lord Rust’s lunch party because I work for the newspaper, then I got pushed into the river by an angry boat captain, William’s been constantly hounding me for a story, and there’s this stupid little dog that somehow keeps managing to get me to feed it every time it gets near me.”

Vetinari blinked. “I see,” he managed.

“Sometimes I don’t even know why I hang around with the people I hang around with,” Davy sighed, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing his face. Part of his brain was quite aware of the fact that Vetinari had absolutely no interest in his problems, but that wasn’t the part controlling his actions at the moment. He hadn’t even really had that bad of a day, comparatively speaking, it was just that the pressure of working at the paper sometimes got to him.

Vetinari took a forkful of pastry and chewed thoughtfully.

“I can see where you might start to question your relations, yes,” he said after a minute.

“I know it’s really none of my business to be – you can?” Davy stopped when the Patrician’s words hit his brain and headed his initial statement off at the pass.

“Indeed. You forget that I deal with these people myself. Incidentally, I do not get on well with everybody I know,” Vetinari permitted himself a grin. Somehow, that made Davy feel at ease. He and Vetinari had a rather relaxed chat after that, and Davy was grinning broadly when he got up to leave. The prospect of the gig was beginning to lift his spirits, as well.

“Thank you for dinner, your lordship,” he said to Vetinari. Funny thing was that, although Davy called every other lord and lady in the city by their first names, he could never quite get the courage to call the Patrician “Havelock”.

“My pleasure. By the way, when is your next performance?” Vetinari eased himself out of his chair and leaned on his walking stick with an expression of mild interest.

“Tonight,” Davy replied, checking his watch, “At eight. And I’ve got to get going. Thanks again.” With that, he gathered up his bag and was out the door. The Patrician watched his retreating back for a moment, then smiled to himself and went down the hall in the opposite direction.

continued