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It all started with a simple mistake. Garamond Grumpyson hadn’t known much about newspapers when he started working for the Ankh-Morpork Times. He learned to set type soon enough, but it took a while to really get into the job and all its intricacies.
So when he got handed several papers and was told to add them to the newest edition, he did as he was bid. The letter seemed a bit out of place, but Grumpyson didn’t really know enough about newspapers to be sure. He could have asked, but that might have made it seem like he didn’t know what he was doing. So he put it in. It was a busy day, and so it was only after the paper had hit the streets, that people noticed.
They really noticed.
And it didn’t take long before the reactions started coming in.
“... Miss Cripslock?”
Sacharissa put down what had to be at least the thirtieth letter, to look at Goodmountain. “Yes?”
“Are you ...” The dwarf stopped, seemingly deciding that asking if she was ‘alright’ when the answer was so obviously ‘no’ could only cause trouble. Instead he settled for the more practical: “Is there anything we can do for you?”
Sacharissa took the pile of opened letters, and handed them over. “Add these to the letter column.”
Goodmountain rearranged the pile in his arms and picked up the letter at the top. Reading through it, his eyebrows rose until they disappeared under his helmet. “Are you sure?”
“It’ll help us fill some pages.” It could be several pages for the rest of the week, if nothing changed. Sacharissa grabbed the next letter, tearing it out of the envelope with more force than necessary. It was two pages filled with as much cursive that could be crammed onto the paper. She scowled. “At least this person can spell the word ‘necrophile’. The first five couldn’t.”1
Every line she read made her angrier, but she kept on reading. In the corner of her eye, she noticed Goodmountain handing the letter-pile over to Thunderaxe before returning to stand in front of her desk with his hands on his hips. He sighed. “Sacharissa.”
“What?”
“Perhaps you should take the day off-”
“No.”
“But-”
“There’s no one waiting for me at home, I might as well stay here.” She could feel the tears pressing, but she blinked them back. If she wasn’t angry, she’d start crying, and if she began, she didn’t know if she could stop. It felt easier to be righteous in anger than in tears. Easier to believe that every single one of the nosy bastards was wrong, and she was right, no matter what they called her. Gods, she needed her boys. But they were so far away, and the flat would be empty when she got home ... she’d rather stay all night at the office.
Goodmountain walked around the desk and put a hand on her arm. “Then at least let someone else sort through these. Go out, find a story.”
Sacharissa shook her head. “I don’t think I can.” By now everyone that had read yesterday’s paper would have spread it to their friends. Interview subjects were likely to start asking her questions, and the thought of actually hearing it from their mouths ... She’d either break down or kick them in the privates.
Goodmountain seemed to understand her reluctance. “Take Rocky with you.”
Hearing his name, the troll lumbered over from his chair by the door. Goodmountain turned towards him. “Rocky, Miss Cripslock needs to go out and find some news, and she could use some company.”
“I can do dat.”
“And if anyone starts getting crass about her personal life ...?”
Rocky frowned. Everyone at the office knew what was happening. “I give dem a warning.”
A warning from a troll might well be the only warning a person would need for the rest of their life. Goodmountain grinned. “Good.”
The Patrician and the various Guild leaders were almost finished with their meeting when Lady Sybil Ramkin-Vimes slammed the door open and burst into the Rats chamber.
“Havelock! Have you read the Times?”
Vetinari turned towards her. “Yes, I have, Lady Sybil.” Her sudden appearance and booming voice had made several Guild leaders jump, but the Patrician didn’t show any sign of surprise.
“It’s awful! We have to do something.”
Vetinari raised an eyebrow. It was not the face of a man trying to figure out exactly what the lady was upset about,2 but rather someone who had already seen it coming, found a solution, and just needed to iron out the last few wrinkles. “... the meeting is almost over. I’ll see you in my office afterwards.”
The Duchess thanked him and left the room as quickly as she had appeared. The Patrician continued with the last issues as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. But no sooner had Vetinari ended the meeting and left the room, than the voices began buzzing. Most Guild leaders read the Ankh-Morpork Times, but no one could put a finger on exactly what had upset the Duchess. Had something happened to the Duke over in Borogravia? Any troubling developments with swamp dragons? And why would she need to discuss her troubles with the Patrician? Mrs Palm did not join in the discussion; she sat back in her chair, listening, with an annoyingly knowing smile.
Sacharissa stretched, moving her neck from side to side. After several hours walking around to find news, she’d returned to the office and sat down, intent on spending the night working at her desk. Rocky’s presence had made most people think twice before coming with insults. The few that tried nearly became news themselves.
The dwarfs had apparently anticipated this, so when they stopped the press, they helpfully informed her that they’d put up an extra bed in the darkroom. Boddony said all-nighters weren’t really that effective unless absolutely necessary. Tomorrow was another workday, and the Times couldn’t have their head reporter fall asleep in the middle of an important article or interview, after all. The bed was hard, and the darkroom was chilly, but listening to the dwarfs snoring over in the other cellar rooms was a comfort.
More letters came, but Dozy insisted he’d take care of them. It wasn’t really his job. It wasn’t Sacharissa’s job either; Tilly was the one responsible for the Letter and Opinion Column, but one too many of her judgmental comments had made Sacharissa send her home for the rest of the week. It had been either that or punching a 70-year old woman in the nose.
“Miss Sacharissa?” Dozy stood by her desk, handing her a letter. Sacharissa eyed it wearily. The paper looked far finer than any of the other letters. So even the upper-crust had gotten in on it now. Dozy saw her expression, and shook his head. “This is an invitation.”
“Invitation?” Sacharissa took it. Perhaps one of the families was holding a ball again, and wanted it covered in the Times. They’d have to go without iconographs for the time being, but she could at least write down the names of the people attending. She opened the envelope and took out a small card with an elegant handwriting. She stared at it. “Tea? With the Duchess?”
Ramkin House was steeped in money, power and history. Paintings of old ancestors stared down at Sacharissa as she followed the butler through the corridor, and the dining room he welcomed her into was big enough to fit both their flat and the Times’ offices inside with room to spare.
Sacharissa had been in several of Ankh-Morpork’s great houses, at charity balls and as a journalist. But that was on the job, where no one expected a gang of working class-people to know which of the seven forks to use for the shrimp.3 This was the first time she’d been invited by name, as a guest.
An invitation from the richest woman in Ankh-Morpork could make most people below a certain tax bracket feel nervous and out of place. Sacharissa was already tense, so these nerves were just a cherry on top. The scales would tip at some point, but hopefully she could hold on through the afternoon.
The Duchess didn’t seem to notice them when they first entered the room. She was staring at some pictures set up on an ornate cabinet, seemingly lost in thought. She startled when the butler presented Sacharissa, but just for a moment. Then her face changed into an almost too big smile. Her dress billowed around her as she turned towards them. “Miss Cripslock, welcome!”
Everything about the Duchess made Sacharissa feel small: She was huge, and the wig of massive, red curls and flowing dress made her seem even bigger. Her clothes alone had to cost what a journalist earned in a year; the red fabric was embroidered with flames in shimmering gold thread, and the slashes at the sleeves exposed pale tones that looked like silk. Her neck and wrists were adorned with strings of pearls.
The Duchess wore these riches like it was armour. She could have been a warrior; had she wanted to, she could have stormed castles, and certainly, she would have succeeded. This impressive, almost intimidating woman did not care what others thought of her, and why should she? She was rich, noble, her pets spit fire, and she was married to one of the most powerful men in the City. Why would someone like her want to entertain Sacharissa as a guest?
Uncertain of exactly what was expected on such an occasion, Sacharissa curtsied. “Thank you for the invitation, Your Grace.”
“Oh, Lady Sybil is fine, dear. Do sit down.” The Duchess’ voice was courteous enough, but her face seemed slightly tense.
The table was covered in spotless white cloth fine enough to be used as a wedding veil. Sacharissa glanced down at her fingers, hoping she’d managed to get all the ink off. The tea-cups thankfully only had one spoon by the saucers. Sacharissa sat down for barely a second, and jumped up again when something licked her shoe.
Lady Sybil lifted the tablecloth and shook her head. “So that’s where you are!” She bent down, and pulled out a small, wrinkled dragon. “Please don’t mind her, Miss Cripslock. Pauletta Poppycock Proudflame IV doesn’t have any teeth left, and her flame could barely light a cigar.” When she released the dragon from her grasp, the little creature waddled over to Sacharissa, and curled up next to her chair.4
The tea was excellent, but the same could not be said of the conversation. Sacharissa had no idea what she could talk to this woman about, the Duchess was leagues above her. Lady Sybil seemed slightly distracted too, even if she played the perfect host. She offered tea and cookies, acted interested when her guest said something, even complimented Sacharissa’s dress. That had to be a lie; the dress was simple wool, and the blue colour was dulled by too many washes. But it was a kind lie, at least.
When Sacharissa asked about the dragon by her feet, the Duchess brightened. It was clearly her passion, and she seemed to relax when she talked about them. Sacharissa wouldn’t have minded if she’d gone on for an hour, she herself didn’t have much to bring to the conversation anyway. Ever the journalist, she wondered if this could be of interest to their readers. She had brought along her notebook, but bringing up work while drinking tea could perhaps be considered rude.
Lady Sybil finished an anecdote about how a dragon once had exploded her wardrobe, and then just ... stopped. She tensed up again, but this time there was some glimmer of determination in her eyes. She looked at Sacharissa. “So, Miss Cripslock ... how are you nowadays?”
Sacharissa had just bit into a new macaron. Her own chewing sounds suddenly sounded way too loud in the silence. She grabbed her teacup and gulped it down. “Chk- uhm – I- I’m fine, your gra- Lady Sybil.”
It was a lie, and the Duchess seemed to know that. She studied Sacharissa. “Is that so? Everything’s well with the newspaper?”
Sacharissa knew that the Ankh-Morpork Times had thousands of readers, from rich to poor. She had a sinking feeling that she was sitting opposite someone who’d read it carefully. Did the Duchess invite her here to mock her? She swallowed. “Yes. Yes, we’re doing well, we ... we’ve just come out with our first magazine for ladies. There’s always a lot to work with.”
The Duchess stirred her tea. The spoon made tiny clinking noises. She took a deep breath, before saying: “Miss Cripslock. I’ve seen the letters you printed.”
“... Y- you’ve read that, have you?” Sacharissa’s grip on the teacup was so hard she could feel the china creaking. Why was this woman doing this? Couldn’t she be content to send venom in the mail, like all the rest, why did she feel the need to invite Sacharissa here, just to prod at open wounds?
“It’s awful-”
Sacharissa slammed the teacup down on the table so hard it broke. Warm tea spilled over the table cloth, dyeing the silk brown. “D-DON’T YOU DARE SAY ANYTHING ABOUT US!! IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!”
The Duchess jerked back. The dragon startled, and hurried away to hide behind a divan. Sacharissa got up from her chair and grabbed her purse. Everything that had been building up for days exploded out: “It’s not WRONG! We’re not disgusting or- or unnatural or anything you people say! I – I love them, a- and they love me! That should be all that matters, so just – just-” The tears she had been holding back for so long started running down her face. She wanted to scream even more, but all that came out was ugly, gulping sobs.
Sacharissa expected that servants would come and throw her out. Or toss her in a cell, perhaps, for screaming at a duchess and ruining her tea-set. But no one came. Through the tears, she could see Lady Sybil rising from her chair and coming around the table. She half expected a slap.
Instead Lady Sybil held out a handkerchief to her.
“I did not mean it that way. I’m so sorry, Miss Cripslock.”
Sacharissa blinked, taking the handkerchief. It was far too fine to blow her nose in, but she did it anyway.
“You and your young men have done nothing to deserve this.” said Lady Sybil. “The people attacking you for it, they are the wrong ones. They’re cruel and ignorant.” She backed away, heading over to the cabinet she’d stood by earlier, opening an ornate drawer.
“Why do you care?” Sacharissa tried to dry her tears. “You don’t know us.”
“Because I understand.” Lady Sybil pulled a framed picture out of the drawer. “We both know what it’s like ... when a relationship is more than just two people. We know that there’s love enough to go around.”
Sacharissa stared at her. The Duchess couldn’t be saying what Sacharissa thought she was saying, could she?
“It’s frustrating, isn’t it?” Lady Sybil continued. “To hide that love, like it’s something to be ashamed of. We should be shouting it from the rooftops.”
“You- you mean you- and the Commander and ... someone-” Sacharissa tried to remember. The Duke and the Duchess were devoted to each other, but she had never seen anyone else that could be part of that. Had she?
“I want to go to a ball with both of them on my arm. To dance with both of them, to show everyone what a lucky woman I truly am; to not only have one good man, but two.” Lady Sybil sighed, and came back to the table with the picture. “But since both Sam and Havelock are such prominent figures, we’ve tried to be discreet.”
Sacharissa blinked.
Havelock.
She knew that name, but she rarely heard it, because who was on first-name basis with- “Th- the Patrician?” she whispered.
Lady Sybil handed her the picture.
There they were. The Duchess, the Commander, and the Patrician. Lady Sybil had her arms around the two men, the Patrician’s thin fingers were intertwined with the Commander’s rough ones, and the way they looked at each other ... their faces were filled with love. Like they belonged together.
Sacharissa slumped down on the chair, staring at the iconograph.
“Willikins took the picture. He and a few of the staff know. I want to have some pictures of happy times. I hide them away. We have guests, and assassins come here trying to get my Sam, and they could see things they shouldn’t.”
It was ... incredible. Even hearing it from the Duchess’ own lips, seeing the iconograph, it was difficult to believe. The journalist in Sacharissa whispered that this would be the scoop of the year, but she quickly shook of that thought. How could she think such things, when Lady Sybil had brought her in to her confidence like this?
“I ... I shouldn’t have screamed at you.”
“You’ve been under a lot of stress.”
“Yes, but still. You’re the – the first person who understands and I just - sorry.” Tea was still dripping down from the table. There were pieces of broken china spread over the once white silk. Sacharissa stared at it. “S-sorry about your tea-set, I ...”
Lady Sybil smiled. “Don’t worry dear, it was just a cup.”
Figuring she couldn’t afford to replace any of it, Sacharissa gratefully accepted that forgiveness.
“Miss Cripslock,” Lady Sybil said, placing the picture on the tea-table. “I wish to give an interview. Could the Times spare a few pages for me in the next edition?”
“About ... this?”
“Yes.”
“Lady Sybil ... why would you want that? You’ve seen how people reacted to me and mine. They’re going to scream at you in the street, fill your house with hateful letters. You’ve only seen half of what they’ve sent; there are even more of them at the office.” Sacharissa shook her head. “They keep coming, it piles up.” A scaly snout sniffed at her skirt. Pauletta Poppycock Proudflame IV put her head in Sacharissa’s lap, whining softly. Slowly, vary of possible flames; Sacharissa put her hand on the dragon’s scaly head. It was oddly comforting.
“So you’ve printed them.”
“The least they can do is fill some pages for us.”
“... and put a spotlight on what’s happening?”
“Maybe.” Sacharissa sighed. She could just have tossed the letters in the garbage. No one was making her print them, or even read them. “I – I don’t know if it was a good idea. William might not have done it. But I was so- so angry, and -” She hadn’t wanted to just sit there quietly and take it. She wanted to ... what? Expose them and their disgusting views? Show everyone how cruel they were? Perhaps ... make someone want to speak up against it?
Sacharissa looked up at Lady Sybil. Someone was.
She wasn’t alone in this; someone was sticking their neck out for her and her loved ones. It wasn’t as if the weight had lifted of her shoulders; she’d still read so many words condemning them, seen the way people looked at her in the streets ... but somehow it became a bit easier to bear. Like someone had offered to help her carry it all.
“Havelock and I talked things over. We’ve been quiet about it for years. But now, seeing this ... we agreed it was time. There’s going to be reactions no matter when we do it. And we can’t just sit here quietly while you three take all this abuse.”
“But ... you barely know us.”
“The things they say about you three, applies to us as well. We’re standing up not just for you, but for everyone loving someone and being judged for it.”
Sacharissa bit her lip. “So ... the Patrician is alright with this?”
“Havelock had already figured out ways to play it before I even brought it up. He’s such a clever man.”
“And ... the Commander?”
Lady Sybil gave an apologetic smile. “Sam ... might be a bit upset that we didn’t tell him, but he’s far away, and it’s best to do it now, when it’s fresh in everyone’s mind. He might be a bit embarrassed; he is rather shy about these things. But it’s the right thing to do, and he’ll understand.”
The Duchess stood there, tall, proud and determined. She knew the risks, and she had decided. Sacharissa was not going to stop her. She nodded, and fished up her notebook and pen from her purse. Pauletta Poppycock Proudflame IV eyed it hopefully, but when the dragon realised she wasn’t going to get to eat it, she sank down on the carpet again.
Sacharissa found a blank page in her notebook and scribbled down a headline. “Well, then ...” She took up her pen and put it to the paper. “Lady Sybil, can you tell our readers how this love story began?”
The Ankh-Morpork Times managed to beat its own sales record twice in a week. The exclusive tell-all interview with the Duchess of Ankh, detailing her loving and slightly unconventional relationship with both the Commander of the Watch and the Patrician was all anyone in the city could talk about. It was discussed on every street from Scoone Avenue to the Shades, and everyone had an opinion.
Curiously, rather few of these opinions ended up printed in the Times Letter column. The concerned citizens that had been more than willing to condemn some ‘lowlife newspaper-workers’, suddenly thought twice about writing the same things about the Patrician and his lovers. Not everyone wanted to risk the scorpions. A few letters of support even started showing up.
The next meeting in the Rat Chamber was the quietest gathering anyone could remember. The Patrician himself made no comment on the big revelation about his personal life, and no one dared ask any questions. All issues were resolved quickly with minimum fuss and argument, perhaps owing to the Guild Leaders fearing that they might slip up and say the things that were on everyone’s mind if they continued talking longer than necessary. When the meeting ended, Mrs Palm smiled and held out her hand to Lord Downey. The Assassin scowled as he put fifty dollars into it.
The Ankh-Morpork Times travelled far and wide. A copy reaching Klatch barely made people there raise an eyebrow; so the Duchess of Ankh had a (rather small) harem, so what? In Überwald, Lady Margolotta smiled as she read the article, and sat down to write a letter of congratulations.
It reached Borogravia just as the war was winding down. People there had more pressing matters to focus on than some piece of social gossip from a city far away. It was the first time William the Worde struggled to believe what was written in the newspaper he’d started. He’d heard people joke about the Commander and the Patrician, but had never put any weight to it; there hadn’t been any evidence. Now the evidence was printed all over the front page of the Times.5
As it so often is with such revelations, Commander Samuel Vimes was the last to know. He sat down by the breakfast table in the Keep one day, opened the newspaper and promptly choked on his sandwich. The Commander was saved from a rather ridiculous demise by Angua slapping him on the back to unblock his airways. He survived, but he remained rather red in the face and oddly quiet for the rest of the day. This is common side-effect of nearly choking.
Vimes seemed to have regained his voice the next day however, when William and Otto arrived at the Keep. It was difficult to discuss the situation with Sybil and Havelock, who were miles away. But it was easy to shout at a young twerp who was already annoying him on a weekly basis, and most importantly, was already right there.
Vimes wasn’t too thrilled when he arrived back in the city and Sybil told him she had invited the news-crew to dinner, either.
FOOTNOTES
- Most citizens of Ankh-Morpork considered spelling and punctuation to be largely optional. The Ankh-Morpork Times, being the ‘oldest established’ newspaper in the city, held themselves to a slightly higher standard.▲
- Awful things happened every day in Ankh-Morpork, and several of them made it into the newspaper.▲
- As a working-class girl, Sacharissa had always found the idea of more than one fork and knife odd and slightly intimidating. William knew the names and uses of each piece of silverware, but he didn’t like to admit it. Otto’s family hadn’t needed such amounts of cutlery, on account of a rather liquid diet.▲
- This is a favoured tactic by most pets. While their owners may be immune to begging at the table, any new guest might, with enough patience and big, wet eyes, be persuaded to drop a treat or two.▲
- One part of William was a bit envious that it was Sacharissa who’d managed to get such a scoop. The other part was just glad the Commander wouldn’t be able to blame him for this.▲