The Truth by Terry Pratchett

calculation cut in.
    “A dollar a day?” she said.
    “More, if they’re nice and long,” said William wildly.
    “For that letter thing you do?”
    “Yes.”
    “A dollar?”
    “Yes.”
    She eyed him with mistrust. “You can’t afford that, can you? I thought you only got thirty dollars yourself. You told Grandfather.”
    “Things have moved on a bit. I haven’t caught up with it myself, to tell you the truth.”
    She was still looking at him doubtfully, but natural Ankh-Morpork interest in the distant prospect of a dollar was gaining the upper hand.
    “Well, I hear things,” she began. “And…well, writing things down? I suppose that’s a suitable job for a lady, isn’t it? It’s practically cultural .”
    “Er…close, I suppose.”
    “I wouldn’t like to do anything that wasn’t…proper.”
    “Oh, I’m sure it’s proper.”
    “And the Guild can’t object to that , can they? You’ve been doing it for years, after all…”
    “Look, I’m just me,” said William. “If the Guild object, they’ll have to sort it out with the Patrician.”
    “Well…all right…if you’re sure it’s an acceptable job for a young lady…”
    “Come down to the printing works tomorrow, then,” said William. “I think we ought to be able to produce another paper of news in a few days.”

    This was a ballroom, still plush in red and gold, but musty in the semidarkness and ghostly with its shrouded chandeliers. The candlelight in the center was dimly reflected from the mirrors around the walls; they had probably once brightened the place up considerably, but over the years some sort of curious tarnish had blotched its way across them, so that the reflections of the candles looked like dim subaqueous glows through a forest of seaweed.
    Mr. Pin was halfway across the floor when he realized that the only footsteps he could hear were his own. Mr. Tulip had veered off in the gloom and was dragging the shroud off something that had been pushed against one wall.
    “Well, I’ll be a…” the man began. “This is a —ing treasure ! I fort so! A genuine —ing Intaglio Ernesto, too. See that mother-of-pearl work there?”
    “This isn’t the time, Mr. Tulip—”
    “He only made six of them. Oh, no, they haven’t even kept it —ing tuned! ”
    “Godsdammit, we’re supposed to be professionals… ”
    “Perhaps your…colleague would like it as a present?” said a voice from the center of the room.
    There were half a dozen chairs around the circle of candlelight. They were an old-fashioned kind, and the backs curved out and up to form a deep leathery arch that had, presumably, been designed to keep out the drafts but now gave the occupants their own deep pools of shadow.
    Mr. Pin had been here before. He’d admired the setup. Anyone in the ring of candles couldn’t see who was in the depths of the chairs, while at the same time being fully visible themselves.
    It occurred to him now that the arrangement also meant that the people in the chairs couldn’t see who was in the other chairs.
    Mr. Pin was a rat. He was quite happy with the description. Rats had a lot to recommend them. And this layout had been dreamed up by someone who thought like him.
    One of the chairs said: “Your friend Daffodil—”
    “Tulip,” said Mr. Pin.
    “Your friend Mr. Tulip would perhaps like part of your payment to be the harpsichord?” said the chair.
    “It’s not a —ing harpsichord, it’s a —ing virginal,” growled Mr. Tulip. “One —ing string to a note instead of two! So called because it was an instrument for —ing young ladies!”
    “My word, was it?” said one of the chairs. “I thought it was just a sort of early piano!”
    “Intended to be played by young ladies,” said Mr. Pin smoothly. “And Mr. Tulip does not collect art, he merely… appreciates it. Our payment will be in gems, as agreed.”
    “As you wish. Please step into the circle…”
    “—ing harpsichord,” muttered Mr. Tulip.
    The